heart break break break

okay. enough. i'm sick of this: death everywhere.

one of my favorite artists of all time died today. another genius gone from the world. another one. and i am angry and sad. very angry and very sad. all my angry confusion about all sorts of other, far unrelated things, surges to the top of my head and locks up my throat and all i can think is this isn't right this isn't fair just like a little kid. she herself would tell me to shut the fuck up.

i bet you anything she figured out the meaning of life in the wee hours of the morning and that's what did it. once you attain perfection, you go. and there she goes. 98 years old. fire on top of fire. burning intelligent searing honest woman. i miss you so much already.

i was convinced you were immortal.

i will tack a spider above my bed.




"spider"
louise bourgeois

here

it is a sleepy monday. every one is in bed, warm and dreaming on their extra day off. the sun is up and bright. a good day for outdoor painting. but inga and i must go obey The Almighty Jog before getting wrapped up in anything else. lately, the canvas has held on to me for a straight 6 hours at a minimum. and once i start, i don't stop. today, we must go bounce through the green before anything else.

we didn't get out much this weekend and we both need the sweat. we were too busy hiding from the onslaught: our little town was chewed up by wine-hungry tourists this weekend. there is no doubt in my mind that a few new roadside memorials will be up soon. the sirens were going almost constantly for the past 3 days. this is where people come to drink and laugh and drive fast down the windy two-lane highways, pretending it's the french countryside, all fantasy and reverie. the reality of it is that this is the land of alcoholism and brutal car crashes, decapitations and mothers in mourning. not to mention the deep level of unnoticed (or shunned) poverty. there are small, white, handmade crosses around almost every bend in the road. little trinkets nestled at the base, signs, love letters, stuffed animals, and balloons. on big drinking weekends like memorial day and st. patrick's day, these crosses multiply. silently and in the middle of the night.

moving here has cured me of the everyday american alcoholism that tv promotes. i haven't had a drink in 9 months and i don't miss it. the allure is gone. i sleep better now than i have in years and i have such a high level of focus too. i have become a teetotaler. ha! much to the amazement of a great many friends.

maybe i should photograph them. the crosses. i always want to stop when i see them. to pay attention. to pay respect. these small shrines that mark a site of horrible loss have always caught my eye and heart. it makes me even sadder when they fall in to disrepair or are removed by whatever state agency is in charge of removing such things.

love

in spite of the hardships that have come, in spite of the hardships that remain, in spite of loneliness, heartache, distance, collapse, hopelessness, frailty, and pathetic groveling, i have never, not once, regret the decision to be an artist. it is the one thing in my life that has been consistently available, open, and welcoming. if it be a picture in a book or a simple, lucky photograph or a blog or a heartfelt word that floated in to my ear at exactly the right time, i love it all and remain forever faithful. i stumble and i cry sometimes. i yell and feel a failure sometimes. i go to the page or the canvas in those moments especially, and find myself there all over again: not only worthy, but privileged, to paint and read and write and think.

good bye, sweet man

.

thank you, my sweet friend

got this from my wonderful friend becca today. and it makes a great big wonderful difference.

plodding along

the painting i'm working on is kicking my ass all over the place! yesterday and today.

the rain is coming down HARD and so i am locked inside, no jog, forced to sit and stare and figure this piece out. so that's a positive, i guess. the grind, the fight, learning how to slow down and not jump ahead, not rely on tricks, just sit with the work and wait for it to start talking back. and the really good thing about this is that it supplies a learning curve- all this exploration leads to depth and layers of meaning (as well as paint). and the further i go, the deeper i get. the work has really started taking off this year, and i try to keep sight of that fact on days like today where i'm fighting for sense and finesse. in some ways, i've gone full circle to where i was when i was first working with jon benet's image and thinking about what images can do, how paintings can function. it's a crazy ride. some days, all i can do is hang on. some days, "the work" is somehow finding a way to extend a bit of patience to yourself.

story time

.




crinkling

after Harold Abramowitz's Not Blessed





there are stars in the sky, black marks, big as teeth. i stand close to the door. i listen for feet. it is the only time i hear my name. that shuffle, those dreams, kicked across the road, the road that opens up, unnoticed to most, sly and buttery and calling calling a name that goes unknown.

his feet padding up to the door remind me. i hear them as if they were still small. as if he had never seen the road unwind, or the feared forest across the way. the shadows bent strangely down and i forbade him to go near. he has grown but his feet still say my name. large as they are, deep thuds ringing out the kicked dreams. it is the only time i hear my name. the only time i feel relief.

i hear the simple chorus and run to reach with my crinkle eye through the spy hole. i hear my name and know my boy is coming home. coming home like the hunter, lost a hundred years. his family lived convinced he was dead. the hunter stepped through the great window one day and collected his family again. a century of waiting relieved.

i long for my waiting to rupture. my own hunter gone off. he took an axe to demand our daughter back and left the little one with me. years already and still i leave the big window open.

every night i mend the broken boot soles. my single hand pushes the thick needle. my single finger warns against the forest. the forest is to blame. i make apologies. i amend and mend and mend. i wipe down the small gas stove. i arrange the cushions and pillows. i arrange the jars on the sill. i collect the dust from the floor, the dust from the road blown in from under the door. i stand close and listen for the pad of his feet, the romp down the lane, the name, the name, my name.

a police officer interrupts his skipping. calls him to the side of the road. my name drops like the belled head of the flower that grows there, like the rabbit slung over his shoulder, stuffed with arrow. the police officer carries his kill like a runaway's knapsack, a kerchief on a stick, the arrow in deep, my name limp as that head, flat and ravaged, unable to sound.

my grandson answers the police officer's questions. he points toward our small cottage. i stand at the door, my eye reaching through the spy hole, my ears hoping to grab my name, the pad of his feet, that chorus. he points to the little lake. he points to the flower. the police officer shakes his head. my boy points to the forest and points down the road. he points at the dust. he shuffles his feet. my name, whispered. the police officer shakes his head and says no. the head of the rabbit wobbles and drips.

writing

" ...Don't wait for inspiration. Push yourself to find the poetry lurking in the ordinary corners of a lived life."

