this self (destroyed self portrait)
3" x 3" digitally photographed half-frame photograph
angela simione 2014
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Showing posts with label exploration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exploration. Show all posts
Feb 20, 2014
destruction/creation
.
this self (destroyed self portrait)
3" x 3" digitally photographed half-frame photograph
angela simione 2014
.
this self (destroyed self portrait)
3" x 3" digitally photographed half-frame photograph
angela simione 2014
.
Jan 7, 2014
exacerbating
.
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THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED (exacerbating 1 & 2)
photo performance
angela simione, 2014
i finished the new blanket in the very early morning hours of january 1st. i started it the day after i came home from germany 6 months ago. it's amazing to see it finished. it feels amazing to sleep below it, to hide from the sunlight that creeps into my room each morning, to dream below the teetering text that i have meditated on daily for half a year.
i can't set the idea down. THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED.
how do i need to be loved?
how do you?
i am dumbfounded and compelled in the same breath.
i'm interested in finding the line between devotion and obsession, between catharsis and self-absorption. i'm interested in the strange back and forth dance between these ideas... the odd cadence contained in the image i made tonight of my naked self seated in front of an object in took so long to create, posed for the quick snap of a camera's shutter... 6 months caught inside the flutter of a split second... devotion paired with instant gratification.
is my devotion soiled by my nudity? does my body detract from the seriousness of the process of making a blanket entirely by hand? does my skin somehow erase the beauty of my dedication? the beauty of patience? does my nudity compromise my talent for such faithfulness? and if so, why? does the blur across my face help the matter? does it ease the blow? or am i exacerbating everything and making it even harder to find an answer to the question of THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED?
do images like these make it harder for you to love me?
.
THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED (exacerbating 1 & 2)
photo performance
angela simione, 2014
i finished the new blanket in the very early morning hours of january 1st. i started it the day after i came home from germany 6 months ago. it's amazing to see it finished. it feels amazing to sleep below it, to hide from the sunlight that creeps into my room each morning, to dream below the teetering text that i have meditated on daily for half a year.
i can't set the idea down. THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED.
how do i need to be loved?
how do you?
i am dumbfounded and compelled in the same breath.
i'm interested in finding the line between devotion and obsession, between catharsis and self-absorption. i'm interested in the strange back and forth dance between these ideas... the odd cadence contained in the image i made tonight of my naked self seated in front of an object in took so long to create, posed for the quick snap of a camera's shutter... 6 months caught inside the flutter of a split second... devotion paired with instant gratification.
is my devotion soiled by my nudity? does my body detract from the seriousness of the process of making a blanket entirely by hand? does my skin somehow erase the beauty of my dedication? the beauty of patience? does my nudity compromise my talent for such faithfulness? and if so, why? does the blur across my face help the matter? does it ease the blow? or am i exacerbating everything and making it even harder to find an answer to the question of THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED?
do images like these make it harder for you to love me?
.
Sep 26, 2013
love:
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"To love a stranger as oneself implies the reverse: to love oneself as the stranger."
- Simione Weil, Gravity & Grace, p. 111
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"To love a stranger as oneself implies the reverse: to love oneself as the stranger."
- Simione Weil, Gravity & Grace, p. 111
.
Aug 9, 2013
settling in
i'm sitting in bed under my white quilt with all my clothes on, even my socks. it is a cold night. my bra is digging in to me but i don't care about getting undressed. i don't care about getting comfortable. there is a cocktail on the nightstand to the left of my bed.
when i was in Europe my phone didn't work. no voice and no text. i could connect to the internet and use it as a mini computer if there was wifi available but it was freeing to know that it wouldn't ring or buzz. i no longer spent precious time worrying if so-and-so would text. i was on my own in so many ways and, for the first time in a very long time, free to stop worrying about Time. the only actual responsibilities i had was feeding and cleaning myself. there were no other obligations to satisfy and no duties to respond to. the only Duty i had was to myself: to live as forthrightly and bravely as possible and to open my notebook whenever i could manage.
i haven't looked back at those pages yet. i want to but instead i flip through the photos i took and enjoy the sweet fermentation of memory that has already begun. the images of bridges and building in my mind are more romantic tonight than they have ever been. Berlin is a city of fairy tales. while i was there, i marveled at the great luck that had found me. there was a moment when i found myself half asleep on the small deck of a rowboat and thought to myself is this really fucking happening right now??? to me??? it was all so inexplicable and yet somehow easy. i felt at ease the second i got on my flight to new york. i felt even more at ease when i landed in Berlin a week later. i felt so secure and safe inside the world. i wasn't afraid of anything. not once. it felt honest and good to simply walk along old cobblestone roads and take pictures of the fresh graffiti that cropped up overnight in Kreuzberg. it felt honest and good to share my beer with strangers and follow them to a bonfire on the west bank of the Spree. it felt honest and good to sit at a cafe for hours and just move my pen... all my lofty thoughts and the rhythm of my heart inside this new place, this old world.
