work and repose

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nothing like a little semi-nude photography to get the evening started with a bang.  :)  

i had the day off and i spent it almost entirely in bed crocheting.  it's been wonderful.  no make-up, no schedule, no other agenda other than art-making.  days like this remind me of the goodness of my life and to be thankful for the wide-open freedom it contains.  this type of devotion - the slow progress of hand-made textiles - is a luxury.  it requires an expanse of time most people seem not to have or to not allow themselves even if they do.  there are lawns to be mowed and cars to be washed and another trip to the grocery store.  there is always something that must be tended to.  weekends lose their glamour easily.  and then there's that awful fatigue that finds us all from time to time...  that feeling that the effort simply isn't worth it, that what we have to say is stupid and that our loves (and lives) are somehow Lesser Than.  but not today.  today i was able to relish this moment of calm methodology.  i twisted the yarn around the hook and lost myself in the rhythm of the pattern.  i let my mind wander.  i let myself dream.  i let myself enjoy this quietude.  i've needed it.  there's so much to process.  especially since the trip.  

in less than 2 weeks i'll be 33.  my jesus birthday is here.  it's so strange to think of my age.  i feel like no age really fits.  what does it mean to feel a certain age?  no number seems to hold some sort of unnameable secret, nor does it belie any type of truth about an individual.  still, it does seem to ring true that the 30s are an era in which an individual truly does come in to their own.  at least it has been for me thus far.  the loop of time gets me thinking about my life and where i want to take this next year of my existence.  it's the ritual of growth, i suppose: another season opens, another season closes.  i re-read certain entries in the diary.  i leaf through the record of this wild, unimaginably good year and marvel at how different my life is; there is hardly any resemblance between my life now and what it was 2 years ago. for my birthday last year, i took myself to new york for the very first time.  that trip set in motion an entire wealth of changes, an entirely new outlook on life and a desire to live it as fully as possible, as true to myself as possible.  in the year that has elapsed since, i've been to new york four times and managed to take myself to europe.  it doesn't seem possible!  it seems like someone else's life i'm talking about here!  it amazes me that I got to do these things and pursue this path!  i'm still processing the effects and meaning of Travel.  i'm not even sure how to write about it yet...  it instantly changes a person.  i'm trying to settle back in to my life here in california but i don't want to somehow obscure the changes that have taken place within me.  rather, i'm trying to find a site of stillness, some sort of silence that will allow these changes to rise to the surface of my being and blossom. 

while i was gone, i thought of the next blanket i would make.  i'm glad to be working on it now.  

paint/draw/make/write/dance your ass off, girl

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something beautiful and curious

have you seen these photographs of frances bean cobain?

today, try again.

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

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

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

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

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

i remind myself that the point is to try.





don't you give up either.

rainy day

tap tap tap on the roof and windows, i pace back and forth. i crochet black roses and pray the sky will clear. i want to get out and run around the lake. i want to sweat and breathe hard and feel my feet pounding against the dirt. i go through my german flashcards (yes, i am totally so nerdy as to have flashcards), and listen to the angles of this beautiful language. the tones and foreign lilts coming out of my own mouth. it adds a new breed of romance to my life. a new shape and desire. and kate's book is here next to me. it came in the mail the other day and i am loving every second of it, every page. all her writing reaches into me and pulls out so many hidden things. her writing makes me write. her work makes me want my own even more than i already do. the work of others has always amplified and accelerated my drive. i go back and forth between reading and writing, turning her pages and turning out my own. tap tap tap on the keys and the rain on the windows.

RULE 7

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heart

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anais nin's first name is angela. this comforts me to no end.


i am glad it is february. one of my favorite days is only two weeks away. :)

just work

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remember...

