Words of another

An acquaintence of mine posted this in her LiveJournal, which I found to be very clear and beautiful, very relevant to my own work. I'm keeping note of it here for myself and to share it with others who may care.

this fit like clothes made out of wasps
permit me to write ugly paragraphs about an ugly situation.

i've learned this lesson well, although it took me a while: when people stop caring about you, there's nothing nothing nothing you can do except turn away and walk into the sun. it doesn't matter if it's your mother, your father, your lover or your best friend: wait for nothing. just go.

malicious intent & blatant disregard can grow like fungus inside any human, any. any. even the ones who have been your home & your foundation. you must be wiling to see it when it grows. you must always be prepared to travel away alone. you must not ever say, "but this is my mother. she would never..." or "but we really loved each other, and he says..."

no. no. don't listen to what he says. that's how you stumble into alcoholism and scar tissues and unrelenting darkness. that's how you end up like your aunt retha or any of the rest of them with despair in their eyes and shadows clinging to their shoulders. that's how you lose yourself.

don't linger.

don't let them poison you just because you're unwilling to see that yes, your mother would actually do that to you, and yes, he really did just con you into having his daughter so he could drop you for your best friend, and yes, the love really is all gone. don't let them poison you because you'd rather lie to yourself about them than feel it all break.

what breaks will break. let it break. and get the fuck.

arm yourself with music, arm yourself with recipes & produce, arm yourself with mountains & horse rides & beaches & drunken nights splashing, arm yourself with good books & nice green pens, arm yourself with anything you like that isn't contingent upon another human, but never ever ever arm yourself with love. love is not meant to be your fortress or your stronghold or your home. love is temporary and volatile and built upon shadows.

families are meant to crumble, as far as i can tell.

never listen to what they say.

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I will die an avalanche death

I will die an avalanche death

at the hand

of standing

laughter

laughing low

and dreadfully

at my footing

-excerpt from a poem thing by stephani o.

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Student Honors Show 2007

I wasn't expecting to get into the show, but I actually had two entries selected by the juror, which was a pleasant surprise. Overall the show was a good one and I was happy to be part of it.

Girl, 2007. Mixed media on paper.

Made during Watercolor class.

During the reception, my mother scratched out "fuck" and wrote "potty mouth" underneath it, as you can see in this photo. I thought it was hilarious, as did a few other people, but my painting instructor tried to defend my artistic honor. "It's her painting!"

Untitled, 2007. Mixed media on paper.

Also made during Watercolor class. This was my final assignment.

More about these paintings (along with better pictures) will be submitted separately at a later date.

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Early painting: Medusa

I made Medusa for my Introduction to Painting class's final assignment. It was really ambitious, being 7' x 4' and figurative when I hadn't received any figurative training yet, but I was adament that it needed to be made and made just like so. There are changes that I would make to it now, but I don't really go back to paintings, especially much older paintings. Instead I'm more likely to make a new version of it, a new translation.

Anselm Kiefer and Paula Rego influenced me the most for this particular piece in ways that are probably quite obvious. Scale, landscape, colour palette, the female's pose, texture. Both artists continue to influence me, but as one might suspect, I have evolved since this early painting.

For reasons that I have forgotten - maybe materials issues? - I got a late start on this painting and finished it in about three days, with the figure being done in virtually one sleepless night. Finals week. What can I say? Nobody sleeps.

The layers were hard to put on because in order to create a heavy thickness to the paint, I used wax and layered on acrylic paint as well. (That's how I created the raised sections where she was drawing in the ground.)

The only photo I have of the painting now is from the sort of kind of annual painting student show held at a local gallery.

One of my all time favourite interactions with a viewer came with this painting, this reception. As a "rule", I don't really hang around my work during receptions. It feels... strange. For some reason or another, I happened to be standing near my painting. A four or five year-old approached the painting, began touching it (it's very textural), and the mother rushed over to stop her daughter. I said, "It's okay. She can touch it." I kneeled down next to the little girl while she inspected it and then she said, "Is this a boy or a girl?" Of course, I smiled - who wouldn't? - and said, "It's a girl. Her name is Medusa." She said, "I don't know her," while still groping the painting. I responded, "You will." She looked a little confused for a very short moment, but then resumed her transfixed gaze. I left, smiling at the mother to reassure her again, and she said, "Thank you," as I passed.

