.
languidly waking this morning next to Brian, i rolled over and looked at his sleeping face and thought, "my mom would've really liked you." i smiled and rubbed his head and closed my eyes. it wasn't until another several hours had passed that i realized what day it is. it is the fourth anniversary of my mother's death.
i was shocked that it wasn't the first thing i thought of today. perhaps it's a sign that my life is no longer dominated by her death. i think she'd be happy about that. i think she'd be relieved that i am not walking around crying behind my sunglasses the way i used to, a calm demeanor presented to the world but wanting to be just as dead as she is in the aftermath of her loss. my entire physicality felt like one big gaping wound. sometimes, it still does. i don't think i'll ever reach a day when her death doesn't cause pain. i miss her incredibly and the world is a drastically different place without her in it. her absence is so palpable some days, so pronounced... how unfair it all is, how awful. there's no way around it. it directly effects the decisions i make. her early death brought me face to face with the reality of my own mortality and it's impossible for me to take it lightly.
i wrote in my diary like i do every morning then went for a run. i wanted to feel my body move. i wanted to breathe heavy and feel blood coursing fast throughout my body. i wanted to feel my legs getting tired and yet push myself to meet the challenge i'd set for myself. i wanted to feel young and alive and beautiful. i wanted to appreciate being in the world.
afterward, i bought myself a new tube of lipstick. hot pink. a celebration of life and vitality; an honoring of our shared brevity and a recognition of the fact that life is too short to not live boldly. that's what lipstick symbolizes for me. when my mother was feeling sad, she'd go to the drugstore and buy herself a new tube of lipstick.
.
i wish she were here.
i wish she could see me.
i wish she could see what i've accomplished in the last four years and how far i've come.
i wish she could see the portrait i drew of her.
i wish she could meet Brian and hear him sing.
i wish i could talk to her.
i wish i could just talk to her.
.
i feel very alone in this big world sometimes. it makes me want to run from people i love because i'm afraid of losing them too. i didn't realize that i have this fear until recently... that i would rather push people away and keep them at a distance than get close and deal with losing them. there is a part of me that somehow believes that everyone i love is going to go away. i know that isn't true but it's my little girl voice speaking. it's the little girl in me that still believes i'll never be good enough... that somehow i'm unlovable and i'll never belong anywhere... and i don't have a mama to run to to scratch my back and tell me otherwise.
but i have a lover who loves me.
i have friends that love me.
i have a brother and a sister who love me and know exactly what i'm talking about when i say the things that make other people too sad or too scared or too uncomfortable to keep listening. brian too. he has cried with me and it is such a comfort to me. it means i wasn't wrong or crazy for wanting to cry about the bad things that have happened. it means things really were that bad and i perceived it all correctly. it means i should've never been made to feel ashamed in the moments when i did cry.
and i have Vermont and the awakening that happened there:
my sister pointed out to me how pronounced it was that i quit drawing after our mother's death. instantly. i dove headlong into my crochet practice. it was such a powerful thing to stand alone in my huge studio that night in Johnson, VT and draw her portrait. our portrait. it unlocked the floodgates and drawing after drawing spilled out of me after that. a big part of myself healed.
today, i made a small linocut of an iceberg. i stamped it out 20 times. the iceberg is a strange sort of metaphor for me, a self-portrait of mine. the iceberg is the middle child.
there are still so many secrets
but i am finding ways to tell them.
i am finding roads out of silence.
i am finding roads toward courage.
i am more myself than i have ever been and, despite the brutality of her loss, my mother's death worked to teach me how absolutely imperative it is that i BE MYSELF, that i live honestly and bravely, that i keep putting one foot in front of the other, that i must will myself to be undaunted and to build the life i want for myself. her death taught me that there isn't always going to be another Tomorrow. if there is something one NEEDS to do, it's best to do it now.
.
my mother used to wear a lipstick named Yummy Plummy. i stole it from the bathroom the day she died. it's in my makeup bag. i never wore lipstick before she died. now, i twist the hot pink bar of my new lipstick and paint my mouth and allow myself to languish for a moment in the pleasure of being alive.
.
Showing posts with label courage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label courage. Show all posts
Jan 12, 2015
Jun 21, 2013
the countdown begins...
.
a mere 8 days stand between me and my adventure. or maybe the adventure is (and has always been) well under way. it is, in fact, the life that came before that has made me capable of living bravely now. i am ecstatic and discombobulated and so entirely grateful. my bag is packed and waiting. i'm thankful that i have a few more days at work to keep me occupied and make a bit more money to throw around in new york and berlin. otherwise, i'd just be a total basket-case right now pacing in the kitchen and waiting for the morning when i get to board my plane. it's almost all i can think about at this point. :)
i'll leave an hour early for work today to stop off and buy a red Kelly Bundy dress to wear during my travels. i feel a red dress is absolutely necessary. especially a tight one. :) red lipstick is, of course, an undisputed travel requirement as well. and this morning, Becca and i texted excitedly back and forth to each other about how inexplicable and wonderful and TOTALLY UNBELIEVABLE this whole thing is. regardless of what happens, this will definitely be an eye-opening, life-changing event in both our lives and i feel so excited to be on the cusp of it. excited and lucky.
i can't believe this is my REAL life. but it IS!
the feeling
of being Capable is one of the best feelings in the world. it is my
hope that, regardless of a woman's life or dreams, she feel Capable. it
is the very root of genuine happiness, courage, and self-respect.
