working

I’m completely confused… I posted this a few days ago and just noticed that it didn’t show up here…? How very strange.

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I’m in a group show at the Pera Museum in Istanbul, and I heard today that they made huge reproductions of one of my drawings and are using them to cover their elevator doors. Ok, not sure I’ll ever get to see that given that I’m not going to Turkey any time soon, but I had a nice surprise when I went to their website to look…

http://en.peramuzesi.org.tr

The main page cycles through four images, two of which are mine! Very cool!! I love how my work is much better traveled than I am…

I’ve been out of commission for days, recuperating from emergency dental surgery that basically kicked my ass. I started this piece way before I knew I was going to need some holes drilled in my head, but it kind of works out perfectly. This is the second panel of my new project.

So, I don’t want to give too much away, but one of the things that I’ve set up for myself in this project is that everything has to be in 36s. My 36th birthday is right around the corner, and the writing that is in this series comes from me really thinking hard about my life as an artist. More soon…

I’ll explain more in a bit…

I absolutely loved the Unica Zürn show at the Drawing Center, which is up for a few more days. But one of the things that has really stuck with me after seeing it and reading the catalog essays, is that this is the first exhibition I can think of that attempts to simultaneously contextualize an artist both as serious sufferer of mental illness and also as a legitimate member of an avant-garde art scene, without heavily shifting the weight of the interpretation of her work to one or another camp.

It’s a tough line to walk – Zürn was hospitalized several times and diagnosed as a schizophrenic (although it bears mentioning that the terminology and methods of diagnosing patients with mental illness have changed dramatically even in just the 40 or so years after her death). Her writings clearly point to a kind of mental disturbance that was above and beyond merely dabbling with the unconscious. And yet, that’s exactly what the Surrealists – with many of whom she hung out – did: they played around with their psyches, often trying to bring about some sort of “extreme” or “pure” connection to that whole realm. So it would seem a little unfair to say that if Andre Breton scribbles on a piece of paper, it’s automatic writing, but when Unica Zürn does it, it’s… an expression of insanity?

So that’s the line that the exhibit and its catalog has to walk – on one hand, you have heaps of evidence that this woman was very sick, but on the other you can’t ignore that she was an accepted member of a smart, educated, elite group of artists and writers. And for the first time in my memory, you have an exhibit that tries to present both sides equally, neither glossing over or over-romanticizing her illness, and not hiding behind the veil of art history to explain away all those crazy doodles. In my mind, this is an exciting moment, because it’s a stretching of the definition of “insider” and “outsider” artist way more than I’ve ever seen – which is fantastic, as those terms are useless, outdated, and stupid anyway.

This has text in it that is written directly on the green grass (ie, not in text bubbles) and the scan’s a bit dark. But it’s there…

I’m trying to work with really saturated colors…

This is a new “big” drawing (big being relative of course, but I mean to say it’s about 20 x 30).

I have this fantasy of someday living in a house I have built and designed myself. The whole thing would be constructed by my own hands, from top to bottom. Inside, it would be furnished with stuff I’d made myself (or in some cases, a close friend had made) specifically with me, my needs, and my space in mind. When something would break or wear down, I could fix it myself. Outside, I would grow my own vegetables and keep a few animals, so that I could produce my own food; in the situation where too much was produced, I would give it away to charity. I would wear clothes I made myself and ride around on a bike made from parts of other bikes I’d found over the years and fixed into one I could use. And of course, I would make lots and lots of art.

This is all fantasy, of course – anyone who is familiar with my building skills knows that I lack the ability to construct anything even close to a house, let alone one that can withstand weather and nature for more than the very shortest of times. But the idea of living in a world where I have made everything (or again, where everything is made either by me or people I personally know) is so appealing. I think so much about the idea of “dropping out” (in that “tune in, turn on, drop out” sort of way) but I don’t ever want to drop out of that which I have a responsibility to, or that I genuinely enjoy. I just want to shed this world of stuff that has never quite suited me, fit me, or understood who I am – nor have I understood really what it is, where it came from, and who made it.