- Dorianne Laux



i found this quote scribbled in one of my notebooks from two years ago when i re-committed myself to learning about writing. i had set my writing practice down when i entered art school. not consciously, just the case. the level of focus required for painting at the time was something i had to fight hard for. i wasn't able to flip the switch and move from thinking in terms of images to thinking in terms of phrases. now, i see they are exactly the same thing. but in school, i couldn't see that. the writing i did was either essays or acts of secret journaling. nevertheless, the call toward poetry presented itself in those forms and i read Ariel and The Journals of Sylvia Plath my last semester in school. A month or so later, i was here in wine country, waking every morning and immediately reaching for my notebook. sometimes i'd walk to the center of town where there is a lonely green bench and i'd set up my writing studio there. one day a man passed by and in the most gorgeous european accent he said "look at you! look how wonderful you are! writing like that right here! i hope you get a million dollars!" he made me giggle and blush and his wish for me was a bright, much needed encouragement right then. right then that exact minute. i needed to know that someone else saw value in the act too. still so awkward in it but so so hungry for it. two years later and i've gotten a little better. two years and i still reach for my notebook as soon as i wake up. i haven't gone down to the green bench in a very long time. maybe i should start that up again. there was a valuable innocence in it. and a valuable resistance too. an act of privacy right out in public. my humanness.

i didn't read the notebook very long. 10 minutes at the most. and it wasn't the hard events at the time that were painful to read, but rather my descriptions of myself- fresh out of school, driven to chase down a life that felt right, strong in spite of my autobiography. shortly after those words were written was when i really started to spiral. when the loss and pain of my life became too heavy and the madness of a huge depression really started to sink in and crawl around. i put the notebook down. i can remember all those things just fine. and for now i prefer to look at certain things through the lens of time. the rawness of the language, the youth of it, embarrasses me a little. i can describe those events much better today. i can be more honest about them too. and i'm sure i'll say the same thing two years from now about the things i'm writing today. and that's okay. but waiting for masterpieces is a waste of work and a waste of life. growth never stops.

and i'm glad i came across that quote this morning too. i think artists live their lives as beginners in some ways- that sense of wonder about a how to make a poem or a painting is an important thing to hold on to. to never claim that you've got it all figured out. to ward of formula and resist the allure of your own tricks.

i worked right up til bedtime yesterday. i wrote an insane amount of words. the back and forth, erasing adding redacting eliminating coercing dance of the thing. choosing what stays put and what to kick out. the sacrifice inherent to the job.

it's exactly like painting.

whirl

this day has moved fast fast fast. i look up and it's afternoon already. almost evening. a dizzying array of words spilled out after hours at the canvas. i am worn out but then there's the feeling of the chase still stuck in my fingers and shoulders and heart and brain. chase chase chase the thing down. and really, i have no clue what it is i'm writing. it's all locked up in my notebook and i don't have the fortitude right now to dig it up and type it out. the scribbling was so wild that i'm a bit high-strung from it all. dizzy. but hungry. that feeling of absolute need. a headache on the horizon, i'm sure. ha! but whatever it is- all these paintings and poem-type things that i have no idea what they are, feel important. they need attention and polish and patience too. patience is something i am bad at when it comes to all this. i get so excited and i just want to find a way to send it out in to the world. but these weeks of keeping so much work to myself, hanging on the wall for just me to look at, and pages open just for me to read... it makes a nest in a way i haven't had in a long time. this slowness is necessary. the baking hours. incubation and protection.

potential

the other day, i was talking to my friend mike about painting- what it means and what it is. and mostly i was just thinking out-loud and i heard myself say: there's a huge difference between maintaining a practice and maintaining a business. i flabbergasted myself with that tidbit. and i am not knocking business. it is a component of all this that can actually be pretty joyful. but that's just the point- it's a component, not the whole. and then i go back and i watch all the videos i posted the other day and i realize that all these people are absolutely right. and it's stuff i already know but it helps to hear it again... especially in low moments when you begin to wonder if you have anything of value to offer. that horrible self-questioning, self-persecution, that i think all artists fall prey too every now and again. but maintaining the practice is what saves me. grounds me. brings me back to a site of such large hope and fiery, self-assured resistance. it isn't supposed to be easy. this is a very hard road to walk sometimes, in spite of how fun and freeing it can be. but when i'm in a painting or drawing or poem, really inside, i have no sadness. i have no doubts. i'm in a land of such sweeping grace where taking the good with the bad is absolutely possible... and is even experienced as beautiful too. and the work is rolling along gorgeously. i'm brewing coffee right now and when it's done i'm heading outside in to the bright, cold morning to paint in the good light. i woke up with such a warm assurance in my bones. and my neighbor who had stayed up all night listening to music (got bit by that bug and just could not turn it off) came down to talk about music and art and ideas and the greeks. a very nice way to begin the day, begin the new week. a week full of potential and hard (but fun) work.

