trying

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"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.


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look again

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during my breaks in french class, i have a habit of going to the bathroom just to take pictures of myself in the long, dirty mirror.  i don't have a full length mirror at home so i rarely see my entire self all at once.  i am always broken up in to bits and pieces;  a fractured image, shattered glances.  or maybe i'm just fucking vain.  ;)

i'll admit i like looking at myself.  i like seeing which parts of my face i inherited from my mother.  though my lips aren't quite as full as hers were, i have her mouth.  i glance at my posture and can see my father standing there.  i have his calves and shoulders.  i have my mother's eyes (all her children do) crowned by my father's evil-arch eyebrows.  i have his pale skin and her freckles. 

but i return to the mirror expecting to see something different.  i'm not exactly sure what or why.  maybe i've never learned to trust my own image.  there's something the mirror lies about or simply can't reflect-  the changeability of my face.  my sister has this quality too.  we look like totally different people in different slants of light or even simply from different angles.  each side of the face is totally different from the other.  despite my absolute love for it, i have an absolute lack of symmetry.

but that isn't really it.  it's the desire for my outsides to match my insides and i'm not sure that they do.  for however open i might seem here, there is so much i keep quite and safe from the light.  there is so much i do not share.  not with anyone.  it all lands in the diary and then slowly is reworked in to drawings or poems or blog-posts or blankets.  this morning, becca and i texted back and forth about autumn's slow arrival and the call to spend long evenings in bed knitting(her) and crocheting (me).   we talked about the urge to return to sweater-making, the ritual of black wool twisted around a hook, and the knots that work together to comprise a solitary work...  a piece of clothing which one cannot buy, but only make for oneself.  there is a comfort and a loneliness contained in such an act, in such a display of patience.  the ache is belied.  and though i may wear all my secrets emblazoned on the tshirts and sweaters i make for myself, when i cry it is for an audience of One.  i have the only seat.

it's an image of me i no longer offer face to face.  i will be silent and still.  no flutter of heartache, no betrayal of need or fear.

i like the blurry photograph in the middle the best.

belief

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

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

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

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

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

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

investigation

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from the ice queen series of photographs

angela simione 2012

armor

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ALL PAIN

crochet

angela simione, 2012

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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.