The Evolution of Glitter, Part 3

 

If I were technologically inclined, I would devote all of my time and energy to inventing a machine that would give me enough hours in a day to get all the shit done that needs getting done. But then again, if that were the case, I probably would be rich and famous already and without need of a "job." What is the retirement age, again? Oh yeah, FUCK US, Y-GENERATION!

 

In the meantime, I will be functioning on barely passable levels of sleep and large quantities of caffeine.

 

This installment of the Evolution of Glitter and the introduction of a FACE to the painting brought to you by Starbucks and Mr. Coffee coffee brewers. Also my bed. Hello, lovely.

And in case you were wondering...my Valentine's Day was fantastic. Go Buddy Holly. This is what the love of my life and I would look like as cartoons. Obviously, my super power would be That of the Round Face. Happy Friday!

 

 

 

 

 

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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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Conversation Piece

If we somehow miss each other in the next few days, and I somehow forget to call you back, or I randomly send you a text that contains

a) Little to no sense or;

b) A disturbingly convincing and/or confusingly probable meaning of life;

but fail to respond your subsequently-and-increasingly-over-time furious inquiries, it's probably because I'm here;

 

 

both staring into space, wondering if I could somehow turn this blank space into a time machine that will inevitably transport me into a reality from which I may deduce whether or not all this paint-slinging was ever worth it in the first place; AND painting myself naked to the chagrine and secret behind-the-hand judgements of everyone I know that won't admit it, while simultaneously doing the same of myself, for the five-hundred-thousandth time,

OR here;

 

(not much explanation necessary, but since I officially deem myself On The Spectrum Of Technology Incomprehension, you can click here for the linky-link)

 

or HERE;

 

 

wetting my proverbial Target Yoga pants awaiting your earth-shatteringly intimate and/or imperative questions on life, love, and what it's like to believe fiercly in aliens and vaguely that someday devising a way to wash your shirt's armpits in the sink will amount to something. Also, an invitation to talk about someone else's life and problems besides mine is always welcome. So like, stop being such an anonymous douche and talk to me, dammit.

 

Cheers to a heartbreakingly cold Monday in the Midwest, folks. Screw you, Florida.

 

 

 

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Internet Controler-y

Today, after months of unwaranted procrastination and what some might call "stalling," I did this:

 

 

Then, to make up for all that time wasted "being creative," I did this:

 

...meaning I spent a few hours here

 

and this:

 

 

 

...and this.

 

 

I swear to Lisa Frank, all this technology will be the end of me. That photo up there? This is the third place you can find it within my circle of Internet control-ery. As in, Facebook and Instagram are all abuzz of me doing something besides sharing blog posts and stalking people from High School. But in case you're not keeping tabs on me at all times through all channels of stalker-ism, here it is. I will say that it feels damn good to put a brush to canvas again. And not at all in like a I-forced-myself-to-do-this-so-I-don't-die-a-meaningless-cat-filled-death, either. That'll be in tomorrow's forecast.

 

It is interesting, though. I've been hearing the Reaper's coffee breath at my shoulder all week, what with this hacking cough and Seattle-esque brain fog and all. But eternal rest be damned, as soon as I started painting I felt a tickle of my normal self at my ribcage (THE WORST PLACE to be tickled, in case you're wondering). It reminds me of this time in Europe when I thought my head was in danger of splitting in half and I tried to take a bath in this giant jacuzzi but couldn't figure out how to turn it on. And the hot water ran out at about 2 inches. And then some other stuff happened I felt a whole lot better. Hmm....that might have to be an upcoming post. Whaddya think? More meaningful-self-centered-mumbo-jumbo tomorrow? I CAN HEAR YOUR ENTHUSIASM FROM HERE.

 

Enjoy your evening, lovelies. Me and my bed will, too.

 

 

 

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Mile Marker

Look, Here's The Thing:

I just happened to overhear a group of older gentlemen seated next to me refer to Mitt Romney as a "whore." I'm not here to delve into politics or my opinions considering, but I'd just like to note that that was...well...EPIC.

 

In other news, this little blog thing I'm barfing all my thoughts on hit a record of 1,000 page views yesterday. To clarify: that means total page views. Not daily, like the hundreds of other fashion bloggers that get like, 15,000 hits every two hours. Do I need to start showing you my failed attempts at doing my hair without burning several fingers in the process? Or how I hang all my clothes in the shower and leave it running all morning (I'm not even in the shower usually at this point -- because who needs to go through all that wet-hair-blow-drying shit at 7 AM anyways) in leu of the tedious process that is ironing?

 

BUT HEY, it's a milestone for me. I've been tenuously waiting for that moment so I could look at it and say, "YES, someone IS reading. I'm NOT just a crazy person living in her parent's basement talking to herself!" And in honor of it, I'd like to share something I wrote before the shit hit the fan and my life got turned upside down -- before I began hibernating in the bowels of my adolescent home:

 

Here's what we all know but no one wants to admit:

We're all searching. We're all grasping at straws, trying to find the one whose length matches that of our soul.

But what happens when they all seem to come back short? When we keep wading through the mud, looking for that platform to rescue us from the muck that keeps us stuck? When is the moment that we find that Oasis? How do we get out of our own way to stumble upon the thing that brings us peace, that pulls us along its path into the great plane where all things are possible?

It's that feeling, that feeling like flies circling, pinching at your skin, the feeling that with all the peace and joy and wonder at your fingertips, there is something entirely else clawing you from beneath to be set free.

I feel it, so much more often than not. This need to tear off layers of my skin because the subsequent material is so much more than what is at the fore.

Isn't that what art is supposed to do? Does this mean I am not an artist, that I can't tap into all that shit to bring it into the world? I guess I wouldn't be a very good mother.

But I'm drowning, choking on these things I use to keep myself busy, to appear useful. To appear together. To appear human and sane and worth it. There is so much more here, but I don't yet have the vocabulary for it. I don't have the tools-

The skills-

The courage-

To let out whatever animal is scratching at this cage of ribs.

When is it all released?

I could run for days.

 

...A little melodramatic, I admit. But I think this was the moment that I became totally honest with myself about how I was feeling at that time. There was just so much stuff I could feel within and around me, and I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground in how to deal with it.

 

So then I lost my apartment, my studio, and a portion of my drive to paint. Those pieces I was clinging to were systematically removed from my life. But like I've said before, that emptiness is where you find what has substance. In the vacuum I found writing. And for now, that's what I'll keep doing. Because the clawing from inside has subsided a bit. Because I'm moving in a different direction. Because we are always changing, always evolving, and always finding different paths to move along. And isn't that supposed to be the fun part?

 

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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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