note to self:

there's no such thing as a perfect painting. it isn't even about that. perfection is boring. there's no mystery. no search. no struggle. no discovery. it isn't effective. or affective either. perfection has no function. it is already solved. it is isolated and requires nothing. it has no needs. it has no desires. it is uninteresting.

rappers, comic book artists, painters, musicians, and actors agree:

hard look

all these things lately- The Catcher in the Rye, The Land of Green Plums, The Triggering Town, A Clockwork Orange, the letter of intent, my practice itself, writing, writing, writing, the list of deadlines for art opportunities sitting to my right, memories, overcoming past hurts, relationships with family members, the big snarling dog painting on my wall...

all these things begin to point, as glaring as a neon sign, toward one thing: figuring out who i am and how i want to live.

i'm sure i must sound like a broken record on this blog sometimes but self-knowledge is a big issue for me at this point in my life. i need to free myself from a wealth of very large and strange expectations of myself that, when i really sit down and look at them, i have no clue where they came from and yet i nevertheless allow them to exact a very hurtful influence on my opinion of myself, my work, my life, my everything.

for the past several weeks, the last sentence i write in my journal each morning before i get rolling on my day is Believe in yourself. every morning for weeks and weeks and weeks, i have written this sentence. it's finally beginning to make sense in a particular way that lets me know i've misunderstood what believing in one's self really is. today, i realized that the big reason i struggle with believing in myself is because i get focused on whether or not other people believe in me too. when i've allowed this to happen i trade my instincts for their preferences and this has only ever been detrimental to my life in a very sweeping, all-encompassing way. and the nuttiest part about it is that it's basically seeking approval from people who traditionally aren't really even capable of giving it to me anyway. never have been. it's a fucked-up brass ring. an accomplishment spurred by masochism. it's stupid. and in addition to being stupid, it's super destructive.

as i read all these books and write all these winding blog posts and come to the end of another page in my slang-filled journal, i come in to confrontation with myself... how fear of being displeasing has sabotaged a great many things in my life and within myself. in short, i've been holding back... and holding back some very good things.

the latest collection of paintings and drawings have given me a taste of what it is to be fearless again and to practice integrity. it has given me a warmth and hope that i had been living without for a long time it seems like... and that it doesn't really matter if other people approve of what i'm doing and who i am, if i'm happy with what i've done. why this has been such a hard understanding to maintain, i don't know. but it's high time to pretty much say fuck it to other people's definitions of success and their expectations for me. i need to begin the self-assured mantra of i don't care.

i think artists wrestle with this issue a lot. not just professionally, but privately as well. feeling misunderstood and unsupported was the state of affairs for most artists i went to school with. i can't tell you how many people i know whose families scoff at their pursuits, find art and poetry to be laughable, think that it's merely some display of ego. sad. and very hard to overcome. it hurts.

The Storialist left this link in the comments stream of one of the posts below and i keep going back to it. it deals with being present and not worrying about whether or not anyone likes you. it helps me and it got me on track with really thinking about the role i play in feeling minimized in certain relationships, professional or otherwise. it comes down to something as big and bad and basic as the ills of approval-seeking behavior. no good, friends. no good. and it takes a lot of acceptance and guts to get beyond that shit, for sure.

we were all once Holden Caulfield.

i finished reading The Catcher in the Rye last night. the last 60 or so pages is when Holden Caulfield really starts flashing crazy but, honestly, i remember feeling that way a lot when i was a teenager- that the world was phony and mean. it is an exceptional work of art that has really stood the test of time. in spite of the dated slang and euphemisms contained within the language of the book, i think the story itself is sort of timeless... effective regardless of what era it is read in. i'm so glad i decided to go back to it. and it led to a very beneficial, forgiving, necessary walk down memory lane of my own. simply reading it created a warm space where dealing with my own memories and family history led to a soft reconciliation of certain events. it helped me cast a more understanding, gentle eye on the trials we are all faced with throughout our lifetimes. what a cool blessing. and that's ART for ya! :)

my Letter of Intent has morphed in to a huge personal art manifesto. ha! and that is NOT what a Letter of Intent is supposed to be. i suppose i have a lot to say (and get out of the way) before i can get whittle my ideas down to a more manageble bite in terms of a residency. i'm moving from the general to the specific, and it is actually really wonderful to be writing all my ideas down in essay format. hopefully, i can get it all out and then go back in and find a way to condense my aims for the purpose of this letter and get it finished in time. whether or not i am able, it's still a good practice. i haven't had to write a formal essay in 2 years. i guess i'm a bit out of practice.

but today i am painting painting painting. i need a break from all the intellectualism. my mind is tired from all that particular breed of fun. ha! but while we're on the subject of intent and art and The Catcher in the Rye, take a look at page 189. Mr. Antolini makes a very good point. ;)

the work work

good morning!!!!

