inga says happy halloween.
Oct 31, 2009
Oct 30, 2009
addendum...
i went and obeyed The Almighty Jog. i ran. i breathed hard. i paid attention to my body, how it moves, and the landscape it was moving through. they are crushing grapes today and the grapes must be for port because the aroma was so sweet and warm. it smelled like cookie dough almost. one of those wonderful, welcoming, comforting kitchen scents. mama's apron. gentleness. security.
and i thought about my previous post after the clarity of The Jog rushed in. i thought and i turned the words over and i realize that i didn't say what i wanted to say. i didn't say it exactly right. what the problem is pertains to attitude. my attitude. the choice, for however subconscious, to see things in a different way. in this case, a more narrow view than i'd looked at art with before. it isn't that i've stopped making certain kinds of work, it's that my attitude toward it changed. i stopped seeing it as art... even as practice. i gave primacy to painting, somehow believing that the drawings were secondary, not as relevant, not as powerful. and this is completely false. not only false but i've even managed to use it to beat myself up quite a bit. and if there's one thing that stalls a person's practice, it's negativity. because i have made progress. i have done a lot of work. a lot of good work. but my attitude has stopped me from seeing it. i've stopped trusting my own ideas and began chasing the ideas of others- the dominant assessment that the paintings are the best work i do and therefore the only work i should be focused on. this is an idea that has come from The Outside but i made it my idea as well.
that idea, to say it plainly, is really just preference. of course some people will prefer paintings to drawings. others will prefer music to the visual arts. and another group of people will say only philosophy matters and fuck every thing else. it's preference. the paths we choose are based on preference... what we're used to, what we know, how we like to move, the map we've got, the lens, the magnifying glass. it's just a preference of one tool over another. and so there's really no right way to proceed. there is no KING, there's just the thing that works best for you or for me or for whom ever.
painting and writing have always been my two big dogs. they always have. and i don't see that changing. but the other work feeds those things in such unexpected, beautiful, necessary, healthy ways. neglecting the other work has made it harder to paint, harder to write.
and this whole diatribe and the diatribe below is a result of noticing the end of the year draw near. i like the ritual of one season ending and another one beginning. i like the ritual of new year's resolutions for however cheesy it seems. i like them. i like to really think about what it is i really want and try to make small goals based on that. last year, the big resolution was to maintain this blog- to write every single day. i've done a pretty good job at that and i must say it has enriched my daily living in some very special, unexpected, unintended ways... all of which i am grateful for. it has made my practice wider and much more thoughtful. it's also made it a bit funnier, a bit sillier; it's made room for FUN again and that's a real blessing.
so i'm gearing up for resolution making, i suppose. new goals, new attitudes, new views. it takes a lot of introspection and it isn't always comfortable but i have to try my very hardest to be honest. i have to see things as they are, not as i'd like them to be, or clouded by all the shoulds and shouldn'ts. presuppositions are dangers.
i'm more interested in faith than dread. i want my day to mirror that.
and i thought about my previous post after the clarity of The Jog rushed in. i thought and i turned the words over and i realize that i didn't say what i wanted to say. i didn't say it exactly right. what the problem is pertains to attitude. my attitude. the choice, for however subconscious, to see things in a different way. in this case, a more narrow view than i'd looked at art with before. it isn't that i've stopped making certain kinds of work, it's that my attitude toward it changed. i stopped seeing it as art... even as practice. i gave primacy to painting, somehow believing that the drawings were secondary, not as relevant, not as powerful. and this is completely false. not only false but i've even managed to use it to beat myself up quite a bit. and if there's one thing that stalls a person's practice, it's negativity. because i have made progress. i have done a lot of work. a lot of good work. but my attitude has stopped me from seeing it. i've stopped trusting my own ideas and began chasing the ideas of others- the dominant assessment that the paintings are the best work i do and therefore the only work i should be focused on. this is an idea that has come from The Outside but i made it my idea as well.
that idea, to say it plainly, is really just preference. of course some people will prefer paintings to drawings. others will prefer music to the visual arts. and another group of people will say only philosophy matters and fuck every thing else. it's preference. the paths we choose are based on preference... what we're used to, what we know, how we like to move, the map we've got, the lens, the magnifying glass. it's just a preference of one tool over another. and so there's really no right way to proceed. there is no KING, there's just the thing that works best for you or for me or for whom ever.
painting and writing have always been my two big dogs. they always have. and i don't see that changing. but the other work feeds those things in such unexpected, beautiful, necessary, healthy ways. neglecting the other work has made it harder to paint, harder to write.
and this whole diatribe and the diatribe below is a result of noticing the end of the year draw near. i like the ritual of one season ending and another one beginning. i like the ritual of new year's resolutions for however cheesy it seems. i like them. i like to really think about what it is i really want and try to make small goals based on that. last year, the big resolution was to maintain this blog- to write every single day. i've done a pretty good job at that and i must say it has enriched my daily living in some very special, unexpected, unintended ways... all of which i am grateful for. it has made my practice wider and much more thoughtful. it's also made it a bit funnier, a bit sillier; it's made room for FUN again and that's a real blessing.
so i'm gearing up for resolution making, i suppose. new goals, new attitudes, new views. it takes a lot of introspection and it isn't always comfortable but i have to try my very hardest to be honest. i have to see things as they are, not as i'd like them to be, or clouded by all the shoulds and shouldn'ts. presuppositions are dangers.
i'm more interested in faith than dread. i want my day to mirror that.
big and small and all the things in between that drive a person nuts...
lately i've been feeling like i've got way too much time on my hands and not nearly enough time on my hands to accomplish all the things i've got planned for myself. simultaneously, yes. two total opposites (seemingly) experienced at once.
it's a very strange and limiting thing but i think most artists go through this. we sit and stare at all our goals and try to find ways to achieve these things all the while feeling like there's never enough time, that we haven't worked hard enough, OR that we've worked so hard so why are those goals still so far away. it really is enough to drive a person crazy. really. and i noticed i've somehow managed to get wrapped up in that crazy train of thought. AGAIN. geez.
no wonder i feel like there's not enough time when i've wasted hours agonizing over how little time there is instead of WORKING. today i noticed that during the course of the last year or so i've subconsciously imposed some pretty huge and stupid limits on my practice: a painter PAINTS. that one. and that's all fine and good if painting is all you want to do but painting isn't all i want to do. my practice has always been so much larger than that, so much more inclusive and welcoming and interested in different forms, different approaches, different methods. art is art. that's been my outlook and it has served me so well. i'd get some slightly stupid or childish or funny idea in my head and just run with it. i'd try it out. and more often than not, that "stupid" idea would end up being poignant, being something that i was proud of and that fulfilled me. i feel like i've somehow gotten off track with that... gotten too "serious", too limited by genre or form.
i want my practice to be wide-open. why did i start thinking that that was bad or dumb or useless or whateverthehell i thought it was that made me stop approaching my work that way? and i think it's because i put a ton of pressure on myself to reach the goals that come down from The Outside. i somehow fell in to the trap of thinking i'm a failure because i haven't accomplished X,Y, and Z, and that's just silly. that's masochistic. the more i think about these things, the more i realize that maybe i don't want "the dream"... the dream we're told to want. maybe my dream is a bit different, slides a bit to the side. i want to enjoy this life, not constantly chase some ideal that i don't even know i want for myself.
it comes down to TIME- how i use it, how i want to use it, how my use of it satisfies me or doesn't. i feel like i've been trying to cram myself inside someone else's expectations. no wonder i feel out of sorts and that there's never enough hours in the day. i want to paint and i want to write and i also want to crochet and embroider and draw. i want THAT practice. look at roni horn's practice. look at kiki smith. look at annette messager or tracey emin or gerhard richter even.
i don't want to fall in to making some type of antiquated hierarchy about the value of different art forms. painting is NOT higher or more relevant that any other form. that's an idea that needs to be completely scrapped. that's an idea that is self-sabotaging and limits an artists' exploration and investigation and ability to LEARN, to SEE. at least for me it is.
somewhere along the line i managed to cram myself back in that box where painting became king and if i didn't spend everyday painting and instead wanted to crochet or write or draw i felt like i was fucking up. but i know better that THAT! way better! and i don't know why i looked away from this knowledge... maybe i've been distracted and worried and just wrapped up in other things to notice that i stopped feeding my practice with the very things that makes it thrive: variety, curiosity, playfulness.
the gratitude fridge helped me realize this. it really did. i used to do kookie things like that left and right and had absolutely no problem calling it art. i noticed i had a problem referring to that project as art. and so i'm going to correct this. it doesn't take much. it takes reading a bit of Roland Barthes and paying attention to what the work is actually saying instead of imposing outside desires on it. looking at the work of artists who have embraced a more inclusive, wide-open practice is also a good move. basically, trusting the work again. trusting the road, the practice.
