just work

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mmmm hmmmm. tell it, brother!

i've posted this video before but it's fits well with this day and the post below.








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honey and agony

last night, i went to bed feeling pretty happy and satisfied; and today, i woke up feeling the exact same way. i wonder if it's the tea and honey?

i started doing a bit of research on honey because i got scared i was somehow thwarting my own attempt to kick as much refined sugar out of my life as possible (mainly, all that delicious hazelnut creamer i dump in coffee). turns out, honey is super healthy for us. as is tea. and i totally had my limited knowledge about tea and coffee all mixed up and backward- i though tea had more caffeine in it than coffee. nope! coffee has twice, some times 3 times, the amount of caffeine that tea does. though i wasn't at all concerned about caffeine consumption when i decided to step away from coffee and i'm still not concerned. it's a myth that caffeine is dehydrating unless you're consuming mass quantities of it in one sitting. but excess is excess, and even water can kill a human if they drink too much of it all at once. which was a very strange thing to learn.

it's mainly all about sugar for me. and the natural sugars inside honey are totally healthy and packed with antioxidants (cancer preventative) and every single bit of honey is put to use by the body. and, even though it's got calories, the calories aren't empty- they are easily converted in to heat and energy for the body and it's even recommended that people eat a spoonful of honey before working out. not just for the energy boost, but it also prevents muscle fatigue. as a runner, this is really good to know!

all this to say, my decision to get away from coffee and all the sugar-cream i dump in it has provided a very happy accident! a positive faux-pas! yay!

and another reason this is all so exciting to me is that i wasn't really taught that many healthy behaviors and decision-making skills growing up. i really wasn't. and i'm not mad about that- most people truly are doing the best they can under their particular set of circumstances. and the circumstances of my childhood were pretty heavy. and what that means for me now is that i have to unlearn certain behaviors and attitude and figure out how to teach myself how to treat myself well and with respect. especially when it comes to my body.

i was never involved in any type of team sport when i was in school. i was not at all interested. NOT. i thought those girls were jerks. haha! (sorry girls. i was angsty and shy.) i though high school was the worst place on earth. and it kinda is for a lot of kids. high school sucks. it's probably always sucked and i couldn't wait to graduate so i'd never have to go back. and for anyone in the audience who might still be in high school and hating it- my life got so much better after high school. so much better! and my teenage notion that high school society is ridiculous was instantly confirmed once i left and was out in the work world and on a college campus. the point being: if i didn't have to participate in something i hated, i didn't. and, though that sentiment is actually a pretty good one, i never really took (or saw) the opportunity to take care of myself in meaningful ways when it came to my body. i was much much MUCH more focused on taking care of my brain and my spirit. it didn't occur to me until much further down the road that the brain is a body part like any other and that, on days when i felt incapable of taking care of my brain, i could choose to take care of my body... and thereby get myself in a much better mood and a much more creative place as well. a rush of oxygen to the brain makes us more alert, more focused, and more creative. had i known that back then, i might've had a different opinion about exercise.

but, truth be told, i'm just not that in to sports. i'm just not. i've tried to be and i've failed. it's just not something that has ever come close to capturing my heart.

and then the other morning, my sweetheart was watching Sports Center before heading off to work and a program about running came on. the reporter described running as a "sport of agony". that phrase definitely captured my heart. ha! first, i was wrapped up in this idea of agony. is it agonizing? do i feel like i'm in agony when i run? am i an agony glutton? an agony addict? OH, all the lovely masochistic questions! ;) and then my mind turned to the other word: sport. running is a sport??? i had never thought of running that way. not once. but on my runs since, i've been thinking about it... how when one runs, one is competing with/against oneself. how it is only dedication and willpower that makes you finish the run. how i put myself instantly in to a measured and rhythmic cycle of breathing, get myself inside a day-dream, and ignore whatever pain or discomfort that might be taking place in my legs. the zone, as they call it. time falls away. i look at the light of the day. i dream as i breathe. ideas float in and out. and some of the best ideas i've ever had come to me while i'm running. and if i can stay locked inside those great ideas, i do not notice any pain in the body. it's when i don't let my mind go that i become cognizant of the agony of the run. it's when i focus on my legs rather than on my life or letting my imagination spin, that it becomes an agonizing thing to do. and that is the competition itself. to overcome oneself and keep moving. one more stride, one more stride, one more stride.

