last night, i went to bed feeling pretty happy and satisfied; and today, i woke up feeling the exact same way. i wonder if it's the tea and honey?
i started doing a bit of research on honey because i got scared i was somehow thwarting my own attempt to kick as much refined sugar out of my life as possible (mainly, all that delicious hazelnut creamer i dump in coffee). turns out, honey is super healthy for us. as is tea. and i totally had my limited knowledge about tea and coffee all mixed up and backward- i though tea had more caffeine in it than coffee. nope! coffee has twice, some times 3 times, the amount of caffeine that tea does. though i wasn't at all concerned about caffeine consumption when i decided to step away from coffee and i'm still not concerned. it's a myth that caffeine is dehydrating unless you're consuming mass quantities of it in one sitting. but excess is excess, and even water can kill a human if they drink too much of it all at once. which was a very strange thing to learn.
it's mainly all about sugar for me. and the natural sugars inside honey are totally healthy and packed with antioxidants (cancer preventative) and every single bit of honey is put to use by the body. and, even though it's got calories, the calories aren't empty- they are easily converted in to heat and energy for the body and it's even recommended that people eat a spoonful of honey before working out. not just for the energy boost, but it also prevents muscle fatigue. as a runner, this is really good to know!
all this to say, my decision to get away from coffee and all the sugar-cream i dump in it has provided a very happy accident! a positive faux-pas! yay!
and another reason this is all so exciting to me is that i wasn't really taught that many healthy behaviors and decision-making skills growing up. i really wasn't. and i'm not mad about that- most people truly are doing the best they can under their particular set of circumstances. and the circumstances of my childhood were pretty heavy. and what that means for me now is that i have to unlearn certain behaviors and attitude and figure out how to teach myself how to treat myself well and with respect. especially when it comes to my body.
i was never involved in any type of team sport when i was in school. i was not at all interested. NOT. i thought those girls were jerks. haha! (sorry girls. i was angsty and shy.) i though high school was the worst place on earth. and it kinda is for a lot of kids. high school sucks. it's probably always sucked and i couldn't wait to graduate so i'd never have to go back. and for anyone in the audience who might still be in high school and hating it- my life got so much better after high school. so much better! and my teenage notion that high school society is ridiculous was instantly confirmed once i left and was out in the work world and on a college campus. the point being: if i didn't have to participate in something i hated, i didn't. and, though that sentiment is actually a pretty good one, i never really took (or saw) the opportunity to take care of myself in meaningful ways when it came to my body. i was much much MUCH more focused on taking care of my brain and my spirit. it didn't occur to me until much further down the road that the brain is a body part like any other and that, on days when i felt incapable of taking care of my brain, i could choose to take care of my body... and thereby get myself in a much better mood and a much more creative place as well. a rush of oxygen to the brain makes us more alert, more focused, and more creative. had i known that back then, i might've had a different opinion about exercise.
but, truth be told, i'm just not that in to sports. i'm just not. i've tried to be and i've failed. it's just not something that has ever come close to capturing my heart.
and then the other morning, my sweetheart was watching Sports Center before heading off to work and a program about running came on. the reporter described running as a "sport of agony". that phrase definitely captured my heart. ha! first, i was wrapped up in this idea of agony. is it agonizing? do i feel like i'm in agony when i run? am i an agony glutton? an agony addict? OH, all the lovely masochistic questions! ;) and then my mind turned to the other word: sport. running is a sport??? i had never thought of running that way. not once. but on my runs since, i've been thinking about it... how when one runs, one is competing with/against oneself. how it is only dedication and willpower that makes you finish the run. how i put myself instantly in to a measured and rhythmic cycle of breathing, get myself inside a day-dream, and ignore whatever pain or discomfort that might be taking place in my legs. the zone, as they call it. time falls away. i look at the light of the day. i dream as i breathe. ideas float in and out. and some of the best ideas i've ever had come to me while i'm running. and if i can stay locked inside those great ideas, i do not notice any pain in the body. it's when i don't let my mind go that i become cognizant of the agony of the run. it's when i focus on my legs rather than on my life or letting my imagination spin, that it becomes an agonizing thing to do. and that is the competition itself. to overcome oneself and keep moving. one more stride, one more stride, one more stride.
