A Burning Sort Of Itch

I'm not that funny in real life. Most of my conversational humor is accidental, stemming from a shrillness of tone, a pension for self-deprecation and a general lack of coordination. I have also discovered of late -- due in no small part to Buddy Holly's insistence -- severe shortcomings in the Comeback department (reference: "no, you're a -----!" brand of humor). So you can understand my surprise when feedback from this little experiment that began many months ago included what some called "humor writing." Yeah, I try really hard. That's probably the least surprising part.

 

I have also been called "a Winston."

 

Some of you may remember a variety of posts that cropped up here and there, when the humor ran dry and the focus seemed to wane, relating to my confusion as to what the fuck I'm doing writing in the first place. And then a couple weeks ago, that random thing about stars and water and shit. Are you wondering where I've gone? Do you miss me? Am I delusional over how much people really care?

 

Whichever of the three it might be, I don't want to know. Let's just all keep it to ourselves (I'll still be watching my stats. That's just how self-absorbed I am).

 

HOWEVER. THERE IS HOPE.

 

I understand that when I began this project, those interspersed, pleading posts about my direction and my focus and my life and wah wah wah; now make complete sense. Yes I am slightly ashamed at the publicity of my drama. But we'll all get over it.

 

Taking a break from any creative endeavor is usually relieving but always devastating. The never-ending struggle: to allow for the influx of information in order to breathe it out in creating, without beating yourself senseless for it. It's a process I've never been able to remedy within myself, but one that, if ignored, inevitably leads to periods of silence like the last few you all have been experiencing. The one thing that the final breakdown does teach us is where the focus lies.

 

Which is why I am -- to quote the fashionionistas of our realm -- simply swooning over what is in store here. These last few months have served me well. What at the beginning of the radio silence had become a numbness is now swelling into a persistent itch. And it's burning.

 

So stay tuned, everyone. I'm excited. You're excited. Let's just not give each other chlamydia, K?

 

 

 

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The Evolution of Glitter, Part 3

 

 

 

Someone, please take me back to a time when I didn't know what Lost was. Or, a time when I didn't have Netflix and the ability to watch the entire series consecutively without ever having to leave the couch. By my calculations, I'll get back to standard productivity by Never.

 

That's why today's update on the Evolution of Glitter will spare us all the awkwardness of me trying to explain it. All you need to know is that now I have eyes. And they might even stay where they are. Now to continue frying my optic nerves.

 

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The Evolution of Glitter, Part 2

This is the second installment in my masochistic process of documenting a painting. I'm still not sure if we'll ever get to the point of completion, because at the moment I want to tear the canvas in half. But if you want to read part 1, check it out here.

 

 

 

This is the part I was dreading. It's like the time when a child stops being cute and hasn't yet become beautiful again -- or mediocre, average, presentable or whatever -- usually right before the discovery of braces, flat irons and tweezers. This is when a painting stops being exciting in its newness and potential and begins the long, sloppy road toward completion. It feels a lot like the years I spent with fanged teeth and a unibrow.

 

I knew when I dedicated to documenting a painting that I would spend more time agonizing over its adolescence than admiring its emerging beauty. That's because most of the time it takes a lot of shoddy brushwork, wonky color schemes and awkward areolas to get to the point. There are mistakes to remedy, compositions to pin down and eyes to be brought down from the top of foreheads. And the incessant game of ping-pong my ego plays with itself.

 

There's nothing like seeing your vision be beaten to a bleeding, disproportionate pulp to bring you back down to reality. That's when my ego takes to her sick bed. But then, when the paint starts to wrap itself around an actual human form, she peaks her head out. We'll talk when the fever breaks. And when my eyeballs are in the right spot on my head.

 

 

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The Evolution of Glitter

I had a Dr. Pepper today. For about 10 seconds I was 12 again, crinkling bags of Cheetos, drinking cans of the 23 flavors and eyeing a package of Skittles on standby. The afternoons I spent watching The Mother wrangle pre-teens into aprons and the concept of color theory were where I developed an affinity for vending machines and Einstein bagels. Also glitter, magic markers, and hitting my brother in the balls for fun. I feel bad about that one now.

