A lot has happened but whatever. Blogging still feels like an afterthought, but right now I feel mentally fresh after a nice weekend in Madrid.
I feel very excited to work, and a little bit suffocated by my lovely social life in NYC. So goodbye to everyone, see you next year!
Just kidding, it never works that way.
I'm an Editor now, not a Curator. That's a thing that happened. I also seem to be a screenwriter, hopefully a producer if all goes as planned.
I got asked if I'd want to do a residency in Berlin next year for a few months; at first I said I couldn't but then I realized I could and I sort of wanted to. I want to shoot this movie around Europe next and this would be the way to do it. I just have to get financing and figure out how to make a movie in Europe.
L from Madrid said he'd produce it if I wanted, and I think that would actually work. We haven't been friends for that long but he appears trustworthy and more capable than most. Most importantly, I think our friendship is based in mutual respect without much noise around like various transactions or something? Like I don't feel like he offered because he wants get to call himself a "producer." I think he just thinks it would be fun. But yeah, I guess I've been thinking about friendships that feel transactional versus ones that feel like they're purely forged out of enjoyment and respect or whatever. I don't like when the latter suddenly feels like the former and you're like wait I thought....
Anyway, I worry that this itch to get down to business will make me appear selfish or anti-social, but this kind of worry is something I'm really trying to get over. Sometimes it just be like that. And more than anything, that's the game I'm in. If I don't follow the instinct then the work won't get done.
I'm listening to Steely Dan's Gaucho for some reason. There was this Pitchfork piece about it. I'm really enjoying it. I feel so well rested after 10 hrs of sleep, 3 hrs of plane sleep, 2 hrs of post-party almost-sleep in the last day-ish.
My weekend feels like a huge blur and maybe kind of like a dream. Someday, when my Madrid friends visit New York, whenever that may be, they will stop feeling like apparitions. They especially feel imaginary because I like them so much and it's so easy to hang out with them and they are enthusiastic about hanging out with me. Like usually I have all this social anxiety, but in Madrid it's surprisingly easy. Maybe it's because their group remind me of my friends at home with their insularity, long histories, and quite brutal senses of humor ha.
Anyway, a nice time. I am happy to be home, and glad its the holidays so that things will be quiet and I won't be fighting with myself for alone time.
Monday, November 25, 2019
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
oohwee
Not sure why blogging has felt totally unnecessary and bothersome lately. I think I was just really stressed and busy, and then was traveling. Also had to write for the money.
But today I blog because on social media everyone is upset about the loss of a vibrant writing culture online since blogs died and corporations started to buy up the fun small sites. Little do these people know, about 7 kids between bk and chinatown are having the times of their lives with this legacy format.
Anyway, I am either getting my period or having a bit of post partum depression after the play or feeling antsy without any urgent and massive undertaking to fret over. Maybe all of these.
The worst thing about the play is that I can't go back to focusing on regular work as though it matters at all to me. This is also the problem with sort-of-maybe-having gotten a deal for a movie. More of this, my brain says. Less of that.
I have to go to central park to see some augmented reality bullshit and I'd rather die. I like getting to go to the park but it's cold out and I'd rather read and sit on a bench than look at some art thing.
Also feel like a lot of people are asking me to hang out, friends I don't get to see like every day or whatever, but I don't really feel like it. Every social interaction I've had since being back, I've really failed to bring anything to the table. I feel like I've got nothing to say. So, it's nothing against these friends. I just feel like lying in bed and daydreaming.
But today I blog because on social media everyone is upset about the loss of a vibrant writing culture online since blogs died and corporations started to buy up the fun small sites. Little do these people know, about 7 kids between bk and chinatown are having the times of their lives with this legacy format.
Anyway, I am either getting my period or having a bit of post partum depression after the play or feeling antsy without any urgent and massive undertaking to fret over. Maybe all of these.
The worst thing about the play is that I can't go back to focusing on regular work as though it matters at all to me. This is also the problem with sort-of-maybe-having gotten a deal for a movie. More of this, my brain says. Less of that.
I have to go to central park to see some augmented reality bullshit and I'd rather die. I like getting to go to the park but it's cold out and I'd rather read and sit on a bench than look at some art thing.
Also feel like a lot of people are asking me to hang out, friends I don't get to see like every day or whatever, but I don't really feel like it. Every social interaction I've had since being back, I've really failed to bring anything to the table. I feel like I've got nothing to say. So, it's nothing against these friends. I just feel like lying in bed and daydreaming.
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
I was late to work yesterday, and on my way to the train I saw this guy from very far away, sitting on a railing by the Utica stop. He had very dark skin and a shiny black du-rag on. He was trying very hard to get the perfect selfie. He balanced his Honestea on his shoulder, then thought better of it. He returned to a scrolling position, I assume looking through his various attempts. I felt horrified; the whole thing was so incredibly vulnerable. But then I realized that the park was empty, except for him and me. I decided the whole thing wasn't so bad then, and somehow this meant that I wasn't horrified but actually this feeling was guilt. For walking in on him?
Anyway, sometimes I get this thing–I see another black person doing something incredibly mundane, like this selfie man, and I get really emotional. Or a woman heading to work. Or a kid playing in a store while his mom shops. It's not quite a sadness, but more like a crumbling or spilling over. I guess it could be considered sublime in character, both the horror and joy of recognition. I'm struck by an immense interest in the interior life of this stranger, and it feels happy because I can sort of recognize it as some jouissance-y thing. Even if one-sided, I know my interest in them comes from some distant idea of being-together. Then I become terrified by a visceral and overwhelming desire to ensure that everything is okay for them.
This is the worst manifestation of my control issues. In Paris, I had sobbing fit and D had to calm me down; I kept saying, in various ways, that I love so many people and how can we make sure that nothing ever happens to any of them. I used to do something similar in high school; sophomore year it seemed like all of my friends were terribly depressed. I would stay up until 4am some nights, crying in my dad's arms about how I couldn't make it better. In retrospect, perhaps I too was depressed, but why dwell on the past.
This kind of obsessive empathy doesn't really seem sustainable at a planetary scale, but I also don't think it's a bad feeling. To lose it would make things smoother, but that would mean losing the texture of experience.
