gently and gladly

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there are blessings everywhere.  even in this pain.  i am reminded of the very first injury-  it was then that i picked up my dusty crochet hook and taught myself the bastard stitch.  it was then that i began to lean on text and textile rather than oil.  it was then that i learned how to be patient-  a hard task for such an eager girl.  this past week, i had to learn it all over again.

it's not easy for me to be cooped up.  for as much as i may enjoy my solitude, it is only because my life is generally very busy.  my days careen by in a fantastic parade of images and sounds, a whirlwind of restaurant life, art life, and romantic intrigue.  my long mornings at home before work have become so precious to me and i am possessive of them.  the hours i spend sipping coffee, writing, and listening to music as i leisurely get dressed are prized.  my days off are spent primarily at home.  i am stingy with my free time as that is really the only time i have to become deeply involved in my projects.  this past week though, i actually had time to read again.  i pulled IN MEMORIAM TO IDENTITY  by Kathy Acker from my shelf, lay down on my stomach with an icepack on my lower back, and read until the narcotic bliss of the Norco i'd popped swept me away in to a crazy menagerie of chemically fueled dreams.  actually quite a wonderful way to spend an afternoon.  one must look for the pleasures within the agony in this type of situation.  :)

slowly, i'm bouncing back.  i could walk today with just a hint of a limp.  i couldn't walk at my normal quick clip but i could walk.  that's truly all that matters.

now, laying on an icepack again in bed, smiling to myself as i realize it is friday night and most other people i know are excitedly hurrying off to enjoy whatever revelry awaits in this wide city, i am content to spend the evening at home with my work.

earlier today, i shipped two crochet pieces to Darger HQ for next month's show and then spent a few hours leafing through old portfolios of my drawings, work i haven't viewed in close to three years.  i smiled to myself as their graphite edges dirtied my hands.  i smiled and thought, "geez...  maybe i am a pretty good artist after all."

all week i've returned, over and over again, to the knowledge that art is truly what my life is about and that i should never allow myself to become blind to or distant from that fact.  it's easy to get wrapped up in work and saving money and making plans for the future without stopping to think about the REAL work i do: the art.  maybe because i've spent the last 2 years working primarily on the street, it's easy for me to forget the old dreams of attending residencies and submitting work to shows, magazines, etc.  it's easy to fall out of that particular loop when one no longer pays any attention to things like deadlines.  for awhile, i didn't miss it.  in fact, i liked not being a part of it.  i liked having a break from all that worry and struggle.  it was important to me to separate myself from those ambitions because they had been so intertwined with the life i led in my last relationship.  i didn't want to think of those goals and i didn't want to look at the work i made during that time.  especially during the last few years.  the pain and isolation i felt during that time was too easily awakened.  it sat so plainly on the surface of all my drawings.  it was so obvious.  i couldn't do anything but tuck them safely away in portfolios to be stacked in the back of my closet.  i needed to make a new life.

but lately, i've been thinking of those dreams again.  i'm excited about next month's show- to have work in a gallery space again, to see how it interacts with the work of other artists, to see how it looks surrounded by white.  and looking at my old drawings today made me want to show them too.  but more than that, it made me want to draw again.

soon.

soon.

and i look forward to being totally sideswiped by it.  i look forward to seeing what images arrive first.  tonight, it is enough just to listen to the click of the keys beneath my fingers and the train in the distance.  tonight, it is enough to dream again, to hunger after these things.  tonight, it is enough to lay in bed on an icepack and crochet.  this gentleness is its own type of luxury.  quiet and unassuming and hidden from the eyes of the world, i lay below an open window and knot thread in to lace, and feel happy about the future.

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today, try again.

last night i was editing a few poems when i heard the BOOM BOOM BOOM of fireworks. instantly, i stood up, pulled my jeans and shoes on, and raced up 3 flights of stairs to the roof of my building. silence, save for the orchestra of thunder. there were two couples snuggling in the dark. a soft evening and so lovely. i thought how wonderful it is that new year's day and independance day are 6 months apart... each, an opportunity to take a closer look at one's self and life, to discern the dreams and ethics that must be fought for, and who to be amid the swirl, the chaos, the collision. i don't mean any of this in the national sense (though it can and should extend there), but the personal. i have learned (and am still learning) that all change begins within the individual. it is a hard fact to look at sometimes but, barring any biological reason to the contrary, completely true. this fact kicks my ass every time it gets the chance. afterward, i think less of Success, and more about what it means to Overcome.