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morning anthem

connecting

last night i finished reading The Passport by Herta Muller and then immediately started reading The North China Lover by Marguerite Duras. this is a lucky and perfect pairing of work. the forms involved! Muller's non-chapter way of writing, the whole work broken up in to fragments. tiny short stories with a title centered over-head. and the entire book worms this way. back and forth between the present, memories. persistent memories. and sorrow. sorrow so deep, so confusing, reality bends. a clock on the wall becoming an evil portent. delicious writing. all the more delicious due to her use of simple words. fragmented sentences that make your breath irregular. and then Duras. lovely, aching Duras. no chapters here either. just spaces in the page. and some paragraphs are written in poetry forms rather than paragraphs of prose. back and forth, winding through tempos, such perfect companions. i'm on page 72.

this morning is cold. i have a cup of english breakfast tea with nothing in it. but it is hot, naturally sweet, a beautiful and simple taste. completely different than coffee. and an unforeseen welcome change in my morning routine.

yesterday, i crocheted almost all day long. there is something about the soft black of yarn paired with the soft black of graphite that has caught my heart. it has my complete attention. and maybe the action of these modes of making too- one mark at a time: drawing. one stitch at a time: crochet. some sort of very personal, very intimate mapping. and although the textile work hides the "hand" of the maker, the anonymity of the stitches seems poignant to me. when i hang a drawing next to one of the crochet pieces, a very beautiful dialogue erupts. something unexpected and i feel so compelled by it. not only to follow this route, but as a looker. when i look at the work, i feel compelled to keep looking at it. there is a mystery in it maybe. or some type of honest land being built. or navigated through. and this is a wonderful feeling. it feels like finally telling the truth. like letting go of an old, hard secret.

a few days ago i was driving and decided to listen to Post by Bjork. i hadn't listened to it in years and it used to be one of my favorite cds. i popped it in the cd player and turned the volume up loud. music has become important to me again. out of nowhere. for a long time, music stopped being important to me and i felt very sad - almost ashamed - of that fact. and it was also a Loss. music was my very first love as a child. music and words. i found opportunities to sing in secret every chance i could. singing- a safe room. and song 2 on the disk began. it had always made tears well up in my eyes and make my throat tighten. something about this song had always called up a swell of deep emotion. so deep, i have no clue the origin. and it happened again, like no time had passed. i steered the car with tears in my eyes and a runny nose. i didn't try to stop myself. i let the song reach in and pull out whatever it wanted to. and when the song ended and the next began, i felt wide open and unafraid of the world.

then i thought the line that calls up all that emotion is my most perfect artist statement:

i go through all this
before you wake up
so i can feel happier,
to be safe up here with you.

play it loud. this is the song:







.

here's your jam!!!!

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GO!

today

simple pleasures today. coffee and my cold morning stoop. the forest ahead. the squabbling squirrels. the pen. the notebook.

all these, in their own soft and quiet way, are a confrontation with mortality. and there is a sweep of gratitude in that. a way to secure a deep and abiding thankfulness. i begin to see FAILURE isn't even real. no such thing. except maybe giving up. just that. only that. everything else are steps and branches.

"Even if i knew tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree."

- Martin Luther

or orange tree or pear tree or cherry tree or avocado tree or banana tree or pineapple tree or fig tree or or or or...




write your poems, girls and boys. whatever form they take.

EXACTLY!!!!!!

stumbled across this piece by Keri Smith, part of her Artist's Survival Kit project. wonderful! wonderful!! wonderful!!!

LOVELY!

received these AMAZING images from my friend jose today. 19th century tribesmen from tierra del fuego. absolutely beautiful! bask in the gorgeousness!!!!

yes please!

"I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself."

-Claes Oldenburg

secrets and Kate Zambreno and DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR DAUGHTERS ARE?

i have now read Kate Zambreno's book O Fallen Angel twice. both times, in one hot shot all the way through. both times out loud. and i'm going to tell you how wonderful it is very soon but i'm still letting it run through me, digest it and see the connections: Wal-mart and Wife Swap and Baudelaire. yes, Baudelaire! because your book finally slung that in to place, it now makes sense, the imaginary land we traverse. yes. "the banality of evil". these pervasive horrors. horrors with a little h. it's like trying to see the air. it's all around you, it's in you. how do you stop gulping it down?

