.
sharing sweaters, counting days;
i go through my closet and pull dresses i haven't worn in years from their faithful hangers. i fold the garments and stack them politely in a bag meant for the consignment store, in a bag meant for the Goodwill. i retrieve unworn shoes from the back of the closet and wipe away the dust. i sneeze over and over again like a cartoon. i save the tshirts that maybe brian will want to wear.
there's something so endearing about looking up and seeing your lover wearing your clothes. i'm lucky to have spent so many years dressing in the armor of the Tom Boy - baggy shirts and over-sized hoodies - that i've got plenty for him to choose from. i get warm and sentimental when he pulls on my red and grey striped sweater i've owned since i was 15, the same sentimental warmth that finds me when i focus on the fact that we share the same tooth brush. there's really no reason to have two.
i've gotta say, 2014 was a good year. i fell in love over and over again.
i fell in love with a man who has ended up being my best friend. it's a pretty wonderful feeling. throughout the night, we turn to each other in our sleep and let our hands run softly down the curve of each others' back, knee cap, or eyebrow. it's no small event to me. it's no small event in my life to feel this safe on a regular basis. this safe, this appreciated, this understood. i feel lucky everyday. and bewildered.
i fell in love with art again (again and always), particularly drawing. such a beautiful, wonderful return; a piece of myself waking up after a long, agitated slumber. i return, hot and heavy, to those black lines and shadows, spilled ink and graphite stuck below my cuticles. i'm surprised i went so long without seriously drawing but, then again, it makes sense. crochet is such a comfort. not just the things that i learned how to craft, but the act itself. a rhythm. a ritual. a cradle being rocked.
so much of the last 3 years has been about repair. so many of my actions and decisions and whims have been an attempt to heal. i can see that now. and as i move in to this new year, i largely feel that that Healing has been had.
for as strange as this might sound, it is a little scary.
what will my voice be like now?
i pull a pale blue button-down from its hanger. i go on sorting and considering, attempting to make room for a new beginning. i look at each article of clothing and, rather than ask myself if i want it, i ask myself "do i want this to follow me in to a new life?" i think of Sartre, of his eloquent proposition that there is always "a virgin future waiting to be forged" and know that i am standing at that edge, that place where one sees the mountain in front of them and knows that they will climb it, the first step having already been taken.
i thin my possessions. i pull an unfinished drawing from my portfolio and grab my pencil. i turn on my computer, log in to this space and start hitting the keys, not because i have anything in particular to say, i simply have the urge to speak. i'm learning that this urge is something to revere. this urge is something to give in to. it is how my future will be forged. it has always been forged this way. it is how i will come to know how to use my new voice. it is how i will come to know this new "me". it is how i become less and less afraid.
.
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
Jan 29, 2015
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.
.
Jul 17, 2012
lately, and for the past several years, this has been the reason
i take pictures of myself to see this image with my own two eyes. somewhere inside me lives the notion that seeing is believing and maybe i don't believe any of this is real. everything that has come before now feels like a lie. like sabotage. i was never that girl. i take pictures of myself to catalogue the deep breath in. the held oxygen. to prove to myself that i actually exist.
Mar 17, 2011
a small return to Self
this morning, under a grey sky, i cracked the nut that holds the distributor in place on my 1973 super beetle (bright yellow, thank you very much), moved it ever so slightly to the right, cranked the ignition and she fired right up. this is the first time i've heard her gorgeous rumble in a year. i was thinking i might sell her but not now. nope. no way. i love this little car and i feel like such a jerk for not driving her this passed year. this passed year that was so full of hard transitions, hard lessons, constant learning, a strange flux. and life is still that way. it will probably continue to be that way for a while longer too. 2011 has not been very kind thus far.
elisabeth is right. her comment on the post below is so accurate and true. so helpful. it offered a much needed clarity and gentleness. i haven't factored it in enough... the hard hit of my mother's death and how this has impacted who i am... how it will continue to impact my life and personality for years to come. it is a rough road i'm on but it is not without Goodness and Love and all varieties of Hope, big and small.
and then, in the rain, i washed a years worth of dust off her. my Bumble Bug (that's her nic-name).
this is a powerful symbol. very.
elisabeth is right. her comment on the post below is so accurate and true. so helpful. it offered a much needed clarity and gentleness. i haven't factored it in enough... the hard hit of my mother's death and how this has impacted who i am... how it will continue to impact my life and personality for years to come. it is a rough road i'm on but it is not without Goodness and Love and all varieties of Hope, big and small.
and then, in the rain, i washed a years worth of dust off her. my Bumble Bug (that's her nic-name).
this is a powerful symbol. very.
