.
in a way, everything i do, everything i make, every drawing, every poem, every photograph, every sweater, everything, is a love letter. every next breath. and the next. and the next. it radiates through me and i can't keep the reigns on it, this quaking, unsteady love. i don't know how to shoulder the weight of it. i don't know how to call it by name. my gentleness unfolds below its scorched anvil but my gentleness is only for you, not for me. i squirm and shift and ache. i pry my eyes open every morning and force them shut every night when all i want to do is curl up against you and breathe you in, tracing a slow line up the back of your neck with my nose.
when i do that, i feel the rhythm of your breathing change.
when i do that, can't you hear the small, scared voice of my heart saying, "now it's your turn"?
i looked at all the people's faces on the train today when i went to work. they all looked tired. they all seemed closed down. i thought, "i wonder if, somehow, we all hate each other... that we don't believe the things we hear... that we don't believe each person is fighting their own, private war? do we only want sympathy from one another without extending it ourselves? or worse, do we really just want a bit of pretty pity? do we want to be told we're right and that everyone else is wrong, everyone else is the asshole, everyone else is stupid and mean and tacky? do we see human beings when we look at each other? and what does that require anyway?"
we are owed nothing.
still, my gentleness extends. i can't help it. i am incurable. my kindness wounds me. it does me such damage some days but i cannot contain it. i cannot cover it up, put a lock on the lid, and stow it away.
i've been thinking a lot about love lately. it's facets and forms. maybe because i've been having dreams of my mother again. it's the time of year... my heart curls into itself and tries to nurse that impossible wound. i go to bed with a cocktail and crochet hook and meditate on my little question, my little statement, my little anthem: THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED.
i've been thinking about desire and lust. i've been thinking of security and comfort. i've been thinking about acceptance and forgiveness. i've been thinking about the game. the chase. the intrigue. i've been thinking about all the wonderfully nuanced levels of romance and friendship that so many seem to be blind to... the way your lips look in the evening verses the morning. that shadow that catches on your chin. or the beautiful way light cuts through the iris of a stranger sitting at the bar midday. or a child on a swing.
i don't want to be cynical and i don't want to be afraid.
in a way, everything i do is a love letter; an honoring of the way your forehead wrinkles when you shrug your shoulders... how badly you drive on the freeway... how beautiful you sound singing in the shower... the photographs of you as a child... the dreams you have... the dreams you had... the scent you wear and the laces in your shoes.
.
Showing posts with label artist statement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label artist statement. Show all posts
Oct 10, 2013
artist statement
.
sometimes...
sometimes sometimes sometimes...
(manchmal...
quelquefois... )
sometimes art is only about your own ridiculousness...
sometimes art is only about how lonely you feel, how separate, how insecure. sometimes art is only about the text message that went unanswered. sometimes art is only about the pain that sweeps through you silently and unseen on the train as you careen home, alone, wishing there was someone to hug on the other side of your own front door. sometimes art is sentimental and sticky. sometimes art doesn't give two shits if it's pretty or not or if it's got a red face when it cries. sometimes art is only about the fact that it's fucking 2am and you're drunk and tired of feeling alone and separate and insecure and that's exactly why you're drunk in the first fucking place. sometimes art isn't about any of the fucking theories. sometimes it's about your dead mother and sometimes it's about your absent father and sometimes it's about how estranged you've become in this wide world of christian morals and families holding hands on sundays. sometimes art is about all those nameless regrets... because what is it to regret something that was never really even a choice or a deed, simply an event... like childhood. sometimes art is only about that deep ache to be touched. sometimes art is only about the need for a good, hard slap on the ass and the fact you have to find a way to go on living tonight without it. sometimes it is so fucking Freudian there's no way around it: we want what we want. and sometimes that's all art is. sometimes that's all it possibly can be. sometimes art is just a girl, alone in her room, drunk on vodka at 2am, wanting what she wants and yet barred from it all, staring wide-eyed at her own desires and crying over their absence. sometimes art is only about longing. sometimes art is only about desperation. sometimes art is only about finding a way to believe life is worth it. sometimes art is only a way to convince yourself that your own life might actually matter, somehow, to someone else, somewhere. sometimes art is only a way to remind yourself you have a sister and you have a brother and, if not for yourself, then for them. keep drawing (breathing, working, trying, aching, striving, smiling) for them. sometimes art is only a way to keep yourself sane. sometimes art is simply a reaching toward faith. a way to build faith. a way to believe in something other than your own solitary breaths, exhaled in white puffs in a cold, empty room. sometimes art is simply the life-preserver you throw to yourself. sometimes art is the only window you've got. the only friend you've got. the only mother you've got. the only god you've got.
sometimes art is another way to pray.
sometimes i'm 8 years old again, alone and afraid of the dark, and dreaming of a savior...
i reach for my pencil. i reach for my pen. i reach for my hook. i make a drawing. i make a poem. i make a blanket. i take care of my fucking self.
sometimes that's all art is.