it is another drizzly day here in wine land, another excuse to curl in to my self, my little world, my little spin spin spin of ink and oil and words. i spent a large part of yesterday writing a letter of intent for an artist residency. not easy. i have pages and pages of notes and little snippets culled from this blog about my ideas and intentions. i am trying to put them all in a line. it's time to try for the Big Stuff. in fact, i made myself a deadlines list. it's right here next to the computer so that i am forced to be aware of the date, of the time, of the schedule of the outside world. it is a good thing and i feel motivated to reach a hand toward my aspirations- even if the rejection letter comes as a result, it is good to get in the habit of trying. it is good to be in practice of dealing with rejection, not allowing it to derail you, to gain a bit more hard experience of what it is to believe in your own work. the art thing isn't supposed to be easy. how's the saying go? if it came in a bottle, every one would have it. it's true. people want to know that you're dedicated... that you mean it. and it has nothing to do with seeking approval. it has to do with standing your ground until you are the last man standing. it has to do with insistence and perseverance and a show of dedication that states you'll keep going no matter what. rejection after rejection, you come back.

i applied to this particular residency 2 years ago, fresh out of school, and was promptly rejected. ha! and i don't think it had as much to do with my portfolio as it did how i discussed the work and what my intentions were. it was a pretty crazy time in life and i'm sure the letter itself was distracted. and now, after a lot of change and struggle and wrestling with ideas, i feel much more prepared to attempt this again. the work (and how i think about it) is so much different today. so much deeper. so much more meaningful. but i'll admit i'm pretty daunted about it. all i can do is write and re-write and re-write. it's due in about two and a half weeks. the portfolio of work is compiled and ready to go. but The Letter still looms. work work work. and hope hope hope. and try try try. i've been rejected enough that it doesn't get to me all that badly anymore. the initial sting of it, the dashed dream, sucks, but it doesn't defeat me. it's worth a shot.

a pot of coffee is brewing. the morning is wet and grey and silent. no distractions other than myself. ;)

hello monday!

it was my sweetie's birthday weekend and it was actually really wonderful to unplug from digital life for two days and just be present in the day with him, in celebration, and our dreams and hopes and happy outlook on the future. it was the big THREE OH. 30 years old. and i'm right behind him. i am not at all nervous or weirded out by it. only that it feels so young. i thought i'd have a lot more answers than this by the time i hit 30. ha! who knew! adults don't have all the answers! hahahaha! but we had a lot of fun and a lot of delicious eats and a lot of laughter too. a lot of snuggles and hugs and deep, wonderful, playful conversation. and also a lot of relaxed down-time. he's earned it. he works hard and never complains and is always so gentle with other people. i've not ever really seen stress get the better of him. he's very solid that way. i really appreciate that. the stability of personality and emotion. there is no chaos that exists in him. no chaos he creates. and i love that. tragedy needs no helping hand in life, that's for sure. it will find each and every one of us. it needs no assistance. i admire his ability to remain positive and calm in the face of even the hardest circumstances. he has found balance and i admire that. a warm balance. i'm very proud of the man he is. i hope he is too. :)

and so it is a rainy monday. a built-in excuse to hole up with my oils and scoot around light and shadow. :) i think i'll watch A Clockwork Orange again today too so i can keep rolling with my essay on its importance. it is eerily timely. totally contemporary. brilliant. and i'm so glad i waited this long to watch the film. i think if i had watched it when i was 14, the message of this work would've been totally lost on me. i would not have caught its significance.

i'm even going back and re-reading books i read as a teenager, knowing that my first go-round with the work was almost completely surface. i'm almost finished with Catcher in the Rye- stunned by how simultaneously funny and sad it is. the heart-break inherent to growing up. the struggle of knowing one's self. of feeling separate from the world and its ways. the crazy-making. the confusion. the desperation. the need for love and to feel understood by another human being. the search that we all participate in and undertake...

art and literature are such good friends. :) what windows they are. such hard beauties. my days glow because of them and i feel so so so lucky.

part one- attempting to weave and unravel art history, religion, art theory, contemporary society, and A Clockwork Orange...

one thing i've been thinking about a lot lately in terms of art (in general) and my practice as i continue to wrestle with contemporary theory, is the assertion that original thought is impossible (The Death of the Author) which i don't (at this point) disagree with at all. in fact, i'm very comfortable (and comforted by) the lineage of artistic enterprise. there's a lot to learn and build upon and struggle with/against/for.

but the idea of "genius" is not one of them. at least not for me and what i'd like my work to accomplish.

the problem i have with this notion of the impossibility of original thought or "newness" in art or thinking, is that the idea itself claims to be new. and it isn't. "There is nothing new under the sun" is a biblical quote and contemporary art theory unveils the religious lineage of art by making this assertion. which is only strange due to the fact that most intellectuals (and that includes a great deal of theorists, artists, writers, psychologists, philosophers, etc) will tell you God is dead. more specifically, the judeo-christian God is dead and that morality is a governmental device intended to control human behavior and impulse. basically, it is brainwashing mechanism, government stamped and approved (as religion is, historically, government), to eliminate free-will.

power-structures of greed and dominion are at the root of this and also the common man's struggle for personal liberty. freedom, in this context, is what contemporary art signifies no matter what a person's subject happens to be. artists are no longer in the service of the church, painting murals for popes and members of the nobility. or are they? could contemporary theory be descibed as a Pope? has the pope's hat merely become invisible? and is currently being shuffled around, worn by different heads? would not a rose by any other name still smell as sweetly? (thanks, bard!) especially when that sweet smell emanates from wealth and the power wealth affords (the umbilical cord of gold: the avant-guard does not actually exist)? today, based on Guy Debord's work The Society of The Spectacle, the invisible Pope Hat would be dominant culture itself. the masses who have accepted Images as reality. status symbols. surrogates for the truth rather than the truth itself. if i look rich, people believe i am rich. if i am perceived as successful, i am successful. if i am titled "good", i am good.