Dec 15, 2010
.
it is a puzzle. the kind where pieces are lined up and pushed in place according to what feels right, which pieces feel at home with each other, next door to each other, the odd back and forth dance of finding where the line is. the line between this and that. that velvet, that blur. and of course every question feels inadequate. they fall so short of the mark. where are all the arrows, flung far and hitting the red heart of the target dead-on?
.
it is a puzzle. the kind where pieces are lined up and pushed in place according to what feels right, which pieces feel at home with each other, next door to each other, the odd back and forth dance of finding where the line is. the line between this and that. that velvet, that blur. and of course every question feels inadequate. they fall so short of the mark. where are all the arrows, flung far and hitting the red heart of the target dead-on?
.
Nov 4, 2010
reading Simone Weil's Gravity & Grace
.
the chapter "Attention and Will" has got me by the hair. in fistfuls. i cannot look away. i cannot look away from my own face in the mirror. the indictment. the lesson.
"We have to cure our faults by attention and not by will." (p.169)
"Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love." (p.170)
"Love is the teacher of gods and men, for no one learned anything without desiring to learn. Truth is sought not because it is truth, but because it is good.
Attention is bound up with desire. Not with the will but with desire. Or, more exactly, with consent." (p.171)
like 3 gunshots right in a row. boom. boom. boom. or my face slapped. or maybe kissed? 3 kisses on the cheek. and then that fist in the hair that holds my head immobile and forces me to take a better, closer, longer look at what i assumed Attention and Will (and Love) are.
i have known that place. i have been there. that place, akin to prayer, that raises itself up (and my self along with it) when i am truly attentive. when i am absolutely engaged. the wonderment that courses through a body. i have experienced this while reading, drawing, running. i have felt it while singing in the shower. i have felt it in so many classrooms and while scribbling away in my notebooks.
but also: the result of heart break. the result of brutality. the result of devastation. just as wonderment has coursed through my body, so has an amazing despair. not all exaltation is pleasurable.
good does not always equal fun.
i say that to myself and see that there have been so many times when i have been a spoiled brat, kicking a screaming, because the Good Work i needed to do was also Hard Work and not fun at all. and i only see that, now, that i have been questioned about Attention and Will. i see that i have not been as attentive to myself as i thought. it is not the same thing as self-indulgence and it is not the same thing as self-abasement.
how to turn that focus, that attentiveness, toward myself in the way it is called for in the first quote?
thinking along these lines, this switch in lingo, gives me a new perspective on how to think of struggle and learning. i must pay attention to myself, see exactly what i am focusing on, discern if it is "good" and, if it isn't, (if it is horrible for me, wounding me, if i am only beating myself up) to refocus (attend) to the Good. the good i haven't given myself because it comes in a package i do not recognize or do not like. the good that finds me only through hard work. the good that is hard work itself. i must somehow love myself enough to learn how to do this... how to break the old, bitter habits.
i think that even something as horrible as self-hate is a habit. that malicious routine of pick pick pick and point point point: berating the self, attacking, snarling. as routine as brushing your teeth. it signals a corrupt notion of love.
maybe practicing Attention can teach me a new notion of love? a new notion of faith? maybe i have not yet truly "consented" to learning certain things? i have feared the lesson. maybe i have been afraid of looking at particular realities? seeing them, as they truly are and without any consolation, the realities alive in me.
the chapter "Attention and Will" has got me by the hair. in fistfuls. i cannot look away. i cannot look away from my own face in the mirror. the indictment. the lesson.
"We have to cure our faults by attention and not by will." (p.169)
"Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love." (p.170)
"Love is the teacher of gods and men, for no one learned anything without desiring to learn. Truth is sought not because it is truth, but because it is good.
Attention is bound up with desire. Not with the will but with desire. Or, more exactly, with consent." (p.171)
like 3 gunshots right in a row. boom. boom. boom. or my face slapped. or maybe kissed? 3 kisses on the cheek. and then that fist in the hair that holds my head immobile and forces me to take a better, closer, longer look at what i assumed Attention and Will (and Love) are.
i have known that place. i have been there. that place, akin to prayer, that raises itself up (and my self along with it) when i am truly attentive. when i am absolutely engaged. the wonderment that courses through a body. i have experienced this while reading, drawing, running. i have felt it while singing in the shower. i have felt it in so many classrooms and while scribbling away in my notebooks.
but also: the result of heart break. the result of brutality. the result of devastation. just as wonderment has coursed through my body, so has an amazing despair. not all exaltation is pleasurable.
good does not always equal fun.