.
sometimes...
sometimes sometimes sometimes...
(manchmal...
quelquefois... )
sometimes art is only about your own ridiculousness...
sometimes art is only about how lonely you feel, how separate, how insecure. sometimes art is only about the text message that went unanswered. sometimes art is only about the pain that sweeps through you silently and unseen on the train as you careen home, alone, wishing there was someone to hug on the other side of your own front door. sometimes art is sentimental and sticky. sometimes art doesn't give two shits if it's pretty or not or if it's got a red face when it cries. sometimes art is only about the fact that it's fucking 2am and you're drunk and tired of feeling alone and separate and insecure and that's exactly why you're drunk in the first fucking place. sometimes art isn't about any of the fucking theories. sometimes it's about your dead mother and sometimes it's about your absent father and sometimes it's about how estranged you've become in this wide world of christian morals and families holding hands on sundays. sometimes art is about all those nameless regrets... because what is it to regret something that was never really even a choice or a deed, simply an event... like childhood. sometimes art is only about that deep ache to be touched. sometimes art is only about the need for a good, hard slap on the ass and the fact you have to find a way to go on living tonight without it. sometimes it is so fucking Freudian there's no way around it: we want what we want. and sometimes that's all art is. sometimes that's all it possibly can be. sometimes art is just a girl, alone in her room, drunk on vodka at 2am, wanting what she wants and yet barred from it all, staring wide-eyed at her own desires and crying over their absence. sometimes art is only about longing. sometimes art is only about desperation. sometimes art is only about finding a way to believe life is worth it. sometimes art is only a way to convince yourself that your own life might actually matter, somehow, to someone else, somewhere. sometimes art is only a way to remind yourself you have a sister and you have a brother and, if not for yourself, then for them. keep drawing (breathing, working, trying, aching, striving, smiling) for them. sometimes art is only a way to keep yourself sane. sometimes art is simply a reaching toward faith. a way to build faith. a way to believe in something other than your own solitary breaths, exhaled in white puffs in a cold, empty room. sometimes art is simply the life-preserver you throw to yourself. sometimes art is the only window you've got. the only friend you've got. the only mother you've got. the only god you've got.
sometimes art is another way to pray.
sometimes i'm 8 years old again, alone and afraid of the dark, and dreaming of a savior...
i reach for my pencil. i reach for my pen. i reach for my hook. i make a drawing. i make a poem. i make a blanket. i take care of my fucking self.
sometimes that's all art is.
.
Jun 13, 2011
the luck of the thing
strangeness twined inside this light. suddenly she comes in her robes and curls, lip-sticked and smiling, that image that i've always had of her: full and bright and tall.
one of my aunts, one of my mother's sisters, had a heart attack and, though she is okay, it shakes us all so violently and the recent death we've all just seen comes flying up to face us again. we all become the mirror of it. we all walk around, mirrors on legs, shining the horror of it, the quickness and inexplicability of this damn life. too motherfucking short. should i be thankful to have learned this so early in life? or waste even more time than i already have on feeling cheated?
i make the sweaters. i work them like diaries. twist twist knot and turn. you will all at least have these peculiar objects to snuggle in and warm yourselves with when my day finally comes and i am gone. the sweaters and every image and every word i can muster. everything.
one of my aunts, one of my mother's sisters, had a heart attack and, though she is okay, it shakes us all so violently and the recent death we've all just seen comes flying up to face us again. we all become the mirror of it. we all walk around, mirrors on legs, shining the horror of it, the quickness and inexplicability of this damn life. too motherfucking short. should i be thankful to have learned this so early in life? or waste even more time than i already have on feeling cheated?
i make the sweaters. i work them like diaries. twist twist knot and turn. you will all at least have these peculiar objects to snuggle in and warm yourselves with when my day finally comes and i am gone. the sweaters and every image and every word i can muster. everything.
Oct 8, 2010
testing 1 2 3
working on an artist's statement. working, working, working.
i am a very wordy girl.
...
I am a thief. My practice is an evidence room.
The collections I present are sites that house stolen images, corrupted files, diary entries, favorite books, and family photographs. They are storerooms for the splinters of identity.
One by one, I hold the splinters up. I put them in a line. I shuffle them around. I crop the images, remove the bright colors, and pump up the contrast: I cover my tracks.
And then I allow the flaw of my hand and the imperfection of my eye to have their say. After having stolen, manipulated, and corrupted these images by impersonal digital means, they are finally processed through the body- its urges, desires, fears, pleasures, pains, and past. Digital information undergoes an organic digestion.
