Today felt like the longest day of my life. Obviously it wasn't, considering I've lived through worse, but it is almost feels as if I can't hold my head up.
I have reacted and victimized coworkers and friends based on my bad mood. This isn't me.
Antithetical reactions from everyone; sassy and entitled customers who have never served in any capacity in their lives (customer service, restaurant work, volunteer work, or otherwise); and, simply, work that I just can't physically handle anymore.
And, my body is telling me. I feel aged just by the habits I keep. Therefore, it's not just my heart-brain, but physically I am beat down.
I don't want to hate my life. I don't want to pick someone to murder with words because I CAN.
And I trust the stars. More than I trust myself. I base my days on what my horoscope says and then I plunge headfirst into circumstances that my horoscope revealead. I feel as if i need something to believe in, although I do feel that I do believe in a lot of transcendent experience. I do feel created...but I don't feel that I can create within these circumstances.
Tell me not to lower my standards.
Need a break.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
INTRODUCTIONS: RE-EXAMINING STRUCTURE
My contribution to the third issue of The Paper
A foundation begins a house. Workers dig below the bottoms of our feet, mutilating the surface and inner clay with layers of stone and brick to stabilize the house for generations. Four walls rise connecting a labyrinth of rooms and passageways to separate wings of living space and modernity. Finally a roof encloses this hiding place to protect the inhabitants and provide a fortress against most elements.
Rebels, rule breakers, fringe dwellers deny all boundaries in search for eliminating most standards. Omnivores require various forms to satiate hunger. Is the work choice-less rebel art or harmless innovation? Omnivorous work is less collection or collaboration of “differing medium” but simply an aggressive approach to creation. Omnivore--taking the word’s definition and likening it to our personas. We return to our infantile genesis where behaviors, traditions, and identities were unlearned and we sought pure advancement and sharing. This being the greenest level of humanity –a place of truly embraced nuance. Tiny beasts that grow into finite monsters unaware of the bounded standards we live by. These standards are helpful for positive and negative differentiation concerning uniqueness, but these standards also cloud true opinions and enlightenment. Identities are created for us and we assimilate, gravitate, succumb into our herds of gender, race, class….dancer, painter, writer, etc. These roles have some importance and necessity considering the social flow and they all require certain qualities and gestures as signifiers. However this upward mobility transforms into a collision when we speak inside of these boxes or have trouble stepping outside of them to peak into another backyard. Our work becomes enclosed in someone else’s walls. I refuse to fit my malleable presence and constant soul into finite structure. A diagram, framework, or guide is required but approach should be the variable.
I am my own institution. I am the approach. This is the institution of the rebel omnivore. I am the construct.
As artists and creators we possess a certain outsider scope. We have developed a distinct mind’s eye when connected to Western tradition and worldly function. We don’t live in your house. We have created our own. However, as we build our living fortress, relationships and work can become an unnecessary balancing act. The greatest part of this challenge is the desire for a viable workspace. We can create a home office, rent studio space, travel to residencies in remote locations and find ourselves productive and different-- post. But to take our work a step further, by removing what we understand space to be, what we understand our work to be and, instead slice the surface of literal spatial barriers.
The idea of SPACE: living floating debris in the universe.
“Disorientation begets creative thinking.” Benedict Carey
New York Times, October 6, 2009
As overgrown beasts we rejoin these particles and collect our thoughts. To disengage set structure as I design the most productive workspace begins with elimination. Need to burn the box instead of stepping outside of it.
Thus, we begin simply. We dissect “time”. A month is set aside for a project. In it seven weeks can exist rather than the defining four weeks. Each week could be four days, with the day’s duration evolving as well. Some days could last for ten hours some could last for twenty-nine. Space will develop based on work’s routine. Results could be unimaginable and even difficult to approach for the creator since the work came from a temporal space. Goals previously mapped suddenly produce their own schedules, miss deadlines, and present new accomplishments. You will be able to propose nothing and only experience –your work will begin to happen to you.
And what you do not know is the only thing that you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not - T.S. Eliot
This allows your work to become a human entity –experimental and even decisive. Returning us to our curious early stages where we balanced on baby steps. I command my rebel omnivores to respect our work by creating our own clocks. Imagine time as a “palate”, blank and available for innovation. Use this the connection of you, us, and them-- our art. Activate your Gemini and resist.
A foundation begins a house. Workers dig below the bottoms of our feet, mutilating the surface and inner clay with layers of stone and brick to stabilize the house for generations. Four walls rise connecting a labyrinth of rooms and passageways to separate wings of living space and modernity. Finally a roof encloses this hiding place to protect the inhabitants and provide a fortress against most elements.