this is a metaphor (and practice) i am trying to apply to art as well.
do i feel agonized by art? sometimes, yes.
can art be talked about in terms of the phrase "a sport of agony"? yes! it definitely can be!
especially when i think about art as competing with/against oneself. when i think of how painful it can become, how agonizing, how hard, when i focus on the wrong thing. when i don't allow myself, for whatever reason, to get locked in to an idea i love. when i look somewhere else instead. when i compare my stride to the stride of others.
when i compare my stride, i'm not doing what i should be doing. i'm no longer competing with myself, i'm competing with someone else. i've made someone an adversary. someone i could be choosing to learn from or even just be excited for. but instead, seeing it as a competition leads to jealousy. envy. all sorts of self-mockery and hate and disillusionment. and all that amounts to is becoming Unfocused.
my stride is my stride. my breath is my breath. my work is my work.
i noticed a long time ago that when i am diligent about running, i'm diligent about art too. it's scientific for sure. a biological event. that rush of oxygen to the brain making me more creative, more alert, more excited. it is a spoonful of honey that way. it keep the fatigue at bay and i can just go.
i love the connections between things. i love that they are everywhere. and i love that i'm getting to a place where they are easier to see. i'm teaching myself some very healthy things. things that are tailored to me and the type of life i'm attempting. it takes time but i'm on my way. and on days when i'm feeling disappointed in life, this is all very good stuff to remember. that even making the decision to eat some honey is a healthy one and that i've done something good for myself. a small action that can lead to tremendous benefits if i just find ways to keep doing it.
and the same thing goes for all our paintings and poems too, friends. it really does. it's hard to keep my eyes on that fact some days but i'm learning, now, how to do that. and if an art practice is anything, it's learning how to keep coming back to the ideas we are compelled by and locking ourselves in to them and not measuring ourselves by the ideas of others. it is teaching ourselves how to sustain a Mighty Run.
find some honey. ;)
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Sep 30, 2010
Jun 4, 2010
art (life)
the weather has been odd for months. and so too, maybe, the weather in me.
i see it in other people too. the link between emotion and environment.
i said "it seems like such an odd time in life, lately." to my neighbor and he said "i'm glad i'm not the only one who's noticed that. it is very odd."
the fog is thick and low. on our jog we were covered in mist. everything green and grey and white.
we're all just trying to make sense of the world.
and meaning within our own lives.
what helps and what doesn't seems to be largely contingent on where a person happens to be standing at any given point in time. preference... maybe even necessity... ruled by vantage point. this accounts for all the different art in the world. all the different modes and forms too. it cancels out notions of Good and Bad, replacing those terms with words that are more compassionate: useful, not useful. beneficial, not beneficial. purposeful, not purposeful. and that definition of "purposeful" is malleable. changing and fluid. and maybe it relates to joy and sadness... the pleasure principle... the death of certain expectations. expectations, especially, titled as 'hope' and 'belief'. their death is a hard and painful and frightening thing. but so is forcing something to live that is only suffering.
let it go.
let a new hope show itself. the children's maps no longer work.
there is a fragile green shooting up through the toppled steeple and broken houses. there is a warmth running below the fear- an underground stream.
everything is an act of mining, maybe. everything is excavation.
and if memory originates in the brain, why this pressure in my chest? let's unearth the thing and see. let's brush the dust off. and if we must, let's pin it down by the wings and take a closer look at the mechanism of the thing.
i want to use the tools equally. analysis and emotion, married.
the brain is a body part just like the heart.
i see it in other people too. the link between emotion and environment.
i said "it seems like such an odd time in life, lately." to my neighbor and he said "i'm glad i'm not the only one who's noticed that. it is very odd."
the fog is thick and low. on our jog we were covered in mist. everything green and grey and white.
we're all just trying to make sense of the world.
and meaning within our own lives.