Oct 22, 2012
to be alive...
the streets are wet and black. a slow rain is coming down. i am wearing one of the first sweaters i ever made. how strange to think of where i was then, and how i spent my nights and days. even my body is a different size. george michael sings in my ear (again and again) and a faithful Greyhound rests at my side. i think this might be the first time its rained since i moved in to my white room.
what can i give you tonight? or any other night that might make up for my arrogant absences? what can i give you that might mend the tear that i can't help but deal with my sad silences? sometimes i need such a grand depth of space around me, such a deep, abiding stillness. i slink low in to my warm bath of solitude and i do not surface until i have to. i languish in it. i luxuriate. and then i go to work. i look at the calendar and think of friends i haven't called and the skin i haven't touched in so long, the hair i haven't brushed and the glasses i haven't raised to the honor of such wonderful people in so long. i hole up with my own projects and beverages. and i suppose we all do it. we all get lost in out own present tenses.
over dinner tonight with new friends i admitted that, now, a little more than 7 years after relocating to the Bay Area certain home-town friendships are finally starting to deteriorate. it is sad because we've managed to hold on for so long. we've managed to call each other on a regular enough basis and still say i love you but so much changed when i became single at the beginning of the year. a renewal of sorts. and so much changed after going to New York: a birth that i knew would occur. so many people have commented on how "alive" i seem since having gone. so many people have commented on how much happier and stronger i seem. and what they see is real. i deal out a lot of my vulnerabilities here in this electric square and i willingly supply evidence of the existence of my own excitable, quavering heart; nevertheless, i have become quite brave this year. it's an event that surprises the shit out of me. i've wanted to be brave my entire life. i've wanted to know the definition of courage for so long. it is totally different from what i assumed it would be.
i am finally myself. i am finally allowing for change and experience. i am finally allowing for pleasure, finally able to accept the pleasure of risk. for the first time in years, i am enjoying my daily life. i don't feel like crying as i walk closer and closer to my front door. i don't feel like, with each step, i am telling lie after lie. i look at the sky and think of my mother and wish she could see me now. she would be so happy for me. she would tell me how well i'm doing and how proud she is of me. she would be envious of my trip to new york and we would talk for hours about it. she would want to hear all about testing perfume at Lord & Taylor and how delicious the hotdogs are at the food carts all over manhattan. she would want to hear all about walking through the lower east side at 4 am and the dead pigeon i accidentally kicked. she would commend me for having found the courage to stake claim to my own life. she would ask me to speak to her in german just so she could hear the language of her favorite land in the entire world, a place she always wanted to return to. she had been stationed there when she was 19 years old and always longed to return. "there's such magic there", she said, and in so many ways, that is where my family begins- our strange, careening story. we've all become so different. we share such similar stories but walk such distinct roads.
november is coming and, with it, an election, a concert, and another trip to beautiful New York. i am on pins and needles waiting for the first of the month to arrive. a new adventure is breathing down my neck and i cannot wait to turn and collect its kiss.
what can i give you tonight? or any other night that might make up for my arrogant absences? what can i give you that might mend the tear that i can't help but deal with my sad silences? sometimes i need such a grand depth of space around me, such a deep, abiding stillness. i slink low in to my warm bath of solitude and i do not surface until i have to. i languish in it. i luxuriate. and then i go to work. i look at the calendar and think of friends i haven't called and the skin i haven't touched in so long, the hair i haven't brushed and the glasses i haven't raised to the honor of such wonderful people in so long. i hole up with my own projects and beverages. and i suppose we all do it. we all get lost in out own present tenses.
over dinner tonight with new friends i admitted that, now, a little more than 7 years after relocating to the Bay Area certain home-town friendships are finally starting to deteriorate. it is sad because we've managed to hold on for so long. we've managed to call each other on a regular enough basis and still say i love you but so much changed when i became single at the beginning of the year. a renewal of sorts. and so much changed after going to New York: a birth that i knew would occur. so many people have commented on how "alive" i seem since having gone. so many people have commented on how much happier and stronger i seem. and what they see is real. i deal out a lot of my vulnerabilities here in this electric square and i willingly supply evidence of the existence of my own excitable, quavering heart; nevertheless, i have become quite brave this year. it's an event that surprises the shit out of me. i've wanted to be brave my entire life. i've wanted to know the definition of courage for so long. it is totally different from what i assumed it would be.
i am finally myself. i am finally allowing for change and experience. i am finally allowing for pleasure, finally able to accept the pleasure of risk. for the first time in years, i am enjoying my daily life. i don't feel like crying as i walk closer and closer to my front door. i don't feel like, with each step, i am telling lie after lie. i look at the sky and think of my mother and wish she could see me now. she would be so happy for me. she would tell me how well i'm doing and how proud she is of me. she would be envious of my trip to new york and we would talk for hours about it. she would want to hear all about testing perfume at Lord & Taylor and how delicious the hotdogs are at the food carts all over manhattan. she would want to hear all about walking through the lower east side at 4 am and the dead pigeon i accidentally kicked. she would commend me for having found the courage to stake claim to my own life. she would ask me to speak to her in german just so she could hear the language of her favorite land in the entire world, a place she always wanted to return to. she had been stationed there when she was 19 years old and always longed to return. "there's such magic there", she said, and in so many ways, that is where my family begins- our strange, careening story. we've all become so different. we share such similar stories but walk such distinct roads.
november is coming and, with it, an election, a concert, and another trip to beautiful New York. i am on pins and needles waiting for the first of the month to arrive. a new adventure is breathing down my neck and i cannot wait to turn and collect its kiss.
Aug 18, 2010
and so it begins...
stumbled across this first thing.
:)
yesterday, with all my pictures back in my care, piled in to the car, i drove back across the golden gate bridge in to the wide green of the countryside. the light, all yellow. the light, all golden. tunnels to honk a horn in. and still, the heavy sadness. again, the heavy sadness. strange how that emotion staples itself to even good decisions.
i have not lost sight of the positivity of this action. my words and my face and my name and all the things that pour out of my hands are mine. mine alone. and maybe it's the alone part i don't like. it is scary sometimes. but i am reaching toward it and trying to be fearless, trying to look at nothing else but THE FACTS and THE FACTS are that i love what i do, i believe in it and i want to live inside it every single day and i want to see where these tangled roads lead. i want to find a deep courage within myself and i want to hold tight to integrity and love and honor. there will be sacrifices. yes yes yes there will be. lots. and lots of times when i feel afraid and incapable of rising to the challenge in front of me.
our fair elisabeth left a comment yesterday about the need for space. i readily agreed with her because i felt deep in my heart that it is true. and her comment stuck with me for the rest of the day. it followed me to bed. and as i lay there, wrapped in a black quilt, smelling the graphite in its pocks and dimples, under the black of eyelids, i realized i'm afraid of having lots of space. i'm afraid of claiming something i desperately need. my tendency/training kicks in and i feel i am being selfish. or just plain lonely.
it is a lonely road at times, but here i am. and i will allow myself the privileged/necessity to scream in my new wide-open space if i need to. i will allow myself the luxury of making an ass of myself if i need to. and i will roll around in all these words and images and fears until the heat of my struggle and flailing makes them congeal, gives them form, sends sparks off my body and burns my eyes from their bright glare.
my friend said to me: i am so interested to see where you will go from here.
me too. i am summoning the courage for that battle right now.
crochet hook? check.
paint brush? check.
pencil? check.
punk rock? check.
and this day will awake with my two Miss Smiths: Patti and Kiki, side by side, hugs and middle fingers aimed at the world, poems tumbling and a winning smile. :)
the new road opens.