Rebels, rule breakers, fringe dwellers deny all boundaries in search for eliminating most standards. Omnivores require various forms to satiate hunger. Is the work choice-less rebel art or harmless innovation? Omnivorous work is less collection or collaboration of “differing medium” but simply an aggressive approach to creation. Omnivore--taking the word’s definition and likening it to our personas. We return to our infantile genesis where behaviors, traditions, and identities were unlearned and we sought pure advancement and sharing. This being the greenest level of humanity –a place of truly embraced nuance. Tiny beasts that grow into finite monsters unaware of the bounded standards we live by. These standards are helpful for positive and negative differentiation concerning uniqueness, but these standards also cloud true opinions and enlightenment. Identities are created for us and we assimilate, gravitate, succumb into our herds of gender, race, class….dancer, painter, writer, etc. These roles have some importance and necessity considering the social flow and they all require certain qualities and gestures as signifiers. However this upward mobility transforms into a collision when we speak inside of these boxes or have trouble stepping outside of them to peak into another backyard. Our work becomes enclosed in someone else’s walls. I refuse to fit my malleable presence and constant soul into finite structure. A diagram, framework, or guide is required but approach should be the variable.
I am my own institution. I am the approach. This is the institution of the rebel omnivore. I am the construct.
As artists and creators we possess a certain outsider scope. We have developed a distinct mind’s eye when connected to Western tradition and worldly function. We don’t live in your house. We have created our own. However, as we build our living fortress, relationships and work can become an unnecessary balancing act. The greatest part of this challenge is the desire for a viable workspace. We can create a home office, rent studio space, travel to residencies in remote locations and find ourselves productive and different-- post. But to take our work a step further, by removing what we understand space to be, what we understand our work to be and, instead slice the surface of literal spatial barriers.
The idea of SPACE: living floating debris in the universe.
“Disorientation begets creative thinking.” Benedict Carey
New York Times, October 6, 2009
As overgrown beasts we rejoin these particles and collect our thoughts. To disengage set structure as I design the most productive workspace begins with elimination. Need to burn the box instead of stepping outside of it.
Thus, we begin simply. We dissect “time”. A month is set aside for a project. In it seven weeks can exist rather than the defining four weeks. Each week could be four days, with the day’s duration evolving as well. Some days could last for ten hours some could last for twenty-nine. Space will develop based on work’s routine. Results could be unimaginable and even difficult to approach for the creator since the work came from a temporal space. Goals previously mapped suddenly produce their own schedules, miss deadlines, and present new accomplishments. You will be able to propose nothing and only experience –your work will begin to happen to you.
And what you do not know is the only thing that you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not - T.S. Eliot
This allows your work to become a human entity –experimental and even decisive. Returning us to our curious early stages where we balanced on baby steps. I command my rebel omnivores to respect our work by creating our own clocks. Imagine time as a “palate”, blank and available for innovation. Use this the connection of you, us, and them-- our art. Activate your Gemini and resist.
Friday, October 16, 2009
dog bite crop run
*This piece is almost four years old. Be kind.
Her feet plunged into the mud as she pushed her way through the tall green plants. She wouldn’t let herself look back, because along with that is a bit of pause, allowing the insects a taste. She continued running. Pulling her shirt over her head and tripping on the bottoms of her unbuttoning jeans. Tears fell onto her cheek like the match bits from lighting a cigarette. Her shoes were long gone and desperate steps left her feet bruised and bloody.
In the summer of 2004, almost immediately after graduating from college, a large dog bit me. Change and interruption were apparently my middle name at the time. I had just completed four years at Marymount, I was three months shy of the one year anniversary of my mother’s death, my afro was a month and a half old, and suddenly I was being bit on my left forearm by a large and previously stray animal. Shit like this cannot be predicted. It could not be any clearer that my mother was calling out for my attention.
Earlier in the evening, I stood within an inch of water behind the bar, giggling and gabbing with the bartender, Lauren. I was covering a hostess shift at the restaurant where we worked. Lauren and I were discussing our usual reel of missing men and fingertip dreams. A woman came in and interrupted our conversation by ordering 4 martinis. I pulled back and stood off to the side as Lauren made the drinks and I stared out of the window. Lauren lined the martinis up on the bar and the woman paid with her credit card. Four martinis would need a tray, so I told her I would help her walk them out to the courtyard. Repeatedly, she said that she didn’t need any help, but for some reason I insisted on accompanying her to her table outside.
I juggled the tray with two drinks and as I approached the table, I recognized her rowdy group from previously seating them. They had a massive dog that had been unfriendly throughout the night and was barking at anything crossing its path. The dog seemed uncomfortable as his owner and friends became extremely intoxicated. I set down all of their drinks in a neat row, and the group responded with blubbering “thank yous”. I feigned interest in the disoriented and terrified dog and coo-ed in an attempt at being polite.
Someone in the group spat out,
“You can pet him. It’s okay.”
Followed by more vodka voices,
“Yeah, pet him.”
And still, wanting to be cool and polite, I reached out and pet the animal, simultaneously recalling my mother’s regular admonishment for touching strange pets. It is certainly not ironic that spiritual connection occurred through the four-legged beasts that she kept me away from.