it's a life's work. when i look at that fact i realize there aren't a whole lot of rules about how to do this. there aren't any shoulds or shouldn'ts, there's just living it. time. ways to spend time that are honorable and gracious and ways that aren't. that's the better choice rather than wondering if it's "right" for me to spend some time crocheting today vs. painting. it's all art. it's all necessary.
it's a very strange and limiting thing but i think most artists go through this. we sit and stare at all our goals and try to find ways to achieve these things all the while feeling like there's never enough time, that we haven't worked hard enough, OR that we've worked so hard so why are those goals still so far away. it really is enough to drive a person crazy. really. and i noticed i've somehow managed to get wrapped up in that crazy train of thought. AGAIN. geez.
no wonder i feel like there's not enough time when i've wasted hours agonizing over how little time there is instead of WORKING. today i noticed that during the course of the last year or so i've subconsciously imposed some pretty huge and stupid limits on my practice: a painter PAINTS. that one. and that's all fine and good if painting is all you want to do but painting isn't all i want to do. my practice has always been so much larger than that, so much more inclusive and welcoming and interested in different forms, different approaches, different methods. art is art. that's been my outlook and it has served me so well. i'd get some slightly stupid or childish or funny idea in my head and just run with it. i'd try it out. and more often than not, that "stupid" idea would end up being poignant, being something that i was proud of and that fulfilled me. i feel like i've somehow gotten off track with that... gotten too "serious", too limited by genre or form.
i want my practice to be wide-open. why did i start thinking that that was bad or dumb or useless or whateverthehell i thought it was that made me stop approaching my work that way? and i think it's because i put a ton of pressure on myself to reach the goals that come down from The Outside. i somehow fell in to the trap of thinking i'm a failure because i haven't accomplished X,Y, and Z, and that's just silly. that's masochistic. the more i think about these things, the more i realize that maybe i don't want "the dream"... the dream we're told to want. maybe my dream is a bit different, slides a bit to the side. i want to enjoy this life, not constantly chase some ideal that i don't even know i want for myself.
it comes down to TIME- how i use it, how i want to use it, how my use of it satisfies me or doesn't. i feel like i've been trying to cram myself inside someone else's expectations. no wonder i feel out of sorts and that there's never enough hours in the day. i want to paint and i want to write and i also want to crochet and embroider and draw. i want THAT practice. look at roni horn's practice. look at kiki smith. look at annette messager or tracey emin or gerhard richter even.
i don't want to fall in to making some type of antiquated hierarchy about the value of different art forms. painting is NOT higher or more relevant that any other form. that's an idea that needs to be completely scrapped. that's an idea that is self-sabotaging and limits an artists' exploration and investigation and ability to LEARN, to SEE. at least for me it is.
somewhere along the line i managed to cram myself back in that box where painting became king and if i didn't spend everyday painting and instead wanted to crochet or write or draw i felt like i was fucking up. but i know better that THAT! way better! and i don't know why i looked away from this knowledge... maybe i've been distracted and worried and just wrapped up in other things to notice that i stopped feeding my practice with the very things that makes it thrive: variety, curiosity, playfulness.
the gratitude fridge helped me realize this. it really did. i used to do kookie things like that left and right and had absolutely no problem calling it art. i noticed i had a problem referring to that project as art. and so i'm going to correct this. it doesn't take much. it takes reading a bit of Roland Barthes and paying attention to what the work is actually saying instead of imposing outside desires on it. looking at the work of artists who have embraced a more inclusive, wide-open practice is also a good move. basically, trusting the work again. trusting the road, the practice.
it's a life's work. when i look at that fact i realize there aren't a whole lot of rules about how to do this. there aren't any shoulds or shouldn'ts, there's just living it. time. ways to spend time that are honorable and gracious and ways that aren't. that's the better choice rather than wondering if it's "right" for me to spend some time crocheting today vs. painting. it's all art. it's all necessary.
Oct 29, 2009
blah...
i stayed up a bit too late last night and am having the hardest time getting myself rolling today as a result. i just feel worn out! and maybe i am. honest introspection is hard work and i've been doing that a lot lately. the passed few weeks have been one big ol' enterprise in discovering what it means to be a "good person", what kind of life i'm interested in leading, and the laying down of old baggage. geez. maybe i just need an easy day, free of the big questions. i need some silliness. i want some fun. some good, clean, child-like play time. that's the goal today. i'm not gonna worry about much else.
Oct 28, 2009
lucky documents...
i've been taking a little time out here and there to cruise through my old notebooks. there's only so much i can take at a time with those things but there is a definite benefit in returning to them, seeing who you were on a particular day a year ago, 2 years ago, longer, and what your dreams were...
this is an excerpt from a journal of mine that i wrote about 2 years ago-
sometimes
i dream about living far out in the countryside in an old, white, wooden house with a porch and a porch swing and old creaking wooden doors and an old creaking wooden floor.
the house would be at the very end of a long dirt road. the road would go through oak trees and blue belles and daffodils. the house would have an old staircase to swing from and slide down if i wanted. it would have an attic. the attic would have a window. and from way up there i would look down the long dirt road and know that i could see everything but nothing could see me.
in that old house i'd make white dresses for myself. i'd wear them every day. i'd wake up in a big white bed under a big white quilt every big white morning and i'd sip coffee off and on all day.
i'd make paintings and strange sculptures, some little, some big, to put up all around the old house and out in the yard too. i'd make myself a red quilt and lay in the yard. i'd go walking through the oaks and out in to golden wheat fields and i'd collect little scraps i'd find on the ground and pine cones and stones and flowers to press between book pages just like mama would. i'd bring an old crazy camera and i'd take pictures of irrelevant things. i'd paint in the yellow afternoon and write little poems in the evening. i'd hang them all up together in the drawing room on the old, creaking wooden walls.
i'd read and i'd draw in the drawing room and i'd crochet myself little flowers and big sweaters and i'd sew myself a basket of apples and a basket of birds to match. i'd make a book for my irrelevant photographs. i'd sing in the bright morning and hum in the yellow afternoon. i'd be happy and i'd be beautiful too.
this passage made me smile and want to cry and slap myself in the face. my life today is very close to what is written there. very close. i don't have an attic and so no attic window. i live in a cottage not a house but the size of my dwelling has not stopped me from carrying out the lifestyle expressed in that passage. i do wake up in a big white bed under a big white quilt. i do sip coffee off and on all day. i jog through the most gorgeous vineyard there is every morning and i find things on the ground sometimes that i feel certain i should give a home to. i don't take many pictures but i buy the discarded, forgotten, lost ones. i have crocheted myself flowers. an entire wall of them, actually. i haven't made myself a white dress yet but i made myself a plum colored one and i plan to make a white dress in spring.
maybe this is the winter where i'll make the big red quilt?
all this to say is i wanted to slap myself in the face because i'd forgotten all about this particular dream and then found myself living it and being completely oblivious to it... even unappreciative of it at times... and that made me feel hugely ridiculous. enormously so.
and right now, right outside my big window, the light on the necks of the trees is bright yellow. they glow.
they are glowing.
good morning. :)
this is an excerpt from a journal of mine that i wrote about 2 years ago-
sometimes
i dream about living far out in the countryside in an old, white, wooden house with a porch and a porch swing and old creaking wooden doors and an old creaking wooden floor.
the house would be at the very end of a long dirt road. the road would go through oak trees and blue belles and daffodils. the house would have an old staircase to swing from and slide down if i wanted. it would have an attic. the attic would have a window. and from way up there i would look down the long dirt road and know that i could see everything but nothing could see me.
in that old house i'd make white dresses for myself. i'd wear them every day. i'd wake up in a big white bed under a big white quilt every big white morning and i'd sip coffee off and on all day.
i'd make paintings and strange sculptures, some little, some big, to put up all around the old house and out in the yard too. i'd make myself a red quilt and lay in the yard. i'd go walking through the oaks and out in to golden wheat fields and i'd collect little scraps i'd find on the ground and pine cones and stones and flowers to press between book pages just like mama would. i'd bring an old crazy camera and i'd take pictures of irrelevant things. i'd paint in the yellow afternoon and write little poems in the evening. i'd hang them all up together in the drawing room on the old, creaking wooden walls.
i'd read and i'd draw in the drawing room and i'd crochet myself little flowers and big sweaters and i'd sew myself a basket of apples and a basket of birds to match. i'd make a book for my irrelevant photographs. i'd sing in the bright morning and hum in the yellow afternoon. i'd be happy and i'd be beautiful too.