It's nice that some parents bring their children to art exhibitions, plays, and such. I wish my parents had done the same for me, but I certainly derived a lot from being raised in an environment where Disney, science-fiction, pop culture renditions of epics and fairytales, and musicals were important. In some ways, I'm glad I came to "fine art" later in life, upon approaching adulthood. It feels like my interactions, now, are memorable and more profound because they are coming from the foundation of an individual who has a varying, multicoloured background.

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some state of grace

I cannot honestly do the things I am too smart now to do.

For years I have heard from people older than me, often people around mid-life, that I am much smarter than they were at my age. It's always taken kindly, as a compliment, but I am starting to wonder what that means. It's true that I don't go back to the similar scenarios with similar types of people when I know those things to be expressions of weakness, meaningless, or detrimental to the richness of my life. It's true that I force my own questions. It's true that the answers are not as important to me as the actions.

So I cannot look at my bones and say, honestly and whole-heartedly, "Yes, you win this time."

I cannot drink too much and stumble around parties, offending this or that person who made the mistake of caring.

I cannot masochisically fuck one person when I am in love with another, the other who will not understand.

I cannot fuck strangers without condoms, apathetic and stinging to their attempts at getting to know me better.

I cannot drag a blade across my arms, counting to seven, thinking I will wake up soon, more alive.

I've done all of that, and I am smarter now. Smarter is the word they use. Jaded might be more accurate. I knew what I was doing at the time. I was not some shakey little waif without any conception of my motivations, fears, weaknesses. It was about survival, moment by moment. It was about not being able to keep still. Those things do not help me breathe so much as they buffer the drowning, delusions to ease the impact. There haven't been any regrets, not even for the visible scars, and it's unlikely that any will emerge.

Unless I do something that I am too smart or too jaded to do.

Despite my percentage that remains destructive, I have never wanted to court regret. It's like taking a bullet in the stomach and then being left to die. Eventually you'll die, but it's going to take a long time. You will pray for more bullets.

That's not really my style, or my goal.

Hopeful might be the best word for it.

Hopeful has rebuilt my spine and elbows when boys and men forced me down and pulled at my clothes. Hopeful said love could leave and, really, it will be okay. You have good things to offer this world. Hopeful held my hand when the child left my harbor for the desert sun. Hopeful forced me out of my mermaid fins and played music for me to find with my hips. Hopeful created a heart for a home when I could not find one, could not have one. Hopeful taught me how to be quiet and still, the way of a forest or a seashell.

This is not a complaint. This is not a victimized episode. It might be a prayer, it might be memory stripped to it's skin. It might be a Thank You. My maternal grandparents taught me about gratitude and God, but I could not bring myself to thank Him. So I thank other people, things that have brought me here and elsewhere. One time I took a moment to thank a creek bed.

I am a person who is too hopeful to do the things I have done again, and perhaps that requires some smarts. Really, I just believe that there are better things than what I have seen, although many things have had beauty wrapped inside of them. If I had never seen the ocean, I would still believe in it because there must be an ocean, somewhere. I would look for it. I would draw my own maps. Accepting the losses, remembering the moments of breathing, walking, and volatile.

Last night he said, "You've been quiet," and asked me if I am feeling okay.

I feel good, and barely audible. This place, at least, is new.

I am being very still. Or trying. It seems like the hopeful thing to do.

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home sweet home

Lately I have taken a break from painting or printing in order to do some domestic chores and work on a long overdue paper. I'm hoping to be finished with it by the end of this week so that I can finish my Book Arts work next week, then I'll be free to scan pictures for mom and paint, paint, paint.

In the paper, I'm basically comparing Carolee Schneemann and Tracey Emin, both challenging female artists - "bad girls", one might say - operating within the parameters of different time periods and agendas. Schneemann, who is still a working artist, got her start in the late 50's with painting and then moved into performance art and video art that is distinctly feminist. Emin began working in the early 90's, following a feminism backlash in the art world, and as one might suspect she does not want herself or her work to be interpreted as feminist. She works in a wide range of medium, though she is best known for her textile work and for the infamous My Bed installation. I admire the work of both women.

More on Schneemann.

Feminist? Not Feminist? What does it matter?

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book arts, pt. 2: the infamous vagina zine

After being assigned the task of creating a zine, I sent out emails asking women to spread the word - I need vaginas! Or technically speaking, vaginae. I asked some strangers around campus, but mostly my collection came from friends and friends of friends.

The zine is half the size of a sheet of standard office paper, folded and glued together in an accordion fashion so that vaginas are on both sides. You really have to be holding it to get the whole experience, I must say. If you feel so inclined, you may purchase a copy.

But here it is (poorly) scanned. You can click on the image to see a larger copy.

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