It was as quick and memorable as a nightmare. The dog’s eyes caught fire and he leapt up, latching onto my arm. The owner was jerked forward into sobriety as the dog’s teeth clenched my arm and yanked my body forward like a rag doll—unable to fight back. The fresh drinks that I shed blood to deliver were spilled across the faux wood and concrete, leaving shards as evidence. All sound and cognizance were sealed in my head, and like a rocket, I soared back to earth, and was dumped onto the restaurant patio. The muffled tones became audible and I could understand several pleas of, “Are you alright?” and “Are you okay?” A dishonest “yeah” came out as I stared down at my broken skin, trying to connect my mind to my body to this broken flesh in front of me. Lauren ran up to me calling out, and I could only stare back at her in response. I felt embarrassed and guilty.
Her left hand slapped her face as a cornstalk rejected her, releasing a wail from the edges of her face, not slowing her down.
In the December prior, I was working a typical and chaotic brunch. The wait staff swayed like dancers to the theme from the Bodyguard that played as accompaniment-- gliding between blowouts and UGG boots to deliver eggs and deceptively decaf coffees.
On one of the phones repeated rings, I picked up the receiver answering to the escalated volume from the folks from the 77th St. location. John Baber was hit by taxi on his way into work. Seeing red, I sucked in a slap of air and dropped the phone. I took one step back.
“John Baber had been hit by a car.”
I remember Ali picking the receiver up off the counter and speaking to the person on the other end. I stood there, worried, and on display. Emotionally, I was a wreck but I had become pretty good at hiding it. My mother was killed in a car accident about five months before. My wound had barely begun to bleed. I managed to siphon it off with extra classes and more hours at work. One nudge to the left and the pipe would explode. The knot had been untied and making this news that day’s breaking point.
Ali finished talking and hung up the phone. She looked at me and said, “I’m sure he’s okay.”
After my last class the following day, I ran as far east as I could to Lenox Hill Hospital. I was not surprised to find him smiling, and clearly relieved to see a friendly face. He was wearing his glasses and tugging his sheets, feeling embarrassed about his appearance. Just like John, wanting to entertain company from his hospital bed. My eyes were tight and I struggled to not bore him with my lack of control. I had to remember who had the tubes shoved in their arm and was spending their third day in a hospital bed.
Ripped, her underwear we’re still inside her jeans, when exhaustion out weighs tidiness. With no clearing in sight, she stopped. Her bra flung into the air; allowing the animal to cry out from within her, snarl her lips and arch her back.
We talked about life and recalled memories. John was unfortunately helpless complaining about the restaurant where we worked and the miserable owners. We were margin dwellers yes, deserving of that caste, no. Especially not broken and injured. I went to visit him all five of the days before the holidays. I did not want him to be alone and I refused to feel as if I had not contributed to his wellbeing. His mere thoughts during my initial grieving of my mother warmed me from afar. Somehow we were commiserating—deepening our bond as family and loved ones.
She wept, shaking, and crumbled onto the ground.
My wound was finally able to bleed, and in the presence of a loved one.
.................................
As I re-read this piece, I notice that I tell the events in opposite order of the actual experience. I think the largest lesson in grieving a loved one is the elimination of such things—order, time. The effect of these crucial elements cannot be predicted. And almost six years later, I am experiencing an idiosyncratic paranoia normally related to being initially informed with the fatality. 10/09
That same year, about a week into Danielle’s first job right out of college, a large file cabinet fell on her and almost crushed her leg. She was left with a gash on her face, another large gash above her knee and a sprained ankle. Two days later, she rode her bike the 8 blocks to my apartment to return a sweater.
Ben’s front tooth was chipped by a microphone while he performed as Titus in a punk rock version of Titus Andronicus.
They say scars are
war wounds
reminders
the unexpected phenomena that flavor life.
No accidents.
It can sometimes become necessary to have full living rattled into us.
The current of life is to uncover gems when your gaze is decidedly elsewhere.
Car crash
File cabinet
Chipped teeth
Dog bite
Crop run
Her feet plunged into the mud as she pushed her way through the tall green plants. She wouldn’t let herself look back, because along with that is a bit of pause, allowing the insects a taste. She continued running. Pulling her shirt over her head and tripping on the bottoms of her unbuttoning jeans. Tears fell onto her cheek like the match bits from lighting a cigarette. Her shoes were long gone and desperate steps left her feet bruised and bloody.
In the summer of 2004, almost immediately after graduating from college, a large dog bit me. Change and interruption were apparently my middle name at the time. I had just completed four years at Marymount, I was three months shy of the one year anniversary of my mother’s death, my afro was a month and a half old, and suddenly I was being bit on my left forearm by a large and previously stray animal. Shit like this cannot be predicted. It could not be any clearer that my mother was calling out for my attention.
Earlier in the evening, I stood within an inch of water behind the bar, giggling and gabbing with the bartender, Lauren. I was covering a hostess shift at the restaurant where we worked. Lauren and I were discussing our usual reel of missing men and fingertip dreams. A woman came in and interrupted our conversation by ordering 4 martinis. I pulled back and stood off to the side as Lauren made the drinks and I stared out of the window. Lauren lined the martinis up on the bar and the woman paid with her credit card. Four martinis would need a tray, so I told her I would help her walk them out to the courtyard. Repeatedly, she said that she didn’t need any help, but for some reason I insisted on accompanying her to her table outside.
