Silence = death

 I wrote the following on June 23, 2020; I have been silent here for many years for practical reasons and this is what broke the silence:

 

So I’ve obviously had some more time on my hands these days. More time means a bit more reflection, but also much, much more in these last months to reflect upon. Probably a little more than my psyche can handle at the moment. My brain is still trying to catch up from the rewiring of becoming a parent, the overstimulation of moving to a new country, and the pragmatic juggling of starting a new job. But here I am, and you attend the things that are boiling over.

 

Being an American feels more challenging than usual. It is my home, a place where my family was saved, where I had the opportunities to thrive. But I have never felt “American,” as the stereotypes and microaggressions would remind me, multiple times on a daily basis. I am an accidental American, a citizenship that came from the obligations of war. I have always felt like an American on the fringe. An outsider.

 

And perhaps this is the crux of it: The US is full of Americans that make up the character of America, yet they are treated as outsiders. We love to tell the American story of self-invention and opportunity, one often told with an immigrant/outsider protagonist. But how we lay claim to these stories while keeping the hero at arm’s distance? Is this not hegemony controlling the conversation?

 

What happens when something you identify with—as complicated as that might be—is having an identity crisis of its own? America is fighting for itself, again and violently. I feel that impotence of being an American overseas at this moment.* I am also so overwhelmed with all the shouting that I feel paralyzed. Black lives. Police brutality. Slavery. Equality. Justice. Confederate flags. Riots. Rape. Guns. I can’t breathe.

 

*Of course, I am not. I have all the privileges to express: I have the freedom and the voice to join in the demonstrations; I have an absentee ballot to cast my vote; I have a bank account to make donations.

 

 

 

 

 

Changes

It's been a while since I've been here, or anywhere of note. I've asked a thousand questions, over and over again; the answers are both different and true, each time.

I am still working on a creative life, though it's more quiet and internal. A very small percentage of my work ends up in the world for public consumption, anyhow.

My focus has shifted, is shifting.

I am 29 weeks pregnant. (Some things I've missed: tuna melts, yoga inversions, oil painting. Some changes I've found delightful: my beau waiting in a long queue of a trendy patisserie to find treats for me, feeling my baby grow and move.)

I've always struggled with the balance of a conventional and creative life. I worry that this struggle will become more acute, and that my creative life will be buried. During one of my times of battered internal dialogues, of raging self-doubt, I found this essay from an artist.

Teresita Fernandez's speech at Virginia Commonwealth University

It may be a constant touchstone. I will read this and remind myself, This is exactly where you are supposed to be.

Perfection

The last six weeks have been transformative for many different reasons. Among them, I decided to give up my Mission studio. I have been cleaning, reorganizing, putting things away (a kiss of death for a working artist.) I have tried to take advantage of the remaining weeks to finish up some works in progress, but I have been paralyzed by sadness.

I spent this morning in my home studio, organizing the space in preparation for the move back. I'm mentally reorganizing, too: I will have to begin again, in a completely different way. How do I proceed?

Later in the day, I went to see an Arnold Newman exhibition at The Contemporary Jewish Museum and encountered the photograph below (minus the copyright labels). I am in awe of its flawless composition.

From Getty Images, portrait of Franz Kline by Arnold Newman (1960).

I love everything about this photograph. Its line, light, contrast, emotion. It took me away from my preoccupations with painting, reestablishing a studio, the heavy contemplation of what lies ahead. Or perhaps it drew me in because I subconsciously identified with sitting in a bright studio, surrrounded by work and looking obliquely towards some vanishing apex.

I recognize that the practice of art requires looking, experiencing, acknowledging. Being open to the slightest touch that may change the trajectory of your own inertia.

I might be ready to begin again.

You taste / the honey of absence

One of my favorite poets, Mark Strand, died today.

He wrote the lines that title this post; they are from his poem "In Celebration."

I pull his books off my shelf and begin to reread.