In this way, little by little, the ligature of secrecy exposes itself. Little by little, the knot is undone.
But my argument is not rhetorical. Rather it is the building of a heart-felt, insistent, and truthful allegory.
Through the shame-driven act of redaction, a poetics of surprising candor occurs. The collections I present, made up of largely stolen and corrupted individual "evidences", form a thoughtful whole that betray the state of longing itself.
As a thief compelled to act in her own defense, my attempt to hide my crimes exposes my shattered self.
My practice is a piece by piece mapping of the desire for cohesion and stability- the desire for a reckoning.
i am a very wordy girl.
...
I am a thief. My practice is an evidence room.
The collections I present are sites that house stolen images, corrupted files, diary entries, favorite books, and family photographs. They are storerooms for the splinters of identity.
One by one, I hold the splinters up. I put them in a line. I shuffle them around. I crop the images, remove the bright colors, and pump up the contrast: I cover my tracks.
And then I allow the flaw of my hand and the imperfection of my eye to have their say. After having stolen, manipulated, and corrupted these images by impersonal digital means, they are finally processed through the body- its urges, desires, fears, pleasures, pains, and past. Digital information undergoes an organic digestion.
In this way, little by little, the ligature of secrecy exposes itself. Little by little, the knot is undone.
But my argument is not rhetorical. Rather it is the building of a heart-felt, insistent, and truthful allegory.
Through the shame-driven act of redaction, a poetics of surprising candor occurs. The collections I present, made up of largely stolen and corrupted individual "evidences", form a thoughtful whole that betray the state of longing itself.
As a thief compelled to act in her own defense, my attempt to hide my crimes exposes my shattered self.
My practice is a piece by piece mapping of the desire for cohesion and stability- the desire for a reckoning.
Sep 24, 2010
work
i have to start doing the paperwork end of being an artist soon. artist statements and letters of intent, that whole bit. it never gets any easier. as the work changes, the statement changes. and cutting it all down to 2 paragraphs is hard. i wish artist statements could be these sweet little chapbooks where i could just sort of ramble about all the stuff i care about. kinda like i do on this blog. :) it'd make writing an artist statement sooooo much easier.
but i must reign myself in and do it. there are a few things on the horizon that i'd absolutely love to be a part of. and though the deadlines are still a few months away, i'd like to get going on it now. months are short. time moves faster and faster. and so i've brought all the little icons of current work out on to my computer desktop where i shuffle them all around in to different collections, trying to see what gels, what works best. for a while i had all the paintings together and all the drawings together and did not mix and match them. but, as a Looker, i think mixing up the media is way more interesting that just ALL paintings or ALL drawings. unless that's ALL you do. and since i work in a couple different medias, i think it's best to let my portfolio represent that somehow. to let the work be married by concept rather than what it's made with. it's a good way to play with building a brand new portfolio.
and the portfolio is the most important part. it always will be. when i'm feeling down about how far i have to go or when i start feeling shaky about what i'm capable of, i go back to the portfolio job. it is king. and if it shines, you shine. it will always come back to the work. and the more i look at the way crochet paired with drawings function, the dialogue that is created, i am so fascinated and compelled by it. and paintings paired with textile work. it's amazing. and such wonderful conversations begin to happen between the pieces. it just feels good. it feels relevant.
so... keep playing, keep shuffling it all around. and keep working. i'm letting one idea bleed in to another, birth new ideas and directions and just not question it. just follow the impulse and don't look back too often. it's been good.
i have a ton of work that i haven't posted here yet. i guess i needed to keep it to myself for awhile. i still do. in the beginning of this blog, i posted every single painting i made that was even slightly good. and i want to be more thoughtful than that now. let the work sit. let me sit with it. see if it's an image i want floating around in the world. if it's an image that needs to be in the world. because a lot of what we do as artists is process work. work that you do in order to get to a new place. catharsis. and that work doesn't always need to be put on display i'm realizing. some of it should be allowed to live a quiet life behind the scenes. just like the scribblings in my diary. plus, i want there to be a few surprises when i start showing again. :) and i'm thinking sooner is better than later in regards to that. i think i should find a way to jump back in to the mix here pretty soon. it's been a month since i stopped showing, but i'm creeping up quickly on the end of 2 new bodies of work and a 3rd is well under way. that's a lot of work i'm storing. i need to get my confidence up, chew my finger nails, and push a few portfolios out the door. find the people in the world who adore that lovely black graphite as much as i do, reach out, and say hello.
today, i'll paint and see where i go. the work itself is pretty good at pointing out the road that feels true and best.
