Dearly Devoted Girlfriends

This past week was marked with two diametrically different music shows for me. The first show was Black Rebel Motorcycle Club at House of Blues and the second was The Dillinger Escape Plan at The Granada. Of course while enjoying the shows, I could not help but do a little people-watching.

Seen at House of Blues:

A guy in a red shirt near me swaying so violently to the music, I thought he was about to head butt me to the floor. I kept inching backwards onto some unsuspecting girl in fear of getting the lights knocked out of me. During the middle of the show, the same guy's girlfriend appears out of nowhere holding onto a cocktail in a plastic cup. She practically climbs around him like a stripper pole, facing me and sneering at me with painted black eyelids. She's also not only taller than me but her boyfriend and her stripper antics almost prevent me from seeing some of the songs in the show. Needless to say, I was not amused when she disappeared and then pulled the same thing later in the show. Same pose, same sneer.

At least the 6-foot something Dude Bros at the beginning of the show who thought nothing of standing on me moved further away, despite not noticing my petite stature squinting up at them in disdain.

Seen at The Granada:

A doe-eyed and petite redhead with a nose ring holding her boyfriend's shirt and jacket while in the testosterone-fueled pit. She remains unflinching to the people shoved in her way and she cowers once or twice to prevent an accidental blow to the face. She is sympathetic to her boyfriend even when he throws himself to the crowd. He emerges from the swirling chaos back to her, looking like he's about to vomit. She pats his long-haired head affectionately, which belies the emotionless look on her face. I am standing behind the barrier right next to the pit, a step above the spinning assortment of people. Yet here she is, in her summer weather clothing looking tiny and pixie-like in the storm. As the smoke machine spills out off the stage, she looks frightened and concerned about her boyfriend who re-emerges from the mist looking battle-worn. She whispers something into his ear and he nods, before putting his head between his knees. She exits, but returns with a red plastic cup filled with water and two straws. He drinks gratefully and sweetly brushes her hair away from her eyes.

A precious scene in a moment that lacks all preciousness.

Sparkles on Horses

I rarely write blogs about musicians, but I am saddened by the apparent suicide of Mark Linkous, also known as Sparklehorse. The music is quirky, sometimes dark, sometimes sad, but generally intricate little gems of songs. I never had the opportunity to see Sparklehorse live. It's hard to even classify myself a raving fan. With that said, I don't mind a few vulnerable moments to explain that Sparklehorse affected me profoundly during some dark times.

When I was a freshman in college, I had a rough first semester. I think generally, most freshmen have a difficult time due to college acclimation, especially first year art school students. I worked myself ragged juggling a job and full-time college. I was taking the art basics, but the ones with multiple projects that weed out future art school students. Needless to say, I did not get the freshman 15, I lost weight. I had permanent purple bags under my eyes. I fell sick after the first semester with horrible tension headaches and an earache that would not leave. I was elated to have a month off for the winter holiday, but found myself deeply depressed and physically hurting.

Part of me was unsure of my art school path, while the other part was just recovering from all the stress. I used to sit in the bathtub for hours at a time and just cry. I would drag a stereo to my bathroom and let it sit on the toilet while I sat in the tub. It's a Wonderful Life had come out the year before and it was on heavy rotation on that stereo. It's easy for me, in retrospect, to make allusions to Margot Tenenbaum telling her mother Etheline that her TV was tied to the radiator when it was pointed out that it might be unsafe. Regardless, the stereo sat on the toilet next to my bathtub, allowing me to hear music that let me relieve all the stress and pain I was feeling. "Sea of Teeth" and "Eyepennies" became themes for what I was feeling: lonely, hurt, rejected, tired, but hopeful. I was hopeful to move beyond the discomfort physically and emotionally.

As the new year approached, I began to see a brighter future. On New Year's Eve, I wrote a long note about exorcising my pains and dark feelings. I burned it up in my sink with a lighter and collected the ashes in an envelope. At the stroke of midnight, I flung open the back door to let the old year out and released the ashes into the night. I opened the front door to let the new year in and breathed in the cold air, feeling relief.

A year later, it's the end of the first semester of my sophomore year and I've completed my first painting course, a beginning watercolor class. The studio is peaceful and clean, with skylights that allow the watercolors to appear gorgeous and rich in the natural light. I'd made some friends in the class and found myself more artistically, perhaps a direction that I had hoped to improve in the future. My last class, a sunny but cold day, I'm walking to my car with the north wind blowing my hair into tangles, I begin to feel sad yet again. With another winter holiday approaching and little opportunity to explore my art, I was afraid to let myself fall into yet another winter depression. I get into my car and crank up the heater and begin to blast a Sparklehorse song that was both appropriate and humbling: "Sick of Goodbyes". The song allows me to drum my fingers on the steering wheel and sing the lyrics at the top of my lungs. Catharsis for my raging inner self.

