returning/reconsidering

outside the big window, it is snowing.  it's the first time in years i've seen snowfall and i don't ever remember having seen it during daylight hours.  a part of me somehow believed, like a child,  it was impossible for the world to make snow at any other time but night.  :)

i'm in Johnson, Vermont as an artist in residence at the Vermont Studio Center.  i've been here for two weeks already and, prior to coming here, i thought i'd be back to blogging every day the way i used to, the way i did the last time i lived in a forest.  i planned to, actually, and was really looking forward to some time behind the keys, but i haven't had a studio in 6 years and i've never had a studio as large as what i was given here.  not nearly.  it's enormous.  the sound of my fingers clicking across the black keys send a loud echo bouncing back from the high ceiling overhead.  a moment ago, it was the sound of my pencil scratching against paper that reverberated against the walls - such a sweet sound.  a sound i have long missed.

i didn't realize i missed drawing so much.  i thought i would spend my entire stay here working on lace curtains but i've been drawing almost non-stop.  it's all i want to do.  the idea to write a blog post has found me every few days but evaporates as soon as i realize that would require me turning on my computer. it's been wonderful to check out from the digital realm for a bit, to be totally logged off.  it's been wonderful to think only about my work, the scratch of the pencil and the paper below my hand.

the work i've been doing is largely just me clearing my throat, remembering how to wield a pencil again, remembering how to speak this language.  and of all the signs and symbols that might have found me, my beloved fences are what came flooding back.  i worked with the image of the fence for a few years and i felt as if i'd reached the end of that road about 4 years ago when i stopped making the Territories series.  but here it is, suddenly scratching at my heart.  this time, the meaning is totally changed, much more overtly autobiographical, much more of an obvious telling of my fears and dreams.  the first time around, i was using the fence to try to stake some sort of claim- to my Self, to my life, to my dreams and goals, and to the life i wanted to build for myself.  this time around, the fences are very much in reference to what i feel barred from, exiled from, the expanse i cannot cross, the territory i feel ejected from.

the first drawing i made here was a cameo of my mother holding me as a small child. the fence motif across the bottom of the paper was printed about 5 or so years ago when i was first working with this image.  i came across this piece of paper shortly before leaving oakland and decided to bring it along.

i've been playing with the idea of drawing a picture of my mother for awhile now but, honestly, it's not the most attractive proposition.  i think it helped that i had had a bit to drink the night her image found me here.  still, i had to stop drawing every 2 or 3 minutes.  staring at the old photograph of her as a young mother was a lot to take.   at one point, i had to walk away from the drawing entirely.  i was on the verge of tears and i didn't want to cry.

it isn't only my mother's death that is so painful but the death of an ideal-  my entire perception and notion of what a family is (or could be) was obliterated when she died.  i felt such a deep lonliness...  a spiritual kind of homelessness.  when she died, i stopped believing in God, i stoped believing in Family.  i thought it was all a cruel, sick joke.  i thought it was an unforgivable lie.

it's normal to feel this way, i suppose.  it's normal to see oneself as so painfully singular when you wake up one day and realize you haven't (for one reason or another) got any parents.  it's scary to stare at the world and know you've only got yourself to rely on.  it's hard to look toward the future and accept the fact that you've got to build a life for yourself BY YOURSELF.  it's hard to turn the blankets down at the end of a long day and believe that someone should be there with you once you finally get used to these ideas.  it's hard to not percieve the facts as cold and malicious.   the picture is not only of my mother, it's a picture of the type of life i feel barred from.  it's a picture of the safety i no longer have and feel i may never have.  it's a picture of my belief that i am without family, alone in the world, isolated, as island.  it's a picture of a land that i once inhabited and can never walk across again...  i can only make pictures from the other side of the fence.



but maybe it's being in love again.  maybe it's the beautiful occasion of sleeping next to someone, of  knowing and feeling that this other person trusts me to be careful with their body and their heart.  maybe it's the beautiful occasion of finally beginning to trust someone else.  it's not an easy thing for me to do. 