Anyway, sometimes I get this thing–I see another black person doing something incredibly mundane, like this selfie man, and I get really emotional. Or a woman heading to work. Or a kid playing in a store while his mom shops. It's not quite a sadness, but more like a crumbling or spilling over. I guess it could be considered sublime in character, both the horror and joy of recognition. I'm struck by an immense interest in the interior life of this stranger, and it feels happy because I can sort of recognize it as some jouissance-y thing. Even if one-sided, I know my interest in them comes from some distant idea of being-together. Then I become terrified by a visceral and overwhelming desire to ensure that everything is okay for them.
This is the worst manifestation of my control issues. In Paris, I had sobbing fit and D had to calm me down; I kept saying, in various ways, that I love so many people and how can we make sure that nothing ever happens to any of them. I used to do something similar in high school; sophomore year it seemed like all of my friends were terribly depressed. I would stay up until 4am some nights, crying in my dad's arms about how I couldn't make it better. In retrospect, perhaps I too was depressed, but why dwell on the past.
This kind of obsessive empathy doesn't really seem sustainable at a planetary scale, but I also don't think it's a bad feeling. To lose it would make things smoother, but that would mean losing the texture of experience.
ho hum
Walked in a fashion show last week and didn't have very much fun. The not fun part was no one's fault. I just don't do well with the fashion set. I was told I'd get a free item and now I am wondering if I should have nailed that down. What KIND of item? I hope I don't receive some cut-up dainty t-shirt with boob holes.
Spent a lot of time with D and family also last week. My mom was in town and we had a nice dinner with her at which she gushed about our relationship. It was very cute. I went uptown and stayed with her at her hotel and we had a nice time hanging out. We didn't argue at all. I told her that sometimes she and Natasha trigger me with the way they communicate, which is to say they communicate similarly, and sometimes I get overly annoyed at one of them because of their cumulative vibe bouncing around me. Love them both dearly though, of course.
I got sick last week, so the weekend was quiet. This, I enjoyed.
I pulled a crazy stunt and emailed someone about something I'd written and got a positive response, but now I'm waiting for the latest update.
Last night, Natasha and I had dinner with CD; he's great. I say this with finality, he's just all around great. We went to see this cool musician he works with and everyone was there. I felt good because I hadn't paid to go. The show was really good. We socialized. D's new friend met us there; they have a cute thing brewing. It's hard to not be too annoying about it to D. But it seems like a real and fast friendship. One thing is that the new friend has a sort of annoying voice. In a way this makes him sort of charming though.
D said something unthinking and sexist about the singer and I got very annoyed with him. I'm not totally sure why, but I made him talk about it for longer than even I actually wanted to. I think it's because I think he is a good man and deserves to be pushed if he says something dumb. If I didn't believe in him, I wouldn't bother. This makes me realize, in a roundabout way, my utter lack of belief in A, like in him as a person, throughout basically our whole relationship. Anyway, D is good, and at his worst he still has the best intentions, so a 20 minute browbeating about what we don't say about women (though hopefully not so condescending!) seems worth something. I hate for him to think I'm actually mad at him though; it's hard to explain, even to myself, how I can be mad but never to my core. I guess that is the belief part.
Rehearsals start again tonight.
Spent a lot of time with D and family also last week. My mom was in town and we had a nice dinner with her at which she gushed about our relationship. It was very cute. I went uptown and stayed with her at her hotel and we had a nice time hanging out. We didn't argue at all. I told her that sometimes she and Natasha trigger me with the way they communicate, which is to say they communicate similarly, and sometimes I get overly annoyed at one of them because of their cumulative vibe bouncing around me. Love them both dearly though, of course.
I got sick last week, so the weekend was quiet. This, I enjoyed.
I pulled a crazy stunt and emailed someone about something I'd written and got a positive response, but now I'm waiting for the latest update.
Last night, Natasha and I had dinner with CD; he's great. I say this with finality, he's just all around great. We went to see this cool musician he works with and everyone was there. I felt good because I hadn't paid to go. The show was really good. We socialized. D's new friend met us there; they have a cute thing brewing. It's hard to not be too annoying about it to D. But it seems like a real and fast friendship. One thing is that the new friend has a sort of annoying voice. In a way this makes him sort of charming though.
D said something unthinking and sexist about the singer and I got very annoyed with him. I'm not totally sure why, but I made him talk about it for longer than even I actually wanted to. I think it's because I think he is a good man and deserves to be pushed if he says something dumb. If I didn't believe in him, I wouldn't bother. This makes me realize, in a roundabout way, my utter lack of belief in A, like in him as a person, throughout basically our whole relationship. Anyway, D is good, and at his worst he still has the best intentions, so a 20 minute browbeating about what we don't say about women (though hopefully not so condescending!) seems worth something. I hate for him to think I'm actually mad at him though; it's hard to explain, even to myself, how I can be mad but never to my core. I guess that is the belief part.
Rehearsals start again tonight.
Sunday, September 8, 2019
Very tired. D's sister's wedding was this weekend and it was beautiful. I think it's knocked something out of place in my head and now I can never be cynical again. Love is amazing and family is so important and it's so genuinely lame to pretend otherwise. Obviously things are hard sometimes, but this love and family stuff, oh man it makes it worth it.
I also think I'm just a normie in the end. In passing, when I've told some people about the wedding–like just "oh I'm going to a wedding..."–they're so critical of the whole thing, like still pushing this liberal arts school fuck convention agenda. I guess I can see the use of that in certain political terms, but like if you're going to be straight and like work and have a credit card, and all these things that are conventional necessary evils then like I think it's okay to love someone and want to have a party with your family and make it clear that you're a team and intend to be for as long as possible. This all seems fine to me! And you know what, never–even in my most self-styled "radical" periods–I don't think I ever thought I wouldn't get married. Anyway, for a little bit, probably around the time of our Europe trip and just after, I felt a little embarrassed by my own happiness, like I should have some fake qualification about something. Like "yeah, i'm in this great relationship BUT...." or "yeah I'm excited about my work BUT..." It's so fashionable to hate your life. But it sucks to deny oneself the full spectrum of emotional experience just because it makes you a bit corny. I love my life!
