Meg Hitchcock Art Blog

Appropriating Damien Hirst

2012-02-02T22:18:00.007-05:00

Damien Hirst, the clown and artist, is having a galaxy show this month. You probably know all about it. All eleven Gagosian galaxies, I mean galleries, located around the globe, are showing Hirst's Spot Paintings, or is it Dot Paintings? I seriously forget. Anyway, if you're fab enough to be able to flit and hit all eleven shows, you get a free Spot/Dot print, signed by The Damien. How cool is that? How come I didn't think of that?

So I was thinking, ya know? I'm going to be in three shows in March, scattered all over New York; what if I was to reward my faithful followers in like manner? Would D. Hirst or Larry G. be opposed to my appropriation of a great gimmick? My lawyers will handle the details, but I'm all over it. A free xerox copy of one of my text drawings to anyone who goes to all three shows. Signed. Done. Boom.

I guess I should tell you where they are, so you can book your flights, or pump up your bike tires, as the case may be. One's in Manhattan, one's in Brooklyn, and the last is in Saratoga Springs. Details to follow. But back to The Damien. Y'know, I don't hate his Spot paintings. I really don't think they majorly suck; in fact, I even like them, in a hyper-caffeinated kind of way. It bugs me a bit that he didn't muddy his hands to paint a-one of them, but hey – none of my business. His loss. I mean, what's he doing instead? That's what I always wonder about artists who pay someone else to do their work. Why? Are they doing something more fun? What could be more fun than creating something? Do they also pay someone to have sex for them? Or pay them to eat chocolate fudge ice cream? I mean, c'mon, people! Fess up! Tell us what you're doing that's so dang fun and important that you can't make your own art!

Having said that, I think it's time for me to seriously consider hiring someone to help me cut letters. Not because I have something more fun to do (!) but because I want to share the joy. Cutting letters from a Koran with an x-acto – it just doesn't get much better than that. But seriously, if you know of anyone who's looking to start a new career, let them know that the position's available. It's a wage-free job, minimal stress, and lots of yucks.

And with that, big hugs to The Damien, and see the rest of you in March.

Above: Spot Painting, Damien Hirst, circa 2000 AD.

Revelation Revisited

2012-01-19T07:36:00.008-05:00

Once again I find myself barreling through the aisles of Revelation, the last book of the Bible. I started this text drawing many millennia ago, in 2009. The yellowing of the letters at the top attests to the dates; they've faded to a golden ochre, while the letters I laid down yesterday gleam by comparison. In 2009 I got as far as chapter 15, became overwhelmed by it (who wouldn't? it's a tough read), and set it aside for 44 fortnights. The world didn't seem to be coming to an end in any hurry, so there was no pressing need to finish it up.

Until now. It's destined for a gallery show in March, and I'm in a positive fury to finish it up. There are 22 chapters, and I've just reached chapter 17, so there are many miles to go. I'm in my studio night and day, partying with the Antichrist, kvetching with Babylonian harlots, and bawling out ballads to rock the ages:

Babylon is fallen, is fallen, that great city,
because she made all nations drink
of the wine of the wrath of her fornication.

A real hoot it is, and a little over the top, but what is the Book of Revelation, if not over the top? This is not the time to become a Minimalist; I can't feature going all Agnes Martin with this particular text. No, this is Neo-Rococo at its finest; a proliferation of loops and baubles, ornament and excess. It rattles me to work on it, and not just because of the impending deadline. Revelation is so in-your-face, so doom-and-gloom, that it jars the soul to enter its spell. It's like going to Times Square on a Saturday night: why would any reasonable New Yorker self-aggravate by willfully entering that abyss?

A year ago I was doing an installation of Revelation on the walls of Famous Accountants, a cool gallery in Brooklyn, and I swore that I'd eat locusts before I'd do that again. Little did I know. But hey, free will aside, I hate to leave a job unfinished, ya know? I mean, I put in a few months of solid work to get to chapter 15, and it'll take a couple more months to bring it on home, and then I'll be done with it. Allah forbid that I should do it a third time.

Speaking of Whom, I forgot to mention that I'm cutting the letters from the Koran. And floating in the center is an Islamic mandala, in which I include a beloved Muslim prayer, Ayat al-Kursi, or the Throne Verse. It's a beautiful prayer, moving in its simplicity, and all-encompassing in its expression of Allah as the everlasting and glorious Creator. The letters for this prayer are cut from the book of Revelation.

And with that, I'm off to the studio for another day of levity. Wishing you all a fabulous day and a pleasant Rapture.

***
For those of you who are interested, I write about the current piece HERE, and I blog about last year's installation of Revelation THERE.

Milk and Honey

2011-12-29T23:10:00.008-05:00

Milk and Honey
Christian hymn; letters cut from the Bhagavad Gita
40" x 26.25"
2011
(detail shot on right)

This is my new favorite text drawing. It's the old Christian folk song "Michael Row the Boat Ashore", and I cut the individual letters from the Bhagavad Gita. It took me 53 hours to complete, much longer than I expected. The letters form the abstract shape of a boat.

I've always loved this song. It's about faith, long-suffering, and hope. My favorite line is:

River Jordan is deep and wide, halleluia;
Milk and honey on the other side, halleluia.

This "milk and honey" is the hope of humankind; that which we reach for when we suffer. The song is said to have originated with slaves who lived on plantations on the islands just off the coast of Georgia. They would row back and forth to the mainland, through choppy seas, and this song was sung to allay their fear of capsizing. It also served as a metaphor for their captivity, thus milk and honey was a symbol of the freedom that they longed for. But who knows? It's all speculation; all those who know of the song's origin are long gone, presumably dwelling in the land of milk and honey.

I created the piece by cutting the individual letters from the Bhagavad Gita, and as usual in my text drawings, I included a passage from the book from which I took the letters. The passage is from the Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 10, and Krishna is teaching Arjuna about the origin of man's allotment:

All that makes man in his many natures: knowledge and power of understanding unclouded by error, truth, forbearance, calm of spirit, control of senses, happiness, sorrow, birth and destruction, what fears, what is fearless, what harms no creature, the mind unshaken, the heart contented, the will austere, the hand of the giver, fame and honor and infamy also: it is by me only that these are allotted.

Who can argue with him? And what's to be argued? The joys we carry, and the burdens we bear, are the vessels that carry us to the other side. The best we can do is hope for ourselves and for others that we arrive, preferably dry, in the land of abundance.

Earthquake, Agnus Dei, Earthquake

2011-12-27T21:46:00.004-05:00

This is a relatively new text piece. It's called "Earthquake, Agnus Dei, Earthquake", and the size of the paper is 12" x 14". The square of type pictured above is more or less centered on the page, and is about 4" x 5". It goes like this:

On the bottom layer I created a chapter from the Koran called "The Earthquake" by cutting the letters from a Bible and gluing them to the paper. I then created "Agnus Dei", a Catholic prayer, by cutting the letters from the Koran and gluing them directly on top of the "Earthquake" letters. I then ended this spectacular feat by spelling out "The Earthquake" again, on top of "Agnus Dei", creating a sort of liturgical sandwich, minus the cheese.

Why did I do this? I liked the idea of stacking the sacred texts methodically and selectively. "The Earthquake", or "Az Zal-zala" (Surah 99), is a very short chapter of the Koran. It speaks of a day when all of man's deeds will be uncovered by a great earthquake, and the appropriate rewards and/or punishments will be meted out. "Agnus Dei", or "Lamb of God", is an equally fun and light-hearted verse. It goes like this:

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

Basically it's a blanket prayer for forgiveness; a formal request for the comprehensive pardon of sins already enjoyed, as well as those waiting in the wings. It's beautiful in a way, in that it acknowledges the frailty of man, the certainty of his imperfection, and the need for intervention by God. I'm touched by the sincerity of this prayer, as well as the humility. I'm sure it's been responsible for releasing a good number of Catholics from some serious karmic retribution. Weird how that works. Heck, they don't even have to say it; a priest recites it three times, genuflects, and that's that.

Would that the Muslims had it so easy. They have to work a little harder for repentance. But hey, it's all personal preference. Me, I like my forgiveness to come from within. Easier said than done, of course, but come it does, and that's what's really needed to be set free.

So, back to my piece. I like it. I've been experimenting more with text sandwiches. Problem is, you can't read what's underneath, but that doesn't bother me overmuch. We all know how the plot unfolds. The good guys go to heav'n, the bad ones to hell, and the rest of us are left to find peace within our own skin.

Agnes Martin and Jacques-Louis David

2011-11-19T08:14:00.014-05:00

I've been slightly obsessed with paring down my text drawings; eliminating the baroque elements and going for an austere presentation of the text. I'm also interested in working much larger, which makes my new minimal approach rather convenient, since it would take roughly two millennia to finish a piece with my current style of working.

A great influence for this new approach is the work of Agnes Martin. I saw a show of her work at Pace Gallery a few months ago, and was taken by her paintings. I didn't internally combust or anything like that; I simply appreciated the spirit of her work, her expression of perfection. Clearly she found "It" in the simplicity of line and grid, in the same way that a mathematician finds "It" in numbers. She made no claims to perfection, which was wise. She considered herself a classicist, and I think that too was wise. She reproached those who called her a minimalist. Her work is classical in the traditional sense, in that it represents an ideal. It goes against nature, in the same way that the paintings of Jacques-Louis David go against nature (see above). Agnes Martin and David have that in common–they idealize nature and present it as improbably perfected. Completely unattainable, but for the odd moment on the canvas. I love this about them. They knew that perfection was inexpressible, but they gave it a shot anyway.

That said, I must qualify by adding that I'm only a Martinophile from afar. Like, from 10 feet away. From that distance, her paintings are sublime. From 5 feet, they rock. From 3 feet, they start to diminish in interest, and from 12 inches, they completely fall apart for me. The quality of her line doesn't evoke the sublime. It's just a dumb old line. If Ingres had drawn her lines, then maybe there'd be something for the janitor to clean up. But her lines? Nope. They don't do anything for me.

Ah, but what if those lines were made up of teeny tiny text?

The Moon

2011-10-14T20:31:00.012-04:00

The Moon

excerpt from the Koran
letters cut from the Bible
(from a series of 16; each piece is 4" square)
2011

I think there's a point when healing just happens all on its own; you know, without anyone helping it along. It goes largely unnoticed, until one day you suddenly realize that the wound is gone ~ even the scar has faded. It's a wonderful moment. That large piece of baggage (or in some cases, that 14-foot U-Haul) that you've been dragging around for a lifetime is cut free. Rather, it was cut free, and you just now notice. Hey, where'd it go? Wait, am I really done with that?

I guess you were. When it becomes more difficult to hang onto something than it is to let 'er go, you're officially done with it. That's my new rule. If it takes effort to hold onto a grudge, and if you have to keep reminding yourself that you're angry with a person, then you probably ought to let go of the grievance – that is, if you can remember what it was.

O, and I have another, which I call the Five Minute Rule. You know how sometimes you're depressed or worried about something, then you get distracted by a phone call or something, and then when you're done you can't remember what you were worrying about? Yeah, well, it's pretty routine around here. It's totally annoying when you have nowhere to direct your angst. So my rule is that if I can't remember what I was worrying about within five minutes, I have to let it go. Even when I finally remember it, I'm not allowed to worry about it anymore, because it too easily slipped from my radar.

Lately I find myself just hideously happy. It's so off the charts that even I find it cloying, so I try to hide it from my friends. A joyful Madge may be more than they can take. I feign ennui and cop a solid meh, with the intention that they won't be exposed to my insufferable cheer. What happened?? Why on earth should I be this happy? Personal circumstances aside, there comes a point where the deep, primal conflicts are resolved and the tectonic plates in one's psyche have settled, thus affording a stellar view of the cosmos. Something like that. Best not to crunch the numbers and try to figure it out, as you run the risk of talking yourself out of it. It's enough to realize that, in spite of it being a pain in the ass, life is sufficiently good to warrant the hassle.

Job Complete

2011-10-04T18:38:00.006-04:00

God's Response to Job
The Book of Job, Chapters 38-42
Letters cut from 'The Oedipus Cycle' by Sophocles
22 1/4" x 20 3/4"
2011
(Bottom image is a detail; letters for "bliss" cut from the Koran)

God's Response to Job

2011-09-30T09:20:00.014-04:00

God's Response to Job:
Job, Chapters 38-42

Letters cut from The Oedipus Cycle by Sophocles
2011
(work in progress)

(detail) ----->

I've come to the conclusion that perfection is overrated. Way overrated. Like, not even worth shooting for. Perfection is actually pretty dull. I mean, think about it – what's more interesting, the summit or the ascent? All you get from the top is a killer view, and like everything else, it gets old. How long can you look at other mountain tops before you get bored? Maybe perfection is fun for a while, but the novelty wears off fast, and then it becomes banal. Fortunately, life is always dishing out bliss-busters, so it's never long before we're knocked off the peak.

I'm just finishing up this text piece (see above). It's highly imperfect. In truth, it's bugging me. It's called "God's Response to Job" (so far, anyway..haven't come up with a better name yet), and it's...well, it's God's response to Job. Specifically, it's the last four chapters of Job, in the Old Testament of the Bible, where Jehovah informs Job who's Who and what's What. It's completely beautiful and I highly recommend reading it. I cut the letters from "The Oedipus Cycle". Two tragic figures, the stories probably based on real men of enormous faith and integrity who fell from their personal summits, due to the inevitable ego entanglements that accompany fabulous success. This is all speculation, of course; not mine, but theologians and thinkers who have nothing better to do than to speculate on the fates of mythological men. But no matter, because whether or not these good men were real or fictional, they're excellent examples of humanity. Their respective losses are something that very few of us will ever experience, and yet we get a glimpse of what it means to be fallen, disgraced, blinded by ego, cursed by those who will eventually fall themselves, and finally, lifted from despair by the grace of God. This is what it means to be human: to experience the relentless rise and fall of the ego.

I'll finish this text piece soon. I think it's fine that I'm not 100% happy with it. This is a good piece to have doubts about. It's an excellent piece from which to disentangle my ego. It's the perfect piece to be imperfect.

oooooooooooo

You can read more about this text piece here.

Satan, CEO of Verizon

2011-09-23T20:32:00.016-04:00

Omg, Verizon so sucks. Verizon is the evil empire. Over a month ago my land line went out. It was due to a lot of rain I guess–what do I know–but I had no phone for a month. Verizon workers were on strike, so when I tried calling to report the problem, I was sent into the morass of Hell On Hold. I think Satan is on their Board of Public Relations, and gets to pick the music that we're forced to listen to while we wait. Not only is it astonishingly awful music (Cold Play meets the Tijuana Brass), but it's loud, and then to really fluff your hump, static is pumped into your eardrums. After ten minutes of this you seriously want to hurt someone. You start to hate Barry Manilow's guts. You want to crush a saxophone with your bare hands.

Needless to say, I never got through. They're on strike, for goshsake! Who's there to answer? A scab who doesn't know squat? The only option I was given by the nice computerized voice was to be transferred to Tech Service, who, I was promised, would happily report my problem. So I pressed 2 to make this happen, was transferred, and then, moments later, was cut off completely. Omg. Tell me I'm not hearing a dial tone. You can't be serious. Mind, this was after having been on hell-hold for a good 15-20 minutes. My ears started burning; hot saliva collected at the corners of my mouth. I wanted to hurt my phone. I dialed again, and went through the whole wretched process, only to be escorted by Herb Alpert into the hot jungles of Verizonville. My last resort was always Tech Support, who gleefully cut me off.

I did this maybe 6-7 times over the course of a month. Then Hurricane Arlene or Imogene or whatever blew through, and poof! I suddenly had phone service again. All was well. I called Verizon so that I could tell them my story, share a good laugh, and get a month refunded. They refused. Tough luck, Charlie. Why won't they refund me for a month of use? Because I shoulda called them immediately to tell them of my lack of service. Since there's no record of that call, they will not refund me a dime.

Now, I'm no Buddhist. I have no reputation to uphold. I could go postal on select Verizon employees, and no one would shake their head and say, "She used to be so spiritual", or "Just last week at Bible study, she led us in prayer." I'm a quiet and somewhat shy person, so the comments would be more along the lines of, "Jeez, who knew such a quiet gal could wreak such unspeakable horror! And with her bare hands and teeth!" There would be blood samples, dental records of the deceased, and community fundraisers for the survivors. I'd be locked away in some loony bin, where the guards fed me through slats in the door, afraid to get close to Monster Madge. It wouldn't be a good life for me. I had to ask myself if it was worth it; if I was willing to spend my life behind bars for this. I was.

It was Melissa, a Verizon customer care representative, who assisted me. It was she who informed me that my request had been denied. It was Melissa who remained stonily silent while I wept, and, later, when I was done, it was she who asked if she could help me with anything else today. It was Melissa who was at the top of my list. Later there was Chester*; I'll spare you the details of our mutual frustration. My list grew. It was turning into a massacre. I planned the date: October 31, a Halloween bloodbath. The more Verizon representatives I spoke with, the longer my list grew. Every so often someone would get bumped from the top, replaced by someone higher up in the ranks, and more callous.

That's what it's really all about: callousness. Callousness so sucks. Bite me, kick me, yell at me, call me Peggy Peanut, just don't be callous toward me. But it's not really Chester's fault. It's no one's fault. It's corporate America. No heart, no soul, just a machine whose gears turn with a single mission: to make money.

I decided to let Melissa and Chester live. They may have pets, and I hate to see them go to the pound. I let it go, I breathed into it, I did every spiritual thing I could think of. Nothing really helped, but at least I tried. I was going to drop my Verizon account, but it's such a hassle. I've chosen not to fight this battle, and instead will succumb to the Satanic black hole known as Corporate America. God bless the bastards.

* I know you think I'm making this up. I'm not. I have records to prove that Chester exists.

Fifty, AARP, and Senior Discounts

2011-08-13T09:17:00.010-04:00

I turn fifty next week. I'm really looking forward to it, as I'm pretty much done with my forties, and fifty has so much clout. Fifty is the age where you start figuring it out, where you take all those astonishingly bad decisions that were made during your twenties, thirties, and forties, and put them to good use. Fifty is when all your sorry-ass mistakes of the last ten decades have fermented to perfection, and you get to drink them like a fine wine; you know – get drunk on your imperfections and toast to your humanity.

Fifty is also when you become a member of AARP. I got my notification this week – jeepers, what a cold shower on all my waxing wisdom! And speaking of waxing, fifty is when you start waxing not only your upper lip, but your chin as well. Fifty is the age when you're required to start using expressions like 'jeepers'. Fifty used to be the official age of decline, but they've raised that by a couple decades, so at fifty you're still on the incline, assuming that your knees are good.

Then there's the down side to fifty. It's the age where ladies start caking on their make-up, and it slides around to create landfills in those crevasses around the eyes and mouth. If you've already reached fifty and think you're exempt, then you may want to have an eye exam, just in case. Trust me. Do it. I did, and was astonished to see that I was indeed a Caker. But if you're one of those gals who's over fifty and in denial about aging, then don't bother, because the preservation of vanity is contingent on weak eyesight. Just stay away from the rouge, huh? Notorious for its propensity to relocate after application, rouge makes rosy those areas that are better left pallid.

But hey, it's not all so dreadful, really. I'm an AARP gal now. My mom tells me I can get discounts all over the place. Fifty-cent coffee down to WalMart. Dollar off prescriptions on Fridays. And 2-for-1 on Attends® when you buy a pallet. Already I got old men winking at me, but that's nothing new; I've always been the geezer pleaser. So all things considered, things are lookin' good. I got my health and marbles, my body parts are in more or less the same location as they've always been, I got a new matronly hairdo (thanks to my hairstylist who refuses to let me grow my hair out), I can still bend over to tie my tennies, and I got some seriously wonderful friends. And I've got my creative work, so if all else fails and they lock me up somewhere, why, jeepers! I'll just cut up holy books til they lay me down in the good earth, and hope that my make-up is good.

Job & Oedipus

2011-08-03T20:12:00.008-04:00

I started a new text piece. The passage is from the book of Job in the Old Testament of the Bible, chapters 38-41. This is officially known as God's answer to Job, and volumes have been written on it. I don't presume to shed any light on the passage, so if you're seeking clarity, you got the wrong blog. I'm just in sheer awe of it. I can't read it without getting all teary-eyed. No, I'm serious. There's not much in the Bible that makes my eyes leak. David could belt out a good Psalm, which can choke me up on a good day, and Solomon's Ecclesiastes are particularly wrenching after a couple of gin & tonics. But God's response to Job...jeez, I can't even think of it without my mascara sliding south (see above).

Here's the scoop: Job was an upright and pious man, filthy rich, the most successful 6th century BCE man on the planet. Then he lost everything. Family, wealth, land, health - all gone. He's a broken man, and seeks counsel. For 37 chapters, he's besieged by dipwads who tell him to repent of his sins. Thing is, he hasn't sinned. He's being tested by God. More precisely, he's being tested by Satan, and God is allowing it. Satan thinks that Job's going to curse God, but God knows that Job won't cave. He's right. Job doesn't budge. His faith in God never wavers. His pea-brained friends insist that Job is hiding some despicable sin, and ride his ass to get him to curse God and be done with it. Job refuses. Which brings us to chapter 38.

Enter God.

"Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?" He demands of Job's ignorant tormentors. Then He begins to ask a bunch of questions to Job, and one can imagine the latter in a heap, on his knees, convulsed in pain and confusion. Job has been through unimaginable hell, and has nothing left except his breath. But far worse is that he thinks he's been abandoned by God. Thus it must be a moment of relief to hear His voice emanating from the whirlwind, and to realize that God has never left Job. Kleenex, please. No no, pass me the whole box....thanks.

Here's a sampler of the questions that God poses to Job. Clearly they're rhetorical, which is what makes them so profound. We get a glimpse of God's power, His wisdom, His grace, His love.

Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?
Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea?
Have the gates of death been opened unto thee?
Out of whose womb came the ice?
Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion?
Who hast given understanding to the heart?
Who provideth for the raven his food?
Knowest thou the time when the wild goats of the rock bring forth?
Gavest thou the goodly wings unto the peacocks?
Hast thou given the horse strength?
Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?

I'll stop here so you can blow your nose. You get the gist of it, right? The torment of Job speaks of the anguish that we humans go through. Who knows why, but when someone goes through such agony, it only points to the fact that they're human, and that they've possibly gotten too caught up in ego traps. Some theologians believe this to be the case with Job. But really, when someone gets the rug pulled out from under them, it's just Life. It happens to us all in one form or another. There's no one to blame, it's just....Life.

Okay okay, so here's the deal: to create these chapters from Job, I'm cutting the letters from Oedipus the King. Holy mackerel what a story...if that one doesn't move you then you better check your pulse, because it's one of the most tragic tragedies like ever. The only thing more tragic than Oedipus or Job is maybe a Danielle Steel novel, for the sheer waste of pulp. (Little known fact: Every time Danielle Steel pens a novel, trees go on strike worldwide).

So Oedipus and Job...O, I forgot to mention that in the middle of it, I'll include a long soliloquy from Oedipus, right after he discovers his true identity. Talk about dark night of the soul–he blinds himself by poking his eyes out (see above). Guilt, horror, retribution, predestination, sin, innocence, passion, redemption....just another day in the studio.

Tradition and Its Ills

2011-07-22T08:12:00.008-04:00

As a spin-off of my last blog entry, I've been thinking about all the things that God isn't. I believe that our misconceptions around God are what keeps us from knowing It. I believe that the reason we can't know God intimately is that we've surrounded Him - It - with impenetrable layers of ritual and tradition. I got no problem with tradition, as long as it's relevant. There's just no reason to continue a custom if its application is defunct. When someone performs a ritual without an internal awareness of its symbolic content, it becomes superstition. And superstition is a form of grasping that's done in desperation to come closer to God. Hail Mary's, pilgrimages to Mecca, yoga classes, a daily meditation practice–without a felt connection to the underlying tradition, they don't amount to squat. Your time would be better spent drinking Mai Tai's on the beach or shopping at Nordstrom.

Case in point: here's a story for you. A newly wed couple. Young wife cooks her husband a roast. He's surprised that she's cut the ends off the roast, which are his favorite part. Why'd you cut the ends off, darling? (he asks). Why, that's the way my mother cooks it! (she replies). A few months later they're having dinner at her mother's, and sure enough, she made a roast and cut the ends off. Mother, (he asks with trepidation), why do you cut off the ends of your roast? Why, that's the way my mother cooks it! (she replies, in a snit). A few months later still they're eating their holiday dinner, and frail gramma is there, so husband figures he ought to ask the question while he has the chance. Grandmother dear, (he asks deferentially), why do you cut off the ends of your roast? Because my pan's too small! (she replies, then chokes on a mouthful of roast, and dies on the spot).

And that, my friends, nicely sums up what I think of tradition.

Above: Muslim Prayer to Allah, letters cut from Bibles. 2011. Size: approx. 3" square on a paper 8.5" square.

Reluctant Enlightenment

2011-07-19T15:30:00.011-04:00

I have a close friend whom I've admired for many years. I'll call her Ann. She's far from an atheist, but I wouldn't call her a "spiritual" woman. Without being in any way pretentious, she identifies primarily as an intellectual. Her pursuits are within the mind; she's constantly reading books and articles in her field of interest, attending lectures, and feeding her intellect anything that it fancies, which generally falls within the field of psychology and science, sometimes delving into art. She's a fascinating woman, and I've never tired of talking with her. Our discussions move mostly within the realm of psychology, touching upon mysticism, but since that's not very interesting to her, we never advance very far down that path.

The reason I bring it up is that Ann's going through the Self-realization process. The full-blown, in-yer-face, up-yer-spine, out-yer-crown experience of ecstatic awakening. I get all giddy (and jealous) just thinking about it, but Ann is pretty dismal. She never asked for this; it's not her thing. She says that the experience is at odds with her scientific nature, and not something that she cares to pursue. Her meditation practice is simply a way to relax her mind. She never intended for it to open a doorway to this; indeed, enlightenment is a concept which until now has been questionable at best for her analytic mind. But she's smart enough to know that despite her internal discomfort (which has been acute), she can't deny the effect that it's having on her disposition. She describes it as a deep, disturbing shift in her internal navigational system.

Now, some of you may think that I'm wryly talking about myself. You know, that old "I have a friend....." ploy, the oldest trick in the book. Rest assured, if any of the above had been happening to ol' Madge, you'd have read about it by now on my blog, and I'd have had T-shirts made to commemorate the occasion (similar to the one pictured above). I might've really gone wild and bought an ad in some uber-spiritual zine, and sold little Madge Buddha Magnets (Meg-Mags®) on the internet. Nope, Ann's a real person, and she's not liking her present circumstance. She's sort of heaving a big sigh, resigning herself to the big shift happening in her life, and moving into the mode of "allowing". Allowing herself to experience this friggin' weird thing that she never believed in.

I for one am blown away by it. It confirms that which I've quietly suspected all along, and now am ready to post it on a billboard. This:

God awakens wherever, whenever,
and in whomever the hell It wants to.

Period.
Class dismissed.

How's that for holy rolling? Maybe I'll start a new religion. Just what the world needs, huh? But mine will be the gosh darn truth. I'll tell everyone to quit yoga, quit meditating, start drinking more gin & tonics, sleep with your neighbor's wife (hey, King David did! Heck, he even had her husband murdered!), just do and read whaddever you want to do and read, and forget about the whole damn spiritual thing. Unless you're seriously interested, in which case have at it, but don't be thinking you'll get brownie points by chanting at the crack of dawn. Just do what floats your boat, give it your all, try to have a morsel of integrity if at all possible, don't worry too much if you can't, and wait and see if God chooses to awaken in you. If so, you're golden, but realize that it's got nothing, nothing to do with you. You're basically a worm turd. But you might be a worm turd that God favors. And if you do everything you want to and God never awakens in you, well, at least you had a good time. At least you didn't spend your life reading Kierkegaard and watching the PTL Club, thinking that it would incur God's favor. I'm convinced more than ever that it can't be earned. God's will is a big mystery, more mysterious than existence itself. At least we can take a stab at explaining that. But I know of no one who's attempted to explain God's will without getting either humiliated or creamed.

It's not likely that I'll start a religion. I already got too much on my plate. Pity. The souls of the earth need me. Would that Ann was more outward with her transformation. I could be her manager, and we could have her awaken in every state in the lower 48. We'd make a fortune. Jeez, God's really missing a great opportunity to make me rich.

Bliss from the Koran

2011-06-23T09:19:00.007-04:00

Bliss from the Koran

I'm going to be in a show at Western Exhibitions gallery in Chicago in...jeez....just a few weeks. The show is called "People Don't Like to Read Art", and you can check out the link here. I'll be showing two text drawings, one of which I just finished late last night (see above). I like this piece. It feels very strong to me, even though it's not my best piece. It has some formal problems that bug me; the composition is a little weak. But I think it works well enough, and I love how it came about. I was planning to create a rough circular shape using the word 'bliss', but it didn't flow smoothly. It kept wanting to coil and loop, so I surrendered to the flow of the line of type, and then it wanted to pinch on both ends, and lo! a snake was born.