I can't remember how many years The Mother taught at the studio. I don't think I could even calculate how many hours I spent wandering its rooms, making paper crafts and aggrandizing my skills with a calligraphy pen. Or otherwise scheming on how to capitalize my only airbrushing skill: spraying one area long enough for the tiny flecks of paint to accumulate and drip slowly down the page. So much for concept art.

Maybe it was the glitter. Maybe it was the haphazard shredding of stacks of construction paper. It could even have been that one time I became obsessed with the other kids' rich moms wearing pearls, and proceeded to sculpt several of the "fancy ladies" in various forms; both functional and "decorative." But now I think it was at the blessing of my shitty airbrushing hand that I'm here.

 

I'm a heavy-handed painter. When I say "layering," I mean that a painting usually takes three or four adjustments of a palette to finally start breathing. And a subsequent few months of tinkering before the paint starts to "lay right," as I like to justify it in terminology. So that still-not-sure-if-it's-offensive strip of canvas up there is the bones of what will--hopefully--become a fully-fledged "person," of sorts. And that's only if I don't decide to do something really EDGY AND CONTEMPORARY at the end. Remember that episode in Malcolm In The Middle when Hank becomes an artist? And then Jackson Pollack's all over the garage wall, only for the paint to come peeling right on top of his not-yet-Breaking-Bad-bald head? THAT'S what it's like. Though I've yet to encounter a paint-related assault. YET.

But at the end, there are times that I miss the points in the middle when the painting was still awkward, still out of proportion, still potentially racially offensive. Sometimes I regret not having documented what has been before it becomes what it is. I was just a kid obsessed with crayons and copy paper before now, right? And where the hell are THOSE pictures?

Some say that it's no good to dwell on the past. But I say that the past teaches us why we are in the present. I've wanted to do this forever, so I'm doing it. I'm documenting a painting. Just pray this one makes it past its black-face stage and we'll all get to see the end result. Stay tuned, eh?

 

 

 

 

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Unintentional Normalcy

I love newly-minted college art students. The archetype of a college art class never fails to fulfill the mold in its entirety, with the bulk of its form being made up of those gut-wrenchingly endearing weirdos. Those on a never-ending race to be the weirdest of the weird. The ones that started weird in High School and take it as an opportunity to capitalize on their weirdness, with the idea that whomsoever wears their cat ears or their black eyeliner the hardest becomes the actualization of that mentality. And in turn, art itself.

 

I worked for just such a class this afternoon. As a passive observer whose only job is to serve the community of weird, you get a lot of time to think about what you're watching -- even if the passivity is mandatory and the observing only comes from being observed.

 

College art classes aren't much different from any other class structure we try to pretend doesn't exist. The difference, though, is that those who are cast to the bottom of the loony barrel in psych study become those that reign Screwed Up Supreme in the art world. In the artist community it pays to be as silently brilliant as possible. Got a cape? You've got attention. Got a painting about how that cape symbolizes the seductively secretive nature of modern society and its unquestionably self-destructive tendencies thereafter? You've got an A+.

 

But isn't that the nature of our evolution? That pale, skinny guy who wore red sweatpants every day throughout High School becomes Steve Jobs. The freak chick way more interested in soil composites than social cues invents planet-saving geothermal technology at age 24. Egon Schiele spent 1/3 of his life in jail. By the time he died, at age 27, he had a portfolio that would take me a lifetime to complete -- some 200 odd paintings and 300 drawings -- all done in a span of approximately 5 years. Oh yeah, and he probably boinked his cousin or something.

 

I've claimed my fair share of weirdness in my day. I wore neon colors and got counted for 80's day during spirit week even when I didn't dress up. I made sculptures out of rocks I foraged outside during art class. I played the silent mysterious type in college, and even cried in some corners. But I was never -- as far as I'm aware -- considered a weirdo.

 

But now, so many years after the jokes stopped being made and the cheerleaders hung up their pom-poms, I'm scared to death that I'm way too normal for my own good.