After the wedding, D and I went to Clandestino in our evening-wear and people stared at us. We ran into a few people we knew and they were like "ha-ha what's with the clothes." We explained and they were all like oh, cool. I realized I had a bouquet with me and so it seemed like I'd caught it or whatever.
We were on drugs and very happy so we stayed up far too late and missed the wedding brunch. We got Dim Sum and were both too hungover to have a lively conversation, but it was nice nonetheless.
Then I went to Z's house with Ellen to meet him and J's new baby. The baby had a very serious face and his pinky nail was roughly the size of a peppercorn, if not smaller. People always talk about how small newborns' fingernails are, but it is actually as marvelous as they make it out to be, I think. The baby was lying in his bassinet completely still when we got there, such that he honestly looked dead; his skin was still sort of weird and seemed not meant for external use, which maybe gave him that pallor. Anyway, when I held him he was lively and he stretched a lot and tried to open his eyes, but he didn't really have it down yet. His hair was dark and I think his face is shaped like J's. His older brother threw a bit of a fit after a while, probably because of all the attention he wasn't receiving.
Anyway, it was lovely. Z and J are nice and I'm happy for them.
I also think I'm just a normie in the end. In passing, when I've told some people about the wedding–like just "oh I'm going to a wedding..."–they're so critical of the whole thing, like still pushing this liberal arts school fuck convention agenda. I guess I can see the use of that in certain political terms, but like if you're going to be straight and like work and have a credit card, and all these things that are conventional necessary evils then like I think it's okay to love someone and want to have a party with your family and make it clear that you're a team and intend to be for as long as possible. This all seems fine to me! And you know what, never–even in my most self-styled "radical" periods–I don't think I ever thought I wouldn't get married. Anyway, for a little bit, probably around the time of our Europe trip and just after, I felt a little embarrassed by my own happiness, like I should have some fake qualification about something. Like "yeah, i'm in this great relationship BUT...." or "yeah I'm excited about my work BUT..." It's so fashionable to hate your life. But it sucks to deny oneself the full spectrum of emotional experience just because it makes you a bit corny. I love my life!
After the wedding, D and I went to Clandestino in our evening-wear and people stared at us. We ran into a few people we knew and they were like "ha-ha what's with the clothes." We explained and they were all like oh, cool. I realized I had a bouquet with me and so it seemed like I'd caught it or whatever.
We were on drugs and very happy so we stayed up far too late and missed the wedding brunch. We got Dim Sum and were both too hungover to have a lively conversation, but it was nice nonetheless.
Then I went to Z's house with Ellen to meet him and J's new baby. The baby had a very serious face and his pinky nail was roughly the size of a peppercorn, if not smaller. People always talk about how small newborns' fingernails are, but it is actually as marvelous as they make it out to be, I think. The baby was lying in his bassinet completely still when we got there, such that he honestly looked dead; his skin was still sort of weird and seemed not meant for external use, which maybe gave him that pallor. Anyway, when I held him he was lively and he stretched a lot and tried to open his eyes, but he didn't really have it down yet. His hair was dark and I think his face is shaped like J's. His older brother threw a bit of a fit after a while, probably because of all the attention he wasn't receiving.
Anyway, it was lovely. Z and J are nice and I'm happy for them.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
to LA
In the air, almost to Los Angeles. I'll only be there a few days, which makes me angry and annoyed. I'd like a nice, full week to see everyone. I think it's especially annoying because the trip feels like its's marking the end of summer. I was a bit in denial about how busy the fall will be. When I get back from LA, I have to go straight to D's sister's wedding rehearsal dinner. Then the rest of the weekend is wedding stuff. Then, the following week, I don't have a single evening without plans, between work and family things.
I'm glad about this in some ways, but I just wish I'd been realistic. I spent the last few weeks hanging out and partying too much and feeling bad and stressed for a number of reasons. Now I feel a little better, but it took spending a whole day knocked-out by a stomach bug and then a sedentary weekend in the Hamptons to get me back on track. I just can't and don't want to drink and mill about in the way that I used to find appealing. It's really hard to not want to do that and not feel guilty about it though, for some reason. Like I'm being high-horse-y from a variety of angles. When really I just don't have time to lose time to hangovers and coke-y depressive moods.
I stopped writing on the plane because I became convinced that the guy next to me was reading over my shoulder. Mortifying to be caught blogging in public!
Now I am at my Dad's house in Altadena. He and my brother were both out when I got here, so I had a snack and now I'm sitting on the couch, writing this. I haven't been here in like 7 months which feels insane, after living in the same city as my parents for three years. It's nice, but freaky because New York feels more like home. My Dad has only lived in this house for about two years, I think. It's not particularly close to my childhood home. So everything's a bit foreign, despite the fact that the furniture is a collection of straggler pieces from the house I grew up in. I think a project for myself in 2020 will be to help him redecorate, if he wants. The house itself is very cute, but decorated with the care of a 26 yr old guy. Which I guess is the last time my dad really had to decorate a space.
Anyway, Zoe sent me this artforum piece, and it had this Robert Smithson thing that nearly made me cry. "Smithson felt that in both cases [in the case of two ecological artworks that came under fire for waste or pollution], the community had made of the art scapegoats for their own failure to come to grips with what they knew was killing them."
I thought this was so good. The whole piece, "How I Spent My Summer Vacation," by Philip Leider, was really great. This is the kind of art writing I aspire to, I've decided. Dispatch-y, in the mix, careful, nuanced and political but not ideological. Very good stuff.
I'm glad about this in some ways, but I just wish I'd been realistic. I spent the last few weeks hanging out and partying too much and feeling bad and stressed for a number of reasons. Now I feel a little better, but it took spending a whole day knocked-out by a stomach bug and then a sedentary weekend in the Hamptons to get me back on track. I just can't and don't want to drink and mill about in the way that I used to find appealing. It's really hard to not want to do that and not feel guilty about it though, for some reason. Like I'm being high-horse-y from a variety of angles. When really I just don't have time to lose time to hangovers and coke-y depressive moods.