this is a metaphor (and practice) i am trying to apply to art as well.

do i feel agonized by art? sometimes, yes.

can art be talked about in terms of the phrase "a sport of agony"? yes! it definitely can be!

especially when i think about art as competing with/against oneself. when i think of how painful it can become, how agonizing, how hard, when i focus on the wrong thing. when i don't allow myself, for whatever reason, to get locked in to an idea i love. when i look somewhere else instead. when i compare my stride to the stride of others.

when i compare my stride, i'm not doing what i should be doing. i'm no longer competing with myself, i'm competing with someone else. i've made someone an adversary. someone i could be choosing to learn from or even just be excited for. but instead, seeing it as a competition leads to jealousy. envy. all sorts of self-mockery and hate and disillusionment. and all that amounts to is becoming Unfocused.

my stride is my stride. my breath is my breath. my work is my work.

i noticed a long time ago that when i am diligent about running, i'm diligent about art too. it's scientific for sure. a biological event. that rush of oxygen to the brain making me more creative, more alert, more excited. it is a spoonful of honey that way. it keep the fatigue at bay and i can just go.

i love the connections between things. i love that they are everywhere. and i love that i'm getting to a place where they are easier to see. i'm teaching myself some very healthy things. things that are tailored to me and the type of life i'm attempting. it takes time but i'm on my way. and on days when i'm feeling disappointed in life, this is all very good stuff to remember. that even making the decision to eat some honey is a healthy one and that i've done something good for myself. a small action that can lead to tremendous benefits if i just find ways to keep doing it.

and the same thing goes for all our paintings and poems too, friends. it really does. it's hard to keep my eyes on that fact some days but i'm learning, now, how to do that. and if an art practice is anything, it's learning how to keep coming back to the ideas we are compelled by and locking ourselves in to them and not measuring ourselves by the ideas of others. it is teaching ourselves how to sustain a Mighty Run.

find some honey. ;)

this is why rants and blogs are good:

i re-read the post below and realized i answered my own question: sit here and look at the work and shuffle it all around and see what narratives arise as a result. patience patience patience. curation is tough stuff. the worst thing i can do is rush and start forcing things together.

anyway, for all the writers in the room, here's a portrait for you. ;)




writer
15" x 12"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010

wondering, wandering, wondering...

yesterday, i had the same conversation with three different people about how to define a "body of work". what is the criteria?

materials? concept? aesthetic? serial? a combo?

one friend offered up the word Time as part of her personal approach to grouping work together and calling it a Body- that the work in the collection is representative of a particular time in her life... a time (or era, moment) defined by particular concerns... not necessarily whether or not the work LOOKS a certain way. another friend offered up the phrase "themed accumulation" which i really like. and again, nothing really about the LOOK of individual pieces but rather the concerns of the work. there is freedom in that. i like it. but it also starts complicating my already complicated issue.

my practice is, by nature, full of multiplicity. though i speak to the same concerns in all my work, the voice changes. multiple personality disorder, for sure. and though i joke about that a lot here on the blog, when sitting down to the task of putting things in order, i get lost pretty easily at first.

right now, as i continue to wind my way through all my portfolios, taking pictures and seeing what i've got, i find recurrent themes or modes or LOOKS that guide me in putting all this work in to Bodies... but i also see how these Bodies are really body Parts... and how they relate to one another and how i got from point A to point B, shifting through voices, making the issues deeper, more complex and multi-faceted. like Sharon Olds' book "Satan Says".

i see how i do not stand firmly in either camp: critical vs. emotional. my work is a blend of the two. i care about both spheres equally. i think both are necessary. the union is necessary.

and so... how to group things? since the aesthetic i operate in is so strong - black and white - i have to be very careful when putting things in a line. they all LOOK good together because they are unified by palette. but just "looking good together" isn't enough. we black and white artists run the risk of looking "slick" if we go off looks alone. and, in art-speak, SLICK is not a good thing to be called. it means the work is superficial.

