...But is that not something we inherently and automatically do? Is that not our duty and obligation as humans, to share what little we have with our brothers so that we can improve ourselves and grow together both individually and collectively in the process? Aren’t we all in this together? Aren’t we all essentially doing the same things? Trying to make sense of our situations, spinning straw into gold, twisting wool into a unified thread and trying to weave these strands into a cohesive fabric of understanding? It seems selfish to assume that an artist would create a piece of art with intentions to not share it with the world, because in creating that work, the artist is putting forth his personal investigations, analyses and conclusions. I do not see how withholding or altering this information would be productive or progressive. Doctors share their findings so that we can cure our ill; grandparents pass down their wisdom, anecdotes and personal histories so that we can learn from their pasts; mothers, fathers and teachers pass down their knowledge of the world so that we are better equipped to survive this lifetime. Whether or not we realize it, we all do this: we all compare notes with our friends and ask our designated confidants for advice and opinions for guidance. Art is just another form of that conversation.
Art is about communication. Talking, discussing, dialoguing, discoursing, debating, conversing: these are the conduits through which we exchange ideas, express thoughts, feelings, opinions, emotions, hopes and fears. Sharing the details of our lives is how we connect to other human beings. As artists, we choose to communicate visually, and without this capacity, this ability to make a truly intimate and meaningful connection with another living being, art is not worth making.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
baking cakes part two: back in the kitchen (blessings of an ex lover)
So.
It’s been about a year since the great cake fiasco, and for some reason, you find yourself reminiscing. Perhaps it is the familiar fragrances of fall: burning wood, lighter fluid, chimney smoke trailing through the brisk night air, infused with cheap booze and cigarettes; the aromas of autumn, cinnamon, tart apple cider and whiskey, all soaking in the spices of the wet leaves and the melting pumpkins. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling of sleeping under piles of quilts and blankets, wrapped in a mass of fleece that is your oversized sweater, and you’re quite sure you can see your breath when you exhale even though you’re inside. Or perhaps listening to Regina Spektor just makes you nostalgic. Regardless, you’re remembering. And you’re doing what you do best, examining the evidence, checking the facts, spinning wool into thread and drawing conclusions; analyzing, and reporting.
You remember. You remember the stranger, who became the friend, who became the lover and then the estranged. You remember the guitars, the serenades, the poetry, the magic. You remember the intoxicated banter, the lustful affairs, wasting the day away with someone you thought truly cared about you, who you didn’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. You remember the jesting, the hooting, the folly and the fun. You remember the booze, the lust, the sex, the bedroom ceiling. You remember the strength of his hands, the landscape of his body, the cruxes of his arms, his warm breath on your neck. You remember the couch and the kiss. You remember the workshop and the ottomans. You remember the doubt and the self-consciousness. You remember the alienation and the self-medication.
You remember the kitchen and the cake.
You remember baking that cake, putting your heart into it. You remember being so excited to give it to him.
And you remember the moment you did give it to him:
“…I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator.
He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks.
Shit
Fuck.
Shit.
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.
you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid
What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die
I don’t know, he replies,
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff
And you know he doesn’t want your cake.
it's okay, you say,
but it's not.
it was nothing, you say,
but it was definitely something.”
(baking cakes: a parable
November 30th, 2008)
You remember loving him.
You remember your heart breaking when he didn’t love you back, when he didn’t want your cake.
You remember wanting to die.
You remember hating him.
You remember hating yourself.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming him.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming yourself.
You remember dwelling.
You remember deconstructing yourself.
You remember thinking you weren’t good enough.
You remember playing out impossible and unrealistic scenarios of what could’ve been, if only you were a little older—if only you were that fine wine, opened at the right age—if only you were a little wiser, if only you were more clever, and witty, and charming, and suave. If only you were everything that you just weren’t.
You remember being unhealthy.
You remember smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking way too much, and not sleeping.
You remember being jealous.
You remember hoping he felt guilty.
You remember being indifferent.
You remember pretending you were over it.
You remember realizing that you weren’t.
You remember worrying that others wouldn’t care for him the way you did.
You remember knowing there were other things you should’ve been worrying about.
You remember the months to follow.
You remember trying to distract yourself.
You remember that not working.
You remember wanting to just give the fuck up.
And then, something happened.
Something that you don’t remember.
Something that you didn't expect.
Somehow, you got over it.
And, what’s more strange, somehow, you became happy for him.
And then, SOMEHOW, you became happy with yourself.
AND THEN, SOMEHOW, despite everything, you find yourself back in the kitchen, baking cakes and taking on the world.
And you wonder how you got here, and then you remember:
“This is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm
And hope it don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You just do it all again.” –Regina Spektor “On the Radio”
And you know everything is going to work out just fine.
