Monday, February 16, 2009

#90 Find My Sewing Machine

Well, it really was find the cord to my sewing machine. Both items, though estranged from each other, were at my old house on Prevost. Which is #91 and a LONG sad tale taht I will start to share in the next couple of days as my emotions settle.

Long story short, the cord has been reunited with the machine and the two have been relocated to a safe haven in my current home! Now, to DO something with it!

Monday, February 9, 2009

#69 Senior Seminar

In looking over what I submitted for the Artist's Statement, I'm thinking the second half would have been sufficiently autobigraphical...all that "I Remember" blather may not have been necessary nor appreciated...

The best of my artistic intentions have always been selfish, struggles to find myself within the lines of a poem, the froth of a dishpan, the eyes of my child, the pixels on a LCD canvas. I float to the top of stereotypes. Black and white swirls mixed with Scottish Stewart tartan and African Kente cloth. I held myself up to the light, trying to fit my outline into those of the women in my family, and later, the women I saw on television, in advertisements, and movies. Identities tried on and discarded. Somewhat fearful of getting to the bottom of the heap and there being no one there. Shape-shifter, moving mercurially through moments of juvenile mockery, corporate anonymity, marital monogamy, displaced singularity. An hourglass filled to the brim with grains of laughter and longing and questions seeking a voice. Straining to be heard above the din of the mundane. Phoenixing. Drowning in the mainstream, shards of glass rain down from the ceiling. Straining to hear the voice inside of me as it slowly succumbs to conformity. I plant apple trees in Eve’s orchard so women can be wise beyond mere knowledge. Excavation, through silt and sediment, so my children can have fortune, or just a future. This splitting open of myself so that others may learn. Seeking the comfort within my own skin, peeling back layers of artifice, shamelessly admiring the beauty in my flaws, placing myself under the microscope, under the knife, under the mouse. These are the voices that scream or whisper through my work . The voiceless cry out amidst the entanglement of responsibilities, relationships, and roles. Pressed upon digital leaves are collages of scar tissue and promises. My nightmares and daydreams live for women who have adversarial relationships with their reflections and retreat into their own shadows, women who slit their wrists and bleed freedom.

#69 Senior Seminar

Assignment #2 - Description and Themes. Describe one or two of your better pieces, and then write a bit on the themes that your work encompasses.

Here's what I am turning in tonight:

Description and Themes of my work:

“The Fall of Our Youth” is a digital collage that was assembled from scanning autumn leaves and metal pieces from my son’s erector set and combining them with vintage fashion images of models clad in torture-chamberesque corsets. The headless model in the foreground sports a full metal jacket that asked the viewer to consider the lengths women have gone and will go to for the sake of “beauty”. The border of leaves refers to the seasonal aspect of a woman’s desirability in American culture. The work was created using a soft, inviting, purple palette to underscore the deception involved in the subset matter. In another digital collage, “Instruments of Change”, a child receives instruction from the essence of woman, portrayed by a juvenile hand plucking a fistful of red-matter from the exposed cranium of a woman’s head in the foreground. In the background, amidst the shadows, another woman pauses by an open door, afraid to exit. The viewer is asked to ponder the contradiction. This work was composited from an onion, dried moss, text and photography. In future composite works, I intend to experiment more with found objects, self portraits, 3D collage and experimental video collages.

American cultural ambivalence, gender stereotypes and social roles inform my work. Each piece is assembled from fragments of the everyday, the objectification of women and culture in general, African-American women and culture in particular. They are meant to encourage the deconstruction of media images and the development of social consciousness through discussion and analysis. These works, as they continue to evolve and take shape, create one possible pathway for following a belief or behavior back to its origin. Themes include poetry, religion, myth, music and daily human ritual.

#69 Senior Seminar Class

Artist's Statement - Autobiographical Sketch:

OK, this is what I turned in. Its too long, he only wanted one page. Oh well. Tonite I think we will get it back and I'll let you know what the results are. He's kind of a hard-nose so I don't expect to be flattered. Its all good, I am started to rev up about making some more art!!

Shades of Gray – Autobiographical Sketch

I remember coming home from kindergarten and tearfully demanding to know
“What am I?” and my parents dutifully and idealistically telling me “human.” To which I replied, “Well, that’s not what the kids are school are calling me!” I remember crossing my fingers and praying any group of new found friends would not call me “white girl”. I remember thinking some kind of alarm would go off every time I went into the Shrine of the Black Madonna Bookstore. I read into the curious expression of the sales lady, “You don’t belong here.” I remember when being light-skinned was in style, I remember when it wasn’t. I remember pulling up a club in downtown Detroit and asking the white valet “How’s the party?” He replied, “It’s pretty crowded, but I gotta’ tell ya’, its mostly Black people.” I remember my first corporate job, where my co-workers took bets on what ethnicity I was, the answers ranged from Greek to Hawaiian, anything but Black. They felt comfortable telling me this. I remember, after the births of my two children, going through my old, undersized clothes and deciding which ones to give away and my husband commenting “I liked you as a [size]10.” I remember how practical I thought it was to have an SUV for hauling my art supplies. I remember how practical having Dr. Marten combat boots was for trudging through the snow on campus. I remember my husband asking me if he should get me girlfriend next. I remember how cutting my hair off opened the fissures in my ten-year marriage which ultimately led to its destruction.I remember sporting a huge Angela Davis style afro when visiting my mother (Black) in the hospital. She proceeded to explain to the white nurse, who had a bi-racial granddaughter with “hair issues”, how I had beautiful hair once and that now, I just messed it up. I remember getting sent a drink in a bar on the East Side of Detroit by a Black man. The message the bartender relayed was that “it was for the nappy headed white girl.”

