ladyparts

Otto Heino

I went to visit Otto Heino yesterday. I was a recipient of his scholarship in 2006. At 92 making over 1.5 million dollars a year, he is the oldest and richest potter in the world. He rediscovered an ancient Japanese glaze; his work is most loved for the hand-made texture and durability.

I was in the presence of a sage, a small monk robed in papery skin and cashier’s checks. And as he stumbled through descriptions of his craft, the rates his pots sell for ($35,000) and the process of quality pottery, his choice refrain rang bells in my bones, “That’s what they like,” “they” being the consumer. There are visionaries and there are craftsman and they hang their bodies on each other lovingly.

There is a man who lives. His low blood pressure and money make him loved. He rhythmically creates vessels. He is a pulse.

At first I did not know what to make of this. I am no craftswoman; I am restless and weary with the weight of visions. I wanted him to be human; I was starving for it. Then the universe aligned as he began to describe his time in Germany during WWII. His descriptions became clear and he laughed and laughed about watching hundreds of bodies scatter at bombs. He kept talking about the bodies running because they wanted to live. (I grew teary). And then he described an encounter on the ground with a German. They did not shoot each other. The German waved, Otto imitated this over and over and laughed to himself. They saved each others lives; he did not want to have death on his conscious, he said. The war ended the next day.

“Don’t kill the clay,” he said. People often make this mistake.

He kept making references to giving the people what they want and just waiting for the cashier’s checks in the mail. He must have said this ten times in the two hours we were at his house. I was disturbed by this, confused if I wanted him to be creating for himself or for others. But at his final understated comment of personal satisfaction, “and I like doing it,” I realized the value of perfection and satisfaction in making something well. Why shouldn’t this be his greatest good? There are so many implications of how war affects the mind in his subtle speech inflections and daily rituals. He works all day making things for other people, he makes them perfectly. His mind is at rest; it is so heartbreakingly selfless. The worlds of memories locked in his bones breathe freely in the steadily paced movements and products.

This is the faith of the indifferent.

And this picture is awesome.

Object of Affection

Right now I think that one of my all time favorite things is overhearing people make references to sandwiches. It is so awesome. The descriptions are always very intricate and morally important, carrying with them this sense of urgency. People love them. They really do. Plus, I just wish I could hear the word sandwich over and over again. It is ridiculous.

For example, this morning at work one of the marketing women (who, I may as well add here, is very sassy and stylishly aged) was talking about editing “issues” with a colleague. The conversation was very serious and referenced problem-solving. And then it happened: “sandwiches.” She said it. Why? Why did she bring her sandwich into this. It is 9:30 in the morning. How could a sandwich reference already make it into the conversation of a forty-plus year-old women in a media relations department?

I blame it on the hexagon on Saturn. Thank you for your bizarre shape and revelation.

Sometimes I feel bad that I am not “into” sandwiches. The “portable meal” as a catagory does not appeal to me. I like to sit and appreciate food/the moment/color/time. But I think I may overcompensate for this allienation through my admiration and fondness for the sandwich reference. At least I have that going for me.

My feelings on the subject are best expressed in the title of this photo on flickr:

“jan 18: sam wants to be made into a sandwich (cat love 3 of 3)”

So Do I sam, so do I.

Particles

This is the sweet video I made for Sculpture.

It is inspired by (and contains an excerpt from) an article I read in Seed Magazine. It blew my mind.

And, perhaps more importantly, it is set to the fine tunes of Yacht. Yes, Matthew just got the new album today. Now I know what you are thinking: “But how did he get it? It doesn’t even come out for like two months? That is impossible.” You are right.

I believe in you, your magic is real.

Baby

It seems entirely inappropriate to discuss where I have been today. It is so personal that you may be disappointed that I let you read it. You may even hate me a little bit. And if we saw each other in person you would avoid me, betrayed that I was not better. You hoped I would be so much better. stronger. different.

I want to be.

But I think you need to know.

You need to know the possibilities of a human self. You need to know that what we are doing right now, looking at this screen, tapping our taps, is incredible. It is magnificent. Infinity spreads out its face before us like a baby and we kiss it until we are terrified that we cannot stop. We walk out of the room and just keep returning, creating excuses to see its tiny face, it just feels so right. “What could be more important than kissing a baby’s face,” you think. Now you are getting defensive and demanding. And by you I mean me.