Years later, I'm out of college and on a road trip to Lubbock. I typically make compilations for my travels, especially road trips, where the drives are long, monotonous, and lonely. I was angry about rejection again, but glad to be on the road. For a pure sense of irony, I'd put "Someday I Will Treat You Good" on my compilation. It's a catchy song, despite the deadpan lyrics and reminded me of the emotional strain I had been feeling for months.

This past summer when I had an opportunity to hear and see the collaboration between Sparklehorse, Danger Mouse, and David Lynch via NPR, I was saddened that it was in a label dispute and would not be available for release until the details were worked out. However, having the chance to hear the MP3s, I was once again reminded of the genius of Sparklehorse. Some of the songs echoed in my head all summer, reminding me of the past, reminding me that I had grown so much as a person.

The reasoning for why people do the things they do can be unclear. However, I don't mind admitting that Sparklehorse was a part of my burgeoning adult livelihood. Despite the sadness of losing a frustrated but magical musician, it is in my hopes that Sparklehorse not live in nostalgia, but in those who continue to appreciate the music and the man behind the music. It will remind me of my past, but also of my future that has yet to come.

It's initial.

With March comes a lot of new things: more paperwork to be completed for graduate school, saving money, working on art, and somehow squeezing in a social life in the process.

My brain has been "go-go gadget" lately and it is yet another time to hit the ground running.

First things first, I have successfully completed the initial evaluation of whether or not I met the basic requirements for graduate school at UNT. Somehow it tickles me that this was the last school where I submitted my application.

In other news, I've been working on creating some hand-bound books by starting off with simple journals. Slowly, some new concepts are coming to the surface and a changeover on both Etsy and blog-wise should be expected during the year.

I have some pursuits outside art, but unfortunately, I have to keep the lid on them until it is all finalized in the next few months.

Otherwise, amidst the artistic endeavors, I've been reading Just Kids by Patti Smith. The book has been a fantastic bedside table read. I only like to read a few chapters at a time to absorb it all. Essentially, the book is about the relationship between Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe and living in New York beginning in the late 60s. I have yet to complete it, but what I've read thus far is magical. It recalls so many aspects of the quintessential bohemian artist. However, it does not generalize the attitude, it specifies the need to create, the freedom of dress, the importance of what you read and conversations you have with others.

The book reminds me that many artistic individuals have been down the same path before and it's a well-worn road, but with room for other traveling souls looking for answers and a place to make things and share them.

My solace of late has been reminding myself that I've been able to keep it all together and continue to pursue what is important to me. There is a romanticized vision of artists who stay up at all hours working on their art, despite the day job and life's obligations. Perhaps I entrust myself to this vision, perhaps I oblige it occasionally. Regardless, it's a skeleton outline of the life I've created for myself and will continue to create.

Paper, Pulp, & Thread

After an industrious Saturday of random travels and opportunities to daydream about creating work, I had a Sunday of reflecting upon the practice of art.

One of Saturdays random travels included a trip to a paper supply store in Dallas, where I felt up papers of all types, colors, transparencies, and designs. I chose some brightly colored Fabriano sheets for future booklets I'm in the middle of designing (to be on Etsy this spring, I hope!) and was happy to see them wrapped up in crinkled brown paper, like goodies from a patisserie.

By evening, I had a semblance of sketches and notations written down in the mini notebook I tote around. The one that lets me gather the thoughts that seem to fall out of my ears like fruit dropping off trees before they hit the ground.

Sunday was another event-filled day at The Modern, where the students had a mid-point critique. There was also a talk about the new Warhol exhibition by artist James Gilbert, followed by the normal class session. In all three segments, I carried the aforementioned notebook, writing down things of interest.

One of the main concepts that occurred continuously throughout the day was this question: does accessibility and feasibility affect what an artist creates? Specifically, for me, is the fact that I do not create in metal currently directly correlated to the fact that I have no money to buy metals tools and further, no space to put them? Is working in paper-based media out of necessity?

A comment made during the student critique made an impression on me. To paraphrase: if you cannot accomplish a skill to create your ideas, come up with another way to do it. I began to consider my own current work and how I want to create smaller collages in conjunction with the monster ones I'm creating. The smaller collages, which would be no larger than a square foot, I envision, would be of gemstones or objects made in metal. Almost like the abstracted representations of things that I wish I could create in actuality.

