waking up...

yesterday i dropped Lineage (4) off at the gallery. my ladies are gone and on their way to finding a new home. it is always a happy/sad moment. mostly happy, but i always feel a bit of a tug on my heart when i let go of a work that i feel i really put myself in to and that canvas is definitely in that crowd. but stopping in at the gallery and hanging out for a bit always puts me in a better mood and eases my mind and heart. i've been all twisted up lately over life's big questions - a very obnoxious, uneasy, un-fun occurrence - but going to the gallery yesterday and just having conversation about art and looking at the work of others really helped me calm down and refocus on the positive aspects of life.

i'm in the next show at the gallery which opens tomorrow and the reception is a couple days later on the 3rd- my birthday! i'm really looking forward to it. really, really, really! all the little apron portraits that i've made so far (save one) will be on display (one of them was used as the image on the show postcard! yay!), along with one of my favorite mono prints and the big canvas i just dropped off. shows are always exciting and a very happy moment and it's just what i need. there's really nothing i'd rather do on my birthday than this. it's the best present ever. :) whoever's in the area, please come by! bring a friend and have some wine and some laughs and celebrate art and birth and change and work and progress with me! click the gallery link for details.

i must be vague...

not entirely unexpected... more like ignored. put on the back burner until i became strong enough to look at it...

i am on that horrible cusp of knowing the time has come to make the hard decision, to choose need over desire. my eyes have landed on it and i know what the clock says and what the wind is trying to do and where the seeds will land if i do not intervene. one scared hand must be raised. one small fist must curl around one small falling ember. just one. just one.



and once it is seen, it must remain so. it must. or else. and so i go back to making signs for myself and leaving them were i have to look at them. nudge myself to stop being so afraid, to know the land i stand on and run through; its' scents and hints. the hard time is here. for as much as i want to hide under my quilt and drown out the sounds... i can't. i will put it on the fridge like an "A" on a test and encourage myself to do what is right and good and necessary.



"reminder"
15" x 11"
watercolor on paper
angela simione, 2009

yikes!

an evening jog and a swarm of bees kicked loose from somewhere deep in the vineyard and i ran fast and feared that i'd made the wrong decision, that they could smell my panic and would come get me and i'd die out there on a dirt road, covered in red lumps, my little girl dog without a mama. silly, i'm sure, but bees are nothing to trifle with. they have strength in numbers and all i could see was that horrible scene form 'My Girl" when Macaulay Culkin dies. yeewuu. (shiver) gives me the heebeejeebees!

hee-BEE-jee-BEES! hahahahaha! :)



(pun not intended)

work, work, work...

yesterday afternoon i started going through the poems again - the rejected ones - and did quite a bit of long, hard work on several of them. slowly, slowly, slowly, these pieces are finding the right voice and time and cadence and all those things that make a poem a poem, i suppose. it's so much harder than painting. a landslide harder. it's real easy to write a bad poem... a good poem is a rare and miraculous occurrence. there is definitely no formula for it and no map to guide you. none whatsoever. it must be the sheer love of words that keeps a person coming back to struggle and fight and lose and struggle some more.

new day...

ever since i mailed the grant application off, a nice warm calm has spread over my days... even though i'm assuming i'll receive a rejection. but putting the work out in to the world (in whatever capacity) is a wonderful act of letting go, come what may. besides, i've got a fairly thick skin at this point when it comes to art rejections. the critiques at CCA got to be pretty dang brutal at times and i've got an entire folder of rejection letters here under my desk to remind me that the point is to just keep trying. pay your dues and get them out of the way. everyone must, and that includes little ol' me. in fact, the more rejection i suffer, the easier it gets and the probability of finding the proper channels and avenues for support and exposure for the work increase. i'm ruling things out, looking for better, more fitting opportunities, and thinking critically about my own practice and where i'd like to go. the rejection letter, in a round about way, helps to steer me in the right direction. there's always an upside and i've got a lifelong habit of straining to find the silver-lining in every single situation. all this to say... yesterday i painted with such pressure-less freedom and poise, it was remarkable. i didn't worry about the time or when the canvas would finally be done or when the issues within the composition will get worked out. i sat and stared and drank my coffee and saw what needed to happen next- piece by piece, inch by inch, shadow by shadow. i was fully myself and in the work. i'm proud of the maid portraits. as proud of them as i am the 'anonymous girl' series. i feel so close to this body of work and it feels important to me. i love these ladies, i truly do. i've got Lineage 4 hanging in front of my bed right now and waking up to them has been such an honor, such a humbling moment. it sets a good tone for the rest of the day. humility is a good ingredient in the studio, for sure. i will miss them endlessly when they're gone.