:)
yesterday, with all my pictures back in my care, piled in to the car, i drove back across the golden gate bridge in to the wide green of the countryside. the light, all yellow. the light, all golden. tunnels to honk a horn in. and still, the heavy sadness. again, the heavy sadness. strange how that emotion staples itself to even good decisions.
i have not lost sight of the positivity of this action. my words and my face and my name and all the things that pour out of my hands are mine. mine alone. and maybe it's the alone part i don't like. it is scary sometimes. but i am reaching toward it and trying to be fearless, trying to look at nothing else but THE FACTS and THE FACTS are that i love what i do, i believe in it and i want to live inside it every single day and i want to see where these tangled roads lead. i want to find a deep courage within myself and i want to hold tight to integrity and love and honor. there will be sacrifices. yes yes yes there will be. lots. and lots of times when i feel afraid and incapable of rising to the challenge in front of me.
our fair elisabeth left a comment yesterday about the need for space. i readily agreed with her because i felt deep in my heart that it is true. and her comment stuck with me for the rest of the day. it followed me to bed. and as i lay there, wrapped in a black quilt, smelling the graphite in its pocks and dimples, under the black of eyelids, i realized i'm afraid of having lots of space. i'm afraid of claiming something i desperately need. my tendency/training kicks in and i feel i am being selfish. or just plain lonely.
it is a lonely road at times, but here i am. and i will allow myself the privileged/necessity to scream in my new wide-open space if i need to. i will allow myself the luxury of making an ass of myself if i need to. and i will roll around in all these words and images and fears until the heat of my struggle and flailing makes them congeal, gives them form, sends sparks off my body and burns my eyes from their bright glare.
my friend said to me: i am so interested to see where you will go from here.
me too. i am summoning the courage for that battle right now.
crochet hook? check.
paint brush? check.
pencil? check.
punk rock? check.
and this day will awake with my two Miss Smiths: Patti and Kiki, side by side, hugs and middle fingers aimed at the world, poems tumbling and a winning smile. :)
the new road opens.
Jul 30, 2010
:)
i have given myself the pleasure of a long easy morning today. i am brewing a half-pot of coffee and cutting out moth shapes from a large beautiful sheet of shiny pewter colored paper. i am very much a crow: attracted to shiny things. :) i am planning on making a huge wreath out of them to hang in the front window. i'll let you know if it works out of not. at any rate, it's fun and joyful and simple. freeing. and the little moths... i think of them as prayers. as hymns. and so i dedicate myself to them like a child: convinced my voice is heard, that my small utterances float off to wherever small utterances float off to- a landscape where such thing plant themselves and grow in to something wild and beautiful.
and also, i am now a free agent.
it feels good to be in a moment where i can just be alone with the work. no plans for it other than to simply do my best and be as honest as possible. the work that's at the gallery now will be there for another week and a half or so before i'm able to pick it up. if there's something you want, please go grab it. i'm going to take a little break from businessy things and not put any pressure on myself to make the work do or be something it is not. financially, i'm taking a pretty big risk right now but it's the right decision to make... the honest decision to make. money shouldn't be allowed to be too big a factor when it comes to doing the right thing. and besides, i'm pretty accustomed to the starving artist lifestyle anyway. :) everything will work out. i have total faith in that. and the gallery believes in me too so i'm feeling very encouraged and hopeful today.
again, the e.e. cummings quote comes in to my head: it takes courage to grow up and be who you really are. the time for courage has most definitely come and i am at an entirely new beginning now. it is scary and exciting at the same time... but i feel very lucky to have this moment. i will enjoy my easy morning and let it morph in to an easy afternoon. there are books i want to curl up with and more moths to cut out.
life is strange and good and crazy, my friends. thank you for returning to this space and listening to me ramble, watching the struggle, and encouraging me to follow my heart. you are absolutely stunning and i appreciate you so much. <3
and also, i am now a free agent.
it feels good to be in a moment where i can just be alone with the work. no plans for it other than to simply do my best and be as honest as possible. the work that's at the gallery now will be there for another week and a half or so before i'm able to pick it up. if there's something you want, please go grab it. i'm going to take a little break from businessy things and not put any pressure on myself to make the work do or be something it is not. financially, i'm taking a pretty big risk right now but it's the right decision to make... the honest decision to make. money shouldn't be allowed to be too big a factor when it comes to doing the right thing. and besides, i'm pretty accustomed to the starving artist lifestyle anyway. :) everything will work out. i have total faith in that. and the gallery believes in me too so i'm feeling very encouraged and hopeful today.
again, the e.e. cummings quote comes in to my head: it takes courage to grow up and be who you really are. the time for courage has most definitely come and i am at an entirely new beginning now. it is scary and exciting at the same time... but i feel very lucky to have this moment. i will enjoy my easy morning and let it morph in to an easy afternoon. there are books i want to curl up with and more moths to cut out.
life is strange and good and crazy, my friends. thank you for returning to this space and listening to me ramble, watching the struggle, and encouraging me to follow my heart. you are absolutely stunning and i appreciate you so much. <3
Jul 23, 2010
the investigation continues
oh me, oh my... i'm such a fucking nutcase sometimes. ha!
