I’m finally zeroing in on the progression of my work.
I’m going to break the vague.
I want to explore my interests in the hard parts of life by shifting my gaze to the relationships between childhood memories and adult realities. That transition can be violent, unsettling, difficult to understand, and unexpected. What moments cause someone to mature more quickly? What moments are captured forevermore in our minds? Why do they stick out?
I’m looking at infusing the child-friendly playful nature of rhymes with the jarring realities life throws at us each day. I want to look and listen to things that are unsettling. I want to express a disconnect between the way we act and the way things really are.
Work still in progress…more of a test really- to get back into things.
A few verses:
The birds and the bees
They sing in the trees
The sun shining bright
Makes everything right
My grandmothers losing her hair.
My grandfather died
And everyone cried
He couldn’t recall
What my name was at all
I could go for a strong cup of coffee.
Got a real job.
Like…a job NOT in a coffee shop or restaurant…
I’m going to be a Ceramics Technician!
Well… I’ve been gone a while. Took a bit of time away from the studio and began to feel incredibly lazy. That’s about when my world stopped spinning for about thirty minutes.
I got a phone call three or so days ago that I decided to ignore because I didn’t know who it was and I wanted to ‘be wary of spamicists.’ I decided to google the area code and discovered it was from Chicago- a little closer to home than expected.
The next day my phone rang again- a call from the same number. I literally stared at the phone in my hand and felt as though I should answer it. Throwing caution to the wayside, I answered and was then punched in the face by a phone interview with a woman from Lillstreet about my application for the artist in residency program. At this point, I couldn’t remember how to breathe.
So until the chosen one is revealed on Friday, I will lay awake every night replaying the interview over and over and over and over in my head and how (at least to me) I sounded like I was hiking up Mt. Everest.
No one could have prepared me for the shit my nerves took all over the apartment through my pacing and animated hand waving while frantically searching for the right words.
If there was ever a question we wanted to ask without hesitation, it was, ” Is there something wrong with us?" The response would be prefaced with a small, soft smile, warm with affection and a faint tilt of the head. The likeliest of all replies would go something like, " Of course not! You’re perfect…"
But if honesty prevails, we believe that this response is a template easily insertable to any occasion that requires support and comfort. This response ends up tasting stale and reverberates, echoing wherever our insecurities settle; similar to the way a dish that has been over-seasoned with garlic haunts the mouth for the next few hours and seeps from the skin for the next 24.
No, the response, most likely consoled from a friend, must be an I-Pass; managing the time it takes to weasel out of an impromptu therapy session so as to not waste time dwelling on things that make us sad. Of course, those friends undoubtedly make us feel as though we are moody and unbalanced. Those friends often display signs of pity accompanied with sighing and longer-than-usual pauses in-between statements of comfort. Then what shall we do? The easiest, most thoughtless route to take is to feel agitated.
For whatever reason, the reflection we’ve seen in the mirror is only a sliver and shade of the whole of our beings. We see ourselves as being the people we assume society rejects and makes fun of.
We’re the guy who, ever since the traumas of high school, has been unable to convince the rest of the guys he’s “got what it takes,” whatever the hell that means…
We’re the girl who keeps her arms folded over her stomach because she’s uncomfortable in her own body…
We’re those who feel undesirable…
We’re those who feel unacknowledged, underestimated, unappreciated, over-looked and forgotten, dismantled, burned-out, and beaten.
Let’s forget the pep-talk and the rallying to unite the underdogs and promote acceptance and well-being. I’d rather pinpoint the source of all of the shit we believe about ourselves, because that’s exactly what it is.
Once we exercise the honesty we truly deserve to serve ourselves, we won’t go asking for the predictable template, approaching-tongue-in-cheek response we have come to expect from those around us. Maybe then we can start stating things like, ” There’s something wrong with you.”
I have recently moved away from disaster and the requirement of unattainable perfection that has plagued me for the past year. It very well may have been two years, but the most notable span of time in which my own life seemed to be inconsequentially unimportant was the past year…
I’ve been determined to succeed and I have succeeded in many things. The most admirable successions are not unlike the keepsakes a mother would stow away in a hutch filled with fine china. The china I am referring to is nearly never used. It is too precious for day-to-day use and abuse…
What is there to understand about possession? What does it mean to possess and be possessed? I possess too many clothes. Perhaps I am possessed by the comfort of owning. Those who are arrested for possession must then be experiencing some kind of internal possession. We are possessed by our health. Some of us are obsessed with controlling our bodies, but the body has proven itself capable of controlling us. In those instances, we become a submissive shell of the spirit and flesh that once possessed life…
I feel as though everyone knows someone who has or has died of cancer. I guess it was only time I joined the bandwagon.
My grandma is dying of cancer. God knows everyone in my family but me has an optimistic outlook on the situation. She’s a fighter. By next week she will have lost her hair from radiation.
This whole shit storm is weighing heavily on my mind. I’m at war with myself internally. Am I supposed to cry out for some kind of miracle and pray that everything is going to resolve itself? I feel as though I lost hope as soon as we found out two weeks ago.
This whole situation is making me think more about my current interests and possible pursuits in clay and sculpture. How does this all tie into ritual, masks, and deep, human emotion…
I need to think more deeply about how to clearly articulate these new developments within my artwork.