what helps and what doesn't seems to be largely contingent on where a person happens to be standing at any given point in time. preference... maybe even necessity... ruled by vantage point. this accounts for all the different art in the world. all the different modes and forms too. it cancels out notions of Good and Bad, replacing those terms with words that are more compassionate: useful, not useful. beneficial, not beneficial. purposeful, not purposeful. and that definition of "purposeful" is malleable. changing and fluid. and maybe it relates to joy and sadness... the pleasure principle... the death of certain expectations. expectations, especially, titled as 'hope' and 'belief'. their death is a hard and painful and frightening thing. but so is forcing something to live that is only suffering.
let it go.
let a new hope show itself. the children's maps no longer work.
there is a fragile green shooting up through the toppled steeple and broken houses. there is a warmth running below the fear- an underground stream.
everything is an act of mining, maybe. everything is excavation.
and if memory originates in the brain, why this pressure in my chest? let's unearth the thing and see. let's brush the dust off. and if we must, let's pin it down by the wings and take a closer look at the mechanism of the thing.
i want to use the tools equally. analysis and emotion, married.
the brain is a body part just like the heart.
Mar 7, 2010
a bit further...
i went for a jog and took advantage of the bright sunny day we've received. The Almighty Jog works wonders. it really does. it helps me think. it provides an environment to find clarity. probably all that hard breathing. :)
i think what i'm trying to get at in the post below is that intellectual investigation of violence and victimization become dangerous sometimes... dangerous in terms of inadvertently trivializing the suffering of others. i'm reminded of Susan Sontag's book "Regarding the Pain of Others" and how we have a moral responsibility when it comes to the proliferation or manufacture of images of other people's suffering- whether that representation is of a creative nature or documentary or expository. we may not use these images to speak for the victims and we must be on guard in using specific acts of victimization as metaphors that sensationalize, glamorize, minimize, or trivialize the event itself. to do so is to add a new layer to the victimization that has already occurred. we further the humiliation. and in someways, possibly inadvertently, encourage the outlook that the victim is somehow to blame. it disregards pathos as being a true, accurate state of being.
i am trying currently to merely hold a candle for others. i am not trying to speak on behalf of the victims. i cannot tell their stories for them. what i can do is raise them up so that they are seen... remembered... given a platform from which to scream or cry or whisper... or even forgive. whatever the story, it does inspire hope. whatever the horror, we can be gentle, we can be thoughtful, we can be truly progressive.
i think what i'm trying to get at in the post below is that intellectual investigation of violence and victimization become dangerous sometimes... dangerous in terms of inadvertently trivializing the suffering of others. i'm reminded of Susan Sontag's book "Regarding the Pain of Others" and how we have a moral responsibility when it comes to the proliferation or manufacture of images of other people's suffering- whether that representation is of a creative nature or documentary or expository. we may not use these images to speak for the victims and we must be on guard in using specific acts of victimization as metaphors that sensationalize, glamorize, minimize, or trivialize the event itself. to do so is to add a new layer to the victimization that has already occurred. we further the humiliation. and in someways, possibly inadvertently, encourage the outlook that the victim is somehow to blame. it disregards pathos as being a true, accurate state of being.
i am trying currently to merely hold a candle for others. i am not trying to speak on behalf of the victims. i cannot tell their stories for them. what i can do is raise them up so that they are seen... remembered... given a platform from which to scream or cry or whisper... or even forgive. whatever the story, it does inspire hope. whatever the horror, we can be gentle, we can be thoughtful, we can be truly progressive.
Mar 2, 2010
good morning
last night, while my sweetie played a video game with the sound turned all the way down, i read the first 6 pages of 'of the refrain' by deleuze and guattari aloud to him, to myself. and i went back and forth looking up words and we both laughed at how totally illiterate this writing made us both feel. our vocabularies have been increased by words that we will never ever use in a normal conversation. hahahaha! but the idea, the metaphor, of the refrain is burning inside my head now. a refrain... an art practice. the recurrent ideas and images. repetition. and i looked up "refrain" and saw that, in music, it has an archaic synonym: a "burden". all these words with double meanings... i love them. and the rain kept coming down. the rain keeps coming down. it is a wet world and i found a sound to fit the mood.
