untitled
19" x 22"
graphite and masking tape on paper
angela simione, 2010
Feb 28, 2010
call
last night i started reading 'a thousand plateaus' by deleuze and guattari of all things. i've been thinking of the book for weeks, feeling there's information somewhere inside this monster that i can use. especially after accepting the schizophrenic nature of my practice as a whole. the multiple personalities of it. the splintering. the fragments. the shattering that occurs almost daily. and then after reading The Bell Ringer, i saw that the act of sweeping up all the fragments, all the splinters, in to a pile and calling it a human that that is what my art practice is and has always been about. a collection of evidences. the appearance of the images i make only seem disparate. how they are produced - oil, graphite, collage, embroidery - accounts for this difference but they all are hauled up from the same deep well. so i will haul them up and lay them out to dry and work work work and take a peak at all these things in a couple weeks or maybe a couple months and see what i've got staring back at me. i'll see the red thread later when all these images are spread across the living room floor. not a second sooner. for now- just the taking in of ideas and information. deleuze and guattari paired with aase berg and angela pnueman and angela carter and rebecca loudon and hans christian andersen and patti smith and banks violette and ed ruscha and kiki smith and anna gaskel and gerhard richter and alice in wonderland. take it in, take it in, take it in and then go draw. don't worry about it just yet. don't think too hard about it. just draw. the drawing will help me process all these things. it always has if i just let it. i have such a fire of ideas in me right now. such a tremendous and beautiful burn. beyond smoldering. way beyond. i don't need to know where i'm going, i just need to GO! and this morning i stayed in bed for an hour after i woke up just thinking about art and the articles i've read recently and all the poetry and i thought "maybe art is more about noticing things- the connections or discrepancies and anomalies and fissures, not saying something concrete". and that thought felt right and made me feel good. i got out of bed then and poured my coffee and went outside in to this cold sunday, this last day of february, and wrote wrote wrote on my frigid stoop outside the front door.
good morning. :)
good morning. :)
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 26, 2010
afternoon
it's raining. i have the heater on. i painted a small candle for myself and a lawn of alices completely in silhouette, save for the whiteness of their blocky aprons. i began a portrait of Karen Hadaway. i drew until the muscle that connects my shoulder to my neck burned and then i sat back to look. i looked and looked and i picked up Angela Pneuman's book Home Remedies. i flipped it to the middle and read the story i found there- The Bell Ringer. On the 2nd page, i began reading out loud, all the way to the end. longing and heartbreak and confusion and all the fragments. the fragments. swept up in to a pile. a human.
i see sylvia plath and anne sexton in these pages. little flashes of them. but there are other ghosts in there too. other fragments. other inspirations. unknowable things that catch the light, a swift and sudden glint. as i read, my voice went low and slow. each word picking up more weight as it moved. each word becoming more and more laden with history, with all the fragments that make a person who they are. the heavy collection of individuality. of difference. of dark. of familiar places and memories and lost artifacts. the weight of a single life. sad and beautiful. an evidence room but warmer than that. and so much more complex. beauty twisting around flaws and helplessness. or maybe beauty because of these things. i was lost inside the skill of this story. nebulous like a spell.
and when i finished, i looked up at Karen's portrait. a baby. 9 years old. i saw my candle and i saw that it was still raining and i saw that, even here inside the dismal, there is such fertile land for hope and compassion. the possibility for a reckoning.
i see sylvia plath and anne sexton in these pages. little flashes of them. but there are other ghosts in there too. other fragments. other inspirations. unknowable things that catch the light, a swift and sudden glint. as i read, my voice went low and slow. each word picking up more weight as it moved. each word becoming more and more laden with history, with all the fragments that make a person who they are. the heavy collection of individuality. of difference. of dark. of familiar places and memories and lost artifacts. the weight of a single life. sad and beautiful. an evidence room but warmer than that. and so much more complex. beauty twisting around flaws and helplessness. or maybe beauty because of these things. i was lost inside the skill of this story. nebulous like a spell.
and when i finished, i looked up at Karen's portrait. a baby. 9 years old. i saw my candle and i saw that it was still raining and i saw that, even here inside the dismal, there is such fertile land for hope and compassion. the possibility for a reckoning.
this is what i've been thinking about for 2 years straight. i do not have many answers and maybe i'm just too senstive but i can't get around it...
we know the names of serial killers-
their violence is so inexplicable, so callous, that (as a culture) our stunned reaction to them is one of fascination. just like our fascination with rouge elephants or anything that seems to be so far outside the realm of normal, expected behavior. and it is fascinating. all anomalies are. anything out of the ordinary will draw attention. of course it will. we want to know why and how these things occur.
and i think of the Holocaust. i think of Charlotte Delbo's play "Who Will Carry the Word?" and that this play is also a very literal question. who will carry it? who will be The Witness? who will let the others know what really happened? who will keep the names alive of those who have suffered inexplicably?
the Holocaust will never be forgotten as an historical event... what i mean is... what are all the names involved? not just the names of the perpetrators. not just them.
i think of Sylvia Likens and i think of the 48 (known) victims of the green river killer. why don't we know their names? why aren't their names alive first inside our collected memory? why do we keep the names of those who have caused such suffering but not the names of those who suffered under their hand? it is the spectacle at work. the train-wreck. the twisted metal. the night-stalker smiling in the courtroom at his groupies. but as inexplicable as these horrors are, the way in which the victims die is just as inexplicable. most of us will not die under the hand of a serial killer. most of us will not know what it is to be tortured to death. most of us will not know what it is to be degraded so completely. this is a good thing. my point is, these sensational events extend further than the murderer. there are the people they killed. that circumstance is outside the bounds of the norm too.
and as a member of this culture, i am enraptured by these anomalies as well. i know the names of murderers but not the names of their victims. i too am captivated by the senselessness of atrocity. it isn't necessarily wrong or bad. but after the news break, after acceptance of these hard and sickening events has come, the work should not end. and it should extend beyond trying to figure out how a murderer is born. it should go further than attempting to understanding the inner workings of a psychopath. it should go in the direction of the victim as well. the life that was brought to an inexplicable, unthinkable stop. the real life redaction and dismissal of a human being. the massive, hateful swell of tragedy and pain that extinguished an individual life.
in a strange way, we do a sick honor to the "work" of a serial killer by keeping their name and not those of their victims.
i want to change this about myself. i want to change this about my life and the way i live it, the way i proceed. i want to choose to remember the LaBiancas instead and to think of them FIRST.
who will carry the word? who will remember? who will be a witness? and who will listen to the witness?
i would like to listen.
there are stories in the world that ask nothing of us, except simply to be heard. an end to shame and secrecy and humiliation and the intolerable pain of being made to suffer alone and in silence.
i will never know, from personal experience, what Sylvia Likens went through. i will never know, i hope, what the last moments of JonBenet Ramsey's life was like. i will never know the things that Elsie saw and felt. i hope, beyond all words i hope, to not die in a state of such terror, humiliation, and pain. i do hope to remember the names of those who have.
drawing Sylvia Likens' portrait has brought about a disruption, a shaking down of previous ideas and fears about art and life and hope and what i can do. i can choose to remember the victims and to give their names back to them. if all it is is an utterance, then i will take the time and opportunity to utter, to whisper, and if need be, cry out. i want to return them to their real names, not just whose victim they were.
it is true that the identities of the murderer and their victim are linked. inseparable inside the moment when death was caused. but there was a different identity prior to that moment. the act or moment of death is not the absolute identity of a human.
some ghosts just want to be acknowledged. some pain just wants to be noticed. some wounds will never heal and some horrors are so great that they defy explanation. and these horrors that defy explanation are also, sadly, unpreventable. the people that fell under such atrocity need to be remembered too.
we need to carry the word for them. i do. and maybe that's the shift. maybe that's the turn my practice has taken and has been taking for a long, long time... a way to prepare myself, to become able to carry such a word? whatever it is... i will try my best to find a way to become strong enough to draw their portraits and give their names back to them, no matter how long it takes.
their violence is so inexplicable, so callous, that (as a culture) our stunned reaction to them is one of fascination. just like our fascination with rouge elephants or anything that seems to be so far outside the realm of normal, expected behavior. and it is fascinating. all anomalies are. anything out of the ordinary will draw attention. of course it will. we want to know why and how these things occur.
and i think of the Holocaust. i think of Charlotte Delbo's play "Who Will Carry the Word?" and that this play is also a very literal question. who will carry it? who will be The Witness? who will let the others know what really happened? who will keep the names alive of those who have suffered inexplicably?
the Holocaust will never be forgotten as an historical event... what i mean is... what are all the names involved? not just the names of the perpetrators. not just them.
i think of Sylvia Likens and i think of the 48 (known) victims of the green river killer. why don't we know their names? why aren't their names alive first inside our collected memory? why do we keep the names of those who have caused such suffering but not the names of those who suffered under their hand? it is the spectacle at work. the train-wreck. the twisted metal. the night-stalker smiling in the courtroom at his groupies. but as inexplicable as these horrors are, the way in which the victims die is just as inexplicable. most of us will not die under the hand of a serial killer. most of us will not know what it is to be tortured to death. most of us will not know what it is to be degraded so completely. this is a good thing. my point is, these sensational events extend further than the murderer. there are the people they killed. that circumstance is outside the bounds of the norm too.
and as a member of this culture, i am enraptured by these anomalies as well. i know the names of murderers but not the names of their victims. i too am captivated by the senselessness of atrocity. it isn't necessarily wrong or bad. but after the news break, after acceptance of these hard and sickening events has come, the work should not end. and it should extend beyond trying to figure out how a murderer is born. it should go further than attempting to understanding the inner workings of a psychopath. it should go in the direction of the victim as well. the life that was brought to an inexplicable, unthinkable stop. the real life redaction and dismissal of a human being. the massive, hateful swell of tragedy and pain that extinguished an individual life.
in a strange way, we do a sick honor to the "work" of a serial killer by keeping their name and not those of their victims.
i want to change this about myself. i want to change this about my life and the way i live it, the way i proceed. i want to choose to remember the LaBiancas instead and to think of them FIRST.
who will carry the word? who will remember? who will be a witness? and who will listen to the witness?
i would like to listen.
there are stories in the world that ask nothing of us, except simply to be heard. an end to shame and secrecy and humiliation and the intolerable pain of being made to suffer alone and in silence.
i will never know, from personal experience, what Sylvia Likens went through. i will never know, i hope, what the last moments of JonBenet Ramsey's life was like. i will never know the things that Elsie saw and felt. i hope, beyond all words i hope, to not die in a state of such terror, humiliation, and pain. i do hope to remember the names of those who have.
drawing Sylvia Likens' portrait has brought about a disruption, a shaking down of previous ideas and fears about art and life and hope and what i can do. i can choose to remember the victims and to give their names back to them. if all it is is an utterance, then i will take the time and opportunity to utter, to whisper, and if need be, cry out. i want to return them to their real names, not just whose victim they were.
it is true that the identities of the murderer and their victim are linked. inseparable inside the moment when death was caused. but there was a different identity prior to that moment. the act or moment of death is not the absolute identity of a human.
some ghosts just want to be acknowledged. some pain just wants to be noticed. some wounds will never heal and some horrors are so great that they defy explanation. and these horrors that defy explanation are also, sadly, unpreventable. the people that fell under such atrocity need to be remembered too.
we need to carry the word for them. i do. and maybe that's the shift. maybe that's the turn my practice has taken and has been taking for a long, long time... a way to prepare myself, to become able to carry such a word? whatever it is... i will try my best to find a way to become strong enough to draw their portraits and give their names back to them, no matter how long it takes.
Feb 25, 2010
sylvia likens
Lamb
30" x 22"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010
round 1. i will definitely be drawing her again. i haven't captured her exactly right but it's still a powerful image. i will proceed faithfully. she deserves the highest level of respect, attention, and care.
Feb 24, 2010
2 things
1. i've been getting so many sweet emails about that print! yay!!!! no fear, we will do it again soon. the more i think about it and what it means and how i'd like the piece to function in the world, i've come to the conclusion that it should always be free. and i mean, completely free: postage paid by me. that being said, whenever i've got cash to burn i will offer it up for consumption. print as needed as i am able.
and to all of you who responded so enthusiastically on round 1, your packages have been shipped! thank you so much!!!
2. thinking of seances and acts of mourning... witnesses, ghosts, memory... collecting the fragments... evidence, ritual, rite.
untitled
40" x 26
gouache on paper
angela simione, 2010
and to all of you who responded so enthusiastically on round 1, your packages have been shipped! thank you so much!!!
2. thinking of seances and acts of mourning... witnesses, ghosts, memory... collecting the fragments... evidence, ritual, rite.
untitled
40" x 26
gouache on paper
angela simione, 2010
this morning...
grey again. and as the rain came down, i pushed my graphite in to the white expanse and i finished her portrait. she is leaning against the wall, strapped to her board and smiling. we are both satisfied. but it is only for now. there will be another portrait of her. and another. and another.
a strange culmination of events and ideas... the art i've been looking at and the things i've been reading and all this twisting study... a prior version of myself has woken up. a stronger, more daring, less indecisive, less fearful version. and i push the graphite in to the white expanse until it is black and slick and reflective. an embrace. an acceptance. very much a locking together of the past with the present- an unapologetic view... something unashamed.
i want to be vague a little while longer. i don't want to get ahead of myself and share this work yet. i want to keep this dance between myself and the black i skid and push and end up wearing all up and down my arms, all over my face, within the length of my hair, and across the thighs of my jeans. just us. just we two. just me and you. dance. dance. so slow. warm. and breath beginning to quicken.
a strange culmination of events and ideas... the art i've been looking at and the things i've been reading and all this twisting study... a prior version of myself has woken up. a stronger, more daring, less indecisive, less fearful version. and i push the graphite in to the white expanse until it is black and slick and reflective. an embrace. an acceptance. very much a locking together of the past with the present- an unapologetic view... something unashamed.
i want to be vague a little while longer. i don't want to get ahead of myself and share this work yet. i want to keep this dance between myself and the black i skid and push and end up wearing all up and down my arms, all over my face, within the length of my hair, and across the thighs of my jeans. just us. just we two. just me and you. dance. dance. so slow. warm. and breath beginning to quicken.
Feb 23, 2010
sigh...
AOL tells me that it's 44 degrees and raining. i've got the curtains drawn all the way back so i can confirm the weather report. it is, in fact, raining. a grey and white day but there's enough light coming down from above the clouds to wrap everything in silver. lovely. and i just finished making the prints to ship off. yesterday was a crazy fiasco of finding an emergency plumber and taking my friend to the doctor to get her cast removed. all at once, all at the same time, frenzy frenzy frenzy. everything is fine now and back to normal but i am worn out. completely. i let myself sleep in this morning even though there's stuff to do and errands to run and drawings to make and drawings to finish and paintings to finish and paintings to begin and prints to send off to new homes. i'll send them off this afternoon when the rain lets up. i don't take paper outside in bad weather. nope. it just ain't worth the risk. especially when the print is made with water-soluble ink. and so i apologize for the hold-up. the insanity of yesterday was completely unanticipated and i had to barricade the bathroom with OUR CLOTHES so that the crazy black water did not flood out in to the hall and ruin the carpet. it was a wild adventure to say the least. and then the clean-up after the plumber fixed the problem - a root had grown in to the pipes - a normal occurrence for people who live on the edge of a forest, but i had never seen water-works like that in my whole life. i didn't know a toilet and shower drain could actually mimic a volcano. no fun. and yes, it was as gross at it sounds. but this morning, i woke to a clean, bright, fresh home and the drizzle coming down and the wonderful quiet and black ink and coffee.
Feb 22, 2010
oh man
the weekend when by in a fast grey blur of drizzle and graphite.
a drawing marathon ensued and i just couldn't stop.
the only time i did stop was to go to the art store and buy more pencils and a new big portfolio to contain them in. other than that, it was eat, sleep, draw, eat, sleep, draw all weekend long. and during this race through graphite, wonderful philosophic conversations about art with my sweetheart. and common sense conversations too which, sometimes, are actually the bigger help- the "keep it simple" mentality is a rich and surprising one. i've become a fan. and a big time fan of artist Banks Violette this weekend too. his work reminds me of what i was moving toward when i was in my last year of school and getting ready to graduate. not that my work looked like his... but the impulse was very much the same; the desire, the "voice", the narrative that the audience creates with just a few hints from the maker of all these seemingly disparate images...
the life story.
the back-story.
the autobiographical nature of this whole enterprise.
and i looked at his work and read his interviews and studied, studied, studied and drew pictures. i sat in bed with a big board on my lap, big paper on top, pencil in hand, and sharpener to my right. i worked and explored and the only criteria, the most important criteria, was that i move forward with images that truly captivate me RIGHT THIS SECOND. i choose to abandon all concern of whether or not the images have anything in common or how they would work together and blah blah blah. they have me in common.
sometimes the conceptual framework for a body of work comes at the end. it comes after the work is done and you lay it all out together across the living room floor and all the ideas, all the desires, all the fascinations rise to the surface. that is how i proceeded in school. fearlessly. unrestrained by rules and just ran toward what attracted me. i let myself gravitate toward images that i had a deep, emotional response to. i drew and painted what i cared about- nothing else. and that's why i could spend 10 hours in the studio at a stretch without a break. that level of commitment, being able to sustain that kind of focus, achieving that degree of dedication, only happens when you are truly captivated by the image. and so i have to say, in all honesty, that my struggle the past year has come from the fact that i have been searching searching searching for captivating images and sometimes i've come up short. sometimes i've found a dead end. that's just the nature of this thing. that's the nature of exploration. that's the nature of a maze. and then suddenly, here i am, on a path that lets me wind around again, meander through the tall dark trees and see my life and my past and my needs and my hopes...
and they are not all sweet.
they are not all nice.
about a year ago i got the urge to do sylvia likens' portrait but i just wasn't ready. not even close. and so i wandered off in a different direction and got lost. that's just how it goes sometimes. but there was something about Banks Violette's work and reading the poetry of Aase Berg and all the blogs i read and looking through Vitamin D (an artist's bible if ever there was one) and thinking about myself, who i've become through the trials of the last few years, the massive depression and fears and all the journals i've filled, all the words words words, and the reaching, crying, searing hope that burns through me daily to find something honest. and i thought of elsie and i looked at The Good Daughter portraits hanging on my bedroom wall. i starting thinking about ghosts and rituals and acts of mourning. i starting thinking about honor and courage and saying "THIS IS RELEVANT AND I DON'T NEED ANYONE TO AGREE WITH ME". and i thought of seances and vigils and anniversaries and the need to commemorate something... something, anything, everything. and then it happened... i became, in that instant, ready to do her portrait. large and in graphite. extreme contrast, dark and light, the binary, the right and wrong, the beauty and the horror, the longing and the anger and the surprise at the unbelievable strength and fortitude of such a young girl. the naive and beautiful belief that her suffering could protect someone else.... her sister.... and it did. it did. she took the torture and it spared someone else. and in her photograph she has the sweetest, most innocent, happy smile.... the whole thing shakes me to my core. the whole thing breaks my heart. the whole thing makes me writhe and i wonder... what can i do?