and so grouping work based on looks alone isn't going to work for me.

also, i very rarely stumble in to a "series". when i try to force a series, the inspiration for it dries up pretty fast because i start feeling like i'm just making the same painting over and over and over again and not really investigating anything. i'm much more interested in artists like Banks Violette who create collections of work rooted in concept, who trust the intelligence of the audience, who understand that the audience is entirely capable of seeing (or even making) the lines that connect one piece to another... that the audience can see the corollary between a painting and a drawings and a quilt and a found object thrown on the floor. it doesn't need to be ALL drawing or ALL painting or ALL sculpture. the audience does not need everything spelled out to them that way. to me, it's so interesting to see artists working across disciplines, embracing different modes and means of creating an image or object... giving substance to an idea by whatever means suits it best.

when i was first at CCA, i said that to a teacher and the teacher said "if you attempt to be a jack-of-all-trades, you'll be master of none". at the time, that statement was definitely warranted. definitely. i was all over the place in a very uninteresting way at that point. the work looked amateurish and floundering. and that's a stage everyone spends a pretty big hunk of time in. also, i didn't have any real conception (at that point) of what art is good for, how it can be harnessed, what its Past has been, and what it is up against now (thank you critical theory!). also, i really had no clue what I wanted to use art for... what I cared about and wanted to speak about and wanted to wrestle with. now, i do. and 2 years later, that same teacher totally encouraged me to let a painting be a painting and a drawing be a drawing and YES go ahead and nail a rope to the wall and a doll head and a rope of my own hair and see how these things function together. see how these seemingly "disparate" items speak to one another, see what dialogue arises. and it is so compelling (i think) to work that way. i love seeing other artists take that approach within their practice. it creates multiple layers of meaning. so much meaning that everyone, no matter what camp they belong to, can get something out of the work. it's an inclusive way to work.

the audience trusts the artist. artists who reciprocate that trust, artists like Banks Violette and Kiki Smith and Jordan Kantor, create spaces for experiences that are amazing and deep and i admire that so so much.

and so, as i go through this huge documenting phase, i continue to make new work too, getting inspired over and over again by having artwork spread all over the house. and i see that the lines connecting one piece to another are totally there, that the audience will see them too, and that my job is to not overload the issue... to not appear slick, the keep it sincere and meaningful and to really wrestle with the ideas i investigate by not compromising the work to any degree. especially not by sticking to the easy connections: all drawings on one side of the room, all paintings on the other. it feels false for me.

but tell me- how do YOU define a body of work? what criteria do you use? what assumptions do you discard? and how big must a collection be? could a collection consist of only 4 pieces? can it be small? do writers allow themselves the luxury of saying "these 4 poems or pieces are all it takes. finished!" visual artists do that all the time. if it is cohesive, it's cohesive. does size really matter in that regard? "narrative" will occur no matter what when you put two pieces of art side by side, whether or not they are similar.

so how do you group things? how do you define a body of work? what strictures do you impose? what is your governing logic? tell me. i am eager to learn.

process process process

i am deep inside the documentation end of things and will be locked up taking pictures the entire weekend. whhhoooooweeeeee! i did not realize i had this much work to photograph! most of it is on paper, tucked away in one of my many portfolios that are all over the house, hidden behind the paintings that are leaning against the walls. and as i go through each portfolio and pull the work out, i see how strongly rooted my entire practice is in the act of drawing/writing.

maybe drawing and writing are similar in more ways than simply being on paper? i think so. definitely so.

there's an intimacy in both practices. a very deep degree of Search and Explore. paper, being a common and humble material, fosters an amazing level of privacy. and that privacy, as an experience, encourages a ton of bravery. paper is easy to hide. easy to lock away. and i think the diaristic attribute of that is something so valuable and courageous that, as i go through all this work, i bounce back and forth between opposing shudders of elation and embarrassment. ha! but embarrassment in a good way- a necessary exposure. work that does not pull it's punch and risks humiliation in order to go all the way. and that makes me feel great.