It's so cool when that happens. When you have an idea for a piece, and once you start it, it wants to go in another direction. If you force the piece to submit to your will, you'll end up with a really boring, dry piece. Drier than a popcorn fart, as my dear Dad likes to say. The other option is to submit to the creative flow, which means setting your ego aside. I think you have to develop a sense of wonder about your process, and allow the flow of creativity to take over. It takes a certain amount of trust, and surrender, and forgiveness, because mistakes and failures are part of the creative process.

The letters in this piece were cut from an old and yellowed Koran. This feels deeply satisfying as a statement about Islam. Indeed, without its unfortunate political associations, the Koran is a gateway to the Divine. And the fact that it's shaped like a coiled serpent is a reference to Shakti, the feminine energy in the form of kundalini. So in a very subtle way I'm bringing Islam and Tantra together, and watching how they interact. A strong masculine and sensuous feminine...it makes sense that they intersect so well.

Have a bliss-filled day!

Above: Bliss from the Koran, 2011. 9" x 7 3/4". Letters cut from sacred text.

Obsession: Video of the Installation

2011-06-18T18:34:00.000-04:00

The Ugliest Sofa Ever

2011-06-10T22:16:00.019-04:00

For the last two months I've been obsessing over buying a sofa. When I moved into my new digs I decided that I needed one, since there's a lot more space here. And I seem to be having more out of town visitors here than in my old place, so it needed to be a sleeper sofa – you know, the kind that folds out into a nifty bed. A staple in New York apartments.

I figured out my budget and decided I could pay up to $100 for a decent sofa, and was even willing to pay as much as $150 if the perfect one came along. I looked around in a few furniture boutiques in Manhattan, and it didn't take too long to figure out that a'hunnerd bucks would buy me a couple of limp pillows and no more. So I bit the bullet, kicked in some more cash, and commenced my search for the perfect sofa.

Now, I hate shopping. I really do. It's such an abysmal waste of time. I mean, in the time that it takes me to run around Manhattan and slog through furniture stores, I could be getting my nails done, or ears waxed, or something equally deep and riveting. So I aborted my search, went online, and finally found the most sublime sofa that I could afford. I ordered the premium full-size sleeper in a rich, velvet maroon, and eagerly awaited its arrival.

It arrived today. While I burnt sage and chanted a few Tantric prayers of thanksgiving, the movers hauled it upstairs and set it down in the perfect spot. I then performed a sacred dance to Lakshmi, the goddess of abundance (this is my first sofa, after all!) while the good men cut the plastic off, and lo! there in front of me was my brand new sleeper sofa, looking up at me apologetically, as if to say, "I'm so sorry...." Yup, I'm here to tell you that it was and is the ugliest friggin' sofa you ever saw. It bends the mind how ugly it is. Every time I look at it I think of a Sears showroom. It crossed my mind to stack a couple of radial tires on either side as end tables, just to complete the cheese effect. Thankfully I didn't go for the queen size...omg...at least mine is small enough that it only takes up half the room.

My dear grandmother had a sleeper sofa that was lime green and made of bricks, on which I awoke in the morning stiff as a cadaver. I attribute a sizeable portion of my neuroses to the nights spent on that criminal piece of furniture. Well, guess what. This is cruelly reminiscent of grammy's couch, minus the crocheted pink afghan slung over the back. The only crumb of good news is that my guests won't be staying very long. I think two nights ought to do the trick, then they'll find some flimsy excuse to stay in a hostel.

My dear friend Victoria advised me not to make such a big purchase without seeing it first. She highly recommended that I sit on a sofa before buying it, to really be sure that it works for me. I didn't listen. I went with my gut, which told me that it was a totally bitchin' couch, and I didn't need to sit on it, and after all, how bad could it be?? She's such a good friend that when I called to tell her it was uglier than the backside of a schnauzer, she didn't say "I told you so." Which goes to show what a saint she is. I don't think I could've resisted.

Well, there's no way I'm going to send it back, because I ordered it from...sigh...Seattle. Yup, that's right. They didn't have what I wanted in Anchorage, so I had to settle for the farthest distance away within the lower 48. Crap. It's mine. So here's my solution: I'm going to smother it with a couple of throws made of nice fabric. I'll toss a throw up one side and down the other, add a few sexy pillows, and then the only thing it will be is uncomfortable. I can deal with that. After all, I won't be sitting on it – it's for my guests.

Okay, so now you know. Learn a lesson from The Madge and for heaven's sake, don't order a sofa without sitting on it first. And buy it within a 10-mile radius, so you can return it without hiring a caravan of she-camels to hump it back across the Great Plains. And listen to your friends when they give you sage advice about matters you know nothing about. And if you do make a similar mistake as mine, please be sure to let me know so I can say I told you so.

Above: That's not my sofa. My sofa may be ugly, but at least it's not plaid.

Buddhist Prayer for Peace

2011-06-09T21:49:00.007-04:00

Buddhist Prayer for Peace

letters cut from the Methodist Hymnal
2011
7 x 5 in.

...ooOOOOOOOoo...

Pre-Rapture Preparations

2011-05-20T21:32:00.021-04:00

The big day has arrived. Everyone's abuzz with either cynicism or anticipation. While I publicly scoff at the notion of the Rapture happening tomorrow, I've quietly packed a small bag, just in case I get sucked up. Fat chance, but I like to be prepared. I labored a good twenty minutes over whether to bring a toothbrush, and finally ended up packing one, in the off chance that oral hygiene isn't covered in heaven. I hate to be turned away at the last minute because of extreme halitosis.

Speaking of extremes, were you aware that in the Catholic Church, there is a sacrament known as Extreme Unction? Dude. Check it. It's reserved for a select bunch of folks, who must answer YES to the following questions:

1) Have you got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel?
2) Have you been a major butthole all your life?
3) Does (or rather, did) the world revolve around you since you emerged from the womb?
4) If you weren't at death's door, would you be utterly unrepentant?
5) Is a priest hovering over your bed and clutching a cross, and are you concerned that there's not enough time for you to enumerate your long list of sins before you croak?

If you answered YES to all of the above, then you can request Extreme Unction on your deathbed and be absolved of all your despicable acts in one fell swoop. Don't ask me about the mechanics of it...there's some kind of anointed oil, muttered regrets, and hasty chants. They've got it down to ten seconds or less, for obvious reasons, making it the most popular sacrament among douche-bags. The outcome is that you're free to barrel down the exit ramp with a clear conscience, knowing that you've effectively erased a lifetime of being a full-on rotter. Croak in peace, brother.

Who comes up with this stuff? I mean, c'mon, people! This is not scriptural. It's not even apocryphal! It's the lazy man's version of living a life of integrity; an exit strategy for the person who's displayed the moral conduct of a single cell amoeba. Live selfishly, be a dipwad, and then repent in the final moments of your myopic life.

There's also some Catholic sacrament whereby one can pay the Church to redeem the souls of loved ones who have already passed. I guess this is for those who were completely unprepared for death and were taken out by something along the lines of a Boeing 787 crashing into their bedroom while they were double-dipping their neighbor's wife. While the widow may petition for the hottest chamber in hell, the grieving children may wish otherwise. The latter are invited to pay a substantial fee, and their late father's soul will be yanked from the fiery furnace and placed on the fluffiest cloud in heav'n. The implication is that the more cash that's forked over to the Church, the fluffier the cloud. Now, don't quote me on this. I know that it was in use during the Renaissance, and indeed these petitions became the capital with which Pope Julius II financed the decoration of the Sistine Chapel. But prayers for the salvation of the dead may have gone out of fashion over the centuries. While God is eternal and unchanging, it would seem that He likes to stay current with the greed of the times.

What I want to know is how anyone can be so presumptuous as to pronounce the will of God with such confidence? Where can I attain such pluck? It's all I can do to sit at the foot of God and listen for any glimmer of instruction, much less bring myself to pray for something. Who am I praying to? And why would the All-Powerful Creator listen to the prayer of a worm in the first place? It's not low self-esteem that keeps me humble, it's naked truth. We're worms, folks! In fact, that's an exaggeration – we're worm turds! I don't know if you've looked at a map of the universe lately, but it's big. Infinite, even. Our planet is a grain of sand on an endless shore. So what does that make us? Heck, we're not even worm turds, we're worm turd dust.

But enough of waxing poetic. Suffice it to say that this piece of worm turd dust cannot feature coming up with an agenda for God. And if I was God, I'd hardly ask a worm to be my personal assistant. As for the Rapture, didn't any of those Christians read the verse that says no one knows the day or hour of Christ's return? That he'll come like a thief in the night? I'm almost tempted to pray for God to mess with them a little, except that I hate to bother Him with such trifles.

I'm not one to get all excited over these events. The night before Y2K I grudgingly drove to the store and bought a gallon of water, just in case. Tonight, well, I've packed my toothbrush, a half a bottle of wine, and my Sizzlin' Sudokus, in case there's a long line at the Gate. But honestly? I got a feeling that Sunday morning I'll still be here, Rapture or no. It's okay, I'll be in the good company of my fellow worms, and as always, we'll help each other out.

God as a Work in Progress

2011-05-08T08:46:00.024-04:00

I love this painting. It's by Barry Reigate. His work is a commentary on our cultural inertia and exhaustion, rampant consumerism, and so on. But my reading of the painting, and my instant hit, is that he's painting God. No, really - I'm serious. This particular piece is how I think of God: a self-sustaining, cosmic entity that's endlessly tweaking and perfecting itself in order to understand its own nature. We tend to think of God as a Done Deal, because that's what we were taught, in so many words. God as a fait accompli who created the world in six days, took a day off, and then joined AARP. That's the western version of God, and the one with which we're most comfortable.

But to many, the experience of God is quite different. He, or It, is characterized by an ongoing awareness, as familiar as one's breath, who is present at any given moment. When your attention goes to It, It is there. It's not separate from us, watching down from on high, but present in every moment. It is a blink, a salt shaker, the sound of a siren, the laundry you need to do, you. There's nothing that's not It. If I take drink of water, that is God drinking in God; God nourishing Itself with Itself. The Hindus call this Brahman.

I know, it's whacked out, but I don't think it's as crazy as the notion of some bearded bloke up in the clouds, silently ordering us around like a cosmic movie director. Most people experience God as a presence; an energy that is here, now, at any given moment. There is no separation, rather there is penetration and coexistence. It's not something that we spend a lot of time thinking about. We take for granted this presence, just as we take for granted our next breath. In the same way that you don't panic when you see these freaky looking blobs protruding from your body because you know that they're your arms, you don't take much notice of this presence that's always been there, because, well, it's always been there.

If you experience any of the above, and you agree that God is everything, everywhere, always, then it's not a stretch to imagine God as an ongoing project. God as an evolving mystery, who is intensely interested in discovering Itself. God as a state of perpetual wonder, of childlike curiosity, who is continually tweaking, probing, discovering, and awakening to Itself. Thus my instantaneous reaction to the above painting; it seemed to me to be a portrait of God in Its process of realization.

All of this may be an affront to those who need God to be already perfect and without need of evolving. A lot of you don't like to think of God as a work in progress. But why not? Why can't God, who after all is supposed to be in our likeness, be transforming Itself into a better God? Is that so threatening? Do we need to idolize perfection in order to have something to strive for? Can't we become better human beings on our own? One could make the argument that atheists are more virtuous than believers, because their ethics are based in experience, not dogma. They're decent to others not because it's getting them brownie points in heaven, but simply because they believe that all beings deserve respect.

In "On God", Norman Mailer posits that God is an artist, and His creation is imperfect. He cites evolution and volcanoes as evidence of God reworking His creative mistakes. Makes sense to me! I'm totally down with the idea of an imperfect God. It kinda makes me happy, even. Makes me feel like we're all in this together, including God, which is a truly catholic experience. If God is in everything, and everything is evolving, why should God be exempt? Hey, no one's perfect.

Above: Barry Reigate, Criminology, 2005, oil and acrylic on canvas.

A Castle for the Royal Couple

2011-04-29T14:01:00.017-04:00

Castle: 'Interior Castle' by Saint Teresa
Letters cut from 'Mysterium Coniunctionis'
by Carl Jung. 14" x 10.5", 2010

How 'bout that royal wedding, huh? Have you recovered from the riveting event? I'll bet there wasn't a wet eye in the house. Me, I was royally apathetic about the whole thing, but NPR insisted on covering it, blow by bloody blow, so I had no choice but to listen in. (God forbid I should turn off NPR). Well, I wish them all the best, and may their holy matrimony be cosmically and preternaturally blessed from here to kingdom come.

Back here on Planet Madge, I got my own stuff goin' on. For those of you who won't be spending the weekend with the royal couple, I'm in a show tomorrow (Saturday, April 30) at ACA Gallery in Chelsea. It's at 529 West 20th St., 5th floor, and the opening is from 2-5:00. I sent invitations to all my friends, and then followed it with an email insisting that they don't come. They've all seen my work, it's going to be a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and I don't want anyone to trouble themselves. So far it looks like I've been persuasive - no friends coming. Crap. Maybe I'll bring a book.

Anyway, if you're in the area, please please PLEEEEEASE stop by! It's my first time showing in Chelsea and I'm a wee bit nervous. O, I forgot to mention what the show is. It's called "Fragments: Modern and Contemporary Collage", and there are some pretty awesome artists in the show: Joseph Cornell, Judy Chicago, Romare Bearden, Jim Dine, Tony Fitzpatrick, Red Grooms, Grace Hartigan, Louise Nevelson, Andy Warhol, Max Weber....yeah, so now you see why I'm a little nervous. I'm honored to have been asked to show with such amazing artists. I'll be showing the piece above, which I just found out has sold (yay!) as well as two other pieces.

Actually, I'm a little sad that it sold. I really love this piece. It took me an ungodly number of hours to do it, and I cried the whole time because I'd just gotten royally dumped by a guy. There's a fair amount of tears and snot mixed in with the glue. Maybe I won't tell the collector that, and maybe it's just as well that I send it on its merry way. Onward. But it's difficult to part with a chunk of my heart...anyone who's an artist knows exactly what I'm talking about. Selling art is like selling your children: you gotta get a decent price. But I'm thrilled that someone would fork over the cash to have it on their wall, so it's fine. It's fine. I'll be fine.

Blessings to one and all, and an effervescent toast to the happy couple. May your hearts be open and your castles full.

Song of the Everfree

2011-04-25T21:11:00.020-04:00

I'm not sure how or when this happened, but I just noticed that a lot more people are following my blog. Jeez, what's up with that? Something in the water maybe? Thanks everyone! And a heartfelt welcome to my blog. I write when I can, and sometimes when I can't. It's become part of my creative process–a way to sort out my thinking, as well as to explain my work to anyone who's interested. And I like to write, and I'm never short on opinions, and so forth, and so on.

Briefly, my creative work goes like this: I cut up sacred texts letter by letter, disemboweling the word of God, and then reconfigure them letter by letter to create another sacred text. An example is the piece above: I created the first chapter of the "Avadhuta Gita" by Dattatreya (also called "The Song of the Everfree") by cutting the letters from "The Joyful Path of Good Fortune", a Buddhist text by the enlightened master Geshe Kelsang Gyatso. In other words, I've sacrificed a sacred Buddhist text to create a sacred Hindu text. Hey, it was one or 'tother. But not to worry - sooner or later I'm bound to cut up a Koran or something else to create a passage from "The Joyful Path". Yo, it's all good. I'm an equal opportunity disemboweler, and I do it all with respect, just so you know. Not that anyone has accused me of the contrary, but I'm just sayin'.

So anyway, the Avadhuta Gita is a seminal piece of sacred writing that lays out the principles of Advaita Vedanta. No light piece of writing, this. The ancients actually called it Extreme Advaita, which sounds very contemporary and action-packed. (I'd have preferred Gnarly Advaita, but the translators didn't consult with me). The point is that Dattatreya really puts it out there: He states that we live in a fog and must shake off the illusion of duality in order to have the experience of Oneness. (Advaita means literally "not two").

I'm not keen on categorizations, especially when I'm the one being categorized, thus I avoid all religious affiliations. But if someone held a water gun to my nostril and forced me to label myself, I'd grudgingly call myself an Advaitan. That's about the closest I'll come to admitting any belief system. And, after all, Advaita Vedanta is more of an experience than a belief. The belief in a formless, indivisible, immutable Supreme Consciousness that pervades all of existence is totally whacked out. You'd have to be a full-on nutter to believe something so bizarre, without any reference point to back it up. It's the experience of this Consciousness, or state of being, that's the convincing part. And of course that experience is interpreted in many ways, and called names that we're all familiar with:

God

Allah
Atman
Y-hw-h
Shekinah
Holy Ghost
Brahman
Shakti
Elv-s

...and so on. You get my point. We all got our labels. But Advaita is the closest tradition I've found to being label-free. It's all about knowledge through experience, leading to realization. Realization of what? Realization that you're It, baby. You are one of those things listed above. Doesn't matter which one you pick; you're It. Another way of putting it:

You are that which you seek.

Here–read this passage from the Avadhuta Gita if you don't believe me:

The quintessence of the whole Vedanta is the knowledge and the realization of the Atman. By nature I am that formless, all-pervading Atman.

See, what I love about Advaita is that you can retain your belief system, whatever it may be, and still be an Advaitan. There's Christian Advaita, which you can read about here if you're inclined. It's pretty fascinating. Here's another quote from the same chapter:

The Atman exists always, everywhere, and in everything. It is eternal and unchanging. Everything in this world is void, and again, it is filled with the Atman. Realize: I am that Atman.

The piece above, like all my work, is comprised of a single line of type, without spaces or punctuation. It starts and stops at the same point on the page, and creates a leaf-like structure, framed and supported by itself. The line is void of distinction, identical from start to finish, conceptually without beginning, middle, or end. To quote the Gita one more time:

Truly, all this is Brahman.

* * * * *

For those in the NYC area, I'll be in a show this weekend in Chelsea. It's at ACA Gallery, 529 West 20th St, New York. The opening is from 2-5:00. Read about it here if you'd like, and please come! I'll be showing with some amazing artists, some dead and some still living.

* * * * *

Above: The Song of the Everfree: The Avadhuta Gita from The Joyful Path of Good Fortune. 22" x 19", 2011.

Ai Weiwei and Salman Rushdie

2011-04-16T09:18:00.011-04:00

The weekend. Saturdays are my sacred day in the studio. I live for Saturdays, and am very possessive of them. If I have to go out on a Saturday night I get cranky, since it cuts into my studio day. So all week I've been [practicing] turning down offers for dates, in order to keep my coveted day intact. Success! No date tonight. (It's never been a problem, actually, but sooner or later I may have to turn someone down, and I want to be prepared).

I'm working on a semi-large piece that I'm pretty excited about. I'm cutting up 'The Satanic Verses' by Salman Rushdie, and turning it into a chapter from the Koran called 'Repentance'. For those of you who aren't familiar with my creative process, I cut up sacred texts letter by letter and reconfigure the letters to create other sacred texts. In this case, the novel I'm cutting up – 'The Satanic Verses' – is admittedly not sacred, at least not in the sense of being a world religion. I take these liberties from time to time. But it's a reknowned piece of literature nonetheless, and notable for the controversy surrounding it. 'Verses' was published in 1988 and was immediately interpreted by radical Muslims as an insult to Allah. There are indeed blasphemous passages, and enough cynicism to fry an egg (apparently the Ayatollah wasn't keen on irony), so the novel was banished and an attempt was made to fry Mr. Rushdie's ass. Incongruously, the fatwah is still out on him, and he's been forced to live his life in exile in the U.S.

The novel isn't so spectacular. I've never been a big fan of magical realism, and the story has too many magical sub-plots for this reader. I mean, c'mon buddy...pick a lane. I can't keep up with all your fancies, and your lavish literary references are like ping pong balls bouncing around the inside my skull. My lofty opinion is that Mr. Rushdie should-ought to tighten the plot for his pea-brained readers with short attention spans. A weekend writing seminar with Danielle Steel should do the trick and maybe even render his novels readable. Now there's a gal who can write! No PhD needed to decipher her plots. But hey, whaddoo I know, huh? It's not as though one has to pass a literary exam, or even an English test, to write an art blog.

But anyway, all that is beside the point. I wanted to address the fact that his writing was banished, and it actually got him banished from his country. What a concept! Can you imagine creating something from your heart, and then having your life in jeopardy as a result? O gracious! It makes me weak with wonder. The artist, she should be able to say what she wants. The artist Ai Weiwei has been arrested because his art is critical of the Chinese government. This is insanity. As if the Chinese government is beyond reproach! They govern with egregious self-interest, and imprison those who stand in their way. When the people who set the rules are allowed to severely punish those who don't obey, there's bound to be corruption. Religion is ripe soil for this scenario, since it claim to hold the key to the afterlife. Throughout history there have been countless innocents and truth-tellers who have suffered at the hands of the arrogant power mongers.

My text piece addresses all of this: Namely, the creative person who states the truth and who pays a tragic price for it. But I leave some wiggle room for ambiguity. The question is one of intention. Am I further insulting Islam by cutting up the writings of an infidel and recreating a passage from the Koran? Or am I bringing restitution to the original offense, and making holy something that is considered blasphemous? (Please note my choice of chapter from the Koran: 'Repentance').

Anyone who's familiar with my work knows that I have deep regard for all religions, and respect anyone's spiritual path. I even respect the person with no spiritual path, and one who, like me, follows the pathless path. So I trust that my intentions for this piece are understood to be respectful of Muslims. Restitution is what I have in mind and heart as I work on this piece. Of course I have no affiliation with Rushdie and cannot know what he would say, nor if he'd approve of my efforts. (I suspect that he would not). This is my own expression of repentance, restitution, and reparation. I seek only to create something beautiful where there has been conflict. Surely it won't change anything, but even small transformations can be felt...sometimes...maybe...who knows. But I live in a free country, so no one can arrest me for what I say or make. God bless America, huh? We're a messed up nation, but at least we got one thing right.

Off Da Chain

2011-04-09T08:42:00.014-04:00

I read a lot of religious texts, and then later pick and choose which ones to use in my creative work. You'd be amazed at how many are out there. It's kind of amazing, actually. God, or Consciousness, or whatever is responsible for existence, seems to have revealed Itself innumerable times, in countless ways. I don't trouble myself with determining which writings are from God and which are counterfeits; I take the lazy path and assume that if someone goes to all the trouble of writing an exhaustive tome and publishing the dang thing, and if it has even an inkling of authority, then far's I'm concerned it's sacred.* But I'm also of the opinion that everything is sacred, which is a convenient segue to the subject of this blog post.

The text that I'm currently reading is called 'The Secret Oral Teachings in Tibetan Buddhist Sects'. It's a dog-eared, yellowed copy that I found in a bookstore in the East Village, and has been sitting patiently on my shelf for over a year. Pretty dense stuff. It's not what one would call action packed, and I seriously doubt that anyone is in a bidding war for the film rights. But if you're like me and like to self-flagellate from time to time, I highly recommend it.

It contains a metaphor that resonated with me in a big way. With your permission, and even without, I'm going to paraphrase. It goes something like this:

You are chained around the neck to a post. Your chain is made of gold, and you see everything as "good". There is a person next to you who is chained to the same post, but her chain is made of iron, and she sees everything as "bad". You're both aware that your respective chains have bound you all your life, but are helpless to break them. You know that if she would just stop seeing everything as "bad", and start seeing it as "good", she'd be released from her chain. And she knows that if you would stop seeing everything as "good", and start seeing it through her more realistic eyes, you would likewise be released. The only freedom, then, is when we rise above the chains of "good" and "bad", and understand that they only serve to restrict us. True freedom comes when we realize that everything is sacred.

Including the chain.

[brief pause to accommodate your astonishment and let it all sink in]

I'm looking forward to using this passage in one of my text pieces. I haven't yet figured out what other religious text I'll be slicing up to create it. There needs to be some parallel, either by similarity or distinction, and this perspective on good and evil is quite unusual. Most religions are not keen on sanctifying "evil". That's the devil's domain, and thus is not to be confused with God's will. Hey, I get it. It's confusing stuff. A pastor's congregation would empty fast if she started preaching that all events are ordained by God. It doesn't take a genius to see how much pain this would cause to a family who's grieving.

We uphold the distinction of "good" and "evil" by social necessity, to comfort those in distress as well as to punish those who caused it. If there were no consequences for selfish behavior, we'd really be in a fix. There must be separate categories for "good" and "bad" in order for us to function as a society with reasonable efficiency. And then we go and drive the point home by creating categories within categories; we can't just have "good", we also have to have "better", and then "best". And thus we invent award ceremonies and lifetime achievement awards, for those who need to see "good" improved upon. It's all relative, and indeed sometimes "bad" is better than "good".

But individually, as reasonable adults, we have to consent that the notions of "good" and "not-so-good" are arbitrary. What makes you feel really good may in fact be causing wretched pain to someone else. If you knew that your current distress was going to be the catalyst for major change and ultimately place you in a position to experience unbridled bliss, would you still label it "bad"? Heck no! You'd be all over it, telling everyone how "good" life is.

So as a society, sure, we have to go with the paradigm of good and evil. Societies aren't too keen on ambiguity, thus we create such institutions as the Republican party and the Evangelical Fundamentalists, who embrace and foster the simplistic notions of black and white. O, but how simple life would be if the "bad" guys wore black! We'd no longer have to think, we'd just pull the trigger! And President Palin would be our fearless leader, and we'd be forever rid of all those nasty gray areas in life. Hallelujah, pie-ple!

But individually, we know that it's all a crock. God, or Consciousness, is beyond any childish notions of permanence. Anyone who claims to know the will of Consciousness is still in chains. In this unimaginably complex universe in which we find ourselves, the mystery prevails, untouched by the presumptions of the learned. Verily I say unto you, there is no good, there is no evil, and folks, there ain't no chain.

* But just because it's sacred doesn't mean it's true. Truth is relative, and sometimes "truth" is just plain false. I don't assume that a person's purported revelation came from God, but I don't assume that it didn't, either. I only assume that it's sacred. And so on.

Muammar and The Madge

2011-04-05T09:57:00.012-04:00

I've always been an avid reader, and am reasonably familiar with the English language. There aren't many adjectives with which I'm not on a first name basis, so it was with some consternation that I read the following sentence in a review in "Art in America" last November:

"To make her small-scale collages on paper, Meg Hitchcock slices up diverse source texts ranging from the Old Testament to Darwin and glues the individual letters into mandala-like compositions, to near phantasmagorical effect."

Say whaat?? Now, art critics can write some pretty impenetrable stuff, but yo homey, you can't just invent words to describe my work. Why not supercalifrajilistical? Well, turns out that it really is a word. "A bizarre combination of constantly changing optical effects"? Jeez. Makes me wonder if the critic didn't like my work. Or maybe she was referring the Urban Dictionary definition: "Completely and utterly awesome to the point that if you were any more awesome you would internally combust."

Imagine my shock, then, to find the same obtuse word used in the recent "New Yorker" to describe Muammar Qaddafi. Check it out:

"Last month, Muammar Qaddafi, who combines a phantasmagorical sense of reality with an unbounded capacity for terror, appeared on television to say that the rebels were nothing more than Al Qaeda extremists..."

Call me a nutter, but I believe these things fall into alignment for a reason. Jung calls it synchronicity. When events parallel each other or occur simultaneously, he says you need to pay attention because something important is coming down the pike. Okay, so what'm I to make of this phantasmic alignment? Am I to sharpen my cooking knives and head for Libya? I'd undoubtedly be better armed than most of the rebels already there. Are Muammar and I destined for holy matrimony? I'm not so sure that his other wives will be agreeable with having to accommodate a middle-aged artist who cuts up Korans for fun. Or maybe Qaddafi is to be a future collector of my art? Hey, I could sure use a wealthy patron, and just because the guy is evil incarnate doesn't mean that he doesn't have a taste for the phantasmagoric.

Keep in mind that I've only come across this word twice in my life. Coincidence? Karma? Or just plain krap? The thing about coincidence is that it's often mislabeled due to lack of information. Like, today as I was waiting in line at my bank, I noticed, as I do every time I'm there, that all the tellers were wearing green. A dullard might consider this to be an astonishing coincidence. I, being alert and ever the cynic, am comfortable in assuming that green is the required attire, and furthermore that the average teller tires of it quickly. I'd even go so far as to guess that it was the brainchild of some dolt in mid-management who thought that we, the worthy but less educated customers, would be more inclined to deposit our cash in an institution so steeped in green that their employees voluntarily clad themselves in it each morning. I also note that there are green lollipops on the counter, a subtle reminder that poverty sucks. I suspect that if mid-management had their way, the tellers would be required to suck them while providing us with excellent service, but the prohibitive cost of dental insurance intervened and thus sucking is optional. But anyway, surely you'll agree that in this situation, it wasn't coincidence that governed the choice of attire.