it's hard to believe that i'm already back home, already back to work, already learning a new menu and new wines. it's hard to believe that another semester of german awaits and that it is already august. 3 weeks in europe was not long enough. not nearly. not for this soft and eager heart. i fell in to the tempo of the place so quickly and felt at home so instantly that my life took on a feeling of timelessness. then suddenly, i was back at the airport trying not to think of the fact that i was already leaving. i'm glad i had a few days in new york before coming back home to california. it was a buffer of sorts. i could still pretend i was entirely free and that no timelines existed for me. i saw the Ellen Gallagher show at the New Museum my first day back. it was strange to walk through the large rooms and gaze at the work of an art heavy weight and think i'd just been at the Martin Kippenburger retrospective in Berlin 2 days before. and in the rear room of that museum, i saw the large lead airplane Anselm Kieffer constructed flanked by two of his huge paintings. it felt important and special to view his work IN germany. so laden with guilt and history and horror. it felt important and special to see Joseph Beuys' felt suit and violin case. it felt important and special to view this work with a german friend. and this all a few days after having visited the Anne Frank Haus in Amsterdam. such a heavy moment. such a heavy memory. those empty rooms... so small. i felt honored, especially as a diarist, to walk through the rooms where she lived and wrote. i felt honored to see the pages of her diary on display. the pages, so thin and so fragile that the room must be kept very dimly lit in order to slow the rate of their degradation. a man behind me started crying. i wanted to cry too but i didn't because i don't think she allowed herself to cry in those rooms either.
everything felt important and special. everything.
i have so much to say but it's all out of order. it's all mixed up and crisscrossed. maybe chronology doesn't really matter.
i thought when i got back i'd instantly start saving money in order to move to new york by the end of the year but now i can't think of anything more important than getting back out in the world and doing it all again. and next time for much, much longer than 3 weeks.
when i was in Europe my phone didn't work. no voice and no text. i could connect to the internet and use it as a mini computer if there was wifi available but it was freeing to know that it wouldn't ring or buzz. i no longer spent precious time worrying if so-and-so would text. i was on my own in so many ways and, for the first time in a very long time, free to stop worrying about Time. the only actual responsibilities i had was feeding and cleaning myself. there were no other obligations to satisfy and no duties to respond to. the only Duty i had was to myself: to live as forthrightly and bravely as possible and to open my notebook whenever i could manage.
i haven't looked back at those pages yet. i want to but instead i flip through the photos i took and enjoy the sweet fermentation of memory that has already begun. the images of bridges and building in my mind are more romantic tonight than they have ever been. Berlin is a city of fairy tales. while i was there, i marveled at the great luck that had found me. there was a moment when i found myself half asleep on the small deck of a rowboat and thought to myself is this really fucking happening right now??? to me??? it was all so inexplicable and yet somehow easy. i felt at ease the second i got on my flight to new york. i felt even more at ease when i landed in Berlin a week later. i felt so secure and safe inside the world. i wasn't afraid of anything. not once. it felt honest and good to simply walk along old cobblestone roads and take pictures of the fresh graffiti that cropped up overnight in Kreuzberg. it felt honest and good to share my beer with strangers and follow them to a bonfire on the west bank of the Spree. it felt honest and good to sit at a cafe for hours and just move my pen... all my lofty thoughts and the rhythm of my heart inside this new place, this old world.
it's hard to believe that i'm already back home, already back to work, already learning a new menu and new wines. it's hard to believe that another semester of german awaits and that it is already august. 3 weeks in europe was not long enough. not nearly. not for this soft and eager heart. i fell in to the tempo of the place so quickly and felt at home so instantly that my life took on a feeling of timelessness. then suddenly, i was back at the airport trying not to think of the fact that i was already leaving. i'm glad i had a few days in new york before coming back home to california. it was a buffer of sorts. i could still pretend i was entirely free and that no timelines existed for me. i saw the Ellen Gallagher show at the New Museum my first day back. it was strange to walk through the large rooms and gaze at the work of an art heavy weight and think i'd just been at the Martin Kippenburger retrospective in Berlin 2 days before. and in the rear room of that museum, i saw the large lead airplane Anselm Kieffer constructed flanked by two of his huge paintings. it felt important and special to view his work IN germany. so laden with guilt and history and horror. it felt important and special to see Joseph Beuys' felt suit and violin case. it felt important and special to view this work with a german friend. and this all a few days after having visited the Anne Frank Haus in Amsterdam. such a heavy moment. such a heavy memory. those empty rooms... so small. i felt honored, especially as a diarist, to walk through the rooms where she lived and wrote. i felt honored to see the pages of her diary on display. the pages, so thin and so fragile that the room must be kept very dimly lit in order to slow the rate of their degradation. a man behind me started crying. i wanted to cry too but i didn't because i don't think she allowed herself to cry in those rooms either.