I stopped writing on the plane because I became convinced that the guy next to me was reading over my shoulder. Mortifying to be caught blogging in public!
Now I am at my Dad's house in Altadena. He and my brother were both out when I got here, so I had a snack and now I'm sitting on the couch, writing this. I haven't been here in like 7 months which feels insane, after living in the same city as my parents for three years. It's nice, but freaky because New York feels more like home. My Dad has only lived in this house for about two years, I think. It's not particularly close to my childhood home. So everything's a bit foreign, despite the fact that the furniture is a collection of straggler pieces from the house I grew up in. I think a project for myself in 2020 will be to help him redecorate, if he wants. The house itself is very cute, but decorated with the care of a 26 yr old guy. Which I guess is the last time my dad really had to decorate a space.
Anyway, Zoe sent me this artforum piece, and it had this Robert Smithson thing that nearly made me cry. "Smithson felt that in both cases [in the case of two ecological artworks that came under fire for waste or pollution], the community had made of the art scapegoats for their own failure to come to grips with what they knew was killing them."
I thought this was so good. The whole piece, "How I Spent My Summer Vacation," by Philip Leider, was really great. This is the kind of art writing I aspire to, I've decided. Dispatch-y, in the mix, careful, nuanced and political but not ideological. Very good stuff.
Monday, August 26, 2019
flows
After a pretty rocky week, I had a pretty lovely weekend. Pretty much just leaned into not doing anything and spent a lot of time on a mission to find the perfect shoes for D's sister's wedding.
I woke up today feeling refreshed and texted Ellen to say I felt like another friend of ours who, for a few years now, has been that person who poo-poos partying and always wants to go to bed early. I felt like her, but not in a bad way. I felt like I "got it," and then felt sort of lame. But feeling healthy honest-to-god feels better than feeling momentarily cool.
"Cool," a thing I am tired of. I bought expensive patent loafers and have been wearing them almost every day. A few nights ago Natasha, Edie, Claire and I went to Fanelli and I was wearing an oversized blazer, silk green trousers, patterned socks, these loafers, and a headband and I felt like a morally bankrupt boy from a 1980s movie or novel. I think the 50 or so pages I read of the Secret History got to my head. I stood with my hands in my pockets a lot and smoked cigarettes with bravado. Yesterday, I wore these same loafers and a black miniskirt to go pick up my wedding shoes from Bergdorf's and I wondered, why don't I have more mini-skirts. Not mini-mini but just like I have nice legs mini. The things we miss out on when we're driven by habit.
Anyway, I think in some way I am desiring self-mythology; I don't think I like the expectations that are had of me by people I'm not close to. I'm drawn back to the way I dressed in high school, maybe because of this. When I didn't fuck with the majority of kids at school and wanted to blend in with college kids and 20 somethings at shows or the flea market or whatever. I guess high school was about self-mythologizing. I guess also I hate the way most of my peers–distant peers–dress. It's so mindless. Anyway, this is just my screed against youth culture.
D and I watched The Beach Bum the other night and it was beautiful. Why didn't anyone tell us this movie was so beautiful? I trust public opinion less and less every day.
We also tried to watch this doc Jawline about teens trying to make it big in social media and it was the most depressing stuff either of us had seen in a while. A little bit high, we agreed our children won't be allowed access to social media until they are 13 or so. We'll see how that goes.
I woke up today feeling refreshed and texted Ellen to say I felt like another friend of ours who, for a few years now, has been that person who poo-poos partying and always wants to go to bed early. I felt like her, but not in a bad way. I felt like I "got it," and then felt sort of lame. But feeling healthy honest-to-god feels better than feeling momentarily cool.
"Cool," a thing I am tired of. I bought expensive patent loafers and have been wearing them almost every day. A few nights ago Natasha, Edie, Claire and I went to Fanelli and I was wearing an oversized blazer, silk green trousers, patterned socks, these loafers, and a headband and I felt like a morally bankrupt boy from a 1980s movie or novel. I think the 50 or so pages I read of the Secret History got to my head. I stood with my hands in my pockets a lot and smoked cigarettes with bravado. Yesterday, I wore these same loafers and a black miniskirt to go pick up my wedding shoes from Bergdorf's and I wondered, why don't I have more mini-skirts. Not mini-mini but just like I have nice legs mini. The things we miss out on when we're driven by habit.
Anyway, I think in some way I am desiring self-mythology; I don't think I like the expectations that are had of me by people I'm not close to. I'm drawn back to the way I dressed in high school, maybe because of this. When I didn't fuck with the majority of kids at school and wanted to blend in with college kids and 20 somethings at shows or the flea market or whatever. I guess high school was about self-mythologizing. I guess also I hate the way most of my peers–distant peers–dress. It's so mindless. Anyway, this is just my screed against youth culture.
D and I watched The Beach Bum the other night and it was beautiful. Why didn't anyone tell us this movie was so beautiful? I trust public opinion less and less every day.
We also tried to watch this doc Jawline about teens trying to make it big in social media and it was the most depressing stuff either of us had seen in a while. A little bit high, we agreed our children won't be allowed access to social media until they are 13 or so. We'll see how that goes.
Thursday, August 22, 2019
hmm
Almost had a logistical disaster yesterday with preparations for the play. Nothing gives me more anxiety than depending on a number of people and at the same time being depended on to deliver by another number of people. This seems very bad considering the things I'd like to accomplish in life, all of which require sitting in that awkward position.
This really put me in a fragile state and I also had this piece of writing come out in the afternoon while I waited to find out about the logistical nightmare that might be coming my way.
These things together, I think, made me really weird for the rest of the day. Also on my period so I just feel like a skinned fruit of some sort. I almost cried this morning at breakfast with D, and at that moment knew I needed to calm down.
I texted Ellen who is always really good in moments like this. We texted a bit about the whole thing and other general anxiety and my head is on straight now.
