i just love her. :)

FML?

sometimes life decides for you that you need to slow down, stay in bed, and make some art.  under other circumstances, i'd be completely content to do just that but geez... now just isn't the right time.  a man lifted me up the other day and, as chance would have it, he happened to grab me right at the sight of an old injury: my iffy disk.  i've been locked in bed for the last 3 days.  i haven't been able to really walk let alone go to class or work.  and worst of all, i may have to cancel my trip to NY.  i'm trying not to get depressed about it.  getting depressed will only draw this whole thing out.  besides, i'm in enough pain as it is.  bulging disks are absolute agony.  thankfully, i'm in much better shape this time around than i was the first time this happened 6 years ago.  in fact, this injury is what turned me toward crochet as a way to make art.  i couldn't sit or stand.  all i could do was lie flat on my back.  that's not exactly a position from which one might draw or paint and, there i was, heading in to my last year of art school.  so much was on the line.  i had to find a way to keep making art.  crochet, it was!  it saved my degree and my practice.  it saved my spirit.  

and it'll save my spirit this time too.  i'm looking on the bright side and just trying to feel thankful for having the unplanned luxury of staying in bed all week and making art.  The Blanket of DOOM sure has benefited.  Almost done!!!!  a year in the making.  this project is an ERA unto itself!  :D

king size!!!!  and all rendered patiently in single stitch crochet.  good lord.

keeping me nice and warm as i convalesce. :)  can't wait to see and photograph the finished piece.

here we go!

September! eeeeeeek! the big 3.0. is right around the corner! 2 days away and i am totally looking forward to collecting it.

i am (weirdly?) one of those people who hate their own birthday. i didn't think i was in that crowd but, about 5 years or so ago, i noticed the pattern of letting the day roll by without any sort of real celebration or acknowledgement. it was more than enough to get the obligatory 'happy birthday' phone call from friends and family. i'd take the day off from work (i am a firm believer that no one should work on their birthday unless you've got a jobby-job you absolutely adore) and usually stay home and paint or write. and get sad. it is the horrible cycle of The People-Pleaser to feel like you haven't "accomplished enough" in your life... especially on traditional markers of time like birthdays, anniversaries, and New Years. this is a habit that needs breaking. because, to put it plainly, it sucks. ha!

and last year on my birthday, the stars aligned in such a way as to show me that there were some pretty deep changes i needed to make in my life... that for all the wishing and crying i'd done, the only way to move forward was to go inside, clear the bullshit out of the way so i could actually see the path i was standing on. and i had to be able to see it in order to know which direction to head in. i made the decision on my 29th birthday to get re-acquainted with myself and to stop worrying about Time so much. not an easy thing. and i realized that my path is specific to me and that i make a mistake when i compare my life to other people's. i decided to do the clean up that was so clearly necessary.

the first thing to go was drinking. i had a glass of champagne last year on the night of my birthday. i was at an art reception for a show i had some work in. and i haven't had any alcohol since. it isn't that i thought i had a drinking problem, i though i had a thinking problem and i've wrestled my entire life with Sadness. for me, drinking compounded those issues in a way that was pretty much dangerous. and insofar as my practice was concerned, it stalled me in my tracks. and that made the level of depression i was living under all the more heavy. a depression i had been living under for 2 years straight and was only getting worse by the day. in fact, September 2nd (tomorrow) is the anniversary of a total Collapse.

my birthday seemed like a pretty opportune moment to start digging myself back out of that pit and that's exactly what the last year of my life has been all about.

The Almighty Jog, re-learning how to trust my instincts again, trust my own internal rhythms, focus on my own loves, my own values, my own beliefs. and to let my wrestling take place there. and i found a ton of out-dated maps and notions and ideas that i desperately needed to abandon.

i made the decision to approach my practice with love and gratitude, to take it day by day, and to locate images and words and the work of other artists and writers that resonated with me and what my life had been. i began to see what my true values were and how long i had been shelving them in order to "help" other people. i had had it drummed in to me that that's what you do when you really love someone. after making the decision to confront myself, i saw what a load of horseshit that actually is. and i spent a long time feeling alternately mad and sad about having been taught such an extremely damaging lesson. very mad. very sad. and rather than hide my sadness (which is what i typically did) and put on a Happy Face, i allowed my sadness to sit on the surface of my being. you can see it even here on this blog. i'm not ashamed of that. i don't think struggle is something a person should ever be made to feel ashamed of. ever. and so i don't allow myself to be ashamed or be shamed by others anymore. and that's probably the biggest step i've taken this year. shame had become quite a nasty habit. the only thing i've found that conquers Shame is Honesty. hard Honesty. Honesty about myself.

