| journal change |
[Jan. 29th, 2007|11:10 pm] |
Okay...
The ads, which I thought wouldn't bother me originally, are really disrupting my chi. And since LJ would not let me "down-grade", I've decided to make another screen name - one without ads including Molly Sims and TiVo.
I apologize to those of you who have digitally followed me around for a few times already. But I'm a visually oriented person and this shit is annoying me.
My new livejournal is: like_skin
And although I have other weird, obscure accounts all over the place... I'm not planning on using them anymore. So yeah. This is it. Pinky swear.
Jaime. |
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| watercolour notes |
[Jan. 28th, 2007|10:43 am] |
prints: Mary Cassatt, John Singer Sargent
Snow White & the Seven Dwarves: Randall Jarrell, Nancy Ekholm
Carroll Carter
Elliott Puckett
Jennifer Poon
Ten Lincoln
Carol Bove
Wangechi Mutu
Ernest Caivano
Aubrey Beardsley (sp?)
Zach Smith
along the same vein:
Donald Dixon
Yuko Shimizu
Kara Walker |
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| movement |
[Jan. 28th, 2007|09:54 am] |
Yesterday I started moving into my new studio.
From the previous inhabitant, I inherited two large rolls of bright yellow yarn, some nails, and those wooden clips generally used for clothing. |
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| she asked, I responded |
[Jan. 22nd, 2007|09:21 pm] |
When I write my name on my paintings or drawings, it’s just my first name in roughly written capital letters with a period at the end. Its part of my egocentricity and modesty combined. I am a walking statement, my own statement, and I am my own end. However, I am also a human, a woman, and an artist that has followed behind in the tradition of thousands before me. My last name is irrelevant and I make no claim to the knowledge that has been passed down to me. I claim only myself and the ideas that I manifest tangibly because that is all I have a right to claim as mine. |
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| be nice to me. I'm bleeding. |
[Jan. 22nd, 2007|09:01 pm] |
Menstruation Week is in full swing with painful, sharp cramping, irrational moodswings, and of course, bleeding.
This morning was quiet with Jessica sleeping, the television turned off (thank god), and only the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard as I finished off a paper for European Literature. I basically explained that I am not to be trusted if by trust you mean security, because my intentions are not necessarily related to yours. Nor are my interests.
I wonder what her response will be.
Lithography is thoroughly enjoyable. Nothing like exploring a "new" medium and translating a meaningful idea visually. And so, I practically floated out of the printmaking studio, making my way down the damp sidewalk and to my next class.
Then I started feeling mellow and worn-out. Milky Way bar to the rescue.
It helped that I found the Art Forum and Art News periodicals in the library that Koterbay told me about! For the record, Karen O and art go smashingly well together and I recommend dancing between articles.
My FMLA meeting was going well until one of the girls, a self-proclaimed environmentalist, began talking about how amazing Al Gore is, which compelled me to vomit my partially digested candy bar all over her. Unfortunately, I haven't mastered that skill just yet, so I had to settle with mentally plotting my response at a future date.
Many of the "group" concerns are of no interest to me -- in fact, I refuse to participate in a few events they'll be holding on campus. (International Woman's Day? Lame.) However, there are some issues that are very important, such as maintaining the choices available to women concerning sex and reproduction. I may be attending a conference in Washington D.C. on a weekend in late March, National Young Women's Leadership Conference: From Campus to Congress, which will probably a combination of educational and irritating.
Later, again with the melancholia. Fuck.
I want to steal Jessica's heating pad and read in bed for the next few hours while eating take-out Chinese food, specifically shrimp lo mein. Listening to Nina would be nice, too. I'll push my books out of bed to make room for you, if you want, but I don't think I'd be willing to share my food. It is that time of the month, you know. |
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| shades of white |
[Jan. 22nd, 2007|02:59 pm] |
While looking through some images of Charles Sheeler's work, I found this and decided to share it.
Upper Deck |
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| things I have loved I'm allowed to keep |
[Jan. 20th, 2007|07:28 pm] |
Everything that needed to be moved out of my former studio is now relocated and interestingly I'm not as upset about it as anticipated. Granted, I have the comfort of knowing there's still a chance of me getting another studio, but my adaptability to issues in my life is much more comforting. Stress can pull at my fringes, for a moment, and then movement takes over, turning the problem into an opportunity.
