Write on a Full Stomach

This was my summer of loss. It seems that I could not escape it. Loss was everywhere. I found some peace by immersing myself in dance. It was time to figure out what the difference between the meringue and salsa is, how to make a Western two-step look believable, and finally how to make the Bhangra your friend. I learned some tough lessons, like the fact that I am not nearly jaunty enough for swing, nor am I as enthralled with tango as I once thought (after one too many close embrace tangos.)I was relieved to realize that I have been dancing something closely resembling the meringue quite naturally since the age of five. To me it was a nameless hip sway that would just seem to seep out of my child frame and later it would prove to be a wondrous gift that would let me slip into tribal dance lines around the world without much of an effort.

In this summer of loss, I also had to face the fact that far too many other facets of my personality had been lost in an entirely different kind of shuffle. I had lost quite a bit of myself in the ever present pressures to be too much of a teammate, or more specifically, a support system for others. So what to do? I holed myself up and put myself in a self imposed quarantine of sorts. A lock down that would help me to remember the self that ended up on the bench somewhere along the way. Many got mad at me for looking after myself, as they had grown very accustomed to not being supportive when I very much needed someone not to crinkle their nose when I discovered something I loved or may have been good at. I didn't hear anyone say "good for you," well, except for me. I said "good for me" sometimes when I let myself focus on what my lost dreams are. I had surrounded myself with cutthroat competitors that had given up on their dreams, so they were not too happy to learn of my return to mine. What can I say, it happens to us all at times.

I could blame NYC, my food allergies or the struggle to live your artistic dreams that may be overwhelming at times. It could be the fact that I weaned myself off coffee, soy, wheat and dairy in a knockdown drag out battle to figure out what I should be eating. I could blame my shyness, the %$^%ing Starbucks monkey that was very hard to shake, maybe the excessive number of over 100 degree days in this NYC summer, or possibly blame myself for not being a better judge of character, or simply the fact that I see so much potential in others that I overlook the shortcomings that they possess. But then again, I could just blame no one and nothing and move along with things, and so I have.

The hard thing is really focusing on your dreams when you haven't really been able to fully explore that option in sometime, if ever. Coming to New York put me in a survivalist mode, but it appears that I have become too adept at handling crisis and as a result I have selected jobs and relationships that all involved crisis management of some kind. I have developed the bad habit of helping others too much, and if I step back and really take a good look, I don't find many others offering the same reliable nurturing advice. So what is the result? The well runs dry, and instead of waiting for rain, you must build a new well.

Today's wet,cool weather brings out my creative spirit and the urge to cook has returned (as expected) along with the urge to write. Food and creativity are one for me. As I write tonight, I munch down a steamy bowl of vegan coconut curry using every color vegetable in the farmer's market. From yellow wax beans, to purple eggplant, red peppers and green and orange heirloom tomatoes. It was so rich and tempting that I let the eggplant overcook and become a rich stew and forgot all about cooking the rice, just eating the buttery curry like porridge.

So, it is with a very full belly that I write tonight, just before hoping off to the market-yes shopping after 8 on a Sunday in NYC- to complete my gluten free peach mystery desert. I feel rested, nourished and calmed by the weekend of creativity and reflection. I have made the time to upload two submissions for a video festival, revisited some chapters in Jackie Battenfield's, The Artist's Guide, edited some videos that I can now see in a new light, added a few of my murals to my website (while reminding myself that I am a muralist) and redesigned/ordered some new business cards (reflecting the fact that I remembered that I am a muralist.) Overall, a very grounding weekend of creativity that will prepare me for yet another week on a Federal Grand Jury and so much more...

Acts of Labor as Performance

Spirit House, Anna Peach, 2003-2005, 600 found doilies

It is always a bit of a risk to ask a community for quotes about your artwork, especially if that community feels as though you abandoned them. That is how I have spent my morning trying to figure out who the newspaper should contact. They cornered the curator, but now I am facing the ultimate test, someone not connected to the art community. It puts you in a strange situation, having a third party asking them to speak about you, and then knowing that whatever they say goes to print without you clearing it first. I guess it is about control, or the lack of it. My storefront project was a little like the circus coming to town, but not everyone likes circuses, and not everyone is happy when they leave. Many of the people were a little angry thinking I abandoned them to go seek fortune in big glamorous Switzerland. Fact is that I am living in an even smaller community, and Switzerland is another island minus the ring of water. The biggest difference is that I babble in German unable to communicate effectively. Or shall I say I babble in German worse than I babble in English.

Control is the issue that comes up time and time again for me. Much of my work involves acts of performance that are obsessive, using hour upon hour of labor. Maybe in those many days that grew into years the work actually did become a part of the community. I like to think it did. Although I was in many ways able to control the making of the piece, I was completely unable to control the interactions that at times were confrontational on their part, nor could I control the publicity that followed. For as many days that I spent moping about being mistreated by tipsy tourists, or made fun of by the Hawaiian shrit wearing land developer, I have to say I miss it, and I only wish I would have made the video of the harrassment.

I have been looking at an office room in a converted barn in the village where I now reside. They painted the old stone building mustard yellow for some reason. I wonder about another "storefront" project. This time I could or would not communicate. The other part of me enjoys the ability to be mobile, to take my performace labors into the world. I have started working again on a piece of camo that is altered through my handtying pieces of earthtoned Hawaiian shirts. I think of it as my blanket of insecurity. Monday, I pulled it across my garden table and watched the holiday hikers come to a halt. I was reminded of how light and portible the piece is, and how it could travel on my back, on trains like the Swiss Military. There is something really disturbing about making homemade camouflage, and the act of cutting shirts and hand tying them only adds to it. Maybe that is my summer project, more random and mobile. A summer of fun and fines, I presume.