everything felt important and special. everything.
i have so much to say but it's all out of order. it's all mixed up and crisscrossed. maybe chronology doesn't really matter.
i thought when i got back i'd instantly start saving money in order to move to new york by the end of the year but now i can't think of anything more important than getting back out in the world and doing it all again. and next time for much, much longer than 3 weeks.
Aug 6, 2013
everything is new
.
20 hours of travel, a delayed flight, a diverted flight, sleeping on the floor of SFO as i waited for the first trains to begin running. it was a long walk home that morning but i didn't mind. it was the first time i'd put my earbuds in in a month. i was the first time music had coursed through me in lock step with my fast-beating heart. it was the first time in a month that i was able to lock in to myself, only myself, like masterbation, no one else, no distractions, no concerns, no muttering in the distance. i had been outside myself for an entire month. i had been in the wind, in the sun, within a language that floored me and made me its' servant. gladly (gerne). i'd been so outside myself for an entire month that it seemed impossible to find myself walking along familiar roads. a part of me was still in Berlin, crossing the Oberbaum Brucke, not crossing Shattuck Ave in Oakland, California.
as i came closer to my house, a dirty, discarded chair came in to view. no cushions, abandonned on the side of the road. "ahhh... a canvas..." i thought. a canvas. i didn't know how badly i needed one until i saw one. i went inside and grabbed my big, black marker. "yes. perfection. the first thing i will do upon arriving in oakland is write on the street", i told myself, "this is the only real beauty. this is the only gesture i have." i thought of my beloved bridge in Kreuzbeg and my heart ached something awful. where had my endless waters gone? i thought of David Wojnarowicz and his plea that we live life like it actually fucking matters. i thought of his refrain. i scrawled it quick in fat print:
yes i will. i fucking promise.
it's so hard to believe a week has already gone by since i've been home. there is so much to say... it will come as it is able.
yesterday evening, i stood in my dark kitchen and watched a man cross the street to take a picture of the abandoned chair. the sun obscured the image and he kicked the chair in a half circle there on the corner to get it out of the glare. i watched him the entire time. it was a moment of quiet happiness. it was a moment of connection to another human being. i have no idea what to label the work i do that happens in the street. i very rarely think of it as ART. or rather, ART isn't even the consideration. i think of these things as Signs. as a Cry. it was wonderful to be able to witness my cry being heard. not only heard, but echoed in the heart of another. i felt unbelievably lucky.
i am happy to stretch out in my white room and see the reflection of my body flash in the armoir mirror. i am happy to make coffee in my kitchen and spend the first 2 hours of the day scribbling in my diary. i am happy to have a washer and drier at my disposal. but i assure you, 3 weeks overseas was definitely not enough. all my plans have changed. my ideas are totally shattered. i have no answers and all of my goals have been flung far and wide.
.
20 hours of travel, a delayed flight, a diverted flight, sleeping on the floor of SFO as i waited for the first trains to begin running. it was a long walk home that morning but i didn't mind. it was the first time i'd put my earbuds in in a month. i was the first time music had coursed through me in lock step with my fast-beating heart. it was the first time in a month that i was able to lock in to myself, only myself, like masterbation, no one else, no distractions, no concerns, no muttering in the distance. i had been outside myself for an entire month. i had been in the wind, in the sun, within a language that floored me and made me its' servant. gladly (gerne). i'd been so outside myself for an entire month that it seemed impossible to find myself walking along familiar roads. a part of me was still in Berlin, crossing the Oberbaum Brucke, not crossing Shattuck Ave in Oakland, California.
as i came closer to my house, a dirty, discarded chair came in to view. no cushions, abandonned on the side of the road. "ahhh... a canvas..." i thought. a canvas. i didn't know how badly i needed one until i saw one. i went inside and grabbed my big, black marker. "yes. perfection. the first thing i will do upon arriving in oakland is write on the street", i told myself, "this is the only real beauty. this is the only gesture i have." i thought of my beloved bridge in Kreuzbeg and my heart ached something awful. where had my endless waters gone? i thought of David Wojnarowicz and his plea that we live life like it actually fucking matters. i thought of his refrain. i scrawled it quick in fat print:
yes i will. i fucking promise.