but i must reign myself in and do it. there are a few things on the horizon that i'd absolutely love to be a part of. and though the deadlines are still a few months away, i'd like to get going on it now. months are short. time moves faster and faster. and so i've brought all the little icons of current work out on to my computer desktop where i shuffle them all around in to different collections, trying to see what gels, what works best. for a while i had all the paintings together and all the drawings together and did not mix and match them. but, as a Looker, i think mixing up the media is way more interesting that just ALL paintings or ALL drawings. unless that's ALL you do. and since i work in a couple different medias, i think it's best to let my portfolio represent that somehow. to let the work be married by concept rather than what it's made with. it's a good way to play with building a brand new portfolio.
and the portfolio is the most important part. it always will be. when i'm feeling down about how far i have to go or when i start feeling shaky about what i'm capable of, i go back to the portfolio job. it is king. and if it shines, you shine. it will always come back to the work. and the more i look at the way crochet paired with drawings function, the dialogue that is created, i am so fascinated and compelled by it. and paintings paired with textile work. it's amazing. and such wonderful conversations begin to happen between the pieces. it just feels good. it feels relevant.
so... keep playing, keep shuffling it all around. and keep working. i'm letting one idea bleed in to another, birth new ideas and directions and just not question it. just follow the impulse and don't look back too often. it's been good.
i have a ton of work that i haven't posted here yet. i guess i needed to keep it to myself for awhile. i still do. in the beginning of this blog, i posted every single painting i made that was even slightly good. and i want to be more thoughtful than that now. let the work sit. let me sit with it. see if it's an image i want floating around in the world. if it's an image that needs to be in the world. because a lot of what we do as artists is process work. work that you do in order to get to a new place. catharsis. and that work doesn't always need to be put on display i'm realizing. some of it should be allowed to live a quiet life behind the scenes. just like the scribblings in my diary. plus, i want there to be a few surprises when i start showing again. :) and i'm thinking sooner is better than later in regards to that. i think i should find a way to jump back in to the mix here pretty soon. it's been a month since i stopped showing, but i'm creeping up quickly on the end of 2 new bodies of work and a 3rd is well under way. that's a lot of work i'm storing. i need to get my confidence up, chew my finger nails, and push a few portfolios out the door. find the people in the world who adore that lovely black graphite as much as i do, reach out, and say hello.
today, i'll paint and see where i go. the work itself is pretty good at pointing out the road that feels true and best.
Aug 16, 2010
HUG
yesterday i spent my time crinkling up large sheets of white paper and dunking them scrunching them in a big yellow jug full of warm water with a squirt of silver paint in it. i made shimmering wrinkly paper, a new background to play upon, we'll see, we'll see. and when i was done i knocked the yellow jug over and its top and handle broke cleanly off. this is the yellow jug my mother gave me. i didn't throw it away. i plan on buying super glue or some kind of epoxy to put it back together again. i will keep the jug and let it have its history, let its cracks show, put the fracture on display. shall i do the same with myself? am i already? the thought of it makes me smile- waving scars, eager pink flags, a call to gaze at the broken places, girls who fall down but not apart. and i stumble across you, one by one, and i say your books and poems and pictures are FORTS. i will jump on your bed with you and hide underneath with you too. i will write love letters, fold them up like an airplane, sail them down the hall to your hands. it is a long practice of mine. i did this for my mother. GO TO YOUR ROOM for doing something stupid and i would sit in the doorway of my bedroom and write her a love letter, fold it up, make an airplane of it, sail it in to the living room, and wait to be called out to collect my new hug. she still has a few saved inside her big trunk.
this is the metaphor maybe that hugs all my work.
this is the metaphor maybe that hugs all my work.
Mar 3, 2010
The Struggle!
good morning, sunshine! where are you? tucked away behind these heavy clouds, lost behind the puddles. it's okay. stay in bed a little while longer if you must. take another sick-day. i am happy even without a bright, warm morning.
i know i've been repeating myself lately about how good it feels to be working with such ferocity again but it DOES! it really, really does! and i see myself circling back toward ideas i was working with 2 years ago before the big bad depression hit. i'm going back to old ground. higher ground. but all the better now for having struggled. 2 years. geez. i still can't see the entire depth of it but i can see the difference in a normal day NOW vs. a normal day this time last year. all the financial worries heaved on top and what a horrible, depleting fight i was in. but if not for that fight i might not have this current clarity and focus. i definitely don't want to repeat the experience any time soon (it slowed my practice to a trickle) but i'm thankful for the experience and insight it gave me. i'm thankful to have been polished by it in such a way that i become more passionately involved with my practice, that i see the power of images and know how strong, how forceful they are (or can be). the financial difficulties are still a factor but i've learned now to not look at them with such a dire, frenzied eye. the student loan will not break me apart.