the passed year has gone by so unbelievably quickly. and here i am- a runner, an artist, a writer, a lover. from the outside, my life probably doesn't look very different today than it did a year ago, but it is. it is deeply different. i still get sad a lot... but life, at the moment, within my family, is pretty effing sad. and so it's normal. and i won't say i've figured everything out or that i have all the answers. i don't. what i do have is the knowledge that no one has all the answers and that that's actually a really great thing. i was thinking about that when i woke up today- answers and questions. and that maybe that's what art is? a practice of nailing down our questions rather than answers. and i like that. i like that a lot. :)

i'm excited to see where the next year goes. the only plan i have is to keep doing what i've been doing. keep running, keep writing, keep drawing, painting, making, exploring, excavating. keep trying. truly trying. and to not measure myself against other people's rulers. to live by my own standards and to practice a very brave, compassionate Honesty. i am removing the gag that i've lived with for soooo long. and though it is a very scary thing, i choose to be myself and to not writhe in silence anymore. i choose to be an artist and to let the expressions of my humanity be complete. i choose bravery.

anyway... GOOD MORNING! and HAPPY SEPTEMBER!!!!!! <3

and so it begins...

stumbled across this first thing.

:)


yesterday, with all my pictures back in my care, piled in to the car, i drove back across the golden gate bridge in to the wide green of the countryside. the light, all yellow. the light, all golden. tunnels to honk a horn in. and still, the heavy sadness. again, the heavy sadness. strange how that emotion staples itself to even good decisions.

i have not lost sight of the positivity of this action. my words and my face and my name and all the things that pour out of my hands are mine. mine alone. and maybe it's the alone part i don't like. it is scary sometimes. but i am reaching toward it and trying to be fearless, trying to look at nothing else but THE FACTS and THE FACTS are that i love what i do, i believe in it and i want to live inside it every single day and i want to see where these tangled roads lead. i want to find a deep courage within myself and i want to hold tight to integrity and love and honor. there will be sacrifices. yes yes yes there will be. lots. and lots of times when i feel afraid and incapable of rising to the challenge in front of me.

our fair elisabeth left a comment yesterday about the need for space. i readily agreed with her because i felt deep in my heart that it is true. and her comment stuck with me for the rest of the day. it followed me to bed. and as i lay there, wrapped in a black quilt, smelling the graphite in its pocks and dimples, under the black of eyelids, i realized i'm afraid of having lots of space. i'm afraid of claiming something i desperately need. my tendency/training kicks in and i feel i am being selfish. or just plain lonely.

it is a lonely road at times, but here i am. and i will allow myself the privileged/necessity to scream in my new wide-open space if i need to. i will allow myself the luxury of making an ass of myself if i need to. and i will roll around in all these words and images and fears until the heat of my struggle and flailing makes them congeal, gives them form, sends sparks off my body and burns my eyes from their bright glare.

my friend said to me: i am so interested to see where you will go from here.

me too. i am summoning the courage for that battle right now.

crochet hook? check.
paint brush? check.
pencil? check.
punk rock? check.

and this day will awake with my two Miss Smiths: Patti and Kiki, side by side, hugs and middle fingers aimed at the world, poems tumbling and a winning smile. :)

the new road opens.

this road

i ran out of my delicious hazelnut and walked down to the market to buy more. on the way, i saw a hand painted sign in the window of a boarded up (papered up? sheets of white butcher paper on the inside of the windows) storefront that read closed for renovations in quite a lovely, humble, careful script. the letters were a dusty red on a flat white background. it looked like whoever painted it really took their time- no drips, no sloppy edges with the brush. and it reminded me of margaret kilgallen's work- her fascination with the signs people make for their small business, hand-made cultures, the beauty that follows actions of necessity. and i stopped to look at the sign again on my way back home. it's very simple but something in it spoke very loudly to me about my own life and struggle and pursuits at the moment.

closed for renovation.

i guess that's how i feel right now.

especially about oil painting. as a mode, it just seems so final, so serious, so declarative. and i'm not trying to make any declarations whatsoever in my work right now. i'm searching, hunting, excavating, mapping. and these modes are curious, exploratory. definitely not FINAL. not ABSOLUTE. and oil painting feels like that to me right now. maybe it's the history of oil painting flooding over? maybe it's the grand authority of oil? a confrontation with expectation? maybe maybe maybe...

but pencil, paper... their common attributes. humble, easy to access, the materials of map making. these things call me. they encourage me. i reach for these materials and it feels right. it feels authentic and honest. the right tool for the job.

i'm at a new beginning in life in a whole lot of ways.

i am on my own right now in a whole lot of ways.

simultaneously scary and exciting.

but freedom isn't an easy thing and it doesn't quickly line up with "happiness". there is struggle in those fiesty veins. and more and more i think that the work we make decides for us what type of artists we are, what type of life, what type of "career", what type of happiness we come to. my only choice in the matter is to hold on to the things i value and to stand with my ethics when the world breathes its confusion in my face. the only choice i have is to not crumble, to keep digging, to keep running, one day at a time, 15 minutes at a time, further and further down the harrowing highway.