(i have to laugh at myself.)
i woke up feeling remarkably lost and somewhat defeated today. it's wearing off now that i've ranted and raved inside my notebook and discovered that the root of the issue is that i am simply afraid. simultaneous fear of failure and success. they are probably actually the same thing. and not knowing what to do with myself, which direction to go in. i'm talking about the business end of things. career concerns and all that. which, honestly, i'm sick of thinking about because that's something artists have little control over anyway. all anyone can do is know what they value. that's it. and then work hard based on that set of ethics. nothing more, nothing less. the world spins and things come as they may. the conciliation there is that Quality attracts attention. as does devotion, staying power, refusing to give up. and that is, across the board, true for everyone. and that's something i've only recently learned to how to actively trust.
this season of self-discovery has been hard and strange. and it remains hard and strange. it isn't a process that ever really "ends". like art, it is a life's work. and as i proceed, i see how completely necessary it is to being/becoming an artist that one undertake self-investigation. and pairing that with going through the portfolios and taking pictures and really looking at what i've got, seeing the progression that has taken place over the passed two years, seeing how much growth has been had during that short amount of time, and realizing how naive i can definitely be, is exhausting. but it's also pretty encouraging too.
but it's also fairly daunting. anxiety producing. we live in a culture that demands we KNOW what we want. in the 6th grade you're expected to have a career chosen already. that's ridiculous. and almost everyone i know is on Plan D at this point. i'm one of the lucky few that figured out what i truly wanted to do with my life pretty early. but that doesn't make things any easier necessarily.
certain questions have been put in my head recently. questions that i'm simultaneous thankful for and a bit pissed off about. but that's just fear talking. fear of taking risks, fear of the unknown, all that stuff everyone deals with to one degree or another. i'm still too green to KNOW what kind of career i'm going to have. that seems like something you can only see when you look back over the course of a life. there's no way to know that at the beginning. and i am still very much at the beginning.
and so i am wrestling with wants and needs and dreams. and i look at my drawings and paintings and poems and see a definite lineage emerging- the influence of particular artists and writers whose work has hit me so hard, left such a deep impact on my heart and mind that their whispers stand strong in my ear. i'm attempting to listen to them... draw courage and poise from them. persistence is a necessity.
i got some really good advice from an artist friend of mine who told me to not only look at The Work of artists i admire, but also their resumes so i can see how they got from point A to point B. it's helpful and overwhelming at the same time. so many residencies and programs and grants. this is the Competition end of things and i feel anxious about leaping in to that pool. i want to leap in... i guess i just don't know how to. and there's no other way to learn how than by doing it and to accept the fact that there are no promises and no safety-net.
the drawing in the post below and the work pinned over on the side-bar to the right is work that i feel very connected to. committed to. love.
and so that's the road i must go, the road i must trust, the road i must protect. it is the work in this grand array of modes and styles that needs a wall other than my own.
and so the question becomes one of place. and how to catch those eyes.
or if i even want to catch them right now...
.
the thing i like most about this blog is that i can throw all the work out in to the world in the form of a JPEG, show my process and meanderings, talk about my concerns and fears and attractions. it's a notebook. but the actual items are still here with me. not everything is "show worthy". and this morning i realized that that's a great thing: i have them. at least some of them. and i can look at them, hold them in my hands, spend time looking at the real thing. they function as maps. documents of the questions i ask. they help me define my values as an artist and as a human being.
i also went back to the beginning of this blog and looked at the work i was making at that time. the change is glaring. the work has undergone a huge metamorphosis- a deepening. this is something i can be proud of. i can look at these images and see progress, see the struggle, see the moments of "failure", and then see that i didn't give up as a result. proof of life. proof of love. proof of seriousness even if/when the work wasn't "serious".
i've been thinking a lot about that e.e. cummings quote: it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
(side note and digression: i don't write in all lower case as a nod to him or bell hooks. it started in high school when i wanted to be a writer and wanted capital letters to emphasize importance rather than the beginning of a sentence. i didn't even know who those two people were at the time and then felt very smart when i finally stumbled across them. ha!)
and that quote has become extremely important to me this year. extremely.
i think it's important to have good manners and be friendly (to me personally as a mode of interacting with others) but i don't want to make polite or friendly art. i don't want to make Shock Art either but i want to be able to do it if the work requires that of me. i want to be a person who is courageous and passionate and brave enough to make mistakes and risk failure. i want to be dedicated to art. and diligent. and faithful. i want to make smart art, concerned art, passionate art... art that has a function and can offer a site for discussion and hope. even if it is angry hope. that site is what makes Art a necessity.
check out Claes Oldenburg's lovely manifesto on this.
ahhhhhhh. fucking bootstraps. sigh.
but this stage is important.
i know it.
i won't deprive myself of it.
onward. upward. trembling... but moving moving moving.
(i have to laugh at myself.)
i woke up feeling remarkably lost and somewhat defeated today. it's wearing off now that i've ranted and raved inside my notebook and discovered that the root of the issue is that i am simply afraid. simultaneous fear of failure and success. they are probably actually the same thing. and not knowing what to do with myself, which direction to go in. i'm talking about the business end of things. career concerns and all that. which, honestly, i'm sick of thinking about because that's something artists have little control over anyway. all anyone can do is know what they value. that's it. and then work hard based on that set of ethics. nothing more, nothing less. the world spins and things come as they may. the conciliation there is that Quality attracts attention. as does devotion, staying power, refusing to give up. and that is, across the board, true for everyone. and that's something i've only recently learned to how to actively trust.
this season of self-discovery has been hard and strange. and it remains hard and strange. it isn't a process that ever really "ends". like art, it is a life's work. and as i proceed, i see how completely necessary it is to being/becoming an artist that one undertake self-investigation. and pairing that with going through the portfolios and taking pictures and really looking at what i've got, seeing the progression that has taken place over the passed two years, seeing how much growth has been had during that short amount of time, and realizing how naive i can definitely be, is exhausting. but it's also pretty encouraging too.
but it's also fairly daunting. anxiety producing. we live in a culture that demands we KNOW what we want. in the 6th grade you're expected to have a career chosen already. that's ridiculous. and almost everyone i know is on Plan D at this point. i'm one of the lucky few that figured out what i truly wanted to do with my life pretty early. but that doesn't make things any easier necessarily.
