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            I didn’t cry for my grandmother’s death.  Well, either of them, really.  Nor did I cry for my grandfather’s.  I managed to work out a sniffle when my Father died, as it seemed untoward not to, and I didn’t want to give my step-monster the forever longed-for proof that I, in fact, did not love my Father, as she had always suspected and passive-aggressively intimated.  I suppose the intimations grew less passive and more aggressive as his demise neared, resulting in vicious screaming from her at his deathbed and an icy demeanor at the funeral.   

            It’s not lack of love, though even I have to admit my relationship with my Father was trussed with tension and remorse.  It’s not even that I eschew public crying, although, to be honest, there is little I find more humiliating, even at appropriate and expected times.  It’s more that, with people I don’t see daily, the evidence of their absence needs to fester for it to become real.   I need to linger over the phone number absent-mindedly, go through a Christmas shopping list, before it becomes clear to me that they aren’t just living their own life while I live mine.

            It may have become real faster with my Dad, I suppose, if I had gone to see his body when he passed on the morning of my birthday.  The step-monster was there, however, and my feelings were freshly slapped from her most recent accusations that I had not visited enough.  (What constitutes enough when someone alternates between ignoring and forgetting about your presence?)  Besides, did I mention it was my birthday?   My Father had already ruined several of those in my lifetime, and fear mixed with resentment bolstered my resolve.  My brother pleaded with me to come, but I reasoned that he must not look much different than he did on his deathbed the night before, and I preferred to remember him breathing, even raspily.  My brother could, were he churlish enough to take it, claim his “I-told-you-so” regarding my regret.  Luckily for me, he’s not that sort; though were the tables turned I can’t promise he’d be as fortunate. 

            No, I save my crying for the cats.  The tears build up in a hard rock behind my broken thyroid and wait, through all the dying, through all the tsunamis, through all the romantic hurts and physical pain, and comes out in a raw, utter wail of sub-human sorrow when a cat dies.  For you see, the absence is real immediately.  The absence is real from their staring eyes and limp jaws and sudden realization that there is no one to wake you up with wet pushy purring tomorrow morning, no one galloping to meet you at the door tomorrow night.  The absence is real and keenly felt in a way it can’t be when a relationship has been reduced to unsatisfying phone calls filled with only good news and uncomfortable holiday visits.

            This is why I drove around Santa Fe New Mexico for a week, hitting “repeat” on the CD player.  Santa Fe’s lilac dust glittered through my tears, the soaring strains of Japanese-scented English smothering my wails behind the rolled-up car window.  Fritz, my big, orange tub of a tabby, was gone forever, and I was inconsolable, save for Yuko Honda and Miho Hatori’s soft harmonies and near-incomprehensible lyrics.

            It was the verse, really.  “I wish I can take it away to three thousand light years away”, I would croon with them, repeatedly, snot dribbling down my upper lip.  “Don’t be afraid, I’ll be next to you”.  I would imagine myself flying to a faraway planet, one arm stretched out before me a la Superman and Fritz cradled in the other, no dripping bag of fluids or pain, to a planet where kitty kidneys grew on trees and nine lives were literal.  Even now, the song can make my knees week.

That breathy, tentative first note, like a low test of the trumpet’s mouthpiece, is enough to push a tear to the brink of my eyelid on even the best day.  By the time it steps up to the crescendo and the brushes hit the snare, I am invariably a snuffling wreck, even in public.  “All I can do is sing for her and myself”.  All I can do is sing for him and myself.

Notes on Bravo's "Work of Art"

So many people are up in arms about a reality show featuring art, acting as if art is somehow RUINED by any kind of reflection in pop culture. People, get over it.

No pun intended, but take art off the effing pedestal already. It's ART. It's part of our lives, not some sacred cow that can't possibly stand to be sullied by the dirty medium of television. The inherent classism in the arguments against this show is exactly why art gets MOCKED relentlessly by popular culture. The art world does itself no favors by being mysterious and obtuse.

You know, the fashion world didn't shun designers from Project Runway. Chefs on Top Chef don't get mocked for "sullying" themselves -- on the contrary, Top Chef Masters features some of the best chefs in the country. The show exists. Deal with it. If you're so closed-minded that you can't even consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it might not suck, and you won't ever watch it to see for yourself, then I truly pity you for the limits you place on yourself.

I actually CARE that people connect with art. I'm an artist; I don't make art for only one type of person and I don't care as much how it's seen as I do that it IS seen. I don't want to be a court jester to the wealthy; I want to make art for everyone, anyone who's interested. It hurts me that people don't care about art. I currently live in a state where there is not one grant for individual artists, a state with one of the lowest funding for the arts; yet, we have the fifth largest concentration of artists in the U.S. That's shameful, and it's because people don't see enough art to care. I've taught at rural schools where kids never see art, have no way to see art, and if one kid gets to NOT feel like a freak because suddenly he can see people like him on tv, then to me, it is a GOOD THING. If art is to have a future, then I'm sorry, but people have to give a shit.

I didn't audition for the show, not because I think it's bad, but because I'm already too busy with other opportunities, but I will confess I did consider it. I don't fault the artists who did -- hell, I think it would be a fun experience, if only for the chance to be challenged. In fact, I'd find it interesting to do the challenges without the television portion of it at all -- some friends and I have talked about doing the challenges at home, just for fun. I can't imagine living such a joyless, curmudgeonly existence that I couldn't allow art to be fun at times, too. Art reflects ALL of human experience -- the poignant, the trivial, the smart, the stupid, the sublime, the downright ridiculous. Should it only speak to a narrow band of concerns?

Grrrrr.....