it's so hard to believe a week has already gone by since i've been home. there is so much to say... it will come as it is able.
yesterday evening, i stood in my dark kitchen and watched a man cross the street to take a picture of the abandoned chair. the sun obscured the image and he kicked the chair in a half circle there on the corner to get it out of the glare. i watched him the entire time. it was a moment of quiet happiness. it was a moment of connection to another human being. i have no idea what to label the work i do that happens in the street. i very rarely think of it as ART. or rather, ART isn't even the consideration. i think of these things as Signs. as a Cry. it was wonderful to be able to witness my cry being heard. not only heard, but echoed in the heart of another. i felt unbelievably lucky.
i am happy to stretch out in my white room and see the reflection of my body flash in the armoir mirror. i am happy to make coffee in my kitchen and spend the first 2 hours of the day scribbling in my diary. i am happy to have a washer and drier at my disposal. but i assure you, 3 weeks overseas was definitely not enough. all my plans have changed. my ideas are totally shattered. i have no answers and all of my goals have been flung far and wide.
.
Mar 27, 2013
this love
when i think of what came before
nothing seems real.
i stretch my legs in front of me
and i try to see my legs as a i once did:
my appendages as Infant, as child-like
rather than womanly
i stretch my legs in front of me and think of my childhood
my Child-Self.
i try to identify.
i feel a kinship but not a symbiosis.
my Self is not mirrored back.
i think of my child-self and know that i have grown
i think of your eyes
how they reach
how they exceed.
they exceed the best of me.
i will never be as beautiful as you.
i will never be
as smart.
look in to me.
watch me stretch my legs.
put your hands on me
like a willing tithe
like a seashell
the rolling ocean, welcoming
all we cannot utter.
bang your conscience against me
like an otter does
the captured shell against the rock
and speak to me as a prophet might
if my legs were stretched wide enough.
.
Jan 23, 2013
investigate, over and over again
.
i was given a camera for my birthday back in september. i am experimenting. it feels fantastic.
untitled self portraits
8" x 12" each
half frame photography collage
angela simione, 2013
.
i was given a camera for my birthday back in september. i am experimenting. it feels fantastic.
untitled self portraits
8" x 12" each
half frame photography collage
angela simione, 2013
.
Nov 20, 2012
the voodoo that you do so well
i am wiped out. 5 days in new york is a whirlwind experience. especially when things like swizzels and pickle backs are involved. good lord. my liver must hate me... but my diary sure loves me. ;) there are tons of things i will write about but i think they're better off confined to the nebulous curves of poetry and prose than a blog post. at least for now. besides, i'm still trying to re-acclimate to being home. this time around, i was actually ready to come back to oakland. i wanted my own bed and my friends and my music. i wanted more than two pairs of pants and two tshirts. i wanted to sit for a minute and write. i really have gotten to a place where if i go for more than a day or two without writing i begin to feel very anxious, very displaced. i need the slip of ink to reel me back in to the Here and Now. words hold me in place. they hold me together. it isn't enough to take pictures. i need a deeper sort of record. i need a place where i can roll around with my experiences. i need the license of poetry, the lens of art and romance, the flex and freedom of language itself. on my last night in new york i finally got to sit and write for a beautiful hour and a half inside a diner in the Bowery. i had fish and chips and a pina colada for dinner but ordering food was really just a smoke screen for claiming a warm place to scribble. it was so cold that night. the air was frozen and it shot right through the front of my jeans to sting my thighs horribly. i am not used to a little thing known as the wind-chill factor. california doesn't have that shit. not even close. and that shit is real. not just real, but really ridiculous. it can basically make an otherwise pleasant evening feel like the 7th circle of hell. several new yorkers laughed at me for my reaction to the cold. apparently, it was warm there for this time of year. hooooollllly moley! it doesn't necessarily curb my desire to live there though, i'll just need a better wardrobe. my leather jacket wasn't the best foil to such weather. i was ill-prepared at best. my return trip did work to cure me of my love-sickness for New York though and i am thankful for that. i was so heart broken after coming home last time. this time, i cruised the streets less frantically and with far less need to hunt down a reckoning. i felt at ease this time. i knew that i could come back and would come back. i knew that it isn't as hard as people make it seem. an inexplicable thing happened: i ran in to a girl i went to art-school with in this tiny tiki bar called Otto's Shrunken Head in the Lower East Side. she moved to Brooklyn a year ago and just so happened to shoot over to the city that night. i walked in the bar and heard someone call my name and it wasn't my friend anne. fucking wild! she and i had studios right across the hall from each other in school! small weird world! and anne and i had just been stumbling around directionless in Brooklyn earlier than day! we watched a musical tribute to Queen and drank pina coladas and ate voodoo chips at the bar. in fact, it was these particular pina coladas that got me to order a pina colada at the diner in the Bowery. i haven't had one in years but something about the chill in the air and being with a great friend in New York City and feeling completely at rest, completely free and festive made ordering such a drink make perfect sense. as a child i used to always order virgin pina coladas whenever my family would go out to a restaurant for dinner. it wasn't that often so the drink seemed so special to me. it felt right to revisit that feeling in New York.