which takes us in to A Clockwork Orange, a subject i'll be returning to a lot as i think it is a very important work that i, individually within my practice and thinking, need to wrestle with.

this idea of goodness... what it is and how to create it.

aversion therapy as a means of controlling behavior, of presenting a painful consequence for desire. any desire that is deemed problematic.

violence is definitely problematic as humans are social creatures that must find a way to work together in order to simply not extinguish ourselves. compromise is a necessity. but i find it very interesting that the violent actions of the narrator of the film is juxtaposed with signifiers of youth and innocence: drinking milk and rhyming speech. Alex DeLarge refers to his meal as eggie-wegs and steaky-wakes. a very sing-song slang that, at first glance, heightens the creep factor of the story for sure, but the more i think about it i begin to wonder... is Burgess and Kubrick saying that acts of violence are childish behaviors? a signifier of being spoiled rotten? because violence itself is a form of greed, a take-what-you-can-grab (as evidenced by rape and theft in the story) and but-i-want-it-and-i-deserve-it toddler-esque mentality. yes- i am saying violent people are over-grown, ill-behaved children. but the critique this film performs is to say that contemporary western society itself is pretty much a stunted adolescent, enamoured with sex and power. any method of displaying power or acquiring sex is a-okay: violence: the taking of something by brute force. and this is juxtaposed also in the film by the fact that Alex is shown as being more than capable of receiving sex from a willing participant. he picks up, not one but two, girls and has a threesome- the scene itself, sped up to a blur of hundreds of images too fast to keep up with, is actually quite funny and playful. this highlights common psychological knowledge about rape as actually not being motivated by a sexual impulse whatsoever, but is rather a desire for power. dominion. a person to person mirroring of The State. a microcosm. very much an act of imperialism when it comes right down to it. "might makes right" and all that. again, the take-what-you-can-grab philosophy hard at work.

in this way, Alex is an "every man". a poster child. common. the unavoidable end of living within a society that champions power and aggression. it's like Reagan-omics but with violence instead of money. shit rolls down hill. if your leaders are corrupt, and the masses are so dazzled by Images of status and wealth as to be blind to that fact, the masses in turn will seek for themselves the same level of power and corruption. if you are raised by a burglar, chances are you know how to pick a lock. you've seen it done too many times not to have the steps memorized. and that is called indoctrination. nurture. Alex's droogs even try to attain (take) the level of power he enjoys in the group. an uprising. and Alex puts the kibosh to that with fast violence. pretty much the same thing (again) that the state does to those who challenge its power.

more later. i must jog.

horrible, possibly inexcusable, artist confession #1

i have never seen A Clockwork Orange.

the reason for this is when i was 14 and very interested in watching it, i was told that Alex is a big ol' rapist. and at that tender age, already a budding feminist but also still very much consumed by the torturous wasteland of Bad Body Image and related fears about men, this horrified me. not to mention i am incredibly sensitive to portrayals of pain, especially rape, on film. because rape isn't a fictional event in this world, in fact its exceedingly common, the fact some one is "acting" a rape doesn't really make a difference. it rips my heart apart. the image itself is brutal. i turn the channel when the shower scene in American History X happens. and pulp fiction ends for me right after Bruce Willis' fight. and i couldn't even stay in the room recently when i tried to watch Blindness. i'm very squeamish about all this.

but more and more, Kubrick's work has been coming up in certain art spheres and conversations and he's the man responsible for 2 of my favorite movies ever: The Shining and Full Metal Jacket. and so... can i overcome my "ethics" as it were, and get myself educated in order to participate in the discussion??? i hope so. who says art has to be comfortable? and since i haven't seen the movie, i'm really in no position to critique its functions anyway.

besides, from an art historical stand point, i'm entirely without excuse. i must submit to having my feathers ruffled and yanked out by art. i must engage before i can claim to know. and to know anything.

so there it is: my dirty little artist secret. an example of self-sheltering that must be overcome.

prime time. and rambling...

i have spent the morning priming canvas outside and drinking too much coffee. 3 new big beauties. and the sun is up but it has yet to get warm. it is a good day already. the grunt work of preparation is becoming more and more therapeutic for me. a release. and also a forward march. movement. sweat. the back and forth dance of rotating canvasses and applying gesso, layer by layer, until it is time to dive in to the fat white and wrestle with the real work. there is a cleansing attribute. it clarifies and relieves the pressure to do something "grand" or "genius". the building aspect of a canvas reinforces the fact that the image is constructed. i leave the sides of the canvas raw as a nod toward its materiality. it is not The Truth and does not aspire to that status either. it is a perception. there is no right or wrong, only honest. my end in all this is to be responsible for the perceptions i throw out in to the world... but only insofar as realizing the importance of striving to be as accurate about my perceptions as possible. to be articulate, thoughtful, brave... and thereby create a space for dialogue. art is not one-sided. the looker is sometimes more important than the maker. i am not a genius and honestly don't want that type of pressure on my practice or my life in general. artists are not gods. i don't want the responsibility of The Savior. ART, as an event or instance or thing in the world, is a Savior... but i'm not. i am human and only really aspire to add to the human conversation... to toss my splinters in to the pile. to engage, to think, to play... but not dominate or command or merely entertain. my responsibility is to choose which splinters to add... not to be lazy about it or thoughtless. because there is no such thing as "best" when it comes to art, but there is such a thing as "smart". and there is such a thing as a well-worked out, hard-won, wrestled and polished set of ethics. and there is such a thing as integrity too. integrity is not a rear-guard notion. nor is it idealistic. it is a big-time necessity. "compromise" is not always a virtue.