There are those occasions, however, when coincidence is a dubious explanation for parallel events. Like, if I started wearing green shirts and sucking green lollies, and within 24 hours I won the state lottery, I would be willing to embrace the possibility that greater forces are at work in the universe, and that God in all His mysteriousness had chosen to bestow prosperity upon all believers through the unlikely agent of the TD Bank marketing team. I may be a cynic, but I can be as open-minded as the next guy as long as there's plenty of cash involved.

But back to me and Muammar. There's a good chance that all this was pure coincidence, and that we're not destined to meet up in the future. I'm actually fine with that. He's not really my type, and he sorta creeps me out, in a phantasmagoricalistic-ass kind of way. But I'm concerned for him, because it looks like he's going to be out of a job real soon, and I'm afraid that with his advanced years and limited set of skills, he might have trouble finding another job. I think I'll drop him an application for TD Bank, as they're kind to seniors, and it's the least I can do for someone so darn phantasmarrific.

Above: There's my guy, wearin' the green. He's got the right idea, but maybe I'll suggest that he tone it down a little when he goes for his job interview. And try to smile, for gadsake.

Revelation: The Condensed Version

2011-03-28T22:36:00.010-04:00

I scraped my installation off the gallery walls today. The ritual of taking it down was as important to me as putting it up, and for a while I was thinking it was going to take equally long. The glue dried really hard, and wasn't flaking off as I'd hoped. But I hit it with some hot water, let it soak for a few, and it came off easily.

I can't tell you how many people were upset about my taking it down without making an attempt to salvage it. That was never the point. From the start I wanted it to be contained within a time limitation, alluding to transience, the ephemeral, and need to let go. Sorta like the Tibetan monks who take weeks to create intricate sand mandalas, and then, after a sacred ritual, destroy the piece. It points to the impermanence of life, as well as the need to be fully present in the moment. I received many suggestions about doing my next installation in such a way that I could afterwards take it down and install it somewhere else. This has no appeal to me whatsoever. I'd sooner make T-shirts of my work and sell them at Wal*Mart.

There are always faster, easier, and more efficient ways for an artist to work. But then one has to ask: What is the point of making art? To pump out product? To minimize effort? To maximize exposure? Would all that lead to a disengagement with the process of creativity? And once the artist disengages from her work, doesn't everyone feel the vacuum? Don't we experience enough soul-sucking in our lives already?

I don't plan on doing another installation any time soon; I'm just going to stick to my works on paper for a while. But I'm so grateful to Kevin and Ellen for taking a leap of faith and letting me do the installation in their gallery. After all, they had no idea what it was going to look like, nor did I. I'm also grateful for the people who came to the show and were so supportive, as well as those who were supportive from afar. Thanks, everyone. Y'all rock.

Above: The Book of Revelation, Post-Apocalypse. This version is for folks with ADD.

Fire and Brimstone on the M Train

2011-03-25T08:03:00.019-04:00

I've settled into my new digs and am thrilled to have space again. Too much of it, in fact, but I'll manage. When you live in New York City, you have to choose between space and proximity to Manhattan. I'd dearly love to live in, oh, Tribeca, but 'twould be a broom closet that my meager income could afford. My taste leans toward the palatial, so clearly I'm not going to be a Manhattanite, unless I marry one, and that's sounding less appealing all the time. I'm twenty minutes from Manhattan, with glorious amounts of space, and Saint Joseph looking down on me from the church across the street. Doesn't get much better'n that. It's even possible that I'm happy.

There's wonderful diversity out here in the inner boroughs, from those fortunate enough to have lived here for many generations, to transplants like myself who have discovered the joys of outer city living. In my new neck of Bushwick, the only sign of gentrification is a crowded McDonalds. It's just a matter of time until the Starbucks' bloodhounds sniff out our 'hood and pee on the fire hydrants. But until then, Knickerbocker Avenue is strictly Hispanic. A few days ago I made the grave mistake of ducking into a Dominican restaurant and ordering a burrito. Hoo baby, bad idea. I'd have been better off ordering Chicken Chow Mein, or a turd on a bun. I guess the Dominicans are pretty uppity about what, and whom, they serve.

Now, as you might imagine in a community that's overwhelmingly Hispanic, there is no shortage of Christians here. And from what I can tell, not a lot of spiritual crises goin' on. These good people are solid in their faith and family, and that's that. It's enviable, and I got no problem widdit. You know this is leading up to a Big But, right? Yeah, so here it is:

***

I don't like to be preached to.

***

Let me put that another way: I seriously, majorly, ballistically don't like to be preached to. I didn't know this about myself until I moved out here. It was discovered on the subway. There seems to be some Christian order that requires its converts to preach salvation on the M train. All I know is that on three occasions, a guy (always a different guy) has gotten on my car, apologized for the interruption, and started telling the whole lot of us why we need to turn to Jesus.

A funny thing happens to me when these words hit my eardrums. It starts in my gut, waves of heat spreading slowly toward my extremities like an internal tsunami. I look around to see if my fellow passengers are likewise engulfed, but they seem to ignore the soothsayer effortlessly. Me, I'm aflame. I can't bear it. His presumptuous preaching falls on me like acid rain, and I fail all efforts to sit calmly.

Now, you may say that I'm possessed by demons. I don't think so. I don't have any problem with Christians, or with Christ, for that matter. It's a totally workable option, and I honor it wholeheartedly. I simply don't like to be preached to. It galls me that anyone would have the audacity to think he knows what God wants for my life. But what really gets me all postalcidal is when someone deigns to tell me that I'm a sinner.

Did you ever watch The Incredible Hulk? Okay, so imagine if he had a girlfriend. Madge, the Incredible Hulkette. Except that instead of green, I turn scarlet. My nostrils become cute little blowtorches. Two pointy nubs emerge from my temples, my tail swishes furiously, and from my loins there springs a resistance so mighty and terrible that it could pulverize an army of Crusaders. But all I got is one skinny Christian, nervously preaching Jesus and telling me why I seriously suck. What's a possessed heathen to do?

I gather my bags, grab my tail, and slither to another car. Hey, I may be possessed, but I'm still a coward. And I don't need to sully this guy's trip. He may be right, and God has instructed him to preach it on the M train. But God talks to me too, and has suggested that the reason I get so wigged out is because I used to preach my beliefs just like this guy. O, the irony! Our mortal foes always hold the largest mirrors.

A Moving Weekend

2011-02-28T02:16:00.017-05:00

Hey, check out the view from my new digs. A classic Brooklyn panorama! Looks like I copped it from a movie set, but it's the real deal. Killer sunsets, and the morning light shining down on the two bell towers is divine. I was delighted to have a saint watching o'er me by night, since I can see the statue from my bed, and he me. That is, until I did a little research and found out that it's Saint Joseph, patron saint of virgins. Crap. I'm thinking of moving my bed to the other end of the loft.

It took me two moving companies to hump all my belongings over here. No kidding–five guys on Saturday, and two on Sunday. Now, I don't think of myself as a person who has a lot of stuff. I'm like the opposite of a pack rat. I read a birthday card and throw it away immediately. If it's handmade, I wait an hour and then throw it away. Love letters, vacation souvenirs, remnants of past lives–all gone to the wind. How did this great accumulation happen? It's a question that's been eating away at me all weekend.

So while seven beefcakes moved my copious piles of crap, I continued to pack and fume and contemplate the nature of existence. Why do we hold onto stuff? What's behind the psychological pull to amass worldly goods? Isn't it enough just to be alive? Do we accumulate objects as a way to validate ourselves?

As I packed up my holy books, I saw a brownish blob between two volumes on the shelf, and poked it with dread. It was a desiccated cockroach, big as yer thumb. Jeez. I lived in that place for almost four years and saw nary an insect or rodent, and here was the godfather of all roaches, who apparently met his end while kneeling in prayer. I couldn't figure it out. I looked for clues, like a little suicide note explaining his angst, but found nothing. It had to have been a spiritual crisis of some sort; after all, a normal roach would've died in a kitchen cupboard, but this bloke went straight for the holy books. I suspect that he was overwhelmed by his options, since he was lodged between the Bhagavad Gita and Book of Mormon. Poor bugger. No respectable roach should ever have to choose between Krishna and Joseph Smith.

But the point...ah yes, the point! He didn't have a bunch of stuff on him. No rolled up canvases, no boxes of expensive art books, no framed masterpieces, nothing. He went out the way he came in, if not a few ounces heavier. Humans are the only insects who glom onto objects and use them to make statements about themselves. What if no one had anything? Wouldn't that be solid awesomeness? Nothing but your breath to call your own? Stripped down to their skivvies, there's not a lot of difference between an heiress decorating her third penthouse, and a homeless person schlepping endless bags of worthless possessions. I find it heartbreaking, this need to cling. There was a time in my life that everything I owned could fit into my Ford Granada. I envy that cockroach, even though his end was undignified. I'm awaiting the autopsy report, which may shed some light on his death, but one thing is certain: he carried no baggage during the Final Crunch.

Would that I could say the same. As things stand now, I could sink a battleship. I'd love to build a large raft, pile all my worldly possessions onto it, and send it out to sea. Liberation! Clarity! Unity! O gracious, what a concept! I'll ponder it today while I unpack.

Moving and Shaking

2011-02-24T22:41:00.018-05:00

I'm back. Hope you didn't wait up for me. The art opening happened, and it exceeded my most reserved optimisms. The overall reaction to the installation seemed 1) genuine, and 2) positive. A swell time was had by all, unless I'm completely deluded. It didn't hurt that it was an unusual springlike New York evening, with an uncharacteristically warm wind that reminded me of the Santa Ana winds in southern California. And a full moon never hurts to draw out the roaming packs of long-toothed art lovers. So Your Madge was pleasantly surprised by the turnout, humbled by the response, and grateful for the support. Many thanks to all who either sent or brought their good wishes.

And now I'm immersed in packing hell. Omg. See, I'd just blanked all this out, since I was so focused on my installation, but now it's front and center, in my face. I gotta be out of my loft by the end of February, which sadistically has but 28 days. I've spent the past two days packing all my Bibles, whips, and pincers, which filled a good 20 boxes. I got way too much crap. I mean, how much art does one person need?? It's ridiculous to possess such a glut. And to make things worse, it's all really great art by artists whom I've collected over the years, so there's just no possible way that I can get rid of any of it. I'm insanely fortunate to possess such a wealth of stimulating art by interesting and intelligent artists. I don't know why I'm not envied more than I am.

Where am I going with all of this? See, I'm sorta backed against a wall. Screwed, I think they call it. I've hired a gaggle of beefy men to move me on Sunday, but between now and then I gotta load all my crap into boxes. Will she do it? Will her single-handed efforts suffice? or will her Puritan ethic crack a-twain and force her to commit the unpardonable sin--that of Asking For Help? Noooooooooooo! N'er shall she commit such an abomination. Our Madge is a New Englander through and through, and shan't ask for help unless she's reduced to a quivering puddle on the floor, at which point she will deign to ask someone to mop her over to one side, so as not to obstruct the flow of traffic. Don't mind me, folks...just step around the puddle...so sorry for the inconvenience...O gracious, did you get your feet wet? Sorry...sorry....

I've had some offers for help, but they were delivered with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. ("You probably don't need my help moving, right?") or ("I guess I could help you if nothing else is happening on Saturday night, but will have to get back to you"). One offer of particular largess was for the shirt off an erstwhile friend's back, which excelled as a platitude, but reeked in reality, as only a well worn shirt can do. What the hell am I supposed to do with a smelly old shirt?

Next time I have a friend who's moving, I'm showing up at his or her door in my grubbies, tape gun in one hand and coffee in 'tother. No questions asked, no refusals accepted. This is why we're here--to alleviate each others' burdens. Period. On occasions such as the one in which I currently find myself, God transforms itself into a verb. God is what we do for each other, and by extension, for ourselves.

But to pull myself through this move, I just keep thinking about my new digs, which is a brand spanking new 701-square-foot studio, with rivers of milk and honey flowing through it, well-hung bath attendants at the ready to wipe me down after every shower, comely virgins to test the bath waters (not that I'd know what to do with a comely virgin, but I'll bet the bath attendants will), and golden fountains pumping out gin & tonics 24/7. You think I'm kidding? I'll send you a postcard, or better yet, come see for yourself. Now. And don't forget your tape gun.

Above: A portion of my installation at Famous Accountants Gallery. The show is up until March 27.

Rough Cuts Video

2011-02-15T10:18:00.001-05:00

A Fab New 'Do for Armageddon

2011-02-10T22:17:00.016-05:00

Making excellent progress. Sorta. Tonight I reached chapter 19, but had to stop because I felt a little nauseous. Inversions have never been agreeable to me, and in fact are the reason that I've never stuck with yoga for very long. Hard to do a downward dog when you feel like you might upward chuck. After last week's meltdown(s), I called a few sympathetic friends, who hosed me down, slapped me around, and straightened me out. I've finally reached a place of equilibrium around my installation, and realize that the final product isn't what the piece is about. It's really about the process, bringing everything I have to it, seeing it through to its completion, and then letting it go. Beyond that, it's out of my hands. And frankly, I'm so strung out from the physical and mental exhaustion that I'm beyond caring one way or 'tother how it's received. Besides, I got bigger fish to fry--like, my new 'do.

Yup, I got my hair cut and colored last night. I don't do this often, but decided to treat myself. We martyrs don't like to appear frumpy. The hair? Why, it would look just fab, if I was a saucy septuagenarian. But I'm considerably shy of that, so instead it makes me look staunchly and scarily conservative. Matronly, even. Or so I thought, but what do I know, so I asked my hairstylist if I didn't look like a Tupperware hostess. He assured me that I was major awesomeness, but I don't know. See, the thing is, he and I used to date, but now we don't, thus I'm not so sure that his opinion can be considered 100% trustworthy, ya know? Like, if you dated your gynecologist and then split up with him, don't you think it would be in everyone's best interest to find a new doctor? Or if you date your car mechanic and he sees you out with another guy, wouldn't you be a little nervous to have him work on your brakes? Especially if the other guy was your gynecologist?

Yeah. So even though my hair guy and I are good friends, I'm not convinced that he's doing his utmost to render me irresistible. What if he's doing the polar opposite of what looks good? How would I know? I don't know from hair. I've always told him to just do what he wants and wake me up when he's finished. I suspect that he's made me look middle-aged and menopausal; a so-too-busy mom who just dropped off the kids at Saturday soccer practice, and is now on her harried way to a Tea Party luncheon.

So this weekend I have to finish chapters 19, 20, and 21. That shouldn't be a problem, as it generally takes about 5 hours to complete a chapter, if it's just straight going, with no mountains to climb or valleys to cross. Then next week I'll knock out chapter 22, and that, dear friends, will be all she wrote. The Antichrist, Armageddon, the whore of Babylon, false prophets, locusts, beasts, feasts–it'll all be behind me as I follow the yellow brick road right on out of Oz and the sun sets on me and my sporty new bouffant.

Above: There she is - Saint Madge, all done up and ready to accept her lifetime martyr award. Tell me the truth--don't you think it's just a little too poofy?

Light from the Koran

2011-02-06T09:20:00.004-05:00

In addition to the installation, I'll be showing a few small pieces at my opening at Famous Accountants Gallery on February 18. This one is a beautiful passage from the Koran, an excerpt from the chapter called 'Light'. I cut the letters from 'Ecclesiasticus', a book from the Apocryphal Bible. It's small; 5.25" x 3.5".

There's a typo in it. Drat. Hate it when that happens. My excuse is borrowed from the makers of Turkish rugs--they always weave into their designs a subtle flaw, in order to keep themselves humble. A perfect carpet would be an insult to Allah, who is the only perfect One around. These days I'm not having any trouble staying humble, but just in case, I threw in a typo. Just a little insurance against future pride, you might say.

The Thankless Job of Self-Mythologization

2011-02-03T22:00:00.023-05:00

Another long day at the gallery. I'm beat up. This is getting less fun all the time. Just finished chapter 13, which culminates by revealing the number of the beast, which we all know by now is 666. I hit the floor when I got to that part. Literally–the line of type reached the floor, which means that I was sprawled out like a spastic yogini to reach the awkward passage where the baseboard meets the floor. Think about your last gynecological exam, and you'll get an idea of the position I've been in for the last two hours, minus the stirrups. The next stretch will be across the floor with chapter 14, and then I'll be off the ground again and onto my fourth lap around the gallery.

This installation has me going 24/7. I'm not sure which is more exhausting: self-flagellating by day, or self-mythologizing by night. I'm becoming pretty good at both. I yearn for the day when I'm perched in my new studio, sipping a cup of tea with pointed pinky while blithely working away on my newest text drawing. I don't know why I took on this installation. If I'd thought about it, I might have realized what a toll it would take on my body and mind. But all I cared about was seeing what my work looked like as an installation. So here I am, whining round the clock, presenting myself as the long-suffering succotash who makes endless sacrifices for her art. The simple truth is that I didn't know what I was getting myself into. But I can't back out now, so what's a naive artist to do?

Self-mythologize, of course. My analyst could explain the whole thing if you're really interested, but it might put you to sleep. It even bores me a little. Here's the long and short of it: I'm messed up. Functional, but a few hinges need oiling, if you know what I mean. I know you do, that's why I'm not terribly embarrassed by any of this. My theory is that we're all messed up, but some people just don't realize it. Those are the solid nutters; the wretchedly obtuse. Blessed are those who know their defects, and cursed are those who don't think they have any.

But back to me. I think I must be giving my internal demons a good workout by taking on this crazy project. And I'm aware that by going public with my angst, I'm attempting to elevate my installation and myself into the realm of the martyred saints. More or less. I mean, why suffer in silence when I can just as easily turn on the live cam and get a little sympathy? Hey, now there's an angle I hadn't thought of: a live cam in the gallery, so I can wink at the camera during my prolonged flagellations. A reality show to seal my fate and ensure my fortune! Slam dunk and ka-ching! After all, reality shows are nothing more than a platform for ingratiating the bloated ego. Why not mine?

If you're an artist and you feel like you're not getting the attention you deserve, I highly recommend self-mythologizing. Not because it works (unfortunately it's very transparent), but because you might be able to convince yourself and a handful of others that your efforts are worthy and your suffering noble. If you don't know where to begin, just start a blog and write about yourself and your tribulations. Post pictures of yourself often. Wear lipstick. Show cleavage, if you got it. And don't be afraid to align yourself with future world events, like, say, Armageddon. If it never happens, no one will hold you responsible, but if it does, you're golden.

The important thing to remember about self-mythologization is that it's a thankless task. It won't get your name etched into the wall of a museum, unless your daddy owns the museum. And it's a whole lot easier to mythologize if you've got money–the more the better. Gobs of money are a guarantee that your myth-making efforts will stick. Just ask The Donald, trumped-up mentor of mythic morons.

Okay, well, that's enough blog banter for tonight. I need to do my Sudoku puzzle and rest my weary bones. We martyrs may be immortal, but we still need our beauty sleep.

Above: This shows my process. I pick each letter off the board and place it on the wall, on which I've brushed a line of glue. The letters were pre-cut; I started cutting them back in August.

The Dark Side

2011-01-30T20:57:00.015-05:00

Thanks for all your good wishes on Sunday. A gal couldn't ask for a nicer send-off for my third trek over the ceiling, which I'm now fondly referring to as the Khyber Pass. If things get really nasty up there, I may be soon be calling it the Donner Pass. Unfortunately, I didn't cover much ground over the weekend. I got as far as the ceiling (see above), and then I ran out of steam. And then there's the whole issue of making a living. While I enjoy self-inflicted torture, there's no money in it, thus the day job beckons. It's become somewhat difficult to concentrate on my other work when I know the Whore of Babylon is waiting for me to recount her rank fornications from my wobbly ladder.

Speaking of which, as you can see from the photo, I'm having a blast. The photo's cropped, so you can't see the guy off to the right, holding the bull whip. I pay him to thrash me every six minutes, six times in quick succession. When he reaches 666 thrashes, we take a coffee break. That thing around my neck is a pillow, the kind you wear on an airplane. It's not terribly comfortable, but it keeps my head more or less intact. The positions I have to hold for extended periods are Satanic. Kevin at the gallery calls it Bad Yoga. I just call it pain.

Yup, so that's where my journey begins next time I go to the gallery. Now you get why I'm not hightailing it over there in any hurry. Besides, I prefer to do that stretch of ceiling when I'm alone in the gallery. It's just way too embarrassing to have anyone else around, since I spew profanities for the entire three feet. I have to. I don't know what else to do with myself. Chant Buddhist mantras? Recite the Lord's Prayer? Nah, I'd rather curse the kingdoms, and all the horses therein. It's much more satisfying, and then later, when I'm home and relaxed and fetal, I can whimper my prayers of repentance. My evening oblations consist of lengthy prayers to absolve my foul-mouthed execrations, and a Sudoku puzzle to eradicate any other sins that may have gone under the radar. (Or "pray-dar", as some Christians like to say).

You may think it odd that I allow profanities into the sacred circle of my installation. I don't see it as a contradiction; I see it as the fullness of God. Most people believe that God encompasses all that is "good", and that the sacred world is comprised of that which exists within the light. They forget that when God created light, He also created darkness. You can't have one without the other. Thus the fullness of God is expressed only when darkness is embraced. This is Gnostic, Christian, Tantric, Kabbalistic, Vedic, Taoist, Jungian, and good ol' common sense.

My text work embraces the shadow element of God. Not just the current installation, but each piece, and the body of work as a whole. There's a dark current running through all of it. I don't discuss it; it's too personal. But it's there, and the reason it's there is that the work feels incomplete without it. I don't seriously believe that cussing up a storm is a sacred act. But I wholeheartedly believe that when we acknowledge the fullness of our humanity, the darkness of our psyche as well as the infinite love in our hearts, we come that much closer to the essence of God.

I know that I greatly benefit by allowing the darkness a small portion of my creative work. And the truth is, if you don't embrace the darkness in one form or another, it'll express itself without your permission. And that, my friend, can get way ugly. I know you know what I'm talking about. The best thing you can do is to acknowledge your shadow and give it a voice. Think of it as releasing a pressure valve.

Tomorrow is February 1. Back to the ladder for Madge; my wobbly stairway to heaven. May you and your dark side have a blessed day!

The Khyber Pass Revisited

2011-01-30T10:16:00.012-05:00

I'm on my third lap around the gallery, and have reached chapter 11 of the book of Revelation, which means that I'm half way done. The glass alternates between being half empty and half full, depending on my mood. Right now, with the sun shining brightly in Bushwick and a decent amount of caffeine thrashing through my system, the assessment is that it's half full. Ask me later tonight, when my neck looks like it belongs on a Parmigianino Madonna, and I may have a different answer for you.

Today I'll execute my third trek across the ceiling, the dreaded Khyber Pass of my installation. It's not self-loathing that makes me do this--it's the architecture of the gallery. The line of type is continuous, so it has to go up a wall, across a 36" stretch of ceiling, and then down the other side, eventually creating a large circle of type. There's not a lot of oxygen up there, and it's just about the most unfun thing I can think of to do on a glorious Sunday afternoon. I thought about hiring a sherpa, but it's not the load that's heavy, it's the task. Another possibility is to apply a line of glue where I'd like the type to go, then throw a handful of pre-cut letters onto the ceiling and see what sticks. After all, who's ever going to read this??

I think what might be my salvation today is Kevin and Ellen, the owners of the gallery. They were there last night while I worked, and are terribly entertaining. At first they were a distraction, and my nose was slightly disjointed that they were imposing havoc on my concentration. But at some point it dawned on me that I was actually have fun, instead of my usual isolation tank of misery. Ah, sweet jollity, while I work! Gad, what a pair. A few drinks and they're like Laurel and Hardy. I think I'm falling in love them, if that's not too weird.

Okay, I'm off to the gallery. I figure I'll head up the incline by 3:00, be midway through the Pass by 4:00, and should summit around nightfall. Assuming that the border guards are friendly, my neck and I should cross over into Central Asia by 7:00. We'll send you a postcard to let you know we arrived safely.

Enjoy your Sunday!

Progress is a Foot

2011-01-26T21:30:00.015-05:00

A reasonably calm afternoon at the gallery. No major mishaps to report. Yesterday, however, I was careless and had a little accident. See, I have to crawl down off my ladder every fifteen minutes or so and slide it three feet to the right. Well, I placed my x-acto knife on the top step of the ladder, above my head and out of view, and when I moved the ladder, it rolled off the edge. I watched my knife execute a perfect swan dive off the top step, hurtling through space in slow motion, a projectile with a mission, and it happened to be in perfect alignment with my right foot. It then slowed down and hovered over my foot for a moment, suspended like the sword of Damocles, which didn't bode well for my installation. Finally it registered in my skull that I might want to move my foot, but a wee bit too late.

Now, anyone who's ever stubbed a toe knows that it takes a few seconds for the pain to make its way from an extremity to the brain. (Alas, the time lapse is quicker for me, since I'm short). Ever efficient, I used the time wisely and recited scripture to offset the impending pain: "Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the harvest of the earth is ripe." (Revelation 14:15) "For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?" (Revelation 6:17) Surely not I, if I keep making these lame-ass moves with the ladder.

And then I watched and Lo! the sword pierced my shoe, then flesh, then bone, and verily verily, I was taken in the spirit back to Tourettesville, where my unrivaled profanity is so magnificent and mellifluous that I've been named town crier. But hey - no worries. I'm fine, I'm fine. I didn't really need that toe anyway, and it'll save me a little money on my next pedicure.

Fortunately, the line of type moved back to eye level today, so for the moment I'm off the ladder. Indeed, by evening I was down to the floor again. Which is easier on the neck, but my back isn't very happy. As far as the text, I'm up to chapter 9, where things start to heat up a bit. The bottomless pit is opened, a great smoke arises, locusts, scorpions--your basic apocalyptic varmints. It's all good. I'm at peace when I work. I love listening to the sounds of the building. I've gotten used to the heater turning on, and then the pipes clanking for a while when it shuts off. During the noon hour I hear Mexican music, so I'm guessing someone's home for lunch. And today there was hail mixed in with the snow, so I worked to the sounds of rain and wind. Time seems to stop after I've been there a while, and I'm always reluctant to leave.

I'm almost done with the second lap around the room, which means that I'm about to start lap three of the book of Revelation. With any luck, I should be half way done by the end of the weekend. Verily I say unto thee that in spite of amputating a toe, progress is afoot, and the end of the world is nigh.

Various Forms of Torture

2011-01-24T22:20:00.018-05:00

My dentist called this morning to tell me it was time for another cleaning. As if I don't have enough torture in my life right now! He must be planning another cruise in the Caribbean. Either that or the wife is having another one of her chins lifted. I told him he'd have to wait until I finish my installation; I can just take so much abuse. I sorta get why he needs to plan ahead, though. They need to lay in a good supply of nitrous oxide for my appointments, seeings how I make them turn it on the minute I walk through the door. And then there's the fleet of dump trucks that have to be called in to haul away my plaque. It would probably be easier for everyone if I found a dentist near a landfill–will have to look into that.

I'm now one week into my installation, and it's starting to take shape. Whatever that means. The line of type has run around the gallery once, and the sacred circle has been created. So now I'm on my second lap, and the two lines (which in fact are just one line) are playing off from each other. It's....um...."interesting". See that ladder above? That's where I was perched for the better part of the day. To the left of the ladder, on the wall, you can see the lines of type. When it reaches the end of the wall, it runs up the edge, then onto the ceiling, across the doorway, and down the other side. It would be physically challenging no matter what, even if I was laying on a bed of fluffy goose down, with Brad Pitt cradling my head and George Clooney sucking my toes. But they're not, and then there are those satanic pipes, placed there to mock my efforts. I'm telling you, I'd never have done this had I known what was in store. It's sheer lunacy, and if ever there was a time for me to turn to atheism, this would be it. As fate would have it, I really suck at godlessness.

So onward ho. I'm up to chapter seven, where Saint John (my man) enumerates the twelve tribes of Israel. Yup, and when I reached the tribe of Zebulon, I grabbed that capital "Z" with my x-acto blade, and while attempting to stick it to the ceiling, the Z fell off the blade and slowly fell to the floor, waving cheerfully at me as it drifted past my inverted head. Now, this happens all the time. Dropping letters, I mean. But I got smart and laid in a back-up supply, that way I don't have to crawl down off my ladder for a friggin' vowel every five minutes. But I didn't plan on dropping this particular letter. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a capital Z in the Koran? Keeping in mind that I've already harvested a full crop of them? Oh baby. That teeth cleaning is starting to sound like a vacation.

The other thing that I've discovered is that when you're upside down, your eyesight is worse. I kid you not. There must be some science to support this. You know that expression "blind as a bat?" I'm thinking that the way they got blind was by hanging upside down for extended periods. Don't quote me on this; I just wanted to record my prescient reflections for future generations.