pina coladas
voodoo chips
drunken bathroom portrait photography
Jul 3, 2010
May 3, 2010
partnership
i've been thinking a lot lately about diptychs and triptychs... pairs of images or a small collection of images that, though they might seem disparate, are not. and how the audience, the viewer, is very important is helping create narrative... that maybe i'm more of a guide or suggestive force than an artist who aspires to giving concrete answers. that i could set up an environment, a point A and point B, and then relinquish control; let the viewer "draw" the line between the two points:
Feb 28, 2010
call
last night i started reading 'a thousand plateaus' by deleuze and guattari of all things. i've been thinking of the book for weeks, feeling there's information somewhere inside this monster that i can use. especially after accepting the schizophrenic nature of my practice as a whole. the multiple personalities of it. the splintering. the fragments. the shattering that occurs almost daily. and then after reading The Bell Ringer, i saw that the act of sweeping up all the fragments, all the splinters, in to a pile and calling it a human that that is what my art practice is and has always been about. a collection of evidences. the appearance of the images i make only seem disparate. how they are produced - oil, graphite, collage, embroidery - accounts for this difference but they all are hauled up from the same deep well. so i will haul them up and lay them out to dry and work work work and take a peak at all these things in a couple weeks or maybe a couple months and see what i've got staring back at me. i'll see the red thread later when all these images are spread across the living room floor. not a second sooner. for now- just the taking in of ideas and information. deleuze and guattari paired with aase berg and angela pnueman and angela carter and rebecca loudon and hans christian andersen and patti smith and banks violette and ed ruscha and kiki smith and anna gaskel and gerhard richter and alice in wonderland. take it in, take it in, take it in and then go draw. don't worry about it just yet. don't think too hard about it. just draw. the drawing will help me process all these things. it always has if i just let it. i have such a fire of ideas in me right now. such a tremendous and beautiful burn. beyond smoldering. way beyond. i don't need to know where i'm going, i just need to GO! and this morning i stayed in bed for an hour after i woke up just thinking about art and the articles i've read recently and all the poetry and i thought "maybe art is more about noticing things- the connections or discrepancies and anomalies and fissures, not saying something concrete". and that thought felt right and made me feel good. i got out of bed then and poured my coffee and went outside in to this cold sunday, this last day of february, and wrote wrote wrote on my frigid stoop outside the front door.
good morning. :)
good morning. :)
Feb 27, 2010
Jan 8, 2010
process...
the sky is gone white. the fog will not burn today.
i am painting. black oil all over the big canvasses. all over and the scent fills my home. lovely. luscious.
i am clear today- slow, involved in method, proceeding in increments; thoughtfully. the process is a wise dictator, uninterested in torture. stop trying for control you don't have and just follow the scent.
there are a million nuances to give myself over to. there are shadows within shadows. it isn't scrutiny. i've been using the wrong word this whole time. it is not scrutiny, it is recognition. it is acknowledgement. see post below called ghosts. thank you alanna and elisabeth. black and black and thin layers of sepia.
breathe.
slow.
what is love?
practice it here, girl. practice loyalty... acceptance... acknowledgement... patience... control only your self, find the rhythm, the scent, the burn beneath the fog. and go.
i am painting. black oil all over the big canvasses. all over and the scent fills my home. lovely. luscious.
i am clear today- slow, involved in method, proceeding in increments; thoughtfully. the process is a wise dictator, uninterested in torture. stop trying for control you don't have and just follow the scent.
there are a million nuances to give myself over to. there are shadows within shadows. it isn't scrutiny. i've been using the wrong word this whole time. it is not scrutiny, it is recognition. it is acknowledgement. see post below called ghosts. thank you alanna and elisabeth. black and black and thin layers of sepia.
breathe.
slow.
what is love?
practice it here, girl. practice loyalty... acceptance... acknowledgement... patience... control only your self, find the rhythm, the scent, the burn beneath the fog. and go.