i worry too much about things that are totally out of my control. a common human frailty, for sure. and i'm really trying to release myself from that shit right now. i'm trying very hard to trust The Work, trust The Process, trust The Materials, trust The Impulse. i've been carrying around one of my many Kiki Smith books again for days and days. again and again, i turn to her because she trusts her own work. she doesn't second guess the impulse. she just goes. and i have paired that book with Sylvia Plath's Ariel. they are laying together right now on the floor next to me. two bibles. two hymnals. two treasures. two books of hope and persistence. gems.

i see the mortality that surrounds us. how short, how small a day is.

i want my outsides to mirror my insides. i do not want to "live one way and pray another". i want my expressions to be as honest as possible. i want to whittle away at whatever hypocrisy exists in me.

and so i excavate. i writhe. i push the dirt aside.

i am trying to ignore fear.

i trust the pencil's scratch so completely. i trust it like i trust poetry. i trust it like a mother. i climb in to bed with my papers and all my blankets smell like graphite dust. they smell beautiful. my intimate "renovations".

maybe i'll make my own hand-painted sign? hang it on the wall in the living room. or maybe in the big window.

this is why rants and blogs are good:

i re-read the post below and realized i answered my own question: sit here and look at the work and shuffle it all around and see what narratives arise as a result. patience patience patience. curation is tough stuff. the worst thing i can do is rush and start forcing things together.

anyway, for all the writers in the room, here's a portrait for you. ;)




writer
15" x 12"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010

art (life)

the weather has been odd for months. and so too, maybe, the weather in me.

i see it in other people too. the link between emotion and environment.

i said "it seems like such an odd time in life, lately." to my neighbor and he said "i'm glad i'm not the only one who's noticed that. it is very odd."

the fog is thick and low. on our jog we were covered in mist. everything green and grey and white.

we're all just trying to make sense of the world.

and meaning within our own lives.

what helps and what doesn't seems to be largely contingent on where a person happens to be standing at any given point in time. preference... maybe even necessity... ruled by vantage point. this accounts for all the different art in the world. all the different modes and forms too. it cancels out notions of Good and Bad, replacing those terms with words that are more compassionate: useful, not useful. beneficial, not beneficial. purposeful, not purposeful. and that definition of "purposeful" is malleable. changing and fluid. and maybe it relates to joy and sadness... the pleasure principle... the death of certain expectations. expectations, especially, titled as 'hope' and 'belief'. their death is a hard and painful and frightening thing. but so is forcing something to live that is only suffering.

let it go.

let a new hope show itself. the children's maps no longer work.

there is a fragile green shooting up through the toppled steeple and broken houses. there is a warmth running below the fear- an underground stream.

everything is an act of mining, maybe. everything is excavation.

and if memory originates in the brain, why this pressure in my chest? let's unearth the thing and see. let's brush the dust off. and if we must, let's pin it down by the wings and take a closer look at the mechanism of the thing.

i want to use the tools equally. analysis and emotion, married.

the brain is a body part just like the heart.

writing

" ...Don't wait for inspiration. Push yourself to find the poetry lurking in the ordinary corners of a lived life."

- Dorianne Laux



i found this quote scribbled in one of my notebooks from two years ago when i re-committed myself to learning about writing. i had set my writing practice down when i entered art school. not consciously, just the case. the level of focus required for painting at the time was something i had to fight hard for. i wasn't able to flip the switch and move from thinking in terms of images to thinking in terms of phrases. now, i see they are exactly the same thing. but in school, i couldn't see that. the writing i did was either essays or acts of secret journaling. nevertheless, the call toward poetry presented itself in those forms and i read Ariel and The Journals of Sylvia Plath my last semester in school. A month or so later, i was here in wine country, waking every morning and immediately reaching for my notebook. sometimes i'd walk to the center of town where there is a lonely green bench and i'd set up my writing studio there. one day a man passed by and in the most gorgeous european accent he said "look at you! look how wonderful you are! writing like that right here! i hope you get a million dollars!" he made me giggle and blush and his wish for me was a bright, much needed encouragement right then. right then that exact minute. i needed to know that someone else saw value in the act too. still so awkward in it but so so hungry for it. two years later and i've gotten a little better. two years and i still reach for my notebook as soon as i wake up. i haven't gone down to the green bench in a very long time. maybe i should start that up again. there was a valuable innocence in it. and a valuable resistance too. an act of privacy right out in public. my humanness.