trying...

dreams are sometimes scary things-
this great big goal of being an artist. what does it mean? what does it entail? how do you do it?

how do you make your love support you? should a person even ask for such a thing?

i guess this is how you figure out what 'aspirations' really are-
what is feasible, responsible, ethical... necessary.

since 6am, i've been finalizing a grant application. it's taken me well over a year to even work up the nerve to apply to this particular foundation, to risk the rejection letter, to prepare myself for the potential of receiving the big, fat NO. basically, i've been second-guessing my own practice for the last 6 hours. i've been staring at my portfolio thinking that it's all crap, that i'm not good enough, that it's ridiculous of me to even think i stand a chance. every success i've had has become invisible and mute. i can't see them or hear them. this is how it goes. this is the artist ego kicking in. this is our frailty and fear, our lack of logic in the face of desire. i know that i am being completely unreasonable. i know i've done at least some good work. i know that, should the rejection letter come, i've done my best and that it doesn't mean my work is without value. i know all this and i am talking myself down. once the envelope is dropped off at the post-office, i will calm down. i'll let go of my anxieties and i'll say, "it's out of your hands now, girl" and i'll go back to my day, happy as i always am, and i won't think about it much until the response shows up. right now though, i am in the thick of it- all my hopes and dreams laying inside a manila envelope... and all my fears that i'm not good enough to make them happen. but taking the chance is exactly what has to happen. isn't that what love requires? i have to be brave. i have to practice being brave as often as i practice painting. i have to put the work out in to the world and risk getting the response i don't want because, in the end, it isn't about me. it's about the work. i owe it to the work to push it out of my safe little sphere. at least that much i owe.

i will eat lunch and walk down the lonely 1/2 mile to the post-office. i will let go. i will try. i will come back home and lug my canvas outside. i will obey The Jog and sweat the anxiety out.

pink...

i spent all day digging and pulling and looking, rooting through my heavy portfolios, making piles and systems and rituals. my back hurts. damn iffy disk. but progress has been made, even if just a little. and it was sort of romantic... sitting outside in the cool sun with all my portfolios laying open. i remember the day each drawing was made. every single one. they all, no matter how sloppy or misguided, made me smile. wide and warm and full of thanks... like when you watch children playing.

just a small collection of work found in the depths of the art pile...








all works-
angela simione, 2007

and so it continues...

geez. round 2 through my portfolios. it is never-ending, i swear. when will i see the bottom of the art pile? the massive problem of storage and archiving and yadda, yadda, yadda. the major issue here is that i'm just at a total loss as to what i should do with all this work. the vast majority is work on paper. and the vast majority of it is good work too. but it just doesn't fit with my current portfolio at HANG and it doesn't fit with the current inventory at black fence. where to send it? where oh where oh where? it's too good to toss in the recycle bin, that's for sure. but storing it has become such a big, sticky issue that i find myself completely overwhelmed within minutes of trying to find a solution. maybe the only thing to do is go through it all, piece by piece, photograph it, and try to compile some sort of "new" portfolio of work and find another venue for it to be available through. maybe. but even the thought of that is daunting. we're talking about no less than 8 huge portfolios of work here. i am not counting the closet full of little paintings on canvas i still need to contend with. any insight in to this problem is completely welcome. entirely welcome. in fact, i am begging for advice! any system at all that you may have had even the smallest success with i am willing to try. except for burning it or something like that. 'no fire near the artwork' is definitely a commandment in my household and shall not be broken. anyway... help.

