More upbeat

I have these times when I want to do paintings/become a painter. That might happen, one day. But other times I want to become a writer (again). Both have the same problem in them; content/subject.

What of/about?

So silly. It's best just to do things, and not worry or anticipate or plan. You can always make it good later if it's crap at the start.

Anyway.

I'm feeling a little more upbeat now.

Here's a picture of something I made recently:



Just doing anything at all is usually the biggest problem for me. I think I need to do more that's messy. Precious schmecious (if you will).

Fuck it, I'm going to blog more

Anyone watching Mad Men (obsessively like me)? I'm even feeding the habit peripherally through re-watching movies such as North by Northwest, The Apartment, and reading this book:


It tries to show how much things were changing in the mid-late sixties via an in-depth study of the development and production of the five movies nominated for best picture Academy Awards in 1967. It's a really good read. Super-well researched. Anyhoo, I digress.

There's an episode where Kinsey has this great idea (supposedly; I'm sceptical) but he's drunk and doesn't write it down and thereafter continually regrets the loss of the (supposedly) best idea he's ever had. The 'moral' being, write it down. That's the moral I'm choosing to take in this moment, given that there was something I needed to write down, which triggered the memory of that episode, so I've retrospectively assigned that moral to the story. I can't even remember how it was needed for the narrative. Oh yeah, I think it was to show how good Peggy is relative to her peers at coming up with ideas.

My old friend Rommel said something once about not writing all those ideas down, and getting stuck in yesterday's stale ideas and re-churning them. Put them away (or something), he says. Go fly a kite.

Cakewrecks

I adore the literalism of this


Cakewrecks killed a good half of yesterday for me.

I love google-image-searching cakes. Trust there to be a whole blog about it.

When I was in Year Nine I took an elective class for one semester, cake decorating. I do not know why. It was with Miz Clee, the least liked home ec teacher. It was pretty awful, still I learnt a lot about marzipan. I made an ugly ugly cake with lots of pastel flowers on it. No sense of imagination or humour.

Perhaps I should just be a clock repairer. I think I'd be good at something like that ('what're the hours?')

Meh

I am losing my fabulous studio.

It was enormous, fabulous, free, and mine.

But I knew it wouldn't last forever.

Here it is, in happier times (detail):

I also haven't found a new house yet. I hope this will happen soon. I will have to do some major purging.

I'm trying to write an artist's statement that somehow says everything. It's hard.

I think I will post more often. Will that please you?

Distracting

I've been trying to work and listen to Radio National at the same time. It doesn't work. I can't concentrate. It works when I'm just making things with my hands, but not when I am reading/writing/working on the computer.

So I need to listen to music instead. But everything distracts me. What could I listen to that wouldn't distract me but that would energise me to work reading/writing/on the computer? No lyrics might be good. Or not English language. Not too wishy washy or la di la. Or too angry or oppressive.

I can tell you now, Jens Lekman doesn't work. He's totally annoying me.

So I don't want to take any more chances. Just need a sure thing.

... OK?

Homme

So, JC is a fucking good drawer. You should look at his illustrations. I really like the New York ones. He draws so effortlessly.

JC, you told me you wrote a novel - what happened to that, eh?

And what about that trip to Sydney? Huh??

A warning, though: it's no NYC. It ain't even Paris.

In the meantime, I'm making more flags. I'm over 'em.

I am such a procrastinator

I get so distracted. I can't concentrate on writing.

Any excuse to not do it.

I'm writing about Kelis right now. It's in context.

Life is pretty good.

While reading I want to be a writer

The reason I said that loving a writer’s work can be lonely is that in order to read (or be read to) you give yourself up/over while the words are being read. You can connect those words to yourself and feel alive while reading, but when you put the book down, it’s like you don’t live in that world any more. You can still take pleasure from the memory of it (especially when there’s still more of that world to experience, ie you haven’t finished the book), and enjoy that sort of secret knowledge that you carry with you while the feeling lasts, but it’s ultimately not the same world that everyone around you inhabits. It's too private. Even when you share the experience of reading, like discussing a favourite writer with someone else, there’s something cold about it; it’s so different to that experience of reading, of living in that other world. Because it’s happening inside your head, and we all know the bitter truth about how accessible our heads are to other people (not very).

It’s a little weird, I suppose, to find loneliness in something pleasurable and life-affirming, simply because the experience can’t be sustained. Glass half empty etc.

Kurt Vonnegut Up In Heaven Now Shock

Kurt Vonnegut died. I have been feeling uneasy about his health for a while now, well, just knowing that he was pretty old, knowing that we don’t last forever etc etc. I knew he’d go soonish. It breaks my heart, a little bit.

I’m reading Jailbird, coincidentally, at the moment. It’s a really good one. I always found his world and his voice so utterly faithful. So direct, so honest, such clear vision (by which I mean I related to his perspective, I suppose. I get that that’s subjective). He’s pretty much my favourite.

There’s something lonely about loving a writer's work, ain't there?

What can you say, really *sigh*. If we could only conquer time and space!

I've got a new apartment, baby

OK, you can tell me if this is just normal, but I feel it to be a somewhat tragically abnormal series of coincidences and ... dunno, paths crossing type occurrences. It's very late and I've had a big weekend so it won't be written well.

My magazine features an a guy in the upcoming issue who makes pictures out of liquid nails. He wanted to get into the Archibald Prize so he made some liquid nails portraits of his favourite band, the Go-Betweens. He wrote this frank and amusing piece about meeting them, about his working process and his snubbing by the Art Establishment, man. It's my favourite piece in the magazine. It's insightful and accessible and self-deprecating. We liked the works themselves so much we decided to put them on the cover. So.

I've got a new job at a gallery. We have casual preparators who come and help us hang the shows every month. The first day i met our regular guy (who is an excellent person and a good preparator to boot) I asked him if he was an artist (many of the preps are). He said he used to be, but now he was a musician. I didn't ask him who he played with because I (stupidly) assumed I wouldn't know them and that that might be embarassing. Then I spend the next few days taking sideways glances at him to try and work out why he looks so familiar ("could he be ... no ... MAYbe ... should I ask him? nah ..."). So my boss tells me at lunch later that he's a drummer. For the Go-Betweens. Huh. Funny coincidence. I go home and look said preparator up and find out I've actually seen him play a number of gigs in one of my old favourite bands. (Custard! He was in Custard! hence the unplaceable familiarity). Then of course I am too star-struck to say anything about it, and lo, the working week is done and we see our casual preparator no more. Flukily, I had been listening to Custard and the Titanics that week in my car, after having not listened to them for years.

Today i've been designing the fliers for the launch party for our new issue, featuring the Go-Betweens images (they're so great!). I'm looking at the boggle-eyed head of Grant McLennan as rendered in bright orange paint and liquid nails all evening. My flatmate comes home, goes to the Herald online and announces Grant McLennan died in his sleep last night.

And we're about to put out a magazine with his portrait on the cover.

Poor preparator. I'm not sure if I know him well enough for a condolences email (or maybe that's the best way to offer condolences to someone you don't know). And do we, as publishers, become exploiters of the sentimental response to this poor man's premature death? Is it wrong to feel happy that we have this great work about him, that's somehow made weighty now, and sort of more important? Or that a death can make you feel, even superficially, more connected?

The net seems to expand all the time. I think if you were immortal, you could eventually have a connection to each person on this earth. Assuming you had good social skills. I do feel uncomfortable though. It's pretty pathetic to feel connected to famous people. That's how stalkers get started.

Anyway. My condolences, world. I'm exhausted and must sleep.