but for now... the best thing i can give you, Kate, by way of endorsement and appreciation, by way of showcasing gratitude is to show you what you've inspired. because isn't that the best testament of how wonderful your work is? that you made me think and you made me feel and you made me laugh and you made me read your book TWICE IN ONE DAMN WEEK and you made me write write write. because it's important to let you know that i know that Mommy too. i've met a lot of Mommies. and i know the horrors that twist through the suburbs, the creeping gross things that are ignored, minimized, squelched, the OH, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF! IT'S NOT THAT BAD! and all the deceptions that smear a person's face. all the tragedies that get swept away, filed away, because the community's standards of decency will not tolerate such words. because THIS IS THE SUBURBS! NOTHING BAD EVER HAPPENS HERE!

as pervasive as air.


this is an excerpt from The Letter i'm writing... part of what i wrote today. still raw, still running in so many directions at once, but it is a purge. the broken dam. i'm sure you'll see your touch on it. it is my tribute to your ideas and fearlessness. it is a huge, huge THANK YOU!

buy her book.







excerpt:





and they'd say L.A. IS JUST A SHINIER VERSION OF EVERYWHERE ELSE and WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO TO SEATTLE? SEATTLE IS A DIRTY HIPPIE MESS! and THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE IN NEW YORK BUT BUMS DYING ON THE SIDEWALK and SAN FRANCISCO IS WHERE ALL THE FAGS ARE! WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO THERE? ARE YOU A FAG TOO? FAGS ROT IN HELL!

and so in San Francisco, i saw the films of Sadie Benning. and i wasn't at all impressed. not one bit. none of this was News to me. because i was poor and i already knew all of this. i had already SAID all of this. i had notebooks full of it. and i was poor and in a class that wasn't really built to hold that particular wealth of knowledge, and i knew all the hate all the anger all the injustice all the everything Sadie Benning was talking about. i already knew what it was to be Outside- because poor people burn in hell too, just like a pack of FAGS. especially in high school. HA! HA! HA! YOU'RE WEARING THE WRONG SHOES! HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK AT ANGELA'S SHOES! SHE'S GOT FAKE DOC MARTENS! DID YOU GET THOSE FROM PAY-LESS? HA! HA! HA! and OH MY GOD! IS YOUR SHIRT HOME-MADE? HA! HA! HA! but i looked around the classroom. i looked around at the faces of the other students and the face of the teacher and i saw how taken aback they were that a young girl would say such things, such unpleasant things, so full of spite and resentment and refusal. i saw the sweep of astonishment spread across their faces and their mouths drop down in long O's when she said YEAH, I AM GONNA DITCH SCHOOL AGAIN TOMORROW. WHO'S GONNA STOP ME? and the Horror! the Amazement! and they said there is eloquence and honesty here. and all i could think was but but but. because i had said these same words. i had made identical statements. over and over again. and i assure you, my mother did not think it "eloquent and honest" no. and even though i wasn't lesbian, i sure was accused of it a lot. baggy clothes and combat boots and NO MAKE-UP and NO BOYFRIEND. and they threw food at Jose during lunch time because he was A FUCKING FAGGOT and none of the teachers ever put a stop to it because he was A FUCKING FAGGOT and because he was A FUCKING MEXICAN and this was all going down in a lily-white republican suburb in California. and WHY ARE YOU HANGING OUT WITH HIM? ARE YOU A FAGGOT TOO? ARE YOU A NIGGER LOVER? HE'S A FUCKING SAND NIGGER. ANGELA IS A NIGGER LOVER! ANGELA IS A NIGGER LOVER! HA! HA! HA! and in the suburbs: friends getting fucked by their daddies, friends getting raped by their daddies and their mommies ignoring it, friends getting ignored by their mommies, their mommies deserving a little F-U-N, young girls sleeping with full grown men for small bags of speed, friends stealing other friends TVs for small bags of speed, 15 year old girls getting pregnant and losing their babies at the 8th month because their parents were doing speed too. and the poor girl (god bless and keep you, Jackie) couldn't quit with her parents snorting lines right in front of her scared, sweet face. couldn't quit with those lines those lines those lines stacked up so nicely on a dirty tabloid magazine on the dirty coffee table:

i heard the ambulance coming and it turned up the road and it stopped in front of Jackie's house.