 

I'm terrified that I haven't enough crazy in me to think anything that's not been thought already; but just enough to fear the white picket fence. I'm scared to death that while I've worked a lifetime at coming to some sort of peace within myself, or self-understanding, or therapy-whatever, that I've thought myself into a hole of contempt from which I'll never resurface. Sometimes I resent having my shit together, for the most part. Sometimes I resent not having a stint at homelessness, at hitch-hiking my way from New York to 'Frisco, at always paiying my bills on time and eating organic food in a time that says it's what the cool kids do. Sometimes I'm scared shitless that maybe, despite what you've read about my communiqué with mice, I'm normal as shit.

 

Because what do normal people do? And what is the pain that the abnormal suffer, if only for their art? Do I stand among the tortured that spill brilliance, or the mundane that create more of the same? I like to think there is some sort of middle ground. But sometimes, in a land of Steve Jobs and Sylvia Plath, I'm just not sure.

I guess all I can hold on to at the present moment is what I'm trying to let go of. And they are as follows:

 

1) A preoccupation with anything anyone else is doing, at any given moment, so as not to compare my in- and/or adequacies with said party;

2) Judgements of my self worth and;

3) An unhealthy addiction to Law and Order SVU via Netflix (damn you, you budget-permitting bastard!).

 

With these in the back of my mind, I'm trying not to think too hard about the rest. I'll try and turn my attentions towards what makes me happy, regardless of its genius or lack thereof.

 

And I'll try not to worry if this painting produced out of the aforementioned desire is racially offensive or not. Sue me for working on my color theory, ok? IT'S ALL ABOUT THE LAYERING.

 

 

 

 

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Crossing Paths

I've felt for a long time like I'm living two lives at once, and they're in a dead sprint to see who wins the title of the Real Me. There's the "work" me, running around from 9-5 spewing factoids about fantastical nutrients and the nature of one's bowels; talking politics and conspiracy theories during the off moments; giving advice (both wanted and invasively otherwise) because "look, I've been there and I know what you're going through;" and in general conveying a sense of Responsible Human Being With Maybe A Hint Of Crazy.

 

And then there's the life that I live outside the clock, in which I spend hours staring into space as though it has the answers; beating my head against a wall over problems I can't for the life of me figure out how to solve; painting because for all the know-it-all I claim to be I'm still just as lost as everyone else sometimes; and writing because when my head gets too clogged it feels like the only place to lay all those words to rest.

 

I'm getting pretty tired of the two butting heads. I've known I wanted to be an artist for a long time. I knew I wanted it to be my career path when I just happened to be in Milan for an Egon Schiele exhibit and found myself getting lightheaded and tingly as I read his story; when Lucien Freud just happened to have his retrospective on display in Paris the week I was there; when I just happened to be given a Jenny Saville book the in first weeks I started painting for myself again.

 

I've also known, for as long as I could find my conscience, that I would never be able to pursue a career that did not make my heart sing. The second I dropped out of college I knew it was because I wanted something different than a piece of paper could give me, and it was likely that I would have to make it up as I went along. I knew that my life was up to me create, and it would be full of mistakes and backtracking and new and incredible discoveries around each turn. I knew what I was getting myself into.

 

But like I said, I'm getting pretty tired. I love my job, and I love my work. But as the agonizingly impatient being that I am, I am anxiously awaiting the day when those two cross paths. For when all that I work the day job in order to do finally become the day job -- with elements of both stirred up in some crazy life stew of pure joy.

 

I know that the journey is the destination. Blah blah, cliche cliche. But don't you ever get caught up in waiting for that moment that feels like arrival? Who else is stewing a pot on the back burner, waiting to serve it up as the main course of your life? What is it that you would be doing for both pleasure and pay, if you had the choice?

 

I'm slowly inching my way there. I'm taking my time, biding my progress. I'm trying to enjoy the lesson that each moment teaches me. And occasionally to not think about it so much, too. But sometimes I just want to scream at the mirror and ask, "ARE WE THERE YET??"