as i plod through "of the refrain" (we covered another 6 pages last night before our brains leaked out our ears) and focus on my current drawings, i also have been taking the time to look back at the work i did when i was first dealing with these ideas: fractured identities, the fragments of a personality or history, the splintering, the redaction, the erasure of a person... the idea that LOSS is a major component in identity construction. that we are as much defined or formed by what we do not have, what we've lost, what we've never had, as what we possess. this is not entirely negative or morbid. not at all. i am currently wrestling with the sadder side of these ideas but i also see how these sad things can be translated (or composed/organized/viewed) in such a way as to make an individual more compassionate, more knowledgeable, more engaged with the world as a result of having had the experience of loss. finding a way to translate that experience, to find a means of expressing it in a thoughtful way that, not only, expands what art is or how it can be made or thought about or DO, but also establishes a site of hope, is important. at least it's important to me. and this thoughtfulness about The Image, about Art, about Expressiveness is not necessarily pretty or nice or even angry or shocking. there are so many routes to thoughtfulness and i think, for me, the route to take is a path that is inclusive of not only THEORY but of POETRY... of real-life concerns paired with philosophy and thoughts about justice and beauty. this is the struggle and the challenge i welcome.
my practice wants to be more than just an "i like to draw" mentality. i'm not bashing that mentality but, in a very direct way, that mentality is one that refutes and refuses to accept responsibility for the manufacture and presentation of images. it denies, in a somewhat snide way, that images have power. if images didn't have power there would be no controversy whatsoever over things like pornography or burning crosses or even stomping on a flag. no one would blink an eye if these Images didn't have power, if they didn't carry real-world concerns and connotations and possess the ability to destroy what we value as a culture and as human beings. Religion is, at its most basic level, an IMAGE of how life should be percieved and practiced. and just look at how powerful that image is, in particular. so...
this is why my practice aspires to be more, much much more, than the "i just like to draw" mentality. my practice beats me over the head and screams in my face "EITHER GET ENGAGED OR GO HOME!" i'm not saying every artist needs to think this way or proceed this way. not at all. i'm recognizing a desire and drive and need within myself to at least TRY to participate in that arena. there is a fearlessness in work that comes from that particular stance that i admire. all the artists and writers whose work has ripped out my heart, stitched it back together, and then reinserted it into my body, possess that fearlessness; that belief that Art, that Words, that the Image has relevance and power... and enough power to alter the way we view the world and practice our lives. i know that i have been changed AT MY CORE by the work of certain writers and artists. being exposed to their images and words gave me a new perspective and a new hope. it isn't all cerebral. some of it is emotional. some of it is psychological. some of it is in the body.
somewhere along the line inside my big bad depression, i became fearful of going this route. i was in such a weakened state that i did not trust myself, my instincts, my motives, or even my interests. i didn't trust them because i had somehow convinced myself that they might be wrong and bad and i was AFRAID of the repercussions.
i'm admitting to this because i think a lot of artists struggle this way. i think a lot of us deal with moments when our courage falters, if not altogether dries up and disappears.
i still somehow managed to make images i cared about during that time. i still managed to take some risks. but now, i'm ready to stand my ground again and say "THIS MATTERS" and take whatever consequences may result. in fact, i'm not even thinking of the consequences. i'm not thinking about where a painting may end up once it leaves my home. right now, all i'm thinking of is THE WORK. that is where my allegiance lies. that is where my practice needs to be.
the art i am most attracted to, the work that captivates me and spins me around and makes me dizzy, sometimes to the point of elation, sometimes to the point of nausea, is work that trusts itself- work that is fearless and doesn't shy away from how it might be received by The Outside. it is persistent. it doesn't back down after one angry word. it doesn't go away if a person might be dismissive of it. it stands its ground. it plants its flag. it stakes out a territory. it trusts that there is an audience, a community, or at least listeners, out there.
and so i'm sweeping up the fragments and the splinters and seeing what kind of assemblage results. what kind of lines can be drawn. and i choose to trust this process, this way of thinking and responding to the world. i'm choosing to trust my instincts and to not second-guess them. self-doubt is a nasty motherfucker that must be put to sleep... if not put to death. ;)
i know i've been repeating myself lately about how good it feels to be working with such ferocity again but it DOES! it really, really does! and i see myself circling back toward ideas i was working with 2 years ago before the big bad depression hit. i'm going back to old ground. higher ground. but all the better now for having struggled. 2 years. geez. i still can't see the entire depth of it but i can see the difference in a normal day NOW vs. a normal day this time last year. all the financial worries heaved on top and what a horrible, depleting fight i was in. but if not for that fight i might not have this current clarity and focus. i definitely don't want to repeat the experience any time soon (it slowed my practice to a trickle) but i'm thankful for the experience and insight it gave me. i'm thankful to have been polished by it in such a way that i become more passionately involved with my practice, that i see the power of images and know how strong, how forceful they are (or can be). the financial difficulties are still a factor but i've learned now to not look at them with such a dire, frenzied eye. the student loan will not break me apart.
