Play-Dough

This semester has offered me many new students, new courses and new
conversations. The classes have been moving along, down a wild river,
and I am in the back with the rudder, steering us down the routes I
have planned, occassionally going to one side or the other for the
excitement of the passengers. Occassionally, we hit rapids, even
rocks. Sometimes it is exilerating, sometimes unnerving. Sometimes we
see things I have forgotten, or I get to see anew through their eyes.

Last week, some of my students were talking with a philosopher. I
enjoy philosophy, but this man's speciality was ancient Greek
philosophy. The more I listened, the more I thought, this is the
stupidest thing I have ever heard. Has no one had any interesting
thoughts since then? Do our arguments now have so little merit
compared to Plato?

My students wanted to relate this to their own experiences. They asked
about Plato's intent. "No no, no one knows or cares what the intent
was. That's how we should look at art too. Artists don't always know
what they are doing and are idiots at explaining it."

Needless to say, I had to step in.

Later, my student came up and said, "if the artist's intent doesn't
matter, why have I been working on this artist statement for so long?"

"You are not two thousand years dead," I said. "You are a living
artist working in a post- (post- ?) modern period. Of course it
matters. Once it's out there people will try to take what they want,
but you will have controlled the context and your insights help
historians and critics put it in context."

Or something like that. I began debating whether I should assign
"Death of the Author," even if it was the one reading I couldn't bear
to look at in grad school.

Last night, I saw our production if "the Pillowman." I almost laughed
at the irony and relevance of the themes (except I was near tears at
the intensity of my student's performance, who performed with such
energy and abandon, he fell to the stage and concussed himself): a man
who would rather kill his brother and be put to death than see his
creations destroyed (even if they are unseen). Is the death of the
author preferable to the death of the content? We certainly hope all
our love and sweat and pain can communicate on their own, possibly
outliving us. Maybe the "gist" of it will suffice in that
circumstance, that the reader will get what they will (at least, they
think they got it on their own), and go on and respond to it, never
knowing they are doing and thinking exactly what the author wanted
them to.

Right now, I am on a plane (offline, don't worry). I was so tense
about the crowd and the luggage area and the stuffy hot plane air, I
sat in the wrong seat (D instead of C, both on the aisle). When the
rightful owner arrived, I saw my mistake and began to move. "Dont
worry," he said, and took my assigned seat. I looked over at him later
to see what he was reading (one of my quirky, nosey plane habits). I
couldn't tell, but the man in B, next to my assigned seat, was reading
Plato.

Dodged that bullet.

Sent from my iPhone

Really, I am going to make it

I miss my blog. It's so pretty. And nice. Green, and friendly. Right now, it is riddled with days and days of tombstones. That's depressing! I miss carefully plotting the content of these entries. Will I dance for a camera? Record time delayed videos of my hours of working? Will I make drawings based on crazy conversations I over hear? Those were the days, weren't they?

Now I am lucky to plan text. Plain. Boring. Text. And not even interesting narrative text. Just text. Ramblings of a mad man. Most of the text I plan is in my head as I am walking from point A to point B. It never makes it to the computer. (Forget all those times I have used the physical page... the days of the sketchbook diary are far behind me.)

I haven't even called family in a while. They are likely to think I am dead. Again.

At least there is this. My tiny rock thrown up at the tsunami of the fall.

Look out for the overwhelming wave

Somehow my world has become so full, so busy, I can hardly take a moment to remember a leisurely float down the river. There is a single song on my playlist/iPod/alarm clock/laptop/iPhone, that plays over and over, and repeats in my mind, but I am not tired of it. It is melancholy, but persistent. This, I will also be.

P.S. My video is fifty-one minutes and nine seconds right now. I am hoping to trim down twenty minutes. Is it even possible?

Reflections and Roaches

I have been having marvelously successful shooting on my project. It has caused me to step back and examine how I got to this point, and to give thanks if you will.

I am the kind of person who obsesses over the details that lead up to any particular event in a single person's life. Sometimes I try to predict things based on those details.