Oct 30, 2009
big and small and all the things in between that drive a person nuts...
lately i've been feeling like i've got way too much time on my hands and not nearly enough time on my hands to accomplish all the things i've got planned for myself. simultaneously, yes. two total opposites (seemingly) experienced at once.
it's a very strange and limiting thing but i think most artists go through this. we sit and stare at all our goals and try to find ways to achieve these things all the while feeling like there's never enough time, that we haven't worked hard enough, OR that we've worked so hard so why are those goals still so far away. it really is enough to drive a person crazy. really. and i noticed i've somehow managed to get wrapped up in that crazy train of thought. AGAIN. geez.
no wonder i feel like there's not enough time when i've wasted hours agonizing over how little time there is instead of WORKING. today i noticed that during the course of the last year or so i've subconsciously imposed some pretty huge and stupid limits on my practice: a painter PAINTS. that one. and that's all fine and good if painting is all you want to do but painting isn't all i want to do. my practice has always been so much larger than that, so much more inclusive and welcoming and interested in different forms, different approaches, different methods. art is art. that's been my outlook and it has served me so well. i'd get some slightly stupid or childish or funny idea in my head and just run with it. i'd try it out. and more often than not, that "stupid" idea would end up being poignant, being something that i was proud of and that fulfilled me. i feel like i've somehow gotten off track with that... gotten too "serious", too limited by genre or form.
i want my practice to be wide-open. why did i start thinking that that was bad or dumb or useless or whateverthehell i thought it was that made me stop approaching my work that way? and i think it's because i put a ton of pressure on myself to reach the goals that come down from The Outside. i somehow fell in to the trap of thinking i'm a failure because i haven't accomplished X,Y, and Z, and that's just silly. that's masochistic. the more i think about these things, the more i realize that maybe i don't want "the dream"... the dream we're told to want. maybe my dream is a bit different, slides a bit to the side. i want to enjoy this life, not constantly chase some ideal that i don't even know i want for myself.
it comes down to TIME- how i use it, how i want to use it, how my use of it satisfies me or doesn't. i feel like i've been trying to cram myself inside someone else's expectations. no wonder i feel out of sorts and that there's never enough hours in the day. i want to paint and i want to write and i also want to crochet and embroider and draw. i want THAT practice. look at roni horn's practice. look at kiki smith. look at annette messager or tracey emin or gerhard richter even.
i don't want to fall in to making some type of antiquated hierarchy about the value of different art forms. painting is NOT higher or more relevant that any other form. that's an idea that needs to be completely scrapped. that's an idea that is self-sabotaging and limits an artists' exploration and investigation and ability to LEARN, to SEE. at least for me it is.
somewhere along the line i managed to cram myself back in that box where painting became king and if i didn't spend everyday painting and instead wanted to crochet or write or draw i felt like i was fucking up. but i know better that THAT! way better! and i don't know why i looked away from this knowledge... maybe i've been distracted and worried and just wrapped up in other things to notice that i stopped feeding my practice with the very things that makes it thrive: variety, curiosity, playfulness.
the gratitude fridge helped me realize this. it really did. i used to do kookie things like that left and right and had absolutely no problem calling it art. i noticed i had a problem referring to that project as art. and so i'm going to correct this. it doesn't take much. it takes reading a bit of Roland Barthes and paying attention to what the work is actually saying instead of imposing outside desires on it. looking at the work of artists who have embraced a more inclusive, wide-open practice is also a good move. basically, trusting the work again. trusting the road, the practice.
it's a life's work. when i look at that fact i realize there aren't a whole lot of rules about how to do this. there aren't any shoulds or shouldn'ts, there's just living it. time. ways to spend time that are honorable and gracious and ways that aren't. that's the better choice rather than wondering if it's "right" for me to spend some time crocheting today vs. painting. it's all art. it's all necessary.
it's a very strange and limiting thing but i think most artists go through this. we sit and stare at all our goals and try to find ways to achieve these things all the while feeling like there's never enough time, that we haven't worked hard enough, OR that we've worked so hard so why are those goals still so far away. it really is enough to drive a person crazy. really. and i noticed i've somehow managed to get wrapped up in that crazy train of thought. AGAIN. geez.