i'm trying to come to terms with the fact that i am wrong about the notions i've held in regard to Family.  it's normal, i think, to have felt so alone in light of all that's happened and it's normal to feel afraid about becoming close to people again... but it's scarier to think that i might end up robbing myself of the opportunity to truly know another human being, and to be known as well.  and not just romantically.  i think of my sweetheart constantly since leaving oakland but i've also been thinking of my grandmother.  i want to be near her.  i think of her sweet southern drawl and it makes me smile.  maybe she would like to have this drawing.  maybe it would only make her sad.  but it's definitely a piece that should stay in the family.

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ma mere

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ma mere
36" x 36"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2011


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Alpha

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Alpha
51" x 39"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2011


this piece was commissioned by someone i know and love and respect so so so much! single handedly the best commission i've ever done, both in terms of subject and experience. elsie, our beloved. a strange angel that hovers around our heads and homes and lives. i feel connected to her in a way that i do not have the language with which to name. but the poet who commissioned this portrait does and i am excited for the fields of tall grass she swirls up, in line and breath, for us to hide and seek in. perfect.

portrait

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Lamb
42" x 35"
oil on canvas, 2010


i finished this painting late last year. it is leaning against the wall in the living room. i've been sitting next to it a lot lately. while i read or scribble in my notebook in the evenings after my sweetie has gone off to bed, i sit by sylvia's portrait. there is something about her smile that comforts me. she is a rare beauty indeed and i feel protective of her image, her memory. when i look at her smile, i smile. this will be the first painting i take to the new place.

3 days

that's how long.

this is the quickest an oil painting has come to me in a very very VERY long time.



Alpha
42" x 35"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2010
N.F.S.

for now, she rests safely in my private collection. this will not be the last time i render her likeness. not nearly. and so i must keep her and tend to her shadows. an angel on my living room wall. secure. whispering. loved.

true story.

make it beautiful. make it romantic.

covering it in oil makes it easier to swallow.



private romance (Angela, age 19)
42" x 35"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2010

more thinking...

i read guy debord's 'the society of the spectacle' today for the 5th or 6th time- it's one of the theory bits i always go back to... probably because i'm completely sold on most of what it says. and then i went and kept reading 'the bell jar' and i am presently 40 pages from the end. i am drinking a cup of coffee even though it's late enough in the day to make that idea a bad idea. it means i've committed myself to a night of lucid dreaming and highly fitful sleep. and... that's not really entirely bad or unfun when it's friday night anyway. all this reading, all this brain activity, all this swimming underneath the covers, all this ingestion of ideas and words and politics has got me skipping across images and ideas of my own, words of my own, values of my own, and it feels fiery and enormous and swelling and sweeping and energetic. the investigation that becomes inevitable. and more and more i'm thinking of art (or a person) as an evidence room- a collection of evidences: the books in the shelf, the baby teeth in the jewelery box, the music in the back bedroom, the underlined passages of words, the refrigerator magnets, the left over stuffed animals from childhood. all these things. the signifiers. but what do they signify? who? i'm settling on what and not who. i'm settling on an idea that the signifiers are evidence of desire. evidence of loss- the yearning, hoping, coveting, begging, wishing, and craving that create a (true?) portrait of a person's desire. i am not my cd collection and that collection can't be trusted to tell you anything substantial about who i am, what my personality is like, or what my deep values are. but if you take the cd collection and add it to the book collection and add those to my clothes, the pictures in the lip of the mirror, the trinkets on the dresser, the pictures on the wall, the towel on the bathroom floor, the shoes in the hallway, the shoes kicked off right inside the front door, the dish left unwashed, the fragrance of perfume, the stamp collection, the rosary collection, the art collection, etc etc etc... maybe a strange, shifty definition of my desires emerge... as evidenced by all my attractions. just like a flickr account or a tumbler account. a list of images that belie what the person behind the buttons wants for themselves, dreams for themselves, or at least wants you to dream of them as...