I'm not disappointed in Obama, I'm disappointed in EVERYONE. Maybe I just wasn't as fervent a believer as others, but I truly expected him to get cock-blocked at every turn, which is exactly what has happened, even at the hands of his own party. Doesn't matter. For me, it is ENOUGH that he is not a madman, nor stupid, nor willfully ignorant, ... See Morenor aggressively religious. Have we forgotten where we just came from? Baby steps, people. We were teetering on the brink of insanity, there is a lot of damage to be undone. It can't all get undone in a year. Perspective.

That said, I truly believe we are talking about the moral failure of our entire culture, and nothing short of that. We have monetized human suffering, allowed wholesale greed against our own people. It is shameful. I am aghast at anyone who thinks health care should only be for the rich. I can't believe the stupidity of those who think this system WORKS.

I have never seen anything more worthy of going viral in my life. Please, take these words and spread them, repost them, and if you are a member of the media or good with technology, act on them. The people of Iran are showing immense courage and providing the kind of example the world needs. The American people should take note: there is nothing more important than protecting our voting rights, and demanding accountability from our government and media.

ANONYMOUS IRAN

WE BELIEVE THAT THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE HAS BEEN SUBVERTED... BUT NOT IN THE WAY THAT THE OFFICIAL SPIN HAS IT. FREE IRAN.

TUESDAY, JUNE 23, 2009

A Message to the International Community from Inside Iran

This was found in an undisclosed location. The text is as follows:

I apologise in advance for the tone and style of this letter to you. The people in Tehran of whom I speak on behalf are weak and tired. I hope you are able to clearly understand the message we are sending to you. This letter is a call to all people outside of Iran, both Persian expatriates and other people. At the present time this is very important for the fate of Iran. To quote Napolean: "There is but one step between victory and defeat." We in Iran are at the same critical step. Your help is of the most urgent importance.
Tonight I was just up on the roof. I was at home and began hearing the voice of a young girl crying out from her roof top, "Allahu Akbar!" I began to join in with her chant until I had no strength remaining to yell. "Allahu Akbar! We're all together!" For 30 minutes we cried out into the night together. Eventually I became a bit frustrated and nervous about being on the roof and came down. But the sound of the girl continued. She began chanting loudly, "Iranians join together! Support, Support!"

These words warmed the hearts of those of us within the range of her voice. The last few days I have been all around the city, demonstrating and chanting. This girls voice touched me most of all.
Here in Tehran people are scared. The rumors are swirling about people who are identifying demonstrators from pictures found online and then going to their homes at night and attacking their families. Yesterday CNN aired a video with a voice screaming from inside a house. The video showed darkness, but the sound of a woman begging Basiji to leave her home has galvanized us. People are scared!

Another video has also put fear into a lot of Iranian people. That is the video of the late Neda Agha-Soltan (the woman shot on the street who died). Neda's death has perplexed people. As foreign media has been removed from our televisions, we are dependent on Iranian State Television which is practising a severe psychological warfare with our minds. Now everywhere people go they are watching who is behind them. All over the streets of Tehran are clothes which have been left behind by those arrested by police and Basiji. Today I became downhearted when I saw only a few thousand at 7 June Square for Neda's memorial. God, we all have to get our spirits back! Right now, time is very critical! We have these immediate needs:

1. Please tell your governments that if they are seen as interfering or supporting our actions - then we have lost! I believe that if we can receive covert resources and support without prompting action by the regime, our enemy will be severely suppressed. Today we heard from sources outside of Iran that we can not win. Those who are saying this in the media please notice: You must also mention the success of the results thus far. For the sake of the spirit of our demonstrators, you must mention that we are making great strides. Your words have the power of giving energy to our cause. The actions against us will only escalate unless the legitimacy of this government is removed from popular opinion. We only have ourselves to depend on. Today the commander of the Tehran Police refused to implement the suppression orders sent down to him by the Government. This was a small success, however many were later arrested when the information became known to the Officials.
2. People are afraid to demonstrate without money or resources. Many are afraid that a general strike will drain bank accounts and thus cripple our efforts. Please be cautious when calling for demonstrators to remove money from banks, stop shopping and work. While it is effective for us to use these measures, please be cautious and regard that we are making necessary plans within our groups. Your information being sent en mass through public mediums is falling directly into the hands of our enemies.
3. Continue blocking Iran regime websites. We continue needing Firefox plug-ins, anonymous portals and IP devices. If you can find a way to provide those to us, it will be important in our efforts.
4. Iranian State Television is creating massive distorition of truths. Their reports are stirring fear and frustration in the people. They collect information from foreign media websites and report just the opposite, or design filtered propaganda to distress our efforts. The Iran television news is showing pictures that have been collected off websites of the demonstrators, and they are asking viewers to send in informative leads to who the face belongs to and where they live. Recently many have blanked out the face of the demonstrators before uploading our pictures. That is a great help to our cause.
5. The Regime is accusing foreign governments and Western media with unfounded charges. Their motive in doing so is to create chaos and diversion. They are provoking governments to take a position instead of well-thought passive defense. The State-Run News plays up the Western governments as imperfect and problematic - attempting to inspire people to stop these protests for fear of becoming like the Western nations. These allegations have been extremely critical of the USA and President Obama administration. What we feel is best would be the United Nations to call on Iran's regime to hold another election. We all have the courage to face this, so International Community, as your governments to pressure the UN to act on requesting a new election in Iran. Also continue to call on your governments in Europe and America to visibly appear neutral and do not show explicit support. The USA administration is doing that and it helps so much. President Ahmadinejad is very worried at this hour of the protests.
6. It is very likely that quite soon our leaders: Mousavi, Karroubi and Khatami will be arrested. It is also very likely many other political leaders will be detained. We call on the International Media to continue broadcasting fair information while remaining responsible.