#OrangeOctober

One of many ancillary reasons to love October baseball in SF pic.twitter.com/F5oINc5hYb
— Michael Powell (@powellnyt) October 8, 2014

Companion

Untitled 2 (2013) by Clare Plueckhahn, from the "First We Fall" exhibition

"There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border that we cross." 

—Michael Ondaatje

Simpatico

Perfectly stated, from Henry Rollins:

"I don’t get lonely anymore ... I do, however, get a feeling of hollowness now and then. A Camus/Beckett/Céline sense of futility that makes me want to walk forlorn like Harry Dean Stanton in the opening scenes of Wenders’ Paris, Texas on some kind of emo-quest for meaning."






Read Henry Rollins's full post here: http://www.laweekly.com/westcoastsound/2014/08/07/henry-rollins-fake-city?showFullText=true.

Memory

I just returned from a two-week, whirlwind trip. Experiencing new things hones all my senses in spectacular ways. I feel like my entire being opens up for an interval as I breathe different air, look at new art, speak different words, taste new foods, stroll different streets.

Interestingly, these experiences also bring some memories, often forgotten and completely unexpected, back into my consciousness. It's like my mind, in trying to process the new information, forges back on dusty paths. The retraveling clears the overgrowth. The memory becomes sharp and forefront.

"I had forgotten that," I'll often say.

I remember an assignment for one of my painting classes. We were to paint a multipaneled work about a memory. I chose a tryptich, two panels in portrait format anchored by a long panel (shown below) running the length of the other two.

Bottom panel of Fall 1996 (2000). Oil on canvas, 30" x 15".

My memory was about a boy. I painted the texture of grass, abstracted greens and browns. I depicted a wall and the bottom two-thirds of the Breakfast at Tiffany's movie poster. Finally, I painted (above) what I remembered of the Black Forest, the mystery and peace I felt while driving alongside it in the dead of December. During the critique, my instructor commented, "I love this assignment because the things that comprise memories are so arbitrary, so irrational, and yet they come together logically in one's mind."

I have since separated the three panels of the tryptich. One panel hangs in our guest bedroom. Another got trashed during a move. The panel shown above is with a friend. I'm pretty sure he sees the painting differently from how I see it.

And that's the point of memory, right? It's personal and flawed, an imperfect truth.

Intermission

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a very complicated relationship with time. Hours can pass in a blink when I'm working, but seconds are critical when I'm sprinting after a bus to take me to work. I'm always running against some clock, internal or standardized.

Currently, I'm reading Jeanette Winterson's "Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal?" I've always enjoyed her work. I love her writing, her perspective, her insight on being a woman and being an artist.  

A chapter—or interlude—titled "Intermission" struck a chord.

She writes,

In my work I have pushed against the weight of clock time, of calendar time, of linear unravellings ... In our inner world, we can experience events that happened to us in time as happening simultaneously.

... I recognize that life has an inside as well as an outside and that events separated by years lie side by side imaginatively and emotionally.

Creative time bridges time because the energy of art is not time-bound. If it were we should have no interest in the art of the past, except as history or documentary. But our interest in art is our interest in ourselves both now and always. Here and forever. There is a sense of the human spirit as always existing. This makes our own death bearable. Life + art is a boisterous communion/communication with the dead. It is a boxing match with time.

I don't make art to have something that exists beyond myself. I make art to get to an essence of what being human means.

So

I've been in postpartum from delivering a commission. I've been regrouping, moving, reorganizing, reestablishing normal. Seeing friends and smiling. Practicing yoga.

Finally, now, working again. For the past year, a new series of oil paintings has been percolating. I've been thinking about what motivates the series, what I hope to communicate in the work. I've also been doing research, experimenting with materials.

I love this part of working. I love the learning and the discovery. I love making mistakes and forging ahead. The most difficult part is suspending judgment, allowing myself to stay in sustained play and exploration.

Spring

I have been up since 4AM. It's the first day of spring.

Perhaps my wakefulness is from jet lag, but from a mere 3-hour difference eastward. Perhaps it’s because I’m starting to feel “normal” again. Today marks the 79^th day of 2014, and my year has gone like this: 71 consecutive days of work, 7 days of vacation.

