one slow stitch at a time...

.

untitled (i want to hold your face in my hands)
filet crochet curtain
angela simione, 2014




i need a much taller window.  :)

the full text reads: i want to hold your face in my hands but you go on backing away away away.  the text is from a poem i wrote over a year ago that will probably never see the light of day, save for this excerpt.  and i like that...  the secrecy of it...  which is very much what this work is about. i like the idea of hanging my secrets in the window, allowing the light of day to use the twists and turns of my private thoughts (and the hook that has given them shape) to make shadows sigh and heave on the adjacent wall.  i like the tease of it.

this piece taught me a lot.  it's still teaching me.  not merely about the method of production and where i failed and where i succeeded in using it, but also how i want to use light and shadow as materials themselves...  transparency...  absence and presence.  in this regard, this method is very much like drawing.  the emptiness of the page is just as important as the mark.  it's poetry.  the things that aren't said add weight to what is.

it's hung up in the window of my bed and i stare at it for a little while every day.  i finished it over a week ago and i'm still so bowled over by it.  it's a new "first step".


.

what aftermath?

.


wash my whites.

take my pill.

"don't forget your shirt"


hungry to reminisce
my bad deeds
the things i've done that would make my mama hate me
determined to earn it
she hated me for no reason
never once made it a secret thing.



i hold my breath
i don't want your death around me
i'm familiar enough

but put your hand around my throat

i want to feel a real fear for once
it gets tiring
being afraid of nothing.


keeping busy

chasing all the ugly names.

some type of hurt that is honest and sure.

some type of hurt i can't explain.


.

she's a mess

.

a major round of Sciatica brought me to the ER on monday.  i spent two days laying in bed before making the call to go to the hospital and i've been laying in bed ever since.  luckily, it's not as bad this time around.  i am able to walk, albeit slowly.  i am able to sleep, albeit with the aid of Vicodin and muscle relaxers.  i am able to work on projects from my bed, though i wish i was out in the world, making money and friends, and taking pictures.  it's hard for me to lay around like this.  it truly is.

the first time i dealt with back problems was during my last year in art school.  crocheting was the only art-making method i could utilize while laying flat on my back and not moving for hours upon hours at a time.  i suppose it's no wonder that i view the skill as one of mending, of catharsis, of process, of healing.

yesterday, in my warm opiate surrender, i started making a new text piece that i'm not sure will be a yarnbomb or a scarf.  perhaps it will be both.  perhaps i'll wear it for as long as the cold weather calls for it and then transform it by stitching it to a pole somewhere.

i like that idea.

i like this notion of giving away my history.  or better said: gifting away my history.

this work has so much to do with the conflation of the public and private self.  i take texts from my diary or lyrics from songs i like (in this case, the lyric comes from the Lady Gaga song 'Dance in the Dark') or bits of my personal autobiography and stitch them in to sweaters, scarves, and blankets.  i take the text of my fear and desire and twist them in to some sort of signage... my story being told one yarnbomb at a time on city streets.

it's a game of exposure, of exploration, where the photographic image also plays a very heavy part.  which image of me is real?  which image is the most honest?  the image you've met in person?  or the image i make in my diary?  what does it mean to sit naked in front of a mirror, taking pictures of one's own reflection wrapped in the lyrics of a favorite song?  especially when the chosen text is "she's a mess. she's a mess. she's a mess".  especially when the naked body in the mirror's reflection is a body in pain.

maybe i was a mess this month in more ways than one.  currently, i am a physical mess but there was also the fact of my mother's birthday and death anniversary to contend with.  those events are exactly a week apart: january 12th and 19th.   and amid all this, i'm trying to learn my own curves of conscience, the twists within my personality and sensibility.  i'm learning about myself through these moments of exposure. i'm learning what i'm capable of and who i want to be.

i felt lonely today being cooped up like this.  i made a choice just to bare it.  i reached for my crochet hook and let the soothing tingle of medications wash over me.

.

open-mouth kisses

.

how to speak of desire?
how to speak of fantasy?
how to speak to you
directly
except with an open mouth.


how else to speak to you
except like this. here. in the room where i am king.

alone in my room at night, i photograph my mouth.  monday afternoons, i drop 2 rolls of film off at the one-hour photo lab up the road and wait excitedly to see what magic might occur.  half the time, it's all total crap and a sad waste of money...  but maybe not.  maybe not.  even the worst photograph teaches me something, especially a new way to see.  and then there are the days like today when i flip through the shiny photos and line up the images and find some sort of nebulous narrative that has the ability to speak to the hardest topics i contain, the themes i shy away from and the names i don't want to give up.  but maybe you already know.  maybe, if you've stumbled here, you already know your name rests hotly on my tongue.


how to speak of need?
how to speak of ache?
how to speak of dreams that linger long after waking and which make it so hard to get out of bed?

how to speak without crying?
how to cry without embarrassment?
how to quiver and writhe?
how to stop waiting for unneeded permission?



this suite of photographs i'm amassing is loving referred to as the Kisses Collection and i'm liking what i see.  i like how it feels.


