Monday, August 26, 2019

I'm Backkkk (maybe)

Hello, is anyone there? So it’s been what… 6-8 months since the last time I posted on this thing? You are all probably totally checked out like I have been, but in the last few weeks I was craving my old venue to splat out my brain onto the wonderful ether of the internet.

The last month, the last almost year, has been a life-bomb of deeply bad things and general malaise things but the weird art of practicing thinking through words is something that is of greater benefit than maybe I even took into account. Regardless! Everyone deserves a vacation from themselves, even those of their own making, so ta-da! I’m back. (Sort of – who knows if this too is a one-time re-surfacing)…

Anyways! When I was falling asleep/waking up today (I forget which actually) I imagined myself posting on this thing again and while I sit here at my day-job literally stabbing time with my eyes, I thought, heck why the hell not.

Let’s bring back an old formula where I just rando blah blah on this thing and hopefully that will appease this urge to over share once again.

Boring Internet

Is it just me or does the internet seem BOR-RING? Like, I know it’s full of rabbit holes of wonder but sheesh, it all feels so canned and familiar. Even the exciting stuff gets horror-vacui-ed back into itself in seconds so that it just straddles the crap loop like everything else. Design online, the platforms and apps (new and updated), all just feel like vague 2.0s that are psychological dissertations on serotonin and reflex control. Maybe I’m too much of a Luddite or sci-fi wannabe but I want my internet to feel either simple in a way it has never been before or more mind blowingly advanced. I want lasers in my fingertips. LASERS! I want to experience a new type of visual language and experience versus creepscape populism and goopy emotional anorexia. Not sure how to change it, but aren’t there like a ba-jaillion coders out there who can’t even drink yet that can figure this out? Maybe it’s an infrastructure thing. Maybe the wunderkinds are out  there and the moneyed apparatus is still dino-teching them down, but meh, seems like if something can be broken the internet could be.

The Word Boring

So the other day I was saying how I was “bored” and then people all jumped on my back saying (boring) things like, “only boring people are bored” yadda yadda, essentially judging the crap out me cause I basically don’t feel stimulated? Aiyiyi, what a world. So yea, the concept of boredom is a reflection of probably some source, personal or structural, that yes you (me) as an individual could change, ‘work on’ adjust in some way but let’s be real. A lot of things, life, reality, is boring and that may be unpleasant but it’s the truth. Also when I say ‘bored’ I almost always mean the people. I mean I could be standing in line at security and if there is a funny person or incident or just general something not mundane occurring while on said line, that is not boring! If I’m at a banger party and the scene and vibe is fantastic but the person I am stuck hanging out with is a sop then I’m bored! If we are talking about politics, heavy duty stuff about one thing or another, if you are someone who has intelligent thoughts, perspective, attitude, then hell yeah it’s a blast. If you are regurgitating and incapable of real listening, empathy then booo bored I will be. So, it’s not that things are boring per se, its just that the people and the surrounds can be. Am I just being selfish? Perhaps. The suggestion that one has to be “entertained” is seeping out (though not the main focus), but heck, we are all mirrors. If you bore me, I’ll bore you. If I excite you, please excite me in return. If not, let’s just admit the situation as it is, boring or otherwise.

Male Emotional Landscape               

This might get some backlash but I am truly wondering about the (cis) male emotional landscape. Like what is in there? This is a topic of conversation that I have had with fellow (cis) women and it is truly a source of perplexity. For me personally as a woman, I feel that my emotional landscape is a goddamn Pangea of environments. There are deserts, valleys, deep cliffs and mellow bays. There are storms and pink clouds and fields of poppies and spooky swamps. Sometimes, when I imagine the male emotional landscape I image this vast horizon populated with the occasional oasis and these pit stop areas for snacks and refueling. I’m not trying to belittle or undermine the landscape of men in feelings but I truly do not understand! Someone please educate me. I know it may be faux pas but we are animals and our brains and hormones are real. Plus society. All that society that gets crammed down our bellies and in our brains that trip wires all this to sometimes ungodly places. Anyways, just throwing it out there. Truly perplexed and curious.