it helps me to see the all the work together. how, in spite of extreme shifts in stylistic approaches, all the work is rooted in the same concepts. whether it be oil on canvas or shoe prints on paper, it all comes up from the same well. it all grows in The Blackland and i think each piece lends itself to every other piece in a very nourishing, substantiating way. a very very VERY interesting conversation ensures when all this work is allowed to rub elbows with one another, for sure.

here's some "diary pages". the more i look at this sector of my practice, the more i like it and the more i want to lean deeper in to it. none of this work is titled yet and i'm not sure what i'll do with it. maybe nothing. maybe everything.

the 2nd one down has been following me around for 2 years now and, originally, i thought of it as some sort of sign for myself. i had it hanging in my studio and it would fall off the wall and i walked all over it a few times because i didn't think of it as art. but i guess getting a few pale shoe prints on it added something to the piece, gave it a new layer of meaning along with the dirt. :) i like it.

the 3rd piece was originally an art poster i got in the mail promoting an exhibition that i quickly redacted.

and the first piece was finished just yesterday. a mono-print of silver blowing leaves that i wrote all over. is it a drawing or a poem or a diary page? having those kinds of questions come up is exactly why i like it and why i like ART in general.

drawing

such sugar

i have put the eggs on to boil for sunday dinner with the neighbors. there will be a massive pile of deviled eggs and i want to let them chill for a few hours before hand. they are better that way. and country fried chicken and i'm not sure what else but it will be country-style too and very delicious. country cooking is one of my most beloved. comfort food in the truest sense.

and yesterday, my sweetheart surprised me with a sudden change of course and we ended up in Bodega Bay, eating spicy clam chowder and fish & chips. huge seagulls sitting on top of the crab shack and a small boy running toward the pier, father chasing close behind, scooping him up where the guard rail ended.

and then the long, beautiful drive back through Jenner and Guernville, watching the shore lands morph to wine lands, loud music in the car and laughing laughing laughing and remembering our weekend in San Luis Obispo, the sulfur springs, perfuming the water with rosy oil and black night all around.

and this morning i talked his ear off about writing, about art, about practice, about letting go of worry and expectation and just letting it all swirl and breathe. this is a good morning to pay attention to our fair leige, our much loved, deeply loved Radish King.

stamina for the struggle. and she is right: if anyone ever tells you it will be easy, they're lying. at very least, i have never been lied to about that. i've known from the very start that this was going to be terrifying and hard and that every inch gained was going to be hard won.

but it is an amazing course of life.

go.

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.

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.

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:

monday!

i have coffee in my cup and a fresh layer of deep grey oil down on a super massive canvas. the scent of it laying in every inch of my small home. a wonderful start to the week, to the day. and it is sunny already. i'll suck up the sun while i can. the rain has not finished with us yet and will be back tomorrow for the majority of the week- no outdoor painting for me... or jogs unless i want to get drenched again. but it's alright. i've been working working working and feeling good about myself. i don't mind the rainy days so much anymore. it's become my acceptable excuse to be reclusive and spent the entire day reading, writing, drawing, painting in my pajamas, drinking too much coffee, and forgetting about the dishes in the sink.

i spent the weekend stretching canvasses and writing a short story. it was nice to step back from the internet. more and more i've been feeling the desire/need to step in to natural light and away from the glow of this rectangle... to spend more and more time with the work and digging through ideas. i've been reading "The Triggering Town" by Richard Hugo, a book about writing poetry. and the subject of finding one's voice is applicable to painting too. in fact, i think it's not something a person only wrestles with once. i think that as i change and grow and explore, my "voice" needs to change and grow too. what worked last year, what felt true to me last year, has shifted a bit... and so i wrestle to shift the voice, marry it to who i am today. right now, i feel that voice is erupting in such a fiery, honest way. it is exhilarating and comforting and all the pieces of my world begin to line up... begin to make sense again. it is relief and an honor and something i am very protective of at present. and proud too. not in an egotistical way, but that sense of pride everyone needs in order to keep chasing the dream... self-acceptance.

