I stole this excerpt from Brain Pickings (sidenote: Maria Popova is the stuff that dreams are made of). Here you have Anaïs Nin counseling an adolescent on emotion:
You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to nourish yourself and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and into writing. Permit yourself to flow and overflow, allow for the rise in temperature, all the expansions and intensifications. Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terrors, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.
I ducked, narrowly dodging one Captain Sparrow and two medieval wenches. Gray-bluish-white flashed before my eyes, I uttered a single “dammit,” and pedalled on.
Thirty minutes later, I parked the bike and began making my way up the street. Madrid was uncharacteristically breezy this evening, Plaza de los Carros was full of mid-week drinkers, and seeing San Isidro Church pressed up against the sky got me thinking about a cheesy quote I saw recently: “remember when you wanted what you currently have.”
And it was happening again! This time there were three of them, all in a row: a flourish of fat, monochrome bodies rising off the ground, and the distinct brush of dirty feathers against my bare shoulder.
If hating pigeons is generic, I am basic bitch #1. There isn’t room enough for the both of us in this city.
Anyway, I suppose that this is, along with impatient metro-patrons and post-Saturday piss-whiffs on public streets, part of what I signed up for when moving to the capital. I wanted this, really, as much as anything else.
from escalators, into the streets, to every friend and not-so-confidant near enough to hear.
Here are a few things I am screaming about lately:
Why does anyone commute any other way? Mere weeks ago, I would subject myself to the full-of-breath morning metro, packed in among the multitudes and sweating before 9 AM. Those days are over. Now you can catch me in the bike lane, singing Joaquin Sabina.
Things swimming does: everything. Just check out this green ass.
Bobby Baker’s Exhibition at La Casa Encendida.
The stars, the moon, the deadly hormonal cocktail running through my veins, and Bobby Baker’s daring sincerity and humor had me IN MY FEELS at this exhibition.
Searching For Sugar Man, the documentary.
All I have to say about this documentary is that it is such a good story that I spent the better part of it saying this is fake. It is not. Go watch this if you like music and want to feel there is some beauty left in the world.
Last Spring, I told anyone who would listen that I wanted to open an art gallery. I don’t know anything about the logistics of this process, but I do know that I love thick paint, tortured and methodical artists alike, and the prospect of entering a market that involves aesthetics, occasional political engagement, and investors with grossly expendable income. When my boss, who knew nothing of this dream of mine, offered my coworker and I a VIP pass to ARCO Madrid, I said YES baby, a million times yes.
I imagined it this way: I’d be welcomed with a glass of champagne, on a red carpet; under golden light, I’d rub elbows with Madrid’s elite. Maybe, I thought, if I managed to perfect an attitude of both intrigue and boredom, I might get my foot in the door of some cool Nordic gallery. In reality, the VIP pass meant we had access to a free coat-check service, a complementary rum cocktail, and an overpriced lunch. No complaints there, of course, but the nature of my personality meant that I approached no one and networked primarily with the walls. Also, the lights were fluorescent.
By the end of the afternoon, I was no longer sure what counted as art. Was the cleaning woman part of a performance piece? weren’t the fire extinguishers arranged rather evocatively? what could that man’s bald spot possibly represent? (Defiance in the face of destiny, perhaps.) And how about that contrast between the service-woman and the suit-clad executive? Might we take a moment to reflect upon the many uses there are for hands?
I am told, anyway, that this is a rather common side effect of attending contemporary art fairs.