The photoshopper is an armed version of the solitary walker reconnoitering, stalking, cruising the internet urban inferno, the voyeuristic stroller who discovers the net as a landscape of voluptuous extremes.
Adept of the joys of watching, connoisseur of empathy, the flâneur finds the world on the net “picturesque.”— paraphrased adaption of Susan Sontag, On Photography p.55
all humour is inappropriate like an extemporaneous nipple appropriateness is fascism all sex is masturbation choosing who to socialize ones masturbation with is called adult choices all people have the right to change their mind one word: satisfaction I prefer is two all lesbians all straights etc etc is eugenics
We had a first coffee date. To see how that goes she said. I showed some street photo, she looked politely, saw the clown makeup I’d painted on folks faces. She got it. It’s really a circus on the street, she said.
I was fired once for the suggestion all the guys hanging around and disrupting a pretty co-worker were like flies to bad meat. The manager was also doing some after hours maggot making with her it seems. I went to art school as an adult at that point. Tom Robbins was my influence.
I’m reading Tom Robbins right now, thankfully, again. He’s talking about what a boy with an imagination, in poverty and neglect, does for entertainment. I read. The Reader’s Digest and the mail order book clubs and the library relieved the grinding boredom of being poor. Not to mention the constant terror of constant abuse. Distraction is a wonderful thing.
Besides reading about the dust bowl depression and the Cannery Row of Monterey where Steinbeck would describe dew on a leaf to make your mouth water, I was exposed to Naked Came I, David Weiss, a novel of Rodin.
I remember him being raised also in poverty, also
shortsighted, being under the kitchen table as a boy, drawing. The rest of the
novel was above my reading level, age 10, but I never put a book down, it was
my marathon reader’s accomplishment to finish it. Having been neglected and
abandoned from birth I was never one to leave a book, a pet, a project a
person. All or nothing took some therapy to resolve, life doesn’t provide
certainty. We have the right to change our minds.
Fast forward to age 18, I’m caught in a prairie thunderstorm, on the streets of Calgary since I was 14, the only shelter was the Glenbow Museum, they were having an opening, and I enter to get out of the punishing rain and hail. There before me was this hand, lifelike, straining describing in 3 dimensions, my life. I cried, I just burst into tears.
Later in life this continued to happen, at art school as an adult student particularly, I would get in front of a work and just start leaking. They called it an aesthetic experience, a spiritual experience, I was ‘sensitive’, all kinds of stuff. I think it was being in front of a work where the artist took great care, exhibited love of his work of his medium, husbanded his resources. A demonstration of the kind of devotion to his creation I didn’t experience as a child from a parent. I say ‘his’ intentionally, as my father, a coal miner, died of lung cancer when I was 2. I was introduced to grief and loss of male love in the womb.
Female love, my mother and likeminded women I subsequently became attracted to, was narcissistic and untrustworthy. They were convincing in their promises of avowed commitment and excellent liars. Took some more therapy to heal that as well.
You must get outrage out? That Based on the notion of balancing the humours For which there is no evidence. Is 16th century mental health Evidence is: Anger is a choice Send out anger Get anger back Send out love Get love back Righteous Indignation Is just anger
street is Duchamp is ready made dada is the celebration of uncertainty is the celebration of life street is line shape colour tone texture rhythm fornicating exposed guilt shame embarrassment anxiety depression rage is that contrived in the studio aspiring to be street
there is no bad art there is first year art there is mature art context is the art god we all worship there is only art today I find it satisfying tomorrow maybe not my glycemic index goes up due to the oatmeal my eyes from the glycation distort my lens and blur the art then looks like shit tomorrow maybe not the art doesn’t change it is only satisfying to the artist or not It’s art because the artist was interested that’s interesting or not art marketing is “manipulate (someone) by psychological means into questioning their own sanity.” for profit Whoever Controls your money Controls your art Art doesn’t care. Art has no rules. Anyone can view it from their viewpoint. You can’t keep such an exhibitionist as art in a cage.
I had a stroke. Reality is reality, not the way I think it has “got to” be.
Although I keenly prefer not have a stroke, a preference does not equal a “got to.”
Although I have extra financial and employment hassles with a stroke, that’s all I have—hassles, not horrors.
It could be nice to have a respite from work, which would provide a longed-for break to make art and write a book or two.
I have savings and pension income I am able to live on for life. I am able to take my time and do a really excellent job of rehab & recovery.
Having a stroke could give me just the push that I have been lacking to take a chance on my dream—returning to my profession as an artist.
Having a stroke has given me a golden opportunity to practice accepting misfortunes, rather than needlessly worrying about them.
I can see, concretely, that even the worst-case scenario is not as bad as I had anticipated.
Having a stroke, this is a bad situation, but it would not make me a bad or worthless person.
I am more money-conscious, for example, move into a shared apartment, eat at home more, and buy a new car in five years rather than immediately. This would mean some deprivation, but I’ve survived deprivation before, and I will survive it in the future.
The simple fact of having a stroke, by itself, can never disturb me. Only my bellyaching about it can do that.
Even if I never get a job as well-paying the one I lost, I accept that and still considerably enjoy life, although I could enjoy it even more with a better salary.
Having a stroke provides an opportunity to eventually get a position that may have certain advantages over this one: self employed so a more supportive boss, more friendly co-workers, less pressure, more interesting work, shorter commute times, less crowded work space, or potentially better pay.
Pressuring myself saying I shouldn’t have had a stroke will not help me recover. Moreover, it could turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy: the more I demand this, the more stressed and distracted I get, and the worse I perform in my recovery.
In the larger sense, health is temporary. Health changes, unemployment, and lost jobs are part of life.
I started at “square one” at relearning to walk, I worked my way up out of the wheelchair and continued to improve.
Everyone has significant discomforts, inconveniences, and hassles in life. This is part of the human condition. No reason exists why I have “got to” be exempt.
It is a relief not to be so focused on competitive work and instead do contemplative art.
What is the intention of the artist? How are the participants elicited and acknowledged? How does the methodology employed by the artist enable or limit the agency of the participant? How does the artist reflexively address their own assumptions, and challenge dominant preconceptions about the participant and the subjects of their imagery? Where does the artist disseminate the work, and how do these contexts affect the representation of the participant? How has the artist used models of documentation to make the questions, problems, constraints, and subjectivities explored throughout the duration of the practice explicit?