last night, i started reading "The Land of Green Plums" by Herta Muller. every single line, every word in this book is a fucking gem. and already, i am inspired in such deep, personal ways. it is shattering and lovely. i only got to page 17 before i decided to let all those words sit in my brain and my stomach overnight. she's a powerhouse. absolutely so. and something about the search for voice, the things i've been wrestling with, Richard Hugo's book, my own writing and the dreams i have for it, elsie on my living room wall, huge and beautiful and full of secrets, images images images and then the passage in her book on page 9:

"The child goes on talking. As she speaks, something gets stuck on her tongue. The child thinks, it can only be the truth sticking to her tongue like a cherrystone that refuses to go down. As long as her voice keeps rising to her ears, she will wait for the truth. But once her voice grows silent, thinks the child, everything will turn out to have been a lie, since the truth has tumbled down her throat. Because her mouth failed to say the words and ate them."

such a bell! such a bell rung out in me when i read this, curled up in my white quilt last night, such a huge haunted resonant thing cried along with this passage and i thought... isn't this what we artists are all doing??? talking, moving, exploring in order to stumble across small truths here and there? or at least to avoid the big lie? and when we stop trying, when our voices no longer vibrate in our own ears and we fall silent, the "lie" sweeps in. i tend to think of the Lie as resignation. i will not be resigned. no no no. there is coffee in my cup and huge canvasses clogging the living room and i finally got more of the lovely 9XXB pencils. there are books in the case and ideas everywhere and the sun is out and the dog is snoring sweetly next to me. the day is wide open. no resignation. none. never.

good morning!

all of a sudden

yesterday and today i am on a painting RAMPAGE! where did this come from????? i sure ain't complaining, i am HOT HOT HOT for it right now. GO GO GO!

human

it dawned on me yesterday while i was talking about art with my neighbor that i am currently in a phase of tremendous growth and change, and that it is both elating and PAINFUL. patience has become very very very important. because without it, i begin to place demands upon myself and my practice and my life that are not only unrealistic, but have nothing to do with what i truly want for myself.

i think, during times of rapid change and growth, it is very normal to feel that one's life is in a state of upheaval... and so gentleness becomes a mandatory thing. when i feel the chaos of change i begin to look outside for the cure. well, outside is loaded with ageism and sexism and, in this country, a general disdain for artistic, abstract, philosophic leanings and dispositions. most people seem to think that being an artist is just a whole bunch of happy fun play-time. it isn't. caring about the world, life, humanity, rights, wrongs, ethics... it's tiring to say the least. and it takes a lot of work not to become cynical.

but for the first time in years, i'm beginning to feel proud of myself again. i'm learning the hard way that perfection is not the goal and that i am allowed to make mistakes too without fearing that non-perfection means BAD BAD BAD. i am not a machine and shouldn't be expected to function like one. it's my responsibility to set that expectation down and possibly throw up a big fat middle finger to people who expect me to be a machine: no feelings, no offense, no opinion, just GO GO GO and don't you dare fuck up.

hmmmmmmmm. no thanks.

one of the reasons i like drawing and painting so much is that it is accepting and inclusive of (by its very nature) the inherent flaw of the human hand, the embrace of imperfection, the potential for accident and haphazard gestures. in that respect, there is an air of acceptance and forgiveness in art. and that's something everybody needs, including me. and so i will extend that kind of compassion to myself. i am not a genius and sometimes i get it wrong, sometimes i struggle, sometimes i fall short of my aspirations. but i also get back up again and keep trying. the images i'm working on currently and the writing i'm doing doesn't need to be "perfect" because the work itself is not about perfection. it is about respect though.. so as long as i approach my subjects respectfully and deal them the honor they deserve, the work succeeds. i choose to believe (or trust) that other people will see that quality shining through... that i really do care about the work and that i am giving it my all... my very best. and i will never water it down.

