I might as well have written them today. Easter Sunday, 2022. Things have shifted from 2018 to 2022 in terms of what I cite as the events occurring. It is snowing. My son and his bride-to-be were traveling last night along a highway and escaped being hit by a huge evergreen tree that fell across the road. They abandoned the car and ran home.
We Are by Jon Batiste is playing on the stereo. He said on the Colbert Show once that he always goes to music to lift himself up when he is down. I guess I am doing the same. I don’t do it enough.
Depression is tough. Feeling totally alone is tougher.
Here are the words:
I am an Artist
It is Sunday.
It is raining.
The radio bellows out a Brahms piano concerto from a past concert from the BSO.
My son is running for twelve hours to celebrate four years of sobriety. He started in the dark. He was wearing a headlamp as was shown in a brief video documenting his checking his on-body gear.
Yesterday someone said to me on the phone: Well, you’re different.
In relation to what? I should have asked.
Society? Community? Animals, plants?
In therapy a couple of weeks ago, I explained leaving a meeting that was convened to assess the upcoming studio tour in the summer to which I had been invited. During the description, I started to heave with laughter on the verge of hysteria as I let loose on how I was expected to contribute to the group participating in the studio tour beyond simply opening my doors to the public.
The latter conversation connected with many others that my therapist and I have had about how difficult it is for me to get along with people.
The conclusive bridge in the session was that I am highly individuated. This has occurred over time so that I can protect myself from criticism and injury. Criticism of how I am carrying on with my life and injury from those who could harm me emotionally.
Making art has been the key to tapping the breadth of my creative mind. The one where peace and ease and imperfection can comingle without being questioned except by me. The one where the tools blend with purpose. The one where many avenues can be traveled at once. The one where interruption from external sources is annoying. The one where I can devise my next moves in the studio. The one where I can propel myself with veggie smoothies and chocolate bars. The one where I ingest more than food from the streaming stories I choose on the Internet. The one where my eyes and ears are key to my existence.
The places I can go to my work I cannot see until I go there. My ideas unfold as in an improvised monologue. A solo performance ripe with history: my life history, art history, psychological history, mnemonic history, science history, environmental history. History.
This evaluation was contained in other words in a syllabus for a drawing class I taught at CalArts, when I was a Teaching Assistant, at age 24.
I am the same person now as I was then only I have changed. Can you tell?
I long for unity every day with the universe in meditation and in how I contribute. I was reading this morning how important it is to realize that I matter.
Matter? How do I matter?
Because you are reading this? Because I posted on Facebook and Twitter this morning? Because I have an Instagram account?
Does the way I filter the world and express it to you brighten your world? Does it help you move through your life?
The substance of this bit of writing will be shared by few. But will the energy I have expended to write how I know at this moment charge the air to put it in more balance only to fall out again in the smallest increment of time?
When I first went to art school, I used to sit with a typewriter on my lap typing reams and reams of paper with very little on each page. Together in a sequential pile lay the meaning of my efforts. Documentation of the passage of time. A reflection of my training in art by one of the founders of conceptual art, rarely noted in the history of it, Douglas Huebler, and his fellow professor, Donald Burgy, a practitioner of viewing and noting his views.
I still enjoy this typing ethic. In fact, I never learned how to type. I am always making mistakes that you cannot see unless I miss correcting them. When I was a little girl, I used to sit at a metal table and imitate my grandfather’s secretary by tapping on the table to make the sound of typing. Me in my little pink skirt outfit, short white ankle socks with the tops folded down, and Mary Jane shoes.
At least since growing up, I have understood that the nature of the tapping is related to words which can offer some meaning or not. On the other hand, I could sit here tapping to revel in it or actually document it as a piece of conceptual art. There is always more room for it.
The Brahms concert on the radio has finished.
The sky light is still gray.
It is raining.
It is February 11.
My son is running.
I am an artist.
copyright 2018 Lyn Horton