The best of my artistic intentions have always been selfish, struggles to find myself within the lines of a poem, the froth of a dishpan, the eyes of my child, the pixels on a LCD canvas. I float to the top of stereotypes. Black and white swirls mixed with Scottish Stewart tartan and African Kente cloth. I held myself up to the light, trying to fit my outline into those of the women in my family, and later, the women I saw on television, in advertisements, and movies. Identities tried on and discarded. Somewhat fearful of getting to the bottom of the heap and there being no one there. Shape-shifter, moving mercurially through moments of juvenile mockery, corporate anonymity, marital monogamy, displaced singularity. An hourglass filled to the brim with grains of laughter and longing and questions seeking a voice. Straining to be heard above the din of the mundane. Phoenixing. Drowning in the mainstream, shards of glass rain down from the ceiling. Straining to hear the voice inside of me as it slowly succumbs to conformity. I plant apple trees in Eve’s orchard so women can be wise beyond mere knowledge. Excavation, through silt and sediment, so my children can have fortune, or just a future. This splitting open of myself so that others may learn. Seeking the comfort within my own skin, peeling back layers of artifice, shamelessly admiring the beauty in my flaws, placing myself under the microscope, under the knife, under the mouse. These are the voices that scream or whisper through my work . The voiceless cry out amidst the entanglement of responsibilities, relationships, and roles. Pressed upon digital leaves are collages of scar tissue and promises. My nightmares and daydreams live for women who have adversarial relationships with their reflections and retreat into their own shadows, women who slit their wrists and bleed freedom.

Friday, February 6, 2009

#51 Quitting Smoking





Yes, days without = 6!!! And that goes for wine too (see previous post)!! I am feeling really good about this accomplishment because I sincerely believe that I will only spiral so high with this deadly vice attached to my Divine self!

It makes me misty to think about the hand drawn signs my daughter has posted around the basement (my smoking spot). The first set featured crayon skulls and crossbones, and a "No Smoking" sign and a large X cut out of looseleaf paper. These were taped on the shelf above the deep freezer, where I keep my pack and lighter.

It broke my heart to see the next round of signage. Apparantly, she realized I was not obeying the "No" in No Smoking, so she made a sign that said "OK, you can have you fun on the weeks we're not here (i have bi-weekly custody) but when we are it can only be every other day!!! Tues, Thurs, and Sat." It made me sad to see her trying to work with me about my my bad habit. Now, I will be honest and say, that is NOT the day I decided to try quitting again. That would have been a nice little bow tied story wouldn't it? No, I caught a cold. And I don't smoke when I'm sick (because for me its social - hence the wine accompniament) and when I started feeling better, I just decided I don't want to reintroduce this to my life. I realize I may have to change my social habits for a while too. But, I'm looking forward to embracing different things to do to release stress besides the bar or picking up a bottle of wine. Like trying new teas...developing new, healthy rituals for alone time and for when I'm with my children.

So, tonight I am splurging on a dinner with then at one of our favorite little holes in the wall. Its been a while and I want to celebrate my week SMOKE FREE!!!



The above is African Voodoo Chai, a gift a sistren gave me for Kwanzaa, and it is so delicious!! I have incorporated it into my morning rituals of writing and reflection. With a little raw sugar and soy milk, yum!!!

Sunday, February 1, 2009

#69 - Senior Seminar Class

Assignment #1 is an artist's statement...here is my rough, rough, rough draft. Might as well qhronicle all this right?! LIke I said, IT'S ROUGH. Give me until the second or third rendition to give input.

ARTISTS STATEMENT

Its taken me a while to identify that which motivates me toward my work. My work floats to the top of stereotypes: Black, white, mixed, woman, daughter, mother, wife. Other. Exoticised. I float to the top of stereotypes. Black and white swirls mixed with mother’s daughter’s wives…Stewart tartan and Kente cloth.

Identities tried on and discarded. Somewhat fearful of getting to the bottom of the heap and there being no one there. Shape-shifter, moving mercurially through moments of juvenile mockery, corporate anonymity, marital monogamy, displaced singularity. Giving birth to borrowed time. An hourglass filled to the brim with grains of laughter and longing and questions seeking a voice. Straining to be heard about the din of the mundane. Phoenixing. Drowning in the mainstream, shards of glass rain down from the ceiling. Straining to hear the voice inside of me as it succumbs to responsibility. I plant apple trees in the Eve’s orchard so women can be wise beyond mere knowledge. Excavation, through silt and sediment, so my children can have fortune, or just a future. This splitting open of myself so that others may learn. But dissecting a frog in death will never tell you of her leap, or her life (or does it?).

Bucking against little prescribed packets, I tend to do things backwards. Seeking the comfort within my own skin, peeling back layers of artifice, shamelessly admiring the beauty in my flaws, placing myself under the microscope, under the knife, under the mouse. These are the voices that scream through my work, or whisper. The voiceless that cry out amidst the entanglement of relationships, and roles. Pressed upon digital leaves are goals and promises. The best of my artistic intentions have always been selfish, struggles to find myself within the lines of a poem, the froth of a dishpan, the eyes of my child, the pixels on a LCD canvas. My nightmares and daydreams live for women who have adversarial relationships with their reflections and retreat into their own shadows. Women who slit their wrists and bleed freedom.

Frontline female, revolution gestating within warm women folds, feeling the universe move within my womb. Content with the confines of the limitless boundary in the mind.