this passage made me smile and want to cry and slap myself in the face. my life today is very close to what is written there. very close. i don't have an attic and so no attic window. i live in a cottage not a house but the size of my dwelling has not stopped me from carrying out the lifestyle expressed in that passage. i do wake up in a big white bed under a big white quilt. i do sip coffee off and on all day. i jog through the most gorgeous vineyard there is every morning and i find things on the ground sometimes that i feel certain i should give a home to. i don't take many pictures but i buy the discarded, forgotten, lost ones. i have crocheted myself flowers. an entire wall of them, actually. i haven't made myself a white dress yet but i made myself a plum colored one and i plan to make a white dress in spring.
maybe this is the winter where i'll make the big red quilt?
all this to say is i wanted to slap myself in the face because i'd forgotten all about this particular dream and then found myself living it and being completely oblivious to it... even unappreciative of it at times... and that made me feel hugely ridiculous. enormously so.
and right now, right outside my big window, the light on the necks of the trees is bright yellow. they glow.
they are glowing.
good morning. :)
Oct 27, 2009
also...
wow! someone referenced my work in a paper! i don't know what to think! i'm totally stunned! and flattered! and just plain ol' happy!
though the particular project she references is currently underground (not being tended to at this time due to an extreme lack of space for a project so large and so the blog that documented the project has been made private), it reminded me that it is a good project. one i plan to pick back up as soon as space allows.
check it out.
thanks robyn!
though the particular project she references is currently underground (not being tended to at this time due to an extreme lack of space for a project so large and so the blog that documented the project has been made private), it reminded me that it is a good project. one i plan to pick back up as soon as space allows.
check it out.
thanks robyn!
signals...
it hasn't gotten any warmer today. it has only gotten colder. tighter. my fingers are slow. the heater must not be turned up high enough. i can move this little finger to raise the little lever on the thermostat and make it all better, make it all go away. at least here. at least here. for me. the wind kicked the sickly yellow pollen down from the big tall pines. it's everywhere and rushing up my nose and eyes when i step outside. no more stepping outside. winter. i have plenty of yarn and can make myself a scarf, a sweater, gloves, a woolly hat, and snugly thick socks. too thick for shoes. my toes are moving slower than my fingers. i'm thankful for my many quilts. i'm going to go get under them and stay under them. i have hot chocolate too. and good books. and a need to just sit in one place. one place where it's warm. one place where i am the only determining factor. one place where the slowness in my fingers will either dissolve or won't matter.
cold.
winter is signaling.
cold.
winter is signaling.
admiring... and happy...
i've been thinking about sylvia plath a lot lately... not just her work but the small things about her that really warm my heart and make me smile... like the fact that she liked to paint little hearts on everything. it was her symbol, her favorite shape. and apparently they were everywhere inside her home. knowing a little fact like that makes me like her even more. makes her work spin around inside my heart with more ferocity, more angered eloquence than it already did.
last week i remembered her birthday was coming up and then promptly forgot all about it. one of my personal resolutions is to write stuff like that down so i can celebrate the lives of people i admire who are no longer with us. and this morning over at Our Liege the Radish King, i was happy to be reminded- today's the day! and wouldn't you know that for the passed 4 days or so i've been drawing hearts on things. ha! my subconscious kicking in and trying to jog my memory i suppose. i'm even making a curtain for my kitchen rendered entirely in filet crochet that has a huge white heart right in the center of it. and i mean HUGE.
it's windy and cold but that chilly pair has made the brightness of this day even more beautiful. i have the heater on and am getting ready to make another pot of coffee. the house is clean, the dog is sleeping, and it is silent save for the wind over the roof. the day fits her. sylvia. her work. her heart. her hearts. i will make my curtain and hang it up- an ode.
and so today, i'll read my favorite poem of hers and work to commit it to memory- all while making heart shapes, letting the light and wind in, attempting repairs of the broken.
Sheep in Fog
The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the color of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells-
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.
-Sylvia Plath, 1963
last week i remembered her birthday was coming up and then promptly forgot all about it. one of my personal resolutions is to write stuff like that down so i can celebrate the lives of people i admire who are no longer with us. and this morning over at Our Liege the Radish King, i was happy to be reminded- today's the day! and wouldn't you know that for the passed 4 days or so i've been drawing hearts on things. ha! my subconscious kicking in and trying to jog my memory i suppose. i'm even making a curtain for my kitchen rendered entirely in filet crochet that has a huge white heart right in the center of it. and i mean HUGE.
it's windy and cold but that chilly pair has made the brightness of this day even more beautiful. i have the heater on and am getting ready to make another pot of coffee. the house is clean, the dog is sleeping, and it is silent save for the wind over the roof. the day fits her. sylvia. her work. her heart. her hearts. i will make my curtain and hang it up- an ode.
and so today, i'll read my favorite poem of hers and work to commit it to memory- all while making heart shapes, letting the light and wind in, attempting repairs of the broken.
Sheep in Fog
The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the color of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells-
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.
-Sylvia Plath, 1963
Oct 26, 2009
honor...
my heart is so big and bursting today! so thankful for so many things and for the many astounding and thoughtful opportunities that exist all around me.
i've been invited to donate a painting to Visual Aid for this years Big Deal art sale and fundraiser. The auction is in its 16th year and it's very important. Visual Aid is a foundation that works to encourage artists with life-threatening illnesses to continue working. the money this foundation raises is used to buy supplies, offer the artists they serve with the opportunity to take classes and workshops, and do whatever they can to make it possible for these great artists to continue to thrive and grow. i am absolutely honored to have such a wonderful opportunity to help the community i am a part of and love so very much. i am humbled and made tearful by this opportunity and i hope that if you're in the san francisco area that you can make it down to the event. it will be held the afternoon and evening of november 14th from 4-9:30 pm at SomArts in san francisco. that's only about 3 weeks from now. mark your calenders, i'd love to see you there and will be an attendance the entire night. here's the piece that will be up for grabs-
Lineage 3
44" x 38"
oil on canvas
2009
if you are far away, i sincerely encourage you to take a look at Visual Aid's website and learn about the opportunities you may have to help such a noble and worthwhile cause. giving back to the community that supports us is one of the best things we can do for each other. i am so grateful.
i've been invited to donate a painting to Visual Aid for this years Big Deal art sale and fundraiser. The auction is in its 16th year and it's very important. Visual Aid is a foundation that works to encourage artists with life-threatening illnesses to continue working. the money this foundation raises is used to buy supplies, offer the artists they serve with the opportunity to take classes and workshops, and do whatever they can to make it possible for these great artists to continue to thrive and grow. i am absolutely honored to have such a wonderful opportunity to help the community i am a part of and love so very much. i am humbled and made tearful by this opportunity and i hope that if you're in the san francisco area that you can make it down to the event. it will be held the afternoon and evening of november 14th from 4-9:30 pm at SomArts in san francisco. that's only about 3 weeks from now. mark your calenders, i'd love to see you there and will be an attendance the entire night. here's the piece that will be up for grabs-
Lineage 3
44" x 38"
oil on canvas
2009
if you are far away, i sincerely encourage you to take a look at Visual Aid's website and learn about the opportunities you may have to help such a noble and worthwhile cause. giving back to the community that supports us is one of the best things we can do for each other. i am so grateful.
Oct 25, 2009
:)
the weekend was wonderful- calm, warm under quilts, no phone, hot chocolate, hugs, friends, and crochet. i feel happy and safe and am not at all dreading the approach of winter. i'm looking forward to spending more time inside, buzzing around, full of excuses to consider interior design and be girly that way. i'd like to finally make a quilt this year. it's on the list of "important things to do before i die" and, as i'm discovering, sooner really is better than later. i've been finding small and simple paths to beauty lately. i've been quiet and gentle. i've had a smile for days now and i believe with all my heart that good things are on the horizon. i've decided to uncross my fingers, nurture my hope, and just take each day as it comes.
Oct 23, 2009
anonymous...
i picked up all these old photographs at out of the way thrift and antique stores. initially, i bought them because 1) i wanted to give them a home (finding these out in the world, available for purchase has always seemed a bit sad to me) and 2) to do drawings based on them. i've had them leaned up against the wall on top of a little cabinet in my little make-shift studio for weeks and weeks. the more i looked at them, i began to realize what a powerful thing they are and how beautifully they compliment my larger body of work by just having them. but a few of them asked for a bit of attention- a bit of ink or string or tape or glitter or paint. i love each and every one of them. and they are still leaning against the wall in my studio keeping me company.
