.
honest to god, i look at my old art and i don't even know who created it.
i look at the work and i remember so clearly each stroke of the brush, the temper of the day, the way the light fell across the oil and lit up the green pollen that fell from the Evergreens above and endeared itself to the liquin on my canvas... i remember how annoying it was. J coming home from work covered in grease and kissing me on the forehead, looking approvingly at the progress i'd made since he'd last seen the canvas while our dog cowered with excitement at his feet, waiting to be scratched on the head and told "good girl!'. i was waiting for the same phrase...
because it was me who spread that black across sheets of white. it was me who went running down highway 128 each morning with a rotweiller at my side, cigarette in hand and a cup of coffee waiting at the finish line each morning. it was me who blogged every day and slid my paint around and tried to read philosophy but got too caught up in dreaming about far away places instead. i did those things. i have the memories; no matter how hard i try to block them out.
it's been so easy to look away.
i don't want to remember the Past. i like to think of it in huge swatches of time. eras, rather than specifics. i don't let myself think about how broken my heart actually is... how sensitive i am... how easily hurt, how easily turned off... how easy it is for me to give up.
all it takes is one harsh word.
maybe that's unfair but that's the way it is. i just can't stomach it anymore. i've had too much of the yelling and the fighting and the name calling. i just can't do it anymore. and i'm okay if that makes me a freak. i walk along listening to pop music with tears in my eyes and thinking of my mother's hand on my cheek. i walk along thinking of a child i'll never bare running up and grabbing my pinky and saying "mama!" i walk along and thing of the close family warmth that other people know and trust. and i am separate. i am individual. and that's okay.
maybe after all that's happened i'm incapable of actually having the type of life other people seem to hold so dear? i think of my dead mother and i can hear her screaming at me, "just be yourself! do whatever makes you happy, little girl!"
and i do. i try to. i'm happiest when i can wrangle a plane ticket and some time off, alone with my diary, ink flowing and no clock to punch. it's just that the lines get crossed so easily when it comes to other people. my heart is so full of hope that it pains me to endure anything less that what we are capable of. perhaps i am a perfectionist after all. and, let me tell you,
it is hell.
.
Showing posts with label questioning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label questioning. Show all posts
Jul 12, 2014
May 4, 2014
breathing
.
there's a man asking questions of me.
he wants to know if i still believe in fairy tales.
i can tell he wants me to.
he pours a glass of wine and smiles and says, "you're guarded".
and he's absolutely right.
tonight at work, i looked out the window and thought i saw X sitting across the street, yelling and ranting, and the core of me turned to ice. i peered at his form through the window, careful not to get too close to the front of the restaurant, afraid to be seen, afraid to be noticed, afraid to provoke... the deepest fear one can feel... that old hook rusted into my heart since childhood...
can i give it a name?
can i write a person's name rather than an X?
not yet.
it wasn't him. when i realized my eyes had deceived me, the most wonderfully warm sense of relief flooded my entire being and i could be myself again. i no longer had to hide.
and then there are the emails i've ignored. the letters from ex-boyfriends that will always flap in the wind like an inadequate, threadbare flag. i remain silent because the tiniest squeak will be misinterpreted. i do not want certain people to ever think of me in any other way than absolutely cold. i am frozen through. at least when it comes to you, you, and you.
i look up and am stunned that it's already May. the new job is keeping me busy. the new job and these new questions from a new man. i scratch my head and i twirl my hair. i buy shoes. i paint my nails. i fall into a rhythm of self-pleasure and contemplation. i've never known such a wide-open, hot and hopeful pleasure as this; my ability to spend money without explanation, without guilt, no boyfriend or father to make explanations to, nobody sneering at me and rolling their eyes. these days i go to work and get high-fives from the other girls in regard to the new boots on my feet. and can i say, it feels fucking good. it feels fucking good to be entirely self sufficient and free. it feels good to revel in this independence. to know that every penny in my pocket is a penny i earned. to know i have a right to spend it however i choose and that i owe nothing to anyone. no debt of sniveling gratitude. i am beholden to no one.
and so i guard it.
i guard it because i prize it. this freedom, this life devoid of expectation and obligation, all the horrors i inflicted upon myself trying to make others proud, trying to make others satisfied. i pour myself a glass of wine.
but i don't know where the line is between being independent and being an island.
see, it's a double-edged thing learning that a broken heart won't kill you. it's a double-edged thing learning how to live without love, in general. i have no father and i have no mother. i know how to stand on my own. i know that i will not crumble. i know how to take the next breath. and the next. and the next.
still, i find myself smiling at the budding of that old schoolgirl hope.
inexplicable.
inborn?
.
there's a man asking questions of me.
he wants to know if i still believe in fairy tales.
i can tell he wants me to.
he pours a glass of wine and smiles and says, "you're guarded".
and he's absolutely right.
tonight at work, i looked out the window and thought i saw X sitting across the street, yelling and ranting, and the core of me turned to ice. i peered at his form through the window, careful not to get too close to the front of the restaurant, afraid to be seen, afraid to be noticed, afraid to provoke... the deepest fear one can feel... that old hook rusted into my heart since childhood...
can i give it a name?
can i write a person's name rather than an X?
not yet.
it wasn't him. when i realized my eyes had deceived me, the most wonderfully warm sense of relief flooded my entire being and i could be myself again. i no longer had to hide.
and then there are the emails i've ignored. the letters from ex-boyfriends that will always flap in the wind like an inadequate, threadbare flag. i remain silent because the tiniest squeak will be misinterpreted. i do not want certain people to ever think of me in any other way than absolutely cold. i am frozen through. at least when it comes to you, you, and you.
i look up and am stunned that it's already May. the new job is keeping me busy. the new job and these new questions from a new man. i scratch my head and i twirl my hair. i buy shoes. i paint my nails. i fall into a rhythm of self-pleasure and contemplation. i've never known such a wide-open, hot and hopeful pleasure as this; my ability to spend money without explanation, without guilt, no boyfriend or father to make explanations to, nobody sneering at me and rolling their eyes. these days i go to work and get high-fives from the other girls in regard to the new boots on my feet. and can i say, it feels fucking good. it feels fucking good to be entirely self sufficient and free. it feels good to revel in this independence. to know that every penny in my pocket is a penny i earned. to know i have a right to spend it however i choose and that i owe nothing to anyone. no debt of sniveling gratitude. i am beholden to no one.
and so i guard it.
i guard it because i prize it. this freedom, this life devoid of expectation and obligation, all the horrors i inflicted upon myself trying to make others proud, trying to make others satisfied. i pour myself a glass of wine.
but i don't know where the line is between being independent and being an island.
see, it's a double-edged thing learning that a broken heart won't kill you. it's a double-edged thing learning how to live without love, in general. i have no father and i have no mother. i know how to stand on my own. i know that i will not crumble. i know how to take the next breath. and the next. and the next.
still, i find myself smiling at the budding of that old schoolgirl hope.
inexplicable.
inborn?