Of Underdogs and Overnight Sensations

Like everyone else with an internet connection and a pulse, I bawled like I’d been snorting onion juice at the ultra-viral video of Susan Boyle surprising the judges and audience of Britain’s Got Talent. But with each callous description, with each wide-eyed commentary, I find myself growing more and more dismayed and angry.

First of all, consider the cynical manipulation of their viewers by the B.G.T. producers and editors. Following the undiscovered virtuoso of former snaggle-toothed cell phone salesman Paul Potts, the formula for success must have become crystal clear to the producers. “Unlikely” (read “ugly”) contestant possesses world-class talent, comes on show to jeers and guffaws, and proceeds to produce a stellar performance with accompanying standing O and “shocked” judges. We conveniently forget that everyone involved with the show knew exactly what to expect, the oft-irritable Simon Cowell included. It’s not as if they hadn’t heard her initially audition for the show – they can’t possibly drag everyone who shows up onto stage. And if you watch the banter and audience reaction preceding her performance, it’s clear that everyone is “in” on the “joke” except for Susan herself.

So, while the show led to her worldwide fame, it was ultimately at the initial cost of her dignity as a serious artist, and potentially at the cost of her long-term viability as having a serious career, once the inevitable backlash starts. There’s a cruelty and cynicism in the clip that betrays all of the “feel-good” status of her amazing rise. We’ve grown so accustomed to seeing slick, over-produced acts who have been groomed by stylists right down to their toenails that we apparently believe external features have something to do with one’s vocal chords or lungs. We’re used to multi-tracked vocals, pitch adjustments, and a hundred other digital enhancements. A singer’s qualifications for pop stardom, in other words, rely less on talent, hard work, and practice, and more on “image” and star-quality these days. (Interestingly, a fact that seems clearer in American Idol than in the other Cowell productions.) But it’s clear from even a cursory reading of Susan Boyle’s biography that she has been a singer for her entire adult life, singing in church choirs in her village, and even appearing on a recording ten years ago. This isn’t an overnight sensation, but someone who has plodded along as a working artist, studying with others when she could, holding her dream inside her for her 47 years. She hasn’t been singing in her shower, she’s been performing in public weekly, just like thousands of talented singers in churches and community productions everywhere.

The fact that anyone could be surprised once she opened her mouth says nothing about Susan or the quality of her talent, but speaks volumes about US. We all like to think we don’t judge by appearances, but this is about more than that even. Everything in Susan’s life works against who we “think” someone with her talent should be: looks, yes, but also age, weight, lifestyle, and even geography. Every article mentions that she has cats, every article comments on her mode of dress, and every article mentions that she’s “never been kissed”. These classifications build upon the stereotype of the “spinster-singleton-small-town-cat-lady” in order to increase the “surprise” that she manages to sing so beautifully.

How different the story would be, however, without the game show. Susan Boyle is a very good singer (from the 2 songs I’ve heard, anyway), but is she good enough to get discovered any other way but through a game show? Well maybe, if “getting discovered” was about talent anymore….it’s not. We tell ourselves that we live in a meritocracy, that having enough talent or enough drive is enough to get us through the magical doors of fame and fortune, but the gatekeepers no longer care about talent, or drive, or hard work: they care about marketability and profit. And Susan Boyle is marketable, but only based on our wicked assumptions that people we have collectively deemed “ugly” can’t possess world-class talents. After all, would you have forwarded her video as an “inspiration” had a stylist tweezed those bushy eyebrows and tarted her up a bit first? Be honest: would you?

And really, what IS “ugly”? The popular and quirky television show Ugly Betty would have us believe that America Ferrara, a stunning girl dressed up in goofily clashing outfits, braces, and glasses represents the tv version of “ugly”. But there’s the rub: modern beauty is as manufactured as Betty’s supposed ugliness is. Look to the plethora of makeover shows for your evidence of how simple it is to turn a hot mess into hotness. Anyone with enough money can be beautiful these days, it has little to do with genetic gifts or healthy living. Our ultimate shallowness and vapidity has eclipsed us, and found us lacking: few of us qualify to be “beautiful” by today’s standards, unless we’ve opted for plastic surgery or spend a large part of our budgets on makeup and hair products. Meanwhile, eating disorders in young girls have doubled since the 1960’s, 12.1 million Cosmetic Surgeries were performed in 2008, and the latest trend for 5-year old girls is mani / pedi parties in spas. Focus on appearance has obscured all other qualities a human may have. We buy the books based on the covers and don’t even crack the spine.

We all love rooting for the underdog, but I think we fail to see our own patterns in creating the very condition of underdog-ness. Our expectations and habits dictate what we listen to and whom we pay attention to. We’re all guilty of judging on first appearances and buying based on the packaging. Even in the art world, looks and youth play a part in what artists make it into the best galleries & museums, though neither should have anything to do with marketing artwork. With the monolithic entertainment culture that has grown up in America and spread like a viral video throughout the world, we only see talent that has already been manufactured for us, with little of the inherent creativity of the artist left to shine through. A band’s marketing and image sells them as much, if not more than, the music itself does, whether on a major label or an indy start-up. We rely on hype and PR instead of our own instincts and tastes, and only find underdogs after they’ve been discovered by someone else and groomed for our consumption AS underdogs. We’ve lost our sense of discovery.

So, I would like to issue a challenge, to anyone reading this. Go out and see the bands you’ve never heard of, buy art from local artists, go out and DISCOVER the talent in YOUR community instead of waiting for them to “get big” and then pretending you went to their early shows. Hunt out the underdogs in your own community and SUPPORT them. Every single community on this planet, large and small, urban or rural, has talented people in it. If you miss them while you’re gobbling up the latest Hollywood offering and downloading the next Billboard hit, then ultimately, the one missing out is you. Susan Boyles are all over: go forth and find them.