.

imagine me. i'm imagining you.

.

 

"The contradictions the mind comes up against, these are the only realities, the criterion of the real.  There is no contradiction in what is imaginary.  Contradiction is the test of necessity."

Simone Weil

Gravity & Grace, p. 151

imagine me.  i'm imagining you.

(self portrait)

4" x 6"

35 mm color half-frame photography

angela simione, 2013

don't

.

untitled (don't)
50 x 38.5
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2013

available at Darger HQ.

the way you need to be loved

.

 

16th street, san francisco CA

angela simione

THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED

.

Telegraph Ave @ 49th
Oakland, CA



sometimes a poem only needs one line.

just the beginning

.

 

over a year in production, The Blanket of DOOM is finally finished.   mostly.  a few small tweaks here and there, a few loose yarn ends to be woven in to the grain of stitches, and a ton of photographs to take before i can legitimately refer to this project as Done.  in fact, it could be quite some time before i see the end of this particular piece.  the photo up top signals what i envision for The Blanket: a life prior to finding itself on display in a gallery.  we'll see where we end up together.  :)

but it is a happy moment to see her in all her good glory.  so many long hours and evening spent hooking away at this piece.  it is an expression of dedication and faith that, even if imperfect, the idea was a good one and to chase it to the end.  there were plenty of times at the very beginning of this massive undertaking that i wanted to give up, unravel the entire thing, and focus on smaller projects.  there were plenty of weeks when i didn't touch her at all.  couldn't.  even hated the idea of working on her.  there were plenty of times when i dreaded the work that needed to be done.  it seemed so endless.  impossible. 

when i finally reached the half-way mark, my hope and strength returned and i felt committed to seeing the project through to the end regardless of how it turned out.  i no longer needed it to be any good and i just wanted to make the blanket for me.  i began to see it as a landscape...  a road...  a way to learn something deeper about who i am and the type of artist and human i want to be.  a poem to wrap myself in.

Lea had said to me once, "your work is so devotional."  her voice came back to me so many times while i worked on The Blanket.  what is Devotion?  what is it to devote oneself to something?  what does it require?  it comes down to an unspeakable trust.  i trust my work with all that i am and all that i've got.  i entrusted my entire life and self to it a long time ago and haven't questioned it since.  my road through this world might very well be different from others but it is a good one and my work has proven itself to be the very best map and guide.

the picture of me laying on top of the Blanket of DOOM was taken this morning in my kitchen.  she takes up the entire floor.   i'm 5'6".  each letter in DIE is taller than i am.   but the work has always been, and always will be, bigger than me and that has nothing to do with physical scale.  :)

 

so happy i could DIE

crochet

kingsize blanket

angela simione, 2013

then suddenly, a moment. then suddenly, a means.

.

Because it's Oakland and because I'm feeling a bit poetic and because I just so happened to stumble across an abandoned mattress when I just so happened to have a magnum Sharpie in my bag. Because the world needs more words. Because the world needs more poetry. Because the world needs bravery. Because the world could benefit from the influence of a few more brave, poetic girls. Anddddd because I've been drinking tequila. ;)

.

beautiful evening

.

 

sometimes a girl just doesn't feel like herself until she gets some art out in the streets.  :)

CRY HARDER

yarnbomb 

corner of Claremont and Forest in Oakland CA

angela simione, 2013

BOOM!

.

 

.

back in action!

.

fuck sensible shoes!  i've been bound to my bed far too long and in WAY too much pain to give a shit about that kind of tripe.  i stomped around oakland in these beauts for a cool 2 hours today.  dropped a new yarn bomb and mended another.  the passed few days have been absolutely fantastic.  each day will get better and better from here on out.

i can't tell you how good it feels to move again.  it'll be some weeks still before i can get back to running but my mood is skyrocketing regardless.  i am anxious to get back to work, back into the swing of things, back in to life.  today marks 3 weeks since this injury stalled my life.  all i want to do is be outside and be around people.  i've missed the buzz of life.  i've missed my long hustle to the train station.  i've missed taking pictures of the sky and being able to stand at my huge drawing pinned to my bedroom wall and just work.  i've missed the company of others and the jokes that get told in bars.  i miss all the late night alcohol-fueled confessions.  i've missed my life.

these first few ginger steps back in to the world had to be stylish, had to be brash and bit cavalier.  getting a few of the yarn bombs i made up in the city has felt so amazing.   doing it in leopard print booties makes it feel even better.  exhilarating, actually.  :) 

there is such a freedom in working on the street like this, in spending hours on a single piece and then giving it to the city itself... giving it away.  the photograph becomes an important thing.  the document of an act, an artwork, and a sentiment.  there's no way to determine how long these pieces will stay in place.  my hope, of course, is that they stay stitched tightly around the poles of street signs for years.  this is why i maintain them.  if they begin to sag after being rained on a few times, i stitch them tighter and straighten them out so they look crisp and clean again.  i want the messages of these texts to be as clear as possible.  legibility is a factor, as is style.  i will not allow the work to fall in to disrepair for as long as i live in this city.  i want these bits of poetry to have the best chance of survival possible.  i want the impetus to CRY HARDER to reach those who need the encouragement the most. 