Anyway, I hate feeling completely under the boot of my own feelings. At least this time, when the logistical nightmare began, I didn't completely shut down. Usually I'd flip out because things weren't going as planned. I'm becoming more, as they say, flexible. This is a really good thing. I just told the person who the nightmare involved to keep me posted and took some deep breaths. The only problem is that, while I can calm myself down about one thing, the anxiety will just seep into another room in my brain. This resulted in me putting off calling a bar in Los Angeles that I need to reserve an evening at for an event, not drinking any water from like 2-5pm, asking D if he's okay every five minutes, and convincing myself that my eyes are too far apart.
Anyway the logistical nightmare is over and I feel a little better, though it's proved exactly how stressed out I am about the play and that the next person who tells me I can handle it and it will all be fine no problem is going to really get it. It's good to be in this position, first to have the chance to screw up as hugely as I have the chance to right now but also second: to care so much and finally also to want to make sure everyone has what they needs. I'm nice and ambitious.
D and I went to Dimes Sq. the other night and ran into a smattering of art world people. We ended up hanging out with them a while and I had a fun time but then in retrospect felt so bad about the whole thing. I don't really enjoy hanging out with people I don't see that often, especially people who perhaps imagine that we are closer than we are because of social media or something. But really, I just don't like people who like to tell you about how you are, the things you love, the desires you have. I was told by someone that I love being in the art world more than most people they know, in the context of discussing how everyone is trying to leave it. I had no idea where this idea came from; maybe from my age and relatively robust CV considering it? I just love the art world so goddamn much I want to always be doing something in it. Or maybe because I only post about art-world things I am doing on Instagram and not much else? This isn't because I love the art world, but because I don't really like or know most of the people who follow me on Instagram and don't care to share things with them. Anyway, I also got interrogated about some other choices I was making, I think with the hope that I'd stumble into outing myself for some crypto-fascist beliefs. It all made me wonder if I seem suss or like, am not particularly well-liked among my peers. This might count as narcissistic, though. I can't assume that they're thinking about me at all.
Anyway, the parts of my world that have been disappointing in the last year or so continue to disappoint and the parts that I love enduringly continue to deliver, so I can't really complain. Also, haters do make you famous.
This really put me in a fragile state and I also had this piece of writing come out in the afternoon while I waited to find out about the logistical nightmare that might be coming my way.
These things together, I think, made me really weird for the rest of the day. Also on my period so I just feel like a skinned fruit of some sort. I almost cried this morning at breakfast with D, and at that moment knew I needed to calm down.
I texted Ellen who is always really good in moments like this. We texted a bit about the whole thing and other general anxiety and my head is on straight now.
Anyway, I hate feeling completely under the boot of my own feelings. At least this time, when the logistical nightmare began, I didn't completely shut down. Usually I'd flip out because things weren't going as planned. I'm becoming more, as they say, flexible. This is a really good thing. I just told the person who the nightmare involved to keep me posted and took some deep breaths. The only problem is that, while I can calm myself down about one thing, the anxiety will just seep into another room in my brain. This resulted in me putting off calling a bar in Los Angeles that I need to reserve an evening at for an event, not drinking any water from like 2-5pm, asking D if he's okay every five minutes, and convincing myself that my eyes are too far apart.
Anyway the logistical nightmare is over and I feel a little better, though it's proved exactly how stressed out I am about the play and that the next person who tells me I can handle it and it will all be fine no problem is going to really get it. It's good to be in this position, first to have the chance to screw up as hugely as I have the chance to right now but also second: to care so much and finally also to want to make sure everyone has what they needs. I'm nice and ambitious.
D and I went to Dimes Sq. the other night and ran into a smattering of art world people. We ended up hanging out with them a while and I had a fun time but then in retrospect felt so bad about the whole thing. I don't really enjoy hanging out with people I don't see that often, especially people who perhaps imagine that we are closer than we are because of social media or something. But really, I just don't like people who like to tell you about how you are, the things you love, the desires you have. I was told by someone that I love being in the art world more than most people they know, in the context of discussing how everyone is trying to leave it. I had no idea where this idea came from; maybe from my age and relatively robust CV considering it? I just love the art world so goddamn much I want to always be doing something in it. Or maybe because I only post about art-world things I am doing on Instagram and not much else? This isn't because I love the art world, but because I don't really like or know most of the people who follow me on Instagram and don't care to share things with them. Anyway, I also got interrogated about some other choices I was making, I think with the hope that I'd stumble into outing myself for some crypto-fascist beliefs. It all made me wonder if I seem suss or like, am not particularly well-liked among my peers. This might count as narcissistic, though. I can't assume that they're thinking about me at all.
Anyway, the parts of my world that have been disappointing in the last year or so continue to disappoint and the parts that I love enduringly continue to deliver, so I can't really complain. Also, haters do make you famous.
Monday, August 19, 2019
boresville
Natasha and I went to see The Souvenir yesterday. I hate to only blog about creative disappointments, but they're kind of the most notable thing that happens to me week to week.
The movie was so intensely mediocre. To begin with, it's a little bit schticky: the director recreates the interiors and true events of her early 20s, focusing on a relationship with an older man who turns out to be a heroin addict. The schtick is its supposed fidelity to real life, I guess. I think the film wants to play with this and pose questions about fidelity and remembering–that very basic thing people always say about how a memory constantly retraced ends up further and further from its actuality. I'm not that interested in this and I'm not totally certain if Joanna Hogg is super interested in this but it felt sort of like the fall-back "theoretical" interest of the film. This, alongside with a vaguely formulated question about film "representing" vs. "expressing" something about reality. I think this question is valid and could be compelling, but maybe I'm a snob in that I think you need to enter at a higher level than Hogg appears to enter at.
As Natasha and I discussed afterward, it was incredibly heavy-handed. Lots of mirrors reflecting the characters, there was a lot of "leading the horse to water" kind of writing. In one scene, the main character and her film school classmates talk about Hitchcock and the shower scene in psycho and I think they're trying to meditate on the operations of montage and the "unseen," but it just made me feel like Hogg had recently read Zizek's Lacan and Hitchcock book or she hasn't but really should because it'll save her a lot of time.