yesterday, i sat down and really looked at the work i've made since the start of the year. it is so different from what i was working on last year. and DRASTICALLY different from what i was doing two years ago. the growth that has taken place during the last 2 years is tremendous... and so i suppose it's normal to feel so worn out some days. growth spurts are exhausting. and so i find myself feeling like i'm on the eve of something lately. eve of what, i have no idea... but i'm going to chase the thing down. and i won't take any short cuts. i'm in it for the long haul. i decided a long long time ago to trust the work, to trust this path, and no amount of rejection or loneliness will make me stop trusting it. the art life can be very isolating sometimes. but i'm really beginning to see the silver lining to that. everyone wrestles alone when they're trying to create a set of ethics or establish a life-philosophy that feels right. i have guides and inspirations and heroes and teachers, but i am the tailor of my own life and work. no one can trim and hem the edges for me. i must trust my ability to wield the shears, in that regard. and if i make a mistake, i can sew things back together.

okay, i mean it this time.

i posted this yesterday but then, as the day wore on and the light shifted, i decided it had too much of a blue cast so i got back at it today with my trusty tube of chromatic black and now it really is finished. promise. :)



candor
58" x 50"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2010

literary pursuits

last night, i read the first 100 pages of The Catcher in the Rye again. i haven't read this book in years and years and years. i forgot how funny Holden Caufield is. HILARIOUS! the book actually made me laugh out loud as i sat in bed, curled up in my quilt, trying to wind down after a long and very draining day. it actually accomplished the very opposite. it woke me up. hahaha! and there i was, laughing like a crazy person at a book, and it dawned on me that, the first time i read this, it didn't at all strike me that Holden Caufield is insane. other people have told me the character is nuts, but i don't really pick that up from the story. at least not at this point 100 pages in. and i don't remember anything about how the book ends so i guess and just wait and see if he gets crazy all of a sudden. although... there are similarities actually between The Catcher in the Rye and The Bell Jar... the main character's distraction and obsession... distracted obsession. getting derailed by small appearances in the world and turns of phrase and the way someone moves... they get locked up by small things. thwarted. it's like The Bell Jar for dudes. hahahaha! because i don't think The Bell Jar is all that crazy either even though it is the story of a young woman's decent in to madness. the description of the narrator, how she perceives things, don't seen crazy to me. they seem sensitive. a deep sensitivity that is easily harmed by the world... prone to feeling "outside" or Other. soft-hearted and sharp-minded can be a painful combination. it leads to a lot of confusion and agony. but i don't think that it spells crazy. there's still 100+ pages to go though so maybe my opinion will change. i thought it'd be good to re-read it since Mr. Salinger died recently... a way to pay my respects. and also, temper the information i've been letting in to my brain since the start of the year. i've been very focused on female writers and i thought it'd be a good idea to get some men in the bunch. J.D. Salinger seemed a perfect fit.

yes.

Each indecision brings its own delays and days are lost lamenting over lost days... What you can do or think you can do, begin it. For boldness has Magic, Power, and Genius in it.

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

this man

when i first cruised through the MOMA's flickr set for the Marina Abramović: The Artist Is Present retrospective a few weeks ago, i was so struck by his face. such an awesome beauty. true beauty. this reaching out. his eyes. and the longing to trust so apparent, so honest, made evident. maybe fearful but also courageous. and i'm so glad i'm not the only one who was captivated by his emotion, his openness.

his name is Paco Blancas.

monday monday monday

coffee coffee coffee. and it's raining. no painting outside today. but that's alright. ever since we made the decision to work toward the next phase of life, a very warm sense of relief has spread through me. just the decision itself is a great comfort. i feel relaxed. i feel like i have a direction. and so i'm not too concerned with how long it might take to accomplish the goal, i'm just happy to have a goal identified. concrete. here. in front of me.

the feeling that i'm just floating around without direction is a horrible one for me. it feels like non-movement. anti-motion. and it bothers me. it chips away, slowly slowly, at my confidence in my ability to take charge and get things done. it's just such a wonderful feeling to be on the exact same page at the exact same time with another person. it throws in a healthy dose of security... and that's great when you're gearing up to take a risk.

5 years ago, i moved to the bay area with $300 and a big ol' dream to chase. my 25th birthday was my first day of class at CCA. i sat on the bench, glad through and through, thankful, surprised, awe-struck, beside myself with happiness and wonder. and it has been a wild ride since. flipping back and forth between the extremes of life. both elation and anguish have presented themselves in equal measure, one right after the other, back and forth, back and forth. and i suppose that's life. but that drastic shift, that polarity, can be as damaging as it is educational.

the last 2 years we've spent out here in wine-country have largely been about repair. it has been good and safe and warm here. i have down-sized the amount of possessions that follow me through life, i started jogging and have kept up the practice for a year now. the iffy disk in my back is a lot less iffy as a result. i'm healthier, i sleep better, i am happier, more self-assured and confident than i was the first night i slept in this house. my old self has returned to me. fiery and eager and with a good amount of courage to draw strength from. and also, the daily practice of writing. every morning for 2 years, i practice my "waking ritual". a cup of coffee and a flying pen. i start writing before my mind really wakes up. the self-censoring mechanism still sleeping. that practice alone is responsible for so much good. so much deep, hard won, painful repair.

