Thursday, August 5, 2010
"I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum. I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, and an art given the chance of having a starting point at zero. I am for an art that embroils itself with everyday crap and still comes out on top. I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary. I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid like life itself" - Elizabeth Murray
Monday, August 2, 2010
I should be thankful I am employed and, yes I am, but it's damn near impossible, not to let the staggering emptiness of a job, which requires one to simply stand, smile, and stare at (for the most part) wealthy, spoiled, pretentious folks eating their delectable dinners with complete denial of the world around them, absolutely drive that one out of their head and to the nearest looney bin. It does, although, allow for the mind to wonder but not always to interesting curious places, sometimes places that no mind would want another mind to have to endure. With that being said, I stand and stand and think and think, and the uttering suffering of it all has brought me back around to, you guessed it, these little drawings I post. I've been posting them lately and I have to say, I really like them. I like that they are dumb and are nothing. I use whatever materials I can scavenge around the podium at my hostess perch, little writing pads, post-its to draw on, bic pens, colored pens, sharpies, highlighters, white out, tape, etc. Not only is the time passed at a more frequent pace, but my mind is rescued from the utter depths of what I imagine purgatory to be. I simply draw. I'm not really thinking. I'm letting whatever the pen demands and I just follow along. It's interesting for me to look at the collection of drawings at the end of the shift and often notice how some of the gut wrenching emotions I experienced throughout the night, do seem to read onto the paper. In the past, I've said and really tried to believe how art can be therapeutic in the process alone, but, honestly I never really understood it until the drawings started popping out and I could breathe again. In terms of form, the drawings are simply made but have somewhat allowed me to look into myself, (as I am apparently soul searching), in a more complex way, revealing certain symbols and subconscious images that I am trying to relate to consciously. I don't normally write on this blog and I feel a bit strange about it, as if I'm just talking out loud to myself in a crazy sort of way, which I probably am, but I really just felt like explaining, which I don't normally feel like doing. So I followed along with the rarity of the moment, despite my inescapable run-on sentences and overall ill-fated attempt to write well. thanks for listening?