Yesterday, a "For Sale" sign went up on the house I spent 15 years living in-as it so happens, this house is right down the road from where I'm living now. I knew this was coming, after being divorced now for almost a year and a half. That didn't stop the gush of memories and sadness the moment I saw the sign.
Today, I cancelled the telephone service going to my Mom's house. Our family has had that number-239-4063-since before I was born. Somehow, it didn't seem fair to give it up, knowing that someone else will eventually claim it. But paying $50 a month for a phone that has been used maybe four or five times since April is simply wasteful.
I wondered today how the studio might look to someone else if I never returned-say I was killed on the road and someone bought the studio and its contents. Would they have a clue as to what I was up to? Could they possibly figure out what significance all the bits and pieces just lying around might have? Or just sweep them into the trash, not knowing or even caring that they were to be assembled in such and such a way? Guess that's how it ends-it takes you by surprise and (if you're lucky) you don't even have a chance to clean things up.
Today just feels full of endings-as a matter of fact, that's been the tone for a few days. The constant rain might have had something to do with it. Wisht I could have sent some of that down Texas-way.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Christmas Window
Dunno if I ever told this story before.
It involves a young boy, dressed up and looking quite presentable, taken by his parents to New York city to see all the city's Christmas wonders, circa 1960. The dressed-up store windows, the beauty of Rockefeller Center, the shoppers and the shopping.
Macy's, in all its glory-a sight to behold, enchanting in its commercial finery, bedecked in red ribbon and flecked with artifical snow. Each of the many street-level windows promising the true wonders of the season.
But there was a window that was not Macy's that stood out, across the street and maybe a bit uptown from that giant of Christmas cheer. This was a store that warned "To the Wholesale Trade Only"-in its three windows a scene from the North Pole was described-no Santa in sight, but here were his elves, working away towards that indelible date: December 25th. It was in these windows that the boy was overtaken by the idea that he would like to have these elves- although he could not buy them, he could make his own. This soon turned out to be a little easier in his imagination than it was in reality. Where to start-just how to do it proved a bit more for him than was possible, given the limited tools and materials he could lay his hands on. But the burning idea that he could do this-as a matter of fact, he could make anything he set his mind to, stayed with him. And to this day, many years later, this idea that anything he chooses to make is within his grasp, still excites him and drives him.
It involves a young boy, dressed up and looking quite presentable, taken by his parents to New York city to see all the city's Christmas wonders, circa 1960. The dressed-up store windows, the beauty of Rockefeller Center, the shoppers and the shopping.
Macy's, in all its glory-a sight to behold, enchanting in its commercial finery, bedecked in red ribbon and flecked with artifical snow. Each of the many street-level windows promising the true wonders of the season.
But there was a window that was not Macy's that stood out, across the street and maybe a bit uptown from that giant of Christmas cheer. This was a store that warned "To the Wholesale Trade Only"-in its three windows a scene from the North Pole was described-no Santa in sight, but here were his elves, working away towards that indelible date: December 25th. It was in these windows that the boy was overtaken by the idea that he would like to have these elves- although he could not buy them, he could make his own. This soon turned out to be a little easier in his imagination than it was in reality. Where to start-just how to do it proved a bit more for him than was possible, given the limited tools and materials he could lay his hands on. But the burning idea that he could do this-as a matter of fact, he could make anything he set his mind to, stayed with him. And to this day, many years later, this idea that anything he chooses to make is within his grasp, still excites him and drives him.
You know where this is going: it's (as the expression goes) all about me. Although I didn't realize it then or even until recently, that moment in front of the shop window was my epiphany-the moment that set the rest of my life-I knew then that I wanted to make stuff-and I knew that compromise was ok (even though I never even made a stab at actually creating those elves). But I would thereafter be a creator-able to make things out of no-things.
As I lay daydreaming (or maybe it was falling asleep) last night, I realized that this very same spark/epiphany still sits inside me and will (or at least I hope it will) be with me until I breathe my last. And, although my age has slowed my down a bit, I still jump out of bed thinking about what I'll make today. This is a gift, I know. I'm writing about it in gratitude-to or for whom I dunno, as I'm no believer. But here it is: thank you.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Ann Arbor
Guess you can imagine how hot it was at the Ann Arbor show this past week...outdoor shows definitely have their drawbacks: the heat was a monster! It was even stranger to see all these folks out shopping and looking at art: if it was me, I'd be home in the AC. Luckily, it wasn't me who decided whether or not to go out. I had a pretty decent show-far better than last year, if you're counting.
I stayed with Ed and susan Major, who couldn't have been any nicer. I met them at the show last year and decided to take them up on their offer of a close, nice place to stay. Not only was all the above true, but they fed me every day and I hope some day to return the favor. I stand in awe of their generosity and good will.
What I wanted to write about was dirt. The stuff that clings and that you wash off-I have realized that dirt is a necessary ingredient in my work-that dust and ground-in grime go along with history-especially the history that goes along with found objects and found materials-you know, the stuff that I use. It occured to me that these materails wouldn't be genuine and probably would not have real history if they did not have clinging, ground-in dirt on them. They are aged. Used. Worn. Broken. Faded. Ripped....but always dirty.
So for me, there is a credibility that comes with dirt. We know that this thing has been through someone's hands and has suffered some of the effects of age. I suppose that these objects could be cleaned up, possibly even sterilized. But what's the point? We know that we are human by the mess and the dirt that we create and leave behind. This is a marker of being humna, which is why I find it all the stranger that we work so hard at getting ourselves "squeaky" clean. Guess I like my dirt-I'm no "Pigpen", but neither do I spend my spare moments cleaning up.