.
Oct 4, 2013
trying
.
"I believe in the dignity of each of the different levels of the self. I don't want to lose any of them. To me they each exist simultaneously, not hierarchically... One is not better than another."
-Francesco Clemente
i read this statement in an old art history book of mine a week or so ago and i've been thinking of it ever since. i left the book open on the kitchen table to force myself to think of it. not just think of it but deal with it. i re-read it as i eat my late-night dinners and early-afternoon breakfasts. i like this statement and am drawn to it in a way that one is drawn to a puzzle or a riddle or an idol, anything that puts a person in a state of uncomfortable wonder. i'm drawn to it almost on the level of pornography... attracted to the image but made aware of my inadequacy before it. attracted and repelled simultaneously because i don't know how to achieve the thing i am agreeing with.
i want to be as welcoming, as accepting, as fluid and open and non-judgemental. i want to be as wise and caring... but i have no clue how to stop judging the individual components of my Self. Based on Clemente's statement, one's sexuality hold an equal value as one's spirituality or intellect. one's talent for painting is no more important than one's talent for gentleness. one's talent for gentleness is no more important than one's ability to cut through the shit and take care of business. if his statement is correct and all these components exist simultaneously (and are accepted, not submerged), then they operate in unison. one's ability to be gentle or direct is also, then, a factor in one's ability to paint or write or give a good handshake. the sensual component of one's Self snuggles up against the spiritual, like a cuddle-puddle of traits that all benefit from colliding with one another.
why can't i accept this? or better yet, why is my acceptance of this so rocky? is it an issue of faith? and if so, faith in what? or in whom? do i lack faith in myself?
i've felt so distracted lately. and alone within my distraction. i've been feeling quite singular and confused. i go back and re-read my diary from when i was in Berlin. i go back further and read the things i wrote at the beginning of the year. i look for some sort of crumb of insight that will set me straight and make my happiness a more solid, reliable thing rather than being so flimsy and fleeting. i have so much to be happy about, so why aren't i? why is it so hard to maintain happiness?
i've been guilty of submerging aspects of my personality for all the same stupid reasons anyone does such a thing- usually for the sake of a relationship, even if that relationship is with one's family or friends.
or maybe it has nothing to do with that at all? i'm very open about who i am and rarely feel like i need to hide who i truly am. there are very few occasions where i feel sheepish and afraid of another person's opinion of me. maybe i simply need to accept the fact of my sadness? is sadness the thing that i am hiding? the thing i am refusing to see as possessing its own worth and value? like most americans, i've been taught that sadness is something to hide. for some odd reason, people think it means you're ungrateful for the goodness that exists in your life; as if happiness and gratitude are synonyms. sadness is somehow lumped in with selfishness and, as we all know (especially those of us raised in any sort of judeo-christian model), "selfish" is the absolute worst thing a person can be. especially if that person is female. growing up, it was one of the absolute worst things to be labeled. so much so that my siblings and i still wrestle with knowing the difference between self-love and selfishness. it is not an easy distinction for me to make. the line between the two is not at all clear. perhaps that is the result of degrading certain parts of oneself...
what i DO know is that i don't want to limit myself and i don't want to shelter myself. i've most certainly accomplished both by letting a hierarchy exist within me. i've been trained to see one trait as "good", another as "bad", and still another as "worthless". i've compartmentalized my own pysyche and labeled the parts rather than seeing them as having a definite worth and use. i have not let all the parts of myself exist simultaneously. i've squelched some and nourished others, all the while hoping to feel like a Whole human being. but how could it be possible to feel complete when one is constantly performing some sort of on-going weeding of the Self rather than accepting the myriad components of one's being. why can't i accept fragmentation AS SUCH and not see it as a negative? why not see it as a fertile territory of change and opportunity? a field of ever-changing, ever-expanding possibilities that offer a plethora of lens through which to view the world and others? why encourage the continuation of binary thinking when i could attempt to nourish a multiplicity of outlooks and ways to think about the world? perhaps my sadness is simply a proof of my sensitivity? my love of the world? and THAT is an absolute necessity to my art practice.
in 2 weeks i'll hit my 3rd anniversary of being a non-smoker. i quit smoking after 16 years of very zealous, dedicated addiction. i loved to smoke. i truly did. what helped me the most when i finally decided to give it up was a trait that is generally though of as "bad": vanity. i harnessed the power of my own vanity (fear of premature aging, crow's feet around my eyes, yellow teeth, etc) to conquer my addiction. it worked amazingly well. and so even something that is generally thought to be a negative attribute served me well. everything has a value. everything can be used for a positive end or toward achieving a fuller experience of the world. i know this. why can't my mind and heart hold on to this knowledge? why am i so inconstant when it comes to my opinion of myself and my life? i need to find a way to abolish the hierarchies within me.
.
"I believe in the dignity of each of the different levels of the self. I don't want to lose any of them. To me they each exist simultaneously, not hierarchically... One is not better than another."
-Francesco Clemente
i read this statement in an old art history book of mine a week or so ago and i've been thinking of it ever since. i left the book open on the kitchen table to force myself to think of it. not just think of it but deal with it. i re-read it as i eat my late-night dinners and early-afternoon breakfasts. i like this statement and am drawn to it in a way that one is drawn to a puzzle or a riddle or an idol, anything that puts a person in a state of uncomfortable wonder. i'm drawn to it almost on the level of pornography... attracted to the image but made aware of my inadequacy before it. attracted and repelled simultaneously because i don't know how to achieve the thing i am agreeing with.
i want to be as welcoming, as accepting, as fluid and open and non-judgemental. i want to be as wise and caring... but i have no clue how to stop judging the individual components of my Self. Based on Clemente's statement, one's sexuality hold an equal value as one's spirituality or intellect. one's talent for painting is no more important than one's talent for gentleness. one's talent for gentleness is no more important than one's ability to cut through the shit and take care of business. if his statement is correct and all these components exist simultaneously (and are accepted, not submerged), then they operate in unison. one's ability to be gentle or direct is also, then, a factor in one's ability to paint or write or give a good handshake. the sensual component of one's Self snuggles up against the spiritual, like a cuddle-puddle of traits that all benefit from colliding with one another.
