february 23, 2009

It has been about a month and a half since showing up to the studio to work (other than tearing out the infamous purple shag carpeting). My arm has been in and out of great pain, copious amounts of writing have implored attention, and I have come to meet a "funk" front and center, as words have threatened to take out the creative silences. The last month and a half has earned the word "dramatic," at least to my internal world. About a week ago my skin finally came to the place of cracking -- not so the physical skin on my body, but that skin which holds me together in essence. I think the proper term is near nervous breakdown with a side of withdrawl depression. The balm for this ailment is always nothing other than beginning to again show up to the studio -- even when there is absolutely no time for it, or all I want to do is sit on my enormous bed. Regardless, it was time, time to look the "funk" straight in the face and say ENOUGH.

So.
The other day I visited the studio for a short while and then went out to dinner before returning to the writing board. At dinner, I was able to sketch without pain, for the first time in at least a month and a half. (That part did not last, but every improvement is welcome). Then tonight, I went back, lingered in the space, ordered Thai, and continued preparing surfaces. A charcoal pencil even made its way to scribble some on one canvas.

It is ingrained within me to be there. Without paint, charcoal... a certain type of creative set-up, I begin to go numb and breakdown internally. I do not know how to explain this phenomena. I just know that I do not like it, it does not like me -- we do not do well together. Yet, in returning, now there is also uncertainty. Empty space. I do not know how to create right now, but will try to continue showing up.

What does a painter do when words, rather than color, have captured her; when her being is not satisfied with words alone, and stands in some fear and trembling to remember the language she had set aside...knowing that home will be found in remembering?

on the responsibility of the community to the artist

Currently I am reading and writing on the responsibility, or responsibilities, of the artist for the last hoorah of graduate school. So far it has proven to be provocative work for my own soul, the fruit of which we will see if it becomes provocative for anyone else. I wish Jacques Maritain were still around that we may sit over coffee, for his little book The Responsibility of the Artist could not more intelligently and thoughtfully speak to a number of the themes I have been toiling over and trying to reconcile in my head and being. Here I offer one passage, which actually speaks to the responsibility of the community to the artist, which is only fair to address in the midst of much work and thought around the responsibilities of the artist to the community. Here we are:

" Theorists in aesthetics are usually concerned with the role of art in reference to the human community. But they should also be concerned with the role of the human community in reference to art. Since the community needs art and the artists, the community has certain duties toward them. Just as the writer must be responsible, so must the community.

In actual fact what the artist, the poet, the composer, the playwright expects from his fellowmen, as a normal condition of development for his own effort, is to be listened to, I mean intelligently, to get a response, I mean an active and generous one, to have them cooperate with him in this way, and to feel himself in a certain communion with them, instead of being confined, as happens so often nowadays, in an intellectual ghetto.

This means that the primary duty of the human community toward art is to respect it and its spiritual dignity, and to be interested in its living process of creation and discovery. It is no more easy nor arbitrary to judge a work of art than to judge a work of science or philosophy. A work of art conveys to us that spiritual treasure which is the artist's own singular truth, for the sake of which he risks everything to which he must be heroically faithful. We should judge of it as the living vehicle of this hidden truth; and the first condition for such a judgment is a kind of previous consent to the intentions of the artist and to the creative perspectives in which he is placed. In judging of the artistic achievements of their contemporaries, people have a responsibility, both toward the artist and toward themselves, insofar as they need poetry and beauty. They should be aware of this responsibility. "


- Jacques Maritain, The Responsibility of the Artist


jlg

I am just curious why so many of the most brilliant artists lose their lives while in a mental institution? (naturally, or otherwise).

Two days ago I hand delivered an MFA application to a nearby university -- the only one I put out there, hoping to stay in this lovely city of Seattle. The labor has been long and difficult in preparing this application, and yet, it is in. Hand delivered. No getting lost in the mail. After a few hours at the Frye Museum for inspiration, I feel a refinement of focus (thankfully), on my current thesis and on the hope of getting into a program this year. However, in the process I return to the former thought about the mental institution. If I get in, what heritage might I begin following? Haha... not helpful, Jen. Not helpful.



jlg

scripture, experience, tradition, and homosexuality

If you have some time (5-30 minutes, depending on how slow or fast you read), and have been interested at all in engaging the conversation of homsexuality and the church, I highly recommend this read. From Commonweal journal, there are two views shared -- not necessarily opposing or completely in line with one another; simply two different persons' writings -- and I found them to be very thoughtful, very engaging, and very moving.

Given that this journal comes from the Catholic tradition of which I am a part, I was anticipating to feel anger and disappointment in views advocating for blind faith and rejection of personhood. Surprisingly I found something other and more profound, where tears actually gently emerged at the words of the first writer -- tears of thankful resonance.

So, here it is. http://www.commonwealmagazine.org/article.php3?id_article=1957

My gratitude is that this article adds a thoughtful and powerful engagement with a conversation that can often be more a harsh argument of blame and fear. So whatever your view is on the "issue," my hope is that the words of the authors will stir you somehow and offer more think-pieces for your mind to work with.

Cheers,
Jen

january 7, 2009

I never knew how integral this thing called writing had become within my life until these last few days where it has been quite difficult to carry on with it. The tendons in my right (dominant) wrist and forearm have decided it was time to become inflamed, making everything for which I have encroaching deadlines in the least dreadfully annoying, at the most, painful to enter into. Painting, writing, typing ... all difficult, which makes that glorious list of things to do below ridiculously problematic. Why now? Of all weeks, why now?

Even though I have had this tendonitis beast to wrestle with before under quite different circumstances, it certainly did not feel as debilitating as this time does. The daily writing which has become a way of tuning into my own voice has been frustrated through this, making me feel removed from even my own thoughts -- the thoughts I certainly need to meet those damn deadlines. If only I were more of a verbal processor and less of a visual/written processor, then dictating might actually come in handy. Alas, I need to feel the movement of my hand with the pen on paper, and I need to see my own handwriting, legible, to help me feel connected to myself. Who would have thought tendonitis would make me feel like such a bizarre human being. At least it is a time of discovery. For now, if I cannot easily write my own thoughts, I guess I will go read the thoughts of others and hope it doesn't spark too much desire for journaling.


Argh, is the expression of the day. As is $#%!


jlg