Apr 23, 2009
in fog...
i put on my grey dress and we walked through the vineyard fog. the poppies still sleeping, but strange, wakeful birds clicked in the tall trees. i brought the fog home with me, cloaked these daughters in it, and remembered my long lost sunday dresses...
my sister and i posed together
in simple frocks our mother made-
up all night at her sewing machine,
without our father
and brother,
without without without...
but we make progress here...
sunday 3 (sheep in fog)- in progress shot
30" x 40"
oil on canvas
number three in this strange series. these two sisters appearing on there own... unexpected. in my work, two girls have always signals me and my sister, and this painting in particular makes me miss her company more than i usually do- that strange tie that keeps us, makes us. we are very different girls but not separate in the least, standing close to keep the secrets from spilling out, to keep from feeling afraid, and the only time in my life i was not afraid of the dark was when we were young and small and shared a room, sleeping safe in bunk beds...
and now these weird years when a person begins to look back, picking through memories and wondering if those times were real or dreamed, and the last line of a plath poems flashes in the brush and the canvas finds its name before it finds its finish...
SHEEP IN FOG
The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells-
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.
-Sylvia Plath
from Ariel
my sister and i posed together
in simple frocks our mother made-
up all night at her sewing machine,
without our father
and brother,
without without without...
but we make progress here...
sunday 3 (sheep in fog)- in progress shot
30" x 40"
oil on canvas
number three in this strange series. these two sisters appearing on there own... unexpected. in my work, two girls have always signals me and my sister, and this painting in particular makes me miss her company more than i usually do- that strange tie that keeps us, makes us. we are very different girls but not separate in the least, standing close to keep the secrets from spilling out, to keep from feeling afraid, and the only time in my life i was not afraid of the dark was when we were young and small and shared a room, sleeping safe in bunk beds...
and now these weird years when a person begins to look back, picking through memories and wondering if those times were real or dreamed, and the last line of a plath poems flashes in the brush and the canvas finds its name before it finds its finish...
SHEEP IN FOG
The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells-
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.
-Sylvia Plath
from Ariel
Jan 2, 2009
territories 11... (until i change the name)
territories 11
15" x 11"
embroidery on paper
2008
this is what i was doing when the clock found midnight and we began a new year. i really love this work. even the doing of them. it's pretty time consuming stuff but the more i look at these pieces the more i love them, the more i feel like i am on the right path here.
detail 1
i'm thinking that continuing to link this work to the territories series isn't really adequate or accurate at this point, especially since i've got more in the works and plan to continue in this vein for a little while longer. i think they need to be viewed on their own terms and not in relation to the previous work. all this to say... i'll be changing there names before long.
detail 2
first, i've got to pick my favorite metaphor these pieces have inspired: not an easy task. do i want to talk about domesticity? do i want to talk about the self as territory, the body or mind as landscape? or history as landscape? it goes on and on and on and i'm gonna be giving this some serious thought.
in the meantime, i'll keep stitching away on the next piece- 4 times the size of these little beauties and will take a couple weeks to be completed. good thing i love doing it or all this sewing would be torturous. seriously though, i think this is some of the prettiest work i've done in awhile and i'm very happy with them.
Dec 25, 2008
territories 10
stitching, stitching, stitching...
the metaphors are endless...
15" x 11"
embroidery on paper
angela simione
2008
detail
the metaphors are endless...
15" x 11"
embroidery on paper
angela simione
2008
detail
Oct 22, 2008
Page 28 (Blackland 2)
,+15+x+11,+ink+on+paper,+angela+simione++2008.JPG)
15" x 11"
ink on paper
2008
i don't know what took me so long to get around to the idea of drawing my very own book pages but i'm sure glad i finally did. i guess i had been sort of turned off by the idea of my own hand writing being present in the work. thankfully, i got over that weird little hang up and here she is... Page 28 (named after my age). the text reads "black as her ribbons" and i leave it to you to interpret that fragment in whatever way pleases you best.