Anyway, the movie was a disappointment, and I think it comes down to it not really navigating its own interests well enough. Is this a theoretical self-reflexive arthouse film about how to use one's own life as material? Or is this the result of the director trying to figure this problem itself out–how to use her own life as material–and tell us her story effectively. It doesn't have to pick just one but it needed to tackle each with much greater care and maturity.
The other thing this movie brought up, also discussed afterward, was just this very basic and annoying problem of no one ever wanting to tell a story anymore. Like tell a story about something that doesn't already exist. The basic problem of imagination. All of these people–filmmakers, artists, etc.– have so narrowed their scope to their own experience that its sucked all of the fun out of the art itself. After a certain point self-reflection ceases to be of use. Hogg circles this momentarily in the movie when the boyfriend character gets annoyed with the main girl for saying he's "not himself." He tells her that no one is 'themself' and she of all people should know that you can be different at different times during the day, on different days, etc. This is not what the movie was about but it was far more interesting than the actual narrative, in my opinion. I'm much more interested in the problem of–if you HAVE to make something autobiographical–the necessary conversion of oneself into a coherent character.
I want people to make movies because they're interested in movies and what it means to make them, not because they think they have a "powerful story" or whatever.
I also just really don't like heroin movies. Panic in Needle Park, Requiem for a Dream, Trainspotting. No thank you.
The movie was so intensely mediocre. To begin with, it's a little bit schticky: the director recreates the interiors and true events of her early 20s, focusing on a relationship with an older man who turns out to be a heroin addict. The schtick is its supposed fidelity to real life, I guess. I think the film wants to play with this and pose questions about fidelity and remembering–that very basic thing people always say about how a memory constantly retraced ends up further and further from its actuality. I'm not that interested in this and I'm not totally certain if Joanna Hogg is super interested in this but it felt sort of like the fall-back "theoretical" interest of the film. This, alongside with a vaguely formulated question about film "representing" vs. "expressing" something about reality. I think this question is valid and could be compelling, but maybe I'm a snob in that I think you need to enter at a higher level than Hogg appears to enter at.
As Natasha and I discussed afterward, it was incredibly heavy-handed. Lots of mirrors reflecting the characters, there was a lot of "leading the horse to water" kind of writing. In one scene, the main character and her film school classmates talk about Hitchcock and the shower scene in psycho and I think they're trying to meditate on the operations of montage and the "unseen," but it just made me feel like Hogg had recently read Zizek's Lacan and Hitchcock book or she hasn't but really should because it'll save her a lot of time.
Anyway, the movie was a disappointment, and I think it comes down to it not really navigating its own interests well enough. Is this a theoretical self-reflexive arthouse film about how to use one's own life as material? Or is this the result of the director trying to figure this problem itself out–how to use her own life as material–and tell us her story effectively. It doesn't have to pick just one but it needed to tackle each with much greater care and maturity.
The other thing this movie brought up, also discussed afterward, was just this very basic and annoying problem of no one ever wanting to tell a story anymore. Like tell a story about something that doesn't already exist. The basic problem of imagination. All of these people–filmmakers, artists, etc.– have so narrowed their scope to their own experience that its sucked all of the fun out of the art itself. After a certain point self-reflection ceases to be of use. Hogg circles this momentarily in the movie when the boyfriend character gets annoyed with the main girl for saying he's "not himself." He tells her that no one is 'themself' and she of all people should know that you can be different at different times during the day, on different days, etc. This is not what the movie was about but it was far more interesting than the actual narrative, in my opinion. I'm much more interested in the problem of–if you HAVE to make something autobiographical–the necessary conversion of oneself into a coherent character.
I want people to make movies because they're interested in movies and what it means to make them, not because they think they have a "powerful story" or whatever.
I also just really don't like heroin movies. Panic in Needle Park, Requiem for a Dream, Trainspotting. No thank you.
Thursday, August 8, 2019
boop
Mentally and emotionally hungover from what I'd call a "rough day" yesterday. Listening to Silver Jews at work and feeling sad but glad to have something to be sad about that isn't my own fault.
I had an important meeting with a big gallerist at which I thought we'd set a date for a big solo show at her gallery. Turns out that is not what is going to happening. To avoid the long, boring, and honestly quite confusing version–because I sort of glazed over as this was all happening–she decided she wants to take things slower and feel out the relationship. "Maybe we do a group show," she said. This all made total sense, but it was weird because she had really come in guns ablazing. So I felt really embarrassed and naive, though she had given me every reason to believe that this show was going to happen. Maybe I misunderstood some part of the arrangement. I don't know.
Anyway, I was in an awful mood and it was worsened by some news from Hong Kong; this curator is giving me a hard time about some telecommunications regulation that prevents this one work of mine from being exhibited. I had suggested a way around this that seemed perfectly reasonable and actually like a more interesting framing to me, but she was being really annoying about it.
I have to find a way to get over this existential fear that my whole career will be snuffed out without any notice. This big gallery thing sent me into a tailspin of self-doubt. But it's like, some things I just can't be ready for and that should be okay.
When I was a kid my parents would chastise me for this tendency, wanting everything all at once. I wanted to be an expert on every topic. The best at every subject, sport, hobby, etc. This resulted in me being, not great at everything, but really good at the things I already naturally excelled at. Which I guess was a result of the dark underbelly of this tendency: a refusal to pursue anything I didn't have a natural proclivity for. so I became an excellent writer, a better painter than most of my classmates, the history student with the most esoteric knowledge, the girl who knew the most about music (because I couldn't play it), and so on. This probably made me insufferable to be around.
So now, at 26, this usually ends up being an okay tendency because like anyone else I am good at the things that I am good at, and I've been able to have a career where I don't really have to do the things I am bad at (math, middle-management organizational tasks, etc.). But I still want everything now. Which, in the first half of my 20s was a boon, but I think as I'm aging into being just another adult doing some stuff, it's becoming a bit of a liability sometimes. Because, for one, people don't actually like when you're younger than them and feel entitled to success even though you've done a few things to earn it. Two, in your late 20s–at least as an artist–I guess you're supposed to be strategic, take your time, and wait your turn. I don't know how true any of this actually is, but whatever.
Anyway, this is a really bratty post, but a blog is a place to be honest with oneself! I think!