Sometimes small details have large and impacting consequences.... was there a well-meaning liberal lobbiest who cut me off in an LA traffic jam, finally sending me past my tolerance levels of suburban sprawl and hence, making the idea of a job in Indiana appealing and exciting (despite the horrified looks of friends and family)?

These kinds of influences can be projected back for generations. Example: Four generations back, a mother died very young, leading to her daughter having to take care of her siblings. Her life was hard and uneducated. This expectation was passed to her daughter, who worked hard to put her only son all the way through college. She wanted him to follow his dreams and reach his goals, not to feel the encumbrance she and her mother felt, and indeed, he didn't. She may have regretted that later, or maybe it never occurred to her he would not feel the same obligation she did, because of how she raised him. And he raised me the same way. There are thousands of other things that affect the course of my (or any) life, but I see this as another influencing factor for my emotional acceptance of moving to a state like Indiana, after living for so long, and relating so strongly to, a state like California. They are both physical places, but we can't help interpreting them as states of mind, ways of being, and for me to be willing to challenge that so easily, to leave all I know and expose myself to such changes, I see as a profoundly significant moment.

Hence, I trace the origins of each moment by looking through my life and through all those who have ever influenced me or those I love; I follow the character and plot development, look for the foreshadowing. We are all our own novel.

Saturday, I was in a 121 year old one-room school house, directing a section of my video. I felt something on my neck, and casually reached up to brush my hair from my shoulder (forgetting, of course, my hair no longer reaches my shoulder). On my touch, it slips, and what is then clearly a beast, falls immediately down my shirt. I do a little (quiet) dance, and it falls to the ground, running its (thankfully) tiny (disgusting) roach body under the threshold of the door. Things have lead up to that moment of a roach falling down my shirt, but I wouldn't change them for everything else they've brought me.

Time Flies

Hopefully it is well-spent. I haven't anything really to add here, but this image was beautiful. I was saving it, but why hide it? I hope it makes your day too.

Work in progress and thoughts on process

I put an image of my sewing, in-progress, on my news page. It has evolved since I designed it, which means it is closer to done than the original plan. Originally, I wanted it to emulate the moral-poem samplers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but in this ironic, contrary way. The poem I wrote, which I may post later, was a re-imagining of the events surrounding Belle Gunness, but as I completed all my little French knots, and sat back to admire my work, I couldn't help feeling sad for her victims. This is how art evolves: you start with one thing that gets you thinking/making, then you step back and realize, 'that original thing isn't worthy of this thing I want to make,' and you delete it. I started out thinking of this woman who used men for money, then coldly destroyed all the evidence in a dramatic escape (allegedly), but I am not interested in commemorating her violence. I am more interested in the things that hide in the ground, that we walk on but never see, the history that all places have whether they reveal it or not, whether they are good or not. So, the completed piece will be different, and I am hoping to have it finished soon.

Nameless Rapture

I believe artists should love their own work. Not just love it, but be in love with it. It's already something that consumes so much of our physic and emotional energy, I think you should have that kind of affection for it. I do. That's probably why rejection, editing, and destroying of art work is so difficult. Yes, sometimes I have work that falls our of my good graces, and I not only don't love it any more, I hate it. In the darkness of night, when no one is around to catch me, I murder it and dispose of the evidence.

But that doesn't happen too often.

It makes me sad for folks with regular jobs, when I don't see that light of love in their eyes at the end of the week. Life is hard enough without not having something to look forward to every day. Every day-- ha, I wish I made something new every day.

Anyway, blah blah, love love sappy... What I am trying to say is this month, I am so happy to see that I am actually bringing more out of the images than ever before. More details, more tonal ranges, more color consistency. Now, when others look at it, they can start to see those qualities that make it so endeared to me.

Before I left Indiana, I made about ten 15" x 15" prints of my work, and when I got to New York, I hung them all over my apartment. Various people saw what I had done and commented the rooms look so much fresher with new art, etc. I was proud of the prints. Now, when I see them, I see muddy, awkward colors, flat shadows, soft details. When I look at them now, I shudder that anyone else ever saw them. Something will have to be done about them...