why can't i accept this? or better yet, why is my acceptance of this so rocky? is it an issue of faith? and if so, faith in what? or in whom? do i lack faith in myself?
i've felt so distracted lately. and alone within my distraction. i've been feeling quite singular and confused. i go back and re-read my diary from when i was in Berlin. i go back further and read the things i wrote at the beginning of the year. i look for some sort of crumb of insight that will set me straight and make my happiness a more solid, reliable thing rather than being so flimsy and fleeting. i have so much to be happy about, so why aren't i? why is it so hard to maintain happiness?
i've been guilty of submerging aspects of my personality for all the same stupid reasons anyone does such a thing- usually for the sake of a relationship, even if that relationship is with one's family or friends.
or maybe it has nothing to do with that at all? i'm very open about who i am and rarely feel like i need to hide who i truly am. there are very few occasions where i feel sheepish and afraid of another person's opinion of me. maybe i simply need to accept the fact of my sadness? is sadness the thing that i am hiding? the thing i am refusing to see as possessing its own worth and value? like most americans, i've been taught that sadness is something to hide. for some odd reason, people think it means you're ungrateful for the goodness that exists in your life; as if happiness and gratitude are synonyms. sadness is somehow lumped in with selfishness and, as we all know (especially those of us raised in any sort of judeo-christian model), "selfish" is the absolute worst thing a person can be. especially if that person is female. growing up, it was one of the absolute worst things to be labeled. so much so that my siblings and i still wrestle with knowing the difference between self-love and selfishness. it is not an easy distinction for me to make. the line between the two is not at all clear. perhaps that is the result of degrading certain parts of oneself...
what i DO know is that i don't want to limit myself and i don't want to shelter myself. i've most certainly accomplished both by letting a hierarchy exist within me. i've been trained to see one trait as "good", another as "bad", and still another as "worthless". i've compartmentalized my own pysyche and labeled the parts rather than seeing them as having a definite worth and use. i have not let all the parts of myself exist simultaneously. i've squelched some and nourished others, all the while hoping to feel like a Whole human being. but how could it be possible to feel complete when one is constantly performing some sort of on-going weeding of the Self rather than accepting the myriad components of one's being. why can't i accept fragmentation AS SUCH and not see it as a negative? why not see it as a fertile territory of change and opportunity? a field of ever-changing, ever-expanding possibilities that offer a plethora of lens through which to view the world and others? why encourage the continuation of binary thinking when i could attempt to nourish a multiplicity of outlooks and ways to think about the world? perhaps my sadness is simply a proof of my sensitivity? my love of the world? and THAT is an absolute necessity to my art practice.
in 2 weeks i'll hit my 3rd anniversary of being a non-smoker. i quit smoking after 16 years of very zealous, dedicated addiction. i loved to smoke. i truly did. what helped me the most when i finally decided to give it up was a trait that is generally though of as "bad": vanity. i harnessed the power of my own vanity (fear of premature aging, crow's feet around my eyes, yellow teeth, etc) to conquer my addiction. it worked amazingly well. and so even something that is generally thought to be a negative attribute served me well. everything has a value. everything can be used for a positive end or toward achieving a fuller experience of the world. i know this. why can't my mind and heart hold on to this knowledge? why am i so inconstant when it comes to my opinion of myself and my life? i need to find a way to abolish the hierarchies within me.
.
Sep 26, 2013
love:
.
"To love a stranger as oneself implies the reverse: to love oneself as the stranger."
- Simione Weil, Gravity & Grace, p. 111
.
"To love a stranger as oneself implies the reverse: to love oneself as the stranger."
- Simione Weil, Gravity & Grace, p. 111
.
Apr 25, 2013
"...this machine will not communicate these thoughts and the strain i am under..."
.
the tightening in my chest. the ache that finds my angles, all my spectacular corners, so pink, so unexpectedly soft. in my private moments i like to give these spaces a name and i name them Ugly. i name them Inept. i name them Not Good Enough.
my friend wants to slap my face for speaking this way and so i cough up all my vain confessions. i pour the vodka in to the empty pocket where my heartache has bored a hole. i look at my face in the mirror and try to see yours.
i look at my face and wish i was looking at yours.
and maybe i'm not trying to build anything lasting, after all? maybe it's just all this hunger we've been taught to hold, taught to cultivate, when really my exaltation is as dependent upon my destruction as it is these rare moments of pleasure in which my spirit soars, in which my spirit is reborn...
in so much spit! in so much sweat! and the man screams "immerse your soul in love!" if this is not religion, i do not know what is. if this is not religion, let all religions fall.
.
the tightening in my chest. the ache that finds my angles, all my spectacular corners, so pink, so unexpectedly soft. in my private moments i like to give these spaces a name and i name them Ugly. i name them Inept. i name them Not Good Enough.
my friend wants to slap my face for speaking this way and so i cough up all my vain confessions. i pour the vodka in to the empty pocket where my heartache has bored a hole. i look at my face in the mirror and try to see yours.
i look at my face and wish i was looking at yours.
and maybe i'm not trying to build anything lasting, after all? maybe it's just all this hunger we've been taught to hold, taught to cultivate, when really my exaltation is as dependent upon my destruction as it is these rare moments of pleasure in which my spirit soars, in which my spirit is reborn...
in so much spit! in so much sweat! and the man screams "immerse your soul in love!" if this is not religion, i do not know what is. if this is not religion, let all religions fall.
.
Apr 18, 2013
Es geht.
it's hard to lay in bed like this and not end up feeling a little fragile. fragile in more ways than one, not simply physically... though maybe it is the fact of my current physical fragility that has me thinking such sad and flowery thoughts today? i am all romance and strife on the inside. i am Unrequited This and Unrequited That. i twist the yarn around my hook and sigh. sigh sigh sigh.
thank god for the trusty greyhound by my side. :)
my friend alex came by today with some groceries for me. coffee, cream, vodka. the basics. she hung out with me all afternoon and made me laugh even though it hurts. she's such a wonderful person and friend. she lives a good 6 or 7 cities away and yet she still made the drive out to oakland to show me some love and care. it cheered me up somethin wonderful, is what. it's easy to start feeling isolated and alone when it comes to this type of injury. the cure is brutal: stay in bed, don't move, don't sneeze. that's all that can be done about this. and i'm following the rules because a big part of me is holding out hope that i won't have to cancel my trip. the eternal optimist. it's unlikely that i'll still be able to go to NY. i need to be able to walk around (for MILES AND MILES), dance, drink and be dumb, not to mention sit in an airplane for 6 hours. there's no way i could do it in my current condition. the plane ride itself would make me want to die. sheer torture. i can't even sit at my own kitchen table right now. i can stand and i can lay. that's it.