i can do her portrait. i can do as many as it takes. it always has hurt me that we know that names of murderers but we don't know the names of their victims. it is a sick honoring of their "work" that we, as a culture, keep their names and not the names of those who suffered under their hand.
and i think of value. what i value. and i know the paintings i did for JonBenet creeped people out but it was important work. it is important to keep some candles lit. it is important to remember.
sylvia's portrait is almost done. it will be done and done again as often and as many as it takes. a vigil. an honoring. and i am honored to be doing it.
a drawing marathon ensued and i just couldn't stop.
the only time i did stop was to go to the art store and buy more pencils and a new big portfolio to contain them in. other than that, it was eat, sleep, draw, eat, sleep, draw all weekend long. and during this race through graphite, wonderful philosophic conversations about art with my sweetheart. and common sense conversations too which, sometimes, are actually the bigger help- the "keep it simple" mentality is a rich and surprising one. i've become a fan. and a big time fan of artist Banks Violette this weekend too. his work reminds me of what i was moving toward when i was in my last year of school and getting ready to graduate. not that my work looked like his... but the impulse was very much the same; the desire, the "voice", the narrative that the audience creates with just a few hints from the maker of all these seemingly disparate images...
the life story.
the back-story.
the autobiographical nature of this whole enterprise.
and i looked at his work and read his interviews and studied, studied, studied and drew pictures. i sat in bed with a big board on my lap, big paper on top, pencil in hand, and sharpener to my right. i worked and explored and the only criteria, the most important criteria, was that i move forward with images that truly captivate me RIGHT THIS SECOND. i choose to abandon all concern of whether or not the images have anything in common or how they would work together and blah blah blah. they have me in common.
sometimes the conceptual framework for a body of work comes at the end. it comes after the work is done and you lay it all out together across the living room floor and all the ideas, all the desires, all the fascinations rise to the surface. that is how i proceeded in school. fearlessly. unrestrained by rules and just ran toward what attracted me. i let myself gravitate toward images that i had a deep, emotional response to. i drew and painted what i cared about- nothing else. and that's why i could spend 10 hours in the studio at a stretch without a break. that level of commitment, being able to sustain that kind of focus, achieving that degree of dedication, only happens when you are truly captivated by the image. and so i have to say, in all honesty, that my struggle the past year has come from the fact that i have been searching searching searching for captivating images and sometimes i've come up short. sometimes i've found a dead end. that's just the nature of this thing. that's the nature of exploration. that's the nature of a maze. and then suddenly, here i am, on a path that lets me wind around again, meander through the tall dark trees and see my life and my past and my needs and my hopes...
and they are not all sweet.
they are not all nice.
about a year ago i got the urge to do sylvia likens' portrait but i just wasn't ready. not even close. and so i wandered off in a different direction and got lost. that's just how it goes sometimes. but there was something about Banks Violette's work and reading the poetry of Aase Berg and all the blogs i read and looking through Vitamin D (an artist's bible if ever there was one) and thinking about myself, who i've become through the trials of the last few years, the massive depression and fears and all the journals i've filled, all the words words words, and the reaching, crying, searing hope that burns through me daily to find something honest. and i thought of elsie and i looked at The Good Daughter portraits hanging on my bedroom wall. i starting thinking about ghosts and rituals and acts of mourning. i starting thinking about honor and courage and saying "THIS IS RELEVANT AND I DON'T NEED ANYONE TO AGREE WITH ME". and i thought of seances and vigils and anniversaries and the need to commemorate something... something, anything, everything. and then it happened... i became, in that instant, ready to do her portrait. large and in graphite. extreme contrast, dark and light, the binary, the right and wrong, the beauty and the horror, the longing and the anger and the surprise at the unbelievable strength and fortitude of such a young girl. the naive and beautiful belief that her suffering could protect someone else.... her sister.... and it did. it did. she took the torture and it spared someone else. and in her photograph she has the sweetest, most innocent, happy smile.... the whole thing shakes me to my core. the whole thing breaks my heart. the whole thing makes me writhe and i wonder... what can i do?
i can do her portrait. i can do as many as it takes. it always has hurt me that we know that names of murderers but we don't know the names of their victims. it is a sick honoring of their "work" that we, as a culture, keep their names and not the names of those who suffered under their hand.
and i think of value. what i value. and i know the paintings i did for JonBenet creeped people out but it was important work. it is important to keep some candles lit. it is important to remember.
sylvia's portrait is almost done. it will be done and done again as often and as many as it takes. a vigil. an honoring. and i am honored to be doing it.
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 19, 2010
satisfaction
Caesar's final action was to pull his robe over his face so that the betrayers who murdered him would not get the satisfaction of watching him die.
i'm liking that print more an more.
and i've been painting and writing and studying all day.
vitamin D and the work of Banks Violette.
i am spinning gloriously and reverently and just so damn full of questions and sentences and images. my brain is jerking and throbbing. it feels like being in love. it is being in love.
i'm liking that print more an more.
and i've been painting and writing and studying all day.
vitamin D and the work of Banks Violette.
i am spinning gloriously and reverently and just so damn full of questions and sentences and images. my brain is jerking and throbbing. it feels like being in love. it is being in love.
that was FUN!
the most interesting thing about yesterday's exercise in PRINT-ON-DEMAND/NEED/WANT is that everyone who sent me an email about it is female. and this is a wonderful, wonderful thing! also, all the females are artists. writers, poets, makers, painters. again, this is SUCH a wonderful, wonderful thing! i couldn't be more pleased and honored and it was just so much fun to reach out to others through art yesterday. i know it's just a simple woodcut - basically, a stamp - of a simple sentence but there was something about that sentence that really resonated with me and it's such a wonderful, wonderful thing to know that it resonated with others too. beautiful. absolutely beautiful. thank you so much, ladies. you are all so stunning and funny and talented. thank you for participating in a heartfelt/conceptual exercise. i like it that it's a girl's club. ha! the prints will ship monday.
p.s. the poems about expiring are officially expired.
the poem is dead.
long live the poem.
p.p.s the offer below has also expired. i'll do it again in the near future.
viva la resistance.
p.s. the poems about expiring are officially expired.
the poem is dead.
long live the poem.
p.p.s the offer below has also expired. i'll do it again in the near future.
viva la resistance.
Feb 18, 2010
something for free. because it matters.
thinking about Ana C. and the poems that are dying today.
thinking about how totally beautiful that is.
thinking about how much i appreciate all the poets who took part.
thinking about reproduction and repetition and rosaries.
thinking about valentines.
thinking that valentines are memento mori... or at least they should be... at least sometimes.
thinking about moths having 3 life-cycles.
thinking about print on demand.
what about "print as needed"
what about "break in case of emergency"
thinking about metaphors.
thinking about multiple readings, multiple experiences, multiple ways of seeing.
thinking about how, when, why (if) an artwork is activated.
thinking about printmaking as it pertains to all these things.
thinking if art could talk, what would it say?
thinking about 'death of the author'.
thinking about 'from work to text'
thinking about you and what you might need. or simply, what you might want.
thinking about myself.
thinking about having a good hard long laugh.
thinking about the difference between a promise, a threat, an oath, a charge, a call, a need, a dare, a mode, an ethic.
thinking about all these things as i was painting moths and cutting them out and i was thinking about poetry and how it's everywhere and how great that is.
thinking about definitions and how to make them bigger, wider, deeper, more inclusive, more better.
thinking about mortality.
thinking about what a short time we've got.
thinking about me and you.
thinking about me and you.
thinking about responsibility.
responsibility, pride, resilience, respect, and love.
thinking about bravery.
thinking about possibility.
valentine/subtitle/promise/retort
open edition, print on demand/need, wood cut
variable
angela simione, 2010
is this a broadside? is this a valentine? is this a subtitle? a promise, a threat, a challenge, a failure, a tribute, a code? is it a retort?
and if art, if poetry, is activated when it's being looked at, when it's being read... then it can't be dead. as long as you've got your eyes on it, it's alive. if it was dead, it's resurrected every single time it's paid any attention at all, every single time you even think about it.
and so...
link it all up, girl. 'print on demand' becomes 'print as needed'. wide open. an edition based on need. a nebulous thing. fun and wonderful and necessary. read it any way you want. read it any way you need. let the reading shift as you do. let the work be what it is, whatever it is.
and so...
based on need. the activation of art. the multiple readings underscored by the fact that this is printmaking, an art form dedicated to the multiple. print as needed is correct. you need one? send me an email. angelasimione (at) aol (dot) com . or use the gmail account up there to the right if you prefer. no matter. print as needed. print as wanted. read as needed. read as wanted. right now only one has been printed. the one i needed/wanted. i'll print as many as are needed/wanted. they will be signed and numbered with a question mark.
this is for free. for now. for today.
and i cannot guarantee that your mailman isn't a jerk and won't bend it either.
after that, i can guarantee safe delivery because it'll be for sale in my shop (for like 20 bucks or something since it's an open addition) and, since i'm a good business woman, i make sure my art-loving customers are happy.
until then (which is very soon) get it while you can, while it's hot, and while it's free.
p.s. tell your friends. they might need/want this.
thinking about how totally beautiful that is.