A-mus-ing

It seems hard to believe that my time here is almost over. I have been here for twenty-six days, as a 'full-time' artist. Here is what I think I have learned.

The place does not affect my art-making. I will either make it or not, regardless of where I am. When packing/planning to come, I had these lofty goals of having this rigorous schedule when I got here-- up at 7, making drawings in the morning (to warm me up), shooting/scanning/editing/printing all day with a break for sushi lunches, then an evening of reading art theory books and planning more projects. What I was (not) surprised to find, was I didn't want to make drawings at 7, I did not want to shoot all day (I worked on different projects depending on my mood), and I did not want to stop in the evenings and then read some heavy theory. I only had sushi lunch once-- most days I forgot to eat lunch. I did a morning ritual-- not drawings, but emails and blogs. That morning ritual took more time than the Internet should, but then again, a drawing would have probably taken longer. Then I would work on whatever project until I was too exhausted to go on--usually eight or nine more hours. Then I would either want to watch t.v. (mindless), or I would start something else (mindless but productive) and would do that for another five hours. Suddenly in the whee hours of the morning, I would be shocked and realize my morning ritual the following day was even farther from my 7AM goal. On the other hand, did I get any less done than I could have hoped or imagined? No, I did a lot. Maybe I could have done more if I was a different person. But I am me, and I credit myself for having such a broad range of skills and interests as to hold my own attention, if not a sleep schedule.

It is a shame I dragged along so many books.

Last night, I went shopping for some supplies. When I got home, I set the large bag down to go make dinner (yeah, at 10 PM). Torah kept messing with the bag. Eventually I emptied the bag, but left it for him to play with. I was working on the computer when there was a sudden white hurricane through the room, the size of a German Shepard, sounding surprisingly plastic. Within milliseconds, the hurricane came back through the room, in colors similar to Torah. I went to investigate. I found him, bigger and fluffier than I had ever seen, and no amount of comforting would lay down the hackles of his back. I carried him to find the bag, to show him it was okay. In the bathroom, I found Dharma sitting on the toilet tank, the handle of the bag around her body. She looked shocked, but not as much as he did. I took the bag off her, noticing a large hole in the bottom. I can only guess what happened-- and my guess is also far-fetched. Did Torah climb into the bag, then Dharma went to look, got stuck in the handle and ran, dragging him through the apartment? I don't know. But it was hilarious.

QUOTE OF THE DAY

"Computers are about trying to murder you in a lake."
- from the show, The Office

We must shrink from being fully alive

Untitled from the Landscape sequence of "Rapt in the Nameless Reverie"
30" x 30" lambda print, 2008

I want to put a few lines here, but not go on too long. Far greater writers have written far more numerous accounts of what I want to say. I acknowledge them. But for a moment, a few lines, I want to speak of death, of knowing of its existence. Any moment, any time-- it can come. And mostly we fight it. We fight the illness, the attacker, the elements. For the most part, we avoid direct confrontation when possible (we are passive aggressive that way), except in rare cases. Occasionally, one looks out over the rushing river and sees someone drowning, losing the fight. One sees them giving up, and makes the choice to fight the dark specter on their behalf. Sometimes, you fight when you don't want to, and other times you get to choose your battles. Many times we win, but alas. Eventually, a day will come when we have expended all our strength to our cause, and we will choose to lay down our weapons in search of peace.

Then there are other kinds of death, sneaky, conniving, stab-in-the-back types. Those types do not give us the dignity to fight or choose. These deaths aren't at all fair (if any are). Some are accidents. But others... well, I leave to your imagination.

So to you, Driver, who decided to run a red light at 50 mph (in a 35 zone), when opposing traffic was already in the intersection, as was my fragile pedestrian body (missed by a mere two feet), to you I curse with seven terrible attacks this week, at least one of which will be VD.