I juggled the tray with two drinks and as I approached the table, I recognized her rowdy group from previously seating them. They had a massive dog that had been unfriendly throughout the night and was barking at anything crossing its path. The dog seemed uncomfortable as his owner and friends became extremely intoxicated. I set down all of their drinks in a neat row, and the group responded with blubbering “thank yous”. I feigned interest in the disoriented and terrified dog and coo-ed in an attempt at being polite.
Someone in the group spat out,
“You can pet him. It’s okay.”
Followed by more vodka voices,
“Yeah, pet him.”
And still, wanting to be cool and polite, I reached out and pet the animal, simultaneously recalling my mother’s regular admonishment for touching strange pets. It is certainly not ironic that spiritual connection occurred through the four-legged beasts that she kept me away from.
It was as quick and memorable as a nightmare. The dog’s eyes caught fire and he leapt up, latching onto my arm. The owner was jerked forward into sobriety as the dog’s teeth clenched my arm and yanked my body forward like a rag doll—unable to fight back. The fresh drinks that I shed blood to deliver were spilled across the faux wood and concrete, leaving shards as evidence. All sound and cognizance were sealed in my head, and like a rocket, I soared back to earth, and was dumped onto the restaurant patio. The muffled tones became audible and I could understand several pleas of, “Are you alright?” and “Are you okay?” A dishonest “yeah” came out as I stared down at my broken skin, trying to connect my mind to my body to this broken flesh in front of me. Lauren ran up to me calling out, and I could only stare back at her in response. I felt embarrassed and guilty.
Her left hand slapped her face as a cornstalk rejected her, releasing a wail from the edges of her face, not slowing her down.
In the December prior, I was working a typical and chaotic brunch. The wait staff swayed like dancers to the theme from the Bodyguard that played as accompaniment-- gliding between blowouts and UGG boots to deliver eggs and deceptively decaf coffees.
On one of the phones repeated rings, I picked up the receiver answering to the escalated volume from the folks from the 77th St. location. John Baber was hit by taxi on his way into work. Seeing red, I sucked in a slap of air and dropped the phone. I took one step back.
“John Baber had been hit by a car.”
I remember Ali picking the receiver up off the counter and speaking to the person on the other end. I stood there, worried, and on display. Emotionally, I was a wreck but I had become pretty good at hiding it. My mother was killed in a car accident about five months before. My wound had barely begun to bleed. I managed to siphon it off with extra classes and more hours at work. One nudge to the left and the pipe would explode. The knot had been untied and making this news that day’s breaking point.
Ali finished talking and hung up the phone. She looked at me and said, “I’m sure he’s okay.”
After my last class the following day, I ran as far east as I could to Lenox Hill Hospital. I was not surprised to find him smiling, and clearly relieved to see a friendly face. He was wearing his glasses and tugging his sheets, feeling embarrassed about his appearance. Just like John, wanting to entertain company from his hospital bed. My eyes were tight and I struggled to not bore him with my lack of control. I had to remember who had the tubes shoved in their arm and was spending their third day in a hospital bed.
Ripped, her underwear we’re still inside her jeans, when exhaustion out weighs tidiness. With no clearing in sight, she stopped. Her bra flung into the air; allowing the animal to cry out from within her, snarl her lips and arch her back.
We talked about life and recalled memories. John was unfortunately helpless complaining about the restaurant where we worked and the miserable owners. We were margin dwellers yes, deserving of that caste, no. Especially not broken and injured. I went to visit him all five of the days before the holidays. I did not want him to be alone and I refused to feel as if I had not contributed to his wellbeing. His mere thoughts during my initial grieving of my mother warmed me from afar. Somehow we were commiserating—deepening our bond as family and loved ones.
She wept, shaking, and crumbled onto the ground.
My wound was finally able to bleed, and in the presence of a loved one.
.................................
As I re-read this piece, I notice that I tell the events in opposite order of the actual experience. I think the largest lesson in grieving a loved one is the elimination of such things—order, time. The effect of these crucial elements cannot be predicted. And almost six years later, I am experiencing an idiosyncratic paranoia normally related to being initially informed with the fatality. 10/09
That same year, about a week into Danielle’s first job right out of college, a large file cabinet fell on her and almost crushed her leg. She was left with a gash on her face, another large gash above her knee and a sprained ankle. Two days later, she rode her bike the 8 blocks to my apartment to return a sweater.
Ben’s front tooth was chipped by a microphone while he performed as Titus in a punk rock version of Titus Andronicus.
They say scars are
war wounds
reminders
the unexpected phenomena that flavor life.
No accidents.
It can sometimes become necessary to have full living rattled into us.
The current of life is to uncover gems when your gaze is decidedly elsewhere.