thinking about how much i appreciate all the poets who took part.
thinking about reproduction and repetition and rosaries.
thinking about valentines.
thinking that valentines are memento mori... or at least they should be... at least sometimes.
thinking about moths having 3 life-cycles.
thinking about print on demand.
what about "print as needed"
what about "break in case of emergency"
thinking about metaphors.
thinking about multiple readings, multiple experiences, multiple ways of seeing.
thinking about how, when, why (if) an artwork is activated.
thinking about printmaking as it pertains to all these things.
thinking if art could talk, what would it say?
thinking about 'death of the author'.
thinking about 'from work to text'
thinking about you and what you might need. or simply, what you might want.
thinking about myself.
thinking about having a good hard long laugh.
thinking about the difference between a promise, a threat, an oath, a charge, a call, a need, a dare, a mode, an ethic.
thinking about all these things as i was painting moths and cutting them out and i was thinking about poetry and how it's everywhere and how great that is.
thinking about definitions and how to make them bigger, wider, deeper, more inclusive, more better.
thinking about mortality.
thinking about what a short time we've got.
thinking about me and you.
thinking about me and you.
thinking about responsibility.
responsibility, pride, resilience, respect, and love.
thinking about bravery.
thinking about possibility.
valentine/subtitle/promise/retort
open edition, print on demand/need, wood cut
variable
angela simione, 2010
is this a broadside? is this a valentine? is this a subtitle? a promise, a threat, a challenge, a failure, a tribute, a code? is it a retort?
and if art, if poetry, is activated when it's being looked at, when it's being read... then it can't be dead. as long as you've got your eyes on it, it's alive. if it was dead, it's resurrected every single time it's paid any attention at all, every single time you even think about it.
and so...
link it all up, girl. 'print on demand' becomes 'print as needed'. wide open. an edition based on need. a nebulous thing. fun and wonderful and necessary. read it any way you want. read it any way you need. let the reading shift as you do. let the work be what it is, whatever it is.
and so...
based on need. the activation of art. the multiple readings underscored by the fact that this is printmaking, an art form dedicated to the multiple. print as needed is correct. you need one? send me an email. angelasimione (at) aol (dot) com . or use the gmail account up there to the right if you prefer. no matter. print as needed. print as wanted. read as needed. read as wanted. right now only one has been printed. the one i needed/wanted. i'll print as many as are needed/wanted. they will be signed and numbered with a question mark.
this is for free. for now. for today.
and i cannot guarantee that your mailman isn't a jerk and won't bend it either.
after that, i can guarantee safe delivery because it'll be for sale in my shop (for like 20 bucks or something since it's an open addition) and, since i'm a good business woman, i make sure my art-loving customers are happy.
until then (which is very soon) get it while you can, while it's hot, and while it's free.
p.s. tell your friends. they might need/want this.
Feb 17, 2010
devotion
i've been making moths all morning. more more more. and flipping through my new kiki smith books and i came across this quote-
Prints mimic what we are as humans: we are all the same and yet every one is different. I also thinks there's a spiritual power in repetition, a devotional quality, like saying rosaries.
Kiki Smith, 1998
from Prints, Books & Things
and all these little moths are made with a wood cut i did a couple years ago. i thought of it as a butterfly at the time... moving toward 'the feminine' and looking for ways to not feel embarrassed by feminine things, feminine urges or interests. and the more i look at kiki smith's work, i see her embracing feminine attributes and gestures in such an eloquent and unapologetic way... and it is very comforting. it is wholly inspiring.
and this idea of repetition is something i've had in my mind and work for a long time... wanting to repeat certain ideas, phrases, gestures, images... to build series of work that somehow hold hands with other series. this devotional quality she sees... i see it and feel it as well. and i've stumbled in to a time in life where this quality of devotion, of hope, is very much needed and appreciated and captivating for me.
making these little moths... this symbol of fragility, of mortality... i don't know what to say other than it feels like praying. little prayer flags fluttering out from me, from my fingers, and they are gone in an instant... maybe even answered in an instant.
last night, my sweetie and i were talking about art and i told him that i have hundreds of ideas for paintings and drawings and weird little sculptures and so i don't know how to choose just a few. and he said that he's always noticed that i'm at my best, that my practice flourishes, when i'm moving in a hundred directions at once... when i'm working in a way that isn't quite so spelled-out, more of a free association, bouncing back and forth between seemingly disparate images and ideas... in truth, they all fit wonderfully together underneath the same black umbrella.
it all comes down to something i've been talking about a lot lately- the ability to trust one's self. that courage.
that way of working, of moving back and forth between the maids and elsie and the anonymous girls and little kookie alice drawings and The Good Daughter series and apron portraits and now moths... it seems so natural and fluid. i don't know how i got it stuck in my head that i have to focus on one thing at one time. i've never worked that way and when i've tried, i get stuck and lost and the work itself suffers so horribly.
and so i've decided that i must somehow find a way to stop worrying and just go go go. art has no set definition. there isn't one way to do it. there is not one road to choose. all these images circle back around and influence one another, compliment one another, make each other stronger. and then the poems well up out of nowhere, another avenue of this devotion, another way of making a prayer, making a flag, making anything.
everything, all of it, is hinged. it is all my practice.
go go go.
,+22x30,+mixed+media+on+paper,+angela+simione+2010.JPG)
hymn (2)
22" x 30"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2010
Prints mimic what we are as humans: we are all the same and yet every one is different. I also thinks there's a spiritual power in repetition, a devotional quality, like saying rosaries.
Kiki Smith, 1998
from Prints, Books & Things
and all these little moths are made with a wood cut i did a couple years ago. i thought of it as a butterfly at the time... moving toward 'the feminine' and looking for ways to not feel embarrassed by feminine things, feminine urges or interests. and the more i look at kiki smith's work, i see her embracing feminine attributes and gestures in such an eloquent and unapologetic way... and it is very comforting. it is wholly inspiring.
and this idea of repetition is something i've had in my mind and work for a long time... wanting to repeat certain ideas, phrases, gestures, images... to build series of work that somehow hold hands with other series. this devotional quality she sees... i see it and feel it as well. and i've stumbled in to a time in life where this quality of devotion, of hope, is very much needed and appreciated and captivating for me.
making these little moths... this symbol of fragility, of mortality... i don't know what to say other than it feels like praying. little prayer flags fluttering out from me, from my fingers, and they are gone in an instant... maybe even answered in an instant.
last night, my sweetie and i were talking about art and i told him that i have hundreds of ideas for paintings and drawings and weird little sculptures and so i don't know how to choose just a few. and he said that he's always noticed that i'm at my best, that my practice flourishes, when i'm moving in a hundred directions at once... when i'm working in a way that isn't quite so spelled-out, more of a free association, bouncing back and forth between seemingly disparate images and ideas... in truth, they all fit wonderfully together underneath the same black umbrella.
it all comes down to something i've been talking about a lot lately- the ability to trust one's self. that courage.
that way of working, of moving back and forth between the maids and elsie and the anonymous girls and little kookie alice drawings and The Good Daughter series and apron portraits and now moths... it seems so natural and fluid. i don't know how i got it stuck in my head that i have to focus on one thing at one time. i've never worked that way and when i've tried, i get stuck and lost and the work itself suffers so horribly.
and so i've decided that i must somehow find a way to stop worrying and just go go go. art has no set definition. there isn't one way to do it. there is not one road to choose. all these images circle back around and influence one another, compliment one another, make each other stronger. and then the poems well up out of nowhere, another avenue of this devotion, another way of making a prayer, making a flag, making anything.
everything, all of it, is hinged. it is all my practice.
go go go.
,+22x30,+mixed+media+on+paper,+angela+simione+2010.JPG)
hymn (2)
22" x 30"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2010
Feb 16, 2010
stupid
all morning all morning,
the wringing of hands.
yesterday afternoon was bright yellow.
i've felt like crying ever since
and spending money i don't have.
i am fighting the urge to fuck myself over.
to buy expensive clothes and plane tickets.
i go back to that canvas and stare.
i know i'll be told on again
sooner or later.
i know my silence makes it an easy thing.
all morning all morning,
the back and forth,
the wringing of hands,
the salt i hold,
the salt i spill,
and crying in the shower where no one can see and no one can hear,
soft and thin as a pencil scratch.
all morning all morning,
my thick embarrassment.
all morning, my worry.
my rosey showing.
that plague.
the need that goes on and on and on
un-met. all morning all morning,
for the life of me.
all morning all morning,
the wringing of hands.
yesterday afternoon was bright yellow.
i've felt like crying ever since
and spending money i don't have.
i am fighting the urge to fuck myself over.
to buy expensive clothes and plane tickets.
i go back to that canvas and stare.
i know i'll be told on again
sooner or later.
i know my silence makes it an easy thing.
all morning all morning,
the back and forth,
the wringing of hands,
the salt i hold,
the salt i spill,
and crying in the shower where no one can see and no one can hear,
soft and thin as a pencil scratch.
all morning all morning,
my thick embarrassment.
all morning, my worry.
my rosey showing.
that plague.
the need that goes on and on and on
un-met. all morning all morning,
for the life of me.