hmmmmm....

i woke up thinking of 'the soloist' and, to be honest (and in retrospect), it's not as great as i'd hoped it would be. maybe i listened too closely to all the hype about how wonderful and moving it was? robert downey jr is amazing in every single movie he's in. every single one. and his scenes in this movie are grand and lovely and sincere. and there's that word: sincere.

jamie foxx's portrayal of schizophrenia were definitely not sincere. it was pretty surface actually. as was the treatment of the homeless in LA. totally flat, surface, uninspired, boooorrrrriiing. which is totally offensive to both the issue of homelessness and mental illness. completely offensive. all it would have taken was one good scene, one powerhouse of a scene - emotional and hard and unapologetic - to situate the audience in a place where we could really understand the massive loss that is involved when a person is schizophrenic. well, that scene never came. there was ample opportunity for it but mr. foxx just didn't do it. maybe it's on the cutting room floor? who knows, but it ain't on the screen. and that's sad. very sad.

this movie has (had) so much potential. i thought it was more than a little offensive that the mentally ill were compared to children, first off. and also that the big dog of all mental illnesses (paranoid schizophrenia) was compared to a bad acid trip. pretty minimizing to say the least.

AND, not to get too ridiculous here, but where the hell was the solo? it's called 'the soloist'. there were no solos. it would start and then a massive swell of orchestral accompaniment would ring in. i wanted to hear what a great talent this man is all by himself and that never really came to be. never, not once.

maybe i need to watch it again.

sleepy...

my sweetie took the day off from work. :) three day weekend. and he taught me how the change the brakes and roters on the truck. he guided me along but i did all the work. i even wore my pair of coveralls. and then sloppy-joes and 'the soloist'. sad and beautiful but not without humor and opportunities to smile. and robert downey jr is in it so that's the best reason of all to see it. and now i am rounding out my day on the computer- the instrument i've avoided with a fair amount of success all day. but there is work to be done. always. good work. i shant complain.

p.s. two of my art blurbs published today at ANTLER. go look and meet some new artists to follow and adore. :)

sudden, unexpected...

then out from under the bed, she stood up and said, "look at me".

this is elsie.

i've been trying to draw her for months. here and there, only every so often, sketching her shadows.

lost children are hard to draw. their story creeps in to you and stays. stays deep.



Alpha (study)
11" x 7.5"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009


she was Henry Darger's muse. his broken heart.

good morning, sunshine!

i am back to my early morning schedule, back on that good, grey horse and OH how i have missed it! i had slipped back in to an old routine the past few weeks and i knew at the time that it was no good. no good at all. i saw how, even here on the blog, i suffered. my lethargy dictating when i wrote and how i wrote. it was glaring and it made me feel bad. but i suppose i needed a little reminder of how good the early morning schedule is for me in spite of being a night person by nature. i've always loved staying up late but i've realized that it's mainly due to the conversations that have taken place in the wee hours- for some odd reason our words seem more romantic, more poignant, more whatever in the witching hour. i've decided that that's sorta teenage (in a bad way) and that i need to out-grow that... at least in terms of day to day living. besides, i know exactly who i picked that habit up from and it's time to set that down. the cleaning spree i'm on is really about me more than the house. much more. and in a lot of strange, hard to explain ways, it is a very deep, very private form of painting, of poetry.

the arts are often used as therapy. here, i am reversing that equation. therapy becomes art. it exceeds and excels its station, its title, its function. i am reaching back in to the corners and getting out all the dust, getting the hair up from the carpet, no inch escaping my notice or hand. everything is touched, considered, fixed, cleaned, put in its right place or shoved out the door. i am trying to get back to that place of newness where all my possessions could fit in two suitcases. this is a romantic fascination that will never happen- my books alone could fill ten easily. but its the desire that is the point. its the work that is the point. a very private practice that will only bring good. there are things that i am finally strong enough to let go of. there are things that i am finally strong enough to live without. there are things that i no longer have any interest in using as a way to define myself.

