A quick re-cap on the week. Had a wave of anxiety and sadness come over me, as a handshake agreement was not kept. I was homesteading a studio at PAFA, on the agreement that I’d be out by the middle on June. June 7 I get an email saying renegotiated terms- by this weekend, the 10th. I replied within ten minutes, and checked periodically that day on my things, ad a crew had begun the clean out process (being a gang studio, there were about ten spots with a central shared area, and being the summertime, naturally, I spread out my things into a mega-studio). Things looked alright. My things were being touched, but it looked more like consolidation than anything. Fast forward, I get off work at 4pm, go up there, and my stuff is gone, a lot of it. Paint, paintings. I take a lap, look all around. Some of my paintings made it to the trash. A work on paper crumpled in the bin. I go upstairs to 10th floor to try to talk with perpetrator. He’s gone, but I see my stuff in the hallway labeled ‘free’. My paint has been decimated; lost probably $400 worth. Two finished paintings, gone. I thought to quit school.
‘Quit school;’
It’s nothing new, it comes in waves, and any undergrad can speak to it. $15,000/ six months, etc. The wave that came felt like clarity, might have been. What’s it to wake up and go to where your stuff is? What you remember as familiar, etc. What’s it to paint? To own paint? To own paintings? To make them? To be enrolled? This is weak sauce; suffice to say I felt like a failure to my parents at some point, and collected my things and wept, and noticed the feelings wane as I re-gathered and reconsolidated them in what I understand to be my next-year studio, which is also not a safe spot- that’s soon to be used for low-res MFA students this summer. I left a big handwriting note in there, relaying my sob story, and leaving my number. I’ve got to find another spot for it all, homesteading once again. I tried to leverage the loss into a free studio, but it felt strange to ask for reparations.
It’s nothing new, it comes in waves, and any undergrad can speak to it. $15,000/ six months, etc. The wave that came felt like clarity, might have been. What’s it to wake up and go to where your stuff is? What you remember as familiar, etc. What’s it to paint? To own paint? To own paintings? To make them? To be enrolled? This is weak sauce; suffice to say I felt like a failure to my parents at some point, and collected my things and wept, and noticed the feelings wane as I re-gathered and reconsolidated them in what I understand to be my next-year studio, which is also not a safe spot- that’s soon to be used for low-res MFA students this summer. I left a big handwriting note in there, relaying my sob story, and leaving my number. I’ve got to find another spot for it all, homesteading once again. I tried to leverage the loss into a free studio, but it felt strange to ask for reparations.
I called my future roommate, asking if my living there was contingent on my being enrolled in school, and she said no, and kind of laughed it off. I felt back again, like I had options, and that was all I needed emotionally I think.
I cried today because I missed my sister. That’s two for two in crying days, and I came so close the day prior in therapy when talking about my late uncle Larry.
I’m taking therapy, seeing a therapist. The school pays for 8 sessions, and I figure while I have the summer, let’s see what’s under the hood. It’s been mostly geneograms so far. Periodically, the therapist will check if I’m in immediate danger, and I think hard and say no, (and mean no). It’s been fodder for much genealogical research including calling my immediate family members, which has been a sort of therapy in it’s own.
My therapist suggested I hadn’t reached closure about his, (Larry’s) death. I wonder if anyone has. His wife died two years after him, of a broken heart- drank herself to death. When we went to her funeral, all of the eulogies talked about Larry, and her broken heart, and it was in the same church, and the same reception restaurant, it felt the same. It was a second Larry’s funeral, and Jodi’s first. On that trip too, unpon visiting the house, my immediate family learned that Jodi had been building a carriage house for herself next to the house she and Larry shared. She hadn’t touched any of his things after his passing. She was going to keep the house as a kind of shrine. Nothing was the same for her, and she died.
This painting summer job hurts my body like crazy. I feel my knee cushioning is thin if not worn through (my physiological knee cushioning- the built in stuff). Went to a colleagues house last night to hang out, which is a rarity, but it was rewarding, and wouldn’t be opposed to visiting again. He’s a good painter, and between him and a couple other employees of the school it’s becoming clear the advantages of graduating with a community etc. , especially MFA, where it’s basically a feeder for cheap labor for the school. From an established professor side, it’s got to be terrifying without tenure, but from the chop-licking greenhorn side, you’ve got a pretty good chance at getting a gig within the school you graduate from. I’m learning a lot about the art school system for a $9/hr summertime wall painter, and gleaning free supplies from raids such as the one I fell victim to ( /graduate clean-out open calls) , and free food from the cafe, such that I haven’t paid much in the way of food for a few weeks. Alas, I’m paying way too much in rent, and it’s still a bleeding calf story for at least another year (tuition)- the freebies are meager consolation.
That’s gotta be it for now. I’m listening to Ulysses a second time over now, and gleaing some of what’s happening, between my A D D flourishes. I’m loving the book (on audio), and will put more weight on it, especially and until round three.
I might see my lover soon, that would be nice.