Oct 22, 2009
sigh...
i cannot stress what an absolutely beautiful day it is today. just stunning. i took The Almighty Jog a bit earlier today and it was then that i noticed how beautiful it is where i live. the big rain that came through brought out so many green and pretty things and the air was fresh and clean and the sky was wide open, blue as blue can be, and i felt happy to be running through it all with my dog bouncing along at my side. i came home, measured my waist (because i haven't done that in a while and i'm supposed to be keeping track of this stuff) and discovered i've lost another inch! yay me! and so i tried on a pair of pants my tall, lean mama gave me about a year and a half ago - a pair of pants that are super cool but that i couldn't really fit in to - and THEY FIT! AHHHHHHHHHH! i've got 'em on right now! and not all squeezed in, suffocating, cutting off blood flow to my legs style either. i am COMFORTABLE in them! it's a wonderful, wonderful feeling! it's so nice to see the changes i'm trying to make in my life take root. it encourages me to show that same level of dedication and faithfulness in other areas of my life. areas where progress is sometimes hard to see and the reward for hard work is really the self-investigation that such changes require.
and i've been painting all day. it seems like it's been so long since i've painted ALL DAY LONG. and i have definitely missed the feeling. i feel so focused and calm today, so grateful for so many things. i guess the gratitude fridge is working some magic! it's nice to have all those reminders sitting there waiting to be read while i wash the dishes, make dinner, or even scan for midnight snacks. it's doing me a world of good right now and helping me to remain positive and objective about things. i feel encouraged and hopeful and just happy.
it is a beautiful day here. i hope it is where you are too. :)
and i've been painting all day. it seems like it's been so long since i've painted ALL DAY LONG. and i have definitely missed the feeling. i feel so focused and calm today, so grateful for so many things. i guess the gratitude fridge is working some magic! it's nice to have all those reminders sitting there waiting to be read while i wash the dishes, make dinner, or even scan for midnight snacks. it's doing me a world of good right now and helping me to remain positive and objective about things. i feel encouraged and hopeful and just happy.
it is a beautiful day here. i hope it is where you are too. :)
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 20, 2009
brightness...
today the sun came out and i am endlessly grateful for it. i lost way too many days during the last week to rain and the resulting lethargy. but today, i climbed back on my good, grey horse and got down to some serious painting. the oils. oh, they smell so good! and they're beautiful too. i hope to prove that last statement here shortly. i'm going to try to hustle, hustle, hustle and get these big beauties wrapped up before a consistent winter sets in. and since i started them in 2009, i'd like to finish them in 2009. yep, thinking of the new year already... and resolutions- all the things i'd like to do and the things i'd like to change... the things i need to change. but i'm hopeful and that leads me to believe that great things can, in fact, be accomplished. today i made a list of all the things i'm grateful for. i wrote one thing on a post-it note, one right after the other, and covered my refrigerator with the little suckers, er, stickers. i've left them up all day, picking them up and sticking them back in their spot when they fall from their delicate hinge of weak adhesive. they make me happy and look like a pretty sweet piece of conceptual, post-modern installation. ha! maybe i'll take their picture. at any rate, it was a good way to start the day. it's a good way to keep the day good.
Oct 19, 2009
blah...
drinking coffee and eating raspberries as the RAIN COMES DOWN. my schedule has been thwarted by the weather once again. no good. i did not get to obey The Almighty Jog nearly enough last week due to the TYPHOON and my prayers for a week of sunshine have gone unanswered as of yet. blah. i may have to resign myself to doing the more than slightly embarrassing TV workout this morning. ahhhhh! it's embarrassing even when you're by yourself! ha! they're just so goofy! all the "sexy" moves you're supposed to follow along with usually just leave this girl feeling a bit ridiculous. but it's a good opportunity for laughter, i suppose. geez.
and what's more- i've got some works on paper to ship out today and i do not - repeat DO NOT - like taking art outside when it's raining, no matter how well it's covered and packaged. it's a risk that i just really don't think is worth it. not at all. so i'll be hoping for at least a couple hours break in the rain today so that i can try to keep to my schedule for today and be responsible and all that good stuff. dang drizzle. i live in CALIFORNIA! winter? huh? i forget every year that we actually do have seasons here and i am always so disappointed when winter finally arrives. always. always always always. and yeah... i know... the trees. they need it. uh-huh. yep. got it. doesn't mean i still don't hate it. so there. i'm pouting now. and logic doesn't work when you've got your bottom lip stuck out. :)
and what's more- i've got some works on paper to ship out today and i do not - repeat DO NOT - like taking art outside when it's raining, no matter how well it's covered and packaged. it's a risk that i just really don't think is worth it. not at all. so i'll be hoping for at least a couple hours break in the rain today so that i can try to keep to my schedule for today and be responsible and all that good stuff. dang drizzle. i live in CALIFORNIA! winter? huh? i forget every year that we actually do have seasons here and i am always so disappointed when winter finally arrives. always. always always always. and yeah... i know... the trees. they need it. uh-huh. yep. got it. doesn't mean i still don't hate it. so there. i'm pouting now. and logic doesn't work when you've got your bottom lip stuck out. :)
Oct 18, 2009
yay!
tonight is auction night! yes! the annual fundraiser/art auction/cocktail party benefiting the Access Institute for Psychological Services in San Francisco and yours truly has a piece on the auction block! i'm so honored to have been invited to contribute. this is an issue that has touched the lives of most people i know and, in our current economy rife with health care woes and hardships, it is absolutely wonderful that i can do something to help. even the smallest gesture counts. kindness matters. concern matters. and being given the opportunity to lend your skills to a heart-breaking, worth-while cause is something i cherish.
if you're in the area and have nothing to do tonight, come on out. it will be quite the soiree. and besides, i'll be there and i'm a whole lot of laughs and fun. :)
this is the piece that's up for grabs...
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unnamed/unknown
11" x 7.5"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009
if you're in the area and have nothing to do tonight, come on out. it will be quite the soiree. and besides, i'll be there and i'm a whole lot of laughs and fun. :)
this is the piece that's up for grabs...
.JPG)
unnamed/unknown
11" x 7.5"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009
Oct 16, 2009
hello chicago!
i am so happy to announce my new representation at Ashes & Milk in Chicago! since the moment i saw their online gallery, i was completely taken in and have dreamed of being able to offer something beautiful to the collection. i am honored that Ashes & Milk is presenting two of my embroidered territories. read more about this work here.
Territories 11
available at Ashes & Milk
Territories 11
available at Ashes & Milk
Oct 15, 2009
,+embroidery,+angela+simione+2009.JPG)
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.JPG)
.JPG)
Oct 13, 2009
and the storm arrives!
oh, it is coming down in SHEETS! it's the tail end of a typhoon! ahhhhhhh! my little rottweiler here is even afraid to go outside! ha! and so no jog today either. we will have to find ways to keep ourselves entertained inside, i guess. good thing i'm stocked up on projects and paint and paper and all the things a person needs to while away a rainy, rainy day. these days are good for silence. no sounds in the house at all. just the rain beating down on the roof and a pile of books next to the bed. in addition to my beloved hazelnut coffee, i've also got a little stash of hot-chocolate that i've been waiting to break out once winter arrived. and here she is, at least for today. i'll pretend i'm some famous, reclusive, so-and-so and do everything from the confines of my bed. ha! like andy warhol said- everything is more glamorous when you do it in bed.
Oct 12, 2009
morning...
the weekend went by on an odd foot. not bad, just a strange gait. i've been told by strangers in line at the grocery store that a big storm is on its' way and should be presenting itself any time now. inches will fall, they said. inches. needed. but you know i hate it. ever since i was a child, i only like the rain when it comes down at night. and when the night lifted, i saw that the day is a grey one. little pin-prick drops of moisture falling in the light off the street lamp. softly, unheard, like pine-needles. the storm makes its' signal. any time now. someone said 'tuesday' but they might've been wrong.
drizzle, drizzle, little cloud.
here you are
and there you go. go ahead
and pour down.
drizzle, drizzle, little cloud.
here you are
and there you go. go ahead
and pour down.
Oct 10, 2009
work...
the little
under eyebrows plucked to commas
under a white man's name
sitting still
thin as thread
-
Dad appreciated her-
the small, neat house.
pretty,
except when drunks pounded on the door
with cold sensibilities
(with a promise of money)
the muscles around her eyes shivered.
she lifted the other lid-
-
a working nurse with no juice.
skirted
shrouded
sugar rotten
exhausted:
the little girl of the bed.
-
six years.
she took the cold great coins.
2009
under eyebrows plucked to commas
under a white man's name
sitting still
thin as thread
-
Dad appreciated her-
the small, neat house.
pretty,
except when drunks pounded on the door
with cold sensibilities
(with a promise of money)
the muscles around her eyes shivered.
she lifted the other lid-
-
a working nurse with no juice.
skirted
shrouded
sugar rotten
exhausted:
the little girl of the bed.
