“Sometimes the reflection is far more impressive than the thing being reflected.” -from Limits of Control by Jim Jarmusch

There is a common device I use in my installations: I place a found object (beat-up furniture, scrap wood, old typewriter) in a space and draw attention to its shadow or reflection. I usually make the shadow out of something that looks like it could just be a product of light, having no substance, but upon further inspection it is made from solid material. This is often thick black house paint, collaged materials painted black, or my favorite, black pleather contact paper. The contact paper is especially meaningful to me because it is not only representing a representation of an object (the shadow cast by a chair for example), but being pleather, it is also by nature a representation of leather. How meta! (I joke, but really.)

I don’t know if my obsession with shadows comes out my art school training, which for the past 20 years has placed great emphasis on the importance of negative space, or if it comes from my obsession with film noir, German expressionism, and live theater? Probably a little of both. Negative space is a formal issue that makes the artist consider the space around a subject as equally important as the subject itself. To me the negative space or cast shadow often becomes the subject. Dramatic film and theater are stylistic choices that bring an element of danger, despair, humor, and self-consciousness to its viewers. Perhaps daily goings on are just less interesting to me than what is reflected when I shine a light on them.

Everyday I walk down Pine Street past the bars, past the dog park. I cross over the roaring highway and the first thing I see is a beacon of this very topic: It is the side of the historic Paramount Theatre looking like it was suddenly separated from it’s family, a strange gray cement wall with fire escape and evenly placed windows from top to bottom. Below each window is a perfectly made organic soot mark which I assume is caused by the rain, but looks like it was theatrically and intentionally placed there. It looks like a model for a building rather than a building itself. There’s something artificial about it and now that I’ve had this thought I can’t look at it without thinking it’s part of a very elaborate Seattle stage set, welcoming me into work each morning. Though the architecture is lovely and old, I’m more interested in what it has become for me in my imagination. The building will never just be itself; it will always resemble itself and serve as a symbol for my daily morning walks.

I always search for the seams and the dark underbelly of people and things. I’m moved by contrast and conflict. In spite of the fact that I will never be able to get away from formal issues like negative space, I can emphasize cast shadows and their distorted abstract qualities. This way I will be able to satisfy my obsession with drawing and painting issues that have been so rigorously drilled into me while communicating something emotional, psychological, and humorous.

I can recite almost all the poetry that I wrote when I was a teenager. Those poems became my mantras and those mantras made life bearable. Since then I have written almost no poetry, or none that was as memorable as those verses. When I missed my sister I recited: We waded in crying, my sister holding my hand, Mother we hate the water, But she didn’t understand, when I was insecure about becoming a woman: See the pretty lady with the pretty lady pout, walking to the door, through the door, shaking in her doubt. I remember little else from those years but my collection of words.

The other day, a friend asked me how I dealt with sadness and my answers were: walk up a big hill, watch television, exercise. Surprisingly, my answer did not involve any practice that fueled that sadness into creation. As an adult I rarely rely on creative coping techniques and instead rely on practices that remove myself mentally from the situation. I didn’t realize this about myself until just now, typing out those words. I’m reminded of what Alison wrote in her previous post about quitting, “Won’t you miss out on discovering what it is you will say? (Writers often don’t know, until it’s on the page)”. When I don’t write I do miss what I have to say. How did I forget this and also, how was I so wise eleven years ago? My initial title for this post was “teenagers that don’t scare the shit out of me,” where I would list all of the blogs I read that are written by teenagers and how they make me more optimistic for the future. As much as I hated my teenage years, I’m realizing its redeeming qualities by reading what teenagers now have to say. It seems I have a lot to re-learn from myself of eleven ago.

A few:

http://childhoodflames.blogspot.com/

http://www.lauramarling.com/

http://www.lookbook.nu (many of these kids have blogs)

I’ll try my best to clearly articulate my intention and focus:  I need this blog to help me get creatively organized.  I’m counting on it to get me back on track.  I’m counting on it to help me solidify and make sense of the last 5 months.

In the last five months I said goodbye to my partner as he began a cross country trip.  Within a week after his departure I was hired to teach a foundations art class part-time.  I moved across the country, reunited with my partner, and started my new job.  We gradually moved into our new house and became acquainted with new neighbors and friends, cuisine and culture.  I worked at my new job and my old job simultaneously.  I reached a range of successes and failures in both.  I was pushed to my absolute limits.  I took refuge on the beach, in the bottom of wine glasses, and on the couch staring at the ceiling.

The fall quarter ends this week.  In preparation to get working in the studio again, I swept, dusted and rearranged my studio room this weekend.  I am greatly looking forward to exploring new ideas, new surroundings and new inspiration in the work to come.

Things on the forefront my mind right now are:

1. Wanderlust: A History of Walking by Rebecca Solnit
2. Yoga/Anatomy/The Body
3. The house across the street from my studio window
4. Fireplaces
5. Textures

We’ll see where these bits and pieces take me.

A couple weeks ago I went to see Siri Hustvedt read from her new book Sorrows of An American a layered novel written from the view point of Erik Davidsen, a psychiatrist who lives in New York City. In the book Erik and his sister Inga return to Minnesota after the death of their father and discover a note from an unknown woman in his belongings. Ideas of past, identity, and secrets are explored while Erik and Inga uncover their father’s life through his memoirs and ephemera.

Some elements of this novel have been extracted directly from her own experience. Other elements of the story are outside of her own experience, most notably the profession and gender of her main character.

In her talk she spoke of the extensive level of research she undertook in order to bring authenticity to the profession of her main character. She studied and took the New York psychology licensing exam until she was able to pass, read passages of her book to the New York Psychology Board, and began to teach a writing workshop at a mental hospital.

When a member of the audience asked what her next book would be about, and she responded that the next novel will most likely be told from a woman’s point of view. She mentioned that since it takes her about 5 years to write a novel and her last two have been from the point of view of a male main character, she has essentially spent the last 10 years as a man.

I know that playing a role, or inventing a character is common practice for writers, actors, and some visual and performance artists. I also know that we all have different reasons to go about creating the way that we do. When I think of this practice and how it would benefit the writer, I believe it would allow you to the opportunity to view your experience in a mirror, rather than through a camera.

I’m curious to know, for those of you that make work that embodies a reality outside of your waking experience, what is that like and what has it taught you that self-portraiture or auto-biography is unable to?

Harrell Fletcher might be my new hero. I’ve attended a few lectures at California College of the Arts and nary a one inspired me to come home and make stuff.
Harrell Fletcher makes me want to make stuff.

Many of his projects involve him going into communities and getting the residents involved in art pieces. You might be most familiar with his collaboration with Miranda July, www.learningtoloveyoumore.com a site that gives readers art assignments to create and post on the web site. A number of the results have been featured in gallery shows and in the Learning to Love You More book published last year.

I will not go further through the laundry list of awesome projects he has made, inspired, orchestrated or curated because I think this is better off discovered if you go to one of his web sites and become inspired yourself:

• www.learningtoloveyoumore.com
• www.harrellfletcher.com

Yes.