I think this decade will be cute, even though everything is on fire and egomaniacs are ruling the world. I feel like I’ve got my priorities straight and my ass on right, at least.
A friend recently recommended “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity” to me, so that will be my first project of 2020. I’m cheap but I also, like the rest of the adult world, probably need semi-extensive therapy. So, this is it.
After reading chapter one, I sort of feel like Julia Cameron wouldn’t mind if I went to bible study. There’s a lot of God talk going on. Nevertheless, Martin Scorsese endorses it and, regardless of how you feel about her particular brand of self-discovery, so does Elizabeth Gilbert.
For those like me–uncomfortable with hippy-dippy shit and the suggestion that your ego might not be serving you as well as you’d like to believe it is, I suspect this book might be difficult to digest at times, but whatever. It’s definitely going to be more productive than psychoanalyzing Trisha Paytas.
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.
In September on the subway in Astoria I was reading Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks while a barber shop quartet sang “Stand by Me.” Oli delivered a dim prognosis re: our future ear health. Deafness and hearing loss will increase exponentially, he hypothesized. The human head is not accustomed nor adapted to being plugged with high-decibel rock music and Bieber-bops. Over time, our love of music could destroy our mega-important, mega-irreplaceable cilia.
So I started listening to music at more respectable levels. Because of Oli and also because I began imagining the members of KISS, tongues out and leather on, swinging from my cilia every time I ignored a volume warning.
But the thing about today is that I didn’t feel like having my metro-mates’ nasty, mucous-laden coughs as a backdrop to the musical I was making up in my head.
So I let Thin Lizzy drown out strangers’ February flus and I thought of how I’d choreograph the whole song on Line 5 and I looked down at my coat, still stained with churro chocolate, and I thought ears be damned.