i cleaned all day yesterday. all day. and i finished one of the potholders. ha! i can't tell you how damn proud i am of that thing! i noticed that i don't use my skills to benefit my own home. all the stuff i make gets sent out in to the world- which is wonderful! that's where art works its magic. but i decided i needed a bit of magic for myself as well... and more art on my walls than just my own. yesterday i framed other people's art and today i'll try to rearrange the walls and get them up. today, i will continue the magic that swirled through my home yesterday. today will be exactly the same. i can't tell you how happy and excited i am to finally be doing this. it has taken a long, pained year to get to this point where i am finally able to unload all of this. i am finally returning to my strong self and i am smiling and hopeful and back on the good, grey horse.

cleaning...

i finally opened the box i didn't want to open- the one that houses my dairies. there's stuff in there dating back to when i was 14 years old, hopelessly romantic, and full of adolescent sorrow and anger.

i did the hard deed and threw the majority of them in the recycle bin. i didn't even ruffle through them the way i have in the past, looking for the little golden bits of writing that bounce out from the blue lines. i only checked the dates. i know what was going on in my life by just checking that and whether or not the "good" writing had started yet. i saved a stack of them and scrapped the rest. i don't need the document. i have the memory. and words follow a person around whether or not they are ever even read.

there are things, i suppose, we all hold on to, are afraid to let go of... or maybe just afraid to name the current situation: that person isn't me anymore. it feels horribly false to pretend otherwise. and in the spirit of clearing out relics from the past and making room for new memories and hopes and even hurts, the diaries had to go. that girl isn't here anymore. the hand writing looks the same but the words aren't. the dreams aren't. and i'm done with that old sorrow. some stuff is better off abandoned, forgotten, forgiven if possible.

all this sorting and weeding through has brought around uncomfortable and weird dreams. some of the dreams are memories. some are fears. precious few are welcome. when i'm done with this, they will go away and my normal good dreams will return. it is merely process. a 'working through' of long put off brain shit and heart shit. nevertheless, it is good work. it makes me good.

waking...

up and at em, up and at em, a new day is here. a day for oil and windex. yes, windex. intermittent cleaning and painting; back and forth, back and forth. my brand new coffee maker will be a great help.

the sky is violet. there are birds out already and headlights on the road. my little girl dog wants to play and sniff the sticks to see what strange night creatures came by while we slept. i can smell the remnants of a skunk. maybe my crows will be back once the sun is all the way up. i hope so. they are good and funny company. i watch them to see what black should look like when light bounces off it. their feathers, caught in the bright day, teach me how to paint- shadows within shadows and the blue-violet gleam.

home...

it isn't that i've been sad lately, just feeling quiet. feeling still. going through the little that remains to be gone through- relics, nic-nacs, objects. it always wakes something up. always. but there are so few ghosts left this time around that it is a happy battle. the chaos i threw our home in to a week ago is almost reined in. i'm making myself go slow, putting things back or out the door thoughtfully. whenever i begin to feel anxious or overwhelmed by the task, i lug my canvasses outside and paint. today 3 big crows lined up on the driveway and watched. it was odd but comforting too and they were silent- no heckle and jeckle taunting as i pushed the oil round and round and stretched it out and out and out. now i am making myself a set of new potholders. yep. :) crocheted in the bastard stitch. black with a grey heart smack in the middle.

ahhhhh....

yay! such a good day! me and my sweetie took a trip to the city and dropped off a bunch of new work at the gallery and decided to say no to cheesesteaks on the way back but we laughed and talked and there was hardly any traffic at all. and tonight i'm going to my friend jane's house who's been sick for an entire month but she's not sick any more and i've got an engraved invitation so a great big bottle of viognier is coming with me. :)

simple...