YAY!

saturday... which really doesn't mean a thing in terms of work. ;) art doesn't take breaks.

today i'm going out to the city to drop off the painting below and one of The Good Daughter portraits and a couple other things. fun! i always love gallery day!

and also... if you're in new york, HANG will have a booth at AAF. the shin-dig is may 6th - 9th. i won't be there but my paintings will be! yay! go see 'em if you can. artwork is always always always better in real life.

feeling thankful for all the writers and artists maintaining blogs and talking about the struggle of this thing we do...

fear, shame, feeling wrong, feeling stupid...

these are the hitches we deal with. all of us. separately, alone, without a rope usually, without any clue of which direction to crawl in. artists and writers.

my sweet and dear friend who is an absolute powerhouse when it comes to writing, sees me struggle to get at whatever it is i'm trying to get at, and suggested i buy "The Triggering Town" by Richard Hugo. it arrived in the mail yesterday. i sat down on my stoop and read the introduction and first chapter right then. then i closed the cover and went inside and worked on a drawing. scratch scratch scratch, wandering with my pencil over the clean white, thinking thinking thinking. (in art school, teachers are told - ORDERED actually - not to yell at a student for doodling during a lecture. it is a way of thinking.) and i thought about how he said, instantly, right there on the first page, that his hope as a teacher is NOT that he can teach you how to write... but to teach you how to teach yourself how to write... that a student must find out how to write like them self.

i thought about this pretty much all day. it's something i already knew but it always helps to be told again. and i thought that it actually comes down to those hitches i wrote up top... finding a way through those things, but also going beyond the therapeutic aspect of writing. this is something i learned how to do when it comes to the creation of images. the therapeutic is often a starting point for my visual practice, but it is not an end. it moves beyond that. it aspires to more than an act of therapy. and this is a good thing! the image retains that part but it gathers other attributes, other aspects, other functions by the time the image is "completed". but i am having a hell of a time applying this know-how to my writing practice. i think sometimes, i luck out. happen to stumble out of the pen of therapy in to the yard next door- the land of art with a capital A. but it is occasional, momentary, unnoticed even. and it comes down to fear. my fear of saying the wrong thing and seeming stupid. hitch.

and then i read this post by our lovely elisabeth and i thought more and more and more about all these things, all these fears and expectations of writing and how they are inexplicably paired with the desire for love, to be a good person, to be understood, to not hurt anybody, to be fair and even and honest. and this struggle to find a true voice... and then the struggle to find the courage to use that voice...

because honesty is not always fair or kind or even.

that fact doesn't sit well with me either.

but i must find a way around it. it is a hitch.

and so i went back to richard hugo, curled up with him in bed and read read read until it was time to fall asleep. all his insights are somewhere in my brain, baking and turning and steaming.

i hear one of my painting professors voice boom in my head. my esteemed Jack, his face a mirror of robert redford's, and how i came to class all bent out of shape by Theory, and he said: don't worry about it. just keep on taking all the ideas in. you don't need to put them in order. keep taking them in and eventually they will find their way back out. their own way.

and so i go back to that day. that beginning. again and again, the beginning. the site of fresh desire, so rife with confusion and fear, is fertile ground. and trust is the sword.

how do i achieve that? how do i get my hands on that sword? how do i learn to use it, wield it, care for it, polish it?

Jack said: just paint. (for now)

Hugo says: just write. (for now)



okay.

(BIG SMILE)

back on my good grey horse this morning. already already.

it's funny how quickly perspectives shift.

yesterday, a miraculous thing happened: i began a new oil painting. something about priming and sanding and smoothing new canvas made me hungry for it... to revere something. and oil painting is a very reverential thing- the history of portrait painting bleeding through... no matter the subject... it's always a portrait... and they say, in some way, always a self-portrait. i tend to agree with that. all work is, to some degree, autobiographical. even if only in terms of aesthetics. and this is a perfect way to perceive it. a perfect way to proceed. why work on something you're not at all attracted to? that doesn't speak to you? why spend hours deep in the wrestling if you aren't captivated by the image itself?

and this outlook i've given myself permission to cling to - of recognizing, day by day, what image or form or material speaks loudest to me - has unleashed such a rapid love. a quick-moving, diligent, reverential love. and so i slid the black oil all over and kept going, kept going, kept going. and i realized that maybe the thing that has been bugging me specifically about oil painting isn't the material and isn't the image, but rather my handling of it. specifically, my technique. it needed to change a bit. evolve. i had locked myself in to a procedure.