Car crash
File cabinet
Chipped teeth
Dog bite
Crop run
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
07/07/09
Stand me up so I can see
My brow's horizon through shielded palm
Peering forward
Catching glimpses of advances
Ankles begin to hurt
Leaning towards visibility
Foolishness
Embed heels into posture
And cast eyes
Rest to allow eternity’s message
Non arrival
Non answer
Instead develop breathing limbs
Lift
And take your hands off me while doing so
Find it yourself
Stand me up so I can see
My brow's horizon through shielded palm
Peering forward
Catching glimpses of advances
Ankles begin to hurt
Leaning towards visibility
Foolishness
Embed heels into posture
And cast eyes
Rest to allow eternity’s message
Non arrival
Non answer
Instead develop breathing limbs
Lift
And take your hands off me while doing so
Find it yourself
NY mag's Map of Astoria hot spots
the september issue the september issue the september issue
My friend, author and professor, Sadia Shepard produced The September Issue, a documentary on Anna Wintour and the making of Vogue magazine.
I saw it at Sunshine last night, and really thought it was fantastic. Being a believer in unique personal aesthetic, I have always been willing to respect fashion and couture in a high, yet attainable regard. Therefore, it's truly a treat to see a slice of the inner workings.
Un plus....Anna Wintour exemplifies successful delegation and rapid fire decision making. I came away having learned more about the process of a generous and intrepid emblem--it should be okay to crack that unapologetic whip when there is a greater objective in focus. Even if it's regarding handbags and riding boots....
Time to renew my subscription.
This year's September Issue. The 2007 issue referred in the film's title has Sienna Miller as a cover girl.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
TAKT open studios and Golden Parachutes
(excerpt from vagabond)
Leah and Joanne, doing the "old soul" dance.
On my last full day in Berlin, Joanne had her open studios at TAKT. Before attending the open studios, Joanne and I did some running around the city and took a free ride on the tram because the machines weren't working. A few hours later, I was ticketed on the UBahn for not validating my train pass. Ah, the irony. Which reminds me, I should probably take care of that...
I also went to visit my old friends Paul and Jesi from Cat'art at their new gallery, Golden Parachutes. The space is extremely impressive and Paul and Jesi are damn near fluent in German. Way to MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN MOVIE. I admire their perseverance.
nothing to eat, paper collage
On my way out, they pointed me in the direction of Viktoria Park for an all sides view of Berlin.
TAKT Open Studios: July 2009
Paper installations by Leah Hartman-Frankel
obermauerbrucke, one of Joanne's latest from her residency and one of my favs.
sculpture and collage by Natalie Wood
textual painting by Alice White
Sabra , visual artist and stop motion animator
paintings by Antonio
Much more can be viewed by clicking on the album below.
Berlin was a slanted journey. Transitional and expectant, therefore scattered and unfinished. Many of my creative goals and aspirations were invigorated, making my scope of the future sparkly and green. I felt anxious and motivated--a not always volatile combination. It could be best described as being in a hurry or late for work while riding the subway. Door shut, can’t move, and you can only wait for your stop.
Duration duration duration
Aufvedersehen Jo Jo!
I also found myself missing my apartment and familiar faces. Running away from home will do that to you. At that point, I decided to listen to myself. On my flight back to Paris I hit the last pages of my latest notebook as I came to the realization that I should use my return ticket home and not prolong my trip. My expectations for some clarity had been met...possibly even prior to my expedition.
Duration duration duration
I do believe I have reached a clearing.
Danke Arthur!
The Paris update is next!!!
Leah and Joanne, doing the "old soul" dance.
On my last full day in Berlin, Joanne had her open studios at TAKT. Before attending the open studios, Joanne and I did some running around the city and took a free ride on the tram because the machines weren't working. A few hours later, I was ticketed on the UBahn for not validating my train pass. Ah, the irony. Which reminds me, I should probably take care of that...
I also went to visit my old friends Paul and Jesi from Cat'art at their new gallery, Golden Parachutes. The space is extremely impressive and Paul and Jesi are damn near fluent in German. Way to MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN MOVIE. I admire their perseverance.
nothing to eat, paper collage
On my way out, they pointed me in the direction of Viktoria Park for an all sides view of Berlin.
TAKT Open Studios: July 2009
Paper installations by Leah Hartman-Frankel
obermauerbrucke, one of Joanne's latest from her residency and one of my favs.
sculpture and collage by Natalie Wood
textual painting by Alice White
Sabra , visual artist and stop motion animator
paintings by Antonio
Much more can be viewed by clicking on the album below.
 |
| BERLIN 2009 |
Berlin was a slanted journey. Transitional and expectant, therefore scattered and unfinished. Many of my creative goals and aspirations were invigorated, making my scope of the future sparkly and green. I felt anxious and motivated--a not always volatile combination. It could be best described as being in a hurry or late for work while riding the subway. Door shut, can’t move, and you can only wait for your stop.
Duration duration duration
Aufvedersehen Jo Jo!
I also found myself missing my apartment and familiar faces. Running away from home will do that to you. At that point, I decided to listen to myself. On my flight back to Paris I hit the last pages of my latest notebook as I came to the realization that I should use my return ticket home and not prolong my trip. My expectations for some clarity had been met...possibly even prior to my expedition.