As far as my level of physical pain, well, it's like when you ask a woman in impossibly high heels if she's comfortable. "Do I look good?" she asks. "You look fabulous!" you reply. "Then I'm comfortable!" she says. That's how I feel right about now. Except that I don't yet know if it looks fab. I'll have to get back to you on that. Right now I'm too busy combing the Koran for a capital Z.

Above: My torture chamber du jour. Each session I like to up the ante on the torment. Anyone know where I can find an album of Helen Reddy's Greatest Hits?

Death by Installation

2011-01-22T09:26:00.009-05:00

I finally started my installation. You know, the one I've been writing about since the birth of blogging, where I cut up the Koran and create the book of Revelation on the walls of a gallery. Holy crap, what was I thinking? And why didn't you talk me out of it?? This is hands down the most boneheaded project I've ever taken on. It's incredibly demanding, both mentally and physically. See that photo above? That's after I'd finally found a comfortable position!

Yeah, see, I'm cutting up the Koran letter by stinking letter, and then gluing the letters to the gallery wall to create the book of Revelation. Why am I doing this? Because I'm a nutter. Like Saint John, I've got a few screws loose. I seem to recall a vague reason for wanting to do this installation. I thought it would be way cool to bring Islam and Christianity together and look at their similarities, embrace their differences, and sing a few apocalyptic rounds of kumbaya. I must have been smoking some really good stuff when I came up with that idea. Muslims and Christians have been duking it out for over a thousand years; it's sorta become sport for them to antagonize each other. They don't need me to orchestrate an interfaith hugfest. Did I really think this installation would shine a light into that dark corner of humanity?

The truth is, no. I didn't think that. I'm all about the visual experience; the concept is secondary. I like to bring disparate religions together and watch them resonate and clash. It's fascinating to me that some people are so invested in their version of God that they're willing to off anyone who doesn't concur. This gives me the impetus to do my creative work. I wouldn't get nearly as excited if I was cutting up, say, a Harry Potter novel to create a Danielle Steel romance. Nor would you find me hanging upside down from a ladder to glue John Grisham to the wall. The subject matter - sacred texts of all persuasions - is simply the fuel that keeps me interested in doing the work, which is, after all, incredibly tedious. And monotonous. And...oh, never mind. Far be it from me to complain.

But never did I anticipate the agony of this project. Thus far I've spent 13 hours on it, and I've done but 2 chapters. Forget about February; I'll be lucky if I finish this by the Second Coming. Thankfully, there's only one wall on which I have to apply the letters close to and on the ceiling, due to the architecture of the gallery. As you can see, there are a couple of nasty pipes right smack in the way, which provided me with the inspiration to spew a string of profanities so long and loud that I scared myself. And the landlord, apparently, because he came down from on high and introduced himself (Steve) and politely asked if everything was okay. He was probably wondering why a chick with Tourette's Syndrome was hanging out in his basement.

While I was sticking letters to the ceiling (a passage of only about 36", praise be to Allah), I thought of Michelangelo, and what he must have suffered when he painted the Sistine ceiling. But he had three things that I don't have:

1) a patron*
2) scaffolding
3) interns

Not to mention a twelve inch neck. If I ever do this again--and I do have a few more installations that I'd love to do--it will be accompanied by a fat stipend and a host of adoring interns. See, the really great thing about doing my text work as an installation is that you can walk into it and experience it as an environment, which adds another dimension to the work. I'm trying to create a sacred space by making a large circle with the type--it goes across the ceiling, around fixtures, across the floor--in a continuous line of type. All 22 chapters of Revelation are strung together in one line, without spaces or punctuation, and the line runs around the gallery as many times as it takes to finish the book (by my calculations, five times). That's five times that I'm going to have to go across that 36" stretch of ceiling. Steve and I are going to get to know each other pretty well by the end of this.

Well, I'd better wash up and get on over to the gallery. I have two solid days of torture ahead. When all of this is behind me, I'm going to buy a 58" Plasma TV, a comfortable couch, and I'm never going to open the book of Revelation again for as long as I live.

* the filthy rich Pope Julius II

New Year, New Limb

2011-01-01T09:17:00.014-05:00

Happy 2011, everyone! How's the head this morning? I think I'm the only person in Bushwick who doesn't have a hangover. The yahooers were still yahooing at dawn, their melodious voices mingling with those of the crowing cocks. Or something like that. After mulling over the great pile of invitations for New Year's Eve festivities (hey, I had two!), I opted to stay in and work in my studio. Koran cutting and a glass of sparkling pomegranate juice: hoo baby it doesn't get much better'n that. In my building there were parties fore, aft, and leeward, and they only died down a few hours ago, so it's just Madge and the mice on this magnificent morning of '11.

I actually enjoy being home on New Year's Eve. It's sorta my tradition to bring in the new year working in my studio. And then the really fun part is that I get to spend New Year's Day wishing everyone a chip-chip-chipper new year while their heads are ready to explode. It's taken many years to perfect the New Year's Gloat, but I've finally got it down. And although I'm not generally given to revenge, I thought I'd turn up the volume on my stereo this morning so I could share some robust military marches with my neighbors. Just my way of saying thanks.

Hey, I'm moving. Like, soon. Just across town, but I'll be living in a quieter part of Bushwick, a Hispanic neighborhood, and I'll have a real studio. Yup, it's true: a brand spankin' new 701-square-foot studio. Seeings how the studio that I've occupied for the past 3.5 years is roughly three square feet (seriously), you can imagine the pitch of my enthusiasm. I'm utterly aflame. My rent will increase of course, but I figure if I've crawled this far out on the limb, what's a few more inches? Life's not meant to be lived close to the trunk. What's to be gained from it? Stability? Bah. Ask any squirrel: the bark at the trunk is tough and bitter. You want fresh bark? You gotta crawl way out there.

So anyway, I'll be moving in a few weeks. Great way to start the year. Wishing you a great year too, and may 2011 find you perched on some particularly precarious branches.

Above: This guy didn't get too far from the trunk, but at least he's headed in the right direction.

Carols, Korans, and Fountains of Bliss

2010-12-13T11:20:00.030-05:00

It's that time again. Chestnuts burning on a sharpened spit and all that. I've been a little glum, but things are picking up again. That's the funny thing about life, right? Situations are always changing, disappointments eventually lose their sharp edges, and before you know it you're skipping down the halls of the monastery and whistling your favorite dirge. Life is pretty wonderful, once you get the hang of it.

I'll be spending Christmas with the 'rents in Vermont. Mom and dad and I will rock out with Barbra Streisand's Christmas Favorites (isn't she Jewish?) and knock back a few eggnogs. I was just up there this weekend, decorating their house for the holidays, spreading Christmas cheer, and decking their halls with festive pine pitch. (Heloise has no hints for removing sap from carpets, in case you were wondering).

I'll be back in New York for New Year's Eve, and as yet have nothing lined up. Since recently lowering the bar on eligibility for a date, the chances are good that I'll be able to scrape something together. My new criteria is as follows:

1) His age plus my age should not exceed my weight. (I'm willing to put on a few pounds for the right guy).
2) Kids are fine, but if he has grandkids, they must be potty trained. (Hey listen, I've got some nice carpets).
3) If certifiably psychotic, he must receive social security benefits and have full control of bladder and bowels. (That rug thing again).
4) If he doesn't have a job, he must be good with an X-acto knife (see below).

That's about it. The sad thing is that even after widening the gate, I haven't had any applicants. It's been suggested to me that I need to get out more, like, at least once a month. Jeez, I dunno. It's just so dang cozy here in my fetal den, what with my Marmot down snuggy and Sizzlin' Sudoku and peppermint pecan fudge and Christmas carols. Yes, I really do listen to them. I'm the only gal in hipster-infested Bushwick who streams Christmas carols on her laptop. It's the time of year; I gotta have it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And then there's the book of Revelation that desperately needs cutting. As reported in a recent blog entry, I'm cutting up the Koran and transmogrifying it into the text of the book of Revelation. This will be installed in Famous Accountants Gallery in January, and the show will open on February 18. I'm way excited about it. I've just reached chapter 21 of Revelation, but there were a few that I skipped, so I have maybe four chapters left. See, I'm pre-cutting the letters, since I'll only have a month to do the install. Until recently I had someone helping me by cutting up the Koran letter by letter with an X-acto knife, but I can't afford to pay her at the moment (see above).

The chapter I'm currently working on is the penultimate chapter of Revelation, and therefore of the Bible. John is starting to wind things up, make his point, and bring it on home. He describes heaven and its glories, and gives God's children a sneak preview at where they'll be spending eternity, if they play their cards right. Here's a sampler for you:

WARNING!
SPOILER ALERT!

"And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband (...) And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain."

Called me whacked, but I find this profoundly beautiful. This is what my creative work is about. Not the specifics, but the underlying desire for oneness and completion. It's what we all long for: to be reunited with and absorbed back into the unity from which we came. It's human nature to reach for comfort, and when there is none, we create a mythology centered around hope. New Jerusalem is a metaphor for that which we humans long for, where death and sorrow are replaced with life flowing with Presence and unity. Here's a passage from the Koran, describing the same thing:

"This is the Paradise which the righteous have been promised. There shall flow in it rivers of purest water, and rivers of milk forever fresh; rivers of wine delectable to those that drink it, and rivers of clearest honey."

Again, there's the ceaseless longing for our hearts to be at peace; to live in a state of equilibrium that requires nothing except to be. Rivers of life, fountains of bliss, and oceans of love are common metaphors in sacred writings, and allude to everlasting abundance, where there is no lack, and pain and sorrow are washed away by the flow of life-giving energy. Since it appears to be inaccessible in this lifetime, the mythologies state that we'll have it in the next. But it's all here, folks. The fountain is set squarely in the heart, and can bubble up with bliss in this lifetime, if one cares to pursue it. Religion isn't very effective at communicating this. It's something that you just gotta figure out on your own, and then melt into it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As I type, snowflakes are accumulating on my windowsill. Warmth and fuzziness prevail. May the fountain in your heart gush with joy, and may rivers of love enrich your soul. Happy holidays, everyone!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Above: There's the old gal. It just wouldn't be Christmas without Babs belting out a few carols.

The Pursuit of the Acorn

2010-12-07T08:19:00.021-05:00

Sometimes I think that the prerequisite for being an artist is being messed up. Loose screws, excessive baggage, pureed self-esteem, prone to self delusion–the whole bit. It would make sense, but for one thing: I wouldn't call the guys down on Wall Street exactly "sane". I'm sorry, folks, but it's really friggin' weird for anyone to be so obsessed about making wads of money. What's money ever done for anyone? Okay, right, it buys a lot of nice stuff, stuff I wouldn't mind having myself, in fact. But to pile it up like a madman? When they've got gobs of it already? It's like an obese chipmunk obsessively running around all summer, stockpiling acorns for the winter ahead. Hey dude, why don't you chill a little? Relax, enjoy the sunshine, take up a hobby other than acorn gathering. Like, maybe make some little acorn sculptures.

And the folks who spend their lives selling really weird-ass stuff, like...oh...toothpaste. Wtf? Is this "normal"? A life dedicated to toothpaste? Do these guys feel awesome and fulfilled on their deathbeds? Or a career in selling auto insurance. Or divorce law. Or systems management (what is that, anyway?) These are all considered normal and respectable careers, and why? Because those who practice them make decent incomes. Now, I respect anyone's career choice, and who am I to question anyone's sanity, right? And yet those of us who've chosen to make art our focus are stereotypically considered to be a little "off", or in some cases, downright deranged. And why? You already know, but I'll tell you anyway:

We don't make any money at it.

There it is. Our sanity is in question simply because we don't put money ahead of creative self-expression. The crazed chipmunk looks more sane than we do. He's at least thinking of his family. Some artists are so whacked out they don't even have families. (No names mentioned, of course...ahem...) The chipmunk at least plans for the future. And we all know how giddy are those good folks who spend their entire lives planning for retirement. That happy generation before ours? Yikes! It's no wonder that so many of their offspring became artists.

Back to Chippy. He's so busy running around the park doing his thing that he develops health problems. Bad heart, hip replacement, and a nervous condition that requires medication, but by God he's got the biggest collection of acorns in Manhattan. He even donates to the major museums, as long as his name is etched deeply into the marble at the entrance:

Mr. and Mrs. Charles B. Munk, Jr.
"The Chipster"

Yup, and since he hasn't been home for the last umpteen years, due to his excessive stockpiling, his wife Edith hasn't seen him except at the holidays and the odd vacation. Long term misery takes its toll, and the toll is priceless. There aren't enough acorns in Central Park to make the wife happy again. At least she looks good. Sorta. Whisker replacement and all. And the little Munks, Charlene and what's-his-name, well, they're a little out of control, and Junior has that annoying little tic, but they'll shape up once they're out in the world. And if they don't? They've both got trust funds that'll keep them in acorns for life.

This is "normal", folks. No one questions the sanity of the Solvent, because no matter how inane their lives are, and no matter how morbidly depressed they might be, at least they're well off. Money trumps misery. But the person who reflects on the meaning of his life, who examines herself and her ambitions, and who relinquishes the pursuit of the acorn in favor of expressing some of the deeper nuances of existence? She's the nut.

Ah, life. Hey, if I gotta love it, so do you.

Insecurity Checkpoints

2010-11-26T05:44:00.015-05:00

I'm going to be showing my text work at Famous Accountants gallery in February. It will be my first solo show in New York, and my first installation ever. Instead of gluing the letters to paper like I usually do, I'll be gluing them directly onto the gallery walls. I'll have the month of January to install the show, and have lined up a few assistants to ensure that I get it done in time.

The show is called "Obsession: The Book of Revelation from the Koran". I'm cutting up the Koran, letter by letter, and reassembling it into the Book of Revelation. You could say that I'm de- and re-contextualizing these two monumental pieces of sacred writing. To make the installation go smoothly, I'm currently doing the cutting, chapter by chapter, an excruciatingly slow and thankless task. Generally I have the satisfaction of gluing the letters to paper and creating interesting shapes as I go, but all I'm doing now is cutting the letters from the Koran and sticking them onto a board. Not exactly Xbox, but it has its riveting moments. I actually enjoy the process, which is a good thing, as there are twenty-two chapters in Revelation for me to get my jollies.

The point of the piece is manyfold. I'm very familiar with Revelation, the last book of the Bible. My dad started talking to me about it when I was twelve, after he became a born-again Christian. It was and is his passion to study end times prophesy as outlined in the Bible. He told me what to expect in the years leading up to the Rapture, and what would happen if I was left behind. This scared the holy crap out of me, and I turned to Jesus in order to avoid the treacheries of the Antichrist. For the next twenty-odd years I was a born-again Christian; whether by faith or fear remains foggy. By the time I turned thirty, it no longer held me in its grasp, and I simply walked away. Well, not quite so simply, but I managed to do it nevertheless.

I'm no longer a Christian, but I'm all too familiar with the terrain. Most evangelicals believe that the end times of Revelation are upon us. They believe that we are currently witnessing the preliminary events to the final showdown between good and evil, and the second coming of Christ. And they believe, most of them, that Islam will be the vehicle used by Satan to facilitate his takeover of the world. Most evangelical Christians believe that the Antichrist will rise from the Muslim ranks, and that everyone will be given the choice between Islam or death.

Okay, let me just say something here. I'm not a Christian. I'm not a Muslim. My spiritual inclinations are irrelevant to the installation, and I don't intend to discuss them in this context. This installation has but one purpose: To bring together two conflicting world religions and examine where they clash, where they align, and where they overlap. I have deep respect for Christianity, the faith of my father, and I also respect Islam and its followers. Both traditions worship the same God, so there's your overlap. It's the Messiah and Prophet issue that creates the conflict, as we all know.

And what conflict! It's astonishing that so much fear has come out of it. Fear of what? Being wrong? Being right? Why do we clench so hard to our faith? Unresolved issues from childhood? Is psychosis the root of all evil? Is it possible that the underlying reason we're put through degrading body scans at the airport is that fundamentalist Christians and Muslims are insecure? If so, we might consider renaming them 'Insecurity Checkpoints'. Let's call it like it is, people!

I have a lot more to say about the installation, but that's all for now. I hope that those who see the show will stop and think about the nature of religious beliefs. I hope the veil is momentarily lifted, and they get a glimpse of That which lies behind. I hope they see that beliefs are nothing more than constructions of the mind. I hope that this resonates with someone, and sets up a vibration that will loosen the fear that's lodged in the hearts of men and women of all religious persuasions.

I hope I finish the dang thing in time.

Above: This is my palette! One of them, anyway. This is chapter 7 of the Book of Revelation, and the letters were individually cut from the Koran. I sprayed a board with low-tack adhesive, let it dry, then cut and stuck the letters to the board. So when I install the show in January, I'll just lift off each letter with my x-acto and place it on the wall. YES it's tedious, monotonous, and mind-numbing, but also meditative, therapeutic, and relaxing.

Please note: If anyone has a difficult time with my cutting up a holy book, please be aware that I cut up all holy books. I respect them all, I honor them, and I hope to encourage others to share my respect for another person's deeply held religious beliefs.

Perfection & the Deranged Artist

2010-11-14T20:57:00.015-05:00

Like most artists, I have with issues with self-esteem. I'm terribly insecure. To make matters worse, I'm a perfectionist. And then to really top it off, I'm a workaholic and an artist. It's not easy being me, but I'm definitely the gal for the job. When all my neuroses are in sync and firing properly, I'm actually fairly efficient at what I do. Take away my flaws, and I'd be like a car with no tires or engine, propped up on concrete blocks in someone's back yard (or front yard, as the case may be).

Artists have a rough time. (Ya think?) There's not a lot of time to lounge around and do our nails. It's not like we go to a job, work all day, get paid for it, then go home and chill. No, when we get home, that's when we do our creative work. All the rest of it is peripheral to our life's purpose. Oh, to be paid for screwing around in the studio; for experimenting and playing and slopping some paint around...! I want that job! I'd take minimum wage!

But lack of funding is the least of the artist's problems. It's that dang self-esteem thing. It's that need to push oneself, to work when you're exhausted, to find that element to your creative work that's missing. It's honing your craft to a level that surpasses your current one; it's getting up early so you can work in your studio for an hour before you wake the kids; it's that constant tug that makes you resent having to go to a dinner party on Saturday night, when all you want to do is work in your studio.

Life is constantly getting in the way of creativity. There's nothing to be done about it. You have to sleep. You have to make a living. You have to shower once a week. So you squeeze your art in wherever you can, and extract as much satisfaction as possible from the time you spend in your studio. This weekend I had a lot of time to work, and I luxuriated in it. Barren by personal choice and divine intervention, I have more time than most artists to submerge myself in the studio, and I do. I don't need a lot of time to putter around and ease into it; I can work when my studio is a mess, so I go in and get right to work.

After I'd been at it for a few hours on Saturday, and was beginning to feel that familiar flow (and I know you know what I'm talking about), the thought came to me that it really doesn't get any better than this. The constant agitations of life and living, the excess baggage that we believe about ourselves, the ebb and flow of relationships and their cargo–all of that is what happens outside the studio. It may affect our lives, but we don't have to let it into the studio. That's the sacred place of the artist; the inner sanctum in which we create and connect with ourselves.

So as I worked yesterday, I thought, Jeez, ya know? Contrary to what I've thus far believed about myself, I'm perfect. Hot diggity, what a realization! I'm still reeling. Now, "I'm perfect" are not words that you'll often hear a neurotic, self-flagellating, ripping perfectionist speak. But I am perfect, and here's why:

Wrinkles and warts,
Failures and farts,
Imperfections and neuroses,
Indiscretions and psychoses,
Obsessions and histrionics,
Gins and tonics,
Bad hair and bunions,
Halitosis from onions,
Dyspeptic dystopia,
Neurotic myopia,
Flem and snot,
Flawless I'm not,
But to do what I do
I'm perfect it's true.

Omg, I'm so sorry–how embarrassing–I got a little carried away and started channeling Dr. Seuss. But you get the point, right? In order for artists to do what they do, and stick with it year after year, obsessively, enthusiastically, and thanklessly, we simply have to be messed up. If we were normal, well-adjusted adults we'd have lost the need to make art long ago. But some demented inner drive keeps pushing us to stay with it and see what's there, what we can make, and what we can become as a result of all the intense discipline. Our flaws are our gifts, and our imperfections make us who we are. After all, somebody has to be you.

Above: Bhagavad Gita Chapter 15 from Psalm 22. Letters cut individually from the Bible, 2010. It's around, oh, I dunno, maybe 3" square. Too lazy to go measure it.

The Curious Stench of Fundamentalism

2010-10-22T23:49:00.019-04:00

A friend commented to me today that the religious intolerance of ultra-right movements such as the Tea Party makes his blood boil. HA! said I. Welcome to my world. If your blood's not boiling, you're in trouble. Big trouble. And you're almost certainly a Revangelican (evangelical Republican).

Try this: Turn on Rush Limbaugh for, oh, three minutes. C'mon, it won't kill you; you've been stuck in traffic behind a garbage truck for a lot longer than that. Just turn him on, sit back, and take it all in. Breathe him into your heart chakra, if you've got one. Then quietly turn him off after a few minutes, and take your pulse. If it's normal, you're cooked. You're a right wing Republican, you've thumped a few too many Bibles, and you've become accustomed to your own stench. You probably also have a comb-over, and chances are that your cologne is Old Spice. And your friends are either just like you and don't know anything's wrong, or else they're too polite to tap you on the shoulder and tell you what's what.

That's why I'm here. Have a seat, my friend. Listen to Madge. Your comb-over isn't working. We all know you're bald. And you need to let go of your rock solid beliefs. Like your cologne, they're hurting you, they're hurting me, and they're hurting everyone else. There's a big, beautiful world out there, and you're missing it by clenching onto your fundamentalist beliefs.

Ah, so that's where this blog entry is headed: Fundamentalism. The F word. That wacky belief system that refutes anything that's a challenge to one's faith. The Catholic church was fundamentally opposed to Galileo when he adopted the Copernican view that the sun, not the earth, was the center of the galaxy. George W. was fundamentally opposed to the fact that there were no weapons of mass destruction to be found in Iraq. Find them anyway! Fundies don't like opposition, and Fundies don't like to be wrong. When Fundies are shown to be factually challenged or data shy (aka, wrong), they like to twist the facts to their liking, which is rather twisted indeed.

For instance, this is what got my friend's panties all twisted up: Apparently some Tea Partiers aren't buying that the climate, she's a-changin'. They think that global warming is a ploy for the government to wring more money out of us, through programs paid by us, the taxpayers. Doesn't matter what the scientists say, or how many degrees they hold. They're all part of the left-wing conspiracy to take out the common man and woman.

The Fundies also think that representative government (i.e., democracy), is:

"...a temporary invention of man, even if it does line up with a few Biblical principals in a couple of areas. Certainly, it has often proved helpful in the spread of the Gospel. However, when Jesus returns, he will not set up a democracy. Therefore, we can be sure that democracy too will be shaken and found wanting." *

The sad thing is that I get it. I know how Fundies think. I was one, you recall. Trust me, the inside of a Fundamentalist's head is nowhere you want to be. It's dark in there. And tight. Not a lot of wiggle room, if you know what I mean. You're either with them or you're against them. And this either/or mentality is the very thing that's taking the wind out of our country.

How ironic that we went on a goose chase looking for weapons in Iraq, when it's homegrown Fundamentalism that's the weapon of mass destruction. Any ideology so brittle that it can't bend to accommodate its opposite is doomed to fail. Jesus bent. Muhammad bent. Buddha bent. Shiva bends. But Fundies? Dude, they snap.

Time to grow up, America! Hasten thou to hear the words of reason! The earth's heating up. You're contributing to it if you deny that it's happening. And by upholding the notion that we live in a black and white world, you're undermining the very thing that got us where we are today as a nation. Diversity rules, people! Do I hear amen?

Okay, now if someone would just help me down off this soap box, it's time for me to get some sleep.

* Definitely don't read this book: 'Christianity and Islam: The Final Clash', by Robert Livingston. The paucity of logic is stunning. Quote is on pp. 34-5.

How Atheists are Made

2010-10-03T09:09:00.038-04:00

I have some sage advice for you parents out there. I realize that you're probably not scrambling for your pencil and paper, since the wisdom you're about to hear is coming from a childless chick. We barren gals don't hold a lot of sway in the child rearing department, and those of us who have never successfully changed a diaper really get the snub when we take the podium. Nonetheless, I'll selflessly shun the abuse and dodge your rotten tomatoes, since the pearls I am about to share may greatly benefit you, your offspring, and the entire human race. So here it is, encapsulated:

Spoil the child, create an atheist.

Allow me to enlarge upon that. When your child is born, he is completely reliant upon you. You are the center of his existence, and your presence is essential for his physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being. In short, you are God to your child. As he gets older he slowly becomes less dependent, but for at least the first ten years of your child's life, your beliefs are his beliefs. Once he hits his teens, it all goes out the window. Whatever you believe, you can be sure that he'll believe the opposite.

But during those critical, formative years, when you are still God to your kid, you need to avoid spoiling him. You must be strong. If your two-year-old has a temper tantrum, it means that what he wants isn't good for him, and you mustn't succumb to his whims. By giving him what he wants, you'll just create bigger problems for him down the road. See, when you cave in to your child, whether by guilt or exhaustion, you send the message that the kid's in control, and his desires will be fulfilled once his whining breaks the sound barrier. Kids are smart. They figure out the essential equations, like crying for the length of X will produce Y amount of snot, which will get the desired effect of Z squared.

x(c+l)+y(s)=z(2)

The key thing to remember here is that your kid still thinks that you are God. You call the shots, at least in theory. So enjoy your status as a deity while it lasts, but keep in mind that what you do now will affect how your kid perceives God later in life. If you indulge your little angel, she's going to think that God is waiting in the wings like an obedient Servant, eagerly awaiting her next whim so that He can fulfill it.

Now, anyone over the age of thirty knows that life doesn't work quite like that. It's tough outside the womb. We may really, really want something or someone, so we kick and scream and carry on, but to no avail. Thank God that we don't get everything we want, right? Most people learn this early on and roll with it. But those who were spoiled rotten by their parents have a harder time adapting. They become indignant when God the Cosmic Genie doesn't answer their threats. What the hell's going on here? they wonder. I've prayed to inform God of my wishes, I've thrown my standard hissy fit, I've produced the requisite amount of snot, but I don't appear to be getting what I want. Deeply unsettling is this to the aging princess. She isn't familiar with the word 'NO'.

She tenaciously tries another approach. She throws out the Christian God of her youth (and the accompanying bathwater), and turns to Judaism. Maybe Yahweh will be a more obedient Servant. No luck. After millennia of this stuff, He's the Teflon God when it comes to whining. Next up is Islam. Allah seems at first to be the fulfiller of desires, particularly if you're male and have a hankering for lots and lots of virgins. The problem is that you have to be dead in order to have your wish granted. Dang those Abrahamic religions! There's always a rub.

She turns to Hinduism. Praying to Ganesh will remove the obstacles to getting what she wants, and Lakshmi will ensure that she gets it in this friggin' lifetime, possibly tomorrow if she chants long enough. No go. Your daughter finally gets around to reading the fine print, which, translated from the Sanskrit, explains that Lakshmi abundantly gives us what we need, not what we want.

She bags that and moves right along to Buddhism, that last jumping off point before Existentialism. Indeed, Buddhists and Existentialists swim in the same sea of emptiness; the difference is that one group sees God as a paddle, while the other sees Him as a crutch. And what good is a crutch when you're thrashing about in the sea? I ask you.

The issue that your spoiled daughter has with Buddhism is that it forces her to examine her desires. As her petty whims are pummeled, and as rivers of her sacred snot flow into the ocean of bliss, she hits the proverbial fork in the road. Cut the crap and merge with the Divine, or jettison the crutch and execute a perfect swan dive into godlessness.

Hey, don't blame me! You're the one who spoiled her! And after all, atheism's not so bad. The atheist's morals are undoubtedly more rigid than your own. Without a pesky God standing in her way, your child will undoubtedly get everything she's ever wanted. And that, my friend, will be her undoing, your legacy, and the end of civilization as we know it.

Above: Passage from the Koran ("The Highest") cut from the book of Isaiah. 5.5" x 3.5", 2010. As usual in my creative process, I cut the letters from one holy text to create the passage from another. I've been experimenting with piling them up so that the passage is unreadable; you're looking at the last word of the chapter, which in this case was 'Moses'. The pile of letters was about 3/8" high by the time I finished it, which casts a cool shadow on the paper.

Hindu Prayer for a Workaholic

2010-09-28T22:08:00.022-04:00

Life's a little crazy chez moi. Wretched deadlines have turned my loft into a sweat shop. If OSHA caught wind of how much I'm making myself work, they'd arrest me. The problem is that I promised I'd meet a client's deadline, and once I make a promise, I don't break it. Period. So I have to get an insane amount of work done, single-handedly, by next week. And I will. And then everyone can weep at my funeral.