these are things i've been thinking about a lot the past couple weeks. this is how i'm thinking of my practice at present. this is why i want to keep a lot of the new work private for awhile. just a bit. just a breath. i am collecting the evidences, i suppose.

side-note: this is my 666th post on this blog. eeewwww.

how quickly

i am deep inside one of the maid portraits this morning. oil sliding sliding sliding. i have 3 big canvasses in the final stages that have been waiting patiently for my attention for almost 2 months, breathy sigh and all. i took a long break from my ladies because i realized i was putting too much pressure on them, on myself, to be something they aren't. and so, with all these weeks of drawing, thinking, writing, reading under my belt, i'm seeing them again as they are, as they are meant to be, no pressure, no assumption, no expectation, no ridicule, no mean spirited judgement. and so i go and blend blend blend their skin, their dresses, their aprons. they sigh and whisper under the brush. they bend and nudge and allow their nuances to be found. such love. my lovely ladies. beautiful beautiful.

round 3...

Alpha (study #3)
30" x 22"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009

she looks younger in this piece... closer to her age in the photograph i think, but i'm not sure the addition of color is something she likes.

i'll listen harder.

thank you...

at times my faith has wavered. at times my trust has slid away from me and i get get angry. i feel lost. i feel alone...

my faith in art, as a daily practice and way of living, has saved me over and over again. and even in those moments when my faith has become low and weak, art has persisted. art itself. and has carried me back to a place of humility and trust. i know that as long as i paint and write and breathe everything will be okay. i'll end up exactly where i am meant to be. i've always known this. and i credit my faith in this way of being to art. to the work. to practice. and lately, the odd mix of maids and elsie and poems has renewed me in such wonderful ways. i feel brave again... brave enough to trust that, so long as my brush and pen are moving, life is good, and will be good, in spite of the hardships that come along.

the maid portraits have taught me patience. they teach me that lesson over and over again. and how to hear a whisper... to value a whisper. and these lessons, i suppose, are what has made me able to work on elsie's portraits. she's a funny one... and i don't know if this work will matter to others, if people will even care about a little girl that was killed a hundred years ago. there's one person to whom i know it matters (aside from myself) and that one other person gives me endless, endless strength. her belief in the importance of this project helps me sustain my own. this is what friendship is. and i am thankful. truly, massively thankful.

yesterday, we discussed elsie and how important it is that she be brought out from behind her current status of 'side-note' to someone else's history... that she be given a place of her own to stand... that she be honored, somehow, in even the smallest of ways, and respected.

it is hard work. learning how to be respectful of anothers' history is a delicate thing. but it is important, and so worthwhile, to at least make the attempt. i can see that a lot of the work i've done in the past year or so has led to this place, has made me capable of this attempt... it has at least increased my stamina and made me feel strong enough to heft this, to wrestle with it, to let it call on me for whatever it needs. and the fact i have a friend to speak with about her, about this work, who understands that i can't physically shoulder the weight of her portraits every day and must wait for her call, is a great comfort. it reminds me that this is a life's work and that i am allowed to take time carefully and proceed with at least a fraction of grace.

so, dear friend... thank you. :)

wow...

oh man! yesterday was quite a day! i drew and drew and drew and 7 hours later, elsie was done with me. so i grabbed my camera and went outside to take a picture in the good light and, of course, the battery was dead. by the time it was done charging, there was enough light left in the evening to snap one good picture and get it posted here... but no. the camera is bugged out and keeps shutting down. my GOOD camera. it may have something to do with the coke that exploded in my bag when my camera was in there too. hmmmmm. so this morning, first thing after the coffee was brewed, i tracked down my old camera and took elsie outside in the crisp, clear morning and took her picture.

i really can't stop looking at her.

she wouldn't stop talking yesterday. oh! such a gorgeous child! and so haunted, so delicate, so full of things i don't quite understand. it's going to take quite a bit of studying to prepare for her final portrait. an oil painting. who knows... maybe she doesn't even need or want that... maybe the roughness of paper is what she wants. i don't know. all i know is that i have to keep drawing her.