Duration duration duration
I do believe I have reached a clearing.
Danke Arthur!
The Paris update is next!!!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
swimmer's ear
I have been on the lower east side for a week now. Every morning I have woken up with swimmer's ear. That clogged pressure mixed with probably just a teaspoon of water, making you feel like an infant with an earache. Am I sleeping to close to the fan? That nightmare I was having must have involved cupping my hand over my ear to listen for the ocean.
Really wicked dreams lately. Old friends showing up to work at my restaurant and predictions of future events and faces that end up not being totally incorrect. Sometimes I hate my clairvoyance. However, it's one of the few things that keeps me responsible.
Ben my new roommate and best friend/little bro left for Portland two days ago for the world premiere of Miguel Guttierez's latest show, Last Meadow.
I got some more work on Saintete and now I'm working on a poetry submission and over editing an essay...somebody stop me.
Ah, and read this while you're at it. Eileen Myles' The Importance of Being Iceland.
Really wicked dreams lately. Old friends showing up to work at my restaurant and predictions of future events and faces that end up not being totally incorrect. Sometimes I hate my clairvoyance. However, it's one of the few things that keeps me responsible.
Ben my new roommate and best friend/little bro left for Portland two days ago for the world premiere of Miguel Guttierez's latest show, Last Meadow.
I got some more work on Saintete and now I'm working on a poetry submission and over editing an essay...somebody stop me.
Ah, and read this while you're at it. Eileen Myles' The Importance of Being Iceland.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
slay dragon
BERLIN
(excerpt from vagabond: burning shoulders)
The dependable heavens had emerged with a spare bedrooom in Friedrichshain. My new friend Ariane from PAF connected me to a massive 5 bedroom with tons of light and a balcony. So, after one night in the A&O hostel, I manhandled the metro and arrived at Samariterstrasse to meet Arthur. An intense lifesaver. Walking around that place enforced that throwing my coin in the life's fountain does continue to bring fortune, I just have to be patient enough to receive it.
duration duration duration duration
Unfortunately, little Bessie, my 5 year old Powerbook is slowly failing me and I was unable to connect to the Internet. That news was earth-shattering for me and I had a mild panic attack. I didn't have a phone making the Internet my only way of communicating. This was never an issue, until I was suddenly out of the wire-free country and plopped back within schedules and meeting places did I realize that it can be a necessity. And I was late to meet Joanne for lunch. Arthur gave me clear directions on his map, but I was flustered and cloudy and turned left instead of right and arrived SOMEWHERE. That afternoon won't be forgotten, just stored to remind myself that I do possess raw emotion and hopefully more sensibility.
So so lost.
The next day we hit the flea market on Bohxaneger Strasse and I bought a leather doctor's bag. We sat in the park amongst the unleashed beasts on two and four legs and did some brainstorming on a project.
My first solo day in Berlin needed to begin with errands. My hair oil needed to be replaced because I had to chuck it at Paris Orly. 100 ml... I packed a lunch and begin my morning with coffee and the quest for African hair products in Berlin. Spontaneity is a necessity and the key to life’s thrills and learning, but an impulsive nature can produce foolish and easily prevented sacrifice.
Key city ingredients: lush parks, affordable access to contemporary art, supermarkets with a decent level of variety, good coffee, smiling locals
Warschauer Strasse and the park at the Eastside Gallery
I am enjoying creating my own story. Chapters inked by uncertainty and stress and the rewarding exhale of arrival based on instinctual orientation. Cerebral architecture.
Duration duration duration duration duration
Digging the relaxed post war vibe. Serene explosion. Dispute on the inside out.
My writing is bursting bits here--confined, but it's happening. I am marveling at the ease at which I've been welcomed into this apartment. I've been trying to not disturb and draw minimal attention to myself.
A new place to work, a new place to work a new place to work a new place to work
After the Eastside Gallery, I took the metro to Tiergarten, Brandenburg gate, the Holocaust memorial. And on my way to the National Gallery to see some Max Beckmann, I found the Bauhaus exhibit and opted for that instead. Art school fantasies.
Holocaust Memorial
Bauhaus exhibit
Brandenburg gate
Change circumstances.
photos from TAKT open studios and my visit to golden parachutes, next.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
vagabond: burning shoulders
The exit from PAF was a churning blender swirl of a storm. Up at 6 from my Nariman wake up call and speeding off down the road with my doubleshot of espresso spilling onto my jeans. The train to Laon was quick and I deliriously carted my luggage into the train station toilet...resulting in drowned belongings.
My arrival at Le Gare du Nord was almost too fast suddenly placing me in the metro. I have a tendency to ignore the best laid plans, and determined to follow my sleepy intuition. Instead of waiting for Ikue at the corner cafe, like specified, I figured that since I was early I would just continue onward and eventually find her apartment. I must have been hiding in the countryside for too long.
My only plan for my arrival in Berlin was to see Joanne. There were no concrete sleeping plans, just an unconfirmed reservation at a hostel and the possibility waiting to hear from two friends with options for extra bedrooms. We separated, her on her way to an opening and, me on my way to the A&O hostel in Mitte.