Jackie and i had met in the 6th grade. both new kids. both poor kids. both unbearably shy and sweet and never ever talking back. and then the day came when all the little children had to line up and get their head checked by the school nurse. LICE OUTBREAK! and one by one, the little children filed out. and one by one, they came back. unless they had been INFESTED WITH LICE! the dirty person's disease! you knew who had it because they didn't come back to class. and Jackie did not come back to class that day. and i wanted to cry. i kept watching the door, hoping to see her, hoping hoping hoping no no no. and she never came back and the refrain began: ANGELA, WHERE'S YOUR FRIEND? HA! HA! HA! ANGELA IS FRIENDS WITH THE DIRTY GIRL! ANGELA IS FRIENDS WITH THE DIRTY GIRL! ANGELA'S DIRTY TOO! POOR GIRL! POOR GIRL! POOR GIRLS GET LICE! SHOW US YOUR LICE, ANGELA! HA! HA! HA! and it was worse for Jackie on Monday when Jackie came back to class. we played together until Christmas break, way out at the far edge of the play ground, by ourselves. Jackie didn't come back to school after Christmas.

i met her again when we were 15 and i was so happy! her smile was just the same. we were 15 and both still so poor, both still so sweet. we were 15 and out came Jackie on a stretcher, oxygen mask over her face. flat on her back. huge pregnant belly. still as a corpse.

no one said a word.

weeks had passed. i saw Jackie on the street. stomach flat. no baby. i waved at her. she waved back and kept walking. she was wearing a blue sun dress with little white flowers on it. no baby. she was heading back home. no baby. no one said a word.

and so- in the suburbs: 15 year old girls getting pregnant and being sent to continuation school. yanked out of regular school because they weren't allowed to be there in their "delicate condition". there was a Clause at the normal High School. WE MUST PROTECT THE IMAGE! WE HAVE PRIDE IN OUR COMMUNITY! WE HAVE PRIDE IN OURSELVES! and so the careless girls were sent to continuation school, yanked out of their classes with their friends and the teachers grown to love and trust. yanked out and hidden, sent to the BAD KIDS SCHOOL, for deciding against abortion. because ABORTION SENDS YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL! but your swollen belly offends! your swollen belly will not be tolerated! your swollen belly is an attack on our good, lily-white, Christian values! and so we will hide you until you look Normal again, until you LOOK All-American again, until you can PASS for being one of US.

and so i was a 16 year old scrunch-face with no one to talk to- talking to my notebook the way Sadie Benning talked to her video camera. only i wasn't tough like Sadie Benning, i only looked like it because of my scrunch-face. i was shy and afraid and i kept to myself, one blue eye risked toward the world, i kept to myself and i planned to go on keeping to myself until the day came where i could finally get the fuck out of this fucking place.

mmmmmmmmm

*

kiki smith's "Lodestar" exhibition:

love

kiki smith is the artist i go to most when i need a hug, comfort to continue. she is a mother for me, and has been since the very first time i saw her work. the loud astonishment that flooded in while i sat in a quiet, dusty aisle at the library- amazement. and the quick "permission" that came to speak about your own life, your own perceptions of what it is to be female, to be conflicted about the world, your own needs and desires.

yesterday, i carried a book of her work around with me- the catalogue for HER MEMORY. and all this morning too. back and forth between coffee and the spider and then flipping through her images: tattooed women with heart shapes and birds and lightning bolts, paper mache light bulbs, wreaths made from hand carved rubber stamps of child-like leaves, coffins, and chairs with wobbly legs. huge collaged prints, all in black and white, attacthed sheets of paper so that the image occupies an irregular ground. the crinkliness of the work, the scratchy lines, dried flowers, flowers leaning toward death.

there are images in her work that feel so familiar to me. flowers and windows, especially. two images i used to repeat myself with all the time but that i haven't really worked with in years now until recently. a few months ago they started popping back up in the work. roses again. all in black and white and silver. and i keep my book of redoute's prints near. and i remember how, when i was little, i'd flip through books in our humble bookcase looking for pictures and i'd come across pressed flowers- the passage of my mother. actions of preserving some small joy. some small beauty.