the house is quiet. no tv. no sounds from the outside. a sleeping dog at my feet. a worn out man in my bed. books in the shelf. cups in a row. no dripping pipes. no ringing phone.

i took an extra long jog this evening and lit fire to all my worries.

page by page...

in progress...
a new process...
teaching myself about poetry one slow, painted page at a time.






angela simione, 2009

the words are the white of the paper. it is patient work. it isn't perfect but the method makes me consider each line, each word on its own... it makes me dig in and sniff around and pay close attention to how words want to move...

words want to move like pages, like wings, like a burn.

breaking my own rules but it's totally okay...

up far later than i'd like to be and when the morning comes it'll come hard and i'll hate it until after i dump an entire pot of coffee in to me and get that crazy buzz going but it was more than worth it and i'll know it even when my alarm sounds, angry and loud and shrill as a crow-

i've been reading sharon olds' "the gold cell" and on page 20 there is the perfect poem for today and for tomorrow and for all the days that will fall in line behind it. i'm tired and want to dream but i couldn't give in til i typed it here for you. it's too great and too lovely not to share:


When



I wonder now only when it will happen,
when the young mother will hear the
noise like somebody's pressure cooker
down the block, going off. She'll go out in the yard,
holding her small daughter in her arms,
and there, above the end of the street, in the
air above the line of trees,
she will see it rising, lifting up
over our horizon, the upper rim of the
gold ball, large as a giant
planet starting to lift up over ours.
She will stand there in the yard holding her daughter,
looking at it rise and glow and blossom and rise,
and the child will open her arms to it,
it will look so beautiful.




-Sharon Olds

sigh...

oh, long day, long day. but good. slowly, slowly the next lineage canvas is moving forward and is already so pleasing and sad and beautiful. i learned the big lesson to proceed at the pace the painting sets and not to impose my own anxiety-fueled timeline during the last few canvasses. slowly, slowly i am learning patience. it is a valuable asset, for sure.

i'm also busy putting together birthday care packages and having a ton of fun doing it. it's work that is light and happy in spite of all the black paint involved. ha! i'm excited to get them finished and mailed off. i'm excited to give the work new, loving homes. i'm happy that there is endless room for kindness in the world and plan to roll around in those wide fields as often as i can. and i am especially happy that i've managed to meet people whose love for art is a big and open as my own. there's a camaraderie and soft love and gentleness in those relationships. a deep bond and a child-like reverence for curious, beautiful things... when cartwheels were turned and dandelions were blown and wishing on stars was expected and cherished and not to be over-looked... when day-dreaming was sacred and fun and the form of poetry we loved best... friendships based in discovery and mutual admiration and honesty and a fearlessness when it comes to compliments, truth-telling, and showing appreciation.

i know i say it a lot but that's because it's true: i am a lucky, lucky girl.

shura...

child (shura 4)
22" x 15"
mixed media on paper,
angela simione, 2008



at black fence.

blah. blarf. arg.

2 in the afternoon and still drinking coffee. it makes the afternoon hotter but putting my cup away is not an option. i've managed to grow a pretty large caffeine addiction at this point that i should probably start reining in but it's just so good and tasty! :) i wake up happy everyday because it means i get to have coffee.

and in spite of that initial happiness, i've been a bit depressed lately. maybe because my birthday is around the corner. i always start analyzing my life and picking it apart, scrutinizing every little thing around my birthday. i stare at my life and site all the things that i want to change and start putting together a plan of action for how to get where i want to go next. i do this on new year's eve too. not the happiest of rituals but at least it gets me to think about goals and desires and ways of living... what kind of life i want to build for myself. so many wonderful things have come in to my life in the past year and so many things to be grateful for, to be humbled by, to protect and fight for. 28 has been a lucky year. the anxiety about 29 is senseless... just a bad habit that i should learn to shake. it's almost like when you turn 20 and there's really no point in any fanfare because you're still one short year away from 21. 29 feels like that. let me just hit 30 so i can call myself a legitimate adult already. ha!

loose teeth...