ready for the dramatics?
so of course i've rolled around to thinking about my life at this point and what the fuck i'm doing with it. i'm objective... i see the goodness of studying a different language, going to work, making art, writing and taking pictures... but somehow i feel like i'm not doing enough. i have this 22 page poemy-ish thing that needs to be edited and i haven't touched it in weeks. i basically have no clue where to begin so i ignore it. i focus on things i DO know how to conquer- drawing and crochet, whining on my blog. i'm beating around the bush. what i really want in this moment of pain is for someone to take care of me. i want my mother to sweep in, in all her curls and lipstick, and make me soup. i want a knowing hand to brush my hair away from my forehead. i want to be given permission to be weak, to be in need, and to have it not feel shameful and embarrassing.
that's what was so nice about alex's visit today. she just took care of these little things for me and didn't seem to mind at all. she wouldn't even take any money from me. somewhere along the line, i got very accustomed to relying only upon myself that i no longer know how to respond to certain forms of kindness. i'm good at extending those forms of care but have no clue how to feel or behave when i'm on the receiving end. it just doesn't happen that much. but maybe i don't allow it??? i very rarely ask for help. i feel ashamed when i need it. i feel like i should be able to handle anything and everything that comes my way, at each and every turn. i'm tough.
but i'm only tough because i've had to be. and to be honest, sometimes it really sucks. sometimes, it's a very lonely road. still, i don't know how to shake my false belief that to ask for help is an embarrassment. i don't know how to rely on another person. i don't trust that another person is strong enough to carry my heavy heart and not drop it... but nor should a person be expected to be. isn't my heart MY responsibility? isn't my life MY responsibility?
it isn't that i don't trust people, it's that i feel very unsafe being dependent upon another human being. for anything.
thank god for the trusty greyhound by my side. :)
my friend alex came by today with some groceries for me. coffee, cream, vodka. the basics. she hung out with me all afternoon and made me laugh even though it hurts. she's such a wonderful person and friend. she lives a good 6 or 7 cities away and yet she still made the drive out to oakland to show me some love and care. it cheered me up somethin wonderful, is what. it's easy to start feeling isolated and alone when it comes to this type of injury. the cure is brutal: stay in bed, don't move, don't sneeze. that's all that can be done about this. and i'm following the rules because a big part of me is holding out hope that i won't have to cancel my trip. the eternal optimist. it's unlikely that i'll still be able to go to NY. i need to be able to walk around (for MILES AND MILES), dance, drink and be dumb, not to mention sit in an airplane for 6 hours. there's no way i could do it in my current condition. the plane ride itself would make me want to die. sheer torture. i can't even sit at my own kitchen table right now. i can stand and i can lay. that's it.
ready for the dramatics?
so of course i've rolled around to thinking about my life at this point and what the fuck i'm doing with it. i'm objective... i see the goodness of studying a different language, going to work, making art, writing and taking pictures... but somehow i feel like i'm not doing enough. i have this 22 page poemy-ish thing that needs to be edited and i haven't touched it in weeks. i basically have no clue where to begin so i ignore it. i focus on things i DO know how to conquer- drawing and crochet, whining on my blog. i'm beating around the bush. what i really want in this moment of pain is for someone to take care of me. i want my mother to sweep in, in all her curls and lipstick, and make me soup. i want a knowing hand to brush my hair away from my forehead. i want to be given permission to be weak, to be in need, and to have it not feel shameful and embarrassing.
that's what was so nice about alex's visit today. she just took care of these little things for me and didn't seem to mind at all. she wouldn't even take any money from me. somewhere along the line, i got very accustomed to relying only upon myself that i no longer know how to respond to certain forms of kindness. i'm good at extending those forms of care but have no clue how to feel or behave when i'm on the receiving end. it just doesn't happen that much. but maybe i don't allow it??? i very rarely ask for help. i feel ashamed when i need it. i feel like i should be able to handle anything and everything that comes my way, at each and every turn. i'm tough.
but i'm only tough because i've had to be. and to be honest, sometimes it really sucks. sometimes, it's a very lonely road. still, i don't know how to shake my false belief that to ask for help is an embarrassment. i don't know how to rely on another person. i don't trust that another person is strong enough to carry my heavy heart and not drop it... but nor should a person be expected to be. isn't my heart MY responsibility? isn't my life MY responsibility?
it isn't that i don't trust people, it's that i feel very unsafe being dependent upon another human being. for anything.
Jan 24, 2013
execution
.
for the passed few days i've been hunched over projects, pulling things together that have sat, unattended, far too long and bringing them to completion. and hunched is exactly the right word. an old back injury has woken up as a result and i've spent the last several hours lying flat on my back in bed. i should be good as new by morning but it made today an utter pain in the ass. pun intended. still, i got out for a bit and took some lovely photographs of a broken mirror on the side of the road. the walking helped but i've been in a shitload of pain for the majority of the day. and actually, it's been kinda nice to just be in bed with a book. it's something i don't do enough these days. funny to think i used to curl up with a book nightly. was it really so long ago? a year. damn. a year...
as if the cycle of the seasons weren't enough to get my ritualistic brain humming. the new year finds us and 12 days later it's the 2nd anniversary of my mother's death. a week later on the 19th, it's her birthday. all these personal holidays. all these snaps of the leash. these markers of time are serious. and so... i've been thinking about grad school again. wondering about it is more like it. should i? shouldn't i? is it necessary for my practice? is it necessary in order to have a career as an artist? what constitutes a "career" for an artist anyway? i'll go on making things and writing things until i go blind and my fingers fall off regardless. and i haven't looked to any system to supply value to my work in a very, very long time. i'd just as soon climb poles and wrap my crochet around them or write poems on abandoned mattresses. i return to dreaming of New York; the Bowery, the Lower East Side and how magnificently at home i felt there. lately, i look at myself in the mirror and ask "what the fuck is stopping you?"