but all the drawing i've been doing has refreshed me... let me see images in a different way... let me see materials in a different way. how painting is an act of honoring. a mode through which we (i) esteem something. and drawing can be that way too, but it's more intimate... full of traces and stains and the sweep of the human hand throughout its entirety. if you look close enough, you will find a finger print. and that's why i am so attracted to drawing lately. the intimacy of it. the imperfections and explorations that are inherent to the media itself.

but yesterday, something shook loose and i remembered that i do in fact know how to paint. that i know how to paint wet-into-wet. that i don't have to stick to the procedure if the procedure no longer aids the exploration as a whole. it was a fast, hard, happy realization and i worked late in to the evening.

it's funny... the things a person forgets. and how frail my ego gets some days. days when i say the worst things possible to myself, convinced everything i've ever done is stupid and pointless and that i'll never get it right. haha! all artists do it. and it feels like hell at the time. but i have to laugh at myself and just keep going.

it is bright and beautiful and green green green outside. maybe i'll paint outdoors today in the good light.

i'll be back later with the poem of the day. i'm enjoying just thinking about painting right now and want to sit with my coffee and look at the canvas for awhile this morning before anything else. it's romantic. :)

shaken awake

i was woken by a flash of a nightmare this morning. inga playing up in a tree and the big branch broke and she was there, writhing and making this horrible, low sound. a sound of total pain. and it was this sound, this sight of her writhing that woke me up and i couldn't go back to sleep. too full of that rush of terrified fear. i opened the door and there she was, wagging her tail so hard her whole body swung with it, and squealing with joy for a new day- everyday is the best day ever for a dog. every morning is a joyful, amazing thing. and i was so glad that it was all just a dream but the dream kicked lose some strange memories from my childhood and i've been writing all day so far as a result.

yesterday i started a new huge drawing of a tire swing. jon benet's tire swing. and i've started the second panel of it today already in between all my scribbling in my notebook. it is like this, only BIG! and in the blackest graphite.


Portrait of JonBenet Ramsey
24" x 24"
oil on canvas, 2008

it is an image i keep coming back to. an image that when people read the title they don't want to look at it anymore. and this response twists my heart but it also tells me the job is being done. it flips the switch. it achieves the movement of being "work" to becoming "text". it activates.

and i go back to it and i see myself somewhere in there... which probably sounds very strange... filthy somehow as i am obviously not a murder victim...

but there is something there, in her absence, that sends the shiver through me... like a memory than ran away. something lost. hidden in the fibers of that rope or in the shine of still leaves. i am called back. this images gives me a ground. it is Blackland as well. it is a homeland of a kind.

and it makes me think of charlotte delbo... she became a poet by having survived the camps. this chase to find a language, to find the one right word that would put the world right-side-up again... an image, a reflection by which one could know oneself, know the nature of things... the search for something that can assuage the strange and haunted heaviness of living... the guilt of having survived.




Auschwitz




This city we were passing through
was a strange city.
Women wore hats
perched on curly hair.
They also wore shoes and stockings
as is done in town.
None of the inhabitants of this city
had a face
and in order to hide this
all turned away as we passed
even a child who was carrying in his hand
a milk can as tall as his legs
made of violet enamel
and who fled when he saw us.
We were looking at these faceless beings
and it was we who were amazed.
We were disappointed as well
hoping to see fruits and vegetables in the shops.
Indeed, there were no shops
only display windows
wherein I would have liked to recognize myself
amid the ranks sliding over the glass planes.
I raised an arm
but all the women wished to recognize themselves
all raised an arm
and not one found out which one she was.
The face of the station clock registered the time
we were happy to look at it
it was the real time
and relieved to arrive at the beet silos
where we were taken to work
on the other side of town
we had walked through like a wave of morning sickness.






(from Auschwitz and After)

today, under a hard rain

killing kanoko. the gold cell and the blackest graphite. stained hands. hand to mouth. black lips black tongue Blackland. the title changes. the name of a place. territories and evidences. this land. this type. this time.

a hard rain.