Monday, August 29, 2011

Session 5 begins: 8:12AM, 8.29.11 (NJ Transit still not running).


The Imagination: Fear to Face.

“Back to Imagination. We touched on it earlier.”
You called it a keyword. It is. The failure of imagination undermines everything. I start with me. Every day I am trying to wrestle me down to the ground, grab hold of this slippery thing and get to its core. Daylight, stuff—jobs, shopping, housework whittle away at my concentration.
“You resent that?”
Not exactly. I do, but then I catch that I am resenting it and try to reverse myself. I don’t like resentfulness as a quality. If I feel it, I want to get to the bottom of it, which naturally takes me away from the issue of tackling the imagination, and so I get resentful. The circle has to be dashed so I try even harder to figure out how to handle those errant emotions. Mostly I have to accommodate them. All these feelings in me have to work together. No festering allowed. No self pity permitted. You acknowledge those feelings, biological, physical and emotional, sit down with them. I made a choice at some point that said my main focus is on—let us call it artistic expression—but art produced from a place of festering emotions does not really appeal to me. I want transparency.
(PAUSE)
People are scared of transparency. We are all juggling so much. We all have locked up places, places we will not go to, fear to face.
(PAUSE)
I remember being at Art School, my foundation course at Hatchmill, watching a lecture by British performance artist, Bruce Lacey, along with his partner Jill Bruce. He described life drawing when he was at Art School, how he’d be sitting on one of those horse benches with an attached drawing board, riding closer and closer to the model, lustily excited to be near a naked woman. I remember being thrilled by the honesty of this, and a little disappointed by the childishness of this shared experience. He’d dashed the enigma of the artist, made him all too human—clearly artists are just as silly as every one else. I understood this but a lifetime later and I’m still processing this. We filed out of the lecture hall and watch the artist couple climb down the bank outside into the river where they disrobed and did a wild dance to the green man or something.
(PAUSE)
I was always a performer. After their performance I remember thinking I’d do a performance in the cafeteria at Hatchmill in which I’d confess. I’d reveal myself with a long list of my darkest secrets. Seemed a great idea at the time but I could only come up with one major secret—the joys of masturbation. Might’ve been a weight off to share this but really not that interesting.
Art as art,
 art as confession,
  art as therapy,
   art as simply a way to get things off one’s chest,
    art as self-indulgence.

I longed to perform and have always held a spark of the exhibitionist within. He comes out on occasion but these days I press the remote. The self censor flashes on, I adjust the controls and distance myself from the act. To live on this thing must be more than merely me.
“Did we digress?”
We did.
(PAUSE)
By the way I like the new couch. I feel like I'm floating.

Session ends: 8:36AM

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Session 4: Identifying Themes

Session 4 begins: 2:38PM (Storm brewing, storm poured, storm drunk).

Identifying Themes

This is what I need to do.
“Categorize, define common threads in your work?”
Sounds wrong already doesn’t it? Sounds like a death knoll. Makes me think of music being defined as rock n’ roll when it is anything but sitting lost in the remainders section of a dusty old vinyl store. That should not be the saddest of pictures though. That is a reminder not to believe in categories or reviews, or critics, and an invitation to search through the orphaned creations out there. Think Strand Book Store, sunny day, rolling bookshelves loaded with books for a quarter, old, new, beaten up and battered, ready to fry.
(PAUSE)
Don’t look at me like that. Tangents make sense. You can I trust handle lateral thinking?
That look again.
“My role is to gather you in so you can figure you out enough to function.”
No. You are my sounding board. I don’t mean to offend and please keep me on my toes.
So. My themes...(PAUSE)
“May I?”
Break a leg.
“Image making.”
Stop there. So broad as to be pointless.
“You defy categorization.”
I want reining in but let go of the reins. I want the impossible. I’m asking you to listen to all my contradictions. All of them for every hour, every minute we meet. And what’s up with that? The session ends crap. Your detailed notes. Your remove and objectivity. My problem is yours as well. You know that right?
“I’m right in there. I’m my own school. Now can we get on?”
We could talk about materials, gouache, pencils, conté.... I’m not sure that helps. Sort of got a so what stance when it comes to the stuff of what I do—the paper, materials, words or pictures, photos. I do emphatically love to draw...and laziness is a crucial part of my process.
“Hmmm. Sorry. Involuntary. Abstract? Figurative? Journalistic? Fantastical?”
Any and all the above and it doesn’t really help. The artistic stalemate, autistic statement. Traps. The artist is building his own cage.
“Terry.”
What?
“Terry. You’ve mentioned him before. He turned his back on art and toward religion, specifically a religion very alien to you and not one you had any familiarity with. He was a friend.”
I remember him fondly.
“You’re still arguing with him 30 years later. Friends who took different paths and left you alone on yours. We all have them. Therapists are like sheepdogs trying to bring family together.”
Enough of this. I’m deeply uncomfortable. There is pain. Not just mine. I’ve done the same to so many others. What we perpetrate on others. We encourage each other to do our dirty work. You go explore that. I’ll explore this if you think I should? So forth. Can we stop now? Write down the exact time.

