Sunday, September 24, 2017
Making lemonade out of coal.
Dear Glad You Asked and Been Meaning to Say,
I am not even remotely over it. I sometimes don't think about it, but it comes out of nowhere and hits me like a ton of bricks, which I have noticed have little words and phrases stamped into them. Things like 'well, now what?' and 'futility,' and 'wellerschmertz.' If I ignore these bricks, more come along, which only proves their wretched little points. Beware the bricks.
I am going to get a sofa that people can stay in my studio on- overnight. It's not an easy decision. Many things will have to be removed, re-located, given away, in order for the space to accommodate a making down of a pallet on the floor. An artist pines for years to have a dedicated space- a space without a washer and dryer in it, or mice, or a dresser full of clothes, or shovels and hoes. A place that is only for making. I set mine up for that, and for reading, but only for reading the 'right' kind of books- theory, and picture books, dictionaries in various languages. I made shrines to the things I cared for in it- photos of people, birds and animals; rocks, leaves, dirt, shells, seeds, sticks, and the red powder they use in India.
Still, what use are secret shrines anyway? Who would be the initiates that might see such sacred spaces? There is a very nice* bakery in Los Alamos, and the bathroom has a little Joan Didion shrine in it. And isn't that the right kind of place for a shrine? A place that people visit? I think putting people to bed in my shrine-filled studio could be a step in the right direction; although I remain far from certain about the right direction; sharing a space surely cannot be worsening things, can it?
* Par exemple, they make terrific canelés AND fabulous pretzels. Imagine mastering both of those, and consider how wonderful the croissants and bread must also be.
Make a few more pallets.... One, two, three, four, & five.