i didn't read the notebook very long. 10 minutes at the most. and it wasn't the hard events at the time that were painful to read, but rather my descriptions of myself- fresh out of school, driven to chase down a life that felt right, strong in spite of my autobiography. shortly after those words were written was when i really started to spiral. when the loss and pain of my life became too heavy and the madness of a huge depression really started to sink in and crawl around. i put the notebook down. i can remember all those things just fine. and for now i prefer to look at certain things through the lens of time. the rawness of the language, the youth of it, embarrasses me a little. i can describe those events much better today. i can be more honest about them too. and i'm sure i'll say the same thing two years from now about the things i'm writing today. and that's okay. but waiting for masterpieces is a waste of work and a waste of life. growth never stops.

and i'm glad i came across that quote this morning too. i think artists live their lives as beginners in some ways- that sense of wonder about a how to make a poem or a painting is an important thing to hold on to. to never claim that you've got it all figured out. to ward of formula and resist the allure of your own tricks.

i worked right up til bedtime yesterday. i wrote an insane amount of words. the back and forth, erasing adding redacting eliminating coercing dance of the thing. choosing what stays put and what to kick out. the sacrifice inherent to the job.

it's exactly like painting.

grrrrr

i'm in very strange head space today. have been actually for the past couple of days. agitated is the correct word. but i knew this feeling would find me when i was working on the big snarling dog painting. i knew it was going to cut something loose. and here it is. and words fail. and all i want to do is rant and rave, hoping to locate words that don't fail. all i want to do is drink coffee til my guts explode, yell at the stupid face in the mirror, complain complain complain, and then go paint fucked-up angry images. that growl. that growl made of oil leaning against my big bookcase in the living room certainly has unblocked something deep. i am wrestling and reaching and crying for the thing i'm chasing to slow down so i can get closer to it. flailing embarrassed like a confused child, like a lost teenager. where's my knee socks and mary janes? where's my music that will strike fear in the authority figures? where's my temper tantrum? where's my F-BOMB? a bitch all in black.

tick tick tick tick

more and more, i've been thinking about philosophy- its relevance. its importance. philosophy as necessity. philosophy as NEED.

and like art, philosophy in this country is perceived as a pastime. something frivolous. something to take part in if you've got some spare time on your hands but not at all integral to daily life.

and how sad. how lost. ethics as an exercise in frivolity. it knocks the wind out of me.

and just as i think that an arts education should be mandatory; mandatory in the same way as literature and science and math, so too should be philosophy. how much cooler and progressive a world, a more humane world, if philosophy was part of standard education in high school. if philosophy was welcomed in to daily life.

i think philosophy is absolutely necessary- the ethic, well wrestled, well thought out, hard won code that governs a life. academia seems to be the only situation in which philosophic conversations are taken seriously. or the pockets it lives in when in discussion with close friends or colleagues who have a similar desire to live in a more conscious way, not just "go with the flow".

it is sad to me that in our common day-to-day existence, we are routinely asked, EXPECTED EVEN, to drop our philosophic code when it makes things even the slightest bit harder for others. and by 'harder' i mean less fun. what are ethics good for if i drop them when the tough times find me? isn't that when i need them most? when the temptation arises to skirt the hard responsibilities of my life and run? isn't that when a set of ethics is most needed?

but the trade is that sometimes you will walk the road alone. sometimes you will be Outcast. sometimes you will be Other. sometimes you will be Cruel or Crazy or Arrogant or Selfish. these are all titles that get applied in improper ways a lot of the time. it is not selfish to obey an ethical code. it's cowardly to not.

and all this is on my mind more and more. the more i read, the more i draw, the more i expose myself to the outside world, the more i find these deep pockets of discussion where art and philosophy are appreciated, nurtured, encouraged. and there is no rule that i must have all the answers RIGHT THIS SECOND... just that i try to head in a better direction. just that i am curious and open. just that i rinse the dust out of my eyes. just that i think.

be true.

yesterday was glorious and strange and exciting and emotional and full of insights that i was completely ready for- a surge, a sweep of ideas that have been swirling swirling and then wonderful conversations that extended such a forcefully bright clarity that it shook my insides, shook things in to place.

i spent a magnificent hour and a half at the gallery talking about work and process and where my head's at and how i'm choosing images, what i care about, the moral (?) impulse inside art, the cry, the collecting of evidence, art speak art speak art speak; and it was so happy and fun and inspiring! i love visiting my gallery. i love everyone who works there. i love laughing with them and talking shop and making crass jokes.

