making paintings

Yesterday, I laid down next to Sophie Calle’s installation at Green-Wood Cemetery for an hour and a half, gently scouring for a secret to deposit into the obelisk with its narrow slit at the base, an invitation to divulge something most intimate, to lay whatever to rest. If, fifteen years ago, you’d asked my mother to describe me in three words, I’m almost certain “secretive” would top the list. I think, actually, “cagey” is (was) more appropriate, or “clamlike” (ha ha). A secret (as compared to, say, something left unsaid) connotes, to me, something consequential and calculated at its core. Maybe, though, I’ve just forgotten what it was like to keep secrets as a teenager; the bar was lower, then. Anyway, after a while, the sun started to set and I couldn’t come up with anything meaningful to tell. This visitor left carrying with her everything she brought.

I would like to make a painting on the side of my neighbors’ fence that runs between our backyards, but they (my neighbors) just moved in and I haven’t had a chance to ask. Their names are Anna and James. I’d like to paint just a little part of my side of the fence, a section that’s framed very nicely between two trees. It’s a panel asking for a painting. People are so weird about this particular flavor of property (fences), though, and I wonder what they’ll say.

Another set of neighbors (a block east; our backyards butt up caddy corner to one another) has been listening to Raspberry Beret by Prince on repeat, loudly, for the last half hour or so. I’m certain they would say “yes” to a fence painting, but we don’t share a surface. 

I love it when people tell about their dreams, and I especially love to hear when I appear in them. Is this self-involved? A little, probably, but I also just love the idea of visiting my friends in this liminal, sleepy space, just as I love when people visit me there. This is what dreaming about you feels like. I wonder sometimes if, when I dream about you, you’re dreaming about me. Regardless, I like the web of it all. 

I sometimes wish I could paint the scenery of my dreams, but to try would just mean fucking it up, I know it. Even describing them in detail does damage to the color, the shapes, the impressions. I’d rather the images exist crystalline in my mind’s eye, forever, and at the same time, I wonder how to hold on when forgetting is inevitable.

I read a poem the other day that is a list, and while I didn’t like the poem much, I love the transformative power of a frame (whatever shape that frame takes). I think, often, close looking can be frame enough; the consideration alone creates the conceptual container. Children are really good at this. One of my favorite dealers at the antique shop, Chris, would buy brand new lamps at HomeGoods, take off the tags, and resell them in his booth for double or triple the original price. He made a killing this way. It’s all about context, he’d say, and he’s right. What you call a thing, how you see a thing, changes it. (In some cases, creates it.)

Discipline is different than motivation, is different than inspiration, is different than Feeling It. The original intention of this project (lowercase “p”) was to be an exercise in discipline, and wow – yikes. Perhaps the discipline is in the coming back, the not abandoning, the returning. Okay, well then! I don’t tend to take lunch breaks at work, or if I do, it’s in service of some other activity (i.e. visiting Value Village). A while ago, in lieu of lunch I wrote 1,111 words and felt deeply moved to do so – like the energy in my body was electric and almost overwhelming, like if I didn’t keep spilling words I might collapse, and my sentence ended with exactly that 1,111. I wish I could collect that energy in a little cup to drink from more consistently, less manically, but I also enjoy the lightning strikes of really Wanting To – again, discipline is different than Feeling It. The feeling, though – it’s a rush.

“It feels like only yesterday –” says the man at the bar to his partner of 46 years.

Two children sit at the window, reading. Their mother orders sandwiches – no pickles, no slaw – and delights at the well-seasoned fries. 

A set of twins sit across from each other at a small table on the outdoor patio. Eventually, a man joins them, perched awkwardly to the side. One half of the original pair departs, leaving the others in this weird formation.

It feels like forever that you’ve been gone, but when you open the refrigerator upon returning home, the kale is un-wilted; the avocados left on the counter are just ripe.