certain questions have been put in my head recently. questions that i'm simultaneous thankful for and a bit pissed off about. but that's just fear talking. fear of taking risks, fear of the unknown, all that stuff everyone deals with to one degree or another. i'm still too green to KNOW what kind of career i'm going to have. that seems like something you can only see when you look back over the course of a life. there's no way to know that at the beginning. and i am still very much at the beginning.
and so i am wrestling with wants and needs and dreams. and i look at my drawings and paintings and poems and see a definite lineage emerging- the influence of particular artists and writers whose work has hit me so hard, left such a deep impact on my heart and mind that their whispers stand strong in my ear. i'm attempting to listen to them... draw courage and poise from them. persistence is a necessity.
i got some really good advice from an artist friend of mine who told me to not only look at The Work of artists i admire, but also their resumes so i can see how they got from point A to point B. it's helpful and overwhelming at the same time. so many residencies and programs and grants. this is the Competition end of things and i feel anxious about leaping in to that pool. i want to leap in... i guess i just don't know how to. and there's no other way to learn how than by doing it and to accept the fact that there are no promises and no safety-net.
the drawing in the post below and the work pinned over on the side-bar to the right is work that i feel very connected to. committed to. love.
and so that's the road i must go, the road i must trust, the road i must protect. it is the work in this grand array of modes and styles that needs a wall other than my own.
and so the question becomes one of place. and how to catch those eyes.
or if i even want to catch them right now...
.
the thing i like most about this blog is that i can throw all the work out in to the world in the form of a JPEG, show my process and meanderings, talk about my concerns and fears and attractions. it's a notebook. but the actual items are still here with me. not everything is "show worthy". and this morning i realized that that's a great thing: i have them. at least some of them. and i can look at them, hold them in my hands, spend time looking at the real thing. they function as maps. documents of the questions i ask. they help me define my values as an artist and as a human being.
i also went back to the beginning of this blog and looked at the work i was making at that time. the change is glaring. the work has undergone a huge metamorphosis- a deepening. this is something i can be proud of. i can look at these images and see progress, see the struggle, see the moments of "failure", and then see that i didn't give up as a result. proof of life. proof of love. proof of seriousness even if/when the work wasn't "serious".
i've been thinking a lot about that e.e. cummings quote: it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
(side note and digression: i don't write in all lower case as a nod to him or bell hooks. it started in high school when i wanted to be a writer and wanted capital letters to emphasize importance rather than the beginning of a sentence. i didn't even know who those two people were at the time and then felt very smart when i finally stumbled across them. ha!)
and that quote has become extremely important to me this year. extremely.
i think it's important to have good manners and be friendly (to me personally as a mode of interacting with others) but i don't want to make polite or friendly art. i don't want to make Shock Art either but i want to be able to do it if the work requires that of me. i want to be a person who is courageous and passionate and brave enough to make mistakes and risk failure. i want to be dedicated to art. and diligent. and faithful. i want to make smart art, concerned art, passionate art... art that has a function and can offer a site for discussion and hope. even if it is angry hope. that site is what makes Art a necessity.
check out Claes Oldenburg's lovely manifesto on this.
ahhhhhhh. fucking bootstraps. sigh.
but this stage is important.
i know it.
i won't deprive myself of it.
onward. upward. trembling... but moving moving moving.
Jul 15, 2010
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.
.
.
.
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.
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.
.
.
.
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.
Jun 2, 2010
philosophies
such a quiet.
and a moment of stillness.
and i am less and less concerned with right and wrong.
just effective and ineffective, warranted and unwarranted, what works for me and what doesn't work for me. a stoic philosophy- knowing myself and then living in accordance with what that is/means.
behavior that lines up with belief.
and i acknowledge that this harmony may not always be pleasant or appear beautiful. "beauty" is as subjective as "right". morality is relative. ethics are individual. and i mean that in terms of application. i mean to say that my ethics are for me to apply to myself. that's who they exist for. it is my code, my way, my walking stick.
the big WHY.
these pictures are a document of that wrestling: a catalogue of my attempt to make meaning. accuracy is important. it takes courage and patience. but accuracy about what? my life and what it has meant. it may mean something different in a year, in a month, tomorrow. and so... some sort of exorcism. some sort of reckoning.
self-portrait after self-portrait.
aren't we all just talking about ourselves? giving light to our loves, hates, losses, and concerns.
i don't think a person can make ART about shit they don't care about. captivation is mandatory. the subject must be relevant to the artist dealing with it. it has to be. and it IS if it is any good at all.
when i am captivated i can work all day. when i find the right form, the right image, when everything is married and conjoined and aligned in a way that makes sense to me, that is true to the mess of things or the beauty of things, i will work until my hand locks up in a huge, painful cramp. i do not abandon it. i stay and stay and stay because something honest is going on. and that site of honesty, for however idiosyncratic it may be, is where the reckoning occurs. it is where ART is made.
i can be honest about my own impulses toward blame or self-pity if i dig deep enough to actually see where they come from, if i find the hidden kernel that gives rise to those feelings. but merely to offer an expression of blame, an expression of self-pity, adds nothing to the conversation. it shuts conversation down. all it is is lashing out. it is not courageous. the results are not ART.
but that doesn't mean an artist can't be angry or ugly. you can be. is it warranted? and if it is- don't excuse yourself, don't blame anyone else, keep the responsibility and guilt of it for yourself, let it be ugly and don't try to cover it up or run from the aftermath. stand there. own up. that might be ART: to not run. to not make excuses.
to make a statement and stand by it even if the statement is ugly or offensive is an act of courage that has the capability of causing a reckoning, a fracture, a tear, a split in the seam. "ugly" is relative too. and sometimes, it is warranted. sometimes an ugly expression causes us to notice an overlooked beauty- a situational contingency or symbiosis that supplies knowledge and an avenue to compassion... and those things are rewards.
rewards are not always shiny and warm.
behavior that lines up with belief.
i am changing my attitudes about certain things. effective, ineffective. acceptable, unacceptable. necessary, unnecessary. and only as they apply to me, my practice, my life, my ins and outs and daily grind.