after i left, i made a subconscious detour and ended up at my old school. i parked and went inside. as soon as i was through the doors, i saw an old school-mate of mine who is now in the masters program there. and lucky for me, he's a talker and likes to tell you everything he's learning and all his thoughts about art and jobs and education. so i stood there and listened and picked his brain for an hour. he gave me the insight i needed, the swift kick in the ass, the hard answer. i don't think he's aware of how completely meaningful and helpful the conversation was. but at one point he asked "do you want to teach?" and i said "well... no, not really but it'd be a lot better than waiting tables. what i really want is to find myself represented by a blue-chip gallery in new york. i've got every cliched, lofty goal in the book, to be totally honest." and he said then to just stop worrying about grad school and focus on The Portfolio. focus on the work, get it done, wrestle with that and that alone. and he's right. i already knew that this was the correct answer. i've known it all along. but finance works its way in to the equation at every turn. insidious and cruel. but i have always been poor and never really had much of a problem with that since i became an adult. i knew when i made the conscious decision to go ahead and nurture the unconscious reality of the fact i'm an artist, that it would spell a lot of struggle and a lot of hardship. i was not deluded about this. ever. and i know that one day, if i keep after the dream, it will change. i must trust myself and i must be true to myself.

after our conversation, i walked through the senior painting studios. i walked passed my old studio. my heart dropped and welled up with such a hurt, painful longing for how my last year in school went. the massive regret over lost time...

i have no clue how i graduated, let alone with high distinction. no clue except for the unconscious drive to BE HERE and DO THIS. i was running running running toward the goal and busting through every single hurdle in front of me and, yes, i lost my mind for a bit afterward, but as i walked through the studios i realized that the simple reason behind that big bad 2 year depression was that i had handed over the life i was trying to create. i realized that somewhere along the line i had handed over control... i thought that's what love was. i thought that's what daughterhood entailed. i thought that's what good people do. when i realized these thoughts were entirely wrong, such a deep deep sorrow and despair spread through me. and as i walked through the studios, the shadow of that sorrow spread over me but, this time, it brought a strange, painful, healthy clarity. the knowledge of who i am and how to trust myself, how to be true to THE PATH...

the answer i came to was, simply, to keep doing what i'm doing. keep reading, keep writing, keep drawing, keep painting, keep playing, keep reaching out to others who appreciate these things, who understand these things, who care, truly care, about these things- people who KNOW the relevance of these practices, these hard hard hard pursuits. i don't want to be anything else than what i am... and so i am charged with finding a way, no matter how long it takes, to build a life for myself that feels right, that feels respectful of who i am, what my loves are, the things i value. i am charged to protect and sacrifice in its honor. i am charged to stand on the foundation of my values and somehow be courageous enough to keep going. to let TIME take time. to let love this enough to be okay with 'the long haul'. all i want in this world, in this life, is to be an artist. to write and to paint. that's it.

i do want to go to grad school but not for professional reasons ie: a job. i want to go for The Work. i want to go for the sake of The Work, My Work, to nurture it, to make it stronger, to take it to a deeper place. that's the reason i went to art school in the first place- The Work needed it. when the work needs it again, it will get it. i will find a way to ensure that the work always gets what it needs.

now, the work needs me to give it as much focus and attention as i can. every single day. read, write, draw. read, write, draw. and trust the whole spinning wheel of the thing. this is what i am built for.

the work i dropped off yesterday will be shipped to New York in a couple weeks for AAF. i will not think about it anymore. i will not have any expectations of the event. i will only enjoy the beautiful sign of support this is. the fact that my gallery believes in me and to rest warm and safe in that knowledge. it is a generous and wonderful thing. i will curl back around my pencil and keep working.

and the desire to write, to be knighted "a writer", is as large a desire in me as to be a painter. i want to send these words out, as flawed as they are, to whomever might be able to used them. i will trust them. fearlessly and ferociously and without apology. this is who i am and i want nothing different.

i think the last few weary trappings of my depression were swept away yesterday. i am ready to get back on the good grey horse.

pep talk

i've been thinking about valentine's day.

i want to participate.

i've always wanted to participate in it but didn't or couldn't because of cultural mandates and expectations and blah blah blah. lame stuff like that. i don't eat candy and never really crave it. and i like roses but that's really not necessary.

i don't really want anything... except to honor my own values. from here on out, i'm going to make the holiday my own.

it's a topic i've been thinking about a lot for the last few months. pages and pages of notebook scribblings dedicated to VALUE- what it is, how to get it, and then, how to keep it. much easier to write about in your little notebook than find opportunities inside your daily life in which to express it. i realized yesterday that, as a teenager, my values were very much linked to ideas of justice and fairness. i was highly idealistic, yes, but i've always thought the world can benefit from a little idealism now and then. somewhere along the line during my huge 2-year long depression, i stopped thinking about justice and fairness in the correct way: that these things are mine to give... not mine to expect. and somehow this is linked to valentine's day in my mind this year. the need for some sort of heartfelt ritual. the need for at least a little bit of sentimentality and mushy appreciation for the good things in one's life. and having a day set aside for this when it's okay to get mushy and dote on things or people or projects is totally what i need right now. no apologies, no excuses, just a little bit of wholesome fun. anything that aids a person in discovering who they really are... who they were as a child and embracing that person again, i'm all for. sweetness, kindness, curiosity, playfulness... these are qualities to admire. they are qualities to pursue and hold on to. a code.