Do the Right Thing

Gov. Mike Huckabee just wrote a book called "Do The Right Thing". What an ironic title, unless by "Right" he's referring to the right wing. How can someone argue that "the right thing" is that semantics are more important than people? His need to keep the definition of marriage the same as it has been in relatively recent years overrides the right of a gay man to be at his lover of 25 years' death bed, for just one example? Does the "right thing" include killing abortion doctors, I wonder?

Let's not forget what marriage began as: a business transaction. A transfer of property (i.e., the woman) from one family to another. Sometimes in exchange for a few cows. Now, I'm as glad as anyone that the concept has evolved, but then again, that's the point: it has EVOLVED. Marriage is not an institution that has been static for hundreds of years like they want us to believe. Not allowing it to evolve further is false logic with more than a dash of cruelty.

No one on the religious right has ever been able to clearly explain how gay people marrying one another manages to harm marriage. R and I don't even have a marriage license -- Colorado is a commonlaw state, so we're married if we say we are. But then again, I don't want a marriage license if all my gay friends can't have one, anyway. My argument always has been, why pay the state to ratify our relationship? Especially since 100 years ago we wouldn't have been allowed to get married anyway!

What harms marriage more: abstinence-only education causing teens to get pregnant and then married too young, or gay marriage? I would argue the former. Allowing two people who love one another to commit themselves legally and have the same rights as everyone else could only be wrong if you're crazy. And really, believing that a virgin gave birth and a man rose from the dead would be considered crazy in today's world, so why allow that mythology to influence the removal of someone's human rights?

Nathrop

Yep, it's true, I wrote a poem, my first in years. Enjoy.





It’s so quiet here, it’s loud.

That highway sound? Wind in pines. Maybe a touch of river. The high note.
Aspens shaking off their bling with a rattle. A yip in the distance.

Imperceptible snowflakes bite your fingers with a tinny pop. So icy,
They burn like a needle dipped in a candle flame’s

Dance

But not long enough for it to hurt more than my lover’s spiny beard
Against my parted lips.


The yip is now a cackle, rising
From mezzo to screeching soprano in a round of shrieking hoots.
Hyenas have more dignity. Coyotes put low rent porno flicks to shame.

Behind, the house groans and hums. Refrigerator clicks into a purr, heater rattles
A rude cacophony lobbying against the symphony outside.

But it is warmer.

Chalk cliffs draped in a thick fur wrap of dusty clouds, transferring Colorado

Into

China


I step away, fumble
With my camera for a useless
Snapshot,
Then return to find them gone. Moved on to caress Mt. Princeton beyond, to tickle Cottonwood canyon whose warm waters still rise like steam from my skin.

I am the lone witness to an infant storm.

Warmer calls.

Food for Thought

Accidental Mash-Ups

We're listening to Kurt Anderson interviewing Susan Sontag on PRI's Studio 360 podcast with Denver Open Media on in the background on teevee. They're playing A Charlie Brown Christmas, for some reason.

You haven't lived until you've heard Susan Sontag's voice coming out of Lucy Van Pelt's mouth.

Truly sublime.

There's one image that has stayed with me

I found the puppy hit on a dirt road, while out riding my horse. He was still breathing, just panting, really, but couldn't move. The image that stays in my head is of his staring eye, with dirt and gravel stuck to it...if he didn't have it in him to blink, he just wasn't going to make it. The thing I can't fully remember was shooting him -- it's possible that an adult did, but in my memory it's always been me. It was horrible, but by that time I'd seen animals I loved bitten by rattlesnakes, found them rotting under a tree when they didn't come home from pasture, watched our cow frozen over in the lake all winter long when she fell through the ice...you kind of wind up with this frontier view of reality. It's almost less painful to kill it than to watch the suffering.

I think I was much tougher as a kid than I am as an adult. It's all that therapy -- I was pretty damned shut off to anything as messy as feelings. I was one of those girls that would kick your ass if you pushed me. My family life was pretty shitty and tense, lots of passive AND active aggression going on. At that time, I think my parents were both having affairs, they barely noticed what I did. I could get on a horse and be gone morning 'til night, no one ever noticed. It was a beautiful kind of freedom in a way, but came with the heavy knowledge of absolute vulnerability.

Don't get me wrong -- I think my parents were fundamentally good, but seriously fucked up at the time. Oddly, my brothers' memory of the family is like an entirely different family -- they're 7 & 8 years older than me, so they remember happier times.

It's freaky, but I sort of related to the whole Harris / Klebold anger when they shot up Columbine. I was alienated enough to fantasize about horrific things happening to my peers, but thank GOD I didn't ever seriously consider acting on it. I wasn't crazy, at least.

And I'm also thankful I got therapy before Prozac was so in vogue. I honestly think it saved my life. Having someone to be accountable to every week was almost a new thing. I would have OD'd on some damned substance, or crashed my car speeding, or done some other self-destructive thing until I was dead, at that point.

Wow, where the hell did all that come from? Can you tell I'm bored? Babysitting a rave, which, luckily, I get to do from my studio...but the night after an opening, I just don't feel like workin'!

Only four more hours....

Just saw Michael Moore's Sicko

Truly an amazing piece of work. Seeing the 9-11 rescue workers in Cuba was heartbreaking, as they were finally getting decent medical care that they were denied at home. And for THAT, our ridiculous gov't., in all their "wisdom", is investigating Mr. Moore, and very likely may press charges.

Michael Moore has a way of making us laugh at this horrible stuff on the way to the truth, and for that part I think he may probably earn an Emmy. But this film is much more important than that, and the powers that be just don't want to talk about it, because in the end, we are getting SCREWED. Everyone has these horrible experiences with the insurance industry, either themselves or through friends, so it's really hard to refute this film in any way.

