belief

we stay up late. we discuss our theories.  we discuss the theories of all the big dogs and i count my blessings.  then, i count how many shots i've poured.  i count how many books i've read this year (far fewer than the last) and i count how many times i can get a raised eyebrow out of a man.

my roommates head to bed and i hang new pictures on the wall.  pollen filters in through my open window and i listen to the neighbors fighting.  i put on a slow song of romantic redemption.  i take off my shoes.  i take off my socks.  i pull the braid out of my hair.

earlier, we discussed the power of images.  we discussed the power of persona and watched Lady Gaga videos.  i played my favorite and said: "she understands visual pleasure. she knows the exact moment when taboo begins."

that picture up top:  that image is me and it is not me.  i am that girl sometimes.  and sometimes that is the truest self i can express.  sometimes i am a girl of fishnets and wild hair and all i want is for someone to notice that i need a nice, good slap.  but there are reasons for this and those reasons matter. those reasons are not contained in the photographs i present.  there is the allusion.  there is the heartache.  it is spelled out in vivid pink.  it is scrawled all over me.  but i don't want to have to go on and on about it.  sometimes i just want a reckoning and i don't want to have to argue for it.  just do what needs to be done.

that picture up top:  it is me and it is not me.  sometimes i am not that girl at all.  sometimes i am too angry for romance, too absorbed in my own slow rage.  i am too interested in my own steam and decorum to consider the desires of another.  leave me alone.  i like my lonely road just fine.  i need no hand to hold.  god died for me the second my mother did. and let me tell you, i've never felt so fucking free.  i twirl my hair and paint my nails and stare you in the face.  i don't owe anyone anything and i plan to keep it that way.

that picture up top:  it is me and it is not me.  

dying portraits

i celebrated my independence by wearing red lipstick and having my passport photo taken.  i can hear the boom of fireworks in the distance.  i ran outside when they began but i can't see the show from where i live.  it is enough this year just to hear the drumming of the blasts, that spectacular clap of faux thunder. 


i spent the day making a small drawing and a series of photographic self-portraits.  i have no clue what i'm trying to accomplish with photography, with these images, this form of image making.  all i know is that i am drawn to it.  it is so unlike painting.  the intention behind a piece can be absolutely lost and replaced by mechanical or digital surprises.  chance is in full operation regardless of how staged a photo may be.  i embrace my amateur status and see these first exercises as a joyful event.  i am turned on by the potential of photography and don't mind being bad at it for awhile.




the shirt i'm wearing is a plain Hanes t-shirt that i scribbled across with a sharpie.  the stuffed bear in the background is one of the few remaining artifacts of my childhood.  i really like that both the bear and the text in these works is clear but the characteristics of my face are not. 

who cares. no apologies for art.

dying portrait 1, 3, and 5

digital photograph

angela simione, 2012

questioning...

what is this place?
what is this blog supposed to be all about?
me? my practice? both?
sometimes its title haunts me. sometimes i fear it pushes me in a direction i shouldn't go.

in school, i became pretty good at separating myself from the work in a sense. i could talk about the work without referencing myself, my life, my history... and, for the most part, that was definitely the best way to go about it. it's hard to find that elusive line between giving enough background and insight in to the work and giving away too much. sometimes, it's much more comfortable to talk about the theoretical premise of the work rather than attempt to define it in terms of my own emotions and experiences. i guess i'm beginning to worry that i've talked too much, been too free with certain bits of information.

the work that i'm most attracted to is work that can play in both fields- at one turn it is all big-brained intellectualism and analytical prowess, at the next it is emotional and romantic, poetic. i want my work to operate that way as well and i think, sometimes, it does... until i open my big mouth.

the work is, will always be, more important than my self. of course my experiences are largely responsible for the aesthetic i cater to and the images i'm attracted to, but does that really matter? do i need to explain where my defaults come from? do i need to situate my technique in my own psychology? hmmmmmm. one of my mentors would issue an angry and annoyed 'NO!'.

what do you think? should an artist wear their heart on their sleeve or should they let some things remain silent and unseen? is the work somehow enriched by receiving insider information or does it detract from it?

it is the awkward dance between public and private selves.