Subject line quoted from Ernest Becker.

New title

I have often thought if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of the wise man and that of the fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagancies, and a perpetual train of vanities which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some, and communicating others ; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion, however has no place in private conversation between intimate friends. On such occasions the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; ffor indeed the talking with a friend is nothing else but thinking aloud. (Joseph Addison, "The Spectator," 1711)

I have been using a "working title" for my photo series for some time now. I basically have been in denial of its flaws, even though every time I say that title, I myself cringe. It's high time I change it. I cannot tell if that makes me wise or the fool to admit I am revising and editing a series in what seems to be such a foundational way, but when it came time to decide today whether or not to put it in print... well, denial can only swim you so far down that river!

That said, the series formerly known as "Retroreflections" is being edited/changed to be "Rapt in Nameless Reverie." Let me know what you think.

Yes, yes, it all ends too soon.

Self-Portrait of an Artist in Defiance of Her Aging

Regrets

This morning, I was going about my business in my little apartment, eating my breakfast, packing my briefcase, getting ready to head into the lab for a long day of scanning and digital drudgery. I opened the front door, and saw a little white fuzzy. It looked just like the cat's toy with the exception of a rather life-like (though short) tail.

And then I realize it is a real mouse, not a simulated mouse, and I am looking at his little white belly, which is slightly flattened from being under the door.

I didn't know what to do, so I closed the door back on it.

Obviously, not a solution. Once I realized that, I opened the door again and considered my options (running and finding a person who worked here to get it, was my first thought, but that seemed lame). Little dead mousie went into a grocery sack (another use for the terrible things!) and was carried directly to the dumpster.

Only an hour or so later did I think, "Man, that would have made a cool scan-o-gram."

Inspirations

What it's like in my head.

Right brain: "Oh, new negatives!! Let's go scan them right NOW!"

Left brain: "Don't you think we should unload the car first?
The bed isn't going to make itself."

Right brain: "But I have NEW NEGATIVES!!
I HAVE TO LOOK AT THEM RIGHT NOW!!"

Left brain: "Why don't we unload the car first, then have some dinner,
then you can look at them?"

Right brain: Oh, that would be prudent, but we are an ARTIST, not a PRUDE!!
Come on, I can't even remember what is on these negatives!

Left brain: "But we took those last week."

Right brain: "I have a short attention span."

Left brain: "And you're a little OCD.
Why don't you take a nice, deep breath, count to five until the
compulsion passes, then go empty the car and have some dinner.
Doesn't that sound nice?"

Right brain: "NO IT DOESN'T! This month is about ME, not YOU.
I don't have to be logical, or prudent, or go to bed on time or ANYTHING but MAKE ART! Negatives first!"

Left brain: "Do you want to sleep on the dirty sheets again?"

Right brain: hesitates. "No. OK, ONE trip only. Then negatives. Maybe the sandwich."

Left brain: "Deal."

Things you should bring on a road trip

* Your favorite cats-- you want to make sure you have someone to talk to, to remind you to take breaks, and remind you to stay in hotels and not open the door in the middle of the night.

* A thermos-- hotel rooms furnish mini-coffee makers and styrofoam cups. These cups are ridiculous, and environmentally insensitive, plus true road trippers don't have time to sit in a hotel room and sip away a pot. Why not an insulated cup, you ask? Because an insulated cup is what you take with you to work, at your job. A thermos is for the long journey of the road tripper.

*Granola bars-- excellent source of fiber and protein and don't decay during the trip. The problem? They always have little chocolate chips that jump off them and get between your pants and the car seat.

* Film canister pinhole camera-- I think this one is pretty obvious.

* A GPS-- The trick with this device is how you program it. Obviously, it helps you find you way from one place to another, but it does take you on the least inspiring route possible. Be sure to select the option "least use of freeways," every now and then, to see some true country back roads.

Beware, however, that you may not like all that you see on those back roads:

I got back on the freeway after driving behind that one for a few miles.