-
six years.
she took the cold great coins.
2009
Oct 9, 2009
good morning, Roland!
sometimes a bad day leads to good things. a funny plurality. and a comforting one.
yesterday, i spent the majority of the day feeling bogged down and out of sorts- suddenly a bit angry and confused by life. my life. and, off and on, i thought "go bury yourself in a book. get out of yourself and in to something else". and, of course, i waited until evening to listen to my own fine suggestion. i am stubborn that way. and of course, once i obeyed the call to read, i felt endlessly better. the benefits of reading have been widely praised by everyone starting with our kindergarten teachers. and it's all true too. i don't really know why, culturally, reading has fallen out of favor in terms of "for fun" activities, or why i have gone down that same road since graduation... but it is something i have felt uneasy about this entire past year and a half. i have felt out of sorts and without a good guide.
lately, i've been day-dreaming my own memories back in to the present. the Big One being my final year in school when i would read every morning on the train - a 45 minute ride to campus - and then again on the train back home. and of course there was all the reading i had to do at school, for homework, reading as research for papers, theory to explore, philosophy, poetry, supreme Texts, and Text-based Art as well. reading, looking back, was king. the most dominant and influential activity in my life. more and more, i have missed this way of living and have wanted to go back to that practice for a very long time... pretty much since the moment i set it down. i have resolved to add reading to my waking rituals from here on out- after my morning 'coffee and notebook' time, and before The Almighty Jog- right at the start of the day. i will get back on my beloved and horribly missed, longed after 'train'.
and so, this morning as i stirred in bed as i woke, i remembered something i'd read yesterday on a poetry website that said "Serious writers are serious readers"... and i thought about our dear sweet Radish King's constant assertion (and healthy affirmation) that reading is just another form of writing... so i got out my readers from class. they are here in a big stack- the ones i felt closest to my senior year and the ones that feel significant and relevant to my life at present, to my practice, as it is, today, and i jumped right in:
i read 'The Death of the Author" and "From Work to Text" by Roland Barthes. HA! big stuff to begin the day with and, magically, is about everything i was just speaking about. :) especially the fact that, historically, reading and writing were viewed by society as a single act in spite of it's plural nature- much like how a musician practices: she is both playing and listening at the same time. the separation between reading and writing is a fairly recent social change. dividing these things isn't good and, for me, has been fairly detrimental to all sorts of things. i am a person that likes ideas. LOVES ideas. and by cutting myself off from an entire side of language (reading), no wonder i haven't felt necessarily good. no wonder, i have felt that my writing, as a practice, has suffered. no wonder i feel less able to answer Art's call in a lot of ways. no wonder my stamina has slipped.
the two essays deal with much more than what i'm reacting to right now- lots of heavy shit that i will take in pieces and most likely re-read again and again. but it is the focus on being plural that struck me so deeply today and offered such a wonderful comfort.
because it is true that 'what you put in is what you get out'... and if i put big ideas in myself, those big ideas will work themselves back out on to my canvas and across the blue lines of my notebook... my practice becomes more whole... deeper... a way of living. in this sense, it is life imitating art, not the other way around... and that's the way it should be. if not life imitating art, than what are the lessons of art for? this isn't to say that artists are nothing more than copyists, spewing out the lessons they've taken in. that is not what i am saying. i am saying that artists must digest ideas, live with them, process them, roll around in bed with them... and whatever transpires while you are rolling around, whatever change or mutation or inspiration has taken place, will find its' way back out on to the canvas, inside a poem, in the stitches of whatever it is one builds.
all this to say, reading is God. or it needs to be. language, study, wrestling with meaning, making meaning plural, deciding against the mandate that a person reduce herself to a singular entity: mother ONLY. daughter ONLY. soldier ONLY. writer ONLY. no. that is not the way to live. that is not the definition of 'human'. to be human is to be a collection of things- ideas, outlooks, 'titles', cares, concerns, activities, and approaches. this multiplicity is essential... even if only in reference to a person's own sanity and happiness. you cannot cut yourself away from your shadow... no more than reading should be separated from writing... because what is the point of writing if no one reads. writing goes beyond its' action... when it is experienced by another (the reader... even if 'the reader' is just yourself) it is activated, it thrives, it is constantly in the NOW, the present. it breathes. the work goes and continues and survives. and so too humans should survive- constantly plural, irreducibly plural. a multitude.
i won't worry myself anymore over choosing a single title for myself. or at least i will fight that worry when it finds me. i will read and create a deeper life- a more inclusive, benevolent life... a life that strives to practice the lessons that ART teaches.
and this is me when i read big things first thing in the morning, hopped up on coffee. :)
yesterday, i spent the majority of the day feeling bogged down and out of sorts- suddenly a bit angry and confused by life. my life. and, off and on, i thought "go bury yourself in a book. get out of yourself and in to something else". and, of course, i waited until evening to listen to my own fine suggestion. i am stubborn that way. and of course, once i obeyed the call to read, i felt endlessly better. the benefits of reading have been widely praised by everyone starting with our kindergarten teachers. and it's all true too. i don't really know why, culturally, reading has fallen out of favor in terms of "for fun" activities, or why i have gone down that same road since graduation... but it is something i have felt uneasy about this entire past year and a half. i have felt out of sorts and without a good guide.
lately, i've been day-dreaming my own memories back in to the present. the Big One being my final year in school when i would read every morning on the train - a 45 minute ride to campus - and then again on the train back home. and of course there was all the reading i had to do at school, for homework, reading as research for papers, theory to explore, philosophy, poetry, supreme Texts, and Text-based Art as well. reading, looking back, was king. the most dominant and influential activity in my life. more and more, i have missed this way of living and have wanted to go back to that practice for a very long time... pretty much since the moment i set it down. i have resolved to add reading to my waking rituals from here on out- after my morning 'coffee and notebook' time, and before The Almighty Jog- right at the start of the day. i will get back on my beloved and horribly missed, longed after 'train'.
and so, this morning as i stirred in bed as i woke, i remembered something i'd read yesterday on a poetry website that said "Serious writers are serious readers"... and i thought about our dear sweet Radish King's constant assertion (and healthy affirmation) that reading is just another form of writing... so i got out my readers from class. they are here in a big stack- the ones i felt closest to my senior year and the ones that feel significant and relevant to my life at present, to my practice, as it is, today, and i jumped right in:
i read 'The Death of the Author" and "From Work to Text" by Roland Barthes. HA! big stuff to begin the day with and, magically, is about everything i was just speaking about. :) especially the fact that, historically, reading and writing were viewed by society as a single act in spite of it's plural nature- much like how a musician practices: she is both playing and listening at the same time. the separation between reading and writing is a fairly recent social change. dividing these things isn't good and, for me, has been fairly detrimental to all sorts of things. i am a person that likes ideas. LOVES ideas. and by cutting myself off from an entire side of language (reading), no wonder i haven't felt necessarily good. no wonder, i have felt that my writing, as a practice, has suffered. no wonder i feel less able to answer Art's call in a lot of ways. no wonder my stamina has slipped.
the two essays deal with much more than what i'm reacting to right now- lots of heavy shit that i will take in pieces and most likely re-read again and again. but it is the focus on being plural that struck me so deeply today and offered such a wonderful comfort.
because it is true that 'what you put in is what you get out'... and if i put big ideas in myself, those big ideas will work themselves back out on to my canvas and across the blue lines of my notebook... my practice becomes more whole... deeper... a way of living. in this sense, it is life imitating art, not the other way around... and that's the way it should be. if not life imitating art, than what are the lessons of art for? this isn't to say that artists are nothing more than copyists, spewing out the lessons they've taken in. that is not what i am saying. i am saying that artists must digest ideas, live with them, process them, roll around in bed with them... and whatever transpires while you are rolling around, whatever change or mutation or inspiration has taken place, will find its' way back out on to the canvas, inside a poem, in the stitches of whatever it is one builds.
all this to say, reading is God. or it needs to be. language, study, wrestling with meaning, making meaning plural, deciding against the mandate that a person reduce herself to a singular entity: mother ONLY. daughter ONLY. soldier ONLY. writer ONLY. no. that is not the way to live. that is not the definition of 'human'. to be human is to be a collection of things- ideas, outlooks, 'titles', cares, concerns, activities, and approaches. this multiplicity is essential... even if only in reference to a person's own sanity and happiness. you cannot cut yourself away from your shadow... no more than reading should be separated from writing... because what is the point of writing if no one reads. writing goes beyond its' action... when it is experienced by another (the reader... even if 'the reader' is just yourself) it is activated, it thrives, it is constantly in the NOW, the present. it breathes. the work goes and continues and survives. and so too humans should survive- constantly plural, irreducibly plural. a multitude.