the big news is that i'm traveling to Europe for the first time this summer and i must squirrel away alottttttt of pennies between now and then in order to make it happen. no bouncing off to NY until after i have bought a passport and a plane ticket to Frankfurt. after that, who knows? i have a storage unit where all my books and art will be safe until i can collect them. i can go wherever i want to go because the truth of the matter is that i can both make art and wait tables anywhere. this is a fact i've been thinking alot about lately. A LOT. a fact that simultaneously makes me feel exquisitely free and exquisitely lonely. freedom is a barbed thing. still, i'd rather have the scars of liberty than the pristine surface afforded by security. i'd rather run this body in to the ground through love and action and adventure than preserve it needlessly through neglect as an atrocious shrine to Safety and Obedience. the only obedience i feel is Moral is to be myself. it is the pinnacle of honesty and truly the only thing any of us really have to offer anyway.
but i'm getting away from myself. the point was my slipped disk and how it fucked up an entire day. while laying on my bedroom floor, i read the first two essays in Chris Kraus's 'Video Green'. i like reading her thoughts on contemporary art paired with her exploration of BDSM. seems an unlikely pair at first but it's something i feel intrigued and comforted by. her level of self-exposure in what is technically an article/essay is astounding. it widens my view on what "serious" writing can be. the body is given primacy. especially the female body and female desire. it makes me think about blogging in an entirely different way too. the level of self-exposure i've attained here in the blackland is nothing compared to what i want to achieve in my art practice (of which this blog is very much a part) but it is leaps and bounds beyond what it was just 2 years ago. i suppose the answer is to simply keep pushing. whether it be grad school or simply relocating, i need to push harder at the seams of my practice, at the seams of myself. it is a lonely endeavour sometimes. painfully lonely. but then i think of all the artists i admire and i leaf through their books. i think of my mother at her sewing machine. i think of my brother on his motorcycle and my sister taking care of animals on a farm. i think of you reading these words and how much i'd rather be sitting on the arm of your couch, cocktail in hand, a laugh ready to burst and saying all of this directly to you and waiting for the heated breath of your response to find my ear, my neck, my heart.
remember what Jack said: to be an artist is a privilege.
.
for the passed few days i've been hunched over projects, pulling things together that have sat, unattended, far too long and bringing them to completion. and hunched is exactly the right word. an old back injury has woken up as a result and i've spent the last several hours lying flat on my back in bed. i should be good as new by morning but it made today an utter pain in the ass. pun intended. still, i got out for a bit and took some lovely photographs of a broken mirror on the side of the road. the walking helped but i've been in a shitload of pain for the majority of the day. and actually, it's been kinda nice to just be in bed with a book. it's something i don't do enough these days. funny to think i used to curl up with a book nightly. was it really so long ago? a year. damn. a year...
as if the cycle of the seasons weren't enough to get my ritualistic brain humming. the new year finds us and 12 days later it's the 2nd anniversary of my mother's death. a week later on the 19th, it's her birthday. all these personal holidays. all these snaps of the leash. these markers of time are serious. and so... i've been thinking about grad school again. wondering about it is more like it. should i? shouldn't i? is it necessary for my practice? is it necessary in order to have a career as an artist? what constitutes a "career" for an artist anyway? i'll go on making things and writing things until i go blind and my fingers fall off regardless. and i haven't looked to any system to supply value to my work in a very, very long time. i'd just as soon climb poles and wrap my crochet around them or write poems on abandoned mattresses. i return to dreaming of New York; the Bowery, the Lower East Side and how magnificently at home i felt there. lately, i look at myself in the mirror and ask "what the fuck is stopping you?"
the big news is that i'm traveling to Europe for the first time this summer and i must squirrel away alottttttt of pennies between now and then in order to make it happen. no bouncing off to NY until after i have bought a passport and a plane ticket to Frankfurt. after that, who knows? i have a storage unit where all my books and art will be safe until i can collect them. i can go wherever i want to go because the truth of the matter is that i can both make art and wait tables anywhere. this is a fact i've been thinking alot about lately. A LOT. a fact that simultaneously makes me feel exquisitely free and exquisitely lonely. freedom is a barbed thing. still, i'd rather have the scars of liberty than the pristine surface afforded by security. i'd rather run this body in to the ground through love and action and adventure than preserve it needlessly through neglect as an atrocious shrine to Safety and Obedience. the only obedience i feel is Moral is to be myself. it is the pinnacle of honesty and truly the only thing any of us really have to offer anyway.
but i'm getting away from myself. the point was my slipped disk and how it fucked up an entire day. while laying on my bedroom floor, i read the first two essays in Chris Kraus's 'Video Green'. i like reading her thoughts on contemporary art paired with her exploration of BDSM. seems an unlikely pair at first but it's something i feel intrigued and comforted by. her level of self-exposure in what is technically an article/essay is astounding. it widens my view on what "serious" writing can be. the body is given primacy. especially the female body and female desire. it makes me think about blogging in an entirely different way too. the level of self-exposure i've attained here in the blackland is nothing compared to what i want to achieve in my art practice (of which this blog is very much a part) but it is leaps and bounds beyond what it was just 2 years ago. i suppose the answer is to simply keep pushing. whether it be grad school or simply relocating, i need to push harder at the seams of my practice, at the seams of myself. it is a lonely endeavour sometimes. painfully lonely. but then i think of all the artists i admire and i leaf through their books. i think of my mother at her sewing machine. i think of my brother on his motorcycle and my sister taking care of animals on a farm. i think of you reading these words and how much i'd rather be sitting on the arm of your couch, cocktail in hand, a laugh ready to burst and saying all of this directly to you and waiting for the heated breath of your response to find my ear, my neck, my heart.
remember what Jack said: to be an artist is a privilege.
.
Jan 12, 2013
untitled OR go fuck yourself and i'll go fuck myself too.
.
is it all just a series of days?
is it all just a collection of moments, disparate and broken as fuck, packed in to one week or one month or one year? am i entirely without congruity? am i entirely without plan? i rack up sentences, one after the other... pages are filled. every now and then, i look back. every now and then, my own life concerns me. i mean in a deeper way then the usual self-absorption and apathy. i rack up the stitches, one after the other, and a sweater is made. or a blanket. and it feels somehow like a world has been created. but only for an evening. only for as long as it takes for me to return to apathy and the fear that maybe it really is just a series of events, a series of exchanges, disparate and broken as fuck.
is it all just a series of days?
is it all just a collection of moments, disparate and broken as fuck, packed in to one week or one month or one year? am i entirely without congruity? am i entirely without plan? i rack up sentences, one after the other... pages are filled. every now and then, i look back. every now and then, my own life concerns me. i mean in a deeper way then the usual self-absorption and apathy. i rack up the stitches, one after the other, and a sweater is made. or a blanket. and it feels somehow like a world has been created. but only for an evening. only for as long as it takes for me to return to apathy and the fear that maybe it really is just a series of events, a series of exchanges, disparate and broken as fuck.