I am finding it hilarious that paper and metal are so diametrically different. Consider how flame reacts to either, for example. One catches fire and burns up to ash, the other gets hot, changes color, and becomes malleable. I would never consider using glue for metal, but pasting is almost essential to paper-based media. Paper will eventually disintegrate, leaving fragments behind, while metal will last much longer.

It is in this quest that I hope to find more bits and pieces to create a cohesive whole, whether literally or conceptually.

If only I had a pyre, a phoenix would emerge.

It's always interesting when people and things from your past never fail to show up unexpectedly. I try to keep in mind that life is cyclical and that it overlaps constantly. Sometimes, it seems, there are lessons that need to be learned and if they are not learned the first time, they will come up time and time again.

Without being too specific, this has more or less happened to me recently. However, I think in the past, I would have been a lot happier to bury it all and then dust myself off before walking away. Some of the past circumstances and people that have seemingly shown up on my doorstep, I welcome, because it means that I can move on.

Art and reading have been my versions of escapism recently.

I just completed Julie Klausner's I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Faux Sensitive Hipsters, Felons, and Other Guys I've Dated. To say I can relate is a bit of an understatement and correlates a bit with my current issues of people from my past coming back to haunt me. I was reminded of how the stupid things I've done merely make me human.

In the art realm, the new Andy Warhol: The Last Decade exhibition at The Modern Art Museum in Fort Worth is well worth the visit. It depicts Warhol's later work and his collaborations with Jean-Michel Basquiat and Francesco Clemente. What is so amazing about the exhibition is seeing how mature and unified Warhol's work became in his post-pop art years. There are lots of eye candy, color-wise, as Warhol was never known to shun color. However, the muted rorschach pieces are larger than life and have a spooky "is that painting watching me?" quality as you pass them.

With my own artwork, I'm still working on the same piece as before, not concerned about its slow progress. I ended up taking a week's break from working on it for what seemed like life spilling over and intersecting throughout the days. I began again last night, picking up where I last left off. My progress is below...

I began noticing that it has a flame-like quality to it. Originally, it was based on folds of fabric. However, I'm willing to let it move in this undulating pattern. It will be interesting to see what comes of it in the final stages...

Pass in Time::Morphology

Like witnessing an Andy Goldsworthy art piece change over time, I've been able to see progress on my art piece. It's coming together, but slowly. I don't feel any need to force it and since there is no place to show it, there is no deadline to complete it.

I've been looking through old photographs taken on my digital camera from the last year. I was reminded of the fact that I managed to see both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans last year. In less than 6 months, I had gone 1500 miles in one direction and 1500 miles in the other. I guess I didn't realize this until in retrospect and it's an inspiring feeling.

I'm in the middle of completing the rest of my graduate school applications and getting psyched at my progress. I'm ecstatic that I can maintain a sense of myself through all the daily craziness. I'm thrilled when I can manage to have a day off to do stupid stuff like laundry and grocery shopping. I enjoy this almost as much as staying up late at night and meticulously cutting out pieces for the art piece.

I have this box of papers that I've collected: chocolate bar wrappers, origami papers from Los Angeles, old envelopes, magazine bits, handmade paper scraps from an art store in Irvine, CA, and random catalogs. It's a little box of treasures, representing something somehow more sustainable than the metal I used to work in. Granted, I still have lots of metal scraps and pieces, but not having the tools to melt them down and pour ingots, I am left with pieces that I cannot use. Why has paper replaced this void?

I read this article on NPR about paper as the new popular art medium. It's such a funny statement, having come from a painting background, where works on paper are considered low art, just as metalsmithing is considered "just a craft". Where has this change occurred? Is it because paper is so accessible? I'm fascinated by my own feelings of "preciousness" towards certain types of paper. For example, plain white copy paper is not nearly as interesting as the origami papers I picked up at Kinokuniya bookstore in Japantown.

Most of the emphasis for my new art work is the barrier of using collage bits on a supportable frame. I'm merely using glue and paper. However, it is not nearly as direct as paint on a canvas or a hammer blow to metal sheet. I get to compose the papers on the canvas and this is part of its charm.

Admittedly, sometimes I feel the need to hit some metal or stab a canvas with a paintbrush doused in copious amounts of red paint. For the time being, however, I will find solace in this newfound art form.

The freedom to...

...do the things I think I should. That is all.

Progress on the new piece.