It’s been about a year since the great cake fiasco, and for some reason, you find yourself reminiscing. Perhaps it is the familiar fragrances of fall: burning wood, lighter fluid, chimney smoke trailing through the brisk night air, infused with cheap booze and cigarettes; the aromas of autumn, cinnamon, tart apple cider and whiskey, all soaking in the spices of the wet leaves and the melting pumpkins. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling of sleeping under piles of quilts and blankets, wrapped in a mass of fleece that is your oversized sweater, and you’re quite sure you can see your breath when you exhale even though you’re inside. Or perhaps listening to Regina Spektor just makes you nostalgic. Regardless, you’re remembering. And you’re doing what you do best, examining the evidence, checking the facts, spinning wool into thread and drawing conclusions; analyzing, and reporting.
You remember. You remember the stranger, who became the friend, who became the lover and then the estranged. You remember the guitars, the serenades, the poetry, the magic. You remember the intoxicated banter, the lustful affairs, wasting the day away with someone you thought truly cared about you, who you didn’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. You remember the jesting, the hooting, the folly and the fun. You remember the booze, the lust, the sex, the bedroom ceiling. You remember the strength of his hands, the landscape of his body, the cruxes of his arms, his warm breath on your neck. You remember the couch and the kiss. You remember the workshop and the ottomans. You remember the doubt and the self-consciousness. You remember the alienation and the self-medication.
You remember the kitchen and the cake.
You remember baking that cake, putting your heart into it. You remember being so excited to give it to him.
And you remember the moment you did give it to him:
“…I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator.
He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks.
Shit
Fuck.
Shit.
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.
you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid
What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die
I don’t know, he replies,
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff
And you know he doesn’t want your cake.
it's okay, you say,
but it's not.
it was nothing, you say,
but it was definitely something.”
(baking cakes: a parable
November 30th, 2008)
You remember loving him.
You remember your heart breaking when he didn’t love you back, when he didn’t want your cake.
You remember wanting to die.
You remember hating him.
You remember hating yourself.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming him.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming yourself.
You remember dwelling.
You remember deconstructing yourself.
You remember thinking you weren’t good enough.
You remember playing out impossible and unrealistic scenarios of what could’ve been, if only you were a little older—if only you were that fine wine, opened at the right age—if only you were a little wiser, if only you were more clever, and witty, and charming, and suave. If only you were everything that you just weren’t.
You remember being unhealthy.
You remember smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking way too much, and not sleeping.
You remember being jealous.
You remember hoping he felt guilty.
You remember being indifferent.
You remember pretending you were over it.
You remember realizing that you weren’t.
You remember worrying that others wouldn’t care for him the way you did.
You remember knowing there were other things you should’ve been worrying about.
You remember the months to follow.
You remember trying to distract yourself.
You remember that not working.
You remember wanting to just give the fuck up.
And then, something happened.
Something that you don’t remember.
Something that you didn't expect.
Somehow, you got over it.
And, what’s more strange, somehow, you became happy for him.
And then, SOMEHOW, you became happy with yourself.
AND THEN, SOMEHOW, despite everything, you find yourself back in the kitchen, baking cakes and taking on the world.
And you wonder how you got here, and then you remember:
“This is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm
And hope it don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You just do it all again.” –Regina Spektor “On the Radio”
And you know everything is going to work out just fine.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
better than bad.
There is a certain stillness to the morning,
The kind of ineffable hush that can only be compared
To the sound of falling snow.
Those who have really listened—
And can tune in to this frequency—know this score:
The hum of the heater overhead,
The drone of the speeding cars,
The dull roar of the distant highway;
All of these subtle sonances
Harmoniously merging into white noise.
Then, a familiar numb seizes
Enveloping its captive
In a comatose bliss.
Padded walls; a cozy straitjacket,
Drifting off into the silent lull
Of the falling snow.
It is this absence of sound,
As the crystalline doilies kiss the ground,
That resonates the loudest.
And there are no shadows on the walls,
Only moments of light—pale and fair.
Blues and lilacs melting into the backdrop;
This kind of hazy overcast emerges,
And everything is muted, soft and still.
Halloween was magical:
Thursday, I went to the hood for a little bit to see some friends,
And the dichotomy of the neighborhood children
Playing in the leaves with a crackhead
Was both beautiful and bewildering.
That evening, I sat on the patio,
Enjoying rare and unexpected remnants of summer’s warmth,
Shooting shit and chasing doses of vitamin c
And Tylenol cold and sinus
With Crown Royal.
Later, in the burbs, we went on a night reconnaissance,
Traipsing through backyards à la the blair witch project.
The night air was warm, the sky was eerie,
Painted in glowing oranges, greens, purples and grays.
The moon was full; it looked apocalyptic.
The ground was carpeted in leaves,
The evening smelled like incense.
It was beautiful.
At one point, it started to rain.
So we danced, because if you’re going to get wet
You might as well dance.
The following night, on Halloween, we painted our faces
And stayed in, because there was nothing out there for us,
We visited friends, trading tales over the candles,
Catching each other up on the gossip, reading our fortunes
And cackling like witches.
