Blog

Work in progress, some words, and other artists I like. You might even find the odd recipe.

I am kind of ok -
kind of

Which kind of ok am I?

I forget
To give and take the compliments. That’s ok
To not feel guilty about moving on. That’s ok
To dream about you from time to time.
I forget who you are.

I’m ok when I have to hold myself together until my first cup of coffee
I’m ok gathering myself in like precious linen so it doesn’t drag on the floor and walking with my head held high, and light, and very happy with myself, the secret excitement of a child.

I’m ok about when I look in the mirror and feel ambivalent about who looks back.
Those days.

I’m ok with some pretending -
pretending to know
pretending not to
pretending – that I am not hiding, most of the time.

Let me tell you, I’m hiding.
That’s ok.

I’m ok with not wanting to pretend that I don’t see you -
I see you.
That’s ok.

I’m ok knowing you’d rather pretend I don’t.
That’s ok.

I’m ok with the space it creates – a very thin and fragile space, in which those two things coexist.
I’m ok with that beauty.
It is fragile. That’s ok
It won’t last. That’s ok.
I can’t hold on to it. That’s ok.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to let go when the time comes. That’s ok.

I won’t have to, it’s just a sliver of light through the cracks
you and me, we happen at the angle where the dust is dancing
Just before the earth rotates a little more.

I’m ok with that reality,
it actually happened.
I’m ok with the privilege of waking up next to you.
Once or twice. On repeat.
I’m sorry I said it out loud. That’s ok.

Once in a while I like to see just how many Pringles
I can fit into my mouth.

I can be a bit obsessive. That’s ok
stashing my feelings
cramming them into poems like overfilled suitcases
like suspicious lettuce in a club sandwich
Like empty notebooks filled with stray sheets, scribbled on with various pens at inopportune times when I forgot
My notebook.

I’m ok with
another layer of peat on top of broken bones
Pack it up tight an hold your breath -
crumbs and fossils and diamonds
and lots, of time.

That’s ok.

Gift

I am not sure this is what you imagined
When you got in touch years later to ask about
This:
Someone coming to my liberation.
You wanted to know,
Was it you?

So maybe this is my way of saying
you too
or
#Metoo
Let’s not pretend -
It was never otherwise

I would like to oblige
And give you something only you know the value of -
But like I said,
I am not sure this is what you imagined.

I am well past catharsis
Even though

This is not an act of kindness.

/// I fucked you in my dreams last night
Just before
He knocked on my door
And walked straight into my shower with all of his tattoos
And all I was was sorry

Sorry
Sorry
Sorry

My heart so clearly
Elsewhere

The strange woman came in to the shop -
It was the kind of place with a bell that jingled on the door _
She showed my mother how to make hummus
Of course if you knew my mother you’d get the joke -
We were all embarrassed but
pretended it was ok.
there was something to learn.
Still,
Even.

Perhaps
I have waited a long time for another woman to show my mother what to do.
God forbid it should be me.

Or maybe I am my mother in the dream
and she is the one who enters
to show me what to do.
Perhaps
I have waited a long time
To let my mother show me what to do.
///

I digress.
This was meant to be about you.

Do get in touch
with yourself

Do touch each other
with eyes open.

If you touch me
I’ll touch you back

If he touches you
I’ll touch him right back

You,
Do not.
touch me.

Instead he shook me up -
At first I thought the pieces,
Anxious magnetic glass shards
springing back together
into a shattered lake
Painted by Braque
Painted by Braque

I am the sexiest thing alive
from a certain angle
Perhaps I’m inspired
to touch you like this;
never again.

I hope when he opens it what comes out
is pure light
At some point you’ll think to look underneath,
it was hidden under the box
the entire time.

00

I can’t tell if
being brave
is calling the man
whose presence makes me feel as if I’ve robbed a bank
or if being brave is
leaving him alone.

I can’t tell
if I want to see him
to feel like this more
or to feel like this
less

I am being selfish
mostly it feels unfair that I’m meeting you
to meet something inside myself
If I come clean
will you be generous

I can’t tell if sitting here with these feelings is
the dam bursting
the rock face
opening
Everything rushing out to greet me
or if it’s the stone too heavy to lift.
or both.

The goldfish hovers once again in my mouth
I have become an aquarium
where strange creatures swim
and I can’t tell if you have come
to smash the glass
in glorious liberation
or total destruction

or both.

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In a few weeks, Winter magazine comes out. You can get an advance copy at a reduced rate and support the project, which features 100% creative content from over 30 artists.