This summer, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the possibility of making as much of my world as is reasonably possible.

On of the things I’ve come back to over and over as I’ve been doing the vegan thing, is that the excuse people use to not do it is, “Well, I could never give up cheese (or whatever one particular animal byproduct).” I find this to be such a stubbornly bad reason to not pursue veganism – what happens is, because they can’t give up cheese, they go on eating meat and eggs and putting milk in their coffee and so on; wouldn’t it make much more sense to simply keep the cheese in your diet and eliminate all that other stuff? Sure, you wouldn’t “technically” be vegan, but you would still drastically cut down the amount of animals you consume which I think we can all agree is a good thing.

I think the same sort of thinking has kept me away from making my world as much as I reasonably can. Knowing that I can’t ever build a house somehow keeps me buying clothes when I could be making my own, or that sort of thing. I find it liberating to make things, in a way that purchasing things never feels. Going to a store and buying X always makes me feel as though I’m entering into a contract in some way – with the store, the producer of the good, and with our culture in general. I’ve been thinking that lately, the only sort of contract I want to have is with myself.

So maybe, I won’t ever totally live off-the-grid or in a homemade house or that sort of thing, but I can drop out as much as possible, and constantly keep expanding the idea of what it means to drop out. This, to me, sounds like the way to go.

Hey, I’m on the Etsy blog, courtesy the always awesome Katie Armstrong!

Ok, new drawing will be posted tonight… promise. Stay tuned.

My book How Things Work (see post directly below this one) is now officially on sale. For a limited time (I have no idea how limited; I’m still figuring this stuff out) I’m selling them for $40 which includes postage and handling. The price may well go up soon, we’ll have to see how it goes.

To buy one, go here to pay for it via credit card or PayPal account. Just click on the button and then send me your shipping address and the book is yours.

Also! I wrote an FAQ based on actual questions I’ve gotten about the project. Here it is:

What the hell is this?
This is a limited edition accordion-folded book that I have made out of fabric and paper printed from my computer. Unfolded, each is about 12” x 42”. For more information, check out the post on the book.

How many are in this edition?
I have no idea. It is technically an “open” edition, although at some point I will get sick of making them and officially end the project. However many are out there in the world at that point is how big the edition is. As a ballpark: If I make 50 of them, I will be very pleased with myself. I’ll probably only make 30, if we’re being realistic.

Are these books signed?
No.

Are they numbered?
No.

Wow! Did you make these yourself?
Yep. For some reason, there’s this idea floating out there that I have a league of interns helping me… and I don’t. I like making stuff myself.

Is each one exactly the same as the last?
No. I made a couple of really beautiful fine art prints with Diane Villani Editions, which were carefully printed by a master printer and each one checked for irregularities and then handworked and approved by me, signed and numbered. This is a different thing entirely. With How Things Work, I zoomed them through my sewing machine and my printer as quickly as I could to make as many as possible – as a result, each one is a little different. The text is the same, the number of gears is the same, the number of stars is the same… but the exact placement is going to be a little different for each one.

The text on the one I got is slightly crooked. Can I exchange it for another one?
No. The irregularities are part of the work.

Is it archival?
Maybe, but maybe not. I have no idea. This piece, by its nature, is meant to be ephemeral. I suspect that, like most things, if you take good care of it and keep it out of the sunlight and that sort of thing, it will stick around for a long time. If you let your dog chew on it, it probably won’t last a week.

I’m your friend. Can I get one for free?
Erm, no. I often do freebie editions that I give out at art fairs – you’re always welcome to one of those. But I’m putting this out there to make a little extra money and to test my website as a place for selling low end multiples and books, so it kind of defeats the purpose if I give away a bunch for free. Sorry!

I’m your friend. Do I have to buy one? (Ok, no one has asked this, but I swear they’re thinking it.)
Good lord, no. I will not be the least bit offended if you don’t buy one.  Seriously – please don’t feel pressured to buy one unless you actually really want one.