a little collection of Artist Trading Cards. these things are so much fun to make!
they are tiny! 3.5" x 2.5", the same size as a baseball card. totally cute!

available at black fence.

life...

sorry for the interruption in the regularly scheduled program folks- i felt i needed to step away from the computer for a couple days. i even took the weekend off from painting. i threw myself in to the mundane things of a life- cleaning, re-arranging, discarding. i've neglected certain things too long and now i feel this huge need to literally throw away everything i own and start fresh. no relics from the past. none. i've only ever felt this way once before that i can remember. and i was so frenzied about it, so over-zealous, that later i missed some of the little, insignificant things i threw out. so i'm trying to be a bit more thoughtful this time. a bit more considerate.

anyway, now that i've begun i have to finish because our little home is currently in a complete state of chaos. it's stupid messy right now. boxes of papers and poems and old drawings and nic-nacs that i dredged up from the back of the closet are scattered everywhere. i've made 'yes', 'no' , and 'maybe' piles. my neurosis is showing. ha! and the neighbor even accused me of being pregnant saying that this was my nesting instinct taking over. hahaha! i assure you, this is not the case, no way. just a very basic need to refresh my life... and feel a bit more in control of it, i suppose. sometimes i feel a bit directionless... more than a bit lost. i have a strange profession, a life's work that there really aren't any maps for. no boss to go to and ask for a raise or vacation pay or better insurance. there's no summer or winter break. there's rarely even a weekend i take off from work. i live with it and cater to it and run to it whenever it calls. everything i do somehow fits back in to my practice. every conversation, every evening jog, every word i read eventually finds its way on to the canvas. 'what you put in is what you get out' is definitely the case in art. all the arts. so it's hard to find a balance sometimes. it's easy to over-look things, to ignore the laundry piling up, to be happy in your tunnel vision and say 'it can wait'. this is part of that dreaded artist ego- we make value judgements. nothing is as important as art. nothing. sometimes we get negligent of the rest of our life.

but it's monday and i will get some painting done in spite of having backed myself in to a corner with the need to re-arrange and sort and discard and clean. i have no choice but to tend to the mess i've made. still, the canvasses are waiting and so is a little hand-painted book and this, this, that, and that.

pretty...

i've started playing around with book-making again. it's something i absolutely love but fell off the wagon with due to an asshole professor who gave me a bad grade just because she didn't like me. in fact, she made it pretty clear that that was exactly the reason why i didn't get an A. guess it's my fault since i'm the one who made the mistake of asking why i got the grade i got, right? no matter, i got that crap removed from my transcript anyhow- fall through units. ha!

anyway, i've felt bad for a really long time that i let one of the worlds' jerks ruin something i value and really enjoy doing so i've been playing around with the form, just sort of diving right in and seeing where i go. no plan, no safety net, no eraser. the one of a kind artist book is something i've always been so drawn to. they are gorgeous and special and so totally romantic. and i'm a big fan of romance.

this is what i did today. just getting my feet wet:












and that's gouache on every single page! i spent a ton of time waiting for paint to dry today. tons! you'd think i'd be use to that but NO. so i got some laundry done today too on the in between time.


text:
such a pretty girl
robbed of her bell

angela simione, 2009

real quick...

woke up and headed outside with my coffee and saw, instantly, that it is a good morning. i hope it's a good morning for you too, wherever you're at. :)

here's your sign, stupid...

if painting was a person...
if poetry was a person...

she'd be tall and gorgeous and when her hips swung when she walked down the street, feet hitting the pavement hard with that super-model stomp, a theme song would fly out from the hem of her skirt. most likely 'simply irresistible' by robert palmer. she'd send Dear John letters off to her legion of faithful lovers almost daily and she wouldn't for one second tolerate any bullshit. she'd be a little snotty and a lot sassy and she'd say things like "who the fuck are you to try and tell me what i can and can't do". and she'd flip you off on the freeway and she'd tell you where you can shove it. and when you came to her place in the middle of the night, driven crazy by how much you love her and by the truth that you'll never be good enough for her, to apologise for asserting your trifling needs and desires, you'd be greeted by a sign on her door much like this one-


warning
11" x 7.5"
gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009


currently hanging in my little studio to remind me what is what and who is whose bitch. :)

what is painting?