as i plod through "of the refrain" (we covered another 6 pages last night before our brains leaked out our ears) and focus on my current drawings, i also have been taking the time to look back at the work i did when i was first dealing with these ideas: fractured identities, the fragments of a personality or history, the splintering, the redaction, the erasure of a person... the idea that LOSS is a major component in identity construction. that we are as much defined or formed by what we do not have, what we've lost, what we've never had, as what we possess. this is not entirely negative or morbid. not at all. i am currently wrestling with the sadder side of these ideas but i also see how these sad things can be translated (or composed/organized/viewed) in such a way as to make an individual more compassionate, more knowledgeable, more engaged with the world as a result of having had the experience of loss. finding a way to translate that experience, to find a means of expressing it in a thoughtful way that, not only, expands what art is or how it can be made or thought about or DO, but also establishes a site of hope, is important. at least it's important to me. and this thoughtfulness about The Image, about Art, about Expressiveness is not necessarily pretty or nice or even angry or shocking. there are so many routes to thoughtfulness and i think, for me, the route to take is a path that is inclusive of not only THEORY but of POETRY... of real-life concerns paired with philosophy and thoughts about justice and beauty. this is the struggle and the challenge i welcome.
my practice wants to be more than just an "i like to draw" mentality. i'm not bashing that mentality but, in a very direct way, that mentality is one that refutes and refuses to accept responsibility for the manufacture and presentation of images. it denies, in a somewhat snide way, that images have power. if images didn't have power there would be no controversy whatsoever over things like pornography or burning crosses or even stomping on a flag. no one would blink an eye if these Images didn't have power, if they didn't carry real-world concerns and connotations and possess the ability to destroy what we value as a culture and as human beings. Religion is, at its most basic level, an IMAGE of how life should be percieved and practiced. and just look at how powerful that image is, in particular. so...
this is why my practice aspires to be more, much much more, than the "i just like to draw" mentality. my practice beats me over the head and screams in my face "EITHER GET ENGAGED OR GO HOME!" i'm not saying every artist needs to think this way or proceed this way. not at all. i'm recognizing a desire and drive and need within myself to at least TRY to participate in that arena. there is a fearlessness in work that comes from that particular stance that i admire. all the artists and writers whose work has ripped out my heart, stitched it back together, and then reinserted it into my body, possess that fearlessness; that belief that Art, that Words, that the Image has relevance and power... and enough power to alter the way we view the world and practice our lives. i know that i have been changed AT MY CORE by the work of certain writers and artists. being exposed to their images and words gave me a new perspective and a new hope. it isn't all cerebral. some of it is emotional. some of it is psychological. some of it is in the body.
somewhere along the line inside my big bad depression, i became fearful of going this route. i was in such a weakened state that i did not trust myself, my instincts, my motives, or even my interests. i didn't trust them because i had somehow convinced myself that they might be wrong and bad and i was AFRAID of the repercussions.
i'm admitting to this because i think a lot of artists struggle this way. i think a lot of us deal with moments when our courage falters, if not altogether dries up and disappears.
i still somehow managed to make images i cared about during that time. i still managed to take some risks. but now, i'm ready to stand my ground again and say "THIS MATTERS" and take whatever consequences may result. in fact, i'm not even thinking of the consequences. i'm not thinking about where a painting may end up once it leaves my home. right now, all i'm thinking of is THE WORK. that is where my allegiance lies. that is where my practice needs to be.
the art i am most attracted to, the work that captivates me and spins me around and makes me dizzy, sometimes to the point of elation, sometimes to the point of nausea, is work that trusts itself- work that is fearless and doesn't shy away from how it might be received by The Outside. it is persistent. it doesn't back down after one angry word. it doesn't go away if a person might be dismissive of it. it stands its ground. it plants its flag. it stakes out a territory. it trusts that there is an audience, a community, or at least listeners, out there.
and so i'm sweeping up the fragments and the splinters and seeing what kind of assemblage results. what kind of lines can be drawn. and i choose to trust this process, this way of thinking and responding to the world. i'm choosing to trust my instincts and to not second-guess them. self-doubt is a nasty motherfucker that must be put to sleep... if not put to death. ;)
May 28, 2009
you don't work, you don't eat...
that's exactly right. exactly. and this painting thing nourishes me in more ways than one. after getting rattled a few days ago and losing a whole bunch of time to feeling inadequate and unsure, i have retrieved my confidence from the toilet and have established a NO SELF-PITY rule when it comes to my practice and to art in general. it's a time waster and it's silly anyhow. i knew when i started that it'd be an uphill battle. i knew it'd be the hardest thing i'd run across yet. i knew there'd be tons of rejection and tons of disappointments along the way. i knew. and i was fine with that. i knew that THIS is what i'm meant to do and meant to be and after 11 years, i STILL know it. however many times i get knocked down, it is for damn sure i will be standing back up. no question about it. whatever pitfall, it's worth it. whatever blow to my ego, it's worth it. whatever karmic slap, it's worth it. this isn't just my "job", it's my life's work and no amount of rejection or struggle or disappointment or attack will change that. ever.