Repetition as Ritual

So this idea holds for basically everything, life, religion, relationships, work all of it, but I will point this a little bit towards ART since, hell, this did start off as an art blog. I am thinking about repetition and ritual not in the obvious form of the practice of people being artists. Duh, that can be talked about ad-infinitum. But what I am thinking about is the art structure and specifically the cycle of gallery to institution to museum. There is a path. Art always seems so mystical to outsiders on ‘how does it work’ and while there isn’t a CV by-lined trajectory there is actually sort of a CV by-lined trajectory. It all starts with the small shows, group shows, friend shows, then you make it to a smaller gallery then a few more here there, out of state, internationally, then you get into a smaller institution show and then the coup d'état, the big museum show. And then you start again but the levels are different, you go back to the friends and the galleries and worldwides but the context is different, the people are different (if not different at the same elevation as you) then you wait a few more years and another big museum show. Then again and again it goes again. You have to keep up with this flow. Even you going off to the desert and just chilling out is A-Okay because that’s apart of the step one cycle again, but you are allowed to do it! You earned the right to operate in that level as you see fit. It’s like an inverted cone, big base swirl at the top, tight swirl at the bottom. You are just repeating it all in this circuitous sort of way that feels natural but you are still in the cone. To be a person who is able to do this well you have to mantra, accept and desire for this revolution. You have to make it a life practice and have the patience and endurance to do it. We all do this all the time in basically everything so why not in making a career in the art world?

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Whenever I Can

So, I am obviously not following the Monday schedule anymore so from now on this blog will be updated whenever I can. I will still try to do once a week but meh, that may change too. 2019. It’s here. I thought it was gunna be the best year ever (I mean anything would be an improvement from the blasted 2018…) But wow, universe is still giving me the big middle finger.

There is really not much to say or think because atm, I feel like I’m in a daze of personal revelations. Sometimes things are so big and surprising I just go on mental cruise control. Destination unknown. Just straight into the void still I crash into something.

So here comes a bunch of nothing. Going to just copy paste something because that’s all I got today folks.  

The Waste Land
By T. S. Eliot


              I. The Burial of the Dead

  April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

  What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
                      Frisch weht der Wind
                      Der Heimat zu
                      Mein Irisch Kind,
                      Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

  Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

  Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson!
“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

              II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

  “My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
  “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

  I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

  “What is that noise?”
                          The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
                           Nothing again nothing.
“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

       I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”   
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”
“I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
                                               The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

  When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Monday, December 24, 2018


It’s not quite the New Year but the idea of resolutions is already on my mind. The last few weeks feels like a time for reflection, change and a reassessment of the year gone by. 2018 was a mess of a year and I can’t wait to be able to start again. It’s a funny thing this marking of cycles. We do it because we need it. Below are some resolutions for myself and perhaps the world at large.

Save Money – Feels like money has been made of water lately, just draining out of my hands and debit card like it is feeding the flowers. I’m not sure how I have become such an extravagant with the actually unglamorous life I live but this will be the number one change on my mind because golly, it just can’t keep going on this way.

Exercise – Hahaha. Yes, this old one again. But really as we all age it is reality. We lead such sedentary lives, well most of us, and sadly we have to re-enact mobility and motion so that our brains and bodies don’t become as puddled as our society wishes them to be.

Less Obligation – A hard one to achieve but this coming year I will feel less obligated towards everything and hopefully it will all work out. I’m not sure if my guilt complex will adjust at the same rate but heck, being less obligated towards even that feeling could be a good place to start.

See More Art – I’ve been a dull dull and lazy girl when it comes to seeing art and that just has to change. So much out there to see, so little time it feels. But it’s truly amazing all that we have just a few subway stops away.