i won't worry myself anymore over choosing a single title for myself. or at least i will fight that worry when it finds me. i will read and create a deeper life- a more inclusive, benevolent life... a life that strives to practice the lessons that ART teaches.
and this is me when i read big things first thing in the morning, hopped up on coffee. :)
Oct 8, 2009
blah...
to be perfectly honest, i'm not having a good day. i slept-in, which sets a bad pace, and leaves me with a constant feeling of trying to catch up to where i would have been had i got up on time. i actually did get up at the right time to put the coffee on and then i headed on back to bed to snooze for 10 minutes while the coffee brewed. i do this every morning and every morning i get back out of bed when that delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee sneaks in to my room. but today, that lovely aroma must have taken a grand detour somewhere else because when i opened my eyes it was an hour and a half later. i woke feeling like i had fucked-up, somehow dropped the ball, and will spend the rest of the hours of this october 8th trying to make up for it. i have a bad tendency to beat myself up like this over stupid, insignificant things. i mean, it's really not that big of a deal. but i think my bad day actually started yesterday. somewhere around lunch time i began feeling pretty grey. not blue... grey. and i had some success ignoring this feeling but by the time i got home last night from my secret meeting, i was pretty well out of sorts. there are strange hassles to be dealt with that i'm not sure how to deal with. i'm always nervous about saying the wrong thing, expressing myself inaccurately, leaving another person with the wrong impression or somehow hurting their feelings. this is me as a little girl. this is me on a bad day- total reversion to "little girl". and i don't like it. but i'm sitting here in footie pajamas and eating a bowl of honey-nut Cheerios. i even look like a little girl right now. silliness. some days it's just hard to get it together. some days just start on an odd, unexpected note. today is one of those days...
still working on this little guy...
edit, edit, edit- that's the name of the game. always, endlessly... no such thing as a perfect poem, i'm told, but you still gotta do your best. i'm trying. and i will keep on trying. i've had a tremendous need for words lately. i'm sure you've noticed. :) and i'm not exactly sure what sparked it or if this is just the way i am and had somehow ignored it. whatever the case, i don't mind it, not one bit, and will roll on, pushing words together, happy in all this ink.
this is what happens when you're raised by a sociopath
stark
the uneven crack
sporadic
unintended.
a brutal white
diagonal. Her diamond
fractals crossing wide.
mathematical.
pristine.
perfect,
be perfect,
be strict
be stringent-
we're beyond all that now.
-
She's got her reasons.
They all have a number.
unsurpassed.
Her shards are assured.
angela simione, 2009
this is what happens when you're raised by a sociopath
stark
the uneven crack
sporadic
unintended.
a brutal white
diagonal. Her diamond
fractals crossing wide.
mathematical.
pristine.
perfect,
be perfect,
be strict
be stringent-
we're beyond all that now.
-
She's got her reasons.
They all have a number.
unsurpassed.
Her shards are assured.
angela simione, 2009
Oct 7, 2009
a conundrum, a take-back, and good art...
coffee in hand and a near notebook.
a sleeping rottweiler on the big red chair.
and flipping through Ariel this morning
with my two elsie's governing the whole house from the top of the big bookcase:
i notice the love she had for horse hooves and poppies and the color green... what do you do with such things? how to honor them? a dead hero...
and anne sexton was jealous over it which makes me cringe and pisses me off. why talk shit like that over a friend's suicide? why make it about YOU? when there are two babies without a mother and a man crying in his sleep...
maybe they weren't friends after all.
she wrote a horrible, spiteful essay about sylvia's life and work in a collection of literary criticism called 'The Art of Sylvia Plath" published in 1971, 8 years after sylvia's death. in it, she talks about herself and casts herself as sylvia... speaks of the suicide as if it were her own, like property, and infested with jealousy. tacky and rude and it makes me want to read anne's work less and less.
it is a loss.
i have loved her work but anne sexton seems like a mean person to me today. i don't know what to do with that. is it possible to go on admiring a person's artistic capabilities once they've offended your core morality?
must you like the artist in order to go on appreciating the art?
in the end,
anne killed herself too...
maybe her anger and sadness was aroused by sylvia's success in the matter. maybe it wasn't jealousy so much as a horrible wish? anne left behind children too. grown children but children nonetheless. there is an entire family that morns her and misses her... and i, on my high horse, wondering if she was a "good person" or not. maybe i am the one offending my morality here. i am not offering the compassion i claim to believe in. my heart twists and i realize i'm being a big dumb baby over the clash that may or may not have existed between two, now, dead women. is it even my business... is it any of ours?
but this is the power of words right here. they go on. infinitely. as long as the pages are being turned, the age of the page doesn't really matter. and it hasn't really been all that long since these tragedies occurred. not really. sylvia plath killed herself in 1963. anne sexton did it in 1974. 11 years between each other. and only a little more than 40 years ago.
maybe my anger is the same anger anyone would have? the anger that swishes out of confusion and tremendous sadness... a need to find a place to rest the blame. more than 40 years and my finger is eager to point. more than 40 years and the wrestling continues. the argument goes on. and all this happened before i was even born.
this is the power of good art.
and so i need a do-over-
i take it all back. about anne. i will keep turning those pages and remind myself to find a path of compassion. i think it is one of the points of finding poetry in the world anyway: establishing a vehicle of compassion. and hope.
everyone fails.
and everyone shines.
everyone
everyone
everyone
and hopefully, me too.
p.s. does anyone else have big thoughts like this first thing in the morning? ha!
p.p.s. i forgot to mention it yesterday- check out the two AMAZING artists i blurbed about over at ANTLER. good stuff. heart-felt work and so full of longing. scroll down to yesterday's post and you'll find them.
a sleeping rottweiler on the big red chair.
and flipping through Ariel this morning
with my two elsie's governing the whole house from the top of the big bookcase:
i notice the love she had for horse hooves and poppies and the color green... what do you do with such things? how to honor them? a dead hero...
and anne sexton was jealous over it which makes me cringe and pisses me off. why talk shit like that over a friend's suicide? why make it about YOU? when there are two babies without a mother and a man crying in his sleep...
maybe they weren't friends after all.
she wrote a horrible, spiteful essay about sylvia's life and work in a collection of literary criticism called 'The Art of Sylvia Plath" published in 1971, 8 years after sylvia's death. in it, she talks about herself and casts herself as sylvia... speaks of the suicide as if it were her own, like property, and infested with jealousy. tacky and rude and it makes me want to read anne's work less and less.
it is a loss.
i have loved her work but anne sexton seems like a mean person to me today. i don't know what to do with that. is it possible to go on admiring a person's artistic capabilities once they've offended your core morality?
must you like the artist in order to go on appreciating the art?
in the end,
anne killed herself too...
maybe her anger and sadness was aroused by sylvia's success in the matter. maybe it wasn't jealousy so much as a horrible wish? anne left behind children too. grown children but children nonetheless. there is an entire family that morns her and misses her... and i, on my high horse, wondering if she was a "good person" or not. maybe i am the one offending my morality here. i am not offering the compassion i claim to believe in. my heart twists and i realize i'm being a big dumb baby over the clash that may or may not have existed between two, now, dead women. is it even my business... is it any of ours?
but this is the power of words right here. they go on. infinitely. as long as the pages are being turned, the age of the page doesn't really matter. and it hasn't really been all that long since these tragedies occurred. not really. sylvia plath killed herself in 1963. anne sexton did it in 1974. 11 years between each other. and only a little more than 40 years ago.
maybe my anger is the same anger anyone would have? the anger that swishes out of confusion and tremendous sadness... a need to find a place to rest the blame. more than 40 years and my finger is eager to point. more than 40 years and the wrestling continues. the argument goes on. and all this happened before i was even born.
this is the power of good art.
and so i need a do-over-
i take it all back. about anne. i will keep turning those pages and remind myself to find a path of compassion. i think it is one of the points of finding poetry in the world anyway: establishing a vehicle of compassion. and hope.
everyone fails.
and everyone shines.
everyone
everyone
everyone
and hopefully, me too.
p.s. does anyone else have big thoughts like this first thing in the morning? ha!
p.p.s. i forgot to mention it yesterday- check out the two AMAZING artists i blurbed about over at ANTLER. good stuff. heart-felt work and so full of longing. scroll down to yesterday's post and you'll find them.
Oct 6, 2009
round 3...