 

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I'm Out Of The Shower, Let's Get Crackin'

Look, Here's The Thing:

 

As the days get progressively shorter and thus more frigid in temperature (yes -- FRIGID) I have a tendency to take an average of 2-3 hot showers throughout the day (not because I'm a germophobe -- say hello to the girl that rarely washes her hands after peeing. Have I mentioned that antibacterials may be the end of our race and that vaccines are the antichrist? No? WELL JUST BE PATIENT) simply to maintain my mean internal temperature.

 

So when I reach the point of being cold due to Midwestern living and unmanagable anxiety, you may as well throw a microwave and some ramen in the bathroom because I'm not coming out any time soon. It's like as soon as I step out I'm woozy from the heat so I need a nap, but all that laying down brings me straight back down to freezing, so off to the shower I go. Vicious cycles be damned.

 

Right now I'm beginning a marathon bathroom tour for several reasons. Unfinished business with Buddy Holly (I guess it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings -- and if I have to play the fat lady I haven't done much singing, just a lot of crying in the shower), where my life is headed, how to block out The Mother vacuuming over my head as I attempt to sleep the day through. I'm also doing everything in my power to avoid working on this commission painting I've had on my plate for oh, a little over a year.

 

This painting I'm working on is for someone that I love dearly. She recently had her first child, a daughter that is the tiniest, cutest little thing I've ever seen. I like to remind her that someday, this tiny bundle of bodily fluids will have a mind of her own and blame all her problems on her mother. That she will go to prom with a pimply boy that's all hands and no manners. That she will talk back and probably put posters of effeminate boy-men up on her bedroom wall. But I digress.

 

No matter how much I love this person that I'm doing the work for and want to make her happy with it, it's always been a struggle for me to get myself motivated to actually finish. Painting is the way I get what's inside of me to the surface, so to attempt it in reverse is difficult.

 

But the fact remains that until I get this painting done I will never move forward. Each day I will be eyeing the new works while struggling with the old, or feeling guilty for not tying up lose ends while working ahead.

 

So here's the Eureka! moment. Just like this process I'm struggling with, no two people will ever be able to move forward with each other until their own lose ends have been dealt with. I will never be able to change the way I behave until I acknowledge how those behaviors came about. And moving forward is tough when you're forever looking back for the answer. Similarly, I will never be able to deal wholly with what happened in my past while the relationship moves forward without me. It's a balancing act, and a fucking tough one at that.

 

All I can hope for is that the two really do work hand in hand. That the love we have for each other brings all of us to the table. That the push and pull of self within relationship really does create the best of both.

 

I can't make myself want to work on this painting. I can't flip it on its head and make it come from the inside out. But I can remember how I feel about her, and hope that that takes me that much closer to the next step within me.

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A Really Eloquent Way To Talk About Diarrhea

Look, here's the thing:

 

I spend a lot of time talking to people with problems. I spend a lot of time talking to a lot of people with a lot of problems nearly, every day. I talk to all sorts; from the crazy to those who think they are sane (tangential fact: no one is). I've picked up my fair share of both wisdom and cynicism along the way, but what I've come to believe is true in talking to all these problematic people really boils down to a few simple truths:

 

1. You are in charge of your own health. Period.

2. Your health is largely determined by the amount of stressors in your life -- from self-created ones to the out-of-control.

3. It is how you deal with these influences that determines your amount of health, prosperity and fulfillment.

 

Now here's where I get all woo-woo on you (I told you, I grew up with The Mother). Just like feelings, physical sickness is a message. It is a message from the inner-you that something is wrong, something about your life is not going well and you need to WAKE UP, SON. This could be as simple as a need to feed yourself better (quit scarfing McDonald's like That's A Real Meal because hello, IT'S NOT). Or maybe you have chronic diarrhea because you stay up all night obsessing over wether or not you'll get that promotion. Or -- more woo woo -- you never really dealt with that time in third grade when Johnny called you ugly so now you've developed an ulcer worrying about if your hairstyle matches THE PRECISE ONE you saw on Emma Stone (total girl crush) last month in Vogue. Especially on the day of that promotion.