i lucked out and got to see the Balenciaga and Spain exhibition at the De Young the other day right before it came down. earlier in the day, a friend and i walked through corridors of old paintings and entire rooms of french palaces re-installed within the Legion of Honor. elaborate couches and desks, mirrored walls, trinkets, figurines, lamps... gilt on everything. and then arriving in the evening at the Balenciaga exhibition and seeing so clearly the influence of painting and art history alive inside the clothing Cristobal Balenciaga designed. the rituals and ornamentation of catholicism were everywhere. the somber beauty of monks robes, the grandiose drapery of popes, the fascinating spectacle of religion itself installed on a catwalk. for as new to fashion as i am, the exhibition brought tears to my eyes. and reading about this man's life... the shit he had to overcome... it just really touched me. i thought of Coco Chanel and all that she overcame. talk about having the cards stacked against you!

and then i think of myself. the recent horrors and the not so recent. the roof i was born under and the great distance i've travelled from it to rest under the roof where i am now. i think of my childhood and feel so far away from it. i feel like such a different person. it feels like a completely different life. even what my life was 3 or 4 years ago seems like a completely different life... maybe it is.

there are moments when i look in the mirror and think who the hell are you? what the hell are you doing? what do you need? be honest! we all do it, i know, in one way or the other.

and if i have a religion at all, it is Art. it takes a lot of faith to be an artist. it takes a lot of sacrifice. but it is beautiful and a privilege. it is a privilege every step of the way. last night, watching six different fireworks displays from my roof, i realized there is no way i will ever be able to see it all, do it all. i snapped my head back and forth like an excited little kid trying to watch all the fireworks at once. hahahaha! impossible. but the attempt made me smile. the attempt was a human thing to do, a human moment.

i remind myself that the point is to try.





don't you give up either.

here's your jam!!!!

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GO!

revision

i spent the entirety of yesterday going back and forth between two drawings and an essay on Revising Poetry. the day went by in a quick breeze of graphite and pages turned. the same few pages, over and over again, looking for an answer... but really, looking for an easy answer. the quick fix.

and then a very close friend of mine called crying. nothing tragic... except the tragedy of life itself... disillusionment. and feeling so pitifully unequal to the task before you. that horrible sigh that sweeps through your entire body. the sigh that says it's just so much work.

and though our daily circumstances are very different, the root issues that make up my and my friend's struggles are pretty much identical: tremendous worry and confidence that seems to fail too easily.

while we were talking i heard myself say: if i could just stop worrying so much, i'd get so much more done. all the time i spend worrying, all the time i spend trying to unearth myself from all this worry, could be spent actually working toward the goals i'm trying to reach. my own words sort of slapped me in the face. here i was, trying to build someone else up, trying to give them stamina for the fight, and i ended up saying exactly what i needed to hear. in fact, it's something that i need to hear on a fairly regular basis. that one step, one day, one drawing at a time, one word either read or written at a time, one thing learned, one thing gained, one inch at a time, i will end up building a life that feels right. it comes down to faith. belief in oneself... to keep the dream tight while the big bad world outside, rife with status symbols and expectations, screams NO in your face. to keep going, keep moving, no matter how short the ground i've gained is, in spite of the nay-sayers outside my window. to beat back my own disillusionment and truly believe in myself and the meaning i'm trying to create within my own life. do i really need re-assurance in order to do that? or even praise? those things sure do feel good, but are they really necessary?

i have always written. i have always made drawings and paintings. i have always sung in the shower. i think that as a result of being such a shy child, and also the massive tragedy that found my family so early, i clung to particular talents in an attempt to feel safe. these things became a sanctuary. they were the only site i had where i felt safe and was truly myself. opening up those talents to include the eyes and opinions of others is a very scary thing. basically, i don't want my sanctuary demolished or laughed at or called "flawed". and so i have to beat it in my head, over and over and over again, that my sanctuary is MINE, it's for ME, it is OF ME, and the words and eyes of others don't destroy that. it either welcomes them or it doesn't. and if my work fits well with the life of another human, it is a grand and beautiful thing. i can feel connected and strong and encouraged. i can feel less alone. but even if no one liked what i do, i'd still do it. i know this because that's always been the case. i've always written. i've always made pictures. i've always sung in the shower or some dark corner where no one could hear.

i guess becoming an artist is also about leaving the dark corner. finding a way to make that safety mobile. finding a way to carry the sanctuary with you, on your back like a hermit crab... a bookcase in the brain, all the bibles lined up one right after the other, and just say it matters to ME.

consistent, sustained action in a single direction. and if i come up against a wall and have to chip it down with my own toe-nails... well, that's exactly what has to happen then. and Revising Poetry feels pretty much just like that. this search. this wanting everything to work out... and work out RIGHT NOW. this dark road, no answer, except just keep going.

just keep going. just keep going. and don't make it bigger than it actually is. i have a very bad habit of that. i build things up to be so huge and scary and important in my own head... that nasty perfectionism that really only serves to silence me. that's where all this ridiculous worry originates. fear of my own imperfections. fear of being disappointing. fear of not being good enough. all the common worries of artists. of people in general.

part of maintaining my practice is learning how to trust the process of the thing itself. trusting that yesterday's activities of reading and drawing were, in fact, WORK and that i did move forward... whether or not i can actually feel it. a lot of the struggle of being an artist is overcoming a shit ton of really bad social and cultural lessons- definitions of what constitutes success, what constitutes value.

a lot of this is simply going my own way and not worrying about it so much.

and so... like revising poetry, it's going to take lots of time and effort and somehow managing to acquire fresh eyes every now and then. gaining a new perspective, a fresh perspective, and not giving up. and when i get stale-mated, put it in the drawer and come back to it later when i've learned more, experienced more, and have a better attitude about the task at hand... when i'm not so worried about "what it all means!" and "but is it even any good?"

sometimes, i have to try to let the joy of the act be enough. because it is. it really really is. and to wrap my mind around the fact that, YES, even "work" can be joyful.

2 things

it would behove me (and every artist on the planet) to remember:


"The amount of eccentricity in a society has generally been proportional to the amount of genius, mental vigor, and moral courage it contained. That so few now dare to be eccentric marks the chief danger of the time."

~John Stuart Mill


and





we have fallen to a strange era, it seems, where politicking has replaced integrity. the affiliation, the cord between names is king.

silence quickly follows.

if artists don't risk being laughed at, shunned, who will? if artists don't speak frankly about injustices, large and small, who will? if artists don't stick to their guns, who will? who will inspire others to investigate this world, unearth the abandoned ethics, search for meaning, create meaning, give us all a reason to fight, and believe that life isn't pointless? if artists can't be brave, who can be?

since the time of the renaissance, it has ceased to be in the job description for an artist to do what they are told. we work for no king other than King Art itself.

i've said it once and i'll say it again because I need to hear it and maybe other artists do to:

integrity is NOT a rear-guard notion.

me and louise

my buddy rebecca snapped this of me, scruffy and make-up-less, at SFMOMA and i'm so grateful for the token, for the archive of this experience. it serves as a reminder that i truly do need to follow my own heart and do this thing my way, a way that feels right for me.

it's about honesty.

when i look at louise bourgeois' work, her honesty and bravery radiate right of the surface of her objects. it radiates from the core on out. and standing so close to one of her sculptures, i felt the deep buzz of her love for her work and it was very hard not to touch it. in fact, i should have touched it. the only reason i didn't is the security team at SFMOMA are fanatical and watch every move you make so that they can tell you NO PENS ALLOWED! ONLY PENCIL!





and since the beginning of the year, i've been crawling deeper and deeper in to my own values and ethics when it comes to art and life. and the two subjects are so connected that they are basically the same thing. i want to be a smart artist. i want to be a brave artist. and honorable too.

the passed few days i've been trying to photograph finished drawings that have been hiding in one portfolio or another for quite some time. the grunt work of documentation, but also a very necessary step in the process of curation. because i live with the work and it isn't caged away in a separate studio space, i can easily lose track of what i've made. and this experience of going through the work piece by piece, laying it across every inch of my small cottage, crowding myself with all the black and white and nebulous greys is such an inspiring thing. i can see the lines that connect one work to another. i can see how far back these fault lines run. that i've always made portraits of some kind. the only thing that has changed is my idea of what a portrait is.

in a nut shell, each piece of mine is a portrait- of loss, of desire, of anger, confusion, longing, struggle, failure, and love.

the work is personal and the work exposes things that even i am surprised by sometimes. even the work i consider to be not "good enough" for public consumption, has such a steep value to it. the pieces that i struggled hard with, the work that never came easy and never really became what i wanted it to be, is the work that supplied the best learning curve. it's the work that taught me the most, showed me the most, and, like a good teacher, kicked my ass all over the place when i needed it. my Learning is evident in those pieces and, because of that, they are Good.

it's interesting how one's eyes change.

and i feel lucky that those pieces can have a voice every now and then here on the blog. there's really no such thing as "failure". it's a false construct. it's a lie. Learning is not failure.

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i'm learning a lot these days... and sometimes i get tired, sometimes i get mad, sometimes i am totally frustrated and confused. and then the next morning arrives and i scribble away in my notebook and some sort of answer or brightness falls out of my pen and i find a way to proceed. when i feel especially lost, i spend time with the work of artists i admire. louise is at the top of the list. i am currently trying to leech some of her bravery, some of her gnarly french fuck-off attitude. i love the way she lived her life. i love the way she never gave her power away. i love how she stood, secure and strong, on the foundation of her beliefs- the things she believed to be important about art and life. she was unshakable and didn't give a shit if anyone agreed with her.

talk about faith.
talk about courage.

what a gift that woman is.

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.

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