and so i spent the bulk of yesterday cutting out heart-shapes and drawing and trying to come up with an image that would hurt and haunt and cut but also spin and play and cry with joy. i'm still searching for it but i'm well on my way. i will participate.

there's a saying that goes, "fake it til you make it". basically, a game of pretend but not as horrible as that may sound. maybe "walk the talk" is a better expression.

when i think about the kind of person i want to be, why not just start behaving like that person. if i want to be the type of person who makes valentine's day cards, what am i waiting for? same thing goes for everything else. if i want to be a writer, i have to write. and write first, write long, write hard before i assume that title. i learn to paint by painting. i can learn patience by being patient. i can believe i have value if i practice value... if i manage to find the strength of character necessary to guard my own life and path and choice and goodness with every ounce of grace and resilience i've got.

i'm rambling but what i really want to say is that little by little i'm seeing how absolutely necessary it is to be myself. really, truly, unapologetically myself. because a person's true self does not need to be apologized for. i'm attempting to recover from the horrible things i threw at myself while i was locked down at the bottom of a very deep, dark well. the horrible things i told myself... the horrible things i believed.

cutting out heart-shapes helps.



"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."

-Theodore Roosevelt


i want to participate.

work, work, work

the day is bright already and there is a feeling in it... something in the light that makes me want to take pictures and dress up all silly and become, once and for all, the small town freak. whenever i walk through town (which isn't very often), i get stared at a lot and i think it might be the silver sequined shoes i wear. they're quite blinding in the sun. they're awesome. and i got a new pair of blue sequined shoes but i'm waiting to break them in til the weather gets a bit less wet. they are not puddle-jumping shoes. i need a pair of those yellow rubber rain boots. i've always wanted a pair of them. i'd wear them everyday, all winter long, sequined shoes underneath.

i'm getting ready to brew a second pot of coffee. i've already spent two hours painting. it's the perk of painting in-doors... especially in the kitchen: you get right to it. and, after a few days of looking at the photograph of the most recent painting, i decided it is not done after all. i cheaped out on the background. all that work on the aprons becomes meaningless if i allow myself to take a short-cut somewhere else. so i've been working on the background again and it's already so much more full than it was before. i am much much MUCH more pleased. i just needed a few days away from it, some distance to see what was really going on. it's a beautiful painting and i will do my best to honor it. no short-cuts. struggle, struggle, struggle away until i get it right. winter gives me the time.

a decade ends... it's a biggun!

with the New Year coming up quick, i think it's time for us all to sing our own praises for a minute. it's a good time to reflect, for as ritualistic as it may seem (besides, i like rituals), and see how far we've come, the strides we've made, and the people we've become.

in spite of economic hardship and all the up-hill battles we've been faced with, there is goodness all around us. i want to hear your story, the lessons you've learned, and the things you hold dear. post a link in the comments section if you undertake this biggun. i want to know. and if you can make it through this lengthy post, here's mine:


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yesterday, i talked with my mom about how fast the last 5 years have went by... the entire decade actually. the 2000's are a bit of a blur. and if someone had told me, on the eve of 2000, where i'd be 10 years later i wouldn't have believed any of it. in spite of the hardships of the last two years (which seems to be a fairly universal complaint and not at all specific or individual to me), the decade itself has been pretty amazing. a time of flux and seemingly constant re-evaluation, hard work, and learning how to put blue jeans on my dreams. a time of learning and renewal, consideration, thoughtfulness, and determination.

10 years ago my biggest dream was to get out of my home town. i call it my home town only because, through all the moving, it's the place i kept ending back up. and each return to that place was sour, disappointing, heart-breaking even. it's one of those places where even the young people say "no one ever gets out" and tell you to your face that your aspirations are stupid. getting out was priority number one... the hardest one. and i knew that school would be my ticket out.

i took classes, in between holding 2 jobs, at the local community college for 7 long years, well beyond what it took to transfer to a university because the money was just simply not there. but i wanted to keep in practice with attending classes and doing homework and being dedicated. i knew when i turned 25, the policies of the financial aid department shifted in my favor. so i bided my time until then and decided i'd learn as much as i could and "bloom where i was planted". a bitter resignation at the time but well worth the wait. i showed in bars and co-ops and started building a little art community of my own. i worked my ass off and practiced patience... and looking back, the struggle to get to art-school made the experience of going so much more magical and important than it would've been had it come to me easily. i wouldn't have appreciated it had i gotten to go when i was 18 or 19 years old. and i wouldn't be making the work i'm making now.