D helped me feel better, and I spoke to L and she also helped. Then Natasha met me for coffee and talked some sense into me. We ended up talking about how ambitious our friends are and how that can skew perspectives. It's true, though. Many people would be pretty satisfied to be where I am at my age and likewise for most of our friends; we are all fairly accomplished. But, as she said, fortunately or unfortunately, we all want to rule the world.
Later, I said this to D and he jokingly sang that lyric, "everybody wants to rule the world." And I told him, no, a lot of people really don't and are very happy to fester in what we'd see as mediocrity.
As a side note, D had a very exciting day, start to finish. I told him, and I was being honest, that him having a good day was a net positive in my book, despite my shitty day. I was a little surprised by how much I really felt this way; conceptually, it goes without question. But genuinely, emotionally, I felt happier because he was happy. Incredibly obvious emotion, but sometimes I feel like people just talk about some of these feelings and don't really feel them. Like this is a thing you're supposed to feel in a relationship; you're a good and empathetic person if you feel these feelings. I guess it's nice to know I'm not a psychopath.
Speaking of psychopathy, I was reading Cady Noland's "Metalanguage of Evil"–the big gallerist gave me this rare book that has writings by a bunch of women artists: Noland, Kara Walker, Adrian Piper, etc. Her descriptions of psychopathy remind me of someone and it's perhaps incredibly unfair to call anyone a psychopath, but I do sort of think this person could be one. But maybe I'm just searching for bonkers explanations for his cold disposition. Anyway, I also thought that the way she described psychopathy sounded a lot like how most people function in our ContEmporaRy MoMent.
I had dinner with Chris, which was nice. I don't think we'd hung out one on one in a long time. It blows my mind that we've been friends for four years now. He also helped talk me down and then later showed me these latex paintings he has been making. They were quite good. He said he wants to do a show of them with white roses all over the ground, sort of as a reference to the mafia. I thought this was a great idea.
Anyway, I am hoping this show stuff is secretly a good thing for me. At this point I just feel like a fool, and a little bit like "who am I kidding." I suppose I didn't like that this woman told me to my face that my future is uncertain. This, I do not like. I like certainty.
I had an important meeting with a big gallerist at which I thought we'd set a date for a big solo show at her gallery. Turns out that is not what is going to happening. To avoid the long, boring, and honestly quite confusing version–because I sort of glazed over as this was all happening–she decided she wants to take things slower and feel out the relationship. "Maybe we do a group show," she said. This all made total sense, but it was weird because she had really come in guns ablazing. So I felt really embarrassed and naive, though she had given me every reason to believe that this show was going to happen. Maybe I misunderstood some part of the arrangement. I don't know.
Anyway, I was in an awful mood and it was worsened by some news from Hong Kong; this curator is giving me a hard time about some telecommunications regulation that prevents this one work of mine from being exhibited. I had suggested a way around this that seemed perfectly reasonable and actually like a more interesting framing to me, but she was being really annoying about it.
I have to find a way to get over this existential fear that my whole career will be snuffed out without any notice. This big gallery thing sent me into a tailspin of self-doubt. But it's like, some things I just can't be ready for and that should be okay.
When I was a kid my parents would chastise me for this tendency, wanting everything all at once. I wanted to be an expert on every topic. The best at every subject, sport, hobby, etc. This resulted in me being, not great at everything, but really good at the things I already naturally excelled at. Which I guess was a result of the dark underbelly of this tendency: a refusal to pursue anything I didn't have a natural proclivity for. so I became an excellent writer, a better painter than most of my classmates, the history student with the most esoteric knowledge, the girl who knew the most about music (because I couldn't play it), and so on. This probably made me insufferable to be around.
So now, at 26, this usually ends up being an okay tendency because like anyone else I am good at the things that I am good at, and I've been able to have a career where I don't really have to do the things I am bad at (math, middle-management organizational tasks, etc.). But I still want everything now. Which, in the first half of my 20s was a boon, but I think as I'm aging into being just another adult doing some stuff, it's becoming a bit of a liability sometimes. Because, for one, people don't actually like when you're younger than them and feel entitled to success even though you've done a few things to earn it. Two, in your late 20s–at least as an artist–I guess you're supposed to be strategic, take your time, and wait your turn. I don't know how true any of this actually is, but whatever.
Anyway, this is a really bratty post, but a blog is a place to be honest with oneself! I think!
D helped me feel better, and I spoke to L and she also helped. Then Natasha met me for coffee and talked some sense into me. We ended up talking about how ambitious our friends are and how that can skew perspectives. It's true, though. Many people would be pretty satisfied to be where I am at my age and likewise for most of our friends; we are all fairly accomplished. But, as she said, fortunately or unfortunately, we all want to rule the world.
Later, I said this to D and he jokingly sang that lyric, "everybody wants to rule the world." And I told him, no, a lot of people really don't and are very happy to fester in what we'd see as mediocrity.
As a side note, D had a very exciting day, start to finish. I told him, and I was being honest, that him having a good day was a net positive in my book, despite my shitty day. I was a little surprised by how much I really felt this way; conceptually, it goes without question. But genuinely, emotionally, I felt happier because he was happy. Incredibly obvious emotion, but sometimes I feel like people just talk about some of these feelings and don't really feel them. Like this is a thing you're supposed to feel in a relationship; you're a good and empathetic person if you feel these feelings. I guess it's nice to know I'm not a psychopath.
Speaking of psychopathy, I was reading Cady Noland's "Metalanguage of Evil"–the big gallerist gave me this rare book that has writings by a bunch of women artists: Noland, Kara Walker, Adrian Piper, etc. Her descriptions of psychopathy remind me of someone and it's perhaps incredibly unfair to call anyone a psychopath, but I do sort of think this person could be one. But maybe I'm just searching for bonkers explanations for his cold disposition. Anyway, I also thought that the way she described psychopathy sounded a lot like how most people function in our ContEmporaRy MoMent.
I had dinner with Chris, which was nice. I don't think we'd hung out one on one in a long time. It blows my mind that we've been friends for four years now. He also helped talk me down and then later showed me these latex paintings he has been making. They were quite good. He said he wants to do a show of them with white roses all over the ground, sort of as a reference to the mafia. I thought this was a great idea.
