Wednesday, September 26, 2007

SAY IT, don't spray it!

There were two women having lunch at a Manhattan bistro. Fall had faded without memory, leaving the weather in a brisk and overcast limbo. Over eggs, the women shared the recent happenings in their dissimilar lives. They were seated in the center of the restaurant, a prime location for a view from all sides. Sally, married and expecting a boy, was dressed in a white maternity top. The other woman, Mariam, was an unmarried business woman, nursing the bitter end of a bronchial infection. She wore a purple blouse. Their interaction was that of fond, yet indebted acquaintances. It was a polite encounter. Sally talked in depth about her summer home and some renovating in the apartment that she and her husband owned in preparation for their new child. Mariam spoke of lots of professional advancement and squelched her painful cough frequently, to protect delicate Sally from any germs or infection. Her friend did not seem to notice. After they finished lunch, Mariam sipped her wine as Sally considered dessert. Their conversation quieted, leaving Sally to begin to describe her husband’s attempt at putting up the first bit of dry wall for the new baby’s room. The story was mild and not exactly humorous, yet Sally took her time recalling the experience. Mariam was tired of talking about motherhood and new apartments, and really just wanted to step out for a cigarette. Resigned, she sipped her wine and laughed where necessary. Suddenly, a large cough flew from Mariam's throat releasing wine across the table and onto Sally's blouse. Both women paused and stared at one another. Mariam began to frantically apologize as she reached for napkins to dab out the stain. Stunned, Sally stared down at her shirt, with a few drops of Mariam's spit under her left eye and upper lip. She couldn't believe how quickly her shirt had been ruined. Mariam’s many apologies were jumbled together with sincere dismay and embarrassment. It was as if the internal needed to be on the external—her thoughts had to be heard, so they launched themselves at the oppressor in a wad of phlem-y rouge.

Be yourself.


Je vous manque JoJo!

"There are no plumbers in Paris." - Julie Delpy, 2 Days in Paris

"There are no cats in America."- Fievel, An American Tail

Sunday, September 16, 2007

summer camp photos

Behold! The relaxed majesty as my page opens...tingly tangly pillow talk. Over the summer, I was a writer in residence at Cat'Art in the south of France. If you know me, you have already seen the interior and exterior property where I spent time collecting myself as someone else. These other pics are just some additives to permeate my edges.

The scene of the crime.

Yes, the typical doorway in Europe...but this specific one is in Chalabre-- a nearby town about 6km away. I am proud to say that I biked the 12km total to this town with my friends Joanne and Kevin several times. Absolute fulfillment and endurance for this city girl who's normal fancy is yoga a few times a week. We were left with little choice, especially if we wanted certain produce or frozen goodies that the local store, Vival, didn't have.

Throughout the summer, Mercedes and I would chat/screech/yelp many a manic discussion concerning anything from Cecil Taylor to Lucky Strikes. And each time, I managed to NOT have my camera. On my last day, I rode into town with Amanda to pick up some bread and chat with Mercedes and Kevin. Her studio was locked and she was nowhere to be found, so this is the only peek I managed to capture.

The mayor of Ste. Colombe sur L'Hers

Bits and bons,
with Miss Clempson.


The weather was pretty brisk for most of the summer, and we were usually having to cover our arms. That day, Bridget entered the common area at L'ille looking particularly dashing and delightful and Joanne had already tickled my fancy in her scarf and slouchy bag. Chuckling at their collective demeanor, I decided that this couldn't only be an image in my mind. I needed to ruin it by interrupting the pair and snapping a photo. I think the results are worth it.

Monday, September 3, 2007

collective streaming.


Woven bits on my thoughts on art as the amibitious manipulation of our personal scope to be seen by everyone or no one......

“one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”
It's as simple and unspecialized as that.
Expression, the way we walk, what we choose to see....
We express ourselves differently, and we may duplicate what appeals to us, what provides comfort… few embark on the true journey and some are “called” more strongly than others. Passion and blood flow fast and thick...both providing life.....some of the greatest representatives of this are Jean Genet, James Baldwin,and, even Jesus Christ. Where expression becomes duty and living comfortably in the world cannot be done without the completion of the inner on the outer.

Madness or clarity?
They way I see it is the way it is.

It’s "innovative art" being a double negative and SOMEHOW connecting that to the belief that we ALL have the potential to be innovators. I feel strongly in our potential to innovate and I believe that those who do not agree, have not yet learned how to see. Some of us are more consumed by our form depending on if we nurture it or not….or if we are given the means to nurture it. Ambition isn’t taught –however leading by example is important—but being born into nothing doesn’t allow for much ambition to develop. The demon/spirit inside of us has to speak loud enough for us to feel explosive if not reckoned with.

Ambition training. With varying levels of inborn desire, our ambition requires attention. Enlightenment. We should educate, not humiliate.

You wake up seeing red visions of fun-loving pain
Dancing on the blade provides us with choices.
We may not be aware of this as we peer over the edge

Spend time understanding that YOU are your palate and create from that basis. Learn.

That moment of priceless clarity provokes a high that is more delicious than any kind of greasy grass on the market. I say, get lifted! Stick your finger in the sauce and burn yourself. Taste it and memorize the ingredients. But don’t forget to share your sample.

The discussion of the artist is rightfully a regular debate amongst creators. People have decided that Van Gogh was mentally disturbed as he stood with ear in hand, but did he just get THERE? That enviable place that the typical artist immersed in his work will experience ---rare and usually fleeting connection.

Have we been spared?

Put time in and crank out the answer.

Practice makes perfect. Damnit.

This should provide you with some motivation: