First day of Spring Semester

So I’ve got to write a follow up post since last night. I am now in the spring semester at PAFA- today was the first day of classes. In the morning I still thought about Madeline quite a lot. I understand that as the semester picks up again, I will become progressively more involved with my work, and naturally things will fall by the wayside. This is kid of like the kernel though of what perpetuates thoughts of it-could-work-itude. The only kind of relationship I could have is a delightfully spotty one, even the sad times would be a delight so long as they occurred in concentrations, like a painting. A teacher today put words to something I have been having trouble explaining; it is a choice to finish a painting. I don’t finish a lot of things; they are more powerful that way, and in another essay I described ‘more leverageable’. This goes behind engagements like a snake in the grass, but we can hope that we’ve grown to love even the snake, for it did not choose it’s nature.

Flakes and snakes get a bad wrap. C’est la vie. People are people. 

Thomas Hart Benton’s wife was quoted as saying that no American woman could be married to Thomas Hart Benton. That’s what I’m talking about. 

A friend of mine, Karolyn Hatton wrote “The palpable sense of yearning lingers in the air. The romance is in this suspension. As in the elliptical twangy love songs of country musician Gram Parsons. . . Melancholy and the endless deferment of pleasure are not only themselves enjoyable but are in fact the site of pleasure and love. We understand that whether it is at the river’s edge, or on the roof, or beside the pool, what keeps the couple apart is also what keeps them together, always.”

Eric Hoffer says, “All day I resisted the impulse to get in touch with Lili. Once I do this I shall have an alibi for not doing anything.”

And “fair play  with others is primarily the practice of not blaming them for anything that is wrong with us. We tend to rub our guilty conscience against others the way we wipe dirty fingers on a rag. This is as evil a misuse of others as the practice of exploitation.”

And, “how hard it is to know what is really happening to us. With the propaganda of the “I” pervading every cell of our being, we cannot see clearly the true reason for what we do or do not do.” 

I thought I wanted to quote something other from Eric Hoffer, but it alludes my searches, and these above ring to me. 

Okay something from Anaïs Nin, “She worshiped him passionately but as she grew older the form of his image grew blurred. But she had not lost him. His image was buried deep in the  most mysterious region of her being. On the surface there remained the image created by her mother- his egoism, his neglectfulness, his irresponsibility, his love of luxury. When for a time her immense yearning appeared to have exhausted itself, when it seemed that she had almost forgotten this man whom her mother described so bitterly, it was only the announcement of the fact that his image had become fluid; it ran in subterranean channels, through her blood. Consciously she was no longer aware of him;  but in another way his existence was even stronger than before. Submerged, yet magically ineffaceable, he floated in her blood.”

I guess I wanted to share these things I’m reading. I’ve had a good blend recently, and have read myself into corners in each of them. What’s more, many strong recommendations abound, with incentives in what conversations tentatively await! On the plane back to Florida I sat next to a woman who asked, “What at you going to do once you graduate?”, and I knew, and I exclaimed “I’m going to read!” She liked that. 

I had a painting class in the morning. The teacher gave a demo and I thought a milieu of thoughts about how so the person was no Velasquez, so to speak. I saw through critical eyes, and I don’t think I’m wrong. Still, the painting teacher not only pulled it around but upon concluding the demo it was clear that what was demonstrated was for us first and foremost, and that I did in fact learn a lot from watching and listening. I am under this teachers wing, and the crux as to whether to bite or beef is palpable, and that’s how it seems to have to be played; like with my dad, he’s an independent guy, and it’s bite or beef. He and my teacher have the same zodiac sign, and I understand that I will pour trust into it and hold onto my butt and it should be fine. 

Another painting class in the afternoon was lecture-based today. It qualifies as high-altitude stuff. One funny thing happened in class. The teacher, to preface, is fifty, and spoke to shaking the chains of PAFA off, (and she graduated from PAFA too), and take risks, etc. The teacher spoke from the understanding that an education at PAFA was one of firm traditional footing, which is the case, and something to run from thereafter if you are to be relevant. The class is called ‘Painting’. One student asked about doing videos instead, and the teacher tried to be diplomatic and said, “Well, this might not be the right class for you, because I teach painting.”, then another student asked about doing collage, and it’s like god dammit. Teacher was cool and said, look, there’s talk of developing your style etc. and maybe you’re the collage person, but I encourage you to use the materials of the class, because they’re built in to each assignment, and that’s wherefrom the power of the class comes. So basically the teacher underestimated how liberal and circus-like even the oldest painting school in the country has become. It was funny because the teacher has worked hard to shake her shackles, and the students basically never got shackled, and they kind of trolled. I am most excited for this class. 

Madeline’s Bed

I bought Madeline a bed. Before I did that, I went up to New York to 

Erin Linguard’s flight to Philly got cancelled and I had a window time that I wasn’t anticipating. I made alright use of it. I got a library card and a bike. The bike is pretty sweet. I put a front rack on it, but aside from that it was ready to roll. It has a kickstand, and front and rear reflectors and front and rear brakes. I bought a helmet and a lock too. I made a trip up to New York, as per a plan I’d been working on with Madeline. I was there to see the Met shows, Hockney, and Michelangelo. I woke early and boarded a Chinatown bus from Philly to New York City. When I got there, I, instead of going straight to a subway where I could catch a train uptown, I lingered around. Chinatown is hands down where I spend the majority of my pedestrian time in New York, and aside from that I tend to sleep in Brooklyn. I re-stomped some familiar trails subconsciously and on Eldridge, oriented myself to an unassuming door the had two metal stairs leading up to it and the number 293 in stickers on the door. A wild hair struck me, what if I didn’t go to the Met today, would that be so bad, and I reached out to the door knob and gave it a check. At first it seemed like it was locked, but I gave it a jimmy and pushed, and behold did it open. Inside was a small coat room, and a large partition wall that obscured the meat of the room, but in the draftway I saw reassurance- a draughtsman with a marking tool and a drawing board, eyes ticking like a clock into the obscured center of the room and back down to his page. I took off my coat and joined them. It was a full house, long pose, and I got a good drawing. Bob was the monitor and I told him sorry I’m late, that I’d just got off a bus from Philly, and how much was it, fifteen dollars? And he said don’t worry about that, and at the end if it was worth it, and I said absolutely, and he offered that I stay for the next session, which I did. The next session went brilliantly as well. I felt inept to capture the model’s beauty, which brought me much pain. I’ll have to review the sketches again. I got one that was special, and thanked the model afterward, and noted that it had been an inspiring set. I met Madeline afterward at her school. Aside from the museum visits, this trip was heavy duty wooing time, for which I wooed and wooed in the margins of our respective motorings out. I don’t know what came over me, but it came and came. I was curious as to my intent, for which I feel unqualified to diagnose. Mind roads made tangents  into dark and light passages alike. All the while, and what’s most liberating is abstaining from attachment of narratives. I mentioned I would get Madeline a bed upon her mention that she come visit me in Philly. She’s signed up for a course on Fridays down here, and I proposed a Friday afternoons prospectus for us, with a personal understanding that it’s going to be a lot of weight on our friendship, and that it may be hopeful thinking; a want for time in what I will make a timeless semester, a forecast; sunny with a chance of buckling. I made allusions to proposals. It would seem that I would care more if I were fucking with her, or likewise if I were attached to some outcome specifically, but I’m not, you know, or do I, and that’s the kind-of non-problem. I care, I care about our friendship and would like that it continue on. I want to do good by her, and for her. As my friend Luke said when I asked him about his relationship (because I thought, and said, I feel like I shouldn’t meet anyone in a couple because I’m nervous that I would fuck it up), and he said very sincerely and honestly that he doesn’t think it’s something that could be fucked up. So that’s the special thing I feel about Madeline in the short term, and either I’ve become ready and satisfied with my own self, and forgiven myself sufficiently enough that I can forgive and be patient with others etc., but it doesn’t feel like something that could be fucked up. So I’m working on earning her trust, and in the short term, laying it on and hoping it’s not too heavy. What I like about her is that she’s independent. So I bought this bed tonight when I got back from NYC, put it together, and let her know, and she texted me “Why do I feel like I’ve been proposed to?” , and all I could say was that it wasn’t unfounded. 

Truth is anyone can use the bed. Truth is I’m not going to use the bed. 

Self Authoring Excercise

Past 

My past has been characterized by a childhood nurtured in fertile and loving soil. I have always felt supported and when not verbalized, it was clear through the dedication of those around me who saw through to provide me with opportunities. I was wanted and capable in varying disciplines, among them athletics and arts. My energies were focused on athletics in addition to my schooling. My family lived on a canal. In my free time, I relished dragging a net along the sea wall to catch aquatic life. I would keep aquariums and study the gobies, flat-fish, ghost shrimps, and sea horses that I captured. Once I drew, under lamp light, a picture of a model race car, and another if I recall. I thought the drawings clever, and I lost them at some point for which I felt a great loss. I drew a copy of a nude that I saw at a garden social gathering that my mother brought me to. Mom put her hands over my eyes but I’d already got a good look, and replicated the image to my abilities when I got home later on. I drew a team of fictional characters, and a design of a bottlenose dolphin which I became preoccupied with and practiced over and over. I cherished these drawings. They conjured so much for so little, and they were personal. Our house was a corner lot up a canal development along the Caloosahatchee River. It was always filled with animals. I got along well with animals, and studied them- geese, cockatiels, bunnies, dogs, cats, gerbils, hamsters, snakes, iguanas, and water creatures. I went from a private secular pre-kindergarten to a private Christian School, where I wore a uniform and went to chapel twice a day. I sang in the third grade class choir, and developed an identity with getting into minor trouble for distracting other students with antics. Mom drove me to gymnastics practice daily after school, in turns with Mrs. Marchildon who was Patrick’s mom. The drive was two hours long. We’d do our homework along the way wether it was me and Patrick, or adding Cami or Lori, or any other gymnasts making the commute. We developed a routine of eating Taco Bell drive through after gym practice. I competed for five years, consistently placing in the fives or threes- at times on the podium and at times not. I traveled regionally thanks to my dedicated mother to compete. I hardly noticed dad. Dad got into trouble, and thus the family as a whole dealt with issues. I practiced some self-harm in the spirit of transcendence. Our family made a move to Montana, where we could be far away from our past and start anew. I stopped doing gymnastics, and traded my beloved inline skates for a skateboard. I wanted to fit in. I entered into fourth grade at a farm school with a class of eight. We lived on the Yellowstone River, and brought along a dog, Papaya. I remember dad being around a lot more, and the river freezing over. Dad participated in hunting, and tried to get me into it. We’d go on walks on the pretense that if we saw a rabbit or a deer I’d shoot it. I killed a deer in the middle of thanksgiving dinner, in a zombie ritualistic technicality. I was upset. I played little guy football, and soccer. I was grateful to be in Montana in times of nature, and I took a sort of solace, as the narrative coaxes, in the ‘falling off’ of it I all. We raised chickens and I kept the incubator and brood box in my bedroom. Some of the chickens attached to me, in particular a healthy chick named Cleopatra, who grew into a hen we called Helen. After two years, the parents decided to move to Tallahassee, FL and Cami and I knew the drill. In Tallahassee I went to high school and continued in much the same path of balancing sports, academics, and creative pursuits. I was a capable swimmer and as a former gymnast, a natural diver. I became drum line captain after four years in marching band. I went to community college while also participating in musical bands in the town. I took up graffiti writing and worked as a lifeguard and as a restaurant server. I went in and out of college, taking four unfocused years to get an Associates Degree. Toward the end of my time in community college, I took a figure drawing course with Ed Toner, then a color theory course and a watercolor course, and illustration, and screen printing. It was clear to me that I wanted to become an artist. I went to Maine for a summer and took a drawing course with Fred Lynch (not RISD’s), and then stayed in Brooklyn for two months. I transferred to FSU as a fine arts major, but it didn’t feel like a solid foundation, so with much distress I chose to drop out. My uncle and aunt died and left me with two hundred thousand dollars, and that cleared the path for me to pursue art however I wanted. I travelled and attended workshops at SVA. I befriended a filmmaker and helped her with projects. I’d met a family through graffiti and they put me up in Amsterdam for a month, wherefrom I traveled to Berlin and rented an apartment for a month, then through Central Europe for a month, and Iceland rendezvousing with the filmmaker. When I got back to the states I called Shaun Thurston, whom I’d met on a mural-oriented residency trip to Jacksonville. He needed help and I moved to Jacksonville for two years, where I lived and worked in a warehouse making paintings for fine art shows in restaurants. I applied to Ringling College after those two years and got in, and went to study illustration. After a year and a half, I thought to transfer to a school with a greater focus on traditional painting. I learned of PAFA and applied and got in, so after two years of Ringling would come two years of PAFA. I finished my first semester at PAFA.

Present

Presently, I am wondering if I have seasonal depression. I’ve eaten two bowls of cheerios, and have been drinking a lot of coffee. In my freedom allotted by winter break, I have opened up many book projects. I care deeply about learning. So much of my life it seems has been focused on doing. I plan to enter into another round of doing in the spring semester, and until then developing and exposing myself to new ideas. I am meditating twice daily. I love to go into the town and meet people- it’s one of my purest joys. I’ve been watching Jordan Peterson videos and have begun to read the Gulag Archipelago, and continuing with Nietzsche studies. In times with little external stimuli, I need to be careful not to become addicted to little does of dopamine affixed to social media pings. I exercise daily. 

Future 

In the immediate future, I will host Erin Lingard for a few days. I will share with her as best I can Philadelphia. I will attend PAFA’s spring semester, learning and keeping an open mind to new ideas in painting. I will apply for a landscape residency for the summer months, through which I will spend nine weeks in the country outside of Philly making a production of paintings in various sizes and developing styles. The rest of the summer will be spent between workshops, Florida, and Philly, where I’ll find a new apartment that makes better fiscal sense. I’ll attend Fall of 2018 at PAFA, another winter break, then Spring, at which point I will graduate with honors somehow. Upon graduating PAFA, I will finish out my lease in Philly, while searching for next-step opportunities. I will move to France for up to a few weeks to spend time with John in Paris and traveling. I will likely move back with my parents to consolidate paintings, and have some post-baccalaureate thinking time. I will apply to residencies, to somewhere cheap where I can meditate and paint. I’ll make a move to New York City (Crown Heights) and give it a shot- hustling. I’ll foster a terminal dog. After two years, I’ll make a one year study trip to St. Petersburg on a visa for a post-baccalaureate or graduate program. I’ll travel through China and Vietnam, and Japan and South Korea. From there I will get a job, a real one and accrue money and paint for five years. I’ll get a mid-life dog and a cat. I’ll have a small show and sell a quarter of the paintings. I will use the money therefrom to travel to South America for a spell, where I’ll paint pictures in the mountains and a mural in the town. I’ll come back to the states, and move to New York to paint for a year and a half then have a show, in which I will sell ten paintings. I’ll finish a masters program and apply to and accept a teaching position. I’ll buy a house. I hope to live with a partner. I’ll get another dog, and some kittens. I’ll teach and paint for five years, take a semester’s break, and repeat. This far along I will not need to teach or have a job any longer. I’ll trim the school hours in exchange for studio time. I will have a relationship with a gallery and be in a swing. Between school income and painting income, I will plan for retirement and plant a garden and write and paint. I’ll get a borzoi, or a wolfhound and have plenty of land for it to run on, and we’ll go on walks over hills stopping to investigate things at our will. I’ll lay with the dead borzoi for a little bit and think about where I’ve been; about that time I wrote about my future one morning over two bowls of cereal, then I’ll bury the borzoi in the dirt.