I miss you (you).

I’m ready.

Opening

Even though we are all just collections of synaptic reactions, we connect. Everything that rises must converge. When the self reduction theory comes to fruition the molecules make up people and those people hold worlds of memories that react.

Yes, the secrets were made public. And yes, it was (and is) magical. Alisha and I have had many conversations about prestige birthing from the essay written by Simone Weil. The many weighted questions involved in why we share art can all be answered in physical presence. People.

There are people everywhere trying to find some code to connect. You know this. You know that however much you question why you share your secrets that we are all just people with open palms. We are all just trying to reconcile and to be reconciled. To live.

Look

Thank you to everyone who participated. You are beautiful.

“Can I get a copy of those recordings?”

This morning in the gallery one of my professors said that they really enjoyed the show.

Then they asked, “Can I get a copy of those recordings? I really enjoyed Listening to them.”

Okay, so I cut that down a lot. What really happened was that after they asked for a copy I said,

“we’ll see.”

I think this may have taken them off guard because they returned this comment with further clarification that they wanted the written poems and I said,

“Oh, like the written words.”

This resulted in a non-verbal gesture towards the pieces, from which I understood that they want an audio recording compilation. And by this time I just had to answer back,

“Okay,” to save us both.

This made me feel really strange, like the feeling of leaving Costco. You got what you wanted, but you think you may have been taken advantage of somewhere between the aisles and registers. It was so long. You may have died in there.

The samples weren’t that good.

This is an exact parallel to what I am experiencing in this moment. Exact. So I am going to present you with these questions I have and maybe you could comment.

Should there be unlimited access for all to the audio pieces in the show?

Do we want to walk in on someone listening to them?

Will it live on if we don’t? Do we want it to?

Are we for sale?

If we are not should we create a few copies for certain people?

But they can burn it? But they are trustworthy.

Should we sell a special edition?

Initially I felt very naked and cheap.

I felt like saying, “what makes you think it is available?”

I am not sure why I had this reaction. I am not sure if I should feel really bad about it. When I think about how important it is for me to listen to certain audio pieces, I want to make it accessible. Maybe we should have it posted on this blog as archives of an event. I like that. Like The Next Big Thing or something.

I really want to know what you think. Whoever you are.

Dash It

I remember our own springtime when my lady said to me:

You have taken my best. And then I remember

How many evenings I have waited, how much

I have been through for this one evening on earth.

-Mikhall Prishvin, Nature’s Diary 1925

Time Lapse

Although I have managed to repeatedly kill my buzz with dark criticisms of my education for the past few days (years), I must say that I am flying right now. Things are looking beautiful for this show. It is all coming together and blooming its deep colors and scents. Oh, man.

The credit for this euphoria is gladly given to my lovely companions whose warm bodies dance and swirl in the floodlight.

(time lapse of thirty-two hours)

(dissension into the deep)

There have been many complications with devices for the audio pieces, but it all has worked itself out (via the kind hearts and willing hands of my dear friends) and the fittest boldly sit like naked children on pedestals in the gallery. They have force fields of good-will. How I love them.

Now I just feel sort of sick and terrified of the things to come. And I don’t even mean the opening, I wish it were that demarcated. Maybe then we could dispel it. It is breathing its warm breath on our faces and it won’t even cushion my bones with sound.

But there is Extra-Dark chocolate at work, so there’s that.

You Should Come if You Can

I am currating an art show that opens a week from today. In thinking about what I want to write for my first blog entry I thought I would start warming up by looking at the home page. I opened this photo and I felt all the hundreds of liquid-filled sacs of nervous weight in my chest release.

People have to see this.

Sometimes seeing certain people’s faces makes me cry. Like my brother’s or Alisha’s.

And I am reminded.

It is still about innocence and grief.

It is still about the terrifying attempts we make to touch eachother with our minds.

I want to be good. I want to reach the intersection, the needle pushing into skin, and think of the real humans who will be viewing this exhibition. I want to fit our eyesockets together and impose nothing but the truth. I really want it to be a moving experience; I am terrified that my reclusive tendencies will taint it.

Maybe I could just hold everyone who comes in, I know that would solve everything.