Feb 15, 2010
i realized just now that i don't need to be afraid of anything.
i have a good life. tubes of silver and gold at my disposal. availability and opportunity and such a shimmering, such a great glittering storm. and i can look at my own life and self and say 'i approve!" this is a good feeling. and so much happy wonder. my friends are doing well. they are happy and on fire inside their work. they are making things and loving things and this builds up such a fiery appreciation in me, such a deep inspiration and gladness. people are making art and people are making their way and i just feel so lucky to be here, now, watching the whole big beauty of it unfold. i have a good life.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 13, 2010
breathy sigh of "yes"
the sun came out just a little just a little and good enough to see the new painting in a truer light. so i hauled her outside to see her and see her honestly and i'm not gonna wait til monday to call it. she's done. :)
sovereign
46" x 40"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2010
(a wee bit of a glare on the canvas but good enough for now)
sovereign
46" x 40"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2010
(a wee bit of a glare on the canvas but good enough for now)
:)
i simply MUST go outside and clomp around in my new bright yellow rubber rain boots some more! i MUST! and i am still in my polka dot pajamas and my neighbor saw me do this already once today and he said "God, I like you!" hahahaha!
this is HAPPY!
this is HAPPY!
Feb 12, 2010
rest
the work day ended early due to 'the royal tenenbaums' and my new kiki smith books arriving in the mail box. 2 poems came out and i think i may have finally finished one of the big oils. i'll know by monday... or at least make a decision about it. for the next two days though, i want nothing heavy. nothing that needs analysis or even much attention. just softness. a warm place.
life and theory and excuse and reason and, in the end, just say 'fuck it!'
being part of any lineage does not make you a copy-cat. it does not demand resignation either. is a child, though the product of her parents union and DNA, still not new? still not a package of potential? and as she grows, a unique collection of experiences and influences and fragments of beauty and torment and song and prayer? is this "collection" somehow false? i don't see how that could be possible. and being the next in a lineage of one's own choosing is a gorgeous thing. it feels right and that feeling needs to be clung too with everything you've got.
no theory will ever account for that original impulse you felt as a child to just simply play. to scoot around the paint and scribble on the wall and make yourself sick with too many cartwheels.
there is a value to theory. it gives us new lenses with which to view the world and i appreciate having them. but as i study, i come to see that asking for a reason, an explanation, an argument for why it's okay for me to spend my time making art is basically the same thing as asking me to supply an argument for why it's okay for me to attend to any of my needs.
do you mean it or not? art is not merely a picture on the wall. art is not merely letters on a page. it is an entire way of seeing. a mode of being. a way to LIVE. what works for me, what feels right to me isn't going to work for everyone and i'm getting to the point where i can finally except that. and so the proper breed of anger rises up- either except me for who i am or leave me alone. i promise to do the same for you.
i am an artist. it is who i am. i cannot stop being an artist any more than i can stop myself from taking this next breath. and this one. and this one. this is how it is and there is no explanation i owe. none. does a cat apologise for cleaning itself? does a dog apologize for kissing? why should i apologize for painting?
the fact some people feel the need to construct historical arguments for why it is OKAY to be an artist in this time and place and moment within history is not my burden. if it works for you, it works! if it leads you to deeper levels within your practice then it's good! i read the theory and i participate in the discussion but at the end of the day, for however thankful i am for my new lens, i wake up the next day and paint because it is how i live. asking me to stop is asking me to be someone else. if i stopped making art i would cease completely. i would become something other than what i am. this person who is here, now, would go away.
and adorno said "There is no poetry after Auschwitz"...
really? what about paul celan? what about charlotte delbo? fuck you adorno, you hater of humanity. you jaded freak. how dare you quantify horror. how dare you critique this witnessing. how dare you belittle the very true compassion that exists inside humanity to make sense of our station. do not trivialize it and claim that we are only capable of atrocity. i think adorno is a sad, scared, hateful child who looked for a reason to NOT engage with the world... to say that life is pointless and ugly and valueless. and honestly, that sort of pessimism is so easy to come by. it is a childish response to loss and confusion and it is common in the worst sense of the word.
i prefer charlotte delbo. i prefer her work, her poems and plays and her request, her poignant longing and despairing question "who will carry the word?" to survive the camps and then to be taken by cancer... goddamn my tears cannot come fast enough. i cry as i type because they, sometimes, are one in the same. and paul celan survived the camps and was so guilt ridden that he survived something that so many others did not. inexplicably survived. and this confusion, this weight, this tremendous guilt and suffering caused him to write and write and write and in the end when he could not come up with some satisfactory explanation for why it was okay that he survived, why it was okay that he made poetry, he threw himself in a river and left.
it is okay to make poems.
it is okay to survive.
sometimes, they are one in the same.
you can choose to go about your life in a way that feels right for you.
theory and knowledge and education are meant (in my opinion) to be used as tools to strengthen this resolve, this beautiful and flawless inborn logic. they are not meant to undo it. knowledge of the world should not be used to abandon compassion. opening your eyes to the pain of the world does not mean you must close your heart. it means the exact opposite.
theory gets me there sometimes. barthes and sontag... but also the philosphy of andy warhol and the journals of sylvia plath and the angry lyricism of patti smith and the deep regret of beethoven. alice's adventures underground and the beauty marc jacobs creates and even my dog snoring in her sleep. the smiles that come at the exact right time. the tears that well up, be it anger or despair, let them come! sensitivity is necessary to know where you are! at least it is for me. and i refuse to be jaded, to be pleasureless, to feel like i must make an argument for my needs, to become arrogant and divisive.
our differences are important but it is our common thread that will allow us to unravel the tangle set before us. it is the thing that will allow us to accept difference and to see it as the shining beauty it is.
(this might just be PART 1)
no theory will ever account for that original impulse you felt as a child to just simply play. to scoot around the paint and scribble on the wall and make yourself sick with too many cartwheels.
there is a value to theory. it gives us new lenses with which to view the world and i appreciate having them. but as i study, i come to see that asking for a reason, an explanation, an argument for why it's okay for me to spend my time making art is basically the same thing as asking me to supply an argument for why it's okay for me to attend to any of my needs.
do you mean it or not? art is not merely a picture on the wall. art is not merely letters on a page. it is an entire way of seeing. a mode of being. a way to LIVE. what works for me, what feels right to me isn't going to work for everyone and i'm getting to the point where i can finally except that. and so the proper breed of anger rises up- either except me for who i am or leave me alone. i promise to do the same for you.
i am an artist. it is who i am. i cannot stop being an artist any more than i can stop myself from taking this next breath. and this one. and this one. this is how it is and there is no explanation i owe. none. does a cat apologise for cleaning itself? does a dog apologize for kissing? why should i apologize for painting?
the fact some people feel the need to construct historical arguments for why it is OKAY to be an artist in this time and place and moment within history is not my burden. if it works for you, it works! if it leads you to deeper levels within your practice then it's good! i read the theory and i participate in the discussion but at the end of the day, for however thankful i am for my new lens, i wake up the next day and paint because it is how i live. asking me to stop is asking me to be someone else. if i stopped making art i would cease completely. i would become something other than what i am. this person who is here, now, would go away.
and adorno said "There is no poetry after Auschwitz"...
really? what about paul celan? what about charlotte delbo? fuck you adorno, you hater of humanity. you jaded freak. how dare you quantify horror. how dare you critique this witnessing. how dare you belittle the very true compassion that exists inside humanity to make sense of our station. do not trivialize it and claim that we are only capable of atrocity. i think adorno is a sad, scared, hateful child who looked for a reason to NOT engage with the world... to say that life is pointless and ugly and valueless. and honestly, that sort of pessimism is so easy to come by. it is a childish response to loss and confusion and it is common in the worst sense of the word.
i prefer charlotte delbo. i prefer her work, her poems and plays and her request, her poignant longing and despairing question "who will carry the word?" to survive the camps and then to be taken by cancer... goddamn my tears cannot come fast enough. i cry as i type because they, sometimes, are one in the same. and paul celan survived the camps and was so guilt ridden that he survived something that so many others did not. inexplicably survived. and this confusion, this weight, this tremendous guilt and suffering caused him to write and write and write and in the end when he could not come up with some satisfactory explanation for why it was okay that he survived, why it was okay that he made poetry, he threw himself in a river and left.
it is okay to make poems.
it is okay to survive.
sometimes, they are one in the same.
you can choose to go about your life in a way that feels right for you.
theory and knowledge and education are meant (in my opinion) to be used as tools to strengthen this resolve, this beautiful and flawless inborn logic. they are not meant to undo it. knowledge of the world should not be used to abandon compassion. opening your eyes to the pain of the world does not mean you must close your heart. it means the exact opposite.
theory gets me there sometimes. barthes and sontag... but also the philosphy of andy warhol and the journals of sylvia plath and the angry lyricism of patti smith and the deep regret of beethoven. alice's adventures underground and the beauty marc jacobs creates and even my dog snoring in her sleep. the smiles that come at the exact right time. the tears that well up, be it anger or despair, let them come! sensitivity is necessary to know where you are! at least it is for me. and i refuse to be jaded, to be pleasureless, to feel like i must make an argument for my needs, to become arrogant and divisive.
our differences are important but it is our common thread that will allow us to unravel the tangle set before us. it is the thing that will allow us to accept difference and to see it as the shining beauty it is.