(Old friends made contact:
It seems as though everyone get nostalgic
Around the holidays.
It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering the past.
What were you doing this time last year?
Who were you sleeping with?)
I’m in love with life.
I love how I can still get together
With my friends, despite being dispersed
About the nation, away from each other
For weeks or even months at a time—
And we can still come together,
Collecting on the back patio with drinks in hand,
And pick up where we left off,
And it’s like summer never ended.
I love my nose,
I used to hate it, but after deciding
It resembled George Washington’s—
Dignified and impressive—
It started to grow on me.
I love overhearing anecdotes:
“…my grandpa used to tell me he loved
When I came in from the cold in the winter
Because my cheeks were rosy…”
I love how receptive my friends were
To my coming out.
I love the irony
Of my rant about my distain for the flamboyant gays
With their sparkles and boas and high heals,
When I was wearing face paint and make up at the time.
I love what’s happening.
I slept with someone recently.
I don’t mind one night stands:
Two humans being human
Following the directions
And going through the motions
That every human inherently knows.
It’s beautiful. It’s reviving.
It made me feel human again.
Even if nothing comes of it,
And even if it was just for one night.
It was nice while it lasted.
It was nice falling asleep with someone.
And it was nice waking up to someone.
I’ve been living my life with no expectations,
Because no expectations means no disappointments,
Only surprises.
What I’ve learned is, it’s better
To make the best of a situation
Even if it’s not going to go anywhere in the future,
Just to enjoy and appreciate it for what it is,
And to have something for the time being.
Because that’s better than dwelling.
And it’s certainly better than nothing.
The kind of ineffable hush that can only be compared
To the sound of falling snow.
Those who have really listened—
And can tune in to this frequency—know this score:
The hum of the heater overhead,
The drone of the speeding cars,
The dull roar of the distant highway;
All of these subtle sonances
Harmoniously merging into white noise.
Then, a familiar numb seizes
Enveloping its captive
In a comatose bliss.
Padded walls; a cozy straitjacket,
Drifting off into the silent lull
Of the falling snow.
It is this absence of sound,
As the crystalline doilies kiss the ground,
That resonates the loudest.
And there are no shadows on the walls,
Only moments of light—pale and fair.
Blues and lilacs melting into the backdrop;
This kind of hazy overcast emerges,
And everything is muted, soft and still.
Halloween was magical:
Thursday, I went to the hood for a little bit to see some friends,
And the dichotomy of the neighborhood children
Playing in the leaves with a crackhead
Was both beautiful and bewildering.
That evening, I sat on the patio,
Enjoying rare and unexpected remnants of summer’s warmth,
Shooting shit and chasing doses of vitamin c
And Tylenol cold and sinus
With Crown Royal.
Later, in the burbs, we went on a night reconnaissance,
Traipsing through backyards à la the blair witch project.
The night air was warm, the sky was eerie,
Painted in glowing oranges, greens, purples and grays.
The moon was full; it looked apocalyptic.
The ground was carpeted in leaves,
The evening smelled like incense.
It was beautiful.
At one point, it started to rain.
So we danced, because if you’re going to get wet
You might as well dance.
The following night, on Halloween, we painted our faces
And stayed in, because there was nothing out there for us,
We visited friends, trading tales over the candles,
Catching each other up on the gossip, reading our fortunes
And cackling like witches.
(Old friends made contact:
It seems as though everyone get nostalgic
Around the holidays.
It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering the past.
What were you doing this time last year?
Who were you sleeping with?)
I’m in love with life.
I love how I can still get together
With my friends, despite being dispersed
About the nation, away from each other
For weeks or even months at a time—
And we can still come together,
Collecting on the back patio with drinks in hand,
And pick up where we left off,
And it’s like summer never ended.
I love my nose,
I used to hate it, but after deciding
It resembled George Washington’s—
Dignified and impressive—
It started to grow on me.
I love overhearing anecdotes:
“…my grandpa used to tell me he loved
When I came in from the cold in the winter
Because my cheeks were rosy…”
I love how receptive my friends were
To my coming out.
I love the irony
Of my rant about my distain for the flamboyant gays
With their sparkles and boas and high heals,
When I was wearing face paint and make up at the time.
I love what’s happening.
I slept with someone recently.
I don’t mind one night stands:
Two humans being human
Following the directions
And going through the motions
That every human inherently knows.
It’s beautiful. It’s reviving.
It made me feel human again.
Even if nothing comes of it,
And even if it was just for one night.
It was nice while it lasted.
It was nice falling asleep with someone.
And it was nice waking up to someone.
I’ve been living my life with no expectations,
Because no expectations means no disappointments,
Only surprises.
What I’ve learned is, it’s better
To make the best of a situation
Even if it’s not going to go anywhere in the future,
Just to enjoy and appreciate it for what it is,
And to have something for the time being.
Because that’s better than dwelling.
And it’s certainly better than nothing.
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