After spending virtually all day moving and re-organizing and cleaning, I went into the printmaking studio to finish grinding my lithography stone smoother and level. Then the edges are bevelled, the border is drawn, and used gum (not chewing gum, obviously) is applied within the border. Dealing with the stone is odd in that it looks very soft and smooth on the top, but of course, it's a stone so its quite solid and heavy. It makes me want to graze my fingers over the top, except that could leave a tiny bit of grease residue, potentially ruining an otherwise decent print. (Considering the fact that I'm aiming for good craftmanship.)
The pang of longing slipped in under my skin as I looked at drawings pinned to the wall that had been done by other students in the figure painting class. In a way it is peculiar for you to exist anywhere within the hands and eyes of another person. Do they see what I see? Can they know? Some of the drawings are quite beautiful, especially for the short time within which they were made. I was tempted to take all of them, even the ugly and disproportianate charcoal sketches.
Instead I left the room and got back to work.
Sketches (of us), reading the Old Testament and the Iliad (again), and writing a small "essay" about who I am. My european lit professor seems to think its important that we address this as soon as possible. The curious thing about being asked a question like that is the undefined, unnamed line that one is not supposed to cross, as this line keeps a formal balance between two strangers who really have no desire to know one another. After all, details don't make a person.
But I'm no good at regurgitating details.
I'm good at pointing out things you would see if you were paying attention. |
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| you missed the train, baby |
[Jan. 20th, 2007|08:25 am] |
3:11 am
I realized that the faint piano I heard was not coming from Jessica's iPod, but instead 2 floors below me in the common area. Someone was not asleep. Someone was playing music.
4:18 am
Sometimes the mind just won't shut off. Planning. 1 quick, small painting a day using cold wax medium and oil paint. By Monday, have stone ready for drawing and complete at least 5 sketches. Read ArtForum and ArtNews in the library....
6:08 am
No one feels as good as you.
8:35 am
I've begun cleaning my room and toasting sourdough slices. But as I've said, anywhere you have to hide your knife and your booze isn't really home.
(Soon.) |
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| note to self |
[Jan. 19th, 2007|11:43 pm] |
some artists to look up:
Vija Clemins
Tibor Gernus
Markus Lupertz
Bedri Baykem
Erdag Akel
Helen Escobedo
Wolfgang Petrick
Leon Golub
George Stubbs
Albrecht Durer, find more prints
paintings from The Horse: 30,000 Years of the Horse in Art:
Cave paintings in France, c. 17,000 BC
Four horse riders in their racing colours (Rome, Museo Nazionale)
Bhag (attributed), Shan Jahan on Horseback
Gustave Moreau, The Unicorns
Theodore Gericault, Horses' Hindquarters
William Blake, Death on a Pale Horse
French school, The Lady and the Unicorn: Sight |
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| something I found |
[Jan. 13th, 2007|12:23 am] |
My mother used to collect postcards. She probably had thousands of them. Whenever someone went on vacation they knew to bring her back at least one postcard. From the 60’s through the 90’s she recorded a small history of tourism in big cardboard boxes with each country reserved to a specific manila envelope. I never saw her look through them. She would just say off-handedly, “Pick me up a postcard in Montreal, please.” That’s how I knew they were still there in the closet under a Mickey Mouse stuffed animal we once bought at Disneyworld.
When we had to move because our home was being taken from us, we tried to pack only the really important or expensive things we owned. Mom and my brother left while my father and I stayed behind to finish packing. We had no electricity, running water, and most of our clothes and blankets had been packed up. It rained the whole week before we left. Flashlights and near-death candles were collected in the center of our living room. Eventually all of our clothing was soaked and at night we could not see to pack so we just slept next to our candles flickering sharply as if desperate against the pitch black intensity of our home. The night before we were leaving, I couldn’t sleep and I took one of our flashlights so I could look around and make sure we got everything possible.