so this morning, i will run and i will work and i will not lose any more time to nursing a bruised ego. i believe in what i'm doing. eventually, others will as well. i'm knee deep in paying dues at this stage in the game and, truth be told, i'm happy to pay them. i am happy to take my knocks. i'm happy to prove myself and my level of dedication. it is a bright beautiful day and i am resolved to not slow down. ever.
the work horse is back on the job.
so this morning, i will run and i will work and i will not lose any more time to nursing a bruised ego. i believe in what i'm doing. eventually, others will as well. i'm knee deep in paying dues at this stage in the game and, truth be told, i'm happy to pay them. i am happy to take my knocks. i'm happy to prove myself and my level of dedication. it is a bright beautiful day and i am resolved to not slow down. ever.
the work horse is back on the job.
May 25, 2009
more questioning...
the maids are far enough along at this point (as a series) that it's definitely time to start putting together an artist statement. i've been wracking my brain, coming up with tons of "starts" for a statement but i eventually find myself referencing my own past rather than keeping the statement exclusive to the work itself. the work isn't meant to explain me. it isn't meant to be that kind of vehicle.
drawing from personal experience is a great thing... so long as it is eventually translated in to something more inclusive, wider reaching, encompassing, open. making the work all about me isn't going to leave many doors open for others to have a private experience of their own with the work. it doesn't allow for a wide open narrative or freedom for the viewer to cook up their own narratives. and i want that for the audience. it's why i leave out the faces.
faces are specific. i want the viewer to add the face. the viewer finishes the work. it is a call to memory, the viewer's memories and experiences, that i appreciate and am trying to lure.
and as far as reality is concerned, i am quite anonymous, the audience is anonymous, and the ladies are anonymous... and this anonymity is the site where hope and understanding can spring. it is a place (or state of being) that nurtures a type of fearlessness of approach, a type of acceptance, that labels and class and "perception" don't allow for.
i'm blathering, working out ideas... but it helps to write it out here.
there's something i'm after with this work that goes far beyond my self and what my experiences have been or who/what i am as a person. that's the stuff i need to get to. that's the stuff i want this space to be about- that site of hope where connections are made and understanding is possible. no utopias, just good ol' fashioned human goodness and frailty. a willingness to speak and to hear. embarrassment, brutality, forgiveness, vengeance, poetry and all.
drawing from personal experience is a great thing... so long as it is eventually translated in to something more inclusive, wider reaching, encompassing, open. making the work all about me isn't going to leave many doors open for others to have a private experience of their own with the work. it doesn't allow for a wide open narrative or freedom for the viewer to cook up their own narratives. and i want that for the audience. it's why i leave out the faces.
faces are specific. i want the viewer to add the face. the viewer finishes the work. it is a call to memory, the viewer's memories and experiences, that i appreciate and am trying to lure.
and as far as reality is concerned, i am quite anonymous, the audience is anonymous, and the ladies are anonymous... and this anonymity is the site where hope and understanding can spring. it is a place (or state of being) that nurtures a type of fearlessness of approach, a type of acceptance, that labels and class and "perception" don't allow for.
i'm blathering, working out ideas... but it helps to write it out here.
there's something i'm after with this work that goes far beyond my self and what my experiences have been or who/what i am as a person. that's the stuff i need to get to. that's the stuff i want this space to be about- that site of hope where connections are made and understanding is possible. no utopias, just good ol' fashioned human goodness and frailty. a willingness to speak and to hear. embarrassment, brutality, forgiveness, vengeance, poetry and all.
Mar 6, 2009
brewing...
just about 1 in the morning... a pot of coffee brewing and a whole bunch of ideas swirling in my head. i think it's safe to say my health has returned. enough at least to dive back in to my beloved night-owling. i missed my nights of smudging graphite and spilling ink and smearing oil. what's not to love about an art studio? room of one's own, indeed! and i am thankful every day to have it. just sitting in my own space surrounded by my own tools and my own books and my own stupid little nic-naks feels great and precious and miraculous even. and above all else, it is safe. a protected space where i am king. i can do what i want and there's no apologies necessary. it's been a big help the last couple days while i've struggled to get over this sickness and start doing some more hard-hitting, risky work. the drawing i posted last was fairly difficult even though i've had the idea to do it for quite some time. it's hard work to do... to literally tape a small child's mouth shut is no easy task even if it is "just" a drawing...