and so this catalogue is only a catalogue. it is not an argument for why i might be right and another person is wrong. it is not a case i am building against anyone or anything. and if i have indited anyone, it is myself. it is either effective or it isn't. and if i can get to that site of honesty where the reckoning occurs than i can steadfastly believe in what i'm doing because i have achieved an amount of courage, i have achieved an amount of clarity, i have done something relevant for my own life. and of course i want the looker to be effected. of course i want to catch their eye and keep it. but i can't dictate that. my tastes, my desires, my needs are my own to satisfy. just as i walk passed paintings, others will walk passed mine. it is no strike against me. the other person has an entire life inside them that i know nothing about. we are not all cut from the same cloth and we do not all share the same beliefs or have the same needs. especially not when it comes to art. i'm more than okay with this and am not beaten down by it. and increasingly, i am thankful for those who do stop to look. who stay a minute and look at the lines and shadows and (hopefully) see a bit of their own biography in the shape and twist.
and a moment of stillness.
and i am less and less concerned with right and wrong.
just effective and ineffective, warranted and unwarranted, what works for me and what doesn't work for me. a stoic philosophy- knowing myself and then living in accordance with what that is/means.
behavior that lines up with belief.
and i acknowledge that this harmony may not always be pleasant or appear beautiful. "beauty" is as subjective as "right". morality is relative. ethics are individual. and i mean that in terms of application. i mean to say that my ethics are for me to apply to myself. that's who they exist for. it is my code, my way, my walking stick.
the big WHY.
these pictures are a document of that wrestling: a catalogue of my attempt to make meaning. accuracy is important. it takes courage and patience. but accuracy about what? my life and what it has meant. it may mean something different in a year, in a month, tomorrow. and so... some sort of exorcism. some sort of reckoning.
self-portrait after self-portrait.
aren't we all just talking about ourselves? giving light to our loves, hates, losses, and concerns.
i don't think a person can make ART about shit they don't care about. captivation is mandatory. the subject must be relevant to the artist dealing with it. it has to be. and it IS if it is any good at all.
when i am captivated i can work all day. when i find the right form, the right image, when everything is married and conjoined and aligned in a way that makes sense to me, that is true to the mess of things or the beauty of things, i will work until my hand locks up in a huge, painful cramp. i do not abandon it. i stay and stay and stay because something honest is going on. and that site of honesty, for however idiosyncratic it may be, is where the reckoning occurs. it is where ART is made.
i can be honest about my own impulses toward blame or self-pity if i dig deep enough to actually see where they come from, if i find the hidden kernel that gives rise to those feelings. but merely to offer an expression of blame, an expression of self-pity, adds nothing to the conversation. it shuts conversation down. all it is is lashing out. it is not courageous. the results are not ART.
but that doesn't mean an artist can't be angry or ugly. you can be. is it warranted? and if it is- don't excuse yourself, don't blame anyone else, keep the responsibility and guilt of it for yourself, let it be ugly and don't try to cover it up or run from the aftermath. stand there. own up. that might be ART: to not run. to not make excuses.
to make a statement and stand by it even if the statement is ugly or offensive is an act of courage that has the capability of causing a reckoning, a fracture, a tear, a split in the seam. "ugly" is relative too. and sometimes, it is warranted. sometimes an ugly expression causes us to notice an overlooked beauty- a situational contingency or symbiosis that supplies knowledge and an avenue to compassion... and those things are rewards.
rewards are not always shiny and warm.
behavior that lines up with belief.
i am changing my attitudes about certain things. effective, ineffective. acceptable, unacceptable. necessary, unnecessary. and only as they apply to me, my practice, my life, my ins and outs and daily grind.
and so this catalogue is only a catalogue. it is not an argument for why i might be right and another person is wrong. it is not a case i am building against anyone or anything. and if i have indited anyone, it is myself. it is either effective or it isn't. and if i can get to that site of honesty where the reckoning occurs than i can steadfastly believe in what i'm doing because i have achieved an amount of courage, i have achieved an amount of clarity, i have done something relevant for my own life. and of course i want the looker to be effected. of course i want to catch their eye and keep it. but i can't dictate that. my tastes, my desires, my needs are my own to satisfy. just as i walk passed paintings, others will walk passed mine. it is no strike against me. the other person has an entire life inside them that i know nothing about. we are not all cut from the same cloth and we do not all share the same beliefs or have the same needs. especially not when it comes to art. i'm more than okay with this and am not beaten down by it. and increasingly, i am thankful for those who do stop to look. who stay a minute and look at the lines and shadows and (hopefully) see a bit of their own biography in the shape and twist.
May 29, 2010
thank you, my sweet friend
got this from my wonderful friend becca today. and it makes a great big wonderful difference.
May 10, 2010
monday monday monday
coffee coffee coffee. and it's raining. no painting outside today. but that's alright. ever since we made the decision to work toward the next phase of life, a very warm sense of relief has spread through me. just the decision itself is a great comfort. i feel relaxed. i feel like i have a direction. and so i'm not too concerned with how long it might take to accomplish the goal, i'm just happy to have a goal identified. concrete. here. in front of me.
the feeling that i'm just floating around without direction is a horrible one for me. it feels like non-movement. anti-motion. and it bothers me. it chips away, slowly slowly, at my confidence in my ability to take charge and get things done. it's just such a wonderful feeling to be on the exact same page at the exact same time with another person. it throws in a healthy dose of security... and that's great when you're gearing up to take a risk.
5 years ago, i moved to the bay area with $300 and a big ol' dream to chase. my 25th birthday was my first day of class at CCA. i sat on the bench, glad through and through, thankful, surprised, awe-struck, beside myself with happiness and wonder. and it has been a wild ride since. flipping back and forth between the extremes of life. both elation and anguish have presented themselves in equal measure, one right after the other, back and forth, back and forth. and i suppose that's life. but that drastic shift, that polarity, can be as damaging as it is educational.
the last 2 years we've spent out here in wine-country have largely been about repair. it has been good and safe and warm here. i have down-sized the amount of possessions that follow me through life, i started jogging and have kept up the practice for a year now. the iffy disk in my back is a lot less iffy as a result. i'm healthier, i sleep better, i am happier, more self-assured and confident than i was the first night i slept in this house. my old self has returned to me. fiery and eager and with a good amount of courage to draw strength from. and also, the daily practice of writing. every morning for 2 years, i practice my "waking ritual". a cup of coffee and a flying pen. i start writing before my mind really wakes up. the self-censoring mechanism still sleeping. that practice alone is responsible for so much good. so much deep, hard won, painful repair.