i suppose it all comes down to how one defines it. it's much more than merely applying paint to a surface. much, much more. if it weren't, it'd be no different than re-painting your bathroom walls or your car or any old thing. there's something else, something more, something hard to pin down and hold still about painting that really doesn't have much to do with paint.

but whatever it is, it's something i try to do every single day.

i swayed back and forth between two big oil paintings for the better part of the day, played with my inks for a bit, read a few poems out of Sharon Olds' 'the gold cell', wrote and researched and wrote some more and then made this-


mama (7)
11" x 7.5"
water-soluble graphite and gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009


number 7 in this series. rolling along pleasantly. :) these little paintings make me happy and fill me up with hope. they feel like day-dreams to me... little gems.

just the way it goes...

first thing in the inbox today- rejection letter. yep. not an exactly fun way to begin the day but at this stage in the game i've learned how to let that sort of thing bounce right off. i had sent 3 poems i've been working on for the past god knows how long to a publisher i've worked with before and i was actually shocked that they weren't accepted. i mean shocked. i'm not trying to toot my own horn here but the fact of the matter is that the work i sent is good. i always send my best work and present myself professionally and i don't (generally) submit stuff on a whim. i think long and hard about it and try to be as objective as possible, do my research and then think about it some more. the rejection didn't make me angry or sad or even confused... i think that maybe my work has merely gone in a direction that no longer fits into the over-riding aesthetic of the magazine. no big deal. that's the way this stuff goes. besides, you never know what kind of day the man with the gavel in his hand has had. never. and just because one person didn't want it doesn't mean someone else won't. besides, i'm pretty new to the whole poetry thing in terms of sticking it out in public. i'm definitely learning the ropes here and i expect i'll have to take my lumps like everyone else.

writing is hard. especially writing poetry. it's super duper hard... to write something "good" anyway. those few lines on the page are agonized over. and, in more ways than one, poetry is more about what isn't said than what is. in that respect, it's just like the paintings i've been making. what's withheld is what the work is really all about. i've always thought that painting and poetry are sisters. but i definitely don't have nearly the committed and dedicated writing practice as i do with painting. not nearly. i write every day but i don't write poems every day and i definitely don't edit and revise and critique every day like i do with the paintings. i'm still discovering my process with this stuff. and i don't really have anyone to share the poems with right now either. my sweetheart enjoys it when i read one to him but he's not exactly a poetry buff. he prefers the paintings for sure... as i'm sure most people who know me do. poetry has a pretty screwy reputation. most people think it's dumb and that it sucks and that anyone can do it. well, not quite. nothing could be further from the truth. poetry is hard and beautiful and important and it's an ever-changing, morphing thing that's hard to pin down. but it isn't hard to find. it's everywhere. i know that sounds like a horrible cliche but it's true. it's hiding in all those over-looked, common corners of a life. it's there waiting to be coaxed out... and i guess i'm trying to figure out how to do that. i will keep after it until i do.

yes.

that mood has hit again. more and more often it arrives. and my only wish is that it would swoop down to me at a more reasonable hour- the mood that tells me get up, clean, move your legs, give away next to everything, almost everything you own, make room and smile because you've made space for light and shadow because what else is there anyway. shove it all out the door. let strangers come over and pick out whatever they want. you've got two coats, give away one. you've got two pots and two pans and there's no good reason for that. go, go, go, get rid of all of this. make space for poems to pile up in. make room for all that beautiful black oil and ink. make way for the great things, the small things, those itty bitty bits of bestness that make a life. yes, make a life it says, make a life without all this shit clogging up the joint. make a life. a new life. full of white and yellow and crows on the roof. what else is there anyway.

arg! lost papers!