The one thing I wish he'd spent more time on is the tax issue, the difference between what we and countries with national health care, because that's what the opposition will most likely talk about. It's a myth, though -- the difference in tax structure often isn't that different, a few countries pay a bit more but mostly it's just that we choose to spend our money invading countries that aren't a threat to us as opposed to taking care of our own people. It's shameless. Michael Moore asks the question "Who are we, as a people?" And after this film you really do wonder. We need to start making some noise; things are really wrong.

I lost a friend to liver cancer a couple of months ago. He went down in about 4 months from diagnosis, all because he didn't have health insurance. He had had hepatitis C for years, untreated, then couldn't afford any kind of real treatment once they found the cancer. One of the big ironies is that 8 years before, this man had been the CEO of a big oil company, and had walked away from it all -- his family, his job -- because of mental illness and depression. He had spent that 8 years on the street, and just recently had fallen in love and been putting his life back together. He had made it his mission to educate every artist he knew about how to financially plan, how to be smart about their choices. Amazing, beautiful, smart man, who would still be alive if not for corporate greed.

This movie should be required viewing for us all.

A Sweet Bug Story

When my best gallery ever was still open in Santa Fe, I used to go down and stay there for a week or so when installing a show, or sometimes just for fun. They had a lovely room above the gallery for the artists to stay in, and you could sit on the roof and smell the pinon and burning hickory from the restaurant next door. It was kind of magical.

I became very good friends (still am) with one of the owners of the gallery, T. She and I were having a swell time hanging my show one night, drinking wine late into the evening and talking up a storm, when her adorable neighbor -- who had just moved in to open up a gallery behind hers -- joined in. P. was this lanky ex-skate-punk opening up a photo gallery in one of the alleys behind Canyon Road, and there seemed to be some chemistry and sparks between them. We stayed up 'til the wee hours getting a little drunk together, and while I felt a bit like a third wheel, I didn't really have anywhere else to go.

T., who had lived in Santa Fe for years, was telling an incredulous P. and I about these bugs called "Children of the Earth" that looked like a fetus from the top. We were all laughing, but P. & I refused to believe it, and accused T. of exaggerating. She described them in detail, but we just couldn't see it.

The next day, while T. was out running errands, I sat and watched the gallery. P. came in carrying a small jewelry box, and looking disappointed that T. wasn't there. Then he said, "Well, maybe it's better that you're here and she's not...do you think she would be totally weirded out if I gave her this"? He lifted the lid, and mounted carefully on cotton with T-pins were the very same "children of the earth" bugs we had doubted the night before. I smiled at him and said, "Any other girl would be weirded out...but T? She's gonna LOVE this."

And she did.

I think it's one of the most romantic things I've ever seen in my life.

And I was really happy to get the opportunity to tell that story at their wedding. Best toast ever.

Why are we still surprised?

School shootings are becoming commonplace, almost. The only thing that shocks us is that each is more horrific, more brutal, than the last.

I think we vastly underestimate how alienating this culture is to anyone who is different at all. The recent shooter's words in the video speak to class difference, and mark my words, there is a LOT of simmering anger in the "have-nots" that can and will explode if not dealt with in some way.

The U.S. used to have a "war on poverty", now it's more like a "war on the poor". Our culture is jamming consumerism down people's throats, and at some point, we're going to vomit it up. If you watch MTV, (and kids do), the message is constantly hammered home that you are NOTHING if you don't have the look, the bling, the car.... People like Paris Hilton are famous ONLY for being rich (it can't possibly be her looks and talent, after all), and all the rhetoric against the poor makes it seem as if it's their fault. We have a sick culture, and a sick culture is bound to breed sick individuals.

When Columbine happened, the earliest reports were saying that Klebold and Harris were "killing jocks". Even then, I said, "well, THAT was bound to happen, eventually". I was never shocked, never surprised, except maybe that it didn't happen sooner.

I don't know, maybe my perspective is skewed because I was violently teased in school. I was spit upon, I was beat up, I had my head smashed into a piece of concrete. Why? Because I was different. Because I was smart, and liked to read, and didn't care about anything but drawing and horses. Maybe because we weren't as rich as the kids I went to school with. (And probably, in part, because I look Jewish, and in the uber-white suburbs of Denver, that was enough.) I learned early on to hate rich kids and jocks, too. I WAS that emotionally disturbed kid in high school, and I DID have liberal access to guns. Luckily, I never confused my fantasy life of revenge with real life, but who knows what could have happened if I were more mentally unstable? I look at these kids, and think, "that could have been me". Everyone focuses on hating these kids that do the shooting, but no one focuses on preventing the next one. No one looks at the root cause, or sees it as a societal problem, all the focus is on the individual.

ay-yi-yi....

trying to change my evil ways before I make MYSELF physically ill.

My big problem is, I'm neither strategic or tactical; I'm just not a planner. Life happens to me and I say yes to all of it. I've always been that way, sort of a "follow whatever opportunity comes your way" philosophy. The problem is, now there are too many opportunities, too many charities, too many people wanting a piece of me all the time, and I have no ability any more to say no, I lost it somewhere along the way. I'm trying to learn, but sometimes opportunities are too good (or too fun) to turn down.