and since the new year began, my practice has only picked up steam. painting and drawing and writing and reading. and with so much time to spare too! i've gotten faster at making work. i've learned, all of a sudden, how to get ideas out and not get hung up by the nag of perfectionism. perfectionism is a fucking killer in the same way that stress and anxiety are killers. maybe they are all the same bad wolf dressed in a different sheep skin.
and so related to all these things (and inspired by the questions asked and wrestled with at elisabeth's blog), i've been thinking about autobiography... what it is to tell the story of one's own life.
in some ways, visual artists have a much easier time with this than writers do. and that's simply because we aren't being literal, we're creating images and images can be read in a multitude of ways much easier than words on a page. the story of my life, as presented in a collection of images, provides a bit of a cloak. i can wrap my story in metaphors. i don't have to spell things out. and the charge to "be fair" doesn't really exist. and so i started thinking about that- the fairness issue when it comes to art making, be it painting or writing. and this morning i think it's a hurdle that needs to be gotten over. a fear that needs to be overcome.
because, really, i can only tell my story.
no one else can tell it for me.
and i can't tell anyone elses.
fairness, when it comes to how others may have perceived something, isn't my responsibility as an artist or as a writer or as a human being. there's no way i can ever really know FOR SURE what another person's life has been. i am only responsible to tell my story honestly. fairness is in the listening.
i can practice fairness by being willing to listen to the stories of others. i practice fairness by allowing all the stories to be out on the same table at the same time and by giving each story equal respect. but when it comes to my story, i am simply charged to tell it the way it is, without cruelty, without ploys for sympathy, without ulterior motives of attaining forgiveness or acceptance or accolade. i am charged to be as honest as possible. flatly honest. no sentiment or excuse for myself. no self-pity and no blame.
it is a charge that is hard to meet. the normal human fears and frailties get in the way some days. it's normal i think for artists and writers to fear that they've said too much, that they said it wrong, that they didn't do a subject justice. but when it's autobiographical work, as long as i tell the truth about myself and what my experiences have been, and leave other people's experiences to them, i've done the only job i can do. it is up to other people to tell their own story... and to tell it without blame or minimization. if there has been a horror, speak of the horror. speak of what you saw. speak of it directly. this is not the same thing as unleashing an attack on someone else. describing what my experiences have been, my perception of the world and the events of my life, can be stated without judgement. i can embrace the great grey of all these things.
the only person in the entire world that i can ever truly know is myself. i can only claim to know the workings of my heart. and as long as i don't compromise in the telling of it (and self-pity is a compromise), i've done alright. i can accept the story of my life and give others the room and respect they need to try to do the same. art is a nebulous thing that way: the grey area looks different to all of us. describing the contours of it from where we each sit is an entirely compelling, worthwhile thing. i can be fair and listen to all the stories that do not make excuses for themselves. art does not need a excuse, anyway. it never has.
the feeling that i'm just floating around without direction is a horrible one for me. it feels like non-movement. anti-motion. and it bothers me. it chips away, slowly slowly, at my confidence in my ability to take charge and get things done. it's just such a wonderful feeling to be on the exact same page at the exact same time with another person. it throws in a healthy dose of security... and that's great when you're gearing up to take a risk.
5 years ago, i moved to the bay area with $300 and a big ol' dream to chase. my 25th birthday was my first day of class at CCA. i sat on the bench, glad through and through, thankful, surprised, awe-struck, beside myself with happiness and wonder. and it has been a wild ride since. flipping back and forth between the extremes of life. both elation and anguish have presented themselves in equal measure, one right after the other, back and forth, back and forth. and i suppose that's life. but that drastic shift, that polarity, can be as damaging as it is educational.
the last 2 years we've spent out here in wine-country have largely been about repair. it has been good and safe and warm here. i have down-sized the amount of possessions that follow me through life, i started jogging and have kept up the practice for a year now. the iffy disk in my back is a lot less iffy as a result. i'm healthier, i sleep better, i am happier, more self-assured and confident than i was the first night i slept in this house. my old self has returned to me. fiery and eager and with a good amount of courage to draw strength from. and also, the daily practice of writing. every morning for 2 years, i practice my "waking ritual". a cup of coffee and a flying pen. i start writing before my mind really wakes up. the self-censoring mechanism still sleeping. that practice alone is responsible for so much good. so much deep, hard won, painful repair.
and since the new year began, my practice has only picked up steam. painting and drawing and writing and reading. and with so much time to spare too! i've gotten faster at making work. i've learned, all of a sudden, how to get ideas out and not get hung up by the nag of perfectionism. perfectionism is a fucking killer in the same way that stress and anxiety are killers. maybe they are all the same bad wolf dressed in a different sheep skin.
and so related to all these things (and inspired by the questions asked and wrestled with at elisabeth's blog), i've been thinking about autobiography... what it is to tell the story of one's own life.
in some ways, visual artists have a much easier time with this than writers do. and that's simply because we aren't being literal, we're creating images and images can be read in a multitude of ways much easier than words on a page. the story of my life, as presented in a collection of images, provides a bit of a cloak. i can wrap my story in metaphors. i don't have to spell things out. and the charge to "be fair" doesn't really exist. and so i started thinking about that- the fairness issue when it comes to art making, be it painting or writing. and this morning i think it's a hurdle that needs to be gotten over. a fear that needs to be overcome.
because, really, i can only tell my story.
no one else can tell it for me.
and i can't tell anyone elses.
fairness, when it comes to how others may have perceived something, isn't my responsibility as an artist or as a writer or as a human being. there's no way i can ever really know FOR SURE what another person's life has been. i am only responsible to tell my story honestly. fairness is in the listening.
i can practice fairness by being willing to listen to the stories of others. i practice fairness by allowing all the stories to be out on the same table at the same time and by giving each story equal respect. but when it comes to my story, i am simply charged to tell it the way it is, without cruelty, without ploys for sympathy, without ulterior motives of attaining forgiveness or acceptance or accolade. i am charged to be as honest as possible. flatly honest. no sentiment or excuse for myself. no self-pity and no blame.