no wonder i feel like there's not enough time when i've wasted hours agonizing over how little time there is instead of WORKING. today i noticed that during the course of the last year or so i've subconsciously imposed some pretty huge and stupid limits on my practice: a painter PAINTS. that one. and that's all fine and good if painting is all you want to do but painting isn't all i want to do. my practice has always been so much larger than that, so much more inclusive and welcoming and interested in different forms, different approaches, different methods. art is art. that's been my outlook and it has served me so well. i'd get some slightly stupid or childish or funny idea in my head and just run with it. i'd try it out. and more often than not, that "stupid" idea would end up being poignant, being something that i was proud of and that fulfilled me. i feel like i've somehow gotten off track with that... gotten too "serious", too limited by genre or form.
i want my practice to be wide-open. why did i start thinking that that was bad or dumb or useless or whateverthehell i thought it was that made me stop approaching my work that way? and i think it's because i put a ton of pressure on myself to reach the goals that come down from The Outside. i somehow fell in to the trap of thinking i'm a failure because i haven't accomplished X,Y, and Z, and that's just silly. that's masochistic. the more i think about these things, the more i realize that maybe i don't want "the dream"... the dream we're told to want. maybe my dream is a bit different, slides a bit to the side. i want to enjoy this life, not constantly chase some ideal that i don't even know i want for myself.
it comes down to TIME- how i use it, how i want to use it, how my use of it satisfies me or doesn't. i feel like i've been trying to cram myself inside someone else's expectations. no wonder i feel out of sorts and that there's never enough hours in the day. i want to paint and i want to write and i also want to crochet and embroider and draw. i want THAT practice. look at roni horn's practice. look at kiki smith. look at annette messager or tracey emin or gerhard richter even.
i don't want to fall in to making some type of antiquated hierarchy about the value of different art forms. painting is NOT higher or more relevant that any other form. that's an idea that needs to be completely scrapped. that's an idea that is self-sabotaging and limits an artists' exploration and investigation and ability to LEARN, to SEE. at least for me it is.
somewhere along the line i managed to cram myself back in that box where painting became king and if i didn't spend everyday painting and instead wanted to crochet or write or draw i felt like i was fucking up. but i know better that THAT! way better! and i don't know why i looked away from this knowledge... maybe i've been distracted and worried and just wrapped up in other things to notice that i stopped feeding my practice with the very things that makes it thrive: variety, curiosity, playfulness.
the gratitude fridge helped me realize this. it really did. i used to do kookie things like that left and right and had absolutely no problem calling it art. i noticed i had a problem referring to that project as art. and so i'm going to correct this. it doesn't take much. it takes reading a bit of Roland Barthes and paying attention to what the work is actually saying instead of imposing outside desires on it. looking at the work of artists who have embraced a more inclusive, wide-open practice is also a good move. basically, trusting the work again. trusting the road, the practice.
it's a life's work. when i look at that fact i realize there aren't a whole lot of rules about how to do this. there aren't any shoulds or shouldn'ts, there's just living it. time. ways to spend time that are honorable and gracious and ways that aren't. that's the better choice rather than wondering if it's "right" for me to spend some time crocheting today vs. painting. it's all art. it's all necessary.
Feb 17, 2009
lovely...
it's 6:30 in the morning... still dark outside, still raining. but the sky is trying to fall away from prussian and reach for periwinkle. i've been up all night painting. lucky girl.
i love it when this happens and i love it that i'm able to cater to the work this way... to forget about clocks and schedules and just follow the concept, follow the aesthetic, follow my love for this. it's definitely worth being tired later. besides, i've got tons of coffee at the ready anyhow.
the shock of all the wonderful things that have happened since the start of this year (and even just since quitting my job) has been hugely inspiring. i'm excited about everything and don't mind the struggle. i've cleared out the house, made a ton of extra space and, tonight/today, have spread out my canvasses and paper and just decided to be brave. i realized i had somehow reverted back to that horrible place of feeling precious about the work... afraid of fucking up. not good and i know better than that. no risk = no exploration, no breakthrough, no surprise, no poetry. but tonight, gladly and finally, i got myself out of that viciousness.
sometimes the night is just too short. as soon as the sun peeks out from behind our tall forest, i'll feel tired. i'll pull the curtains closed and go back to ignoring the clock a while longer, revel in this wonderful, freeing silence and push around my oil. i don't know when my sweetheart will be waking up but i think i'll go ahead and put some coffee on for myself and some music too. beck's 'seachange' maybe. i feel nostalgic for the world, full of sweet fantasies and memories and still quite eager for my paint.
i love it when this happens and i love it that i'm able to cater to the work this way... to forget about clocks and schedules and just follow the concept, follow the aesthetic, follow my love for this. it's definitely worth being tired later. besides, i've got tons of coffee at the ready anyhow.