 

All of the above I would categorize as stressors. So often when I ask people about the amount of stress in their life, I get a blank stare and either a "holy jesus you have no idea" or, "oh, I don't know, I don't think I'm very stressed." Let me tell you, if you can't sleep at night because you're continually arranging and re-arranging the precise sequence of when to get coffee, fuel injector fluid and gas the next morning before work (that's me, last night); then THAT'S A STRESSOR.

 

But let's talk about the physiological reason why this affects our health. Because I know you're like, I WANT PROOF, WEIRDO. Adrenal glands. The tiniest damn organ in our bodies (I don't actually know if that's true, but go with it) that is like The Holy Mother over your system. Adrenal glands react to stressors -- you know, fight or flight. They produce adrenaline (duh) but because we don't really live like cavemen anymore, when they react to stress with a surge of adrenaline it doesn't have much to do. You're not going to fight your annoying boss who's staring into your cubicle during a quick sesh of Facebook stalking, and you're probably not going to flee to the parking lot to cry about him bitching you out for it, either.

 

So all that adrenaline (cortisol, too) has no where to go. And after a while -- after more jabs to your adrenals for This reason or That reason over the course of a day and then several -- your adrenal glands are like ENOUGH ALREADY and they kind of just go limp and stare into space like you do on your drive home from that godawful place. And then, when you get home and your kid falls off the monkey bars at the playground and your adrenals are all "I'm done for today, thanks" you leave him sitting there crying because you can't even stand up (fact: this actually happened to young Mosifer. The Mother had some adrenal issues back then, too).

 

And that's when all hell breaks loose. After a while, your body starts sending you little love notes. Cries for help. Pleas to calm the fuck down, please -- we can't handle this anymore. Insomnia, IBS, chronic fatigue, alopecia (and that's my true story), weight gain, weight loss, candida, blah blah blah. All of these can be linked to adrenal problems.

 

So what the hell are you supposed to do about it? Start by paying attention. And when they say "take a breather;" do exactly that. Breathe. Cry. Run. Take a moment for yourself. Because you are worth that much, and because your health and your sanity depend upon it.

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It's All About Me: Life on a Tightrope

Look, here's the thing:

I've been working on this painting for the last few weeks. It's an experiment of sorts, because I don't often allow myself to paint with such abandon. I'm trying to loosen up, to let things happen more organically without being such a control freak about it. And that's what led me to the following musings...

This has been the most unproductive long weekend for me ever. I hope you can hear the bile in my throat when I use that word: unproductive. For some reason whenever I know I'll have an extra day off work I generally assume I'll use that time to Get Stuff Done and working on my Plans For World Domination (though those Law and Order marathons beg to differ).

So when instead of painting, frustratedly navigating the Internets and writing I spent the weekend sleeping til noon (gag), spending time with my family, playing disc golf and shopping for Buddy Holly's birthday, my uber-critical Virgo looks back at those days in disgust as if I've slept through midterms. Or something else college students care about -- glow in the dark party? What do I know, I'm a lowly dropout (<--see! I told you to watch out for her!)

This something The Mother and I argue about constantly. She, in all her psychic-wisdomness, can't stand when I complain about being unproductive. It goes something like this:

ME: "Oh Mai Gawd, I'm such a lazyass. I woke up at noon (gag) again and now I'll never get anything done. What a waste of a Labor Day.

TM: "Mol, it's Labor Day. You're not supposed to get anything "done." Stop berating yourself and just enjoy being restful. And do the dishes.

Can't you just hear the irritation in those italics? And they continue, in various colors and combinations in similarly various situations, such as:

- when the Scarlet River is flowing and I spend the week exhausted, furious that I haven't ran in five days;

- when I'm nearing an entry deadline and still pissed that in between taking images and writing applications I haven't painted ALL WEEK;

- during the holidays, when -- DUH -- my regular routine is disrupted and I blame my lack of productivity on uber-laziness.

And the list goes on.