I feel like today could mark a new beginning.

New space, old struggles

On November 2, I moved into a new studio. It took some time to outfit my space so that I could begin to work. I trolled craigslist and garage sales to buy a chair and two tables. I bought a new rug, two lamps for extra light, a new drill to build my canvases; I sought wine crates to use as props and bookcases. I engineered a low-tech way to display photos.

Then I began to work. It’s hard. 

For the past few weeks, I have been staring down a 48" x 84" canvas. I get distracted by new noises, neighboring artists. I don’t have bright, natural sunlight. Fresh air does not circulate well. I have a few paintings hanging, but am not surrounded by past work, for reference and inspiration. More importantly, I haven’t yet instilled creative energy into my space—those new four walls—which comes with time.

I’m getting used to a new routine, being away from home for most days, balancing working time with personal time, negotiating priorities with my beau and family.

I keep coming back to what working as an artist means.

My studio is in the Mission, so I’m back to where I spent seven life-changing, bittersweet years. I frequent a café where Adam used to drop me off on his way to Palo Alto, where he would treat me to coffee and a giant cinnamon roll for breakfast. When I go there now for my mid-afternoon break, often a few cinnamon rolls—still from the same bakery—remain in the pastry case. With these familiar touchstones, I feel at home here. But there are also enough changes that things feel new and scary.

I feel overwhelmed by these changes, all the feelings that have been stirred up. I wish I could talk to my artist friends about authenticity, working through the struggles. I’m not talking about those people who easily self-identify as capital-A Artists, but those who question it every day, even as they work.

I recognize that these vulnerabilities can also be strengths in my work. I make human marks; I make errors. Hopefully, I also make things that are real and raw.

Gratitude

Yoga Mudrasana, courtesy of happylifestyletips.com

Thanksgiving is behind us, and we plow headlong into the holiday season. As I have gotten older, Thanksgiving has replaced all others as my favorite holiday. But why do we take only one day a year to pause and give thanks? (It’s one of my favorite parts of a consistent yoga practice.)

I feel grateful for a lot, but I don’t often share these things outright. Speaking gratitude should replace the selfie. 

To this end, I declare loudly: Today, I am thankful for the ability to cruise around on my bike to clear my head; messy, authentic love; feeling a bit out of my league.

Running feet, restless hands

My grandmother used to say that we had “running feet,” limbs that kept us on the move, exploring the world. Indeed, they took us from home to school, from the park to the library, pedaling bicycles, chasing each other. My beau teases that I have “restless hands,” limbs that must be working on something at all times. He’s right. A few times now, he has sat on my hands to keep them still. As an editor, I type all day long, for most days. When not clicking and clacking, I write with pen on paper. I paint. I knit. I sew. I construct. I obsessively make things. When I talk on the phone, I doodle. On dry land, I practice cupping and angling my hands for the proper swimming stroke.

Self-portrait,circa 2000

I think my restless hands have nothing to do with muscle movement or a nervous tic. I don’t drum them to pass time; I certainly don’t run to scrub the toilet to give them something to do. Rather, my hands are my most immediate tools for expression, in all the forms that I choose. Some people use their voices. Others, their bodies. Mine are, without a doubt, my hands.

I have not made something with my hands in over a week. They feel restless to create.

Simple

I'm feeling a bit out of sorts today. I have been trying to juggle too much lately, things out of my league and comfort zone. I feel unsure; I feel like a failure. These anxieties manifested themselves in my dreams last night, and I was plagued by nightmares. My beau heard my dream-state struggles and woke me gently. I heard his voice break through, "Shhh, shhhh. Babe, it's okay, it's okay."

So for today, I am returning to simplicity. A quiet house. No one to get back to. Working with my hands. Thread. A simple nutritious meal.

An avocado, an heirloom tomato from my parents' garden, whole-milk mozzarella,
whole-grain bread with flax seeds, great olive oil, salt+pepper.

Is there anything more healing than feeling protected and being nurtured? In the midst of my anxiety, I do feel gratitude.