(click on image for larger view)
Oct 21, 2008
collection...
last night before bed, i spread out a small collection of drawings and paintings i've done over the passed few weeks and was really pleased with what i saw-
there is such a solid direction and cohesiveness to this work that i guess i was entirely unaware of until seeing a few grouped together.
protect
24" x 17 3/4"
oil on canvas
2008
my investigation of the need for protection and the pleasure of safety are leading me to see the new poetry that is born inside trauma and fragmentation... the loss we tolerate when we put up fences and wondering where i can find the space to build a site of hope within all this obsessive seperation and fear...
untitled haven
9 3/4" x 6 1/4"
mixed media collage
2008
of course, we need fences but when do we stop building them? where is the guideline that we can turn to and say, "oops! one too many, let's take that last one down. we've lost too much."
all my cages were empty
5" x 5"
ink on torn book page
2008
sometimes the desire for protection doesn't rise from a healthy place. in the case of the edited document, it's a need for protection from embarrassment and an unwanted, damaging exposure. it hides information angrily... maliciously... a sign of the corruption of the one who wields the big black marker.
Anonymous Girls study
7 1/2" x 5 1/2"
ink on paper
2008
but i'm trying to find beauty anyway... these delicate phrases that remain in spite of the obliteration i've done to them.
dust flower
8 1/4" x 5 1/4"
acrylic on book page
2008
how gorgeous is the fragmented phrase "a dust flower". stunning. poetic. destruction and loss turned against itself.
the penalty (detail)
13" x 10"
mixed media collage
2008
i feel like i'm on the right track.
there is such a solid direction and cohesiveness to this work that i guess i was entirely unaware of until seeing a few grouped together.
protect
24" x 17 3/4"
oil on canvas
2008
my investigation of the need for protection and the pleasure of safety are leading me to see the new poetry that is born inside trauma and fragmentation... the loss we tolerate when we put up fences and wondering where i can find the space to build a site of hope within all this obsessive seperation and fear...
untitled haven
9 3/4" x 6 1/4"
mixed media collage
2008
of course, we need fences but when do we stop building them? where is the guideline that we can turn to and say, "oops! one too many, let's take that last one down. we've lost too much."
all my cages were empty
5" x 5"
ink on torn book page
2008
sometimes the desire for protection doesn't rise from a healthy place. in the case of the edited document, it's a need for protection from embarrassment and an unwanted, damaging exposure. it hides information angrily... maliciously... a sign of the corruption of the one who wields the big black marker.
Anonymous Girls study
7 1/2" x 5 1/2"
ink on paper
2008
but i'm trying to find beauty anyway... these delicate phrases that remain in spite of the obliteration i've done to them.
dust flower
8 1/4" x 5 1/4"
acrylic on book page
2008
how gorgeous is the fragmented phrase "a dust flower". stunning. poetic. destruction and loss turned against itself.
the penalty (detail)
13" x 10"
mixed media collage
2008
i feel like i'm on the right track.
Oct 8, 2008
poems, painting, and the problem of memory...
i've spent the day so far (up since 4:30 am) alternating between painting and reading the complete poems of anne sexton... which means i have also been alternating between moments of exquisite joy and the torture of reliving old, bad memories. nevertheless, a wonderful day!
the oil paintings are coming along quite nicely and should be finished sometime during the next 2 weeks. i also started a new canvas based on this study:
study for 'the fall'
11" x 7 1/2"
acrylic and graphite on paper
2008
the canvas is 3 feet square (so it'll be a few weeks before i'm done) and so much fun to work on. i've been wrapped up in smaller works on paper for weeks now and it feels wonderful to go big.
this image is largely inspired by another painting i'm working on for rana kelly's 'witch of the bayou'. i'm still so struck by her story that i feel compelled to respond to it visually. the task will be to do the story justice. the paintings need to be thoughtful. they need to mirror how gruesome, how beautiful, and how haunting the story is.
the oil paintings are coming along quite nicely and should be finished sometime during the next 2 weeks. i also started a new canvas based on this study:
study for 'the fall'
11" x 7 1/2"
acrylic and graphite on paper
2008
the canvas is 3 feet square (so it'll be a few weeks before i'm done) and so much fun to work on. i've been wrapped up in smaller works on paper for weeks now and it feels wonderful to go big.
this image is largely inspired by another painting i'm working on for rana kelly's 'witch of the bayou'. i'm still so struck by her story that i feel compelled to respond to it visually. the task will be to do the story justice. the paintings need to be thoughtful. they need to mirror how gruesome, how beautiful, and how haunting the story is.