My therapist and I had a similar discussion last week. While intermittently filling her in on the week's happenings since moving back home (oh yeah, That. More on That later) and despairing over What Am I Doing With My Life OhMyGawd, she paused to note my delusion:

ME: "I feel like I never get anything done. My life is going nowhere. There's too much to do and not enough time and if anyone else asks me if gluten free is safe for their cat at work I'm afraid I might bitchslap them. (I would actually never say "bitchslap" to her. She's too nice and I would feel too young and immature (<--obvi)).

HER: "Hold on. You're telling me that since you've moved home, you've started two new paintings and a blog, transitioned into a totally new space and not taken a single day off work?

ME: "Yeah sure. I guess."

Now some might say I need to get over the Drama Queen syndrome or maybe I have Distortion Disorder -- I prefer to blame my parents. But it would be all the same mechanical soft of delusions; the Real Truth is that most of the time I'm just way too hard on myself.

Because sometimes it feels like I'm carrying all my baggage across a tightrope. Between maintaining my relationships, working full-time, writing and keeping a (somewhat) diligent studio schedule, there's no way I could make it across without having everything balanced perfectly. But on occasion -- like this weekend -- the only way to get across is to drop it all for a few steps, and hope you can pick it back up on the next pass.

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It's All About Me: Lessons In Letting Go

Here's a picture:

Want to know what that is? That is two years' studio rent, about 30 yards of canvas and maybe a grand or two in paint. And this:

That is a couple hundos worth of scraps (ill-fitting Target shoes included for reference) that never made it onto those things, up there. My paintings. Those are a stack of paintings, in varying lengths and widths between 6 and 10 feet. Those are hundreds of hours, countless car miles (sorry, environment). Those are love with a dash of hate, or vice versa depending on the day (my mood). Those are what I only admitted in my fumigated brain I had been vaguely referring to as "my life's work" (seriously? Get a grip). <== And that's my inner voice/critic/Jim Gaffigan, by the way. Get used to her.



And this is my parents' basement. That's a crock pot.

I'm sharing this because the transition from where these used to hang to where they are now was one of the most difficult in recent memory. From taking these behemoth scraps of cloth out of their place of honor when I moved out of my studio to their resting grounds here. One of the most humbling moments as an artist is to see what you've given your life (literally -- that's life hours right there) to sitting in a pile on a couple folding tables. What once took up hundreds of square feet of wall space reduced to a corner. We dream these big dreams and inject them into our work, like one of those moms on Toddlers and Tiaras. We look past what they are at any given moment to what we want them to be if somehow we can ever finish them, only to see them reduced to what they actually are; just bits of paint on scraps of cloth.



I bring up this story for two reasons:

1) It took me until forced to realize how obligated I had come to feel towards The Vision; how detached I had become from the actual physical work of painting, how unsatisfied I actually felt with the day-to-day of it and;

2) I then had to face this and come to the realization that, whatever we did the day before does nothing but bring us to today. To hold onto it is pointless. To grow from it is the objective.



But of course, at the time I didn't want to admit either of these facts. Only when Buddy Holly (that is my manfriend's name, and the moniker under which he will henceforth be referred) reminded me that I was behaving in a completely contradictory manor to my belief system did I stop whining and pay attention. It went like this:

ME: "Yeah, well, they're sitting in my parents' basement now so what good are they going to do?"

BH: "Why are you saying that? Why are they so important to you now, that they're done? Isn't the point to learn from them and then move on? Don't you paint because you love to, not because you have to?"

ME: ...(frustrated silence)... Shut up.

But he was right. I had long ago stopped finding enjoyment in working on those pieces, and yet I still clung to their current importance. I thought I was supposed to. I mean, this is my life's work, right? Artists are supposed to be suffering, aren't they?

As soon as I let go of the compulsive need to keep doing something I didn't even like doing anymore (seriously, they were a pain in the ass. Takes 20 minutes to mix a palette that gets used in 5, and the ladder acrobatics were getting old) I could start seeing them for what they had been in the past and would bring to the future. To the now. To the only moment we could ever possibly hope to live in.



So to those old pieces I bid adieu. You've served me well, wherever you end up. And to the new, I say, let's dance.

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