Road trip

View Larger Map

The road trip-- it is the symbolic act of chasing the American Dream. When you go to Europe, you go back packing. When you go to South America, you bike. Australia, a walkabout. Africa, a safari. America, it is the road trip. It was America that put the auto into mass-production. Thousands of miles of highway, by sea, through desert, over mountain's majesty. Over the river and through the woods. For this, Americans also produce more waste, more carbon emissions, more smog, and we have the rear ends to show for it.

*(Now there are hybrid cars and developments in biodiesel, all of which sounds like a mistake to me. I vote for more solar cars with better batteries, and maybe they run on dirty shower water or something. Temporarily, I think all Americans should be required to drive cars that burn CO2 into O2 to offset all our other gluttons. But I digress...)*

So I am about to embark on a mini-trip. What to bring, what to take, what to think... Which museums to go to? Where to find WiFi connections?

what spring means

Imagine when this was significant, when it meant work would be hard, and food would be plentiful.

Now it's plentiful all the time, and makes people miserable.

Click for texture.

Blogging Kitsch.

I know my faithful readers are entertained by my entries, but would like to know more about the woman behind the art. I would like to speak directly to them and answer some of their questions.

What are you reading right now?
I am reading several books right now, depending on which room I am in, how much stamina I have, and what mood I am in. These include:

• "Montgomery County Remembers" by Constance Riggs
• "Montgomery County: Legends and Lore" by Pat Cline
• "Freckles" by Gene Stratton-Porter
• "Life, Death, and the Ladies Drill Team" by Jessamyn West
• "Memories: 1816-1916" by Bina Thomson Sarver
• "Work, for the Night is Coming" by Jared Carter
• "Plain Talk" by Carol Burke
• "Making a performance : devising histories and contemporary practices" by Emma Govan

I just finished

• "Girl of the Limberlost" by Gene Stratton-Porter
• "The Witch Diggers" by Jessamyn West
• "After the Rain" by Jared Carter

What did you do today?
Excellent question. I bought cat food, drove to work (for the first time in a long time-- it was raining and I was running late), met with a student about their summer photo project, ordered Photoshop CS3 (I'm behind, I know), scanned negatives, made some (large) prints, came home, returned some library books and picked up some new ones, made dinner, then watched the movie "300." I gathered some files for my website, but will not be updating it for a few more days. I skimmed some of my favorite blogs: Dooce, Go Fug Yourself, Boing Boing, Tree Hugger, and We Make Money Not Art. I am too lazy, however, to make the links for you. They are easy enough to find.

What is the most recent camera you used?
I used a scanner to make images of negatives. I think that counts. It is an Epson Expression 10000.

What music are you listening to right now?
I just bought the "Rihanna" album on iTunes. I just want to say, please don't stop the music.

Who is the last person you emailed in California?
My step-father, and before that, my grad school adviser. He was asking about training cats, and she is retiring.

Speaking of cats, how are they? What are they doing?
They are sleeping right now. Preparing for another early morning of stealing my pillow from under my head.

Speaking for retiring, any future plans of that?
I don't see retirement being much different from now, except for the added bonus my grandma always told me about-- ogling young fellows without consequence!

Shades of Death*

Yesterday, we went for a little hike in Shades State Park. I didn't bring the still camera-- I brought the video camera (I am experimenting on something right now), so I have no images to show you. Maybe I will have time to upload video, but for now, I want to say:

Even in the beginning of spring, without the full greenness unfurled, it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. And I have been to Yosemite, the redwoods, Joshua Tree, etc. It was surprising. And when I looked online to find images to refer to this entry in place of my own, I came up with slim pickings. Mostly from blogs. So, until I can upload some stimulating video of my shoes walking around, these links will have to do. Know that while the images linked here are perfectly lovely, they still not as inspired as the place itself was. I commend you, brave bloggers, for posting the possibly unpostable!

*Please Note: There is a series of rather peculiar legends associated with the name of the park/this post. Far be it from me to propagate a rumor, I will not repeat them here until I have found some hard evidence.