What's saving me is the word of God and the gin & tonic. I'll get back to you as to which figures more prominently in my salvation. I get up early so I can squeeze in a few hours of studio time. I set up the IV pole and do a direct caffeine drip into my left arm (drinking it takes too much time), while the right arm slashes and burns at whichever sacred text I'm currently defacing. That comprises the first two hours of my day.

I then frame art like a trained chimp for 8-10 hours straight. Deodorant and food optional. I thought about ordering adult diapers (potty breaks take up precious time), but they wouldn't get here until next week. No fresh air for these lungs; the sun hasn't touched my pallid flesh in weeks. Then, when day is done, as the autumn sun melts into the western horizon and the harvest moon graces the night sky, I head down to Life Cafe and throw back a few with Horace, Boris, and Dolores.

It's not easy, right? We all have our "stuff". My dad's in the hospital. A friend has cancer. Someone's wife died prematurely, and the family grieves. And other personal stuff that's got my heart and hankies all knotted up. Life can be so difficult. And yet...in spite of the pain, it's all so sweet. Something about autumn renders everything devastatingly beautiful. The sunset tonight was pink, and the air heavy. I'm preparing for the long winter, with many texts to transcribe. Even bitter disappointment has a golden glow about it, making it a little easier to embrace. After all, in another 29 years I'll be 78, and won't give a rat's ass about love. And my dad wiggled his toes today, so my world is intact, my heart is full, and all is well in the hills and dells of Bushwick.

Above: Hindu Prayer (Om Shanti Shanti), with letters cut from the Koran. 8.75 x 5.5 in., 2010.

The Shaman of Bushwick

2010-09-18T17:26:00.031-04:00

My neighbor has decided that he's a rock star. His instrument of choice? The drums, of course. Lord. This is really harshing my mellow, people. I'm trying to be all peace and love. I'm trying to visualize butterflies and tulips bouncing off his drum set, but what keeps showing up in my mind's eye is a plethora of drumsticks protruding from each of his nine orifices. Fortunately for me, this guy's a partier extraordinaire, and wouldn't be caught dead at home on a Saturday night, so he should be leaving the building in...oh, about four hours. That's a LOT of butterflies. But heck - for all I know, the party's at his (read: our) place tonight. This could be bad. Really bad.

And he really is bad. I don't know much about this stuff, but I know bad drumming when I hear it. I suspect that he's practicing for his first drum solo, which, if it ever happens, will vacate any bar in a jiffy. What's a peaceful, silence-loving gal to do? What sharpened utensil shall I use to off the guy?

See, I have a personal policy about complaining to people with whom I'm in regular contact. I simply don't do it. Not because I'm a coward, and not because I don't want to harsh their mellow; indeed, there's nothing I'd like more. No, the reason I refrain from complaining is that it generally delivers the opposite effect of what I request. This is especially true here in Bushwick, where the average citizen has only recently escaped puberty. I've learned from experience that if I ask someone to turn down their music (hey, it was 4:00 in the morning, and the party had been going on since midnight!), they'll say sure! No problem, grandma. Then, as soon as I've waddled back into my cave and shut the door, the music is cranked a few decibels higher. And THEN you should see grandma stew. Hoo baby.

Never again. I'd rather blithely chew on nails and send out loving kindness missiles, than create a situation where I've rendered myself a moving target. As soon as you complain, it becomes personal. If you keep it to yourself, it's got nothing to do with you. Pound for pound, I'll choose the latter, every time. But BOY can I think of some things I'd like to do with those drumsticks.

On one late-night-early-morning, after I'd learned the above-mentioned lesson of not complaining, I was laying in bed, listening to my neighbors party down, pickling in my own juices. I was so filled with anger, resentment, and indignity that I thought I might blow a fuse. Every drunken twenty-something in Bushwick was laughing and screaming just outside my sacred door, and I was bitterly outraged at the violation. Since I had no better ideas, I began to breathe, slowly and deeply. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed the thing to do. I just kept at it, breathing from my navel, my anus, my knees, my big toes. No body part was left out; I breathed into every last one. And you know what happened?

I calmed my strangled heart. I peaced my muddled mind. Encouraged, I began to send peaceful, loving thoughts to the morons thumping against my door. I blessed them. I inhaled the chaos, and exhaled radiance. I did this for a long, long time. In my skylight I watched the morning break. It was utterly beautiful. I continued to breathe and send love. I finally slept, and when I awoke hours later, I prayed that each and every person to whom I had sent love would wake up with the worst hangover of their lives.

Hey, I know! I'll visualize my neighbor as a shaman, beating on his sacred drum. Oh, this is gonna be fun. Now I hope he decides to stay in tonight. I'm gonna bless the living crap out of the bastard.

Above: Hindu Morning Prayer, letters cut from the New Testament. 5.5" x 3.5", 2010.

Ego & Loss of Control

2010-09-15T08:41:00.007-04:00

Making art is for me an exercise in letting go of control. Always has been, no matter what the medium. It may seem odd when you look at my current work to think that it's about relinquishing control, since the work is so tight and contained. But I'm not talking about flailing about my studio in the heat of passion, throwing paint brushes at the canvas. Trust me, I've done that. That's not letting go of control; that's sheer madness. The only thing that came out of that was a bunch of broken brushes and some ripped canvases.

No, I'm talking about letting go of the inner control that we all hold onto in our lives. You know, ego. Thinking that we've got it all figured out, and proceeding as if our tidy little lives were in our command. It doesn't take much to rock the boat and remind us that we're but pieces of straw, floating in a beautiful, infinite sea. A lovely image, but terrifying as hell.

The more I let go and let the creative juices flow wherever they will, the more interesting the work is. Every now and again I get a clever idea for a text drawing, and I stubbornly execute it, letter by letter. The first clue that it's not going to be very interesting is that it doesn't flow. It feels constrained, and has a cookie cutter look to it. And when it's finished, it's brittle in look and feel; it has that 'clever' look that's so often associated with the ego.

It's all very subtle, and indeed maybe I'm the only one who would notice the difference. But all artists know what it's like to feel creative energy move through them. It's qualitatively different from the kind of creativity that's forced and manipulated. When you feel the flow of energy, and when you know it's not coming from you, the best thing you can do is step out of the way and let it move freely. The more I do this, the more it tends to flow. And the more it flows, the more my ego is leeched out of the process.

Where does it go, I wonder? During those extended moments of creativity, when it's not needed? Does my ego take a nappy? Does it go shopping? Is it up to some mischief that I'm not aware of (yet?) I don't even want to know. Have fun! Knock yourself out! And don't hurry home on my account.

Above: The Twenty-Third Psalm, from 'Yoga - The Way of Self-Fulfillment' by J. Vijayatunga. 5.5 x 3.5", 2010. I cut the letters from the book on Yoga to create the beloved 23rd Psalm from the Bible.

Hymn to Tara

2010-09-03T21:22:00.014-04:00

Hymn to Tara

Just finished a new text: Hymn to Tara from the Methodist Hymnal. For those of you new to my blog, welcome, and an explanation: I cut up sacred texts letter by letter and recreate other sacred texts. In this case, I sliced and diced a Methodist Hymnal, and with the letters I recreated a beautiful hymn to the Hindu goddess Tara. The letters run around in concentric circles, and I piled them up as I went, so you won't be able to read it from start to finish. I could though, as I copied it, so you'll just have to take my word that it's a lovely piece of writing.

Tara is also a Buddhist goddess, and the traits are so similar to the Tara of Hinduism that they're widely assumed to be the same deity. She has many forms, including White Tara, Green Tara, Red Tara, and the little-known Beige Tara (just kidding). Each form has different aspects, such as compassion, liberation, prosperity, and power.

Her name in Sanskrit means 'star', thus the shape of the text. It also translates as 'to traverse', or cross over, thus Tara is the star that transports us from samsara, or delusion, to enlightenment and Self-knowledge. Indeed, Tara's personal attainment of enlightenment is one of the attributes that makes her so popular today among women. See, once upon a time, in a land far, far away, beyond the Jersey shores, the only beings who could attain enlightenment were men. This didn't sit well with Tara. She stubbornly kept being reborn as a woman, and finally some Hindu bloke told her, "Yo, Tara! You want full liberation? Ya gotta ask to be reborn as a man!" But she insisted that women were as capable of enlightenment as men, and for millennia she chose to be reborn as a woman, until she finally attained it. You go, girl! That's one righteous Goddess, my gal Tara.

In Hinduism as well as Buddhism, the mantra for Tara is:

om tare tuttare ture svaha

which translates as "O Divine Mother who liberates from suffering, eliminates fear, and grants success! May the blessings of this mantra take root in our hearts."

Lovely. I included this mantra in my text drawing; it's in the four little balls around the perimeter of the circles. The letters for those were cut from the Bible.

And that, my friends, is all I got. Happy weekend.

Buddhism & Hell

2010-08-30T15:51:00.026-04:00

For my current text drawing, I'm cutting the letters from a Buddhist text to create a passage from a Hindu text. I'll save the specifics for another blog entry; what I'd like to write about here is the Buddhist text, which is called (somewhat ironically) "The Joyful Path of Good Fortune" by the venerable Geshe Kelsang Gyatso.

Gyatso is a Tibetan Buddhist monk, scholar, and the founder of the New Kadampa Tradition (NKT). In the 1970s he moved from the East to Great Britain where he opened NKT Buddhist centers, and set about translating and teaching the esoteric writings of Tibetan Buddhism to a Western audience. This is confusing material, so you have to give the guy credit for making the writings accessible to the popcorn-eating West. Lord knows the length, depth, and girth of our collective attention spans are about as meaty as a pixel.

Gyatso translated "The Joyful Path of Good Fortune", an 11th century text, with his new, slightly degenerate practitioners in mind. We Westerners aren't exactly swimming in discipline and self-denial. We're a stubborn lot, and lazy, some of us, and we like our gratifications straight up, hold the subtlety. So Gyatso set about making the "Joyful Path" as practical as possible, and had a jolly good time with it, elucidating, elaborating, and in general making us feel sanguine about what's coming down the pike, if we choose to follow the Buddhist path.

Until he reached the chapter on "The Sufferings of the Lower Realms", and then it all goes to hell. Literally. I've never seen anything like it. One minute he's the feel-good fluffmeister, all charity and compassion, then you turn the page and he's all about the merciless torture of flesh and bone. His candid obsession with torture is downright disturbing, and you have to wonder if he watched too many horror flicks in the monastery. Seriously - this guy makes Dante look like the Hardy Boys. Maybe he was inspired by Christian evangelists who sputter with sickening delight about the dark corners of hell...who knows, but it'll singe your nose hairs just to read it. The point that he's trying to get across, of course, is that hell is a nasty place, and to prove it, he went to the trouble of describing all the Great Hells. There are eight of them, and here they are, in order of torment:

[Please note that I highlighted quotations from "The Joyful Path of Good Fortune" so that you know I'm not making this up.]

1) Reviving Hell. Hell light. This is for those of you who have murdered out of hatred. You live amongst evil beings who continuously hack at you with sharp weapons, slashing your body into many pieces. It hurts. "As each piece of flesh falls onto the red hot iron ground it experiences excruciating pain." You die a slow death, only to be revived so the process can start all over again.

2) Black Line Hell. This hell is for you if you've ever cut in line at WalMart. You are forced to lie down on the hot iron ground. Your body is stretched out like a sheet of tarpaulin while merciless torturers brand you with a criss-cross of black lines. "You then experience excruciating torment as your body is slowly cut along those lines with burning weapons such as axes, knives and saws." Harsh.

3) Massed Destruction Hell. The hell of choice for such villains as Saddam Hussein and George Bush, who played around with weapons of Massed Destruction. In this hell you are "...crushed between huge iron mountains that resemble the heads of animals that you have killed in the past. You are crushed until all the blood in your body is squeezed out. You are smashed....until your body is reduced to paste." Wtf?? Where does he get this stuff?

4) Wailing Hell. This hell is for country singers. You are driven by fear to search for a safe haven. "Eventually you find an iron house, but as soon as you enter the doors slam shut and the house bursts into flames. As your body is incinerated you howl and wail in agony." This is straight out of Hollywood!

5) Loud Wailing Hell. "You are born in an ocean of boiling liquid. Grotesque torturers push you to the bottom with razor-sharp spears and smash you with clubs when you surface again."

6) Hot Hell. Free marshmallows. You are "...fried like fish on red-hot metal. Huge skewers are thrust into your body and you are beaten to pulp on the blazing iron ground. Flames issue from every orifice of your body." You crave tartar sauce but are denied any condiments.

7) Intensely Hot Hell. This hell is for anyone who has ever stolen from a tip jar. Mean people don't suck, they blaze. "You are impaled on flaming tridents and your body is encased in red-hot metal. You are boiled in cauldrons of molten copper until your flesh falls away from your bones. Then your skeletons are laid out on the blazing ground until your flesh grows back."

8) Unceasing Torment Hell. "Huge balls of fire rain down upon you, burning every tissue of your body until you resemble only a mass of raging flames. Only by your agonizing screams can you be recognized as a sentient being." Your cellmate for all eternity is Jerry Lee Lewis.

Had enough? Sorry, but I'm not quite finished. Allow me to quickly list the neighboring Hot Hells, in case these are more to your liking. (I'll forgo the descriptions, but you should be able to piece it together):

Pit of Fiery Ash Hell
Swamp of Excrement Hell (holy crap!)
Plain of Razors Hell
Forest of Sword-leaf Trees Hell
Iron Grater Hell
Acid River Hell
What the Hell (just kidding)

...and then there are the Eight Cold Hells:

Blistering Hell
Bursting Blister Hell
Achoo Hell (...and the ever cloying God Bless You Hell) (again, just kidding)
Moaning Hell
Chattering Teeth Hell
Cracking Like Upala Hell (I haven't the foggiest...)
Cracking Like Lotus Hell
Great Cracking Like Lotus Hell

Enough. And I repeat that I'm not making any of this up. I couldn't if I tried. I'm telling you, this guy Gyatso must have had a rough childhood. Granted, he's translating an 11th century text, but come on – steel mountains shaped like animal heads crushing your body until it's reduced to paste? I think someone needs their poetic license revoked. At least the Christians keep it relatively simple: Hell is hell, end of story. Those crazy New Kadampa Buddhists have a peculiar penchant for graphic torture, and I suspect that it worked against them in recruiting converts.

This sadistic strain of Buddhism comes as a surprise to me. I'm not a Buddhist, and not because I'm worried about its technicolor hells. I simply don't engage with the program in a way that's helpful for me on my spiritual path. I completely respect those who do, and I resonate with the Buddhist concept of sunyata, or emptiness, which is at the center of our existence. So it comes as a shock to read these descriptions that reek of adolescent fantasy. What are they intended to do? Invoke fear as a deterrent to crime? Has anyone not stolen a car because they were terrified of going to Chattering Teeth Hell?

The path of nonduality, which I follow, states that everything originates in the mind, and everything IS mind. There is no other. Think about it. It's all there, the beautiful and the grotesque, enfolded in the dark crevasses of the mind and waiting to come into the light. You have to wonder how it's possible that the Mind that came up with a piece as exquisite as Beethoven's Ninth and as elegant as the Quantum Theory can also produce something as twisted and comical as Bursting Blister Hell. And btw, whatever happened to good ol' reincarnation?

Note: I have deep respect for Geshe Kelsang Gyatso. He is said to be an enlightened Master, and I have no reason to believe otherwise. His NKT is thought by many to be a cult, because at the core of their tradition is a deity whose authority is questionable at best. I attended NKT meditations for about 6 months, and benefited from the teachings. However, I became suspicious of their exclusivity, which subtly dismissed the teachings of other Buddhist leaders, such as the Dalai Lama. I became among those who believe that the NKT has cult-like tendencies.

Transcendence on a Rainy Afternoon

2010-08-25T18:40:00.014-04:00

I told my boss that I needed one afternoon off a week. She wasn't very happy about it, but when I threatened to quit, she grudgingly consented. So today was my first excursion, and I went to the Whitney to see the paintings of Charles Burchfield. I've always liked his work, but haven't seen any in person. I was curious to see what he's all about.

o
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g

It was transcendent. His late paintings (1950s and '60s) are from another realm. Standing in front of one of his forest paintings is what I imagine it might be like to stand before the throne of God. He creates altar-like images (see above) that portray nature as the embodiment of God. Burchfield developed this style of mark-making where the paint strokes seem to pulsate with energy. It is a sheer delight, and profoundly magical, to see the radiance of nature through Burchfield's eyes.

How does he do it? It's in his use of vibrating color, but it's not just the color. It's his use of line to create radiating energy, but it's not just line. It's in his compositions, which swoosh upward like a gothic cathedral, but not just that, and not just his personal iconography either, which anthropomorphize dandelions and insects and clouds. How does he create the sense of transcendence?

I believe that he accomplishes it by placing everything in the painting in a state of subservience to God, or as he would put it, nature. Every single element of the painting, from the subject matter to the medium (watercolor! simply astonishing!) to the artist himself, is focused on one objective: to express the wonder and majesty of nature.

You think I'm exaggerating. Go look at the show, if you don't believe me. Don't forget to bring Kleenex and smelling salts, and be careful not to trip over me, as I'll surely be prostrated before one of them.

Versace & Lakshmi

2010-08-21T08:26:00.012-04:00

Hymn to Lakshmi

~~~~~~

I love my job. I get to meet the nicest people, I get to listen to my favorite music all day, I can (and do) work in my underwear, and my boss is my bff. She can be a hardcore-gnarly-mafia-boss-bitch, like a few days ago when I wanted to take a nappy but she made me keep working. But she can also be totally chill, like yesterday, when she gave me the afternoon off to go for a long walk in the city, even though we're buried in work and tight deadlines. She's also a little schizo at times, but we've agreed not to talk about that in public.

Yeah, I'm self-employed. It's a gas. I probably don't make as much money as most of you , and any benefits that I have (health insurance, gym membership, 6-day weekends) I get to pay for out of pocket. There's not a lot of yucks at the water cooler, the gossip is thin, and there's never anyone to dance with at the annual Christmas party. But all that aside, it's way cool.

See, the benefits that interest me the most are quality of life issues. I'm not a 9-to-5 kinda gal. Routine is poison to my soul. I'd rather have someone drill a hole in my head and suck my brains out than have to work a 9-to-5. In the end, it would have the same effect. But hey, that's just me.

So yeah, I'm not rolling in it, but I like what I do, love my clients, and I get to work on my art pretty much when I want. It amazes me that people are so entranced by money. It's nice to have and all that, or so I hear, but if you have to work so hard for it that you never get to do the stuff you love to do, then what's the point? The idea behind having money is that it can enhance the quality of your life. Now, I realize that this is 1) a no-brainer, and 2) extremely subjective. 'Quality of life' is a very personal thing, and everyone will have their own spin. But I think we can all agree that there's no point in accumulating a mountain of expensive stuff if you have little time to enjoy it. And no point either in having a closet full of designer clothes if you're feeling stressed out, worthless, and too tired to go out so that you can wear them. Contrary to popular opinion, Versace cannot make you beautiful, and Armani does not make the man.

Since I'm in a debunking mood, I'm going to tackle a few myths about money. As you'll soon discover if you keep reading, I'm not opposed to money. I like it a lot. I think I'm one of those persons who should have a lot more of it, and am drafting a letter to my bank manager, alerting him to the probability that a filthy amount of currency may soon be flowing into my business account. In the meantime, here are a few shared thoughts on 'The Five Top Myths About Money':

1) Money Can't Buy You Happiness. No, but poverty is no guarantee of happiness either, and given the choice, most people would rather be miserable sipping a Mai Tai on a beach in Miami than drinking a Bud under a bridge in Buttsville. I've met a lot of trust fund kids (trustifarians) in my day, and not one of them was as happy as I am. And 'trust' me, I'm no chucklehead.

2) Money Can't Buy You Love. No, but it doesn't prevent you from finding it, either. Love is the great leveler of humankind, as it has nothing to do with wealth or dearth, but is found through sheer, dumb luck.

3) Money Can't Buy You Talent. No, but it can buy you a violin. It can then buy you music lessons with someone who has the talent you lack. And then it can buy you the time to practice and acquire enough skill that you can pass as someone who has talent yourself. [Aside: What's the difference, anyway? Talent versus skill? Is one congenital and the other acquired? Who cares one way or 'tother, if it sounds nice? And what good is talent if you can't afford the violin? I ask you].

4) Money Can't Buy You Health. No, but if you get seriously ill, or even humorously ill, money will buy you the health care necessary to make you well. Every malfunctioning human deserves to receive premium health care, but only the wealthy have access to it in most cases. But if it's terminal, then all the wealth of Solomon is as so much dust.

5) Money Can't Buy You Enlightenment. No, but it can buy you a bunch of books that tell you that money can't buy you enlightenment. And it can buy you the leisure time to read the damn books, and realize that enlightenment is the carrot and hope is the stick. Remove the stick, and the carrot is yours. But you'll figger that one out whether you got money or not.

You get where I'm going with this, right? I'm thinking that you do, but just in case, let me spell it out: Money can buy you nice stuff and fun experiences, but it has no bearing on the important matters in life, those basic attitudes that determine whether your life is of a high, low, or acceptable quality. That being the case, it follows that your sense of well-being has nothing to do with either money or lack of it. Are you with me so far? Cool. Then allow me one last paragraph to bring it on home:

Since having money or not having money does not affect your well-being, and if happiness, love, talent, health and enlightenment are equally available to both the wealthy socialite and the struggling welfare mom, then it stands to reason that whatever your current situation is, you've got as good a shot at "it" as anyone else. It's entirely possible that you can find happiness before you pay off all your debts, before you fall in love (or even if you never do), and before you've taken enough piano lessons to perform Rachmaninoff's Third at Carnegie Hall. Being happy (&tc.) seems to have everything to do with being completely and unreservedly okay with whatever life has dealt you.

My boss is yelling at me...better get back to work.

~~~~~~

Above: Hymn to Lakshmi (letters cut from 'The Secret Garden' by Mahmud Shabistari). Letters cut from holy books, 9.5" x 6", 2010.

Lakshmi is the Goddess of wealth and prosperity, both material and spiritual. I just finished this text piece, and it seemed appropriate for a blog about money. I'm playing with doing my texts on pages torn from holy books; in this case, from the book of Ecclesiasticus (from the Apocrypha). This piece of scripture addresses a chaste woman's virginity.

Throne of Goodness

2010-08-12T22:55:00.005-04:00

I don't know if I'm just lucky or what, but my life is filled with really good people, and my days are (generally) filled with acts of kindness. Of course there's always the odd butt~hole, but I seldom have any significant contact with them. My clients are uber-nice, the UPS guy is totally sweet, and today some homie-bad-ass kid covered in tatts gave me his seat on the subway. Makes my heart hurt hard, all these random acts of caring. Call me naive, call me menopausal (not to my face, please), but I think it's an overwhelmingly decent world we live in, and New Yorkers rank number one on my list of righteous humans.

Unrelated to that, I've finished another small text drawing (see above). The outside rings are a Muslim prayer called "Ayat al-Kursi", or "The Throne Verse". This prayer is considered to be the most excellent verse in the Koran, due to the fact that it mentions the name of Allah more than any other verse. Seventeen times, to be precise. It's a beautiful piece of writing, and when I read it, I'm moved by the love of Muslims for Allah, the Compassionate and Eternal.

The inside geometric pattern is the beloved Hindu mantra, "Om namah Shivaya", which roughly translates as, "I bow to Shiva." Shiva is the symbol of the eternal Self, the supreme consciousness that lives within all of us. The person who chants this mantra and allows it to vibrate in their heart will experience the awakening of Shiva, and witness the radiance of the true Self.

The letters for the outer rings comprising "The Throne Verse" were cut from the Bible. The letters for "Om namah Shivaya" were cut from "The Tablets of Baha'u'llah", the sacred writings of the Bah'ai faith. The latter were intended to imitate the Islamic mandalas that are found in their sacred geometry: interweaving, geometric lines that symbolize the otherwise inexpressible perfection of God.

Both verses point beyond specifics to the human need for God and goodness. So maybe my observations about the charity of New Yorkers weren't completely unrelated after all. Very few can seem to agree on the name, face, and address of God, but no one will dispute the existence and excellence of good will.

Above: THRONE: Ayat al-Kursi ("The Throne Verse") from the Koran, with letters cut from the Bible. 9.25" x 9", 2010.

Surrender and Detach

2010-08-06T12:16:00.026-04:00

It's been unusually loud here all week. The noise has been wreaking havoc on my morning ablutions, and in general making Our Madge terribly cranky. It's hard to maintain a state of perpetual bliss and sisterly love with all that damn hammering, banging, and sawing going on down in the dungeons. I mean, what the hell are they doing, anyway? Installing a friggin' jacuzzi? Yo, homies - this is a monastery, not a day spa!

So this morning I descended from my tower to rip someone's head off, and it turns out that they're doing some renovations to the laundry room. How hard can it be to add a few more washboards? I'm told that we're going to be getting some newfangled washer that runs on electricity. Looks like they'll be done today, so I'll be able to return to my meek and tranquil disposition.

Yeah-yeah, surely I jest and all that, but there's some truth in it, right? We think that if only the outside world would cooperate, we'd effortlessly slip into a state of nirvana. You know that joke, where the woman says, "This marriage would be perfect if it weren't for my husband!" Well, my version is that if my loud and inconsiderate neighbors would just move out of here, I'd be the most enlightened chimp on the planet. But the truth is that the neighbors don't have anything to do with it. In fact, the couple who used to live below me had problems with me!! How d'ya like that?? I'm like the quietest person you've ever met, and the only person in too-cool Bushwick who's ever in bed before midnight, and still they complained! Jeez!! I started taking my shoes off at the door, and my place is lousy with carpets anyway; my evening flagellations are always finished by nightfall, and I made sure to chew with my mouth closed, so I'm not sure what the problem was. They finally moved away in a huff, but I got a hunch that there might be a few things wrong in their new place as well.

So you see, it's not just me. There are other neurotics in the world. We want things to be Just So. And when they're not, we set about manipulating our external world so that it conforms with our comfort zone. I've heard people complain about someone being too loud, too obnoxious, too this-or-that, and I have to wonder, too loud for whom? Sure, he might irritate you, but guess what? Chances are really good that you irritate him, too. Yeah, I know ~ it hurts ~ but let it sink in for a minute. It's time to face facts, folks, and I hate to be the one to break the news, but here it is:

You irritate someone.

Now, I don't know who that person is, but I guarantee that somewhere out there, there's someone who is annoyed by your very presence. Yup, just by being lovable YOU, you're making someone clench their jaw. Sobering, isn't it? Next time someone's annoying you, try to have a little compassion. They're only being themselves, just like you are, and they really do have the right to express themselves, just like you do.

There's a limit to what we can do to change our external reality. Fortunately, enlightenment isn't contingent upon our living in a serene environment, secluded from the chaos of living amongst imperfect beings. Enlightenment and bliss happen in the midst of the storm, when you surrender your illusions of control and detach from an outcome. Volumes have been written on the subject, and you already know it's true anyway, so no need to elaborate. The only way to bliss is to move deeper into your experience, whatever it may be, and to embrace the experience fully, even though it may bring you discomfort. Especially if it brings you discomfort.

I've started adding the word 'surrender' to my text drawings here and there, because...well, just because I feel like it. I like how it looks and feels, and if anyone ever decides to read one of my texts from start to finish, I like to leave treats for them along the way. Little rewards for their effort, and encouragement to keep going. It's the least I can do.

Happy weekend everyone, and do come to my show if you're in the area. It's on Saturday from 7 - 10:00 p.m., and I'd love to see you there. Here's the link and address: Famous Accountants

Above: A modified still from 'The Wizard of Oz', where the Wicked Witch of the West screams across the sky on her broom and encourages Dorothy to Surrender and Detach. Personally, I think the Wicked Witch was an enlightened guru, but I have no proof. Incidentally, this was my first real effort with Photoshop. I'm pleased with it, but I don't think I'll be quitting my day job any time soon, since it took me about 3 hours to complete.

Canticle of the Sun

2010-08-04T08:56:00.011-04:00

My newest text drawing: Canticle: 'Canticle of the Sun' by St. Francis of Assisi, from 'The Secret Garden' by Mahmud Shabistari.

Saint Francis of Assisi was the twelfth century Catholic mystic who devoted his life to poverty and renunciation. He's the patron saint of animals, and hagiographers record him flipping out over just about anything to do with the natural world. He composed 'Canticle of the Sun' in the year 1224, a prayer of thanks to God for 'Brother Sun', 'Sister Moon', 'Brothers Wind and Air', and so on. It's a lovely verse, and reads much like some of the sublime Tantric hymns on my shelf.