Case in point, right now: I'm in the midst of a residency, in this little war with the CSO staff, and have 3 incredibly difficult projects on my plate. Also still trying to wrap up the end of the gallery and prevent my business from completely falling apart in my absence while I'm off being an artist. The residency (and the 200 piece installation I'm trying to complete for it) is finished when the show opens March 15, I'll post more about it later when it isn't midnight, if I get time. Okay, THAT I knew about, but then two weeks ago a prestigious new curator called and wanted a piece, which of course, was promised to someone else, so I STUPIDLY told him I was in the midst of creating a similar but much larger piece (which was true, but I had barely begun), so he really, really wants it and I cave. Then the paper fashion show only started organizing and contacting the designers with dates a month ago, and as last-year's champs how can I say no to that? You see how it happens. Last night was the mayor's award for the arts; the place I have the residency won, so of course I organize all the kids to do a painting demo, because I'm asked, and of course it was a blast and an honor (and got my work in front of some very important people), and I'm not saying no to that, of course! And on...and on....seriously, I am leaving stuff out.


Phew...okay, sorry, didn't mean to vent. But jeez louise, I am freakin' stressed right now, and I really only have myself to blame. MUST SAY NO AT SOME POINT!

If you're still reading this (and seriously, a part of me hopes you aren't), thanks for letting me blurt that all out, I needed to.

wot a slacker!

I know, I know, haven't written anything in a while since the depressive past few posts. I'll try to get back to it. In the meantime, please enjoy this short and charming tale of how Squish and I first met:

Okay, how me and the hubby met: I was in choir in college, so in spite of being in the art department all the time I knew a lot of musicians. During a break in a 4 hour evening snooze-fest of a class, I walked into the hallway and started talking to one of my buddies from choir who was also in band, and he was talking to the first trombone, who was kinda cute. When my friend asked me how the class was, I doubled up my knuckle and dug it into my nostril in the universal mock-nose-picking gesture, and said, "it's like this", grinding my knuckle into my face, crossing my eyes, and pretending to drool. Future hubby / first trombone player apparently found it adorable.

Instead of asking me out like a normal guy, though, he asked where I was showing my artwork, and I told him I was in a show that weekend, and maybe I'd see him there? He mistakenly assumed that I was asking him out on a date, and left depressed when I hadn't shown up. I showed up late because I had mistakenly assumed that when I asked the guy who I thought I was dating (mixed signals, I thought he was gay, now he's married to the girl who introduced us but I KNOW he's gay) and he brought another girl.

Somehow it all worked out, and eventually future hubby actually asked me out on a real date.

To which he showed up drunk, after another girl tried to prevent him from going out with me because SHE liked him so she spent the afternoon getting him all liquored up and tried to hijack him and take him to -- of all things -- a GRATEFUL DEAD show. Ugh!

So, he shows up in his Dad's giant car, and proceeds to try to put my bike in the trunk, almost destroying it in the process, and I said, "maybe I'll drive". He had free tickets to Edward Scissorhands, so we went, but of course we both knew EVERYONE there (he worked at the local hipster record store, I worked at one of the only good nightclubs), and I was completely mortified, since he was not a smooth drunk.

By that point, I was just enduring the date, trying to survive until the end, at which point I would be able to furtively avoid him in the hallways the way I did any number of other guys. But in the middle of the movie, when Anthony Michael Hall said, "I'd give my left nut to see that", something happened...future hubby yelled out, "Your left one?!" apropos of nothing, and the front four rows whipped around to see the heckler. At that point, I was hooked.

So, that's the adorable and completely illogical story of our early attraction to one another. Inexplicable, no? Why ask why?

I am sooooo not into Christmas this year

In fact, every time I hear an x-mas song in a store (and really, can you enter a store without hearing an x-mas song?) I find myself gnashing my teeth. I feel downright resentful this year that I have to pretend I'm interested in a holiday that I've never much cared about, but especially in light of what I've been going through lately. I am just too sad to give a damn about Christmas this year, unfortunately, and I'm not one that's good at going through obligatory motions.

What galls me, though, is this expectation from people that you must get into the "Christmas Spirit". I swear -- if you are the least bit honest about the fact that you're not feeling the cheer, people practically try to badger you into it. I actually screamed at my Mother (a certifiable loon when it comes to all things holiday) that I just don't give a rat's ass! I think the reason suicides go up at this time of year is just the damned pressure to participate in fake cheerfulness.

I'm NOT cheerful right now. If I were, given what I've been going through, I would think there's something wrong with me. Meeting others' cheerfullness demands has not ever been high on my agenda in the first place, but this year in particular it's making me extremely testy. In fact, one particularly pushy and insincere person was going through the whole, "come on, what's wrong with you, everyone loves x-mas" routine with me, and I almost relished the look on his face when I said, "well, actually, one of my best friends just commited suicide". He had no idea what to say, and beat a hasty retreat. I hope it teaches him some compassion, where do people get off trying to tell others how they should feel?

Sorry to be such a grinch. But thank you for allowing me the room to vent.

elegy.

we all just wanna know
why?
how?
when?
so many questions, not a
single
damned
answer.
each new theory a kernel
of hope, but no more
guaranteed
of correctness
than the last
or the first
or the next.

can't you reach out,
somehow
past everything
past the grave
that isn't even there
to visit?

you wouldn't be there, anyway.
you would be
here
are you?

your silence
is
an unavoidable cruelty
althought the one certain
thing
is that you
did not
intend for it to be.

or did you?
unending
questions.

no answers.
ever.
anywhere.

Pills

And here I thought my anger at pharmeceutical companies couldn't get any worse.

I feel incredibly lucky that years ago, when I went through a 2-year bout of severe depression, it wasn't fashionable to dump pills on the problem. My therapist held out pills as the stick, not the carrot -- as in, "if you don't improve, I will put you on anti-depressants". It was a powerful motivator to deal with my problems through talk therapy. I think the current trend towards prescribing medication so easily and quickly means that many people never get to the root cause of their depression and learn to fix with it. Any coping skills I have I learned in that time of my life, would I have tackled the hard issues if I was medicated? I don't think I would.

