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It is Sunday.
It is raining.
The radio bellows out a Brahms piano concerto from a past
concert from the BSO.
My son is running for twelve hours to celebrate four
years of sobriety. He started in the dark. He was wearing a headlamp as was
shown in a brief video documenting his checking his on-body gear.
Yesterday someone said to me on the phone: Well, you’re
different.
In relation to what? I should have asked.
Society? Community? Animals, plants?
In therapy a couple of weeks ago, I explained leaving a
meeting that was convened to assess the upcoming studio tour in the summer to
which I had been invited. During the description, I started to heave with
laughter on the verge of hysteria as I let loose on how I was expected to
contribute to the group participating in the studio tour beyond simply opening
my doors to the public.
The latter conversation connected with many others that
my therapist and I have had about how difficult it is for me to get along with
people.
The conclusive bridge in the session was that I am highly
individuated. This has occurred over time so that I can protect myself from
criticism and injury. Criticism of how I am carrying on with my life and injury
from those who could harm me emotionally.
Making art has been the key to tapping the breadth of my
creative mind. The one where peace and ease and imperfection can comingle
without being questioned except by me. The one where the tools blend with
purpose. The one where many avenues can be traveled at once. The one where
interruption from external sources is annoying. The one where I can devise my
next moves in the studio. The one where I can propel myself with veggie
smoothies and chocolate bars. The one where I ingest more than food from the
streaming stories I choose on the Internet. The one where my eyes and ears are
key to my existence.
The places I can go in my work I cannot see until I go
there. My ideas unfold as in an improvised monologue. A solo performance ridden
with history: my life history, art history, psychological history, mnemonic
history, science history, environmental history. History.
This evaluation was contained in other words in a
syllabus for a drawing class I taught at CalArts, when I was a Teaching
Assistant, at age 24.
I am the same person now as I was then only I have
changed. Can you tell?
I long for unity everyday with the universe in meditation
and in how I contribute. I was reading this morning how important it is to
realize that I matter.
Matter? How do I matter?
Because you are reading this? Because I posted on
Facebook and Twitter this morning? Because I have an Instagram account?
Does the way I filter the world and express it to you
brighten your world? Does it help you move through your life?
The substance of this bit of writing will be shared by
few. But will the energy I have expended to write how I know at this moment
charge the air to put it in more balance only to fall out again in the smallest
increment of time?
When I first went to art school, I used to sit with a typewriter
on my lap typing reams and reams of paper with very little on each page.
Together in a sequential pile lay the meaning of my efforts. A documentation of
the passage of time. A reflection of my training in art by one of the founders
of conceptual art, rarely noted in the history of it, Douglas Huebler, and his
fellow professor, Donald Burgy, a practitioner of viewing and noting his views.
I still enjoy this typing ethic. In fact, I never learned
how to type. I am always making mistakes which you cannot see unless I miss
correcting them. When I was a little girl, I used to sit at a metal table and
imitate my grandfather’s secretary by tapping on the table to make the sound of
typing. Me in my little pink skirt outfit, short white ankle socks with the tops folded down and Mary Jane shoes.
At least since growing up, I have understood that the
nature of the tapping is related to words which can offer some meaning or not.
On the other hand, I could sit here tapping to revel in it or actually document
it as a piece of conceptual art. There is always more room for it.
The Brahms concert on the radio has finished.
The sky light is still gray.
It is raining.
It is February 11.
My son is running.
I am an artist.
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