I photographed a ceramic series entitled The Bones of Winter that will be featured exclusively in the magazine, but here’s a glimpse of one of the ceramic “bones” I sculpted for the installation.

For a Man Indifferent to Poetry.

Rhyming is pointless.
The words also, indifferent.
But the feeling excited my mind, words gushed out.
Forgive me,
this poem is a love poem
trying to be something else entirely.
Perhaps
you’ll notice a bit of green bursting through the pavement
a bouquet of letters
clasped tightly in my grasp
and thrust clumsily in your direction
for you to re-arrange at will.

 

Picasso The Flowers of Peace 1958

Picasso
The Flowers of Peace
1958

 

 

 

 

Tactile. They almost look like ceramics. By Doug Johnston.

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*from Design Focus

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You’re sure you left it right here, right where you’d never remember look.

And you know you’d never look back here, right? You’ve checked the attic, the basement, the barricaded room with “leave these things in the past” scrawled on the door in your handwriting. You’ve ransacked the drawers of the shed in the garden, cleared the drop-all in your frontal cortex, you’ve fanned through the pages of your books and shaken them out for a clue, combed through your journals, practiced self-hypnosis, stared with intent into the swirls of your coffee and now you’re really starting to think you’ve made this shit up. You’re starting to think. So it’s back to square one because you shouldn’t be thinking at all. What you do know is that you definitely didn’t hide it in your conscious brain, and therefor it can’t be in any place you can think of.

You really wish you’d left a hint now. Don’t you? Wait a minute – what is it that you’re looking for? Ah yes, you don’t know, that’s the whole point. So you reach over and start to fumble through the glovebox again, this time with a renewed faith, keeping one hand on the wheel, keeping your eyes on the road, your mind trying to make out the shapes of things you’d forgotten; a frantic and curious negotiation that permeates through the membrane between what you know you know and what you’d forgotten you didn’t want to know.

All the objects that you come across seem to be clues, crumbs left to lead you in the right direction, and so you start to collect them, talismans, amulets, memories, an absurd and compulsive voodoo archeology taking place in your mind.

More photos and pieces from the series here

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I’ve been invited by Le Salon, a gallery in Nice, to take part in an exhibition next month and have decided to involve visitors in making an interactive story on the themes of the exhibition: “Fétiche, Totem, Tabou et Divan” (Fetish, Totem, Taboo and Divan). Each theme will be an individual story, and I’ve been compiling phrases from some of my favourite books to use as material.

The way it will work, is that I will start each story off with the first two lines and also give the last sentence, so there is some sort of direction for the interpretations. The selected phrases from the books all gravitate around similar themes and locations: a bedroom, a staircase, thoughts on nakedness and desire, philosophy, relationships, love and the senses. Each excerpt from the books will be printed on a sticker (in French) and I will invite visitors to choose from these which should be the next line of the stories. This will create a kind of exquisite corpse as the stories grow through the participation and interpretation of each visitor.

The last story, “Divan” will differ slightly in that it will be a script; a conversation between two people, kind of like the Bubble & Broccoli piece I did a while back.

“Figues de Barbaries” is the overall title I’m giving to the piece. The term, which is the French name for prickly pears literally translates as “barbaric figs”, bringing up connotations of savage practices or bearing fruit but not without consequences. It’s a random selection from a list of potential title words I keep in one of my notebooks, words that I like or that I have crowd-sourced from my friends. Random titles are part of another absurd experiment: they automatically lend another layer of meaning which resonates with the piece through the associations it makes in the viewer’s mind. This is a method I also used in the Love Letters love letters series and that I push further by actually giving the various dictionary definitions of the title word.

Books used are:

• Milan Kundera Risibles Amours, La Plaisanterie
• Franz Kafka La Métamorphose
• Roland Barthes Fragments d’un Discours Amoureux
• Vladimir Nabokov Lolita
• Patrick Süskind Le Parfum
• Lao Tse Tao-tö king
• Anaïs Nin Journals Intimes
• Cioran De l’Incovénient d’être Né, Syllogismes de l’Amertume, Précis de Décomposition
• Plexus magazines de 1966 à 1970
• Various proverbs, extracts from anatomy books and onomatopoeia.

For my next project, I’m photographing sea shells. I don’t have a soft box, but came up with this really simple trick and it’s such an elegant (and cheap and handy) solution for small objects/macro that I have to share it:

Just cut the bottom off a white plastic cup, and presto! You have a soft box.

To see how the project turns out, find me on Facebook - I dropped off the film for dev. today (Kodak Ektar 100). I’m hoping to print them using a special darkroom technique too… stay tuned.

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