i say that to myself and see that there have been so many times when i have been a spoiled brat, kicking a screaming, because the Good Work i needed to do was also Hard Work and not fun at all. and i only see that, now, that i have been questioned about Attention and Will. i see that i have not been as attentive to myself as i thought. it is not the same thing as self-indulgence and it is not the same thing as self-abasement.
how to turn that focus, that attentiveness, toward myself in the way it is called for in the first quote?
thinking along these lines, this switch in lingo, gives me a new perspective on how to think of struggle and learning. i must pay attention to myself, see exactly what i am focusing on, discern if it is "good" and, if it isn't, (if it is horrible for me, wounding me, if i am only beating myself up) to refocus (attend) to the Good. the good i haven't given myself because it comes in a package i do not recognize or do not like. the good that finds me only through hard work. the good that is hard work itself. i must somehow love myself enough to learn how to do this... how to break the old, bitter habits.
i think that even something as horrible as self-hate is a habit. that malicious routine of pick pick pick and point point point: berating the self, attacking, snarling. as routine as brushing your teeth. it signals a corrupt notion of love.
maybe practicing Attention can teach me a new notion of love? a new notion of faith? maybe i have not yet truly "consented" to learning certain things? i have feared the lesson. maybe i have been afraid of looking at particular realities? seeing them, as they truly are and without any consolation, the realities alive in me.
Feb 12, 2010
life and theory and excuse and reason and, in the end, just say 'fuck it!'
being part of any lineage does not make you a copy-cat. it does not demand resignation either. is a child, though the product of her parents union and DNA, still not new? still not a package of potential? and as she grows, a unique collection of experiences and influences and fragments of beauty and torment and song and prayer? is this "collection" somehow false? i don't see how that could be possible. and being the next in a lineage of one's own choosing is a gorgeous thing. it feels right and that feeling needs to be clung too with everything you've got.
no theory will ever account for that original impulse you felt as a child to just simply play. to scoot around the paint and scribble on the wall and make yourself sick with too many cartwheels.
there is a value to theory. it gives us new lenses with which to view the world and i appreciate having them. but as i study, i come to see that asking for a reason, an explanation, an argument for why it's okay for me to spend my time making art is basically the same thing as asking me to supply an argument for why it's okay for me to attend to any of my needs.
do you mean it or not? art is not merely a picture on the wall. art is not merely letters on a page. it is an entire way of seeing. a mode of being. a way to LIVE. what works for me, what feels right to me isn't going to work for everyone and i'm getting to the point where i can finally except that. and so the proper breed of anger rises up- either except me for who i am or leave me alone. i promise to do the same for you.
i am an artist. it is who i am. i cannot stop being an artist any more than i can stop myself from taking this next breath. and this one. and this one. this is how it is and there is no explanation i owe. none. does a cat apologise for cleaning itself? does a dog apologize for kissing? why should i apologize for painting?
the fact some people feel the need to construct historical arguments for why it is OKAY to be an artist in this time and place and moment within history is not my burden. if it works for you, it works! if it leads you to deeper levels within your practice then it's good! i read the theory and i participate in the discussion but at the end of the day, for however thankful i am for my new lens, i wake up the next day and paint because it is how i live. asking me to stop is asking me to be someone else. if i stopped making art i would cease completely. i would become something other than what i am. this person who is here, now, would go away.
and adorno said "There is no poetry after Auschwitz"...
really? what about paul celan? what about charlotte delbo? fuck you adorno, you hater of humanity. you jaded freak. how dare you quantify horror. how dare you critique this witnessing. how dare you belittle the very true compassion that exists inside humanity to make sense of our station. do not trivialize it and claim that we are only capable of atrocity. i think adorno is a sad, scared, hateful child who looked for a reason to NOT engage with the world... to say that life is pointless and ugly and valueless. and honestly, that sort of pessimism is so easy to come by. it is a childish response to loss and confusion and it is common in the worst sense of the word.
i prefer charlotte delbo. i prefer her work, her poems and plays and her request, her poignant longing and despairing question "who will carry the word?" to survive the camps and then to be taken by cancer... goddamn my tears cannot come fast enough. i cry as i type because they, sometimes, are one in the same. and paul celan survived the camps and was so guilt ridden that he survived something that so many others did not. inexplicably survived. and this confusion, this weight, this tremendous guilt and suffering caused him to write and write and write and in the end when he could not come up with some satisfactory explanation for why it was okay that he survived, why it was okay that he made poetry, he threw himself in a river and left.
it is okay to make poems.
it is okay to survive.
sometimes, they are one in the same.
you can choose to go about your life in a way that feels right for you.