learning how to work hard, how to keep trying in spite of the hardships you face and the mean jokes that get made, was the best lesson i've ever learned. and i've learned it so deeply that giving up is never an option. i don't even think that way. trying is a constant in my life. it is ingrained. nay-sayers don't do me any damage at this point at all. i tune them out and keep on moving.

learning how to shrug off the ill will of others and how to keep working in moments of doubt and chaos served me well once i finally got to my dream school. especially that first year of insanely hard critiques and working full time while carrying a full class load. i won't say there weren't moments when i was amazingly unsure of myself and deeply depressed and questioned my ability to even pull the whole thing off - there was - but i wasn't about to stop trying. i knew before i got to CCA that once i got there, the real work would begin. and it did. i'm so lucky that my sweetie and i had found each other by then and had already made the commitment to help each other through roughness and disappointment. he encouraged me and showcased faith in my abilities in moments when i needed it the most and, at times, seemed to believe in the value of art more than i did.

in my second year, i hit my stride and made another goal that seemed out of bounds and entirely idealistic- getting gallery representation prior to graduating. i wanted to walk in to a career as soon as i collected my degree. and so i worked on my portfolio to HANG for a solid year and a half and, finally, a month before i went in to my senior year, i sent it off in the mail with my fingers crossed and the knowledge that i'd done my very best.

and it worked. the day i signed my contract was one of the happiest, most awe-struck moments in my entire life.

and then everything went crazy in my private life. not between my sweetie and i, but within my family. and it stayed crazy all the way up until i graduated. so crazy that i'd let go of the goal of graduating with High Distinction or any honor at all... getting the piece of paper was all i wanted at that point.

the specifics aren't something i want to get in to publicly. let it be enough to know that tragedy was everywhere and two slipped disks on top of it. weeks missed from class and sickness and ambulances... insanity. no glitz. no glamour. and it was all i could do to keep my eyes on the finish line. i made up my mind to hold myself together until then... and then i could fall apart. i told myself to keep as dry an eye as i could and struggle through to the end, screw my GPA, just finish. finish and then lose my mind.

on graduation day, i showed up in my black gown and spike heels and learned i'd be receiving my degree with High Distinction. me. the girl who spent 7 years in community college, who graduated from a continuation school, who comes from a humble home in a hateful town. speechless. and not at all proud. humbled to the core. shocked, tearful, and amazed. the walk across the stage was as bitter-sweet as any walk could be.

i claimed my life as my own... and lost someone in the process. and that loss translated in to what ended up being a massive 2 year long depression that i could barely see through. cross the finish line and then lose my mind? pretty much.

and during those dark days, which i'm only recently surfacing from, came a great many wonders: inga, art shows, the Microsoft Collection, auctions and galas, a strengthened commitment between myself and my sweetie, moving to wine-country and learning how to appreciate the beauty of a natural landscape, The Almighty Jog, becoming tight with my brother again, stronger friendships, new friendships, reconciling my own definition of success against outside expectations, and picking back up the pen to write.

i'm amazed that i kept working during that time. i'm amazed the work was at all good. i'm amazed that the maid series came along and opportunities to show that work and get in out in the world presented itself. i'm amazed that, though my practice may have slowed, it remained good and fertile. maybe i didn't lose my mind after all?

today, with a lot of patient and painful work behind me, i feel gratitude for everything that has happened in my life. every single day of it. and i look forward to the New Year with the knowledge that there will be more patient and painful work... that tragedy will find me again, that it will find all of us... but that i will not create it in my life. i will not look toward the negative and hurtful, i choose to look at the beauty of my life instead. i choose to keep my eyes on the accomplishments, not the "failures", to see how far i've come and to learn from this wealth of experience. i choose to breathe gratitude rather than resentment. i choose to see the many blessings in my life rather than the hardships.

in the new year, i resolve to make the commitments i already have in my life at present deeper, healthier, more precious. health in all its forms- my body, my art practice, my relationships, even this blog. when i look at my daily life, i'm entirely amazed and absolutely astounded to have found myself in this time, this place.

during my slumber party with rebecca, we talked about New Year's Resolutions. she's the only other person i know who makes them too. and big on the list she'd made was "feel calm and accomplished". it's important to see the good. it's important to feel good about yourself... to give yourself that kind of permission... to like who you are. calm and accomplished. has a nice ring to it, don't you think? and i'm definitely going to shoot for that. to enjoy the beauty that exists in my daily life, to practice gratitude and humility, to truly appreciate the opportunities that have come my way and to work as diligently as i can to rise to the challenges and show due respect for the blessings that have found me.

work, work, work...

yesterday afternoon i started going through the poems again - the rejected ones - and did quite a bit of long, hard work on several of them. slowly, slowly, slowly, these pieces are finding the right voice and time and cadence and all those things that make a poem a poem, i suppose. it's so much harder than painting. a landslide harder. it's real easy to write a bad poem... a good poem is a rare and miraculous occurrence. there is definitely no formula for it and no map to guide you. none whatsoever. it must be the sheer love of words that keeps a person coming back to struggle and fight and lose and struggle some more.