(this might just be PART 1)
long live!
drizzle drizzle drizzle.
sniffle sniffle sniffle.
the rain just keeps on coming down.
i got some new bright yellow rubber rain boots to clomp around in though so it makes these remaining winter days a bit sunnier for me.
yesterday, i sent out a big round of valentines and bummed around at the bookstore for awhile before i decided to go to macy's and look at all the designer goods. but cruising through the racks of clothes left me feeling very empty all of a sudden so i left. i hopped back in the car and listened to patti smith all the way home. as i drove and yelled and sang along with her, i realized that i have a bad habit of just swallowing my anger. i don't tend to express it very often at all. and there was just something about the rain and the emptiness i had just experienced and her voice that let me know that there are some things a person should be angry about. that anger can be the exact right emotional response to some things in this world. learning the difference between what is and is not appropriate is the tricky part. and perhaps that's way i've been so silent when it comes to anger... i have precious few tools to help me come to such conclusions. and then i thought... maybe that's one of the roles of poetry??? of art in general??? a way to present these uncomfortable things and emotions to the world... a slower way than screaming or yelling. and the slowness of it (and i mean in terms of the time it takes to make a painting or make a poem) forces an examination of emotions that, though ugly or uncomfortable or "shameful", imbue these things with an insight that those of us who grew up roughly might have lacked... that not all anger is bad anger. that anger doesn't have to be scary. that it doesn't necessarily lead to abandonment or abuse or neglect. maybe anger has a value too?
and then when i got home, i received an email from my buddy rebecca alerting me to the fact that yesterday - sylvia's death day - designer alexander mcqueen killed himself.
just thinking about it, just typing those words... my breath rolls out thick and slow. the horrible sigh. the horrible, horrible regret. the horrible, horrible question mark.
we must find a way to be ourselves. we must. who we are at the very core. whatever untainted piece is left, whatever small kernel of delight, whatever hint of justice that is buried down there. we must find it and bring it out. i must do this. the more and more i wrestle with all these big questions, i keep ending up with the same answer: be who you truly are.
and for as cliched as it may be at this point in our history of things, shakespere got it exactly right. "above all else, to thine own self be true". goddamn. i think of this quote every day and every day it kicks me in the teeth! it really does! when i start to zero in on myself and stop thinking so much about other people, their motives, their behavior, their wants, needs, struggles, i begin to truly see my own. i am, for the first time in years, seeing for sure what my values are... and also receiving the hard knowledge that comes when i look at the moments in which i've abandoned them. these are the failures against temptation or loneliness or whatever whatever whatever the day may bring. and sometimes i cry in shame over these things but i will not look away. these are the facts i need in order to stand back up. these "failures" are the moments when i stopped being my true self, when i allowed myself to be led around by the nose by someone else's emotions and behaviors. these are the moments that i can cling to, to use as a tool toward building a better life. they are my amazing, shining opportunities to really see who i want to become... who i choose to become, not what the world would have me be. that pressure, that outside demand, is too great. it is too much.
and patti smith sang, "those who have suffered understand suffering and thereby extend their hand...:
isn't that the great role of art? isn't that the hand of humanity sweeping across our pain? isn't that what we are here for? at least some of the time? to find a way, an avenue that allows us to not be beaten down and corroded by pain but rather to allow it to polish us... to polish and protect our great loves? to cling tighter to value and goodness? to not abandon them in moments when we need them the most?
drizzle drizzle drizzle.
sniffle sniffle sniffle.
ramble ramble ramble.
but i'm serious. knowing myself completely and finding the courage to just be that is the hardest, most beautiful, most important task i have ever set out to accomplish. and so, among all these big ethereal abstract questions, i simplify my day-
i make valentines because, when i think of who i am or would like to be, i am a girl that values small (albeit sappy) gestures of love and romance.
i paint every day because i want to be a person that paints every day.
i write every day because i want to be a person that writes every day.
i make silly postcards and send them off in to the world because that is an action i admire and i want to participate in things i admire. i want to welcome these great, glittering storms of compassion and beauty and pain even in to my life. i want to be polished. i want to be strong. i'm tired of losing time to a state of confused longing. i may feel that way... but i can feel it and still move forward. i can make valentines. i can hang heart shapes in the window. i can write letters and poems and make paintings and know that these things, these objects, these gestures give voice to my core self... that i can choose to be who i truly am without apology or excuse or argument.
people will believe whatever they want to believe. this is something that is out of my control. i can choose to have faith in my self and in the goodness of my life... in the goodness of my particularities.
i admired mr. mcqeen's particularities.
the fruits of your labor, sir, have not gone unnoticed and your entrance has been granted. rest well. rest deep in love. we'll see you on the other side. i'm sure your good work will continue there and i can't wait to see it. :)
alexander mcqueen sneakers
spring collection 2010
sniffle sniffle sniffle.
the rain just keeps on coming down.
i got some new bright yellow rubber rain boots to clomp around in though so it makes these remaining winter days a bit sunnier for me.
yesterday, i sent out a big round of valentines and bummed around at the bookstore for awhile before i decided to go to macy's and look at all the designer goods. but cruising through the racks of clothes left me feeling very empty all of a sudden so i left. i hopped back in the car and listened to patti smith all the way home. as i drove and yelled and sang along with her, i realized that i have a bad habit of just swallowing my anger. i don't tend to express it very often at all. and there was just something about the rain and the emptiness i had just experienced and her voice that let me know that there are some things a person should be angry about. that anger can be the exact right emotional response to some things in this world. learning the difference between what is and is not appropriate is the tricky part. and perhaps that's way i've been so silent when it comes to anger... i have precious few tools to help me come to such conclusions. and then i thought... maybe that's one of the roles of poetry??? of art in general??? a way to present these uncomfortable things and emotions to the world... a slower way than screaming or yelling. and the slowness of it (and i mean in terms of the time it takes to make a painting or make a poem) forces an examination of emotions that, though ugly or uncomfortable or "shameful", imbue these things with an insight that those of us who grew up roughly might have lacked... that not all anger is bad anger. that anger doesn't have to be scary. that it doesn't necessarily lead to abandonment or abuse or neglect. maybe anger has a value too?
and then when i got home, i received an email from my buddy rebecca alerting me to the fact that yesterday - sylvia's death day - designer alexander mcqueen killed himself.
just thinking about it, just typing those words... my breath rolls out thick and slow. the horrible sigh. the horrible, horrible regret. the horrible, horrible question mark.
we must find a way to be ourselves. we must. who we are at the very core. whatever untainted piece is left, whatever small kernel of delight, whatever hint of justice that is buried down there. we must find it and bring it out. i must do this. the more and more i wrestle with all these big questions, i keep ending up with the same answer: be who you truly are.
and for as cliched as it may be at this point in our history of things, shakespere got it exactly right. "above all else, to thine own self be true". goddamn. i think of this quote every day and every day it kicks me in the teeth! it really does! when i start to zero in on myself and stop thinking so much about other people, their motives, their behavior, their wants, needs, struggles, i begin to truly see my own. i am, for the first time in years, seeing for sure what my values are... and also receiving the hard knowledge that comes when i look at the moments in which i've abandoned them. these are the failures against temptation or loneliness or whatever whatever whatever the day may bring. and sometimes i cry in shame over these things but i will not look away. these are the facts i need in order to stand back up. these "failures" are the moments when i stopped being my true self, when i allowed myself to be led around by the nose by someone else's emotions and behaviors. these are the moments that i can cling to, to use as a tool toward building a better life. they are my amazing, shining opportunities to really see who i want to become... who i choose to become, not what the world would have me be. that pressure, that outside demand, is too great. it is too much.
and patti smith sang, "those who have suffered understand suffering and thereby extend their hand...:
isn't that the great role of art? isn't that the hand of humanity sweeping across our pain? isn't that what we are here for? at least some of the time? to find a way, an avenue that allows us to not be beaten down and corroded by pain but rather to allow it to polish us... to polish and protect our great loves? to cling tighter to value and goodness? to not abandon them in moments when we need them the most?
drizzle drizzle drizzle.
sniffle sniffle sniffle.
ramble ramble ramble.
but i'm serious. knowing myself completely and finding the courage to just be that is the hardest, most beautiful, most important task i have ever set out to accomplish. and so, among all these big ethereal abstract questions, i simplify my day-
i make valentines because, when i think of who i am or would like to be, i am a girl that values small (albeit sappy) gestures of love and romance.
i paint every day because i want to be a person that paints every day.
i write every day because i want to be a person that writes every day.
i make silly postcards and send them off in to the world because that is an action i admire and i want to participate in things i admire. i want to welcome these great, glittering storms of compassion and beauty and pain even in to my life. i want to be polished. i want to be strong. i'm tired of losing time to a state of confused longing. i may feel that way... but i can feel it and still move forward. i can make valentines. i can hang heart shapes in the window. i can write letters and poems and make paintings and know that these things, these objects, these gestures give voice to my core self... that i can choose to be who i truly am without apology or excuse or argument.
people will believe whatever they want to believe. this is something that is out of my control. i can choose to have faith in my self and in the goodness of my life... in the goodness of my particularities.
i admired mr. mcqeen's particularities.
the fruits of your labor, sir, have not gone unnoticed and your entrance has been granted. rest well. rest deep in love. we'll see you on the other side. i'm sure your good work will continue there and i can't wait to see it. :)
alexander mcqueen sneakers
spring collection 2010
Feb 11, 2010
death day
today is the anniversary of sylvia plath's death. our fair radish king holds a bake-off every year in her honor on this day where those of us who have been touched by her work can trade recipes and poems and thoughts... a time and place of remembering and appreciating... a work of mourning and respect and joking around.
i thought of sylvia plath a lot this past week. in my sickness i've been cutting out tons of heart-shapes- a personal symbol of plath's. and i have strings of hearts hanging in my bedroom window. silvery and sparkling and dancing slow. they have been cut from "failed" paintings and drawings. i thought... even though the composition was wrong, there was still love in this work. let me at least save that part.
i want to keep that thought in mind today as i remember her... and as i remember her son, nicholas.