this is the 2nd study i've done-



Alpha (study #2)
30" x 22"
water soluble graphite and gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009


i went big with this one. 7 years of life-drawing classes taught me that while your learning, use the biggest piece of paper you've got. give yourself room to feel around, sound out the vowels of a form.

i don't use projectors and i don't trace. it isn't that i have a problem with those methods at all, i don't. it's just preference. i want my hand to be as diligent and specific as a camera. that's what i aspire to. a machine at the end of my wrist. but a machine that has embraced chance and flaw and accident.

besides, this work is too personal. a human has to do it, not a device. this work is more about memory than accurate rendering. doing her portraits are an act of remembering... remembering someone we know nothing about. no favorite color, no favorite food, we can't even be sure what color the cape she's wearing in the photograph is. her portrait is a portrait of loss... and getting every single shadow exactly right really isn't the point. it's about listening. it's looking at those strange eyes, light refracted all through them, and trying to see who she might have been...

who she could be now. or is.

value...

lately i've been thinking about the positive side of anonymity-
a form of protection, security, a safe warm place to be...

and though my portraits are generally about forced anonymity, this aspect is something i need to look at too... that, in some ways, these women are also protected, not objectified. they feel no embarrassing exposure. they can step forward if they want to. these women aren't harmed by me. not that i ever felt i was doing them any harm, but realizing that there is a positive quality to anonymity helps me proceed with a greater strength: i know they won't be hurt. i know they will always remain safe.

practice, practice, practice...

this is what today's practice looks like-


untitled
15" x 11"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009

anonymity
redaction
identity
a document of Unimportance
a document of lost stories
unknown histories
histories that don't matter

who gets to be pictured and who doesn't...

and those white socks just kick me right in the heart.

sudden, unexpected...

then out from under the bed, she stood up and said, "look at me".

this is elsie.

i've been trying to draw her for months. here and there, only every so often, sketching her shadows.

lost children are hard to draw. their story creeps in to you and stays. stays deep.



Alpha (study)
11" x 7.5"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009


she was Henry Darger's muse. his broken heart.

nameless...

after consuming enough coffee to murder a small donkey and struggling with installing, un-installing, and re-installing photo programs this morning i'm finally back to being technologically competent. big sigh of relief.

this is the mess i made all over the gallery floor yesterday...




and this is the drawing i made during my two hour time slot...



unnamed drawing
15" x 11"
graphite and masking tape on paper
angela simione, 2009

i stopped drawing every now and then to chat with strangers and enjoy a glass of wine with a sweet woman named maggie that seemed to really know where the work was coming from. i love it when that happens: the mind-meld with a complete stranger... an affinity that goes beyond class or status or clothes or all the other arbitrary markers of a person's type and kind... just two humans with a whole slew of commonalities that don't need to be talked about or sorted out because you already understand each other and no explanations are necessary. lovely.



detail


these sisters are, as of now, unnamed.

lineage...

got up at 5:20 this morning and was in the studio working by 6:30. the day is off to a wonderful, happy, exciting start and here's why:


lineage
44" x 38"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2009

she's done! YAY! she's so damn pretty! excuse me while i toot my own tarnished horn but, i love this painting! love, love, LOVE! i'm going to spend the rest of the morning sipping coffee and staring at this canvas.

when i started it - always thinking of anonymity and loss, ya know - i thought about my own history... the history of all the women in my family, really... and realized that "cleaning women" are pretty much invisible. they have no voice, no real power... at least not when they're on the job. i've worked as a maid before. very few of the people whose homes i cleaned even looked at me, let alone spoke to me. you are required to be silent, a ghost moving unseen and unheard through the house... and don't make the client uncomfortable by highlighting your humanity at all...

this painting is made to honor such a lineage- a long, undocumented, "uncomfortable" history that isn't spoken of, the women who handle the messes, who have a relationship with dirt... it isn't polite to speak of such things.