And I don't beleive in washing dogs too often, either. King Johnny is one lucky hound-ponds, yes. Bathtubs, no.
I stayed with Ed and susan Major, who couldn't have been any nicer. I met them at the show last year and decided to take them up on their offer of a close, nice place to stay. Not only was all the above true, but they fed me every day and I hope some day to return the favor. I stand in awe of their generosity and good will.
What I wanted to write about was dirt. The stuff that clings and that you wash off-I have realized that dirt is a necessary ingredient in my work-that dust and ground-in grime go along with history-especially the history that goes along with found objects and found materials-you know, the stuff that I use. It occured to me that these materails wouldn't be genuine and probably would not have real history if they did not have clinging, ground-in dirt on them. They are aged. Used. Worn. Broken. Faded. Ripped....but always dirty.
So for me, there is a credibility that comes with dirt. We know that this thing has been through someone's hands and has suffered some of the effects of age. I suppose that these objects could be cleaned up, possibly even sterilized. But what's the point? We know that we are human by the mess and the dirt that we create and leave behind. This is a marker of being humna, which is why I find it all the stranger that we work so hard at getting ourselves "squeaky" clean. Guess I like my dirt-I'm no "Pigpen", but neither do I spend my spare moments cleaning up.
And I don't beleive in washing dogs too often, either. King Johnny is one lucky hound-ponds, yes. Bathtubs, no.
Friday, July 15, 2011
H.M.
....which stands for Henry Molaison, who in 1953 underwent surgery to remove the hippocampus component of his brain to correct his epilepsy(which began after he was struck by a bicycle). The surgery corrected the fits but, unfortunately, also took away Henry's ability to remember. This gentle soul had to be institutionalized as he could not remember how to repeat basic, necessary functions. He did retain his vocabulary, but the medical staff who worked with him had to reintroduce themselves each and every day. One researcher, who worked with Henry for a long time, grew fond of the man. This sentiment was never reciprocated as Henry could not remember who she was and therefore formed no real relationship with her.
Unlike Henry, I have this sentiment and a long term memory. What is getting a little fuzzier is my short term memory. Although this has never been that sharp, lately I find myself standing and waiting for my thoughts to come back, to reappear-as if they might filter down through my mind and become apparent once more. No such luck. The author's name I was trying to remember did not come back to me, despite the fact that I looked for her far and wide on the library shelves. But Kelly Link's last name was simply out of reach for me, even though earlier in the day I had ordered one of her collections of short stories. Troubling, this-or at least it is at times. Mostly I just laugh it off, but there is the feeling, however slight, of this amnesia drowning me. It's just a little bit of water,just enough to cover me, but enough to do the deed.
My amnesia/forgetfulness is not the merciful kind and even though I would like it if I could leave some of the more bittersweet memories behind, those are not the ones I forget. The memories of my parents and of my childhood with them are actually all the sharper now. On my last visit to the house in Verona, not only was the letter still on the house (the letter "P" was written by an unknown hand on the concrete apron of the house and has been there,even though now very faint, as long as I've been alive) but the next door neighbor in landscaping, had dug up the remnants of an old metal post I was once "tied" to. Long story short: I asked my Mom to loop my belt through this post, pretending that the "Indians" had tied me to the "tree"-the excitement of this lasted about three minutes. When I realized I couldn't really do much else but stay in one place, I hollered for Mom.
Unlike Henry, I have this sentiment and a long term memory. What is getting a little fuzzier is my short term memory. Although this has never been that sharp, lately I find myself standing and waiting for my thoughts to come back, to reappear-as if they might filter down through my mind and become apparent once more. No such luck. The author's name I was trying to remember did not come back to me, despite the fact that I looked for her far and wide on the library shelves. But Kelly Link's last name was simply out of reach for me, even though earlier in the day I had ordered one of her collections of short stories. Troubling, this-or at least it is at times. Mostly I just laugh it off, but there is the feeling, however slight, of this amnesia drowning me. It's just a little bit of water,just enough to cover me, but enough to do the deed.
My amnesia/forgetfulness is not the merciful kind and even though I would like it if I could leave some of the more bittersweet memories behind, those are not the ones I forget. The memories of my parents and of my childhood with them are actually all the sharper now. On my last visit to the house in Verona, not only was the letter still on the house (the letter "P" was written by an unknown hand on the concrete apron of the house and has been there,even though now very faint, as long as I've been alive) but the next door neighbor in landscaping, had dug up the remnants of an old metal post I was once "tied" to. Long story short: I asked my Mom to loop my belt through this post, pretending that the "Indians" had tied me to the "tree"-the excitement of this lasted about three minutes. When I realized I couldn't really do much else but stay in one place, I hollered for Mom.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Doubt
No, I never saw the movie. I'm talking about the doubt I'm feeling about my own abilities. Of late, I feel as though a lot of my personal "powers" are on the wane-the idea that where I used to jump out of bed to just grab the day, now I think about sleeping an extra wink...or two.
Creative efforts all seem flat-like I've been here before-I've done this already. This is a feeling I can't seem to easily shake with my sculpture...and writing and painting seem to be strained. I still consider 50% of good painting to be a bravissimo and self-assuredness that I just don't seem to be able to conjure. Lately, the painting has excited me-but what's a few good strokes when you finish off by making some insecure dabblings in the corner or-better yet-not at all.
Bad day here in Black Rock.
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