-
the first poem in Ariel is written to a child. for a child. it is thick with love, thick with amazement. she was not without love... let's at least save that part. draw a heart on something. cut one out. save it. hang it in your window. this is the new tradition.
MORNING SONG
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
october 27, 1932 - february 11, 1963
and here is my poem about her for you... since i can't bake. :)
(click the pictures to enlarge)
you know her
artist book
angela simione, 2009
transcript:
you know her
she wore the white dress and white shoes
snow-white
under the little wire clamps
pale, nondescript
harmless
her hand to her mouth
she'd had such trouble
cutting. Cutting and cutting and cutting.
i thought of sylvia plath a lot this past week. in my sickness i've been cutting out tons of heart-shapes- a personal symbol of plath's. and i have strings of hearts hanging in my bedroom window. silvery and sparkling and dancing slow. they have been cut from "failed" paintings and drawings. i thought... even though the composition was wrong, there was still love in this work. let me at least save that part.
i want to keep that thought in mind today as i remember her... and as i remember her son, nicholas.
-
the first poem in Ariel is written to a child. for a child. it is thick with love, thick with amazement. she was not without love... let's at least save that part. draw a heart on something. cut one out. save it. hang it in your window. this is the new tradition.
MORNING SONG
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
october 27, 1932 - february 11, 1963
and here is my poem about her for you... since i can't bake. :)
(click the pictures to enlarge)
you know her
artist book
angela simione, 2009
transcript:
you know her
she wore the white dress and white shoes
snow-white
under the little wire clamps
pale, nondescript
harmless
her hand to her mouth
she'd had such trouble
cutting. Cutting and cutting and cutting.
Feb 10, 2010
pep talk
i've been thinking about valentine's day.
i want to participate.
i've always wanted to participate in it but didn't or couldn't because of cultural mandates and expectations and blah blah blah. lame stuff like that. i don't eat candy and never really crave it. and i like roses but that's really not necessary.
i don't really want anything... except to honor my own values. from here on out, i'm going to make the holiday my own.
it's a topic i've been thinking about a lot for the last few months. pages and pages of notebook scribblings dedicated to VALUE- what it is, how to get it, and then, how to keep it. much easier to write about in your little notebook than find opportunities inside your daily life in which to express it. i realized yesterday that, as a teenager, my values were very much linked to ideas of justice and fairness. i was highly idealistic, yes, but i've always thought the world can benefit from a little idealism now and then. somewhere along the line during my huge 2-year long depression, i stopped thinking about justice and fairness in the correct way: that these things are mine to give... not mine to expect. and somehow this is linked to valentine's day in my mind this year. the need for some sort of heartfelt ritual. the need for at least a little bit of sentimentality and mushy appreciation for the good things in one's life. and having a day set aside for this when it's okay to get mushy and dote on things or people or projects is totally what i need right now. no apologies, no excuses, just a little bit of wholesome fun. anything that aids a person in discovering who they really are... who they were as a child and embracing that person again, i'm all for. sweetness, kindness, curiosity, playfulness... these are qualities to admire. they are qualities to pursue and hold on to. a code.
and so i spent the bulk of yesterday cutting out heart-shapes and drawing and trying to come up with an image that would hurt and haunt and cut but also spin and play and cry with joy. i'm still searching for it but i'm well on my way. i will participate.
there's a saying that goes, "fake it til you make it". basically, a game of pretend but not as horrible as that may sound. maybe "walk the talk" is a better expression.
when i think about the kind of person i want to be, why not just start behaving like that person. if i want to be the type of person who makes valentine's day cards, what am i waiting for? same thing goes for everything else. if i want to be a writer, i have to write. and write first, write long, write hard before i assume that title. i learn to paint by painting. i can learn patience by being patient. i can believe i have value if i practice value... if i manage to find the strength of character necessary to guard my own life and path and choice and goodness with every ounce of grace and resilience i've got.
i'm rambling but what i really want to say is that little by little i'm seeing how absolutely necessary it is to be myself. really, truly, unapologetically myself. because a person's true self does not need to be apologized for. i'm attempting to recover from the horrible things i threw at myself while i was locked down at the bottom of a very deep, dark well. the horrible things i told myself... the horrible things i believed.
cutting out heart-shapes helps.
"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."
-Theodore Roosevelt
i want to participate.
i want to participate.
i've always wanted to participate in it but didn't or couldn't because of cultural mandates and expectations and blah blah blah. lame stuff like that. i don't eat candy and never really crave it. and i like roses but that's really not necessary.
i don't really want anything... except to honor my own values. from here on out, i'm going to make the holiday my own.
it's a topic i've been thinking about a lot for the last few months. pages and pages of notebook scribblings dedicated to VALUE- what it is, how to get it, and then, how to keep it. much easier to write about in your little notebook than find opportunities inside your daily life in which to express it. i realized yesterday that, as a teenager, my values were very much linked to ideas of justice and fairness. i was highly idealistic, yes, but i've always thought the world can benefit from a little idealism now and then. somewhere along the line during my huge 2-year long depression, i stopped thinking about justice and fairness in the correct way: that these things are mine to give... not mine to expect. and somehow this is linked to valentine's day in my mind this year. the need for some sort of heartfelt ritual. the need for at least a little bit of sentimentality and mushy appreciation for the good things in one's life. and having a day set aside for this when it's okay to get mushy and dote on things or people or projects is totally what i need right now. no apologies, no excuses, just a little bit of wholesome fun. anything that aids a person in discovering who they really are... who they were as a child and embracing that person again, i'm all for. sweetness, kindness, curiosity, playfulness... these are qualities to admire. they are qualities to pursue and hold on to. a code.
and so i spent the bulk of yesterday cutting out heart-shapes and drawing and trying to come up with an image that would hurt and haunt and cut but also spin and play and cry with joy. i'm still searching for it but i'm well on my way. i will participate.
there's a saying that goes, "fake it til you make it". basically, a game of pretend but not as horrible as that may sound. maybe "walk the talk" is a better expression.
when i think about the kind of person i want to be, why not just start behaving like that person. if i want to be the type of person who makes valentine's day cards, what am i waiting for? same thing goes for everything else. if i want to be a writer, i have to write. and write first, write long, write hard before i assume that title. i learn to paint by painting. i can learn patience by being patient. i can believe i have value if i practice value... if i manage to find the strength of character necessary to guard my own life and path and choice and goodness with every ounce of grace and resilience i've got.
i'm rambling but what i really want to say is that little by little i'm seeing how absolutely necessary it is to be myself. really, truly, unapologetically myself. because a person's true self does not need to be apologized for. i'm attempting to recover from the horrible things i threw at myself while i was locked down at the bottom of a very deep, dark well. the horrible things i told myself... the horrible things i believed.
cutting out heart-shapes helps.
"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."
-Theodore Roosevelt
i want to participate.
Feb 9, 2010
dark outside
it is raining. cold and heavy. and the sirens have started. someone has slid off the road. someone has run off the cliff. and it feels like someone walked back and forth across my face all night long. it feels like someone made me breathe a tin of pepper as i slept. this little virus will not be moved. and she is a ruthless tease.
Feb 8, 2010
i love this woman!
i was lucky enough to see this show in LA when it was up. it was one of the best shows i'd seen... and still is.
when you're in the room with these paintings and you can get up close, the whole story changes... the whole world even, maybe.
what a gorgeous artist. what a gorgeous person.
aaaaand another one
about an hour before bed last night, i got hungry for some more painting and started another portrait of 'The Good Daughter'. i got in bed on time but lay awake for hours feeling so excited about painting and possibility and tomorrow. and the very first thing on my mind when my sore and tired eyes opened this morning was painting and possibilities and endless endless endless opportunity to make and build and try.
i poured my coffee. i wrote in my notebook. i went back and finished the portrait.
the new week is off and running.
The Good Daughter (3)
30" x 22"
gouache on paper
angela simione, 2010
i poured my coffee. i wrote in my notebook. i went back and finished the portrait.
the new week is off and running.
The Good Daughter (3)
30" x 22"
gouache on paper
angela simione, 2010
Feb 6, 2010
diary
i have circled back around to covering things in clouds. child-like and calming. this piece is a couple years old. i came across it while looking through my portfolio for something else. and what a happy surprise. it seems very much to be in the same vein as the recent alice drawings.
Feb 5, 2010
my weird, fevery education of yesterday-
Aase Berg With Deer
Rebecca Loudon Cadaver Dogs
Evelyn Hampton the lost body projected
watched this:
and listened to this:
and then this morning, i popped on over to see what maggie may was up to and was astounded.
i had a break-through on not one but two oil paintings today and it isn't even noon! it is the best feeling in the world.
my fever is gone and my throat is no longer so sore. i have a small, ignorable headache. my delight over-rides my discomfort.
back to work.