I know dozens of people on Prozac, literally dozens. It's a shortcut panacea. We have pathologized pain to the point that no one wants to deal with having any, but nothing good in life comes without a little pain. The hardest thing is watching people struggle with these medications instead of the real issues causing their depression. B. wanted off the pills, and struggled with finding a balance between a level of pain he could tolerate and the level of medication he could handle, for as long as I knew him. Would the outcome have been different if he had been encouraged to feel his emotions and struggle through unencumbered by mood-altering substances? I wonder.

Letter to B.

B-

Dammit, I took you for granted, and for that, I'm sorry.

I thought we had plenty of time -- time to collaborate, & trade art, swap tips and tease each other. Time to argue over whose techniques were "right", & commiserate over what slobs we were surrounded by in the shop (oh, no, never us, though!).

I took it for granted that we would be friends forever, because you were one of those people I sure intended to have as a friend forever. I figured we'd argue about the right way to tap ink off of a squeegee until we were feeble and grey, tomato, tomahto.

I can still see you peering over your glasses at me, still hear your laugh, still remember the way you'd cock your head and haltingly say "hmmm..." when you didn't know what else to say.

When I saw your car at the curb I would get excited, like a puppy, couldn't wait to catch up with you and hang out, see what idea you were working on, dream up some Lucy-and-Ethel style cockamamie idea together. We should still be working on those ideas together, it just isn't fair.

You taught me so many lessons, and the last one is this: don't take your friends for granted, because you never know when they'll be gone.

I wish we had made more time to just hang out. We were both always so busy, but for what? Nothing could be more important, and now I miss you so much it hurts like a bee sting, a killer bee.

You were too smart, too talented, and too good a person to have left the world this way. I hope you know how much you are loved, by so many, how many lives you've touched. You were so much more to so many than I think you ever realized.

Love you and miss you, buddy, and always, always will.

L.

devastated.

I don't even know what to say. My dear friend Brandon, who was my rock, just killed himself this week. The week has been a horrific blur of exhaustion, I sit here now all night as one of the dance parties goes on next door, too exhausted to go in, too sad to go into our printshop, Brandon's print shop, his passion.

He got in his car, and he turned it on in the garage, and when his brother found him Tuesday morning both the car battery and Brandon were dead.

Why? Why, why, why?

We saw him Friday night, he seemed a little dejected, and his last words haunt me still. But, I didn't detect anything bad, I've seen him profoundly depressed and suicidal before and it was different. He didn't say goodbye. He left early in one of the greatest openings, Capsule's last, I never even got time to write about it. It was a magical evening, marred a few days later by the discovery that it was the last time Brandon was seen alive. He ordinarily stuck around and drank beer (free beer for life, we used to joke, since he fixed up and donated the kegerator, 'cause that's the kind of guy he was), and since he was "stumbling distance", as he would say, he was usually the last one here.

Such a kind, gentle soul. I loved him like a brother, we got each other. He always opened up to me, we poured out our feelings to each other about life, about relationships, about art. If he was going to tell anybody he was in pain, it would have been me, K., or I.

I'm angry, I'm sad, I'm confused. I can't believe I'll never see him again. I'm lost without him in the screen printing shop, he knew so much more than I did, he taught all the classes. I'll never forget him looking over his glasses at me, one eyebrow cocked, squeegee angled to pull another print but pausing at some outlandish thing I'd said. It was a scene replayed many times. He was the kind of guy that -- as Miss V.R. quipped at the memorial -- "would not only get excited about whatever project you proposed, would have bought all the materials and had everything ready for you by the next time you saw him". He was thoughtful to a fault, constantly burning screens for people, staying late after class, a natural teacher.

Two weeks ago, he left a list of jobs for the shop tech, which was essentially him, although we were getting a new one to assist. He posted new emulsion times. The shop was tidy. His last class was Thursday. Was he planning this? Did he know that I would never see him again on Friday night? If so, I want to kick him in the balls for not saying anything, for not even hinting. Was I too neglectful, too busy, too distracted? Hanging Matthew's fantastic show -- Capsule's last -- was exhausting and time consuming, 804 collages in one room, mailed to me over the course of two years. Was Brandon trying to tell me something? He said he was really tired...come to think of it, he's been saying that a lot lately. But it was his busy season at work, and he was worried about paying the bills, and both of us were working a lot, and still trying to get our work done...of course we were exhausted. Something else we shared -- workaholic insomniacs, with different "cures". His involved Ambien, so the early thoughts were that he had "sleep-driven" the car. But...he left two signed checks for his folks. He locked the house. I keep grasping at every clue, desperately trying to remember every conversation, searching and searching for meaning in the most trivial of things.

M. and I were given his art supplies to divide by his parents. It was hard...we both sorted through, decided what was useful to us...I love the thought of painting with his brushes, and he had some very cool things that will open new artistic directions for both of us, and we were getting excited with possibilities, talking about airbrush techniques (I haven't used one since high school, but suddenly I am in posession of one). But then, we would remember, and feel guilty for any enthusiasm over materials, which is the most natural impulse for any artist, I suppose. Odd, mixed, horrible feelings. His parents gave M. & I one of his unfinished canvases, as well, which we will collaborate on finishing. It is covered with screen printed candy hearts in B's patented "trash-fer" method, but the candy hearts say "Fuck You". I am so grateful to his parents for allowing us that deep honor, and it's daunting. My last good talk with B. was sitting around in the print shop helping him cut out those little hearts, procrastinating on doing my own work. We discussed the future, his work -- he was excited. He had been making tremendous strides, breaking through to new territory.

So, I've been thrust by bad fortune into the role of advisor to the family of my dear friend, who are struggling to decide what to do with his vast body of work.