Anyway, I am hoping this show stuff is secretly a good thing for me. At this point I just feel like a fool, and a little bit like "who am I kidding." I suppose I didn't like that this woman told me to my face that my future is uncertain. This, I do not like. I like certainty.
Friday, August 2, 2019
gawgia
I'm in Atlanta for about a week, doing another workshop thing.
I've decided that these things are the most emotionally exhausting part of my life, which I think means good things about my life if we're talking big picture. It also means that I am not that excited about doing the studio visit workshop circuit and maybe should chill out on it. Every studio visit I do, no matter how nice the person is, I'm usually gritting my teeth waiting for it to end.
Atlanta is nice. The weather here is better than New York and the air is fresher. Everyone keeps trying to say hello to me though, and this I do not like. I think my lack of desire to have casual exchanges with other people is part of why moving to NYC has been so good for me.
My brother was here all last week and he loves talking to random people. We couldn't be more different in this respect. Sometimes I feel jealous of the ease with which he moves through the world. People are always so excited about him, even if they don't know him. And often people will tell him that he's going to be their president someday. I swear this happens; I have seen it. One time, we were on the Venice boardwalk when he was around 8 or 9, and he wanted a popsicle or something, so my mom took us to some stand. My brother picked out a popsicle and the Latino man behind the counter wouldn't take my mom's money. "Him? He doesn't pay." and then he leaned over and said to my brother, "you're going to be President some day."
Other times, these interactions are a little less cliche; when we were in Jamaica for my aunt's wedding when he was three, he would disappear for distressingly long periods of time and then would turn up totally fine in some funny situation. Once, on the resort's restaurant patio, my mom was frantically looking for him and suddenly, over the loudspeaker, the hostess–I guess there was some entertainment portion of the meal–called out, "everybody, Max Dean is in the house!" Another time, my mom found him sitting with a family of German tourists.
Anyway, I'll never be like my brother. That's okay, we are different in a lot of ways. I am practicing turning envy into more productive admiration.
When he was here, I asked him if part of his anxiety–we both suffer from massive cases of great expectations induced self-doubt and self-flagellation–came from not only having our parents expect that he'll do so much in life, but also from random strangers expecting so much from him as well. "Yes, probably," he said. So, in this sense, I guess I am lucky.
But so Atlanta–it's nice here. There are a lot of cute houses. I sort of want one. Not to live in full time, but just to come down to and work for a few weeks at a time. Life here seems pleasant enough that it's not rural and unlivable, but also boring enough that one could get a lot done. Why not just go upstate, you might ask. I feel like anything within driving distance of New York is so burdened by aesthetics and also the possibility that someone else might be in town at the same time and "we should hang!" Also maybe because I could just blend in here entirely, unlike some mostly white town in New York somewhere where I might be vaguely haunted by a paranoid narcissistic worry that people are wondering what I'm doing there. Atlanta seems like the perfect place to peel off one's skin and disappear for a while. Also the landscape is at once exotic and post-industrial. I am suddenly interested in textures again.
In later August, when I get back to New York, I'm going to sublet DB's studio for about a month. I'm really excited to fuck around for the first time in probably 3 years almost. Everything has been so specific for so long.
I've decided that these things are the most emotionally exhausting part of my life, which I think means good things about my life if we're talking big picture. It also means that I am not that excited about doing the studio visit workshop circuit and maybe should chill out on it. Every studio visit I do, no matter how nice the person is, I'm usually gritting my teeth waiting for it to end.
Atlanta is nice. The weather here is better than New York and the air is fresher. Everyone keeps trying to say hello to me though, and this I do not like. I think my lack of desire to have casual exchanges with other people is part of why moving to NYC has been so good for me.
My brother was here all last week and he loves talking to random people. We couldn't be more different in this respect. Sometimes I feel jealous of the ease with which he moves through the world. People are always so excited about him, even if they don't know him. And often people will tell him that he's going to be their president someday. I swear this happens; I have seen it. One time, we were on the Venice boardwalk when he was around 8 or 9, and he wanted a popsicle or something, so my mom took us to some stand. My brother picked out a popsicle and the Latino man behind the counter wouldn't take my mom's money. "Him? He doesn't pay." and then he leaned over and said to my brother, "you're going to be President some day."
Other times, these interactions are a little less cliche; when we were in Jamaica for my aunt's wedding when he was three, he would disappear for distressingly long periods of time and then would turn up totally fine in some funny situation. Once, on the resort's restaurant patio, my mom was frantically looking for him and suddenly, over the loudspeaker, the hostess–I guess there was some entertainment portion of the meal–called out, "everybody, Max Dean is in the house!" Another time, my mom found him sitting with a family of German tourists.
Anyway, I'll never be like my brother. That's okay, we are different in a lot of ways. I am practicing turning envy into more productive admiration.
When he was here, I asked him if part of his anxiety–we both suffer from massive cases of great expectations induced self-doubt and self-flagellation–came from not only having our parents expect that he'll do so much in life, but also from random strangers expecting so much from him as well. "Yes, probably," he said. So, in this sense, I guess I am lucky.
But so Atlanta–it's nice here. There are a lot of cute houses. I sort of want one. Not to live in full time, but just to come down to and work for a few weeks at a time. Life here seems pleasant enough that it's not rural and unlivable, but also boring enough that one could get a lot done. Why not just go upstate, you might ask. I feel like anything within driving distance of New York is so burdened by aesthetics and also the possibility that someone else might be in town at the same time and "we should hang!" Also maybe because I could just blend in here entirely, unlike some mostly white town in New York somewhere where I might be vaguely haunted by a paranoid narcissistic worry that people are wondering what I'm doing there. Atlanta seems like the perfect place to peel off one's skin and disappear for a while. Also the landscape is at once exotic and post-industrial. I am suddenly interested in textures again.
In later August, when I get back to New York, I'm going to sublet DB's studio for about a month. I'm really excited to fuck around for the first time in probably 3 years almost. Everything has been so specific for so long.
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