Start a New Project – Not sure what it will be but starting something new and being excited about how to figure out how to do it is really one of the most generative things one can do.

Care About Looks – So easy to do, so silly not to.

Drink Less – The party has to stop sometime and to be honest, it’s so much more fun when you can remember it the next day.

Treat People Less – Sort of related to the money thing. I can’t seem to help treating people to things. Drinks, food, presents. I enjoy it obviously but it’s not necessary, at least not to the scale I find myself doing it. It’s also a good deed to not make people feel indebted to you somehow.

Watching TV – Brain drain. Books come back to me!

More Vegetables and Fruits – Will try to pretend I live in LA.

Make New Friends – I do this every year but the new friends I have made in the last, or the friendships that have become stronger, have been probably the most rewarding thing about this past year.

Forgiveness – Of myself and others.

Go Away – Some how I find I’m always desperate to go on a trip, even something short or near, and I find myself still stuck in the city. Next year I want to travel more. The bug has hit and I will follow it.

Be More Sincere – Those who know me know that I am honest (sometimes to a fault) but bring sincere is another thing. It’s softer and more generous. I think I will take a stab at it and hopefully don’t rupture anything in the process.

Trusting Others – Walls down, defenses released. The act of trusting others is difficult for fortressed hearts but through letting other in and trusting that they mean no harm I think we will all be better for it. The receivers and the givers.

Friday, December 21, 2018

Checked Out

Aiyiyi, so yes, it’s Friday and I am posting this now because the last few days, weeks, probably months have been a perfect storm of busy and ennui. How are these two things spinning on the same coin? I’m not sure, but I guess it’s my way of saying that it has been this duality of social frenzy meeting with recoveries involving the necessity to do nothing at all.

This ceaseless pace and flip-flopping has made me crave being checked out. Checked out from work, life, family, friends, responsibilities, stimulation, obligation, the whole damn gamut.

And the funny thing is, is that I want to embrace this desire to be checked out. It’s like as if I feel I deserve to be able to make that choice. Do you know what I mean? This sense that you are always having to do one thing or another for something (or person) or another and you are this elastic and capable person who feels mostly happy to do it all but then you just snap or are all tangled up and all you want to do is bow out, hit pause, step out of the vortex that is your life and just watch it a bit from the outside.

Checking out is perhaps a cowardly act but also it can be seen as self-care. It’s something you can choose to do wherein it’s not about figuring it out, anything out at all, or even naming the issues or the causes. It’s merely just making it so that it doesn’t matter. It can all just wait. It all can go on without your participation.

In our society we are made to believe that volition is granted to those that are invested, are involved, are committed. But is that really what the point of this whole living is about? And I think that this impulse/this training is actually very scripted. We are not the authors of the lives we are living but performing characters that we have been allotted.

Checking out seems selfish. I have to say I feel guilt about it sometimes (a lot of the time). Somehow I have constructed such a complete and thorough version of myself in the pre-deemed obligations and personality of myself that it seems like the only thing that makes me well, valid at all. But I have reached my ‘fuck it’ point. The point where I want to just light a match to all the agendas (self created as well) and hit pause.

This checking out is also for social media. I’m dying to just turn my phone off for a week and just see what happens. What would the texture of life and oneself feel like without all this constant management and affirmation that we have selected the right path or are correctly presenting ourselves in the world?

But as you can see, even with all these grandiose persuasions, I can’t seem to completely check out, because here I am again, blah blah blahing to the void to who knows if anyone.

Well, forgive me. I am weak but I think I am speaking a version of truth for myself and maybe this resonates with some of you. I don’t want to drop out or disappear. I just want to re-center the core of my gravity and to be outside the tornado of my self-constructions. If only for a little while.

How can one do this is this day and age? I’m not sure. We are all in this gilded cage together and it seems pointless to pretend otherwise. But that’s the thing. I’m not trying to pretend. I’m not trying to take a vacation or have a rest. I just need a break, a form of stopping, pausing, a sense of choice in the lack of control over anything.