.

these inconsistencies (don't cry)

.

(Maybe it is true that I am an ugly girl.

An inconsistent, selfish woman.)

There is a mirror in the corner and it is watching.

There is a mirror in the corner

and it is a tape recorder.   Your step-father will know everything.

I look at my chin in the mirror and see it is too big.  Too big for you to love me.  Not big enough to keep you from fucking me but definitely too big to keep you from holding my hand on the street.  I am a simple and inconsistent woman and such an ugly girl to boot!  It’s true!  Don’t argue, it only makes you look stupid.  And every now and then stupid is worse than ugly.  Ask anybody.  My sister and I learned early that the best thing we could ever do is win the love of a man.  Our mother beat it in to us with her big curls and big lips.  Her big lips all done up in Yummy Plummy lipstick.  Don’t forget your push-up bra.  I was never beautiful when I was around her.  Who would have thought so?  Look at her.  Look at her lips and her hair and how tall and thin.  That isn’t me.  That was my mother.  I didn’t even come close.  And then she died.  It wrecked my eyes and my heart and all of my soft, aching insides.

I look at this man

his blond hair

and think    don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry

Such big, beautiful words falling

from his big, knowing hands.  Hands

that have turned so many

pages of the sacrosanct and

fell so gently upon

the nipples of so many

aching women.

How I ache!

How I ache!

Where are you?  Where are you now?

When there is nothing I’d love better than to waste away below the sweat of an angry hand. 

Let me shy away from your gaze.  I want to feel afraid of you. I want to be crass below your touch, say all the horrible words that embarrass me later in the day and cry your name out against your tangled sheets.  I want your fist in my hair.  I want your cock up my ass.  I want you to slap my face and smile against my hot cheek.  I see myself becoming a corpse and so I want to get fucked as hard and often as I can.  You seem like a man who might see the necessity of all this. 

It’s been so long since I’ve cried in front of anyone.

.

as always, critique is welcome.  angelasimione at gmail dot com

i want to be good at this.

work work work

.

in bed with my hook and mirror.  The Blanket of DOOM.  coming soon...

regardless of the weather...

.

...i come equipped with clouds of my very own.  force of fucking nature.  ;)


the fracturing of The Sublime.


.

correct me. seriously.

.

 there is nothing to promise

there is nothing to promise, I promise you.  please excuse the awkward tears in my paper.  the bites in your cheek.  let me lay quietly, don’t reprimand me.  don’t reprimand me just take my face in your hands, your big hands, your big hands.  if we were both willing and fashioned from stronger material maybe we could be the instruments from which music for bad people is made.  if we were stronger.  or if i was.  if i were better.  if i could take a better beating.  let me try.  i look at you and shiver.  i remember your blue eye.  the way you peered at me through that hot inch of air.  pupil to black pupil, my curiosity spread wide.  it is no secret that my ultimate intention is to burn this body down to nothing, just a cold and stupid, grey stump, good for nothing save for the paste you might make from spit and ash.  my mother’s heart rattles inside her silver tin.  my mother’s heart rattles in my ear.  i put your fingers in my mouth and suck the salt you offer.  i put whatever you offer into my mouth and take the meaning you provide.  down down down in to my stomach and i think of my skin turning young below your nails.  my mother’s heart was burned down to nothing and made useless save for the paste you might make from spit and ash.  her widower marries another and her ash still shivers in the cold confines of her Clock Urn.  he said “might as well have something useful” when he picked out the carriage for her remains.

now, ask me if I believe man’s love is eternal.  now watch me laugh.

.

critique me.  i mean it.  i want to be good at this.  send me an email if you like.  angelasimione at gmail dot com

BOOM!

.

 

first ever yarnbomb dropped!  58oo block of Shattuck Ave in Oakland.  if you're taking a stroll through my neighborhood, be sure to keep your eyes open for this.  it's the very first in a series.  i have a few more bombs in my bag ready to go off.  :)

excerpt:

.

I sit across from the thin mirror in the corner.  I am folded up like a blanket , all my limbs arched and turned inward toward my form, shielding the delicate tips of pink from all eyes.  Even mine.  I look at my face.  I see the red lines I’ve allowed to be drawn across my forehead.  Examples of humiliation and confusion. Proofs.  It’s all mathematics now.  I stand up and walk to the dresser.  I pull out the black sweater in the top drawer.  I watch myself in the mirror.   I count the seconds it takes.  I recite my age.  I am acquainted with enough years to make sense of all the spinning.  I turn the knob and step out in to the hall.  The mirror stares after me.  I am looking out the window now.  I can count the avenues and detours.  I pull the sweater over my cold self and keep walking.  Two sleeves and a hole for my head.  I can count until I find myself outside your radius.  I can count rather than repeat your name.  I can watch the clouds.  I can count.  I can hope.  A window.  A window.  A way out.  

.