Session ends 3:08PM, 8.28.11

Session 3: Just Be Yourself

Session 3: Begin 1:56PM, 8.28.11 (as Irene mopes off, downgraded to a tropical storm).

Just Be Yourself

“Explain that one to me.”
I’m not sure I can. I’ve  been saying this to myself since I was 15, 16. I stick by it but still cannot fathom what it is that I should do. After 30 odd years of trying to be myself I still don’t have the courage it takes. There are parts of the cake I don’t explore. If I don’t know myself how can I just be myself? Perhaps I should just leave well enough alone, not try. Not trying is still an instruction though—just another approach. So I keep trying. I encourage myself to trust myself to find myself to be myself. In this tanning bed of self revelation I’m looking for a new spark of enthusiasm. I’ll barter with you.
“You sound...divided.”
Competing forces tug away inside. Not necessarily a problem but hard. Very hard. Light and dark, the humorist and the killer, the downer, the saint versus the realist, the hedonist and the aesthete. The list goes on. The athlete (so neglected) scrambles to get a little run in now and again, in between the cracks of my fractured universe.
“the King’s men.”
The King’s men had it all wrong. They saw the impossible, looked for perfection and packed it in. They had a collective failure of the imagination.
“One of your key words”.
With effort and patience, a little bit of humility, some determination the bits of the shell can be more or less reassembled, always a work in progress, a puzzle with pieces missing. None of us can ever know the sum of all our parts. I hope my parts add up to some scintillating dialogue, and maybe make for a very good play.

Session ends: 2:18PM, 8.28.11

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Session 2: The Act Of Creation

Session 2: Begin 3:53PM, 8.27.11 (Unusual circumstances allow my therapist to fit me in an extra session. His usual afternoon clients have fled the City, climbed off the flood plains into the Westchester homes of dear friends with covered swimming pools and private generators).

The Act Of Creation

I avoid it you know. I’ll do anything that can be called useful or relevant to side step staring into that void waiting for inspiration. I’ll cook, shuck corn, put out the garbage, organize my pencils. I hold a chilling picture of myself with my airman’s goggles and radiation gloves staring down at the earth from a window in the sky waiting for a catch. There are ice fish and magma bacteria yet to be discovered but it is all so exhausting.
 “If I said: Look for a job instead of making your art, would you?” A job? I have a job. I suppose I could always use more work. More work more bills paid, less anxiety on one front at least. “The other front, or one other front being the act of creation? Are you saying it is easier to go to a job each day?” That is a problem. It is. It also kills a little every day. I’ve a nice balance but it is a very precarious balance. I work part time I art part time. They knock each other down and shore each other up. “They enable each other? That doesn’t sound so healthy.” Is that the same as a symbiotic relationship? They are symbiotically connected. You know those trust games? Two people of about the same height lean back to back, link arms and support each other or something....
“Yes.” Here’s the cruncher: The Act of creation is just that. I’m an actor. I act out, act up. I employ melodrama and cliches, repetition and hackneyed forms of expression, old saws and dried brushes, tricks, smoke, mirrors. Sometimes people actually believe I know where I am going. Some even hold my hand and trust I will take them there. They trust me and I do not even trust myself. That does not mean I have no purpose or see no purpose in what I do but I am searching in the dark. I am definitely blindly leading the blind. If people choose to follow me into the darkness I guess it is their choice. I cannot except that responsibility. I cannot figure out why they would but hope they will. Is that sadistic? I spit into the wind and there is often someone someplace who will commend me for my action and encourage me. I latch onto them inwardly. I have a need to be noticed. Being noticed by one in a million is fine. My reflection says keep doing what you are doing. I will. I don’t need his encouragement. He is my elusive collaborator.
“You’re confused.” Perpetually. One day I’m a fraud and the next I am the real thing...

Session ends: 4:52PM, 8.27.11

Session 1: A History Of Image Making

Session 1: Begin 9:13AM, 8.27.11 (as Tropical Storm Irene bares down on the region).

A History Of Image Making

When finally finding that moment to lie down and take the weight off with a remote but sympathetic ear at the ready I immediately admit my core issue: I have a history of image making. “Let’s take a look at that.” I’m willing. I’d like to get to the bottom of this. The effort will be somewhat futile. This is a given but the trying is the thing. The result will remain ever beyond reach. We begin.
“Wherever, whenever, I leave a slime trail in my wake, connected sequentially, materially, I find myself vaguely disorientated. The source is constant as is the mouth of a river or the yawning darkness of a tunnel. I see behind me bumps of matter, glistening threads of color knitted and knotted together. Only when I stand back do I wonder who plowed up the verge? Why such recklessness? Why would anyone want to churn up the tarmac like that? Others now will have to take a different path. I see some elegance in the wake of the storm, my storm, though to lay claim to this has always been questionable. Neither do I relish the idea that I am just a conduit—the voice but not the words, the duct out of which this all gushes. I call that the Medium Excuse. Why can’t those who speak in tongues come clean and except responsibility for their own imaginings?

One thing I will not do is blame or point fingers. I am the source, the gut, the voice, the perpetrator, the body of evidence that stands before Congress silent, accused by my product and denying nothing.

Session ends: 9:20AM, 8.27.11

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Doing Lines

Asemic writing