If this sounds appealing, I encourage you to try to do the same. Even if for a day, a week, or whatever you can spare. We who are fortunate enough to be able to check out once in a while should. Nothing will be gained really, but also what is there to lose?

Monday, December 10, 2018

Random Questions on Random Things

These last few weeks have been a bit cray-cray but the end of 2018 is within sight and I don’t know about all of you but thank gawd that it is. Below is just a bunch of things that are ponging around in my brain because heck, sometimes our brains need a winter purge as well.

Is Being Quiet More Powerful?

So, I am loud. Like sometimes really loud. Like so loud that I have been asked to leave places and things like that. I think that’s unjust at times but I also think that it is totally valid other times because I have this Napoleon complex where I overcompensate for being you know, short, non-white, woman etc. etc. And sometimes I think I lash out with my verbosity because of these expectations/societal conditions. But the other day I was really thinking about how culture really values people who are quite. The idea that it is a form of power in some ways. You see this in art all the time. I call artists who don’t speak cyphers. You know them so clearly, they are super visible but you can’t imagine their voice/opinion. Someone like Cindy Sherman for example. And this happens in politics too. People like Jared Kushner, the pitch of his voice is startling once heard. Or like Robert Mueller III whose stoic silence in the Russia probe is both enthralling and making the Trump administration squirm. Also, in another vain, the idea of ghosting. That weird power of detachment and creation of befuddled obsession for response makes the person who does this act very potent even in their invisibility. Anyways. Just a thought. Maybe I should try this tactic. I’ll probably fail at it but meh, might be fun to scare people with my silence once in a while.

Is Trend Forecasting Dead?

Does trend forecasting even matter anymore? My thoughts are NO. I mean what’s the point? The cycles are no longer even cycles. Time is irrelevant, fast fashion has made the cannibalization of clothes not even worth mentioning. There are too many people doing every form of everything (art included) that it all just churns in churns out. The only trend I’d be down to forecast is the end of trend forecasting. Glib. Whatever. Glib is in.

When Will China Take Over the USA as #1?

Economically I think maybe 50 years (for the total steady trend of their dominance). Culturally maybe 100 years (capitalism will have to evolve and nostalgia will still be ripe). These are all obvious total guesses in the wind but it will happen. And I’m not sure if I’ll be here to witness it but things change, I hope they do and I hope that they are different and have more room for everything and everyone.

Will Rich People Ever Stop Running the Art World?


Is Over-Information Making Us All Detached?

The other day there was an image of a Yemeni girl who was starving (then starved to death, age 7) in the New York Times. This picture spurned an uptick on coverage on the war in Yemen that Saudi Arabia is leading and which the USA has been allowing. It was a hard image to see but then it was like most of these types of images, it blips off the radar. It’s like the image of the migrant refugee child dead on the shore. Or the little boy in a shock, covered in dust in Syria. So many images of so many children in war-torn areas and other areas that are unseen, forgotten or being brutalized to its core. We stop collectively to see these images. We impart them into our brains and it tugs at our humanity but then we turn away because there in our hands 24-7 is a buzzing, blinking, notification streaming of our lives, other’s lives, everything else that we may or may not care about. Now more than ever we have all this information, all these images right there, literally finger tips away but just as easily we swipe, refresh, reload, move on to something else. This inertia of constant over simulation makes it all flatten out. All blips. And we can forgive ourselves about our passivity because even the second or half-second that we give our attention to such sad things in the world makes us feel informed, somehow doing our duty as a fellow human being. Somehow, just awareness is enough. But it isn’t. Like all things acts and deeds are the measure of intention. I’m not judging or blaming or anything of the sort. I too just stared at the image of the Yemeni girl and thought what an impossibility it all felt. But something has to change right? How, I am not sure but if it keeps going then all we are left with is thoughts and prayers and nothing but screens and keys to touch.