and since the new year began, my practice has only picked up steam. painting and drawing and writing and reading. and with so much time to spare too! i've gotten faster at making work. i've learned, all of a sudden, how to get ideas out and not get hung up by the nag of perfectionism. perfectionism is a fucking killer in the same way that stress and anxiety are killers. maybe they are all the same bad wolf dressed in a different sheep skin.

and so related to all these things (and inspired by the questions asked and wrestled with at elisabeth's blog), i've been thinking about autobiography... what it is to tell the story of one's own life.

in some ways, visual artists have a much easier time with this than writers do. and that's simply because we aren't being literal, we're creating images and images can be read in a multitude of ways much easier than words on a page. the story of my life, as presented in a collection of images, provides a bit of a cloak. i can wrap my story in metaphors. i don't have to spell things out. and the charge to "be fair" doesn't really exist. and so i started thinking about that- the fairness issue when it comes to art making, be it painting or writing. and this morning i think it's a hurdle that needs to be gotten over. a fear that needs to be overcome.

because, really, i can only tell my story.

no one else can tell it for me.

and i can't tell anyone elses.

fairness, when it comes to how others may have perceived something, isn't my responsibility as an artist or as a writer or as a human being. there's no way i can ever really know FOR SURE what another person's life has been. i am only responsible to tell my story honestly. fairness is in the listening.

i can practice fairness by being willing to listen to the stories of others. i practice fairness by allowing all the stories to be out on the same table at the same time and by giving each story equal respect. but when it comes to my story, i am simply charged to tell it the way it is, without cruelty, without ploys for sympathy, without ulterior motives of attaining forgiveness or acceptance or accolade. i am charged to be as honest as possible. flatly honest. no sentiment or excuse for myself. no self-pity and no blame.

it is a charge that is hard to meet. the normal human fears and frailties get in the way some days. it's normal i think for artists and writers to fear that they've said too much, that they said it wrong, that they didn't do a subject justice. but when it's autobiographical work, as long as i tell the truth about myself and what my experiences have been, and leave other people's experiences to them, i've done the only job i can do. it is up to other people to tell their own story... and to tell it without blame or minimization. if there has been a horror, speak of the horror. speak of what you saw. speak of it directly. this is not the same thing as unleashing an attack on someone else. describing what my experiences have been, my perception of the world and the events of my life, can be stated without judgement. i can embrace the great grey of all these things.

the only person in the entire world that i can ever truly know is myself. i can only claim to know the workings of my heart. and as long as i don't compromise in the telling of it (and self-pity is a compromise), i've done alright. i can accept the story of my life and give others the room and respect they need to try to do the same. art is a nebulous thing that way: the grey area looks different to all of us. describing the contours of it from where we each sit is an entirely compelling, worthwhile thing. i can be fair and listen to all the stories that do not make excuses for themselves. art does not need a excuse, anyway. it never has.

yep.

i need to go back out to tennessee soon. i miss my mama. i don't think a person ever really grows out of that if you have a good one. i sure do love that woman somethin' sparkling and heavy. with all my heart.

thankful

it is 10:30 on a saturday night. my sweetheart is in bed. i just finished reading The Land of Green Plums by Herta Muller. and from the first sentence of the book, she got her hook in deep. at times, her prose so dazzling and painful, i had to put it down. and not just the heart ache of it. not just the documentation she has lay down. but the honest expression, so direct and beautiful, that eventually led my thought of "oh, what writing!" to "oh, what reading!"

that this book was even in my hands is such a gift. that the freedom for it to arrive here in my home, to be read, to be experienced, to be handled and smelled and wrestled with is a gift. the book chronicles the state's deadly hand reaching toward poets and artists and thinkers and dreamers. young people, in love with ideas and going to college in eastern Europe shortly after World War II. it spells out, in such heart breaking, despairing, but completely unsentimental language, how dangerous ideas are seen to be in times of political fear...

that by simply having read a poem, one becomes marked.

and of course, by the time i got to the end of the book, my paranoia was showing- oh shit. i bought this on amazon. i felt much the way i felt 11 years ago when i first read 1984. i was 18 and in my first semester in college and with every page i turned i thought my god, it's already happening. but the small conspiracy theorist inside me is pretty quiet these days. i no longer get so worked up about these things. i guess i just felt so profoundly blessed that freedom of speech is still protected in this country... that i can own a book and not worry that simply by owning it, i am some how an enemy, that i can love ideas without shame and read as widely as i want to and never have to fear that someone will pound on my door and come get me all for having read a book.

it's no wonder to me at all that this work won the Nobel Prize. not only is it written in such a rich and gorgeous speech, it is necessary. more important than i can say. an act of witnessing. beyond reproach. out of everyones league.

big and beautiful life changes on the horizon...