,+30x22,+mixed+media+on+paper,+angela+simione+2009.JPG)
Alpha (study #3)
30" x 22"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009
she looks younger in this piece... closer to her age in the photograph i think, but i'm not sure the addition of color is something she likes.
i'll listen harder.
what do you call yourself?
i woke up early early after a long night of strange dreams... most likely provoked by the movie i watched last night- 7 pounds with will smith. it is probably one of the saddest movies i've ever seen and will smith is such a fine actor (i don't care what anyone says) that when he cries, i cry and that movie just ripped me to shreds. but it is a wonderful story- full of heart-break and compassion and the human urge to seek redemption... and how maybe we go about finding that redemption in ways that no one else can understand or agree with... a definite tear-jerker but that phrase seems so reductive. the movie is profound. in spite of being able to see what the next twist in the story would be, i found the acting and writing of the movie to be stunning. absolutely heart-wrenching. and beautifully done. sad, sad, sad. you are forewarned.
and so, i had strange dreams. none of which i can remember. i got out of bed and made coffee and by 6am i was scribbling, scribbling,scribbling in my notebook. no stopping until 7:01 when i finally looked up and saw that the night was finally gone and that icy-blue was pouring in. traffic was moving on the 2 lane highway and the birds and zany squirrels where moving too. and me, out on my stoop, head and hand crammed in my notebook, feeling as twisted up as all the branches above me...
first thing, i worried that somewhere there's a rule that says i have to pick one or the other: painting or writing. i know this isn't true. no where close to true but it seems to be that a person generally favors one practice over all others. and this morning i realized that i've gotten to the point where painting and writing seem like the same thing to me. they are indistinguishable in terms of practice. they function so much the same way (to me) that i started, stupidly, worrying about titles: Writer. Painter. which one am i? can i be both? is that allowed? can i call myself a writer even though my writing is largely secret? can i call myself a Writer just because of my love for the craft? or does it take more than that? and if i call myself Writer, does Painter suffer for it? can't i just be a regular ol' artist with a big ol' umbrella that all the things i lay my hand to can fit under?
why i started worrying about all this, i'm not sure. and i know it sounds like a silly concern and that i must be wearing my crazy pants today... but if i just say it out-right, if i say it honestly, my concern is this: i don't want to be bad at either art form. i want them both. and i want to be good at them both. no one wants to be bad at something they love.
i think all artists feel this way at times. it isn't insecurity, it's the weight of concern for something cherished. i want to protect these things. i want to protect my practice. and sometimes i worry that i'm floating and i just grab at whatever comes closest. that i am not strict enough. that i am not diligent enough. that i have too many ideas and that satisfying them all means i'm a "jack of all trades, master of none". a fear born in me during art-school. this is the dominant mentality there. if you are a painter, you paint. if you are a writer, you write. don't stray. hone your skills at one thing or you'll be bad (mediocre) at everything. and i fought against that mentality the entire time i was there. the entire time. art school is a wonderful, wonderful place and it's where i learned how to really, truly care about ART. it's where i built my stamina. but this fear was born there as well and i've wrestled with it, off and on, ever since... even though i don't agree with it. my favorite artists are artists who take a multi-disciplinary approach to their work, who aren't limited by genre and let the art, the idea, take whatever form is best. those are the artists i look up to. they are fearless and they trust their practice endlessly. i am trying to leech some of their bravery and just keep going. keep chipping away. keep learning. gain strength. they are the elite. they shine. they are gold.
i hope, one day, to find myself in that lineage of artists who did what loved and didn't second-guess a thing... least of all, their own eyes and hands.
and so, i had strange dreams. none of which i can remember. i got out of bed and made coffee and by 6am i was scribbling, scribbling,scribbling in my notebook. no stopping until 7:01 when i finally looked up and saw that the night was finally gone and that icy-blue was pouring in. traffic was moving on the 2 lane highway and the birds and zany squirrels where moving too. and me, out on my stoop, head and hand crammed in my notebook, feeling as twisted up as all the branches above me...
first thing, i worried that somewhere there's a rule that says i have to pick one or the other: painting or writing. i know this isn't true. no where close to true but it seems to be that a person generally favors one practice over all others. and this morning i realized that i've gotten to the point where painting and writing seem like the same thing to me. they are indistinguishable in terms of practice. they function so much the same way (to me) that i started, stupidly, worrying about titles: Writer. Painter. which one am i? can i be both? is that allowed? can i call myself a writer even though my writing is largely secret? can i call myself a Writer just because of my love for the craft? or does it take more than that? and if i call myself Writer, does Painter suffer for it? can't i just be a regular ol' artist with a big ol' umbrella that all the things i lay my hand to can fit under?
why i started worrying about all this, i'm not sure. and i know it sounds like a silly concern and that i must be wearing my crazy pants today... but if i just say it out-right, if i say it honestly, my concern is this: i don't want to be bad at either art form. i want them both. and i want to be good at them both. no one wants to be bad at something they love.
i think all artists feel this way at times. it isn't insecurity, it's the weight of concern for something cherished. i want to protect these things. i want to protect my practice. and sometimes i worry that i'm floating and i just grab at whatever comes closest. that i am not strict enough. that i am not diligent enough. that i have too many ideas and that satisfying them all means i'm a "jack of all trades, master of none". a fear born in me during art-school. this is the dominant mentality there. if you are a painter, you paint. if you are a writer, you write. don't stray. hone your skills at one thing or you'll be bad (mediocre) at everything. and i fought against that mentality the entire time i was there. the entire time. art school is a wonderful, wonderful place and it's where i learned how to really, truly care about ART. it's where i built my stamina. but this fear was born there as well and i've wrestled with it, off and on, ever since... even though i don't agree with it. my favorite artists are artists who take a multi-disciplinary approach to their work, who aren't limited by genre and let the art, the idea, take whatever form is best. those are the artists i look up to. they are fearless and they trust their practice endlessly. i am trying to leech some of their bravery and just keep going. keep chipping away. keep learning. gain strength. they are the elite. they shine. they are gold.
i hope, one day, to find myself in that lineage of artists who did what loved and didn't second-guess a thing... least of all, their own eyes and hands.
Oct 5, 2009
thank you...
at times my faith has wavered. at times my trust has slid away from me and i get get angry. i feel lost. i feel alone...
my faith in art, as a daily practice and way of living, has saved me over and over again. and even in those moments when my faith has become low and weak, art has persisted. art itself. and has carried me back to a place of humility and trust. i know that as long as i paint and write and breathe everything will be okay. i'll end up exactly where i am meant to be. i've always known this. and i credit my faith in this way of being to art. to the work. to practice. and lately, the odd mix of maids and elsie and poems has renewed me in such wonderful ways. i feel brave again... brave enough to trust that, so long as my brush and pen are moving, life is good, and will be good, in spite of the hardships that come along.
the maid portraits have taught me patience. they teach me that lesson over and over again. and how to hear a whisper... to value a whisper. and these lessons, i suppose, are what has made me able to work on elsie's portraits. she's a funny one... and i don't know if this work will matter to others, if people will even care about a little girl that was killed a hundred years ago. there's one person to whom i know it matters (aside from myself) and that one other person gives me endless, endless strength. her belief in the importance of this project helps me sustain my own. this is what friendship is. and i am thankful. truly, massively thankful.
yesterday, we discussed elsie and how important it is that she be brought out from behind her current status of 'side-note' to someone else's history... that she be given a place of her own to stand... that she be honored, somehow, in even the smallest of ways, and respected.
it is hard work. learning how to be respectful of anothers' history is a delicate thing. but it is important, and so worthwhile, to at least make the attempt. i can see that a lot of the work i've done in the past year or so has led to this place, has made me capable of this attempt... it has at least increased my stamina and made me feel strong enough to heft this, to wrestle with it, to let it call on me for whatever it needs. and the fact i have a friend to speak with about her, about this work, who understands that i can't physically shoulder the weight of her portraits every day and must wait for her call, is a great comfort. it reminds me that this is a life's work and that i am allowed to take time carefully and proceed with at least a fraction of grace.
so, dear friend... thank you. :)
my faith in art, as a daily practice and way of living, has saved me over and over again. and even in those moments when my faith has become low and weak, art has persisted. art itself. and has carried me back to a place of humility and trust. i know that as long as i paint and write and breathe everything will be okay. i'll end up exactly where i am meant to be. i've always known this. and i credit my faith in this way of being to art. to the work. to practice. and lately, the odd mix of maids and elsie and poems has renewed me in such wonderful ways. i feel brave again... brave enough to trust that, so long as my brush and pen are moving, life is good, and will be good, in spite of the hardships that come along.
