Saturday, March 30, 2013

This #2

All of my This today was either created by me or found by me out in the world. Even though I've still got 200 pages left of Proust and even though I'm still reeling from my reread of The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, I took a walk around my neighborhood today and found inspiration. My intention was only to find an iced chai latte and maybe the band Starfucker at Intelligentsia, but I found the following instead [or, rather, in addition].

Low to the ground, on Sunset Blvd near Myra Ave.

My boat shoes, Intelligentsia's floor, and a quote from the movie Sans Soleil,
which I superimposed over the edited version of this old photo using a
series of PowerPoint, Picasa, and Instagram, because I know nothing about
graphic design and have to do things collage style. And let's face it,
I've gone mad lately. It's why I had to get off social networks. It's why most
everything I write is vague and includes references to goats and ghosts.
I am protecting myself. My madness is protecting me, insulation from
devastation. A fever of despair. 

I told you I would plant a tiny succulent garden. I found this giant blue
coffee mug type item at my local army surplus store, then headed to my
local cactus store [yes, I have one of those] for a few new cactuses and some
soil. The woman there and I put together this creation, after which I added
some cuttings of cactuses I already have at my house. Oh and I stole a cutting
from a cactus I passed on my walk home.

I've had several adventures this March, including my trip to Boston for AWP, my road trip to Northern California to visit my sister, my brother, Oakland, Berkeley, San Francisco, Davis, Harbin Hot Springs, Fort Bragg, Petaluma, Sebastopol, and Pt. Reyes, and yesterday's visit to Disneyland for my friend's 28th birthday. They've all been inspring, but I've had so much work to catch up on this month because of absence from my quiet apartment that I haven't been able to update about these things yet. Those updates are coming. If there's one thing that keeps me alive, it's movement, even when that movement is stillness.

As a bonus This, here's the new art that's up at Sunset Junction today:
upper right: new small tile from my favorite artist
upper left: Casper, my first childhood friend, my companion in border crossing
upper right & lower left: two new pieces from my favorite artist
wall mural, light post, teddybear hanging from telephone wire

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

This #1

Something I've learned about myself through all this tragedy and heartbreak: it's important to remain inspired.

Something I've learned since I got off Facebook and Twitter: there is other stuff to do on the internet. The internet is a place for inspiring people to inspire other people. Someone inspires me. I inspire you. You inspire someone. This is one small way I can continue to live in a world that breaks people so thoroughly so often.

So... I am going to start a series of posts called This. Each This will consist of whatever it is that's inspiring me on that given day. Today, all my This is pulled from the Design is Mine blog, which was introduced to me by my best friend.

I want this so badly.

And this is probably my ideal bedroom.

This is my favorite kitchen [maybe not practically, but aesthetically]. 

And one of these weekends, I'm going to make this.
This kid:

Read Robert Krulwich's post.

Monday, March 25, 2013

I went to LACMA. I stood in a large, mostly empty room. I stood on that room's glossy black wooden floor and I stared at the giant Clyfford Still painting they had hanging on the wall. I thought about how it's one of my favorite Clyfford Still paintings, and then I thought about how I'd never seen it before, so it couldn't be one of my favorites. I had a false memory. I have them a lot. Sometimes I have to find my reflection in things to remember that I have a body. Sometimes I have to accept my false memories as true so that I can make sense out of certain things. Like how I stood in a mostly empty room at LACMA looking at a painting many people I love must have seen before, even the people I love who are no longer alive. I found the one Cy Twombly they have on display. It is not my favorite Cy Twombly. I looked for my favorite Cy Twombly even though I know it's in some back room storage at MoMA in NYC. I looked for you and I found you everywhere, because you will always be everywhere for the rest of my life, even though you will be nowhere, always. I remember the day Cy Twombly died. I remember what you said. I remember the day you died. I thought of Cy Twombly.

I found a corner of Donald Judd in LACMA. I found scraps of John Chamberlain. I found Walter De Maria spread out on the concrete floor of a single room. I found him pretending to be a field, a farm, when really he was just 2,000 polygonal solid plaster rods on the manicured cement earth. I walked outside and found Michael Heizer, gouged again, a hole in the ground, a canyon where none used to be, this time something present instead of something absent at the place where each canyon reaches its lowest point and threatens to swallow its viewer into itself. I went to LACMA looking for peace, and I found the desert, and I found ghosts of my friend, my friend present enough in his lifetime that he left myriad ghosts in his wake. I found everything and nothing that'd I'd seen before, last summer, during three weeks in my car in the desert searching for the kind of art people make fun of you for searching for.

I found a lot of shadows of art.

I found a lot of reflective surfaces and a lot of light and a lot of awkwardness and a lot of screens.

I found a lot of architecture.

Outside the museum, I found tar. Before I even set foot in the museum, I spent at least half an hour clinging to a chain link fence, watching the earth bubble up and pop onto itself, a thick black that became a thin yellow that returned to a thick black.

But what I mostly found was repetition. But repetition with holes in it. Like a sentence repeated but slowly losing its punctuation. Does that even count as change? Does a lost comma negate a pattern? Is anyone in this museum? Is anyone I'm looking for in this museum with these bricks and this wood and this screaming for screaming's sake?

I will go to every museum until I no longer resemble this shape.