for the past several weeks, my sweetheart and i have been talking A LOT about quality of life, goals, dreams, plans, etc. and the time has come to make a move on these things. we are currently at our two-year anniversary of moving out here to napa valley. and though many positives have come out of living in such a beautiful landscape, the truth is that there simply aren't many opportunities for artists out this way... or anyone really who isn't connected to the wine industry. i have to drive an hour and a half to participate in the san francisco art world. and it has definitely been an uphill battle to get to openings, be involved, be supportive of my own community, and be a recognized face in the scene. i'm actually amazed i've been able to get as much done as i have being this far away. and i miss my art school buddies more than i can say. gas money to the city isn't something i have to burn every single day. and so the decision has been made to get rolling again, get back to the hustle and bustle, back to the land of the living. i am so excited and happy that i almost can't stand it. i am relieved and hopeful. i miss my beautiful city by the bay. i miss having close access to museums and galleries. i miss everything about living close to a cosmopolitan place. every single thing. and so i've already been sending out resumes this morning. i can stand the long commute for a couple months until we have the cash saved up to move. besides, if everything is going well right now in new york at AAF, i'll have most of the money we need to make the transition. i'm just thankful we have a plan now, something to work toward together that we both want, that we both need.

and so in the spirit of hope and change, if you're in the SF bay area (or even near it) and you catch wind of something, please think of me and let me know. it doesn't need to be art related. i am quite the skilled custom framer though and also a very effective research assistant. i'm aiming for jobs that i actually want, first. it's always best to aim high rather than settle for what you know you can get... though, if need be, i will. i want to move back so bad that, if it comes down to it, i'll suck it up and wait tables again. it's worth it. completely.

in other news, i spent the entire day painting yesterday and the next 5 footer is almost done. i hope to get it wrapped up today after The Almighty Jog and a breakfast of raspberries and coffee. :) i must say... this recent wave of painting and drawing that has flooded in to me, out of me, all around me, clogging up the living room, makes me feel so good and alive. and writing writing writing too. life is good and i am soooooooo anxious to move forward again.

good morning. :)

it is not peaceful.

it is because i am the middle-child. text-book that way. secret keeper and all that. learning how to pick battles carefully. learned already. and the great mass of information that i have, quiet and still under the line of the water. beneath. asleep. maybe not asleep. maybe not anymore.

the slow advance.

the cycle of thawing and freezing. melt a little. re-freeze. let the slush find its way back to ice. it is infinite. steady. sturdy. silent. a killer dressed in white. lace at the neck. it only looks soft.



middle child
15" x 22"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010

grrrrr

i'm in very strange head space today. have been actually for the past couple of days. agitated is the correct word. but i knew this feeling would find me when i was working on the big snarling dog painting. i knew it was going to cut something loose. and here it is. and words fail. and all i want to do is rant and rave, hoping to locate words that don't fail. all i want to do is drink coffee til my guts explode, yell at the stupid face in the mirror, complain complain complain, and then go paint fucked-up angry images. that growl. that growl made of oil leaning against my big bookcase in the living room certainly has unblocked something deep. i am wrestling and reaching and crying for the thing i'm chasing to slow down so i can get closer to it. flailing embarrassed like a confused child, like a lost teenager. where's my knee socks and mary janes? where's my music that will strike fear in the authority figures? where's my temper tantrum? where's my F-BOMB? a bitch all in black.

partnership

i've been thinking a lot lately about diptychs and triptychs... pairs of images or a small collection of images that, though they might seem disparate, are not. and how the audience, the viewer, is very important is helping create narrative... that maybe i'm more of a guide or suggestive force than an artist who aspires to giving concrete answers. that i could set up an environment, a point A and point B, and then relinquish control; let the viewer "draw" the line between the two points:

mmm hmmm mmm hmmm mmm hmmm

such a rumble. such a burning agitation. such a nebulous resistance that courses through, in the blood stream, in the brain, in the heart, in the bones. such a smoking dream. steam rising. the steam lets me know it's real.

i painted all day yesterday. another 5 footer. it should be done in a few days. but i refuse to put pressure on myself. i refuse to put pressure on the individual canvasses anymore. it's a bad way to work. it doesn't help me. it slows me down. everything feeds everything. there's nothing to do but follow where it leads. some days the best thing to do is read, some days the best thing to do is draw. it all pours out of and in to the same deep dark well of desire. the desire that fuels the whole shebang. this weird enterprise of being an artist. the strange symbiotic nature of The Practice. "what you put in is what you get out" is true. super true in a vast variety of ways. and so i dump in poetry, i dump in patti smith, i dump in roland barthes, i dump in margueritte duras, rebecca loudon, henry rollins, richard longo, kiki smith, sally mann, sharon olds, sylvia plath, anne sexton, angela carter, richard hugo, herta muller, gerhard richter, banks violette, sophie jodoin, donnie darko, and blue velvet. ETC, ETC, ETC! make myself a big, angry, gurgling, uncontrollable goulash to flail in. see what lands in the bottom of my lungs. see what gets coughed up. see where i am in a relation to all these things. see what captivates me and follow it. follow it. follow it. i'll find out "why" by chasing the thing down, flipping it on its belly, and taking a good hard look.

the thing i realized (again) is this: art matters. and it isn't supposed to be FINAL. nothing is FINAL but death and art doesn't die. at least it doesn't stay dead. forget what you've heard. the beast comes back and back again. i looked at artemisia gentileschi's work last night for a long long time and fell deep in love with her all over again, with her spirit of resistance, the big FUCK YOU of her work itself. her love for the thing shining through. the love that allowed her to be persistent, unrepentant, to paint herself as the Allegory. to say, out loud, "it is relevant to ME!"

there is no wrong way to be an artist. no ONE way either. no rules. no timeline. no FINAL. just GO.

smear it

oil everywhere. fanatical. taken in. taken deep and getting lost. but that's how maps are made. stumble. stumble. stumble. it's still a procession. it still counts. i don't know the name of the road and so what.