Nov 25, 2012
maintenance
i have lay sick for 2 days in my bed. sick as a dog. only during the last few hours have i begun to rise from this mean little virus. the other night i actually lost my voice (for the very first time in my life) at work. this evening i wrote in my diary for the first time since falling ill. i had so much to describe, so much to recount but, suddenly, a moment found me when i couldn't seem to identify with my
human frailty, when i couldn't manage to forgive myself for even the silliest of
mistakes. the last few months have been tremendous fun and i've enjoyed myself so much but i feel like i've definitely fallen off the wagon when it comes to maintaining a dedicated art practice and that makes me feel really bad. i haven't read as much as i used to, as much as i need to, want to. i know it's normal to be a bit explosive for a moment after reclaiming one's freedom but i worry that i've allowed myself to be a bit too distracted from my goals and dreams. i haven't actually thought about my long-term goals in at least 6 months.
is that bad? or just foreign to me? my path isn't something i doubt or question but i still need to make time to tend to it.
i spoke with my sister the other day about my seeming need to confess in order to feel at ease with who i am. "i'm making you my confessor!" i laughed. but the joke of it belies the truth of my condition. the immense guilt i feel over such normal things, mistake or not. it is the fact of certain horrors i've been taught to believe. the horror of certain teeth caught in my pink, making me so afraid and so ashamed of so many things...
which is weird to write. my friends tell me i seem so brave. maybe i am and i'm just not used to thinking of myself that way. one of my friends recently told me that the veiw i hold of myself is horribly outdated and it's time i get a new mirror. i'm trying to trust his analysis. because the truth is that there is very little i am actually afraid of. there are things that make me nervous and there are things that make me uncomfortable but that's not the same thing as Fear. my Fear is that i'm a bad person. i've talked about it so many times here. it's amazing how ingrained this thought-pattern is. it's amazing how easily it can be awoken and allowed to roam across my heart. it's amazing how easy it is to forget the good things about oneself. it's amazing how easy it is to believe the worst...
and the untrue.
all this to say, it's time to start thinking about new year's resolutions again. it's time to spend a bit of time reading this year's diaries and reflecting on all that's changed and all that needs to change. making more time for reading is definitely high on the list. i miss talking about literary things. i miss the influence of other writers in my life. i miss that lofty, inexplicable, heart-rending connection.
is that bad? or just foreign to me? my path isn't something i doubt or question but i still need to make time to tend to it.
i spoke with my sister the other day about my seeming need to confess in order to feel at ease with who i am. "i'm making you my confessor!" i laughed. but the joke of it belies the truth of my condition. the immense guilt i feel over such normal things, mistake or not. it is the fact of certain horrors i've been taught to believe. the horror of certain teeth caught in my pink, making me so afraid and so ashamed of so many things...
which is weird to write. my friends tell me i seem so brave. maybe i am and i'm just not used to thinking of myself that way. one of my friends recently told me that the veiw i hold of myself is horribly outdated and it's time i get a new mirror. i'm trying to trust his analysis. because the truth is that there is very little i am actually afraid of. there are things that make me nervous and there are things that make me uncomfortable but that's not the same thing as Fear. my Fear is that i'm a bad person. i've talked about it so many times here. it's amazing how ingrained this thought-pattern is. it's amazing how easily it can be awoken and allowed to roam across my heart. it's amazing how easy it is to forget the good things about oneself. it's amazing how easy it is to believe the worst...
and the untrue.
all this to say, it's time to start thinking about new year's resolutions again. it's time to spend a bit of time reading this year's diaries and reflecting on all that's changed and all that needs to change. making more time for reading is definitely high on the list. i miss talking about literary things. i miss the influence of other writers in my life. i miss that lofty, inexplicable, heart-rending connection.
Jul 20, 2011
art and pain
the man said Art doesn't work without pain.
i have been taught to disregard statements like that but, sometimes, when i look at my own work, the painful origins of my images are too stark and strong to deny. i read his statement again and see that it is honest, accurate in a way that makes me uncomfortable. uncomfortable maybe because i am an american and i want to seem tough, cool, collected, unshakable. then i remember i have a blog and i remember the things i've written on this blog and the reality of the situation dawns on me: OH SHIT! MY BLOG IS ON THE INTERNET! EVERYONE CAN SEE IT! hahahaha! silly, i know, but i try not to think about it. i've actually been pretty successful at convincing myself that no one reads this thing and that all my words here are really just skipping stones across a quiet lake. it's better for me to think that way about this practice because otherwise i might not say anything at all. i might become too embarrassed, too ashamed of my own life, my own lived experiences and expressions of pain. i might hide instead and cry where no one can see.
but where would be the benefit in that? where would be the art?
it is more than pain, something beyond pain, but pain nevertheless, in each contour, in every shimmer... because life is like that too. some things must be alchemised if we expect to be able to look at them. some types of pain has to be romanticized in order to even be carried. some pains are just that great, just that crushing. a conversion must take place. we develop new eyes, new words, new hands that are capable of holding new pain. we must, if we must continue.
Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.
— Anaïs Nin
i have been taught to disregard statements like that but, sometimes, when i look at my own work, the painful origins of my images are too stark and strong to deny. i read his statement again and see that it is honest, accurate in a way that makes me uncomfortable. uncomfortable maybe because i am an american and i want to seem tough, cool, collected, unshakable. then i remember i have a blog and i remember the things i've written on this blog and the reality of the situation dawns on me: OH SHIT! MY BLOG IS ON THE INTERNET! EVERYONE CAN SEE IT! hahahaha! silly, i know, but i try not to think about it. i've actually been pretty successful at convincing myself that no one reads this thing and that all my words here are really just skipping stones across a quiet lake. it's better for me to think that way about this practice because otherwise i might not say anything at all. i might become too embarrassed, too ashamed of my own life, my own lived experiences and expressions of pain. i might hide instead and cry where no one can see.
but where would be the benefit in that? where would be the art?
it is more than pain, something beyond pain, but pain nevertheless, in each contour, in every shimmer... because life is like that too. some things must be alchemised if we expect to be able to look at them. some types of pain has to be romanticized in order to even be carried. some pains are just that great, just that crushing. a conversion must take place. we develop new eyes, new words, new hands that are capable of holding new pain. we must, if we must continue.
Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.