Mahmud Shabistari was a Sufi mystic, born in 1288, and surprisingly little is known about the guy. He composed 'The Secret Garden' around 1310, and the bulk of his writings express the profound vision of Sufi mysticism. Check it out:

"I" and "you" are the veil
Between heaven and earth.
Lift this veil and you will see
How all sects and religions are one.

I brought these two mystics together in my newest text drawing by cutting the letters from 'The Secret Garden' to recreate 'Canticle of the Sun'. It starts at the bottom and winds its way to the top of the page, loosely creating a flower shape, but I was wary of making it look too 'pretty'. As usual with my text work, there are no gaps between the letters, and no punctuation. My work is primarily a visual experience (I'm an artist, after all), so I'm not concerned about creating an easy read, nor are my intentions to evangelize. I love bringing together the sacred writings of diverse spiritual traditions and seeing how they respond to each other. Sometimes they clash and sometimes they coagulate; here I think they complement each other quite nicely. I like to think that my men Francis and Mahmud are sharing a pint somewhere out there in Paradise.

Above: Canticle: 'Canticle of the Sun' by St. Francis of Assisi from 'The Secret Garden' by Mahmud Shabistari. Letters cut from sacred texts, 11" x 8", 2010.

Birding & Tweeting

2010-07-31T05:35:00.020-04:00

It happened. I can't say that I wasn't warned. I somehow thought that I'd be the exception, but ho no, not so. It all started earlier in the week, when I bought a Droid. Seemed harmless enough, right? Smart phones are ubiquitous these days, and I'm a responsible adult. It's not like I'm the type of person to get addicted to these techno-gadgets, after all. Right??

Oh baby. This has been the slipperiest slope of my life. I even oiled the soles of my feet so that I could slide all the faster. Better than sex is all I can say, this Droid thing. Which is a good thing because...well, never mind. Even the screen saver blows my mind. It's like taking Ecstasy and falling in love with the whole of humanity for the first time. I honestly think that the goodness and intelligence of the human race, as well as the summation of our achievements as a modern civilization, have been condensed to fit in the palm of our hands in the form of the Droid.

Okay, so after flipping out over the screen saver for a couple of days (it's a pond, folks! It has leaves floating around, and when you touch the screen, the water ripples!), I started checking out the apps. Omg. Have I already used the Ecstasy metaphor? Dang, I did. The apps make me positively weepy. I was at the bar a few nights ago, app surfing, and the guy next to me told me about an app with bird calls. He said his wife's a birder, and she puts the phone near the window, plays the bird calls, and the birds come and hang out on their windowsill. Oh man, I went through a pile of bar napkins over that one. It's funny, I thought, that tears of joy make the same mess as tears of sorrow. (Remind me to tweet that...)

After a few days of timid app surfing, I thought, to heck with it. If I'm going to get all tech'd out, I might's well throw in the towel and go all the way. So with a combination of great pride, deep humiliation, and untethered tech-lust, I executed a perfect swan dive into the abyss, and this is what happened as a result:

- I now have a Twitter account. My desired username was taken for some odd reason (are there really two Meg Hitchcocks in the world??), so Peggy Peanut it is. (Many thanks to my late grandmother who coined the name many years ago, adding a few years onto my therapy). I'm amazed at the deeply philosophical tweets I've been receiving. Twitter isn't just a bunch of girls who tweet about the new shoes they're about to buy, are in the process of buying, have just bought, and are now wearing. There are things equally riveting on Twitter.

- I'm reading my first novel on Kindle for Droid. I absolutely love it, which surprises me, as I've always been such a bibliophile. Ink and pulp are so first-half-of-2010. I used to carry a book everywhere I went, a form of security, but now all I need is my Droid. Perfect for the L train during rush hour. And when I go to a bar to have a beer and read my book? Instead of looking like a dork, I now look like a hipster. Or at least the mom of a hipster.

- I'm now one of those obnoxious persons (the 'obliviot') who walks down the street holding her Droid twelve inches from her face, bumping into people and creating minor havoc with her self-absorption.

- I've been text messaging for some time, but with a few pokes of my index finger, I doubled my text allotment. So if the tweeting is slow, I can revert to texting, and back again. Just trying to think ahead a little, as the long winter's a'comin', and it can get lonely here in the monastery.

- I'm downloading games faster than I can play them. I figure if I ever get stranded on a desert isle, I'm set for life. As long as there's an outlet.

- The only thing that I haven't quite figgered out is the phone app. There seems to be some kind of bug in the design, because while I'm talking, my cheek presses buttons and I end up disconnecting the call. But hey, no complaints here. After all, I can't expect a smart phone to do everything.

So there ya go. You might not be hearing from me for a while. Or actually, you might be hearing from me more often, since I can blog from my Droid. As far as my art goes....well, it was a good run. I'll try to fit it in. Nah, just kidding - in fact, I'm going to be in a show next weekend, if you're around. It's at Famous Accountants, here in Brooklyn. A group show called 'Tunneling', curated by Will Pappenheimer. I'll have 5 of my text pieces in the show.

Gotta run - my Droid is calling me. Have a great weekend, and don't forget to tweet me.

Genius and the Creative Impulse

2010-07-23T14:10:00.016-04:00

I've been having an online discussion and repartee with someone who has seen my website, read my blog, and seems to think that I'm a latter day genius. I know what you're thinking – hey, I thought it was hysterical too – so you just go ahead and sneer, snicker, snovulate – do whatever you have to do, and I'll be here waiting for you when you're finished.

[dooo-dee-dooo-dee-dooo...]

Done so soon? Okay, first off, let me say that I don't necessarily agree with the Madge-as-genius thing. Charming? Yes. Mildly brilliant? Maybe. Kind, compassionate, humble, and meek? Absolutely. Egomaniac? Heck yeah. But genius? Dude, that brings me to the level of Mozart, Einstein, and Elvis. It's not just modesty that makes me deny all claims to genius – it's full-on fear of the company I'd have to keep. What would I talk about at Mensa meetings? More importantly, what would I wear?? (Indeed, the fact that "What to wear?" is my chief concern about attending a Mensa meeting is a good indication that I needn't worry too much about being invited).

So, having debunked any claims to genius with nary a protest from my reading audience, I'd like to share with you some of the insights that my lone admirer (who admittedly has never met me in person, which should tell you something right there) and I have shared regarding what maketh a genius, and what doth not. (Incidentally, long, run-on sentences such as the preceding are not generally taken as signs of rampant genius).

What makes someone a genius? The MacArthur Foundation can only give so many grants, so we can't take that as a sign. A high IQ doesn't necessarily a genius make; we all know a few intelligent people who are major knuckleheads. And sheer academic learning doesn't have much bearing either, as it's more of a feat of memorization and tenacity than of inspired ideas. After all, a brain surgeon performs essentially the same task over and over: Same operation, different skull. It's not exactly flipping burgers, but my point is that brain surgery is a learned skill, and divine intervention is not required for a successful operation. I would imagine that it's even frowned upon in the operating room; after all, no one wants their brain surgeon to stop operating because she's receiving heavenly inspiration.

So this is what my virtual friend and I came to regarding genius: Take someone who is highly talented and brilliant in his or her field. She has learned all the notes, understands all the equations, can paint with bravado, and theorize with authority in her chosen area of study. Once that person has attained some degree of virtuosity, there follows a relinquishing of that skill. This requisite "forgetting" of what one has learned is the hardest part. Anyone can learn to play the piano, but try forgetting what you've learned. It's extremely difficult, especially when there's an attachment to the achievement.

The genius has no attachment to the material he has learned. He releases it, forgets it, and gets on with his creating and thinking, without directly accessing his learned set of skills. The knowledge and skill are still there, but now they've become instinctual and effortless. More importantly, he understands that he needs to step aside and let the creative or 'inspired' energy come through him. Genius is more about getting out of the way than it is about making a statement.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with religion or belief. It's just different degrees of surrender. Genius is a combination of the willingness to open up to let energy or spirit move through you, and the technical ability to communicate that energy. Cases in point: Bach didn't invent the wheel. Newton didn't write the Mass in B Minor. Mozart wasn't a quantum physicist. John Lennon's paintings blow. Each of their geniuses was in the field where they had mastery, but the inspiration came from left field, so to speak. Inspiration is most likely to take place when one fully surrenders to her creative impulse.

So while I don't consider myself to be in league with any of these guys, at least I'm sharp enough to know that I'm not a genius. And I work a lot, which is something. Someone once asked Bach how he was able to accomplish so much, and he answered, "I work hard." Probably an apocryphal story, but inspiring nonetheless.

Many thanks to my online friend whose thoughts on genius inspired the above blog entry.

it's not what you think it is

2010-07-19T14:24:00.014-04:00

I visited my parents over the weekend in Vermont. My dad, who sleeps outside in the summer, told me that for the past few weeks he's heard a dog barking all night long. He said the sound is muffled, as though it's coming from a good distance, so he figured that it must be on the other side of the hills behind their house. My dad felt bad for the dog, because night after night it barks steadily until dawn, and no one bothers to check on it or let it in.

Then one night while I was visiting, he realized that it wasn't a dog at all, but a frog that was in some thick bushes near the house, not twenty yards from his head. So instead of hearing some lonesome, neglected dog yapping all night, my dad had been listening to a very macho and fortunate bullfrog getting it on with the wife.

Proving once again that things are seldom, if ever, what they seem to be.

Muhammad and Women's Equality

2010-07-02T20:42:00.033-04:00

My current text drawing focuses on the Bible and the Koran. I've written about the piece here, if you're interested; otherwise, just read on. Now, I know a lot about the Bible. I'm no scholar, but I know enough to put you all to sleep. But I don't know that much about the Koran. And I'm curious, because I'm working with it rather intimately at the moment, and will be for months to come. But besides that, Islam is figuring rather prominently in the world today. Islamic ideals are behind much of what we hear in the news every day, and in general, the news isn't so good. And finally, I'm just really interested in this stuff. I guess you could say that studying spiritual traditions is my hobby. I figure if I ever get sick of it I'll learn how to bowl or something.

So I picked up this book on Mohammad by Karen Armstrong. It's a really good read, but I'm afraid I'd lose a lot of readers if I started blogging about the life of the Prophet. Instead, I'd like to wax a little about his attitude toward women. In general, when one thinks of Islam, the first thing that comes to mind is not women's equality and emancipation. One tends to think of oppression, abuse, and polygamy. To our post-modern sensibilities, Mohammad was a staunch chauvinist whose harsh treatment of women was reprehensible, and who encouraged the abusive behavior of his male contemporaries toward their numerous wives.

Not so. Indeed, quite the opposite. Mohammad was WAY ahead of his time in his treatment of women. And he got a lot of flak for it, too, but that didn't stop him. This really surprised me, and made me kinda respect the guy. See, if you're going to judge a person, you have to do so within the context of their culture and upbringing. You may say that a murderer is a murderer and then judge her accordingly. But what's her story? Why did she do it? Do the extenuating circumstances make the 'sin' more acceptable? And the biggest, baddest question: Are you willing to throw the first stone?

[ brief pause for poignant self-reflection ]

Yeah, so anyway, the deal with Mohammad was that he was born in the arid plains of the desert steppes, into a harsh reality where there was rampant lawlessness. Monotheism hadn't yet found its way to Arabia, and peace wasn't even something to strive for; it just wasn't expected. Thieving was a way of life, and no one was surprised when their caravan was looted, nor were they particularly concerned, because they knew they'd thieve it back at the first opportunity. So when you hear someone haughtily exclaim that "Mohammad was a thief!", well, it's kind of a moot point. It's like saying, "Jesus was a Jew!" or "Lindsay Lohan has fake boobs!" Well, duh. It's part of the job description, dude.

In pre-Islamic Arabia, women were considered to be part of a man's property, along with his animals and slaves. A husband could have as many wives as he wanted, and there were no laws which labeled him a deadbeat husband or dad. Nor were there rules stating that he couldn't rape women in addition to raping his wives, which confounded the issue of paternity. Without the benefits of DNA testing, it was anyone's guess whose kid belonged to whom, therefore no man felt compelled to support his wives financially. He may have been a wealthy guy, but his wives were often left to fend for themselves and their children, often living with her parents in dire poverty. In regard to physical abuse, from what I can gather, even the nicest, most laid-back Arabian guys didn't think twice about beating their wives. It was a pastime, and a way to let off steam after a hard day of looting. These women were stuck, big time. They had no recourse, and no where to run but the desolation of the desert, so they were totally at the mercy of their men.

Enter Muhammad. Like Jesus, he was a pacifist. He abhorred aggression, and according to his contemporaries, he never beat his wives. He forbade violence against women*, and audaciously stated that women should be respected because Allah looks kindly upon them:

It is not lawful for you that you should take women as heritage against their will, and do not straiten them in order that you may take part of what you have given them, unless they are guilty of manifest indecency, and treat them kindly; then if you hate them, it may be that you dislike a thing while Allah has placed abundant good in it.
Koran 4:19

This infuriated his male contemporaries, who were outraged at the thought of losing their punching bags. Mohammad then did another thing that was reviled by his cronies and our contemporary culture alike: He stated that men could have four wives. We think it's terribly chauvinistic that he gave a nod to polygamy, but folks, this law limited men to four wives. Before Mohammad, they could have as many as they liked, without the hassle of child support. And to really make things tough for the Arabian stud-muffins, Muhammad added to the memo that they had to support all of their wives and children, which meant that they were only allowed as many wives as they could afford, up to four. And they couldn't sleep with (read: rape) other women anymore, either. Just shag your wives, guys, and do it nicely. Thus spake Allah, through the Prophet Muhammad, translated by Our Madge.

But wait, there's more. Muhammad provided protection for widows (who were until then sold into slavery by the husband's family), as well as their children. He stated that women should get dowries from their husbands when they married, which could never be taken away from them. (This gave them emergency money if their husband died). He gave them some education. He allowed them to participate in politics, and stated that if their husbands died (which they did, more often than not) and left behind any money or a business, they should be allowed to keep their money, and, if they chose and were able, run their late husband's business. Under the law of the Koran, their goods and children were to remain with them, period. If anyone broke this law, he would suffer the consequences, and in retaliation, Muhammad was ruthless. You simply wouldn't want to get on Muhammad's bad side, because his revenge was Allah's revenge, and it was brutal.

Pretty amazing. My man Muhammad was one righteous Prophet. He also made a lot of mistakes along the way, but God bless him for trying. I'm not suggesting that Muhammad was blameless, or that he inspired the likes of Gloria Steinem or Betty Friedan. I just think the guy ought to be given his due, as he made the lives of battered Arabian women so much more tolerable.

*Okay, so he later did a flip-flop, but the guy was under a lot of pressure. He needed to prepare his men for holy war, and was losing their support because they were angry with him for teaching their wives to stand up to them. Muhammad was no dope; he knew that he had to make some compromises if he wanted to carry out his mission. So he later said all-right-all-ready, go ahead and beat your wives, but only if they deserve it. I know, it's lame, and I totally get it if you think the guy was a rat-bastard. But I don't. Every honest and respectable politician has to learn the art of compromise if she wants to get something done.

Nitrous Oxide & Calcium Carbonate

2010-06-30T07:59:00.026-04:00

Another dentist appointment yesterday. She had to knock me out with nitrous oxide, crank it up a notch or two, numb my mouth, and hit me over the head with a hammer to stop the whining. The poor woman – it's like the Spanish Inquisition every time I go in for a teeth cleaning. I've learned not to wear mascara to my dentist appointments, as it inevitably ends up dripping off my chin and staining my shirt. I've also started covering my wrists and ankles with Vaseline to prevent the leather straps from digging in too deep.

Carol – the dental hygienist– tells me that I have overactive glands. Well, that explains a few things. Apparently that's the reason that I have an epic collection of plaque. I was reminded of the time I was traveling in Turkey, and came across Pamukkale, the site where a mountain has been covered by calcium deposits from its hot springs (see above). Talk about overactive glands. I feel badly that I make Carol swear and sweat, but on the other hand, her arms are looking real buff, so in a way she ought to thank me.

Anyway, about that nitrous oxide. I have a love-hate relationship with it. It shows me things I already know, but don't necessarily need to be reminded of. Everything in the dental office bespoke of life's fragility: The sappy painting of flowers badly framed and hung askew on the wall, the light fixture shining down into my gaping maw, Carol's tray of bloodied torture instruments, and, most persuasively, the droning musak (so fragile!) that assaulted my senses. The extraordinarily tenuous situation in which we find ourselves is hidden behind a thin veil which can be pulled back at any time, but we stubbornly choose not to have a look. Reality is just too frightening. Instead, we wait with fear and trembling for the veil to be yanked back for us (I call this the 'reality peel'), and it always comes as a shock to see what's lurking behind. What's waiting there for us?

Nothing. Emptiness, and within the emptiness, more emptiness. An infinity of emptiness. Hey, don't take my word for it – just ask your light fixtures. Or your fork, or your plasma TV. They'll be only too happy to tell you about life's emptiness, but you have to be willing to listen. Now, that may frighten you. It used to frighten the hell out of me, so I get it if you feel like sticking your head in the oven. (Don't bother - it's electric). But don't be afraid of emptiness. It's your friend. Trust me on this one – emptiness is the best thing that'll ever happen to you. Emptiness is the end of the story that you've been calling your life. Emptiness is the end of the stories that other people have been telling you about your life. When you embrace emptiness, "you", as you've known yourself, will end, and your life will begin in earnest.

So these are some of the things that were revealed to me during yesterday's torture session/reality peel. Make no mistake about it: Life is incredibly delicate. It's amazing that we're still here, or that we were ever here to begin with. It's all so radiantly magnificent, when you stop and think about it.

Above: A snapshot of the inside of my mouth, before yesterday's cleaning. Naw, just kidding; the white stuff is calcium carbonate. Pamukkale is located in the interior of Turkey, toward the south.

In the Name of God

2010-06-20T23:57:00.027-04:00

A lovely weekend in my studio. Warm and sunny, with both fans running to keep the air moving through my cell. I made it to chapter 9 in the book of Revelation, a momentous chapter indeed, so I celebrated by removing my hair shirt for a few hours this afternoon. Quasimodo took the weekend off to spend with the wife and kids (being Father's Day and all), so things are a little quiet here at the monastery.

I've been plugging away on my newest piece, "Throne: The Book of Revelation from the Koran". Briefly, for those of you who aren't familiar with my process, I cut up holy books and rearrange them to create the content of other holy books. I'm currently cutting up the Koran letter by letter to create the book of Revelation in its entirety. Hey, it's a living. And believe it or not, it's pretty satisfying work. Downright pleasurable at times.

In spite of what you may think, Revelation isn't exactly the book of levity. It's heavy. Apocalyptic, even. No one really has any idea of what St. John is describing in his prophetic visions, but everyone agrees that the greater part of humanity is going to get royally creamed. How will they meet their end? Well, according to chapter 9, they'll be tortured for five months by locusts that have the body of a horse, the face of a man, the hair of a woman, the teeth of a lion, the sting of a scorpion, breastplates of iron, and crowns of gold. Now, interpretations of this passage vary, but my favorite is Charles Manson's spin, which states that the above is none other than a description of the Beatles. Why not, right? He claimed that they had the long hair, the electric guitars (breastplates), the golden aura (crowns), and the powerful jaw of the lion (their voices). Oh, and they were named after the 'beetle', a close relative (mother-in-law, I believe) of the locust. This deranged interpretation was the basis of Manson's vision, and he claimed that the Beatles' song Helter Skelter prophesied Christ's return in the form of Manson.

So chapter 9 has caused a lot of suffering in the minds of men. It's tragic. No, actually, it's insane. Now, I'm not going to go into the whole interpretation thing here. I know, you're terribly upset and want your money back. Trust me, there's enough end times material on the web to sate all you prophesy sluts, and I don't feel called to add to the heap. But here's the ADD version, for those of you who just gotta have it:

John has a vision and writes it down. God sits on a throne. A book with seven seals is opened, and destruction begins: plagues, earthquakes, sores aplenty, four horsemen, one Anti-Christ, a massive meteor, rivers of blood, demonic armies, and then things get really bad. The battle of Armageddon ensues, but no one can agree on where, how, who, why, and when it's coming down the pike. Before St. John could put his pen down, Bible scholars were arguing about this stuff. Every generation has its candidate for the Anti-Christ: Nero, Roosevelt, Reagan, Obama, and Barney the Dinosaur, to name but a few. (Nope, sorry, I'm not kidding). Other points of disagreement include who will comprise the 144,000 who are spared from the Tribulation, at what point in time the Rapture will take place, and what temperature hell will be, in case one finds oneself roasting therein. And whether that temperature should be read in Fahrenheit or Celsius. (Me, I'm a good ol' Fahrenheit gal).

This stuff could turn you into a nutter. Tragically, legions of people have died because of the book of Revelation. And that's just one book of the Bible; there's the rest of the New Testament and all of the Old Testament to go ballistic over. Many millions have died as a result of their religious convictions, and then millions more for someone else's convictions. Just for kicks, here's a quick breakdown of deaths carried out in the name of God:

Total deaths in the name of Christianity*: 17,000,000
Total deaths of Christians by Muslims**: 9,000,000
Total deaths by Islamic jihad***: 50,000,000
Total deaths due to religious conflict****: 809,215,732 (...or so...)

Pretty sobering, huh? That's roughly 67,000,000 deaths due to Christianity and Islam alone, and these figures are dated, so they don't include recent religion-based massacres. We're talking major carnage, folks. It's a wonder that any of us are still standing, but according to most predictions, we won't be for long. Why bother to pay off my credit cards? And to hell with the gym! Makes me want to buy a big, honkin' plasma TV and start watching reality shows. I find it ironic that the killing is centered around one question: Whose God is better? Which I will answer with a short story:

Two martians were arguing about whose God was the One, Supreme God. The eastern martian claimed that it was Glock, God of the East. The western martian insisted that it was Throck, God of the West. So the Glockian and the Throckian got in a heated discussion, came to blows, knives were pulled, and finally they offed each other. "In the name of Glock!" cried the eastern martian, as he lay dieing. "Power unto Throck!" wailed the western martian, as she heaved her last breath. As their blood spilled onto martian soil, high above, peeking through the clouds, Glock and Throck shook their heads and sighed. "C'mon, buddy," said Glock, patting Throck's shoulder. "Lemme buy you another beer."

Above: There he is, Barney, King of Destruction. Apparently someone played his show backwards, and Satan's voice was heard. Case closed.

* This number includes ancient wars, the Crusades, the Inquistions, various European wars during the Middle Ages, and witchcraft trials, but not WWII, since Hitler's genocide was not purely religi0n-based.
** David B. Barrett, Todd M. Johnson, World Christian Trends AD 30-AD 2200, William Carey Library, 2001.
*** Raphael Moore, History of Asia Minor.
**** Where religion is both the stated cause of the killing and the only substantive difference between the two opposing groups.

NOTE: These numbers are undoubtedly skewed by the bias of the researcher. For example, accounts vary of the number executed during the Inquisitions, from a mere 800 (Catholic estimates) to a whopping 9,000,000 (Protestant estimates, and this number would have been impossible). The actual number killed in both the Medieval and Spanish Inquisitions is probably around 30,000.

Creating Meaning Where There Is None

2010-06-11T07:00:00.017-04:00

It's always been intriguing to me to check out other peoples' realities. In general, they vary wildly from my own, and thus my interest in what kind of lives other people lead. Most people don't realize, or else they just forget, that they created the life in which they find themselves. The basic assumption is that the guy in the car next to you sees the world in much the same way as you do, and that he'll keep his car between the two painted lines that designate his lane as you barrel down the highway next to him at 80 mph. It's a tenuous little agreement that we take for granted, when in fact the slightest shift of his reality (or steering wheel) could alter yours permanently.

The reality into which I was born was radically different than the one in which I now find myself. How did that happen? A series of subtle shifts over the course of decades, and before you know it, you're in another lane, going in another direction. My experience of the world has changed considerably, thus my reality looks quite different now than when I was in my 20s. And it's likely that my reality is significantly different than yours. Is my red the same as your red? Maybe. Does an apple taste the same to you as it does to me? Probably. Does my brain process things in the same way that yours does? Probably not. And what about values? That's where things start to heat up. Because who we are isn't about how our biological systems are set up; it's about what we value, and how we prioritize the things that matter to us the most.

Aside from the certainty of death and taxes, there are those institutions that we take for granted as essential components of 'reality'. Marriage is one. Faith in God is another. Patriotism, the NFL, and a weekend in the Hamptons also weigh in at some point. We don't spend a lot of time thinking about these things; we tend to follow the path of least resistance and observe the custom, figuring that it's as good as any other.

Unless it's not. If you're Jewish, you're probably not going to walk around spinning a Tibetan prayer wheel. Likewise, a Tantric practitioner would have little use for communion, just as a Presbyterian would not be inclined to practice amaroli. And if the institution of marriage is as relevant for you as the Easter bunny, then you needn't waste your time or money going through the motions. All of these rites are designed not for skeptics, but for those who deeply believe in their value and/or sanctity. There's absolutely no point in participating in a ceremony that you find insignificant.

Unless it's not. It's possible that you can create your own meaning outside of the cultural context. A newly naturalized citizen of the United States may be profoundly moved by singing 'God Bless America', while the rest of us remain dry-eyed and cynical. The NFL is a hoot for me, not because I enjoy football (heck, I don't even know how to play), but because it fascinates me to see how seriously it's taken by the coaches and players. It's like watching a bunch of martians emote and gloat about something terribly absurd, like the size of their ears, or the girth of their antennae.

As for the Hamptons, it sounds mind-numbingly tedious to me. I have visions of a bunch of drunk people swapping business cards with other drunk people, sipping Bloody Marys by a sterilized pool, and performing countless downward dogs in their Prana yoga gear. BUT...it just so happens that I'm going to the Hamptons for the first time this weekend, because my friend has invited me to join her and her kids for a couple of days in their summer home. So within the context of a ritual that I find tedious and hollow, I hope to create some kind of deeper meaning, like maybe work on my tan while contemplating the meaning of a few gin and tonics.

The chances are good that we don't share the same experience of God, but we can at least agree that it's a mystery, and unfathomable, and we're assuredly both wrong about what "it" is anyway, so no reason to get all apocalyptic about it. And patriotism, well, I don't get all weepy in the days leading up to July fourth or anything like that, but I've lived abroad and traveled enough to know that there's no place like America. However, while I deeply appreciate my access to freedoms that citizens from other countries cannot comprehend, I won't be throwing my baton in the parade.

No, I'm a silent participator in cultural rituals. I like to watch people getting married, in the same way that I like to watch the NFL. And when the July fourth fireworks go off here at the Bushwick monastery, I like to look out my cell window and thank God that I'm an American and therefore have the freedom not to participate.

The Great American Lobotomy

2010-06-09T21:01:00.024-04:00

There's something baffling me that I can't wrap my head around. Apparently Sarah Palin, that wacky conservative gal wonder who just won't go away, is running around the country looking for female politicians to back. No kidding - she's on the hunt. Why? Because if she can find someone really well-respected and smart to stand behind, it makes her look smart. Guilt by association, so to speak.

Of course this is only my theory, but it makes sense. I mean, she'd be pretty daft if she was giving the thumbs up to some white male ultra-conservative evangelical nitwit. She knows to steer clear of Pat Robertson, for example, and you don't hear her mention George Bush so much these days. You have to hand it to Sarah - she's smart enough to know that she's dumb. And she knows that she has to do whatever it takes to convince the country that she's got it goin' on, because she's got her winking eye on the prize for the 2012 presidential campaign, and she knows that no one is keen on having another bonehead for a president. Not that she'll ever get that far, but she doesn't know that. So she's hunting down all the intelligent politicians that will acknowledge her existence, and then offering to lend her name and face to their campaign. This isn't speculation–this is news. She's offering her very public support for these very public women who are about to enter very competitive races. And presumably when Sarah's the presidential candidate, it'll be payback time, and she'll have the endorsements of some extremely powerful women in Washington. You have to admit that it's a clever way to garner support from high-powered politicians and executives who would otherwise remain out of her reach.

Okay, so this is what makes my head hurt: Why in tarnation would someone like California Republican Carly Fiorina, who's running for Senator and is an incredibly intelligent, accomplished, charismatic, and powerful woman, feel that she needs the support of a gun-toting, eye-winking, coma-inducing conservative like Our Sarah? The answer is obvious, right? Carly's lofty (nay, queenly) image wasn't reaching middle-class, conservative women, and she needed chirpy Sarah to give a shout-out that Carly's an okay gal. (Wink, wink). The message is: Don't let Ms. Fiorina's intelligence fool ya, ladies! She may be smart, but she's one of us! And Sarah's giving her the double thumbs up, so there's your endorsement! How's that workin' for ya?