i've been thinking about my childhood a lot for the passed several months. little memories of books and drawings and picking flowers, bringing home stray cats, hiding in bushes so no one would hear me sing, making sure to be outside when the first star appeared so i could get my wish...

and my love for paper, for laying down marks with ink or graphite has roots in these things. the common nature of it. humble. adorable. easy. within reach. the substrate for secrets- diaries and hidden poems, snippets of songs, notes passed in class, letters that were never sent, letters that were never meant to be sent. paper is a signifier of The Personal- private thoughts and actions. and lately, i've been thinking of the drawings (all the work, really) as a form of writing. the diary aspect of these images. the collection/excavation of memory. hope, fear, need, desire, love, hate, recuperation, reckoning.

and at the back of the book, gone unnoticed until last night, there are two poems she wrote. and this knowledge - kiki smith cares about poetry enough to write it - overwhelmed me with such a sense of gladness and confidence:


Landing




when the bird flew in and without
apprehension she could say yes
dreams in corners out of range sitting at
the kitchen table when you came in and
spoke there had been a chance and she saw
for a moment

all pressed and close and then it dissipated

you could just sit there and the bird could
come in and you could succumb maybe she
hesitated when called

how do you feel when the bird touched
some birds touch anyone some girls are
shared

holy holy night she had her back turned
stomach to bed the rays came in first
she didn't have a first inclination that the
bird had been there but the song lingered

she waited the flutter passed but still she
had been touched

old habits are slow ones and she is not a
quitter not sitting waiting for the bird's
breath scratching pecking she goes
excavating into the shadows touching dark.



-Kiki Smith





i experience this poem as such a huge hug. and also a call to action. or maybe, more specifically, a call to confidence...

i am okay with the fact that i need to roll around in the shadows for awhile. i need to reach in to the dark stuff and leave my hand in long enough to know its shape by feel alone. collect the little glittering bits of childhood, of those unsent letters, and make wreaths of my own. press them like mama's flowers. hide them in books. let them scratch and scratch and give them a window of their own.




(this is a weird, but good, artist statement maybe?)

story time

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crinkling

after Harold Abramowitz's Not Blessed





there are stars in the sky, black marks, big as teeth. i stand close to the door. i listen for feet. it is the only time i hear my name. that shuffle, those dreams, kicked across the road, the road that opens up, unnoticed to most, sly and buttery and calling calling a name that goes unknown.

his feet padding up to the door remind me. i hear them as if they were still small. as if he had never seen the road unwind, or the feared forest across the way. the shadows bent strangely down and i forbade him to go near. he has grown but his feet still say my name. large as they are, deep thuds ringing out the kicked dreams. it is the only time i hear my name. the only time i feel relief.

i hear the simple chorus and run to reach with my crinkle eye through the spy hole. i hear my name and know my boy is coming home. coming home like the hunter, lost a hundred years. his family lived convinced he was dead. the hunter stepped through the great window one day and collected his family again. a century of waiting relieved.

i long for my waiting to rupture. my own hunter gone off. he took an axe to demand our daughter back and left the little one with me. years already and still i leave the big window open.

every night i mend the broken boot soles. my single hand pushes the thick needle. my single finger warns against the forest. the forest is to blame. i make apologies. i amend and mend and mend. i wipe down the small gas stove. i arrange the cushions and pillows. i arrange the jars on the sill. i collect the dust from the floor, the dust from the road blown in from under the door. i stand close and listen for the pad of his feet, the romp down the lane, the name, the name, my name.

a police officer interrupts his skipping. calls him to the side of the road. my name drops like the belled head of the flower that grows there, like the rabbit slung over his shoulder, stuffed with arrow. the police officer carries his kill like a runaway's knapsack, a kerchief on a stick, the arrow in deep, my name limp as that head, flat and ravaged, unable to sound.

my grandson answers the police officer's questions. he points toward our small cottage. i stand at the door, my eye reaching through the spy hole, my ears hoping to grab my name, the pad of his feet, that chorus. he points to the little lake. he points to the flower. the police officer shakes his head. my boy points to the forest and points down the road. he points at the dust. he shuffles his feet. my name, whispered. the police officer shakes his head and says no. the head of the rabbit wobbles and drips.