— Anaïs Nin
Feb 8, 2011
what is this place and who am i when i'm here?
shall i tip-toe back in to this room?
this quiet confessional, all text and light? beaming beaming.
throwing words. tears. longing. sorrow. my sad vomit. so sad i vomit. has that ever happened to you? have you been so sad that your body rebels against you?
my mother's death has sped life up in certain ways. slowed it down in others. the world is an entirely different place now.
i was driving in the dark winding roads back home from work one night and suddenly i said to my self, out loud, "her death is going to impact my life in ways i can't even begin to imagine and it is going to go on like that for years." this is a fact. this is one of the few truths i know and i'm not sad about it. i don't ever want this to stop hurting. i want it to hurt forever. i'll find a way to let it polish me.
there is too much to catalogue. all that has happened. all that is still happening. all that will continue to happen...
for months, i've been recoiling from using this space in certain ways. i needed it to become more artistic, more invested in blogging as a particular form of writing like fiction or poetry. roz thinks it could be Performance. i like that idea. but it remains that i have no clue what i need this space to be anymore. i have no clue about of a lot of things these days.
i'm taking german and pottery at my local community college. i spend a lot of time listening to Rammstein and Bauhaus and Patti Smith, deciding on some level to go ahead and let the goth-girl in me flourish for awhile. let her have her say. my dear friend sent me a tube of bright red lipstick. i've only had the guts to wear it outside once. i think i need to go blonde. and every chance i get, i read Anais Nin's Diary. i'm on volume 2. i see myself in her pages. i know that world. i know those longings. i know those struggles. i can catch a glimpse of the girl behind my reflection... the one who is trying to wake up, trying to talk, trying to Become... if only the outside expectations would stop choking her out. if only i were strong enough to bar them from my life and heart.
but it's safe to say that, with each day that passes, i give less and less of a fuck what people think of me or who they would like me to be... the performance they want, the image they prefer. Lea, Freya, and i talked about feminism while we installed the new show. Lea said "some stories need to continue to be told and i take it as a personal duty to tell them". this made my heart jump and shiver. it made me feel thankful.
this is post 971. i will get to 1000 before i make any decisions about this space. i will let this space twist up on itself, writhe around on the floor, fight to become whatever it is that it needs to become. or else i will kill it. we'll see what we see. but there are no more rules. there are no more requirements about how often i post or what i post. i believe words can work magic. i will be patient, for 30 more posts anyway, and see what finds me.
this quiet confessional, all text and light? beaming beaming.
throwing words. tears. longing. sorrow. my sad vomit. so sad i vomit. has that ever happened to you? have you been so sad that your body rebels against you?
my mother's death has sped life up in certain ways. slowed it down in others. the world is an entirely different place now.
i was driving in the dark winding roads back home from work one night and suddenly i said to my self, out loud, "her death is going to impact my life in ways i can't even begin to imagine and it is going to go on like that for years." this is a fact. this is one of the few truths i know and i'm not sad about it. i don't ever want this to stop hurting. i want it to hurt forever. i'll find a way to let it polish me.
there is too much to catalogue. all that has happened. all that is still happening. all that will continue to happen...
for months, i've been recoiling from using this space in certain ways. i needed it to become more artistic, more invested in blogging as a particular form of writing like fiction or poetry. roz thinks it could be Performance. i like that idea. but it remains that i have no clue what i need this space to be anymore. i have no clue about of a lot of things these days.
i'm taking german and pottery at my local community college. i spend a lot of time listening to Rammstein and Bauhaus and Patti Smith, deciding on some level to go ahead and let the goth-girl in me flourish for awhile. let her have her say. my dear friend sent me a tube of bright red lipstick. i've only had the guts to wear it outside once. i think i need to go blonde. and every chance i get, i read Anais Nin's Diary. i'm on volume 2. i see myself in her pages. i know that world. i know those longings. i know those struggles. i can catch a glimpse of the girl behind my reflection... the one who is trying to wake up, trying to talk, trying to Become... if only the outside expectations would stop choking her out. if only i were strong enough to bar them from my life and heart.
but it's safe to say that, with each day that passes, i give less and less of a fuck what people think of me or who they would like me to be... the performance they want, the image they prefer. Lea, Freya, and i talked about feminism while we installed the new show. Lea said "some stories need to continue to be told and i take it as a personal duty to tell them". this made my heart jump and shiver. it made me feel thankful.
this is post 971. i will get to 1000 before i make any decisions about this space. i will let this space twist up on itself, writhe around on the floor, fight to become whatever it is that it needs to become. or else i will kill it. we'll see what we see. but there are no more rules. there are no more requirements about how often i post or what i post. i believe words can work magic. i will be patient, for 30 more posts anyway, and see what finds me.
Jul 19, 2010
advice???
as i go through the portfolios and photograph all the work, a certain dream of mine starts to tug tug tug at my brain. for the passed several months i've been playing with the idea of putting together a book of drawings and i'm thinking the self-publishing route is the best route to take. check out amy king's essay on the subject here. so...
where to start??? and what has your experience been? enjoyable? futile? worthwhile? easy? can a novice do it? and what about templates? any and all experience/advice/critique is totally welcome. in fact, it is BEGGED FOR!
and in the meantime, here's a nice little pair of drawings. :) one thing that keeps happening during this documenting process is i keep finding things that are really great as diptychs and triptychs! it's so exciting!
where to start??? and what has your experience been? enjoyable? futile? worthwhile? easy? can a novice do it? and what about templates? any and all experience/advice/critique is totally welcome. in fact, it is BEGGED FOR!
and in the meantime, here's a nice little pair of drawings. :) one thing that keeps happening during this documenting process is i keep finding things that are really great as diptychs and triptychs! it's so exciting!