Gad. So it's come to this. This is beyond the dumbing down of America; this is the Great American Lobotomy. This is Karl Rove advising President Obama on his approval ratings. This is Danielle Steele writing a foreword for Salman Rushdie. This is Judas doing a few magic tricks before the sermon on the mount. This is Lindsay Lohan playing Lady Macbeth. This is Joshua Bell doing the opening act for Lady Gaga. This is Renee Fleming singing death rock (oh wait, she really IS singing death rock on her new album...) and James Cameron advising BP on the oil spill clean-up in the Gulf. (Yup, he really is, due to his experience in filming underwater scenes, and his presumed expertise on devastating petroleum overflow. Oh, my aching head....are we really so desperate? Why don't they just call me? I'm equally qualified).

And so on. Surely you get my point. It's a sorry commentary that a brilliant political hopeful is forced to jettison her integrity before she's even in office. Ms. Fiorina's jaw must have been aclench when Our Sarah grabbed her hand and thrust it skyward. What a team! And a fair trade, I suppose: Sarah gets to look smart and Carly gets to look dumb. Major feats for both, and met with equal success.

Well done, ladies! I smell another victory for Barbara Boxer.

Above: There it is, the zillion dollar wink.

My Advaitan Subway Ride

2010-05-30T22:43:00.011-04:00

I was riding the subway back to Brooklyn early this evening, immersed in my book, when a guy got on the train and immediately started ranting. He smelled bad, a mixture of stale alcohol and rancid clothes. He walked with difficulty, partly due to the alcohol, and he also seemed slightly disabled. As he commenced his rant, I assumed that a plea for money was coming, as is usually the case in these situations, but he never asked for it, nor did he have a cup in which compassionate subway riders could place their change. No, this guy was all about the rant. And here it is, to the best of my recollection:

(Imagine, if you will, an angry, thick Brooklyn accent, an improbable lisp, and some alcohol-induced slurring of consonants).

G'ahead! G'ahead! (screaming)
Call me whaddever you want.
I know what you think of me.
I'm a BUM!
That's right, I'm a bum!
So shoot me!
Throw your garbage at me!

Okay, he's got my attention.

Laugh at me if you want, I don't care.
Call me whaddever you want, I don't care.
I know what I am.
People throw garbage at me all the time.
G'ahead! Do it!

I put down my book. I look at him.

Everyone calls me a bum.
I don't care.
You know why I don't care?
I'll tell you why.
It's cause I know what I am.
Do you know who I am?

I didn't.

I'll tell you who I am.
I'm God.

Leaking of eyes. Quivering of chin.

Yup, that's right, everybody.
I...AM...GOD. (still screaming)

Tear duct overflow....damn.

You don't believe me?
Well, that's your problem.
That's your biggest fucking problem.
All of you.
You don't know that I'm God.
And you know what?
You're God too, and you don't even know it.
What a bunch of assholes.

Severe eye leakage. Mascara impaired. Incoming Kleenex.

If you knew who you really are, your head would fucking explode!
You'd be so full of love you wouldn't know what to do with it!
Well let me tell you something, assholes.
You are God, and you are love.
You're no better or worse than I am.
So g'ahead! G'ahead!
Shoot your garbage at me!
Shoot your garbage at God!

There was more, but I was too busy tending to my southbound snot and mascara to remember the rest. Wow - talk about a Power Point Presentation! This guy was good. You just never know where those dang Advaitans are gonna turn up. Thanks, man.

Above: Not my subway car, but it coulda been. This was the kind of reception this guy got, except from me, of course. If he'd been selling books on motivational speaking, I'd have bought one.

Obsessing Over Obsession

2010-05-19T22:40:00.015-04:00

I'm working on the Book of Revelation again. It will be my largest piece to date: 44" x 30". I totally love it, but am forced to take long breaks, as I have to stretch into demonic positions while working. Every time I lean over the great expanse of my table for more than thirty minutes, my lumbar region goes on strike and my neck does a 360. I also noticed that my phone now has a speed dial for OSHA, but I don't know which body part is responsible. Other than those minor nuisances, it's going great.

As mentioned in a previous post, this text drawing is the Book of Revelation in its entirety, cut letter by letter from the Koran. I started at the top of the paper, and am winding down in a continuous line of type until I finish all twenty-two chapters. In the center of the piece is the Islamic prayer called Ayat al-Kursi, or the 'Throne Verse'. This is one of the parallels between the two holy scriptures that interests me–their similar use of symbolism in regard to the Throne of God. For both Christianity and Islam, the Throne is the indisputable seat of power, and the place where God has chosen to hang out. But it's more than that–there's the sense that some pretty high-voltage power is located in or on the Throne. In Revelation, God sits on his Throne as he reveals to John that which is in the sealed scroll, which I'll get to in another post. (Calm down and take your seats, everyone! I know how excited y'all are about this, but do try to be patient!) The point being that it's not until God is planted on his Throne that he starts revealing to John his positively psychedelic visions. And in the Islamic 'Throne Verse', it states that the Throne fully extends across heaven and earth, which is interesting because al kursi can also be interpreted as 'the heart'.

The other parallel between the Book of Revelation and the Koran which I find intriguing is the obsession and fanaticism that lurks just beneath the surface of each. Let's face it, folks: Saint John was an obsessive/compulsive. He ate locusts. He wore hairy shirts. I'll bet he didn't smell so good. So he winds up shipwrecked on the Greek island Patmos, starved and likely tripping on mushrooms culled from his cave, and he has these completely mind-blowing visions. I don't doubt their legitimacy, and believe they were of divine provenance. He manages to write them down, and in so doing provides fodder for later generations of Christians to argue, excommunicate, and incinerate their fellow believers. It's insane. No book in the Bible has created such heated debate about salvation and hierarchy in the church. I'm not blaming John, I'm just sayin'.

As for the Koran, well, this could get me in some trouble, but I'm up for it. Like fundamental Christians, there are some radical Muslims who take their beloved Islam and use the word of Allah as a weapon of mass destruction. Again, it's insane. Any religion that insists upon being the only path to heaven, and then sets about killing those who don't concur and convert, is rooted in a profoundly twisted and erroneous interpretation of the word of God. I have deep respect for Muslims, and am deeply moved by the genuine devotion in their prayers and writings. So it fascinates me to no end that such a heartfelt religion can turn so violent when it gets into the wrong hands. (That's the problem, as I see it. It gets into their hands, rather than their heart).

But we can say the same thing for Christianity, right? There was that nasty little episode called the Inquisition? (Ouch...I hate hot burning pincers). And for that matter, there's no end to the calumny and degradation that stains the church today, even as we speak. Those dang Catholics priests are still insulting the name of Christ with their reprehensible conduct. Wtf? The arrogance is astonishing! But they're a small slice of the pie, and too far from any Throne (heavenly or earthbound) to besmirch God or his goodness. The only consolation in all of this is that the priests are effectively dismantling Catholicism's leaden control over their followers. Their previous positions of power are simply untenable. And it must be said that intelligent people know that the fanatics and hypocrites of any religious persuasion are ignorant, and not delegates of the God whom they claim to represent.

So my fascination with obsession is presently and thoroughly engaged in my current text drawing. How cool is that? I get to obsess over obsession. A neurotic's dream come true! I forgot to mention that I'm only on chapter seven, so you'll be hearing from me again. Soon.

Above: David Koresh, the leader of the extremist Branch Davidian religious sect, who claimed to be their final prophet. He and 75 of his followers died in a fire at their compound in Waco, Texas in 1993.

Splurt

2010-05-11T21:38:00.011-04:00

I recently finished this piece. It's called "SPLURT: The Book of Genesis from 'On the Origin of Species' by Charles Darwin". I'm recreating the book of Genesis by cutting the letters from Darwin's classic book on evolution. Get it? You should – it's not that deep – but here's the cool part: The shapes are taken from illustrations from 'The Joy of Sex' by Alex Comfort. I traced the outlines of these fornicating couples – (well, actually, I'm not sure if they're fornicating, but they're definitely copulating) – and so we're talking about beginnings, origins, and the inevitable coitus that made it all possible. I find it amusing that whether one is a creationist or an evolutionist, one must concede that copious amounts of sex were had by all creatures great and small in order to populate our planet.

So this will be a series. I've started doing more of these, tracing other copulating couples from 'Joy' and then filling them in with the text from Genesis. Not sure how many yet; I'll just do them until I get tired of it. Can you tell that the shape is a couple? My sense is that you can, although it may not be clear what they're doing. They might be having sex, but they might also be playing Parcheesi. The illustrations from 'The Joy of Sex' are exquisite. I remember as a kid my aunt and uncle had the book tucked away on one of their remote shelves, and when I'd visit them, I'd sneak a peek at it. Quite a shock for a quiet little Methodist, who didn't realize that 'sex' had another meaning beyond gender. Say what???

What is THAT??
And why is he sticking it THERE???
And why the hell doesn't she fight BACK????

Imagine my shock. I think every kid experiences their first reality check when he or she is told about sex. It was the only time in my life when suicide seemed a suitable alternative to the foul deed that was being presented to me.

I have to thank Aunt ____ and Uncle ____ for my most excellent sex education. I thought I'd outsmarted them by sticking their big fat book in my Archie comic book, but I'll bet they were wise to my machinations. My wounded-deer-in-the-headlights look must have given me away. In any case, they gave me lots of space to process the surreal information, and undoubtedly had a good, quiet laugh in the other room.

About the title: When you think about it, it's pretty funny that all of creation and all of evolution is contained in a single splurt. All this fuss about who's right and who's wrong is a moot conversation and misses the point. Whether we evolved from Adam and Eve or two humping baboons, it's a given that there was a well-aimed and well-timed splurt, and the rest is...well, history.

Nancy Drew, Judy Bolton, and High Expectations

2010-04-29T10:55:00.019-04:00

I've always been one of those humans who expect a lot out of life. Like, I seriously believe that everything good and wonderful is en route to me, albeit on the pony express. For the most part I've had good reason to nurture such high hopes, since life has thus far been extraordinarily kind, with no shortage of blessings. I think it's sort of a WASPy thing – I am a middle-class American, after all, with all the accompanying expectations of liberty, justice, and the acquisition of happiness.

I attribute my anticipation of impending bliss to my early teenage reading list, which consisted chiefly of Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton mysteries. You know, those perky gal-sleuths who drove around in Big Daddy's roadster and solved mysteries by sheer temerity and goodness of intention. As a kid I thought it odd that with all the unscrupulous villains they encountered, neither Nancy nor Judy had the opportunity to meet up with a demented, knife-bearing, homicidal maniac. Weak. My adolescence could've used some blood-soaked carnage, but I had to settle for moderately bad apples with names like 'Mortimer Bartescue' and 'Nathan Gomber'. Why my memory got clogged with these mundane details is the biggest mystery of all.

Anyway, I believe that by ingesting copious volumes of the above-mentioned literary masterpieces, my brain was scarred with the peculiar notion that gobs of goodness are headed my way, for the simple reason that I'm a swell gal. Like Nancy and Judy, I need only to show up and be nice, and all the 'clues' I'll ever need will present themselves to me within the course of a few chapters. The fact that some of these incoming boons and blessings haven't yet found their way to my door shouldn't be taken as an indication of my lack of worth; rather, it's because they're gathering goodness along the way, like a downhill snowball, and once it hits, I'll be plowed with blessings too exotic and numerous to recount.

Fast forward 40 years. That dang snowball has got to be half the diameter of the earth by now, and I question if I'll be able to handle so much good fortune once it finally slams into me. I also have to question the soundness of my long-held presumptions, and consider other possible explanations as to why the snowball is taking so long to find me. Like, is it possible that good things don't always come to those who wait? Could it be that we don't always get what we want? This is a heavy load for an officially middle-aged gal to bear, so swerve around me as I pull my roadster over to the side of the road to consider the full implications.

What I'm talking about here is the 'C' word. Yes, that's right – compromise. A better word may be 'acceptance'. What exactly should I be accepting? The way things are, right now, without the expectation that they ought to be otherwise. If ever there was a key to success, it's to lower one's expectations. If I set my sights to get out of bed in the morning and drink a cup of coffee, then it's a slam dunk that success will prevail by noon. If I add to the morning's line-up the expectation that I'll create a fantastic new piece of art, then I've got some work to do. And if I throw in the anticipation that George Clooney will present me with a MacArthur Grant by nightfall, then there's a solid chance that I'll be cozying up to some major disappointments. Hope is the enemy, as my friend Claude the pseudo-Buddhist ('Pseudhist') likes to say.

Where am I going with this? Jeez, I dunno. Is it really time to start settling? This smacks of rampant mediocrity, and I'm not sure that I've got the stomach for it. Next thing you know I'll be voting Palin. But I have to admit that the pursuit of happiness is getting a bit dodgy, and I'm ready to actually snatch a decent-sized chunk of it. You know, grab onto its love handles and have my way with it. However, in order to do this, there has to be something to grab, and that implies an acceptance of what's within reach. Which in turn implies a dashing of the hope for something better, and settling (there's that word) for This. Because This is the only place where That can be found.

NOTE TO SELF: There will always and forever be supremely desirable things just out of your reach. Get over them.

Nope, sorry. This is way too mature for me. Nancy and Judy never gave up hope, and never stopped reaching. Heck, they managed to solve the mystery, arrest the crook, and get the cute guy! I once did the math, and figured out that Peter proposed to Judy when she was 17. What a gal! Is it any wonder that she was my teen-chick-idol?

Anyway, I'm going to wait a little longer for my snowball. If it doesn't hit me by 50, I'll begin to consider the possibility that everything I want and need is within arm's length. That's 1.5 years, and I'm going to need all of that to relinquish my high expectations.

Above: There's my gal, but she's looking uncharacteristically clueless. I inherited the Judy Bolton and Nancy Drew mysteries from my dear mom, who in turn inherited them from her mother. I've read them all at least 3 times, which explains a lot.

Hymn to Durga

2010-04-26T22:11:00.009-04:00

This is my newest text piece. It's called Hymn to Durga. Here's the deal: I cut the letters from the Tablets of Baha'u'llah, the holy book of the Baha'i faith, and with them I recreated the Hymn, which is the type you see in the background, reading straight across. On top of that, the ornamental lines form Chapter 10 from the Tablets of Baha'u'llah, the chapter on Wisdom. I cut the letters for these curving lines from the book of Proverbs in the Bible, which are words of wisdom from King Solomon. Got that? I know, it's a little complicated, but I invite you to just let all that information go, and enjoy it as a visual experience.

The concept is actually pretty simple. I use the text of one holy book to recreate the text from another. Why? Thanks for asking. It's incredibly satisfying, for some odd reason. Introducing these wildly disparate spiritual traditions and giving them the opportunity to talk to each other is deeply rewarding. I feel like a diplomat of sorts, except that I don't have a big agenda; I don't care if the two traditions clash, mesh, or bomb each other with exclamation points. I'm mostly interested to see what they have in common, even if it's precious little.

In this case, there's little indeed. The Baha'i faith is founded on the principle of one God and one humanity. They claim that the time has come for the world's spiritual traditions to unite and form one world religion based on peace, equality, and unity. The Baha'is are all about cultural diversity, environmentalism, grass-roots activism, and a network of international councils who oversee these actions with amazing organizational prowess. In a word, they're a practical lot, and zealous, if not religious, about spiritual change as a byproduct of aggressive social action.

The Hymn is a Tantric ode to the Goddess Durga, and thus rooted in the Hindu tradition. The Tantric hymns worship the Goddess in her various forms, and are so thickly veiled in mysticism that if you try to get a glimpse beneath the surface, the only thing you'll see is a reflection of yourself. That's the point, you see. The power of Tantra lies in its mirroring back your own divinity. Unlike the Baha'i faith, Hinduism isn't generally known for its social activism; it inspires devotion through the use of symbolism. Which isn't to say that Hindus aren't socially conscious, but there is a clear separation of agendas when it comes to inner transformation versus cultural evolution.

Now, I'm not a representative of the Baha'i tradition, so this is off the record, but I think they'd have as much use for a six-armed, wide-hipped, boon-bestowing Goddess as they would a fluffed-out, long-eared Easter bunny. But hey, what do I know. In any case, as you can see, these two world religions don't have a whole lot in common. That's why I nudged them a little closer and let their complexities collide and coagulate. Something arises from this improbable juxtaposition – in a sense, it's Hegelian:

thesis + antithesis = synthesis

That is to say, when you unite something with its opposite, the byproduct is a thing unique and entirely unto itself. Or, in the case of my text drawings, the end result is (I hope) a deeper penetration into the depths of the human experience. See, it's my belief that in spite of our many differences, we humans are united in one thing: The desire to cultivate meaning amid the chaos of our lives. Whatever vehicle you choose to take you there is your own path, your own synthesis, and your own hymn.

Above: Hymn to Durga (from the Tablets of Baha'u'llah, Chapter 10, "Words of Wisdom"), 11" x 8.5", 2010.

Abandonment Letters

2010-04-06T19:10:00.019-04:00

I got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first? Right–the bad news. This: I've been getting a lot of rejection letters from galleries. And the good news: Each and every one of them thinks my work is "interesting". Hey, better than them thinking my work's not interesting, right? It's better than them writing, "We don't want to show your work because it's uninteresting and it sucks." Or, "We hate your work and lined our bird cage with it." Or, "Your work is so uninteresting that our bird won't even poop on it and we're forwarding you a link to our favorite accounting school."

It's not as though this comes as a big surprise. Honestly, I didn't think that Mary Boone would suddenly convert to obsessive sacred text art, but you never know. And Gagosian? Well sure, he's into the big name artists now, but in the future he might want to include in his line-up a show of sliced up Bibles retrofitted into Tantric prayers. I realize it's a stretch, but I figure it's better to aim high and fail than aim low and kick butt. What artist would want a solo show at the local senior center? Who wants their mid-career retrospective to be held at the Poughkeepsie Elks Club? I ask you.

I'm taking all this in stride, and trying not to take it too personally. But, see, I sort of have this thing about getting turned down. No one likes rejection, but I happen to have some major issues around it. That's right, folks, and let me just spell it out for the sake of clarity:

I have rejection issues.

Which are not to be confused with abandonment issues, btw. Abandonment I can deal with. The difference is subtle, but not insignificant. Sort of like someone asking if you'd prefer to be flogged or whipped.* See, the act of abandonment implies an Abandoner, and he or she is by definition a not-nice person. At some point in time, he or she accepted you, and you were "in". Don't ask me in where–it could've been the senior center–but the point is that you were One Of Them. Then something happened, God only knows, and now you're out, baby. Whoever it was that abandoned you is a bit of a prick for having jerked you around, and that, my friend, is the solid ground on which you now stand. Granted, it's a mighty small plot of land, but it's yours.

Rejection, however, offers you no such real estate. Rejection isn't nearly as charitable as abandonment. Rejection implies that you never got "in" in the first place. You can't use the flaccid excuse that you were the victim of some bad-ass Abandoner, because you never got that far to begin with. Rejection has an edge that keeps on giving, long after its cold steel enters your quivering flesh. Abandonment is indeed a knife in the gut, but rejection provides the teensy twist of the blade that Vlad the Impaler featured in his mid-career retrospective.

But hey - let's not get all macabre or anything like that. Rejection is a fact of life. Rejection is good for society at large. If it wasn't for rejection, this city would be overrun with dilettantes who paint their poodles and call it Art (see above).** If not for rejection, we'd be stuck with cardinals and popes and bishops who think they can sate their self-serving desires and then hide it from their seething congregation. If not for rejection, I'd be married with kids and implants and living in the 'burbs, and if that's not proof of the existence of God, then I don't know what is.

New York has never been known for coddling its artists. I haven't been cut an inch of slack since the day I arrived here, which is one of the things I love the most about this city. It demands that you become the best you can be. It weeds out the faint of heart in a jiffy, and the thin of skin have to choose whether to toughen up or throw in the towel. So bring it on, I say. Shower me with rejection and keep those nice gallery letters coming. Can't we call them something else, though? Something a little softer? Like, how about "abandonment letters"?

* Always choose to be whipped. A flogging is executed using an instrument with several "tails", or strips (usually leather), whereas a whipping will always be done with a whip, which has but one tail. Good luck with that.

** My apologies, if needed, to the person who poodled this piece. It's really pretty cute. It didn't deserve my flogging, so mea culpa.

The Art of Making Art

2010-04-02T04:31:00.009-04:00

Most artists get a little cranky when they don't get to do their creative work. It's terribly depressing, and the darkness has a flavor all its own: a hint of guilt, a dollop of anxiety, and a litany of complaints thrown in for seasoning. Me, I get downright morose. You don't want to be around me. I don't want to be around me. Without wading too deep into self-pity, let me just say that if a few days go by and I haven't been able to get into my studio, you might want to avoid bumping into me in the cereal aisle. And for God's sake, don't ask me how I'm doing, as you're likely to lose an ear.

How am I doing? Well, it's like this. See, I've been really, really busy with my business. Like, cranking. That's a good thing, right? In this dreadful economy, I should be on my knees, circumflecting or something, thanking God and the Gipper for the abundance of work. And believe me, I'm profoundly grateful, as is my landlord, who likes to get paid every month, as well as Larry at ConEd, who says he'd feel like a rotter if he had to come out here and turn off my electricity. So everyone's pretty happy about my booming business.

The bad news, of course, is that there's little time to do my art. (Here goes the swan dive into histrionics). Life becomes mighty wretched and quickly stale when it's centered around making money. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that money-making for the sole purpose of making money is futile, preposterous, and excruciatingly dull. Does anyone out there know what I'm talking about? Am I in good company out here on this limb? To the rest of the world we're a bunch of whiners, but without time to do one's creative work, what's the point? I mean, why bother making money and working 'round the clock, if at the end of the day you're so used up that all you can do is dial the phone and order Kung Pao Chicken?

Okay, so no one dials the phone anymore, but you get my point. Please understand - I love my work, love being self-employed, and love that my clients are also artists and for the most part wonderful to work with. I'm very fortunate in this way, and I adore my job. But how to balance work with studio time? Every artist I know, and I know a LOT of them, has to figure this out. It's thee biggest problem that we artists face, especially living in New York City. In fact, it's the topic that comes up most often in discussion. Rather than talking about what you're working on in the studio, the conversation tends to veer toward how much time you're able to spend there. And all too often, it's not very much.

My solution, for now, is to work in the mornings, since that's generally my best energy of the day. I get all cranked up on tea, then Earl Grey and I wail on my text drawings, bright and chipper and knockin' them out. Life is extraordinarily fine for an hour or two, then Earl leaves and I need to get to work. So it goes. My progress in the studio is minimal at present, but bills are getting paid and other boring stuff like that.

I don't know how other artists do it, especially those who have kids and other immense responsibilities. Heck, I feel suffocated by the tremendous weight of keeping my houseplants alive. I don't know if there's been a tougher time to be an artist. You almost have to make an art out of it; finding the time, sneaking it in here and there, and inventing new ways to whine about it. So many nuances to the art of making art.

Above: This is me at the end of a bad week, when I haven't had enough studio time.

I Am That

2010-03-24T07:38:00.003-04:00

I've been reading 'I Am That' by Nisargadatta Maharaj. Not cover to cover, of course, but snippets of his conversations. As anyone who has read him will attest, his writings and observations cut through layers of misapprehension like a machete through soft butter. His insights shatter our self-centric world views, and liberate us from our mind-generated ignorance.

In the great mirror of consciousness,
images arise and disappear and
only memory gives them continuity.
And memory is material -
destructible, perishable, transient.
On such flimsy foundations
we build a sense of personal existence -
vague, intermittent, dreamlike.
- Nisargadatta Maharaj

Splat! There goes the thing I've been stressing and obsessing over for the past month. Completely annihilated, until my mind dredges it up again for further review. I notice that when I read these words and let them sink in, I experience immediate freedom. The grave concerns that have been severely affecting the quality of my life are instantly pulverized. In a miraculous kind of way, I'm able to cut through the conditioning and see how every and each problem is a product of my mind. This realization is followed by an astonishing sense of liberation. And by 'astonishing' I mean unfamiliar, unfathomable, and jarring. It's simply incomprehensible that permanent liberation from pain and complexity can be ours at any moment.

It's all about perception - namely, whether we perceive ourselves as being separated from or identical with Consciousness. One will keep us forever in bondage to "The Way Things Should Be In Order For Me To Be Happy", and the other will allow us the freedom to rise above those desires and emotions that keep us shackled to our false identity. I'll leave it to you to figure out which is which.

I wonder if I was to read 'I Am That' from cover to cover if I'd come to Self-Realization. It's a long shot, but I haven't the stomach for it. Nisargadatta's a tough read, and not one for mincing around. Which further proves that Consciousness isn't necessarily a feel-good thing. It just is, and however you feel about It or anything else is irrelevant. Still, I wouldn't recommend reading him on an empty stomach.

Above: There he is, ol' Smiley. Nisargadatta Maharaj was a guru of the Advaita Vedanta tradition. His teachings on Nondualism placed the emphasis on knowing our true identity as "That", or Consciousness, rather than separate, autonomous beings. He was one of the great Indian Advaita teachers of the 20th century, and made a giant impact on Western spiritual seekers. He died in 1981.

My Heart is a Penis

2010-03-19T01:26:00.019-04:00

If you're a woman, and even if you're not, you've heard men refer to their penises in the third person. "Bob" (or Peter, or Xavier) has a mind of his own, and, but for the fact that he's attached at one end, "Bob" (or Ralph, or Rolf) would surely dash off and see to his own amusement. The idea behind the autonomy, apparently, is that Bob the Penis can't be controlled, and there's little to be done about it.

This is a fairly accurate description of my heart. I've never been able to control it. It opens without my consent, and thrusts itself into places it has no business going. Even when it knows it's going to get creamed, it barrels ahead, wide open and defenseless. It's kind of remarkable, my brave little heart. It's not terribly intelligent. In fact, it's pretty stupid. My heart is a penis.

I suspect that normal people have some control over their hearts. When a Normal meets a person of the opposite sex whom they find intriguing, intelligent, and attractive, they gravitate toward that person and sniff around a little. Right? They look for clues that indicate the person is single, solvent, and moderately sane. A female Normal asks the right questions:

"So how did all of your ex-wives die, anyway?"
"How is it that you've been able to collect unemployment for seventeen years?"
"That photo of a beautiful woman that keeps flashing on your iPhone is your sister?"
"Careful there, Hoss! Did you hurt your neck when you were checking out that redhead?"

If the answers to her questions aren't satisfying, the Normal sizes up the situation, zips up her heart, and is on her merry way. Not I. My heart's too dumb to be so smart. It's already open and erect and ready for business. Or, to use a slightly cuter metaphor, it's like a puppy who's ready to play, wagging, panting, and oblivious to the consequences.

I don't want to discourage my heart from being so open. It has to do what it has to do. But I'd like to give it some broad guidelines, and encourage it to be more circumspect about where it chooses to set up camp. It's sort of like having a precious little kid that you love and want to protect, because you know it's just a little too naive to get by in the world without your help. But you don't want to shackle it either, since its innocence is sweet, in a way. And it's your kid, after all. Your job is to protect it. Or, swinging back to the penis metaphor, if you're a guy and you have a penis, it's your job to reel it in from time to time. Yes, it's cute and all that, but you have to be stern and not let it fetch up wherever and whenever it chooses. You're the boss; you call the shots.

I think one of the reasons that men and women have a fair amount of difficulty understanding each other is this very basic difference. Women have a hard time controlling their emotions, and men have a hard time controlling their penises. It's a nasty combination, and one which has plagued the whole lot of us since some Neanderthal goldsmith hammered the first wedding ring. (A female Neanderthal, no doubt. I suspect she invented the wedding ring immediately after her boyfriend invented the wheel. She shrewdly observed that if she didn't do something fast, he'd be using that wheel to move on down the road and make more baby Neanderthals).

So the heart/penis issue has been around a long time. Granted, most women have more control over their hearts than I, but still - it's an issue that pops up regularly with all my women friends. I've come to accept it as a problem that's not going to go away in my lifetime. Men and women are wired differently; we can't help ourselves. My heart will continue to blunder and fall, but like a bruised puppy it'll roll over, get up, shake itself off, and promptly start wagging its tail again. It's a dumb heart, but it's the only one I got.

PLEASE NOTE: All perceived misandry is offered tongue in cheek. Honestly. I love men. I love women. And I love the wacky differences between us. So please, no male hate mail.

Shivoham

2010-03-10T10:00:00.003-05:00

My God of choice is Shiva. It was love at first sight. Since he's the God of destruction, folks tend to give him wide berth, thinking that association with him may bring with it some bad juju. But the wrathful deity shtick is only one aspect of Shiva. I prefer to think of him as the God of tough love. All your nasty habits that are keeping you from awakening to your true nature? That's what Shiva concerns himself with. If you ask him to (and sometimes even if you don't) he'll shatter your egoic delusions so that you may perceive the pervading unity of reality.