the maid portraits have taught me patience. they teach me that lesson over and over again. and how to hear a whisper... to value a whisper. and these lessons, i suppose, are what has made me able to work on elsie's portraits. she's a funny one... and i don't know if this work will matter to others, if people will even care about a little girl that was killed a hundred years ago. there's one person to whom i know it matters (aside from myself) and that one other person gives me endless, endless strength. her belief in the importance of this project helps me sustain my own. this is what friendship is. and i am thankful. truly, massively thankful.
yesterday, we discussed elsie and how important it is that she be brought out from behind her current status of 'side-note' to someone else's history... that she be given a place of her own to stand... that she be honored, somehow, in even the smallest of ways, and respected.
it is hard work. learning how to be respectful of anothers' history is a delicate thing. but it is important, and so worthwhile, to at least make the attempt. i can see that a lot of the work i've done in the past year or so has led to this place, has made me capable of this attempt... it has at least increased my stamina and made me feel strong enough to heft this, to wrestle with it, to let it call on me for whatever it needs. and the fact i have a friend to speak with about her, about this work, who understands that i can't physically shoulder the weight of her portraits every day and must wait for her call, is a great comfort. it reminds me that this is a life's work and that i am allowed to take time carefully and proceed with at least a fraction of grace.
so, dear friend... thank you. :)
Oct 4, 2009
today...
i am wearing a grey and black striped sweater. big fat stripes. 6 grey and 7 black. charcoal grey to be exact. they almost disappear. it is almost a black sweater. that's why it is my favorite. the elusive grey delineations. and i am drinking hot chocolate, reading a gorgeous bit of writing a friend of mine emailed me. gorgeous. but that cat has to stay in its bag a bit longer. poor kitten. and i am working with elsie again today. she asked for a red cape this time but, as i work, she says 'no. darker. no! darker!" and i have to remind myself she's just a little girl and doesn't have the same vocabulary i do. i practice patience when i practice drawing her. all this work and crazy listening in preparation for a single oil painting... and no clue of when it'll finally be time for it either. this is what it is to love something.
Oct 3, 2009
wow...
oh man! yesterday was quite a day! i drew and drew and drew and 7 hours later, elsie was done with me. so i grabbed my camera and went outside to take a picture in the good light and, of course, the battery was dead. by the time it was done charging, there was enough light left in the evening to snap one good picture and get it posted here... but no. the camera is bugged out and keeps shutting down. my GOOD camera. it may have something to do with the coke that exploded in my bag when my camera was in there too. hmmmmm. so this morning, first thing after the coffee was brewed, i tracked down my old camera and took elsie outside in the crisp, clear morning and took her picture.
i really can't stop looking at her.
she wouldn't stop talking yesterday. oh! such a gorgeous child! and so haunted, so delicate, so full of things i don't quite understand. it's going to take quite a bit of studying to prepare for her final portrait. an oil painting. who knows... maybe she doesn't even need or want that... maybe the roughness of paper is what she wants. i don't know. all i know is that i have to keep drawing her.
this is the 2nd study i've done-
,+30x22,+water+soluble+graphite+and+gouache+on+paper,+angela+simione++2009.JPG)
Alpha (study #2)
30" x 22"
water soluble graphite and gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009
i went big with this one. 7 years of life-drawing classes taught me that while your learning, use the biggest piece of paper you've got. give yourself room to feel around, sound out the vowels of a form.
i don't use projectors and i don't trace. it isn't that i have a problem with those methods at all, i don't. it's just preference. i want my hand to be as diligent and specific as a camera. that's what i aspire to. a machine at the end of my wrist. but a machine that has embraced chance and flaw and accident.
besides, this work is too personal. a human has to do it, not a device. this work is more about memory than accurate rendering. doing her portraits are an act of remembering... remembering someone we know nothing about. no favorite color, no favorite food, we can't even be sure what color the cape she's wearing in the photograph is. her portrait is a portrait of loss... and getting every single shadow exactly right really isn't the point. it's about listening. it's looking at those strange eyes, light refracted all through them, and trying to see who she might have been...
who she could be now. or is.
i really can't stop looking at her.
she wouldn't stop talking yesterday. oh! such a gorgeous child! and so haunted, so delicate, so full of things i don't quite understand. it's going to take quite a bit of studying to prepare for her final portrait. an oil painting. who knows... maybe she doesn't even need or want that... maybe the roughness of paper is what she wants. i don't know. all i know is that i have to keep drawing her.
this is the 2nd study i've done-
,+30x22,+water+soluble+graphite+and+gouache+on+paper,+angela+simione++2009.JPG)
Alpha (study #2)
30" x 22"
water soluble graphite and gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009
i went big with this one. 7 years of life-drawing classes taught me that while your learning, use the biggest piece of paper you've got. give yourself room to feel around, sound out the vowels of a form.
i don't use projectors and i don't trace. it isn't that i have a problem with those methods at all, i don't. it's just preference. i want my hand to be as diligent and specific as a camera. that's what i aspire to. a machine at the end of my wrist. but a machine that has embraced chance and flaw and accident.
besides, this work is too personal. a human has to do it, not a device. this work is more about memory than accurate rendering. doing her portraits are an act of remembering... remembering someone we know nothing about. no favorite color, no favorite food, we can't even be sure what color the cape she's wearing in the photograph is. her portrait is a portrait of loss... and getting every single shadow exactly right really isn't the point. it's about listening. it's looking at those strange eyes, light refracted all through them, and trying to see who she might have been...
who she could be now. or is.
Oct 2, 2009
shading in...
it's too cold still this morning to go outside and paint. and i need the good light, it's too yellow inside the cottage. so i'm waiting. it'll warm up eventually.
i've got coffee and raspberries and elsie on the kitchen floor. i am working right there in front of the big window. my dog is asleep in my bed and it is so quiet and still here... that's why i am crawling around in her shadows today. it's quiet enough. she won't startle and run away. she is a tough one to pin down.
i've got coffee and raspberries and elsie on the kitchen floor. i am working right there in front of the big window. my dog is asleep in my bed and it is so quiet and still here... that's why i am crawling around in her shadows today. it's quiet enough. she won't startle and run away. she is a tough one to pin down.
Oct 1, 2009
good morning!
thursday. i like the name of this day.
i slept-in today. not by much, maybe a half hour. and it was so nice and snuggly and warm in my bed. my sweetheart came in and rubbed my back to wake me. a pretty nice way to greet the day. :) and so i got up, made my beloved coffee, and wrote in my notebook for a solid hour. and as soon as i tucked my pen away, i grabbed my paint brush. the aprons on the new maid portraits were calling first thing. i've learned to listen and not fight their call. i've learned that i shouldn't ignore them. my practice suffers hard when i do. whichever project starts yelling for attention is the one i spend the day with.
yesterday, the house itself was screaming at me...
september was a strange month.
i neglected a great many things.
i was distracted...
so the laundry piled up and paintings leaned against every available wall waiting for a hook to hang on and the carpets groaned under the traffic of all my projects. i am a tragic pile-maker. all sorts of piles, some made of paper, some made of books, dotted the hallway even. my strange cleaning mania reared up and i got to work. i cleaned almost all day. crazed cleaning like washing the walls and stuff like that. insanity. but it feels so much better now and i have space to work in again. maybe that's why the maids were calling me so loudly for attention this morning... i had an apron of my own on all day, pretty much right up until bedtime.
for as often as i talk about cleaning on this blog, one might thing i'm a neurotic neat-freak. nope. just neurotic. :)
i slept-in today. not by much, maybe a half hour. and it was so nice and snuggly and warm in my bed. my sweetheart came in and rubbed my back to wake me. a pretty nice way to greet the day. :) and so i got up, made my beloved coffee, and wrote in my notebook for a solid hour. and as soon as i tucked my pen away, i grabbed my paint brush. the aprons on the new maid portraits were calling first thing. i've learned to listen and not fight their call. i've learned that i shouldn't ignore them. my practice suffers hard when i do. whichever project starts yelling for attention is the one i spend the day with.
yesterday, the house itself was screaming at me...
september was a strange month.
i neglected a great many things.
i was distracted...
so the laundry piled up and paintings leaned against every available wall waiting for a hook to hang on and the carpets groaned under the traffic of all my projects. i am a tragic pile-maker. all sorts of piles, some made of paper, some made of books, dotted the hallway even. my strange cleaning mania reared up and i got to work. i cleaned almost all day. crazed cleaning like washing the walls and stuff like that. insanity. but it feels so much better now and i have space to work in again. maybe that's why the maids were calling me so loudly for attention this morning... i had an apron of my own on all day, pretty much right up until bedtime.
for as often as i talk about cleaning on this blog, one might thing i'm a neurotic neat-freak. nope. just neurotic. :)
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