More to follow...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
she spoke about small sentences.
Space ship
invitation
smoke stack
unleavened translation
holiness
crooked sunnies
stained eyes
dirty sweater
Chinese boots
burnt food
imagery
courage
milk.
Celine said to me, "Do you want to see a special room?"
Invisible spaces that fall in the wilderness, destined to eventually never make a sound in my sight line. Purposeless. Welcomed imagery as I polish off more self hate. Her gift of nuance cooled my pistol of discouragement emptying the bullets on a cleared palate. Abilities were revitalized and I was able to see my reflection again.
I don't remember what had upset me that day.
I just remember Celine.
Celine Davenas
davenas.celine@gmail.com
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The final BAND video
vocals -Valentina Desideri
guitar - Jacob Perkins
keyboard - Hana Miller
words - me
objects without qualities
Without community
individual agent of minutes
Ceaseless habits substituting embrace
inclusion denied usually
Fortified upon wish
and promises
Deriding my satiation as OTHER
Pilgrim
Days exist as finite monsters
Convince clocks and fashion a time
denying submission to the abusers
leaning on clock hands
Containing dismantling
rearranging surviving
resting on results unanticipated
New void
working
Produce within fruitful conditions
Monday, July 20, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
week in review
Bastille Day in St. Erme, France
The fireworks on Bastille Day were definitely more than I expected. In St. Colombe two years prior, the display was in a small pasture and lasted less than five minutes. In attendance was the town's population of Kati the owner of Vival and possibly two or three other families. St. Erme's fireworks were impressive and certainly made me feel connected to my PAF group.
The next day, Catherine and Christophe, the couple that ran my previous residence, drove over to St. Erme to visit me. They brought productive news on Artistay (their new service that guides artists to find an appropriate residence and working space in France) and also the official and unfortunate news of the "for sale" sign on Cat'art. The plan is to empty my Swiss bank account and purchase it. Ha! Perfectly flanked by the Pyrenees and truly equipped with enormous studio space, it is a shame to know that a place is being sold.
I'm headed to Berlin on the 24th for Joanne's birthday. Leaving PAF will be bittersweet. Currently, it can become rare for me to have extended time for my work, therefore I will miss this place. I am creating a routine within this country as a solid place to work. At Cat'art, "work" was primarily a time to grieve and discuss as Baldwin called it my "unexamined pain", and now as an emerging artist I am able to watch my stagnancy fade in the distance, allowing me to seek a new environment. And the repeated lesson is that of respect--for my work, myself, my time. PAF churns on-- bubbling, bouncing, and baking-- and I know that I will return. Possibly in a month, considering I am homeless until December. Now, I am eager to see some cities. The urbanite living within me craves crowded sidewalks and bookstores.
The Genet project has a working title Saintete: a talent show. I am in love with the research. For a moment I thought my gender ballet would need to be a conjured caricature, and I was willing and prepared for that. However within Genet's writings as a beggar and prisoner, he discusses "the cultivation of sores", which is essentially the source and scorched edges of my final project. It deserves my time.
And apparently, there has been intense deliberation concerning American Healthcare reform...after all the fete in my inbox from the NYTimes, will someone just tell me how freelancers are going to get affordable healthcare? Please keep it simple.
Obama's NAACP speech continues to illuminate how valuable his presidency will be towards positive influence for black Americans. Not only is he an emblem that opportunity exists for the marginalized, but he places the responsibility of its discovery within our hands. Dream big. His words,"I want them aspiring to be scientists and engineers, doctors and teachers, not just ballers and rappers. I want them aspiring to be a Supreme Court Justice. I want them aspiring to be President of the United States.”
urban old Hollywood ballerina turned expatriate dancing detective...
but, still a Third World Diva Girl!
thank you bell hooks.
 |
| PAF 2009 |
Saturday, July 18, 2009
ENCORE – 06/09 update
You are astounding and extremely peculiar.
Falling from your ascendant place.
Welcome.
Contact is made and I see beyond my recurring blur.
Enormous and valuable eye to skin, skin to eye.
Follow me, refuting earthly clarity,
And enjoy this disappearing moment.
(finite boundaries disregarded)
This jars my position, forcing my attention inward, upward, outward, towards you.
In your direction.
Without permission, we believe again.
Togetherness, unified, personified, objectified.
Allow me in, please.
Skin exudes shadow, warming the cradle my chest creates.
Your tips meet at my spine without tangling linen.
I inhale this; my desire’s dizziness contented by your weight.
Maintain, by lifting me towards heightened viscera.
Pulped bosom contract and members blossom into raunchy and delicious exaggeration.
Delirious delivery deserves deeper thrust.
Hip to hip, piped tree limbs smolder, engulfing.
Separately.
Combustion occurs.
Breath collapsed kisses abound and envelope the ocean of mannequin parts.
Teeth separate, penetrate, puncture.
Exit, release. Exit, release,
Remaining within.
I collect your ribs in my mouth and discuss this matter in my cerebral mechanism,
Hoping that this vision of you is everlasting.