Jan 2, 2010
love.
i've been thinking a lot lately about love. not in a flowery or sentimental way, more in a bare bones, 'what the eff is it' kind of way.
how do i express it? how do others? what are the things, specifically, that i love?
and the more i think about it, the more varied and fluctuating love seems to be. all sorts of different loves, different breeds of the thing depending on what or whom i aim the word at. the way love feels to me when i think of my family is very different from how i feel when i think of art. my loves sometimes even challenge one another. it doesn't seem to be a static thing.
still, i've been looking for the common denominator. the red thread. and it's forcing me down a strange network of ideas and in to some fairly uncomfortable places where i see it's time now to take a closer look at my values... to update them, tailor them to the life i'm leading now, the life i'm pursuing, rather than the life i once had. a re-examination of my motivations.
i'm no longer a child seeking approval and care. the resentments i sometimes feel over my childhood are running their course. i'm not as angry or as hurt as i once was. i'm learning that the past has importance, has a place... but it can't be allowed tyranny. it can't be allowed to become a dictator. the time has come to relieve these old ghosts of their power to haunt. it's time to translate my experiences in a beneficial, helpful way... not run from them, not hide them, not use them to get my way. use them, if i can, to be a better artist, a better human.
the maps i had 5 years ago no longer get me anywhere. the values i held 5 years ago, or even at the start of last year, have morphed... been polished or corroded by experience. they aren't the same and i need to look at them. i need to find out what they have become. who i've become while i was busy inside the daily grind.
art is a good barometer for these things. i can flip through the paintings i've made during the last 2 years and watch color drain out of my canvasses. the slow progression toward a clearer aesthetic. my own tastes taking dominance.
i can tell you that i love my paintings... i'm hopeful this might mean i've learned to love myself a bit.
how do i express it? how do others? what are the things, specifically, that i love?
and the more i think about it, the more varied and fluctuating love seems to be. all sorts of different loves, different breeds of the thing depending on what or whom i aim the word at. the way love feels to me when i think of my family is very different from how i feel when i think of art. my loves sometimes even challenge one another. it doesn't seem to be a static thing.
still, i've been looking for the common denominator. the red thread. and it's forcing me down a strange network of ideas and in to some fairly uncomfortable places where i see it's time now to take a closer look at my values... to update them, tailor them to the life i'm leading now, the life i'm pursuing, rather than the life i once had. a re-examination of my motivations.
i'm no longer a child seeking approval and care. the resentments i sometimes feel over my childhood are running their course. i'm not as angry or as hurt as i once was. i'm learning that the past has importance, has a place... but it can't be allowed tyranny. it can't be allowed to become a dictator. the time has come to relieve these old ghosts of their power to haunt. it's time to translate my experiences in a beneficial, helpful way... not run from them, not hide them, not use them to get my way. use them, if i can, to be a better artist, a better human.
the maps i had 5 years ago no longer get me anywhere. the values i held 5 years ago, or even at the start of last year, have morphed... been polished or corroded by experience. they aren't the same and i need to look at them. i need to find out what they have become. who i've become while i was busy inside the daily grind.
art is a good barometer for these things. i can flip through the paintings i've made during the last 2 years and watch color drain out of my canvasses. the slow progression toward a clearer aesthetic. my own tastes taking dominance.
i can tell you that i love my paintings... i'm hopeful this might mean i've learned to love myself a bit.
Dec 28, 2009
hmmmmmm. question.
when i was a very very young writer - 16 years old - so maybe i just fancied myself to be a writer, i had a teacher who said to us "if you really mean it, you'll end up writing things that will hurt your family. you'll end up writing something out in to the world that will anger them. the things they wish would've stayed silent, kept hidden". something along those lines. i'm saying it worse, 13 years between then and now. and still the same fear that this statement is true... because it is true.
sometimes i think my words are greedy, only here to assuage me, my heart, my needs. i learned early that personal needs are selfish and bad. only now do i see that that lesson was bad and wrong, not me. not me.
writers- how do you handle this? do you think of it? do you fear it? how do you use it? how does one become fearless? is there such a thing as 'the sacred'? subjects you never touch? or do you parlay it in to a fiction? do you hide the work under the bed? do you lock it away? how do you let the rottweiler of the leash?
sometimes i think my words are greedy, only here to assuage me, my heart, my needs. i learned early that personal needs are selfish and bad. only now do i see that that lesson was bad and wrong, not me. not me.
writers- how do you handle this? do you think of it? do you fear it? how do you use it? how does one become fearless? is there such a thing as 'the sacred'? subjects you never touch? or do you parlay it in to a fiction? do you hide the work under the bed? do you lock it away? how do you let the rottweiler of the leash?
May 25, 2009
more questioning...
the maids are far enough along at this point (as a series) that it's definitely time to start putting together an artist statement. i've been wracking my brain, coming up with tons of "starts" for a statement but i eventually find myself referencing my own past rather than keeping the statement exclusive to the work itself. the work isn't meant to explain me. it isn't meant to be that kind of vehicle.
drawing from personal experience is a great thing... so long as it is eventually translated in to something more inclusive, wider reaching, encompassing, open. making the work all about me isn't going to leave many doors open for others to have a private experience of their own with the work. it doesn't allow for a wide open narrative or freedom for the viewer to cook up their own narratives. and i want that for the audience. it's why i leave out the faces.
faces are specific. i want the viewer to add the face. the viewer finishes the work. it is a call to memory, the viewer's memories and experiences, that i appreciate and am trying to lure.
and as far as reality is concerned, i am quite anonymous, the audience is anonymous, and the ladies are anonymous... and this anonymity is the site where hope and understanding can spring. it is a place (or state of being) that nurtures a type of fearlessness of approach, a type of acceptance, that labels and class and "perception" don't allow for.
i'm blathering, working out ideas... but it helps to write it out here.
there's something i'm after with this work that goes far beyond my self and what my experiences have been or who/what i am as a person. that's the stuff i need to get to. that's the stuff i want this space to be about- that site of hope where connections are made and understanding is possible. no utopias, just good ol' fashioned human goodness and frailty. a willingness to speak and to hear. embarrassment, brutality, forgiveness, vengeance, poetry and all.
drawing from personal experience is a great thing... so long as it is eventually translated in to something more inclusive, wider reaching, encompassing, open. making the work all about me isn't going to leave many doors open for others to have a private experience of their own with the work. it doesn't allow for a wide open narrative or freedom for the viewer to cook up their own narratives. and i want that for the audience. it's why i leave out the faces.
faces are specific. i want the viewer to add the face. the viewer finishes the work. it is a call to memory, the viewer's memories and experiences, that i appreciate and am trying to lure.
and as far as reality is concerned, i am quite anonymous, the audience is anonymous, and the ladies are anonymous... and this anonymity is the site where hope and understanding can spring. it is a place (or state of being) that nurtures a type of fearlessness of approach, a type of acceptance, that labels and class and "perception" don't allow for.
i'm blathering, working out ideas... but it helps to write it out here.
there's something i'm after with this work that goes far beyond my self and what my experiences have been or who/what i am as a person. that's the stuff i need to get to. that's the stuff i want this space to be about- that site of hope where connections are made and understanding is possible. no utopias, just good ol' fashioned human goodness and frailty. a willingness to speak and to hear. embarrassment, brutality, forgiveness, vengeance, poetry and all.
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