Sep 9, 2008
poetics and painting...
i've always thought that the arts of writing and painting are sisters. both methods of expression seek to hold a correspondence that transcends its form. alot of my personal heroes and influences have been writers: charlotte delbo, peggy phelan, anne sexton, samuel beckett, sylvia plath...
and their influence on my work might even be tinged with a fair amount of jealousy- there was a time when i double majored in fine art and english, hoping to be become both artist and writer. assuming both titles has been difficult for me. i'm a much more prolific painter than i am poet, and am weary of attributing labels to myself simply because i desire them.
however, writing has immense importance within the visual arts: we all need and rely on artist statements, reviews of exhibitions continue to be written, and even artists themselves, as individuals, journal about their practice. i regularly employ the use of text in my practice, keep a diary of my pursuits and short-comings, collect zines, and have considered much contemporary oil painting (not merely my own) as leaning heavily on poetics and metaphor... so, going back to my original statement about painting and writing being sisters, maybe all writers are somehow painters, and all painters somehow poets?
a while back, i read a statement about poetry and how it differs from prose... something along the lines of prose being defined by what it says, and poetry by what it does not say (send me a comment if you know where i may have read this)... the details that are left-out, alluded to, a collection of fragments that create an atmosphere rather than a world that has been explored and catalogued. this has been my exact approach to curating exhibitions, and the attitude i've held while working on individual pieces of art. this is the foundation of my interest in classified documents and crime-scene evidence, my desire to investigate loss, and the hope i have for establishing lines of communication with others. it is the method i know for offering comfort... even if the only comfort i can extend is the knowledge that no one is alone... someone else has gone through a similar experience, tragedy, or moment of hopelessness. metaphors are the opportunity we have to really connect with the Other- they allow us to see beyond our own situation and internalize the loss someone else has experienced and to experience it as if it were our own. metaphors are powerful things. i am endlessly thankful for the poems, essays, and stories i have read that have served to substantiate the importance of metaphor, and of reaching beyond our differences to find our commonalities.
and their influence on my work might even be tinged with a fair amount of jealousy- there was a time when i double majored in fine art and english, hoping to be become both artist and writer. assuming both titles has been difficult for me. i'm a much more prolific painter than i am poet, and am weary of attributing labels to myself simply because i desire them.
however, writing has immense importance within the visual arts: we all need and rely on artist statements, reviews of exhibitions continue to be written, and even artists themselves, as individuals, journal about their practice. i regularly employ the use of text in my practice, keep a diary of my pursuits and short-comings, collect zines, and have considered much contemporary oil painting (not merely my own) as leaning heavily on poetics and metaphor... so, going back to my original statement about painting and writing being sisters, maybe all writers are somehow painters, and all painters somehow poets?
a while back, i read a statement about poetry and how it differs from prose... something along the lines of prose being defined by what it says, and poetry by what it does not say (send me a comment if you know where i may have read this)... the details that are left-out, alluded to, a collection of fragments that create an atmosphere rather than a world that has been explored and catalogued. this has been my exact approach to curating exhibitions, and the attitude i've held while working on individual pieces of art. this is the foundation of my interest in classified documents and crime-scene evidence, my desire to investigate loss, and the hope i have for establishing lines of communication with others. it is the method i know for offering comfort... even if the only comfort i can extend is the knowledge that no one is alone... someone else has gone through a similar experience, tragedy, or moment of hopelessness. metaphors are the opportunity we have to really connect with the Other- they allow us to see beyond our own situation and internalize the loss someone else has experienced and to experience it as if it were our own. metaphors are powerful things. i am endlessly thankful for the poems, essays, and stories i have read that have served to substantiate the importance of metaphor, and of reaching beyond our differences to find our commonalities.
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