there have been plenty of images that i feel a bit damaged by, haunted by, sickened by... and i'm not just talking about art. there have been tons of advertisements that have offended me to such a deep degree that sometimes it's taken quite a bit of work (and time) on my part to shake it off and get back to my own life. images have power. and images can do violence. in the case of this last drawing, the role was reversed and i did violence to the image. i spent some time drawing a lovely, academic rendering and then pulled out a roll of duct tape and destroyed it. i shut it up. i made it a victim. not an easy thing to do to the image of a someone who died a horribly violent death. not easy at all and i still feel a bit fucked up by the experience. i wanted to highlight the loss of HER. she was silenced in such a hateful, violent, unspeakable way that i guess that's what i wanted to get at... somehow... the unspeakable loss of her... the quick violence done to something cherished and beautiful and admired... silenced... undone... without all the drama and media frenzy and judgemental spectacle, the sensationalism... just the loss of a child, a daughter... and what a horror it is.
there have been plenty of images that i feel a bit damaged by, haunted by, sickened by... and i'm not just talking about art. there have been tons of advertisements that have offended me to such a deep degree that sometimes it's taken quite a bit of work (and time) on my part to shake it off and get back to my own life. images have power. and images can do violence. in the case of this last drawing, the role was reversed and i did violence to the image. i spent some time drawing a lovely, academic rendering and then pulled out a roll of duct tape and destroyed it. i shut it up. i made it a victim. not an easy thing to do to the image of a someone who died a horribly violent death. not easy at all and i still feel a bit fucked up by the experience. i wanted to highlight the loss of HER. she was silenced in such a hateful, violent, unspeakable way that i guess that's what i wanted to get at... somehow... the unspeakable loss of her... the quick violence done to something cherished and beautiful and admired... silenced... undone... without all the drama and media frenzy and judgemental spectacle, the sensationalism... just the loss of a child, a daughter... and what a horror it is.
Nov 1, 2008
today...
hope everybody had a good halloween yesterday. i actually hid in my unlit house from all the children, letting my rottweiler bark her head off while i worked in the studio, and waited patiently for the dark and rain to drive the treat-or-treaters away. yes, my unwarranted and weird fear of strangers knocking on my door even extends to children... maybe i should take a closer look at that and figure out where that comes from. haha! strange.
but with one holiday done and the elections a few days away, a sweet sense of calm seems to be breezing through... and i am so thankful for it. whichever way the elections go, at least the anticipation and pressure will be off and we can all get back to our daily lives, work for the change we want to see in the world, and minimize the divide that separates us during election years. i'm sick of all the barking and brow-beating. it seems people forget how to practice effective communication skills in times like these, and forget how to practice active listening skills as well. there doesn't seem to be many spaces for actual attentive and intelligent discussion right now and it's terribly disappointing and draining.
but on the upside of things, i discovered the fatal flaw in my artist statement and now i know exactly what needs to be fixed! woohoo! i'd been referring to the edited book pages and drawn documents as "classified documents" when, in reality, what they are commonly referred to are "sanitized" or "redacted" documents! how i was unaware of this being that i watch so many shows and documentaries about serial killers is beyond me but was, nevertheless, a complete EUREKA moment, let me tell ya! and now, having the concept of sanitizing (and all that that word conjures and connotes) widens my practice is such a wonderfully inclusive and thoughtful way! the concepts of purity and cleanliness are so appropriate to what i've been trying to get at in this body of work! i'm so excited and inspired and ready to work even harder to really make the work shine and speak.
but with one holiday done and the elections a few days away, a sweet sense of calm seems to be breezing through... and i am so thankful for it. whichever way the elections go, at least the anticipation and pressure will be off and we can all get back to our daily lives, work for the change we want to see in the world, and minimize the divide that separates us during election years. i'm sick of all the barking and brow-beating. it seems people forget how to practice effective communication skills in times like these, and forget how to practice active listening skills as well. there doesn't seem to be many spaces for actual attentive and intelligent discussion right now and it's terribly disappointing and draining.
but on the upside of things, i discovered the fatal flaw in my artist statement and now i know exactly what needs to be fixed! woohoo! i'd been referring to the edited book pages and drawn documents as "classified documents" when, in reality, what they are commonly referred to are "sanitized" or "redacted" documents! how i was unaware of this being that i watch so many shows and documentaries about serial killers is beyond me but was, nevertheless, a complete EUREKA moment, let me tell ya! and now, having the concept of sanitizing (and all that that word conjures and connotes) widens my practice is such a wonderfully inclusive and thoughtful way! the concepts of purity and cleanliness are so appropriate to what i've been trying to get at in this body of work! i'm so excited and inspired and ready to work even harder to really make the work shine and speak.
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