the shock of all the wonderful things that have happened since the start of this year (and even just since quitting my job) has been hugely inspiring. i'm excited about everything and don't mind the struggle. i've cleared out the house, made a ton of extra space and, tonight/today, have spread out my canvasses and paper and just decided to be brave. i realized i had somehow reverted back to that horrible place of feeling precious about the work... afraid of fucking up. not good and i know better than that. no risk = no exploration, no breakthrough, no surprise, no poetry. but tonight, gladly and finally, i got myself out of that viciousness.
sometimes the night is just too short. as soon as the sun peeks out from behind our tall forest, i'll feel tired. i'll pull the curtains closed and go back to ignoring the clock a while longer, revel in this wonderful, freeing silence and push around my oil. i don't know when my sweetheart will be waking up but i think i'll go ahead and put some coffee on for myself and some music too. beck's 'seachange' maybe. i feel nostalgic for the world, full of sweet fantasies and memories and still quite eager for my paint.
Jan 6, 2009
there's just something about black and white...
i know, i know... i'm supposed to be trying for a bit of color inclusion in my work these days but, honestly, i'm getting ready to just scrap that idea completely. at least for now. it's just not the right time. my heart's just not in it and i feel like it's pretty apparent. and one thing is for certain, i never want to fall in to that horrible habit of doing work just to do it or satisfy someone else's desires. the work, at very least, needs to be sincere. good or bad, it doesn't matter as long as sincerity is evident in the work. and that's not something that can be faked.
and at this point, the reason i've not posted any of the more recent oil paintings is because well... there aren't any to show. they are all half-finished, half-hearted attempts to move away from my beloved black and white and i just can't keep moving in that direction. that is a shift that needs to happen naturally in the course of my practice and i'm just not there yet. i am more interested in exploring the subtleties of color, the way a black and white approach can suggest color, than actual using color. i'm sure than sounds a bit strange or nonsensical but it's where i'm at with this work. dealing with the huge issues of loss and trauma, and their influence within the identity project, just feels a bit contrary to color... at least at this stage of the game.
i'm happy with my black ink and black paint. i'm happy with my white thread and white paper. the work has an elegance to it which is a wonderful surprise considering the somewhat sad nature of the ideas being explored. i'm completely satisfied with the works on paper and the redaction pieces and i need to trust the work and follow it's lead.
even something as simple as this piece...
"pictured window"
6" x 3 3/4"
redacted book page
2008
...speaks so beautifully and elegantly about loss (and the poetry that can be found within the event of loss) that i feel compelled to keep up my current approach to exploring these ideas. i feel like i am on the right track here and i'm excited to see where it takes me. process has become an ever-increasingly important aspect of my practice that even the silliest experiments in the studio end up being such a thoughtful and genuine experience that i'm inclined to stop second-guessing my instincts.
p.s. lots of new stuff in the shop these days. everything from doll collections to home invasions to redoute-inspired botanicals. check it out when you've got a few minutes and let me know what you think. thanks!
and at this point, the reason i've not posted any of the more recent oil paintings is because well... there aren't any to show. they are all half-finished, half-hearted attempts to move away from my beloved black and white and i just can't keep moving in that direction. that is a shift that needs to happen naturally in the course of my practice and i'm just not there yet. i am more interested in exploring the subtleties of color, the way a black and white approach can suggest color, than actual using color. i'm sure than sounds a bit strange or nonsensical but it's where i'm at with this work. dealing with the huge issues of loss and trauma, and their influence within the identity project, just feels a bit contrary to color... at least at this stage of the game.
i'm happy with my black ink and black paint. i'm happy with my white thread and white paper. the work has an elegance to it which is a wonderful surprise considering the somewhat sad nature of the ideas being explored. i'm completely satisfied with the works on paper and the redaction pieces and i need to trust the work and follow it's lead.
even something as simple as this piece...
"pictured window"
6" x 3 3/4"
redacted book page
2008
...speaks so beautifully and elegantly about loss (and the poetry that can be found within the event of loss) that i feel compelled to keep up my current approach to exploring these ideas. i feel like i am on the right track here and i'm excited to see where it takes me. process has become an ever-increasingly important aspect of my practice that even the silliest experiments in the studio end up being such a thoughtful and genuine experience that i'm inclined to stop second-guessing my instincts.
p.s. lots of new stuff in the shop these days. everything from doll collections to home invasions to redoute-inspired botanicals. check it out when you've got a few minutes and let me know what you think. thanks!
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