We hung all of the work we could find and fit on the walls last night, and had a beautiful memorial. The family wanted it to be like an art opening, the community handled everything, worked together to move his work, hang the show, bring food, flowers, make a brochure, etc. I made a powerpoint of all the pictures of him and his work I could gather together, and playlist of his favorite songs. Another friend passed around a book for everyone to write a surrealist poem, it's something this artist did whenever he gave an artist's talk, his tradition. My husband's band played (they were all his friends, too, and he was a fan), by the last song the entire band had tears in their eyes and could barely play, but still played fiercely, it was breathtaking. Beautiful tributes from many friends, one friend stepped up and sang a lovely folk song in a tenor rasp that had everyone sobbing by the second chorus. I managed to hold it together to say a few words. I'm guessing there were about 250 people there -- his students, his friends, family, and admirers.

The hard part was everyone wanting to buy the work (and coming to me about it, since he's shown mostly in my gallery), and me having to gently refuse them, the family has decided to delay any decisions regarding the disemination of his work, which I think is smart. He was an emerging artist on the cusp of a brilliant career, and just coming into his own, so his most recent work is seminal, and incredible as well. He had been building up multiple layers of gel medium and airbrushing, with reflective elements underneath, really cool.

At this point, all of us who loved him want to continue his career for him, in spite of the anger many of us are feeling towards his actions. I feel that the goal is to build value for his work and get him into good collections with what's remaining -- there ain't gonna be any more.

I desperately want one of his paintings -- I have many of his prints, but no paintings. The family allowed me and another friend to take a partially finished work that we will collaborate to finish. But I've decided that, rather than a selfish need to own one, I would rather that it go for a lot of money, and if I can manage to pony up, fine, but I will donate it to a museum where I can visit it, there just isn't enough of his work to hoard. I know which one I want, too -- one of his last paintings, still on the easel, almost finished. A long, horizontal image of a hand firing a gunshot through an egg, shattering it, with a brilliant lime green background. Juicy. We had been in the midst of working out a trade when he died, I thought we had plenty of time. A huge missed opportunity.

It's difficult to turn people away who want a piece. But I think it's wise. And I've been telling people who want a piece that the only way for his legacy to truly live on is if we can manage to build his career the way he could have if he was alive. And unfortunately, that means building value into the work, trying to get into known collections, generating museum interest, getting articles written....it's daunting. But I owe him big, for more things than I can even name. And I believe he's a talent worthy of doing this for, although it veers dangerously close to the "art dealer" status that I'm trying to escape.

Based on the advice I got on Craigslist, I rushed over to his house as quickly as I could and spent nine hours there gathering every scrap of paper, sketch, or piece of writing in his studio. His family, feeling the need to purge, was basically throwing almost everything out. I'm worried that there are things that they wouldn't have known were important, it was as if they just needed to stay as busy as possible, and I can completely relate, I did the same thing this week. (Making phone calls to all of our friends, and the press, however, is the most horrible task I have ever had to perform. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, each call is just heartbreaking. Every time I dialed my heart beat faster and it got harder and harder to get through the whole sentence. I finally resorted to a mass email, it was impossible to do anything else.)

A friend of ours who is not an artist but an ardent supporter and one of his bigger collectors is going to put together a database of all the work. We photographed it all and carefully wrapped it for storage at a family members' house. She built him a website and wants to write an article about him.

I'm working on the exhibition end. I have one small museum interested in a show, but I'm going to check the larger ones first. We're also planning a tribute show, and several of us are going to work on a canvas he had started for inclusion in a Dia de los Muertos altar next year. We're going to catalogue his library with another librarian friend, all of his source material, notes, and sketches. Many of his sketches were digital, so we're working with the family to get those sorted out. (The family, by the way, has been incredibly cooperative, and although they are a little guarded and protective, who wouldn't be. I think they know we all share their goal for his legacy.)

This artist also used a rather unique system for creating paintings based on a list of numbers that corresponded to different things. (example: #11 = Bee, #45 = medication, etc.). When he wanted to create a painting he would buy a quick-pick lottery ticket, and the numbers would determine the imagery in the painting. While I was going through his work and his papers I managed to figure out his list, I'm only missing a few numbers. Prior to his death, he and I had talked numerous times about curating a show where we would give artists his list and a lottery ticket to create a work using his system. We're planning on doing this as a tribute show, and using the funds to generate income for his scholarship fund. (This is something he always talked about doing if he "made it big", those fantasy conversations all us artists seem to love to sit around having.) In the event that his work is someday sold, the sales will go into this fund.

This has all been an enormous learning experience, and I'm still figuring it out. I'm also dealing with an array of emotions from immense sadness to intense anger, coupled with extreme exhaustion from the past two weeks, so excuse me if for rambling, I hope this all makes sense tomorrow. Or hell, I wish any of it made sense, but I think maybe it never will.

All of the cynical motherfuckers of the world can flaunt their detatched hipster irony, but it won't change the fact that this is the one thing guaranteed to happen to any one of us, and if we, as artists, want our work to outlive us at all and not wind up in thrift stores we better start doing some estate planning. There's no guarantee that someone else will have the patience or foresight to know what to do with our work, sorting through our messy records and trying to piece things together. I know I don't want to leave that job to my family, now. My records are a mess, my work is scattered everywhere, not properly wrapped or stored, my slides haven't been organized for years. It's holding me back, and if something were to happen to me, why should someone else have to deal with it?

Bunch of lessons, still sorting through them. It would be the first time Brandon taught me stuff, but sadly, it may be the last. It's time to get my life in order, NOW. No more fucking around. I am more committed to getting things organized than ever.

Phew.

Dammit.

I miss you, B.