My bones clench upon the rows of your bones, tasting Adam, waiting for it to stain.
The innocence from your closed intent is mist decaying my chemicals of doubt and despair.
I cannot control myself.
Your hand's palms add stress to the fat of my hips,
Leaving your milky skin to curdle as I descend.
This is moonlight.
You are astounding and extremely peculiar.
Falling from your ascendant place.
Welcome.
Contact is made and I see beyond my recurring blur.
Enormous and valuable eye to skin, skin to eye.
Follow me, refuting earthly clarity,
And enjoy this disappearing moment.
(finite boundaries disregarded)
This jars my position, forcing my attention inward, upward, outward, towards you.
In your direction.
Without permission, we believe again.
Togetherness, unified, personified, objectified.
Allow me in, please.
Skin exudes shadow, warming the cradle my chest creates.
Your tips meet at my spine without tangling linen.
I inhale this; my desire’s dizziness contented by your weight.
Maintain, by lifting me towards heightened viscera.
Pulped bosom contract and members blossom into raunchy and delicious exaggeration.
Delirious delivery deserves deeper thrust.
Hip to hip, piped tree limbs smolder, engulfing.
Separately.
Combustion occurs.
Breath collapsed kisses abound and envelope the ocean of mannequin parts.
Teeth separate, penetrate, puncture.
Exit, release. Exit, release,
Remaining within.
I collect your ribs in my mouth and discuss this matter in my cerebral mechanism,
Hoping that this vision of you is everlasting.
My bones clench upon the rows of your bones, tasting Adam, waiting for it to stain.
The innocence from your closed intent is mist decaying my chemicals of doubt and despair.
I cannot control myself.
Your hand's palms add stress to the fat of my hips,
Leaving your milky skin to curdle as I descend.
This is moonlight.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
finite monsters
This morning, I have reached the last page in my notebook.
objects without qualities
Without community
individual agent of minutes
Ceaseless habits substituting embrace
inclusion denied usually
Fortified upon wish
and promises
Deriding my satiation as OTHER
Pilgrim
Days exist as finite monsters
Convince clocks and fashion a time
denying submission to the abusers
leaning on clock hands
Containing dismantling
rearranging surviving
resting on results unanticipated
New void
working
Produce within fruitful conditions
My days are numbered here--10 to be exact. I have taken the title for the above verse from an "object project" at PAF, that I contributed a tiny bit of time to.
The other night, I made a list of the artists that have come and gone, since I have arrived and there have been about 20 individuals, three couples, and two large groups groups--some with ten, some with seventeen...a revolving door!
Federica left today and she said that it is unfortunate because she is only now beginning to feel at home. These things take time. I was sitting in the garden a few evenings ago, and inhaled the gray night and exhaled deep comfort. Only within the week. I was surprised to discover that there may have been an absence...or perhaps, a growing fulfillment.
 |
| PAF 2009 |
Friday, July 3, 2009
Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I believe it is my third "Independence Day" not in America. I rotate inside of the disdain for being an American every few days or hours here.
Green, green grass. All can seem mundane on other shores.
My brain expands based on my tried and true work environment--the French countryside. Survival wears a new hat for this New Yorker--gratitude and greetings in other languages and the varying systems of etiquette that incorporate the strange dance of traditions and colorings, certainly not mutually exclusive to this country. One of my hometown's finest--No shirt. No shoes. No service. One must make attempts to truly enjoy your experience and, in my opinion, display some visitor humility.
I choose to frantically assimilate--foolish in my need to feel "experienced and knowledgeable". This resulting in some example of humiliation, zipping me back to outsider posture.
Truly, to respect and enjoy yourself and others--taste, try, temper all that is available to you, remaining grateful of any invitation. Some places will suit you better than others--and remaining within the sunlight of travel experimentation is allowed to those that never master the formula of location.
Keep testing.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Less Gender?! Genderless.
Swedish parents raising their child as genderless. "Pop" will determine his gender when ready.
A true guinea pig, but honestly I am curious about the outcome.
A true guinea pig, but honestly I am curious about the outcome.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
the gods gallantly gaze at gorgeous GONE
Peripheral punches pack my protective pulpit.
Try not to make sense; simply know what you are saying.
Problematic placement produces empty pictures promised in my pathway.
Wait.
Ah, you're still looking.
Provide protection. Or, prevent any privacy.
I can think for myself, but I can't see for myself?
Pleasant and productive, yet without proof.
Let me--force it.
Patient. Finally. Perfect.
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. - Sylvia Plath
melon sized zucchini from the garden
Lonely teardrops - Michael Jackson
Try not to make sense; simply know what you are saying.
Problematic placement produces empty pictures promised in my pathway.
Wait.
Ah, you're still looking.
Provide protection. Or, prevent any privacy.
I can think for myself, but I can't see for myself?
Pleasant and productive, yet without proof.
Let me--force it.
Patient. Finally. Perfect.
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. - Sylvia Plath
melon sized zucchini from the garden
Lonely teardrops - Michael Jackson
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