it is a charge that is hard to meet. the normal human fears and frailties get in the way some days. it's normal i think for artists and writers to fear that they've said too much, that they said it wrong, that they didn't do a subject justice. but when it's autobiographical work, as long as i tell the truth about myself and what my experiences have been, and leave other people's experiences to them, i've done the only job i can do. it is up to other people to tell their own story... and to tell it without blame or minimization. if there has been a horror, speak of the horror. speak of what you saw. speak of it directly. this is not the same thing as unleashing an attack on someone else. describing what my experiences have been, my perception of the world and the events of my life, can be stated without judgement. i can embrace the great grey of all these things.
the only person in the entire world that i can ever truly know is myself. i can only claim to know the workings of my heart. and as long as i don't compromise in the telling of it (and self-pity is a compromise), i've done alright. i can accept the story of my life and give others the room and respect they need to try to do the same. art is a nebulous thing that way: the grey area looks different to all of us. describing the contours of it from where we each sit is an entirely compelling, worthwhile thing. i can be fair and listen to all the stories that do not make excuses for themselves. art does not need a excuse, anyway. it never has.
Feb 17, 2010
devotion
i've been making moths all morning. more more more. and flipping through my new kiki smith books and i came across this quote-
Prints mimic what we are as humans: we are all the same and yet every one is different. I also thinks there's a spiritual power in repetition, a devotional quality, like saying rosaries.
Kiki Smith, 1998
from Prints, Books & Things
and all these little moths are made with a wood cut i did a couple years ago. i thought of it as a butterfly at the time... moving toward 'the feminine' and looking for ways to not feel embarrassed by feminine things, feminine urges or interests. and the more i look at kiki smith's work, i see her embracing feminine attributes and gestures in such an eloquent and unapologetic way... and it is very comforting. it is wholly inspiring.
and this idea of repetition is something i've had in my mind and work for a long time... wanting to repeat certain ideas, phrases, gestures, images... to build series of work that somehow hold hands with other series. this devotional quality she sees... i see it and feel it as well. and i've stumbled in to a time in life where this quality of devotion, of hope, is very much needed and appreciated and captivating for me.
making these little moths... this symbol of fragility, of mortality... i don't know what to say other than it feels like praying. little prayer flags fluttering out from me, from my fingers, and they are gone in an instant... maybe even answered in an instant.
last night, my sweetie and i were talking about art and i told him that i have hundreds of ideas for paintings and drawings and weird little sculptures and so i don't know how to choose just a few. and he said that he's always noticed that i'm at my best, that my practice flourishes, when i'm moving in a hundred directions at once... when i'm working in a way that isn't quite so spelled-out, more of a free association, bouncing back and forth between seemingly disparate images and ideas... in truth, they all fit wonderfully together underneath the same black umbrella.
it all comes down to something i've been talking about a lot lately- the ability to trust one's self. that courage.
that way of working, of moving back and forth between the maids and elsie and the anonymous girls and little kookie alice drawings and The Good Daughter series and apron portraits and now moths... it seems so natural and fluid. i don't know how i got it stuck in my head that i have to focus on one thing at one time. i've never worked that way and when i've tried, i get stuck and lost and the work itself suffers so horribly.
and so i've decided that i must somehow find a way to stop worrying and just go go go. art has no set definition. there isn't one way to do it. there is not one road to choose. all these images circle back around and influence one another, compliment one another, make each other stronger. and then the poems well up out of nowhere, another avenue of this devotion, another way of making a prayer, making a flag, making anything.
everything, all of it, is hinged. it is all my practice.
go go go.
,+22x30,+mixed+media+on+paper,+angela+simione+2010.JPG)
hymn (2)
22" x 30"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2010
Prints mimic what we are as humans: we are all the same and yet every one is different. I also thinks there's a spiritual power in repetition, a devotional quality, like saying rosaries.
Kiki Smith, 1998
from Prints, Books & Things
and all these little moths are made with a wood cut i did a couple years ago. i thought of it as a butterfly at the time... moving toward 'the feminine' and looking for ways to not feel embarrassed by feminine things, feminine urges or interests. and the more i look at kiki smith's work, i see her embracing feminine attributes and gestures in such an eloquent and unapologetic way... and it is very comforting. it is wholly inspiring.
and this idea of repetition is something i've had in my mind and work for a long time... wanting to repeat certain ideas, phrases, gestures, images... to build series of work that somehow hold hands with other series. this devotional quality she sees... i see it and feel it as well. and i've stumbled in to a time in life where this quality of devotion, of hope, is very much needed and appreciated and captivating for me.
making these little moths... this symbol of fragility, of mortality... i don't know what to say other than it feels like praying. little prayer flags fluttering out from me, from my fingers, and they are gone in an instant... maybe even answered in an instant.
last night, my sweetie and i were talking about art and i told him that i have hundreds of ideas for paintings and drawings and weird little sculptures and so i don't know how to choose just a few. and he said that he's always noticed that i'm at my best, that my practice flourishes, when i'm moving in a hundred directions at once... when i'm working in a way that isn't quite so spelled-out, more of a free association, bouncing back and forth between seemingly disparate images and ideas... in truth, they all fit wonderfully together underneath the same black umbrella.
it all comes down to something i've been talking about a lot lately- the ability to trust one's self. that courage.
that way of working, of moving back and forth between the maids and elsie and the anonymous girls and little kookie alice drawings and The Good Daughter series and apron portraits and now moths... it seems so natural and fluid. i don't know how i got it stuck in my head that i have to focus on one thing at one time. i've never worked that way and when i've tried, i get stuck and lost and the work itself suffers so horribly.
and so i've decided that i must somehow find a way to stop worrying and just go go go. art has no set definition. there isn't one way to do it. there is not one road to choose. all these images circle back around and influence one another, compliment one another, make each other stronger. and then the poems well up out of nowhere, another avenue of this devotion, another way of making a prayer, making a flag, making anything.
everything, all of it, is hinged. it is all my practice.
go go go.
,+22x30,+mixed+media+on+paper,+angela+simione+2010.JPG)
hymn (2)
22" x 30"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2010
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