March 8th, 2006

I wish the big art galleries would make a special pass for people who only want to look at two or three pieces at a time. They could call it the

February 22nd, 2006

Every day now I spend an hour or so in a local cafe doing some writing. Working at home it becomes necessary to go out into the world and see other humans, lest you forget that there is actually a world out there, full of people moving their bodies about, doing various things, interacting. I have become increasingly superstitious about my cafe choice. It has come down to ‘where I have come up with the most ideas in the past’, where I have felt the writing flow out of me in consistent waves. Currently I feel like I can only work at Mishka’s, having something to do with the energy of the place. It is a serious ‘working’ cafe, full of people focused on their school work, typing away furiously on laptops, each in their own little portable worlds. I didn’t like it at first. it felt cold, lacking intimacy. But for some reason that focused energy is fueling me, like a collective consciousness of sorts, everyone’s thoughts feeding each other, little neurons firing and sparking and infecting the one next to it. Sometimes I sit, just waiting for a idea to hit. When it does I am hurled into the throes of creative possession. There is a wonderful excitment that comes with it, of feeling like you are invincible, that you have captured that illusive “idea”, and all those people who are in their own little worlds, drinking their tepid coffee, have no idea what you have just done. Though they might be able to see it by the spark in your eye, and the shift of your posture.
An empty cup rimmed with cappuccino scum sits on the table in front of me. time to switch to a green tea,
time for watching the words flow out of that magic pen.
time for to sit and listen to other people’s conversations for a moment.
time for a reward of that cookie i was eyeing earlier.

February 17th, 2006

So many things on my plate right now. Things I am excited about. Book submissions in the mail (which I’m very proud of), radio interviews, postcards at the printer, illustration projects, talks of gallery shows, a writing assignment for a design magazine, and ideas that seem to come in by the hour. Ironically I am not tired, I am energized.
Last night I realized that I have reached a new place with life/work, (the two are inseparable for me). I wrote to someone this morning: I am fascinated by things that shift our perception (maybe without our knowing it.) By the idea that it is not necessary to make huge changes in our lives, but only to look at our current surroundings a little differently. Force ourselves out of our comfort zones. To me that is the role of the artist. I know some of this may sound a little obvious, it is not groundbreaking in concept. But for the first time in my life I have started to understand more about what it is I want to say, what my voice is. It is not so much about the ego, but more about the idea. This is why guerilla art has become so huge for me. It’s the ultimate in non ego, letting go, putting stuff out into the world, working for fun, and releasing attachment to outcome.
The ulitmate presentation of this shift in perception is a project that works on many levels, so that it could be understood and enjoyed by both an eight year old and a eighty year old. That is the goal anyway, what I strive for now.
The truth is I know less about the direction that i am heading in than ever before but more about what I am drawn to.
This life is just one big experiment. and right now I’m just having a lot of fun.
I feel like I want to write more but I must eat lunch and ride my bike to the post office. The winds have just picked up and it looks like a storm is on the way.

February 10th, 2006

“Being an artist, maybe moreso than making art, gives you a way of thinking where you don’t need all the other things that normally people would think necessary. It’s a space where the mind and the self is at the center. So in that way you can sustain yourself with very little.” ~Rikrit Tiravanija

February 8th, 2006

Sitting in a caf

February 3rd, 2006

make a movie with your eyes.

January 29th, 2006

Walking home from the video store I like to peek into peoples houses, (I confess to being a bit of a voyeur, which may not surprise you). I love seeing how other people are living, what they are doing, what their houses look like inside, what kind of artwork they have on their walls. It’s not a creepy spying thing, but more of a curiosty that spurs me. A few doors down a couple sits at a large dining room table under bright lighting, they look to be conversing. I wonder what they are talking about. A bit further in a student house the tv is on, it appears to be a football game which does not surprise me, they are always watching sports and barbequing in the side yard. Down from that is the house with the red walls. Artist’s live there. At least I assume they are artists of some kind because there are huge paintings everywhere, and they seem to love color. I contemplate trying to meet them at some point.
Sometimes I make up stories about the people that live in these houses. In one there lives an old woman who drinks coffee. She waved at us once and I wonder if she is lonely. Maybe her husband passed away recently and her children all live far away, coming to visit only at Christmas. She spends her time in the garden out back, pruning a rare breed of English tea rose. On the cool nights she remembers being a child of seven running outside in a nightgown trying to catch fireflies.
All of this is neither here nor there. Just the various, idiosyncratic ramblings of a curious mind.

January 26th, 2006

write write she says. care not for the contents, just put some words out. she being the voice in my head. (I wanted to delete that last sentence because it makes me sound like a crazy person). Crazy I am. Ma I yzarc. delete i do not.
the clouds move over the sun. my husband practices piano in another room. scales with a metronome. the repetition is making me a little nuttier than usual, the constant clicking. all for a good cause it is, and I can easily put on my headphones. I have been working too long today. I can feel it in my body, in my eyes. Though there was a picnic lunch in a nearby park. We watched a lone brown Canada goose get reprimanded by some large white geese. He skulked away, and we laughed watching him try to sneak back, non-chalantly pretending to eat grass all the while inching over to the water. I found myself experiencing remorse for my fellow countryman. Countrygoose.
I want to write something interesting here but all of my thoughts are currently being poured into a book project. To be honest it is the simplest of things that hold my attention these days, my artwork regressing into a ridiculously basic place. I read somewhere recently that the way forward is to go backward. so backward I go. og I drawkcab os.
holding my attention
1. hole reinforcement stickers
2. pencils (standard hb with an eraser)
3. colored tabs you can write on to mark pages
4. dingleberries (a large seed pod, named by Jeff)
5. Eva Hess
6. nothing and everything
7. thin kraft moleskine journals.
8. tape
not holding my attention
1. the filmmaker Tarkovsky (can someone please explain to me the film “Nostalghia”)

December 28th, 2005
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a drawing i did for a great online magazine

December 23rd, 2005
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Time for writing overdue letters to friends and family back home. I don’t know why I’ve been avoiding it, but I have. I think it might be that I feel myself evolving and I worry that others want to old me, (the one that was more passive, the one who didn’t stick up for herself, or the one who smiled and nodded and made everything feel o.k. all of the time). I feel as though I am emerging into a completely different model of myself, and there are a small handful of powerful women in my life who are walking this path with me at the same time. For this I am grateful. (I will some of you soon, in a few short weeks).
So on to the wrapping, finishing up the last of the projects, pushing away the flood of ideas that beg to be written down on a constant basis.
I received a manuscript back from my agent this week and looking at it again I feel it’s potential. The pile of rejections have done nothing to dilute the fact that I think it is good, much to my surprise. It is just a matter finding the right place for it.
Creatively I am exploding at the seams. There is a giddyness that wells up in the middle of my chest, it feels much like just a happiness at being alive. I heard an interview (podcast) last night between Miranda July and author George Saunders (put out by the Hammer Museum) in which he descibes the feeling that preceeds his writing, when he knows something is about to pour out. He too relates it to feeling joyful, or grateful for everything. While this may not be true for all artists, it is certainly true for me. Wanting to explode.
I wish I could articulate it better, but I am distracted hung lights and colors, and christmas music, and food and shiny presents that arrive in the mail.
How I love shaking the packages.
Sometimes christmas is better unopened.
Most often, little packages hold better surprises than the big ones.

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