But that's not all. This is my favorite part: You are Shiva. Actually, so am I. Shiva is your true nature. Shiva is Consciousness. Shiva is the Jungian 'undifferentiated being'. Shiva is the Hindu equivalent of Jesus. Not in the sense of being your savior, but the outer symbol of who and what you really are: undivided being, pure consciousness, and all those annoying buzz words that grasp for the ungraspable.

But I don't want to get caught up in definitions. I'll just say that Shiva is the symbol of the higher Self and leave it at that. He has many, many names and faces, but his presence is the unity that we find when we peek behind the thin veil of appearances.

Above: Shivoham, holy books on paper, 9" x 6", 2010.

Nithyananda and Monica Lewinsky

2010-03-04T10:23:00.007-05:00

I've been getting quite a few emails and posts on this blog regarding the Nithyananda scandal. He was taped having sexual relations with an Indian actress, which is a big no-no, since he claims to be a renunciate. It would be the equivalent of a Catholic priest having sex, I guess, and maybe worse, since Nithya's massive following is based on his presumed purity. And I suppose the reasoning goes, if he's lying about this, what else is he lying about?

Some of the posts and replies were nasty, and I deleted them. Folks, for the record, let me just say that I'm not a follower of Nithya. I went to hear him speak, gleaned some good teachings from him, wrote a bit about it on this here blog, and that's the extent of it. I was and am highly skeptical of his claims to enlightenment, just because he seems to make such a big deal of it. Most enlightened blokes keep quiet about their awakening, or at the very least are reserved in announcing it far and wide, as they claim that it's not that big a deal. But, in the interest in staying open-minded, I've cut Nithya some slack, because in truth I don't much care if he's enlightened or not. It doesn't affect me one way or 'tother.

However, I do find it disturbing if he's been deceiving lots of people who dish out money to him. I also find it somewhat disturbing that people would dish out a lot of money to him. And last, I find it WAY disturbing, like, horrifying, that someone would plant a video camera in Nithya's room, and then (in all likelihood) send in a beautiful woman to have sex with him. An insidious set-up, and pretty rank. Someone had it in for Nithya, that's for sure. It gives me the chills that I have to share a planet with these neanderthals.

So Nithya's been exposed as a fraud - what a shock! Omg! And that lousy Bill Clinton had sex, of all things, with Monica Lewinsky! And that bad boy Obama smokes cigarettes! What a fallen world we live in.

I'm going back into my studio.

Above: Nithyananda himself. Did anyone truly believe that he wasn't having sex? C'mon.

Sandcastles in Miami

2010-02-22T09:32:00.012-05:00

They let me out of my cell at the Bushwick Monastery last week, so I high-tailed it down to Miami. Major fun was had, which just goes to show that, with a little sunshine and chardonnay, even a neurotic nun can cut loose for a few days. Gad, what a good time. I'm still shaking the sand out of my habit.

But now I'm back in my cell and singin' the blues, albeit a cheerier version. Spent the better part of yesterday working on Castle (please see above; detail of work in progress). This is my newest text, long and drear (that St. Teresa, man - she was a talker!), so it's no surprise that today my joints are in traction. The pain found a mountain pass through the knuckles, and is now encamped in the elbow, where it's been for forty days and forty nights. No fun at all, and exacerbated by the reminder that a few days ago I was livin' large in Miami.

As I've mentioned before, I'm interested in piling up the text in my drawings, as I like the interesting shapes and shadows that emerge when the pieces take on dimension, as can be seen here and there in my recent works. Simply put, I find it visually pleasing, and my work is first and foremost about creating interesting visual works. The conceptual underpinning is important only insofar as it keeps me hooked into the process; it takes a back seat when it comes to the finished product. As I've said before, I'm an artist, not a crusader.

This piling up of the text creates some new and interesting shifts for me in regard to my work. In my older pieces, one could read the entire text from start to finish, assuming that one wanted to, of course. It would be a tiresome task, but I suppose there are those who have nothing better to do. But these newer texts don't offer the same opportunity, since the letters are stacked on top of each other. In Castle, one is quickly lost in the fortress, and even I have trouble detecting where a sentence leaves off and then picks up again. With only scraps of writing to feed on, it's a given that the viewer will give up on reading the text, which is partially the point. My work isn't about the text, or the passage, or the holy book from which it was taken. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's about negating the passage–bypassing it, if you will–and moving instead to the faith that it embodies. The passage that I create, as well as the book from which I cut the letters, are negated in their particulars, and point instead to the faith underlying both texts. Why mess around with the middleman, right? Better to go straight to the Source, which is what all spiritual traditions are pointing toward. (Sorta like my tendonitis, which bypassed my knuckles in order to get right down to business in my elbow).

So conceptually, this really works for me. I discourage anyone from taking my work literally by making it impossible to read. And I create blobbish piles of letters that are visually intriguing at worst; orgasmically seductive at best. But that's not the end of it; the WAY cool part about my new exploration with text is that the work becomes process-oriented. The only one who knows (or possibly cares) that the entire passage is there is Yours Truly. Yep, every jot and tittle is cut with an x-acto blade and glued to the paper, and even though the sentences that make up Castle skip from tower to turret, it's all done methodically and meditatively. Why bother, you ask? Indeed, I wondered the same as I reached for the Advil this morning. It has to do with moving beyond. Beyond particulars, beyond beliefs, beyond spiritual grasping, to discover what's at the root of it all. Which is reminiscent of the last verse of the Heart Sutra:

Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhisvaha.
(Gone, gone, gone beyond; gone all the way to enlightenment).

So I'll continue to construct my Textcastle, and hopefully have the drawbridge installed by week's end. It's kind of sick. I miss Miami.

Above: WORK IN PROGRESS (detail).
Castle: 'Interior Castle' by St. Teresa of Avila (from the Seventh Mansion), from 'Mysterium Coniunctius' by Carl Jung.

The Breath Within the Breath

2010-02-10T08:21:00.016-05:00

I'm slowly making my way through Osho's 'The Book of Secrets'. It was recommended to me, and now I'm recommending it to you. Since it's a big book–two inches thick–I can't take it with me when I go anywhere, thus the slow read. But it's just as well, because it's the kind of book where you need to read a chapter, then spend a week thinking about it.

It's a commentary on the Vijnana Bhairava Tantra, which I spent last summer working on; you can see it here if you like. Now, I don't know how you feel about Osho. A lot of people have problems with the guy because of his penchant for Rolls Royces and sex. He's Rajneesh, you know; one and the same. Or rather, he was; he died in 1990. Rajneesh got a bad rap, for sure. But we do him and ourselves a disservice if we dismiss him wholesale, because the guy's brilliant. His oratorial style of writing is a bit tedious–the book could easily have been one inch instead of two. So brevity isn't one of his gifts, but he has an amazing ability to penetrate the often difficult writings of Eastern mysticism and make them comprehensible to a Western audience. If you haven't read any of his many books, I highly recommend that you pick one up.

But back to 'The Book of Secrets'. In the Vijnana Bhairava Tantra, Shiva in the form of Bhairava presents to his wife, Bhairavi, 112 methods for attaining enlightenment. The VBT is written in the form of a conversation, from which we are to greatly benefit if we apply these practices. Not all 112, mind you; that's not necessary. The point is that of these 100+ methods, we ought to be able to find a couple that resonate with us to bring us closer to God, or Consciousness. To be more specific, the methods will dissolve the mental hurdles which prevent us from seeing that we already are pure Consciousness. As Osho points out, we set the hurdles in place that slow down our Self-realization, and it's up to us to remove the hurdles so that we can awaken more quickly. The 'Book of Secrets' contains 112 hurdle-removers, also known as sutras.

Of the 112 sutras, I've found at least one that's pretty effective. It's kind of amazing, actually, because I'm generally pretty skeptical of these things. So here 'tis, my recommended sutra, which is breath-based and breathtaking:

When in worldly activity, keep attention between two breaths, and so practicing, in a few days be born anew.

Osho expounds upon this as follows: between inhalation and exhalation, there's a brief pause where the breath turns. Place your focus on that gap. It's not as easy as it sounds, but if you sit and do it for a while, you'll get it. It may take a few sittings, but once you feel fairly comfortable with it, take that into your daily life. Whatever you're doing, keep bringing your attention back to these two brief moments in your breathing cycle–the pause at the top of the breath, and the pause at the bottom of the breath.

The effect of this sutra is startling. You very quickly become aware that there are two levels of existence: that which is happening outside of you (the 'doing'), and that which simply is (the 'being'). Osho explains that as you become aware of the difference between the outer doing and the inner being, you'll begin to feel like you're watching a movie in which you're an actor. And when you perceive the outer activity as an ongoing drama, it begins to lose its allure, and there is less grasping. You begin to identify with the inner being.

My experience with this breathing technique is that I become hyper-aware of a Presence that is not "me". This Presence is located inside the breath, as it were; it is breathing me. Which brings to mind the following Kabir verse:

O servant, where do you seek me?
Listen, I am beside you, I am not in the temple or mosque.
I am neither in Kaaba nor Kailash.
Neither am I in rites or ceremonies, nor in yoga and renunciation.
If you are a true seeker you shall see me at once,
You will find me in the secret place within.
Kabir says, tell me, what is God? He is the breath within the breath.

So when I pay attention to the pause between breaths, I begin to watch my daily activity through the eyes and breaths of a removed observer. Which is another way of saying that it's like watching a movie, but it's more intimate than that. It's a movie that I wrote, produced, directed, starred in, and am now watching. (Hey! Sounds like a Kevin Costner film).

But don't take my word for it. Check it out for yourself. If a God and a guru (Bhairava and Osho, respectively) recommend a technique, it's probably a good one. And if that one doesn't work, well, there are 111 others to try.

Above: Sleeping Nude, pencil drawing, c. 2000

Bronzino, Perfection, and Patti Smith

2010-02-09T07:05:00.016-05:00

The other day I came across Patti Smith's first album, and I was struck by how much she looked like a Bronzino portrait. That cool, contained demeanor of someone who is either aristocracy or, if not, should be. I'm not sure if I'm a Patti Smith fan or not; I'll get back to you on that. But she's definitely got that post-Renaissance thing goin' on.

So, Bronzino. A nice show of his drawings at the Met. A lot of people don't like the Mannerists, but I've always had a thing for them. Pontormo was my favorite; he was Bronzino's teacher. The Mannerist sensibility shows in the eccentric abstractions of the human form: overlong necks, impossible contortions, and idealized portraits so brittle that they look more like masks than mugs.

The Mannerist period officially began with the death of Raphael in 1520, and lasted about sixty years. It came on the heels of the High Renaissance, when Michelangelo, Raphael, and Leonardo perfected the human form in painting and sculpture. How do you follow that? How would you like to be an artist in the generation following Leonardo? The problem with perfection is that in its wake, there's nowhere to go but downhill. So the artists who worked in this period became very self-conscious, something that the good ol' boys of the High Renaissance were decidedly not. The new generation of artists played with perfection, mocked it in a sense, and thereby planted the seeds of Modernism.

I totally get why they did this. The thing about perfection is that it gets boring. Even God, or Consciousness, gets bored with unity. Bliss can get pretty monotonous, and I'd imagine that anyone who's spent half an eternity in ecstasy could use a break. Michelangelo himself is the best example of overripe perfection, as his paintings became increasingly self-conscious and distorted toward the end of his long life (he lived until 1564, and some consider him the first Mannerist). So Pontormo, Bronzino, Parmigianino, et al had to choose between cranking out more perfection, or playing with it and stylizing their portraits. Thus the freakish elongations, technicolor lighting, and Botox-infused faces that permeate their paintings. What a blast they must have had! It's like they were trying to see how much they could get away with by mocking both their predecessors and patrons.

But it all ended pretty quickly, because art about art is interesting only if you're an artist. The mannered, mind-numbing intellectualism of the contemporary art scene is evidence enough that Art is at its best when it alludes to something other than itself. Without anything to support their vision other than the egos of their wealthy patrons, the Mannerists went to seed. And as fate would have it, the next crop of artists were profoundly talented and stunningly bold, thus the Mannerists were filed away as a long footnote in the history of art, only to be appreciated by art history sluts and Arnold Hauser*. (Let's hope that the parallel between Mannerism and the contemporary Post-Post-Modernist art scene is limited in its scope; none of us likes to think that we're footnotes in the making).

The style that supplanted the Mannerists is referred to as the Baroque, and the early major player was Caravaggio. Gad - poor Bronzino. Sandwiched between Michelangelo and Caravaggio? It's a wonder that he had the balls to pick up a brush. Anyway, I'm glad that he's getting some attention now, as he really was a good artist. The brief period of Mannerism is an interesting study of what happens when humankind reaches a zenith, and then has to negotiate the inevitable decay that follows.

* Hauser wrote THE book on Mannerism, called, curiously enough, Mannerism, Highly recommended, especially if you don't have a TV.
Above: Bronzino, Portrait of a Young Man, c. 1550.

The Unity of Advaita

2010-02-04T07:38:00.005-05:00

It used to be easy when someone would ask me what my spiritual path was. I'd tell them I was a Christian, they'd nod, and that would be the end of it. But I'm no longer a Christian, nor am I attached to any familiar-sounding spiritual tradition. So when I say "I'm an advaitan" it's a little awkward, because I can tell by the blank stare that they don't know what that means, but are afraid to ask, lest I launch into a sleep inducing explanation.

The thing about advaita vedanta is that there's really no big central idea that one must attach to in order to join the ranks. In fact, it's quite the opposite; there is a distinct detaching that happens, as we let go of the mountains of material that have been lodged in the mind. The number one difference from most world religions is that advaita is not a belief; it's an experience. Beliefs are mind distortions. In the religious realm, beliefs separate and divide, which is readily seen in any particular faith. Just because two people believe in Christ as their Savior is no guarantee that they'll see eye to eye. In fact, they may just kill each other before they can agree on anything. It's kind of amazing, when you think about it.

Beliefs are pretty heavy, and I find it's best to give wide berth to anything that's entrenched in a person's head, religious or otherwise. But experience is another matter. The highly subjective nature of spiritual experience renders it difficult to discuss in pragmatic terms. This can be a drawback, of course. But there's a common experience among spiritual practitioners of every persuasion, and that is the feeling of unity. Not only with those who share the same beliefs, but with all of humanity, no matter their history or caste. There seems to be a depth of spirit that, once reached, lifts the veil of separation and reveals that we are indeed all one. They're merely fine words until that moment of realization is reached and the experience is had.

Advaita vedanta takes it further than that. If you continue down the path toward unity, and continue to remove the veils of separation, you discover - again, experientially - that no separation exists anywhere. It's all connected. The Upanishads (from which advaita is derived) refer to this great big undivided reality as Brahman. I generally try to avoid using that term, since it's based in Hinduism, and that's not where I'm coming from. Instead, it can be expressed as 'awareness' or 'consciousness'. So this consciousness is the same, whether it's in me or it's in you. It's the underlying reality that exists in everything, and all that we see in the world, including ourselves, is illusory. Essentially, all is consciousness, period. When we recognize this, and when the veil finally lifts high enough that we experience it on the big screen, we awaken to our true nature.

Try explaining that in a 30-second sound bite. It's not a great conversation to have at a party, or anywhere else, for that matter. The experiential element is what makes it difficult; how can one be persuasive when the experience is key? Fortunately, I haven't the need to persuade anyone, as I don't particularly care so much what anyone's spiritual beliefs are. But I'd like to at least present my spiritual path in such a way that I don't appear to be a quack. Thus far I haven't succeeded.

So I don't know - sometimes I think it's best to just say that I believe in unity, since any further elaboration only creates duality. A bit ironic, don't you think?

Above: Vajrayogini Mandala, Tibet; 18th century

Jane Airhead

2010-02-01T10:22:00.014-05:00

The other night I was out with a guy friend, and made the mistake of mentioning that I was looking forward to going home, getting into my jammies, grabbing a box of Kleenex, and watching the tail end of Jane Eyre. I was ruthlessly ribbed and ridiculed, and immediately regretted my candor. Jeez, you'd have thought my last name was Bronte, the way he went on.

TIP: Never tell a macho guy with a few beers in him that you're way into period-piece chick flicks, unless you're up for a barrage of cynical banter.

My friend the Marlboro Man basically tore Jane apart from limb to limb, and his parting shot was that it's no wonder that men don't understand women. He simply couldn't comprehend why we like to watch these sappy, irrelevant romances and get all worked up and teary-eyed. What's not to get?? How complicated can it be? We gals like a good cry. In fact, I suggested that it might be beneficial if guys could indulge in the same every now and again, although the source might have to change. I can't see any man I know bawling over Jane Eyre, but there must be some snot-producing equivalent that would induce tears in a male. A Nascar romance? Or maybe eliminate the romance altogether and make it a Nascar horror flick? What kind of film would make a guy cry, anyway? Suggestions appreciated.

See, I think a big part of the world's problems is that men don't cry enough. If George Bush and Dick Cheney had gotten together once a month to have a good slobberfest, the world would be in a different place. I'll bet we'd never have gone to Iraq. I was a Hillary gal, not because she's a woman, and not because she's utterly brilliant, but because she can cry. The ability to indulge in serious eye leakage from time to time should be a prerequisite in running for any political office. The candidates should be required to watch the following, with a film crew getting close-ups of their tear ducts:

(If you're a chick, definitely grab some Kleenex, and make sure you're wearing waterproof mascara).

Watch this and weep.

No cheating, men. You have to watch the whole thing, or you'll miss the point.

Done? How'd you like the soundtrack, btw? I have it on my iPod. Okay, now if you have boobs, you're a snotty mess, and you need to go fix yourself up a bit. If you have a penis, and if you managed to stay awake for the last five minutes, you're feeling squeamish and mumbling macho nonsense. That's fine - I'd worry if you'd actually enjoyed it. We gals don't want you to turn into saps; we just want you to understand something. Pay attention here. Men are supposed to be strong and macho; we like that. But we know also know that you have a soft spot hidden away somewhere, and we like to find it. See, everyone has a soft spot, but men are taught to hide theirs, and it's up to us gals to find it. The harder it is to find, the more we want to be the one to uncover it. Got it? Any questions? Good. We understand each other.

So please, all macho dudes, don't change, and don't start slobbering with us over these sappy movies. We know they suck; you don't have to tell us. You don't even need to watch them with us. But now you know why we love them, right? We love to see someone like Jane, an innocent who has nothing but her massive intelligence and integrity, find the soft spot in Rochester, a cynical bastard if there ever was one, and slowly reel him in. You go, gurl!

Btw, I realize that this post has nothing to do with either art or advaita. Sorry. I'll try to make up for it next time.

Above: A saccharin scene from Masterpieces Theatre's 'Jane Eyre', starring Toby Stephens and Ruth Wilson. The hardest part to digest was the casting of Toby Stephens as Rochester. He's supposed to be homely and revolting! Jane's supposed to take pity on him and love him in spite of his brutish appearance! So why the hell did they cast a total stud muffin for the part?

Carl Jung and St. Teresa of Avila

2010-01-31T22:56:00.010-05:00

I'm working on a new text drawing taken from the writings of the Christian mystic St. Teresa of Avila. The book is called 'The Interior Castle', and it describes the seven mansions that are entered as one gets progressively closer to the Presence of God. I'm cutting the letters from 'Mysterium Coniunctionis' by Carl Jung, which many consider to be his master work. The book uses alchemy as a metaphor for the process of the arriving at the conjunction, or union of opposites, which is a necessary component in psychology and spirituality. Where there are opposites there is duality, separation, and conflict. When opposites can be held simultaneously and redefined as a paradox, there is the possibility of resolution and realignment. The 'mysterium coniunctionis', or 'mysterious conjunction', refers to this accomplishment. It's also referred to in Jungian psychology as the 'sacred wedding', when the male and female components of the individual align and fuse, or 'wed', and the person recognizes her/himself as a fully conscious and realized chimp.

Enlightened? Jung wouldn't go there. For him, enlightenment was all about the union of opposites: when opposing factions unite, there is a synthesis, and from that paradoxical unity springs forth Self-realization. He would have considered enlightenment as the end point of the individuation process, the fully realized Self, whereas mystics such as St. Terry used the metaphor of Christ and His Bride to describe the blissful state of having awakened to one's Self. Check it out:

God dissolved my mind – my separation.

I cannot describe my intimacy with Him.

How dependent is your body’s life on water and food and air?

I said to God, “I will always be unless you cease to be,”

And my Beloved replied, “And I would cease to be if you died.”

- St. Teresa of Avila

An advaitan! Who knew? She was pretty serious about this wedding stuff. She was hot for God all right - some of her writings get downright saucy. I'm having fun creating the text; I'm making the letters into a castle. Even has a little moat and drawbridge. And turrets, of course. I think St. Teresa wouldn't mind being associated with Jung, and had she lived four centuries later, she might have sought him out as her analyst. Clearly she had unresolved Father issues.

As for Jung, I suspect that he too would be okay with my pairing him up with Teresa. White western male authority figure teams up with white female submissive mystic - talk about a union of opposites. I'm sure they would've made a lovely couple.

Above: There's the old girl herself. Looks to be painted by a post-PreRaphaelite. I suspect that she wasn't this sexy, but it's anyone's guess.

Joy, Obsession, and Early Netherlandish Painting

2010-01-23T17:09:00.019-05:00

I went to the Met yesterday with the intention of hunting down some joy and dragging it back to my loft. I figured if I, an artist and relentless appreciator of art and beauty, can't find a slice of joy at the Met, then I should throw in the towel on this art shtick and get my accounting degree. Thanks to good genes and superb health, I've probably got another four decades to roam the earth, and I figure if I can't be joyful, then I might as well learn a trade wherein I can make a little money.

Good news. I found it. Joy, that is, and not where you might think. I found it in the Early Netherlandish painters, of all places. Specifically in the breathtaking work of Gerard David. No kidding - go check him out. I've spent time looking at his paintings before, because I appreciate the obsessive quality of the work. His tireless attention to detail is mind-blowing. You can and will get completely lost in his fabrics. I mean, check out Gabriel's cape and wings in the painting above. It's astonishing. Every square inch of each painting is a visual delight. He absolutely loved painting textures, from interwoven gold threads to velvety, jewel-encrusted robes to bales of straw.

Now, before I go any further, let me clarify something. I can't honestly say that looking at these supremely beautiful works of art made my cup overflow with joy. Appreciation, yes, but joy? I'd have had to paint them myself to experience that, which is sort of the point. Mine was a vicarious kind of joy; I felt David's joy. In fact, I sort of entered his joy, ever briefly, as I imagined the ridiculous amount of fun he must have had in mixing colors, manipulating paint, and using his flawless technique to reproduce the sensuous textures. Total bliss. Almost as fun as cutting the letters out of holy books.

Someone was admiring the work alongside me, so we shared our mutual admiration of David's incredible mastery of the medium and his obsession with detail. Since we were equally enthralled with the work, I asked him if he thought the work expressed joy. Oh yes, absolutely! he said. Case closed. There's no way that a painter could do what he has done without fully immersing himself in the process and thereby losing himself in the act of painting. I speak with some authority here, since I'm a painter, and have had moments of experiencing this "loss" of self. Blissful indeed.

I then started thinking that maybe artists are uniquely situated to experience joy. See, I think that joy can only be accessed when we lose ourselves a little, and merge into something greater than our solitary little lives. As my friend Claude says, joy is a feeling of being connected to the oneness of all being. And as artists we have the perfect vehicle to transport us out of ourselves and enter into the flow of creativity. So I walked around the Met galleries looking for paintings that exhibited this "self-loss" due to absorption in the process. There were a lot of them. Naturally the paintings varied wildly, but the common thread was an apparent obsession with the medium: these artists simply loved to paint. And those paintings that, though technically sound, seemed flat and rote were, I suspect, painted by craftsmen who had inherited their talent, or were forced into the family trade, and performed their task as a means of income. Not much pleasure in it, and it shows.

But my big realization of the day, and the one that will keep me out of accounting school, is that joy showed up all over the place - in the work of the masters, the lesser artists, and the unknowns. Joy popped up wherever and whenever it so chose. And presumably buried in some out-of-the-way attic in the Netherlands, there are paintings that will never see the light of day, in which joy lives, breathes, and attests to itself.

Above: The Annunciation, 1506, oil on wood. Gerard David (c.1455 - 1523) was the leading painter in Bruges, where his paintings were popular, so he made a decent living as an artist. But after his death, his work was forgotten until the 1860s, when he was rediscovered.

Joy and Its Discontents

2010-01-23T08:13:00.012-05:00

The subject of joy keeps coming up for me. In fact, I'm sort of getting it from every direction, in an upside-the-head kind of way. Not having had much contact with it myself, I'm hardly the one to dispense any wisdom on the subject. It's a mystery to me. I hear that there are those who can get all weepy and joyful when they see a flock of geese flapping south. I too can appreciate the beauty of it, but for me it's more of a visual thing. I'm more apt to watch their formation and feel bad for the goose that's bringing up the rear.

My friend Claude thinks that joy, as opposed to happiness or pleasure, is larger than we are; more expansive, more universal, and not bound by external circumstances. (I'm more or less quoting him here). Joy indicates an acceptance of what is, a thankfulness, and the feeling of being connected to the oneness of all being. Sounds good to me! Sign me up. If only it were so easy.

But before joy can be fully cultivated, or maybe even partially plowed, there has to be a rooting out of sadness. Ah, so there's the rub. Not only sadness, but anger, resentment, jealousy - all that fun stuff that clogs the pipes. So there's a lot of work that goes into this business of joy. Most of us are pretty entrenched in our issues, and unwilling, unable, or simply too dang busy to set about the nasty task of unclogging the pipes.

It's a wonder that anyone ever experiences joy.

But see, I have a theory. I think that the sadness, anger, resentment, jealousy, et al serve a purpose, albeit a slightly twisted one. (Hey, I'm an advaitan; I think everything serves a purpose). They bore into the bones, sinews, and eventually the soul, burrowing complex passages wherein they fester, so that these troubling emotional states become impossible to eliminate. The only solution is to transform them. Now, how you set about doing that is not the subject of this blog, and I'm not the gal for the topic. Go visit Rodney Stevens if you want to find out how to access joy. But my theory, currently being researched in overseas laboratories, is that all the deep recesses which now harbor pain can and will be transformed into pockets of irrepressible joy. In other words, the depth of your potential joy is determined by how deep your current pain has burrowed.

So if you're a miserable ol' sot who can barely scrape yourself out of bed in the morning, good news! You'll be stuffed with joy - a veritable sausage of bliss - while the rest of us blokes will have to settle for being upbeat and chipper. But it's no free ride, unless of course you choose to pop a pill. It's a shortcut, but a cheap substitute. And besides, it's cheating, and you'd be denying yourself the real deal. The work of accessing joy is essential; it's a process-oriented task, and ultimately a joy-full one. Like pulling weeds, I guess, although the metaphor is somewhat trite, since I haven't pulled a weed in twenty years. But I hear it's fun.

Okay, so I'm off to the Met today, hoping to hunt down a few slivers of joy. There's that Rembrandt portrait that always gets me in the gut. Is that joy? I dunno - I'll have to get back to you on that.

Stain

2010-01-10T19:07:00.007-05:00

As I've mentioned elsewhere, I'm drawn to the metaphor of a stain. It's such a precise image: that of a mark so deeply entrenched that it is indelible, or, if you prefer, eternal. The soul is stained by circumstances beyond its control, most often determined by the conditions in which we were raised. So the stain that we carry through life is our permanent baggage, which sounds more fatalistic than I intend. It doesn't have to be a burden. It can be a gift. It's all in how we perceive it, and how we allow it to take shape in our lives.

The oyster makes a pearl by coating the irritant that slips into its shell. I see stains in a similar way: inherited scars that cannot be overcome, so they must be worked with and around. In so doing, they become an intrinsic part of the person.

But there's another kind of stain that we all share, whether or not we realize it. We're stained with the desire to return to the unity from which we emerged. We experience life as separation, which can be terribly painful, and which leads us down all kinds of erroneous paths. So this stain is a lovely stain, in a sense, because it keeps us hungry for something that cannot be sated by an earthly pleasure. I'm resisting the temptation to call it God, but I haven't an alternative. We're hungry for That. It's a divine stain, and it drives us inward to find the source of our hunger.

The above text drawing is from the Dhammapada, Chapter 18 ("Stains") written by the Buddha. I cut the letters from chapter 14 of the book of Job in the Old Testament of the Bible. Job is a little cranky about having lost his wife, kids, property, riches, reputation, influence, health, iPhone, virtually everything that he held dear. I'll quote him, to give you a taste of his misery:

"Let the day perish wherein I was born and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived. Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it....." (Job 3:3)

Hey, Job - I hear ya. It's not easy being me, either.

So even though our stains can be excruciating, they carry within them the power, if approached maturely and consciously, to transform us into compassionate human beings. And if all else fails, it gives us something to whine about at the pub.

Above: Stain: The Dhammapada, Ch. 18 ("Stains") from the Old Testament of the Bible, the book of Job, Ch. 14. 2010.