theory and knowledge and education are meant (in my opinion) to be used as tools to strengthen this resolve, this beautiful and flawless inborn logic. they are not meant to undo it. knowledge of the world should not be used to abandon compassion. opening your eyes to the pain of the world does not mean you must close your heart. it means the exact opposite.
theory gets me there sometimes. barthes and sontag... but also the philosphy of andy warhol and the journals of sylvia plath and the angry lyricism of patti smith and the deep regret of beethoven. alice's adventures underground and the beauty marc jacobs creates and even my dog snoring in her sleep. the smiles that come at the exact right time. the tears that well up, be it anger or despair, let them come! sensitivity is necessary to know where you are! at least it is for me. and i refuse to be jaded, to be pleasureless, to feel like i must make an argument for my needs, to become arrogant and divisive.
our differences are important but it is our common thread that will allow us to unravel the tangle set before us. it is the thing that will allow us to accept difference and to see it as the shining beauty it is.
(this might just be PART 1)
no theory will ever account for that original impulse you felt as a child to just simply play. to scoot around the paint and scribble on the wall and make yourself sick with too many cartwheels.
there is a value to theory. it gives us new lenses with which to view the world and i appreciate having them. but as i study, i come to see that asking for a reason, an explanation, an argument for why it's okay for me to spend my time making art is basically the same thing as asking me to supply an argument for why it's okay for me to attend to any of my needs.
do you mean it or not? art is not merely a picture on the wall. art is not merely letters on a page. it is an entire way of seeing. a mode of being. a way to LIVE. what works for me, what feels right to me isn't going to work for everyone and i'm getting to the point where i can finally except that. and so the proper breed of anger rises up- either except me for who i am or leave me alone. i promise to do the same for you.
i am an artist. it is who i am. i cannot stop being an artist any more than i can stop myself from taking this next breath. and this one. and this one. this is how it is and there is no explanation i owe. none. does a cat apologise for cleaning itself? does a dog apologize for kissing? why should i apologize for painting?
the fact some people feel the need to construct historical arguments for why it is OKAY to be an artist in this time and place and moment within history is not my burden. if it works for you, it works! if it leads you to deeper levels within your practice then it's good! i read the theory and i participate in the discussion but at the end of the day, for however thankful i am for my new lens, i wake up the next day and paint because it is how i live. asking me to stop is asking me to be someone else. if i stopped making art i would cease completely. i would become something other than what i am. this person who is here, now, would go away.
and adorno said "There is no poetry after Auschwitz"...
really? what about paul celan? what about charlotte delbo? fuck you adorno, you hater of humanity. you jaded freak. how dare you quantify horror. how dare you critique this witnessing. how dare you belittle the very true compassion that exists inside humanity to make sense of our station. do not trivialize it and claim that we are only capable of atrocity. i think adorno is a sad, scared, hateful child who looked for a reason to NOT engage with the world... to say that life is pointless and ugly and valueless. and honestly, that sort of pessimism is so easy to come by. it is a childish response to loss and confusion and it is common in the worst sense of the word.
i prefer charlotte delbo. i prefer her work, her poems and plays and her request, her poignant longing and despairing question "who will carry the word?" to survive the camps and then to be taken by cancer... goddamn my tears cannot come fast enough. i cry as i type because they, sometimes, are one in the same. and paul celan survived the camps and was so guilt ridden that he survived something that so many others did not. inexplicably survived. and this confusion, this weight, this tremendous guilt and suffering caused him to write and write and write and in the end when he could not come up with some satisfactory explanation for why it was okay that he survived, why it was okay that he made poetry, he threw himself in a river and left.
it is okay to make poems.
it is okay to survive.
sometimes, they are one in the same.
you can choose to go about your life in a way that feels right for you.
theory and knowledge and education are meant (in my opinion) to be used as tools to strengthen this resolve, this beautiful and flawless inborn logic. they are not meant to undo it. knowledge of the world should not be used to abandon compassion. opening your eyes to the pain of the world does not mean you must close your heart. it means the exact opposite.
theory gets me there sometimes. barthes and sontag... but also the philosphy of andy warhol and the journals of sylvia plath and the angry lyricism of patti smith and the deep regret of beethoven. alice's adventures underground and the beauty marc jacobs creates and even my dog snoring in her sleep. the smiles that come at the exact right time. the tears that well up, be it anger or despair, let them come! sensitivity is necessary to know where you are! at least it is for me. and i refuse to be jaded, to be pleasureless, to feel like i must make an argument for my needs, to become arrogant and divisive.
our differences are important but it is our common thread that will allow us to unravel the tangle set before us. it is the thing that will allow us to accept difference and to see it as the shining beauty it is.
(this might just be PART 1)
Jan 25, 2008
Nov 17, 2007
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