when i was in high school, i wrote a short story about a girl who fell down a well. to keep herself company, she scratched portraits in to the rock walls and those were her friends. i've been looking everywhere for the story and i can't find it anywhere. i'm sure my memory of it is a lot better than what it actually is... in fact, i KNOW my memory has cast it in that bright light of divine perfection, convincing me i've misplaced a work of genius. ha! right! the stuff i wrote at 17 was so damn melodramatic that it's pretty embarrassing to go back and read it now. there isn't much i've kept from those days... but i swore i held on to that story. i want it because, in a way, isn't that what i'm doing? making friends on all these canvasses. the story is probably long gone and yeah i could always rewrite it but i wanted the naive, idealistic story... the story i wrote when i had no idea about "bad writing" and was just in love with the action. there's something IN work like that... our young work when we weren't concerned about anything other than saying something... even if what we said was stupid.

maybe one of these days i'll force myself to rewrite it... i was looking at my walls, covered in my faceless portraits and thought it'd make for a super cool artist statement. the roses of my memory making me long for every page my hand ever touched. :)

grey...

monday.
over-cast.
runny nose.
coffee.
more coffee.
eager to paint.

the latest maid portrait is in the living room, leaning against my bookcase. i'm glad it's still here. it's nice to have some time with the work after the painting is done and the act of looking takes over. i'm no longer scrutinizing it. i'm enjoying it- looking at the painting as if it weren't my own. it's a rare moment. quiet and full of smiles. no needs to satisfy. coffee in hand and a wide-open day. a grey day.

grey days are my excuse to wear my grey dress and black tights and my hair wild or pulled back tight in a ballerina bun, my excuse to write letters and make silly little things to mail off, to go back and forth between poetry books and read them out-loud. grey days are coffee drinking days all day long. i can oblige. most certainly. maybe even a day to go poke around in antique stores. last time i found an old alice in wonderland watercolor tin from england. it's about 12 inches wide and 2 1/2 feet long. no watercolors left inside but i was happy about that. i'm planning on using it to mix my velvet black gouache in. grey days are days for black gouache.

blue...

yesterday started early and got hot quick. my sweetie had to work and invited me to tag along way up to ukiah where the good machinist is and beg him to make some parts on a saturday. bribery and breakfast and 5 hours later the machinist handed over the parts and we were back on the road. ukiah itself was a bit strange. blue collar in that old west kind of way but with a crop of chain stores and emporiums that completely smudged out any charm that the town most likely at one time possessed. no offence to the good, hard-working people of ukiah. i'm sure you've noticed it as well. there was another town named hopland that we drove through on the way up and all the 100 year old buildings were still standing. charming and nostalgic, though i'm sure the high school kids don't find it to be anything other than boring. antiques stores and junk shops and little diners and, of course, the caravan of left-over hippies with tapestries and tie-die dresses breezing out of their VW bus. and then we went to my sweetie's work where i got to watch him wrench on machines for a little while. i like watching men wrench on things. i like seeing them get all greasy and sweaty. their hair gets all tousled and boyish and it's very endearing. i don't mind the f-bombs that get dropped either. i am quite the trash mouth in my own right. :) two of my neighbors have been outside for the past two weeks working on automotive type things- one is restoring a bright red Austin Healy sprite (one of the cutest, coolest cars ever designed) and the other is busy babying a huge Harley. they come over and check out the paintings when they need a break from all that wrenching and pulling and sweating and swearing. it's nice. they make me smile. and i love hearing what they have to say about art and how important it is and how they never knew so much work went in to one painting before i came to the neighborhood. painting, in spite of how its perceived, is definitely hard work. it's not all happy play-time. it's nice to hear mechanics agree with that statement.

later today there's a huge barbecue- all rough and tumble men who, due to our location and living wild lives, have a fine understanding and appreciation for art and wine and music. one is bringing a bottle of schramsberg. yummmmmmmmmm. the longer i'm here, the more i appreciate it. i won't always be living in the country-side and i've decided to embrace it.