Today

"If not for her intermittent returns to darkness—the body's insistence on life—she could have been on vacation, swimming in the sea, each stroke of her arms a complete philosophy."

-Simon van Booy-

Sealed, signed, delivered

 I spent the better part of 2012 in my studio. I painted and painted and painted, the result of which is a 21-painting series titled "Resonance." When I finished my last piece, settled in knowing I expressed all that I wanted to for this series, I just had to sit and wait. Six months to a year, for the oils to dry completely, before I could varnish the paintings and introduce them to the world.

Does this waiting period make my work anticlimactic? Perhaps. Usually, it just gives me some distance, to think about the work in another way. As the paints dry, I mull over many questions. Am I happy with the work? Does it satisfy my intentions? Do I have anything else to express? Is the series truly done?

I spent this morning varnishing the paintings. Perhaps it was the toxic fumes from the mineral varnish, but I felt excitement as I ran my brush once more over each painting. I got reacquainted with each brushstroke, each seemingly random but very intentional pencil mark, each little mound of built-up texture. In doing so, I experienced a new kind of intimacy with the work, not unlike a last meeting with a lover.

When the varnish dries, I will handwrite the title on each painting before I sign it. As one of my quirky practices, I only sign the work when I'm ready to sell them. Somehow, writing my name on a painting signifies that they are mine, but ready to be another's.

It's been a long time since I rock-and-rolled

These weeks have flown by. I can't account for the time.

There are things one can't write, even if they are raw, stark truths.

I swam in ocean waters to clear my mind, to breathe deeply, to taste salt on my lips, to understand the scale of my being.

I got lost. I tried to understand what it would mean to others if I was lost.

Last weekend, I danced.

Night swimming

I learned to swim properly five years ago. Prior to this, every entry into a body of water more than two feet deep was accompanied by sheer terror and a pep talk. "You will not die. Relax." Snorkeling with a friend in Hawaii resulted in me clinging to a craggy, volcanic rock as waves "violently" lapped around me.



Now that I am a swimmer, I can appreciate the unique moving meditation that swimming offers. For me, much of this is due to the physics of sound under water. Everything is muffled except for the movement of air, bubbles escaping the echo chamber of my lungs and exploding. Often, when I swim laps, I close my eyes and allow my body to guide me. I think of night swimming.

Exploring Hawaii, 2012

My swimming instructors would remind us that the human body was not built for swimming. As we evolved, our bodies evolved to be land dwellers, upright walkers and runners. Thus, we needed to relearn a skill using a body unoptimized for it. This was shared to encourage us.

In our modern, evolved lives, have we also deselected for long attention spans, proclivities to silence? I might enjoy an evening ritual in which darkness reigns and quietness abounds.

Roused to capture

I usually don’t mind getting up in the mornings, and often sense the time to arise. But when my alarm chirped this morning, I was surprised by how early it felt. I thought for a second that I set the clock wrong the night before. Or that maybe an imp meddled as I was deeply dreaming in slumber. Like usual, I ran late, bolted from the house and hurry-jogged to catch my bus.

On my commute, I just sat. No reading, no games, no thoughts. I kept my eyes unfocused. I tried to just be, come into the morning. The gray sky made this easy. Stopped at a red light, I noticed a young construction worker raised in a basket lift at a construction site, the metal of his temporary prison painted orange-red. On the sidewalk, the engine of the lift was demarcated with orange traffic cones, with streams of caution tape stretched between each one. The worker donned a bright orange hoodie, not his uniform, but his fashion choice for the day. An old, abandoned brick building stood behind the new construction. On what would have been its windows, black-and-white photographs of performers were installed, a dozen or so people blown up and suspended in their art. As the lift moved the worker down to the earth, he moved between the black-and-white artists, frozen in their performances, as if greeting them or joining them in a quick duet. With the perspective I had, the worker and the artists were the same size, interacting. Bright orange life juxtaposed against flat monochromes.

These are days I wish I were a photographer, to capture these serendipitous images that do not translate in paint, cannot be adequately described in words.