staring contest...

the little, annoying-voiced perfectionist that lives inside me refuses to let me call a painting 'done' until every last inch of it has been scrutinized and wrestled with. people walk by and they don't see the mistakes or any of the small short-comings... but she sees them. and she won't let me rest until they've all been fixed. there's no such thing as "good enough" and there's definitely no such thing as "basically finished". whenever i let these phrases pop out of my mouth, the little, annoying-voiced perfectionist springs up and screams, "there is no such thing as basically finished! it's either finished or it isn't and it isn't! pull your head out of your ass and get back to work, stupid!" ha! yes, this is how i talk to myself during the late stages of a painting... stupid this and stupid that and lazy piece of shit and blah, blah, blah. not very nice but necessary. apparently, my little, annoying-voiced perfectionist shares a bed with a weepy masochist. hmmm.

p.s.

i suppose this is what happens after graduation... the thing everybody warns you about but is of supreme importance: learning how to work without constant access to guidance and critique. i sure do miss crits. i really, really miss crits... for as odd and masochistic as that may seem. it took awhile for me to settle in to the next phase of my work but it's here now and i'm grateful for the struggle that led to it. better to flounder than not work at all- a sad and all too common occurrence for a lot of artists after getting the piece of paper. day-jobs and money concerns get in the way pretty easily and person's art practice begins to take a back seat. i'm lucky i survived that part and didn't fall victim to it. i'm lucky that i went down that road of working full time and working full time before ever going to art school. i'm lucky to be involved with a gallery; especially one that supports my practice completely and is always willing to work with me and offer insight and compassion and help me over the hurdles of maintaining a prolific pace. quite a few feathers in my cap. sometimes, i forget that. i get so wound up in what i think i should be doing and should be accomplishing rather than just trusting the work and respecting the process. the sparkle of things can be distracting but long hours alone in the studio is what really matters. that and getting the work off your own walls and out in to the world where they can actually work their magic. it is a tough, tough road for sure but it's the best road i've ever found myself on and i wouldn't give it up for anything.

the dance...

after an amazing weekend of printing and land-sailing (yes, LAND sailing! my first time and so completely fun and scary!), painting takes priority today. The Jog will have to wait until this afternoon. an iffy decision on my part but i've got to spend as many hours in the studio today as i can possibly stand. the painful final moments of a painting has arrived- the staring, scrutinizing, debilitating critique of a piece. lay down a single mark then back up as far away from the work as possible and look for what comes next. it is a slow dance but entirely necessary and this painting deserves the best i've got. and so the torture of critiquing my technical abilities will be endured and the anguish of meeting my limitations will commence. the painting requires it. this awful stage is what nourishes the work as a whole and i've got no say in the matter. when it's over, i'll be thankful. i'll be endless in my happiness and i'll feel nothing but sheer gratitude toward the process. this is the learning curve. every canvas is a learning curve. i'll always be a stumbling student, humbled by the enormous expanse of what there is to learn about art, painting, composition, technique, etc, etc, etc. today, i feel completely novice... but it's okay. i suppose one should always feel this way. it keeps the heart in a state of longing and, as far as art in concerned, that's the right place to be.

good morning!

the work week is off to a wonderful start. wonderful! bringing that old painting of mine in to my studio yesterday was exactly what i needed. i'm wrestling with a monster of a canvas right now which i have lovingly nic-named 'the grey girls'. i've been working on it for about 2 hours already today and am hoping that i can keep my stamina up for a few more before i move on to something else. with so much in the works right now, some days it's hard to know where to begin, what project to pick up first, and what to do once i figure it out. the past two days, however, have been absolutely great- welcoming the many opportunities for exploration really gave me a break from the pressure to be some sort of art bad-ass. blah. what the hell kind of goal is that anyway? ha! lame!

what is work?

is it this moment when, instead of feeling bright and satisfied, i think everything i've laid my hand to is stupid and useless?
is it this moment when, rather than get needed sleep, i stay up and dream of distant goals - days when satisfaction is plenty?
is it this moment when, up at 3am, listening to the rain, eating oranges, typing toward something or someone, i look at my half-finished paintings and half-crocheted flowers and half-read books and know that i can't help but finish all the half-way-theres... even though i've already decided that my hands do stupid things and that my dreams just keep me awake and get in the way?
is it this moment?
or is it tomorrow
when i head back to the studio to fight my finicky canvas... when i decide to read one more chapter, write one more silly line, stitch one more petal in my black garden?
is it both?
is this the ego we've read about?
fragile and sorta annoying...
punishing.