Rebecca Loudon Cadaver Dogs
Evelyn Hampton the lost body projected
watched this:
and listened to this:
and then this morning, i popped on over to see what maggie may was up to and was astounded.
i had a break-through on not one but two oil paintings today and it isn't even noon! it is the best feeling in the world.
my fever is gone and my throat is no longer so sore. i have a small, ignorable headache. my delight over-rides my discomfort.
back to work.
half way
in my sickness, i am making my way through Aase Berg's With Deer. it is either the worst time or the best time to read this book. it is infectious. or is it intoxicating? or does she cast such a net, such a spell as to make the reader intoxicated with the resulting infection?
i get a few poems in and have to stop. later, i write write write and the same fat maggots present themselves but their color has changed and maybe their shape... so then... not quite the same.
always crawl closer to the people, the writers, the artists you admire.
there is a Buddhist saying that goes like this: when the student is ready, the teacher arrives.
i'm no Buddhist but i know a smart cookie when i see one... and i know when a good teacher appears.
they are all around me these days. good teachers. everywhere and i am lost inside wonder and feeling completely undeserving.
yes, you.
level
i can only take her cells in doses. sharp acrid insistence. she scratches at my face and i wait for the "i'm sorry" but all i do is wait. i turn a page. i feed on the next cell. i install her breath in my swelling in my feigning eager mouth. red and pink and capped in silver. shame under the tongue and shame between the teeth and shame below the gum line and shame inside that great grey mass between the ears. a dog hung low. head on the floor. that sorrow. that beg. and i crouch now, i go low, level with the sad dog eye, pooling brown and spilling blue and sucking at the acrid breath. sucking at the cells and the pages and the lists of things that go on and on,
still,
without remorse.
angela simione, 2010
i get a few poems in and have to stop. later, i write write write and the same fat maggots present themselves but their color has changed and maybe their shape... so then... not quite the same.
always crawl closer to the people, the writers, the artists you admire.
there is a Buddhist saying that goes like this: when the student is ready, the teacher arrives.
i'm no Buddhist but i know a smart cookie when i see one... and i know when a good teacher appears.
they are all around me these days. good teachers. everywhere and i am lost inside wonder and feeling completely undeserving.
yes, you.
level
i can only take her cells in doses. sharp acrid insistence. she scratches at my face and i wait for the "i'm sorry" but all i do is wait. i turn a page. i feed on the next cell. i install her breath in my swelling in my feigning eager mouth. red and pink and capped in silver. shame under the tongue and shame between the teeth and shame below the gum line and shame inside that great grey mass between the ears. a dog hung low. head on the floor. that sorrow. that beg. and i crouch now, i go low, level with the sad dog eye, pooling brown and spilling blue and sucking at the acrid breath. sucking at the cells and the pages and the lists of things that go on and on,
still,
without remorse.
angela simione, 2010
Feb 4, 2010
lovely lovely
i have a secret wish to just go ahead and get it over with and become the town freak. :)
i live in a small enough town that this could be accomplished quite literally overnight should i choose to give in to this desire...
or is it a need?
a need to just live as wide-open as possible...
a reclaiming of the self...
my self...
without any explanation or apology...
just me
little ol' me
(as fearless as i had been,
can i be that fearless now?)
my morning has been occupied by the strange pull of the flu and way too much coffee and back and forth between painting and writing, image and text, oil and graphite and ink, and poems poems POEMS, and feminist essays online- this is my rendition of wonderland, my underground. and i want to slip on my sequin shoes and my BIG black crow head necklace (yes, it IS as goth as you might imagine. ha!!!!) and go traipsing around in my glorious weirdness and smile at strangers and forget this damn flu and not attend to it at all but instead attend to these deep and good desires and needs. this necessary play-time. this necessity of self of exposure of honesty.
back and forth back and forth
this whirl.
good morning! feel happy! i am joyful. a breed of eager joy. i am smearing black oil and silver paint and smudging the graphite across the white and my ink flies and my notebook fills with drips and i write write write.
-
there is nothing to feel sorry for.
it is true i have a fever.
my eyes are red red red.
i live in a small enough town that this could be accomplished quite literally overnight should i choose to give in to this desire...
or is it a need?
a need to just live as wide-open as possible...
a reclaiming of the self...
my self...
without any explanation or apology...
just me
little ol' me
(as fearless as i had been,
can i be that fearless now?)
my morning has been occupied by the strange pull of the flu and way too much coffee and back and forth between painting and writing, image and text, oil and graphite and ink, and poems poems POEMS, and feminist essays online- this is my rendition of wonderland, my underground. and i want to slip on my sequin shoes and my BIG black crow head necklace (yes, it IS as goth as you might imagine. ha!!!!) and go traipsing around in my glorious weirdness and smile at strangers and forget this damn flu and not attend to it at all but instead attend to these deep and good desires and needs. this necessary play-time. this necessity of self of exposure of honesty.
back and forth back and forth
this whirl.
good morning! feel happy! i am joyful. a breed of eager joy. i am smearing black oil and silver paint and smudging the graphite across the white and my ink flies and my notebook fills with drips and i write write write.
-
there is nothing to feel sorry for.
it is true i have a fever.
my eyes are red red red.
Feb 3, 2010
yay!
the inaugural issue of BigLucks is out and yours truly has an image in it! :) happy happy happy!
maybe i'll work on getting up the courage to submit some writing somewhere soon. i've been feeling the pull lately. we'll see. but for now, check it out!
maybe i'll work on getting up the courage to submit some writing somewhere soon. i've been feeling the pull lately. we'll see. but for now, check it out!
sicken
.
thick orange juice mucus in me in my throat in every opening that speaks or begs or cries a little to get its way. the skin around these openings is hot and tense. a rope. a promise. an omen. sheets of disdain and waste curling down. a wall paper. rotten. past its' prime. out of date. like childhood. like the monsters under the bed. but they don't care either way. they keep coming back in spite of how unfashionable they've become. they tickle the skin around these openings. they pull the delicate hairs in fistfuls. they make sure the skin is taut and that every pore is shut tight. there is nothing to believe or disbelieve when it comes to pain. here it is. it will be back. cross your heart and fingers and legs. cross every T and hope to die.
angela simione, 2010
thick orange juice mucus in me in my throat in every opening that speaks or begs or cries a little to get its way. the skin around these openings is hot and tense. a rope. a promise. an omen. sheets of disdain and waste curling down. a wall paper. rotten. past its' prime. out of date. like childhood. like the monsters under the bed. but they don't care either way. they keep coming back in spite of how unfashionable they've become. they tickle the skin around these openings. they pull the delicate hairs in fistfuls. they make sure the skin is taut and that every pore is shut tight. there is nothing to believe or disbelieve when it comes to pain. here it is. it will be back. cross your heart and fingers and legs. cross every T and hope to die.
angela simione, 2010
Feb 1, 2010
play
3 studies i did while i was out in the tennessee countryside, hiding away in the back of my brain with kiki smith and alice...
and speaking of having the courage to be yourself...
let's jump start this new month with more than tad of glamour and fun. don't fight it.
"beauty's where you find it" :)
"beauty's where you find it" :)
february already...
geez. the new year is flying by! and so i've begun the slowing down process... giving myself reminders to stay in the present, to really pay attention, to use each day toward good aims... to be aware of the wealth of opportunities that surround me (that surround us all), great and small, and to not scoff at any one of them; to proceed with grace and confidence...
one of my life-long problems has been of minimizing. my own pain as well as the good that i do. i was so shy as a child that anything, even wonderful things, that brought me extra attention was something i absolutely did not like. i hid my own talents for years. and now, spending time thinking about TIME, about mortality, i'm choosing... have been choosing... to not hide for one second. to live life as it comes to me: daily. "we are not promised tomorrow". that quote is the last line i write each morning in my journal. a memento mori. and to proceed with as much strength, grace, and confidence that i can.
it's so easy for us humans to forget our accomplishments... the hurdles we've lept over, the hardships we've overcome. and now i set out to let those hardships polish my goodness rather than compromise it. i do not believe that we are given talents and beauties to throw them in the trash.
it's okay to save some things for private experience. but that is not the same thing as hiding.
yesterday, i stocked up on my beloved black gouache. i bought BIG paper and new pencils and found a copy of "Alice's Adventures Underground" at the used bookstore... the edition kiki smith used for her print series. only 15 bucks so i couldn't resist.
my oils are hanging on the walls in varied states of finish. all whispering, all lovely and confident.
i am surrounded by bibles. these things, these objects, these marks on paper. art and its' tools. my many loves quicken my breath and my heart jumps and i am amazed and humbled and curious. there is deep deep deep play in my heart and shoulders and finger tips (rebecca). it is such a huge act of trust, of faith, of grace, of willingness to learn, to stumble, to find, to try.
i am eager.
i love everything.
one of my life-long problems has been of minimizing. my own pain as well as the good that i do. i was so shy as a child that anything, even wonderful things, that brought me extra attention was something i absolutely did not like. i hid my own talents for years. and now, spending time thinking about TIME, about mortality, i'm choosing... have been choosing... to not hide for one second. to live life as it comes to me: daily. "we are not promised tomorrow". that quote is the last line i write each morning in my journal. a memento mori. and to proceed with as much strength, grace, and confidence that i can.
it's so easy for us humans to forget our accomplishments... the hurdles we've lept over, the hardships we've overcome. and now i set out to let those hardships polish my goodness rather than compromise it. i do not believe that we are given talents and beauties to throw them in the trash.
it's okay to save some things for private experience. but that is not the same thing as hiding.
yesterday, i stocked up on my beloved black gouache. i bought BIG paper and new pencils and found a copy of "Alice's Adventures Underground" at the used bookstore... the edition kiki smith used for her print series. only 15 bucks so i couldn't resist.
my oils are hanging on the walls in varied states of finish. all whispering, all lovely and confident.
i am surrounded by bibles. these things, these objects, these marks on paper. art and its' tools. my many loves quicken my breath and my heart jumps and i am amazed and humbled and curious. there is deep deep deep play in my heart and shoulders and finger tips (rebecca). it is such a huge act of trust, of faith, of grace, of willingness to learn, to stumble, to find, to try.
i am eager.
i love everything.
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