My clothes seemed like a corpse around my skin, stiff and cold, unwilling to budge against my body’s movement. The flashlight’s battery was going. It left only a fuzzy yellow-orange circle on the linoleum floor of our kitchen, then bare hallway stripped of photo collages, and my parent’s bedroom door half open. Rain was hitting their window – the large window by their bed which I always adored. Light came in so nicely. So comfortably. It was like an old friend meeting you and saying, “Tell me how you are” with complete sincerity. This friend met me now and understood, underlining the cold and damp interior of my family’s house with pale moonbeams shining through. Rain drops for curtains and music and memory bombs.
I turned from the window and went into their closet. My flashlight found three large cardboard boxes. I thought, perhaps wishful thinking, that maybe they were old sweaters my mom didn’t want anymore. Unfolding the tattered cardboard lid, I saw the manila envelopes with my mother’s handwriting scribbled onto them. South Africa. Barbados. Amsterdam. Moscow. I felt like I had found a buried treasure and couldn’t imagine my mother leaving this behind. I immediately pulled all three boxes out and put them on their old bed. The bed creaked and moaned under the weight, as if it already forgot what it felt like to be rested upon. For the next few hours I sat there going through each envelope in each box. I forgot about my wet clothes or that I was hungry. I forgot that the dim light was making my eyes strain and I was getting a headache.
I separated them into two groups – one group would be taken with me and the other would be left there in the closet. There wasn’t enough room to take them all, not even half of them, so I had to be particular in my choosing. I had to be quick too since we were supposed to be ready to leave in the morning. I ended up bringing only a quarter of her whole collection with me.
……
September 2005 |
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| like i said |
[Jan. 12th, 2007|09:09 pm] |
I still believe that it is our actions that define us, not our conditions. Our conditions are simply catalysts for response. |
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| and you thought |
[Jan. 12th, 2007|12:27 am] |
Today as I walked back from the hospital to my dorm, a shout came from a car stopped behind several cars at a red light. I didn't hear what he said, but seeing that he turned to his friend smiling and then looked back at me was informative enough that it was stupid and directed towards me. As I walked towards the car, I stared directly at the boy who did the shouting and within seconds his smile faded. By the time I was walking beside the car, he looked as limp and lifeless as a bowl of pudding.
I wasn't visibly smiling, but make no mistake, I found it amusing as hell. |
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| sensuality machine |
[Jan. 8th, 2007|03:02 pm] |
Pomegranate juice splashed into my eye, stained my cuticles, shined a pinkish mauve glaze on my fingers. And I could be very classy, eat the pomegranate seeds with a silver spoon, but I prefer to eat them with my hands.
Once I bought a red silk shibari scarf not due to how lovely it is, but because I imagined how it would feel on skin. I imagined brushing it across someone's face while their eyes are closed, or down the length of their chest and stomach. I imagined how it would feel across the nipples, around the penis, grazing against the inner thighs.
Sometimes the only conversation I hear during dinner is the exchange between my glass of wine and my feminine parts. If a good dessert is on the menu, my thighs will be crossed tightly while I shift around in my seat. Pure delight.
God help me if the primary decor is my beloved red.
Although, his eyes are capable of holding my attention, pushing down on the desire itself so that it is heavy and stirring beneath the surface. So that I wait.
I wait with my pomegranates, peeling back the pale yellow layers to unveil a small group of dark red seeds. I wait with my silk scarf next to the bed. I wait with my restless hips. I wait with my hands busy in paint and charcoal.
And I wait. |
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| trophy wife anthology |
[Dec. 19th, 2006|10:52 am] |
1.
After making love, after watching him get dressed for work, after he kissed me goodbye - I couldn't sleep.
Sometimes I feel as though I am a bruise waiting for the purple and yellow pigmentation to leave evidence of the transgression. What trans... Then barely a minute later, I get up.
2.
I enjoy clearing the floor, the counter tops, the sinks. Clearing them of dishes and water saturated bits of food and disorganized, partially crumpled papers and clothes that may or may not be clean. Folding dishtowels. Wrinkling fingertips. Washing and drying clothes down in the basement.
It makes me distinctly aware of his absence.
It reminds me he's coming back.
3.
Peanut butter and jelly.
Hot chocolate.
The truth is, I would make nothing fabulous for myself at all. I would be content to eat pasta and bottled fettucine alfedo sauce or hot dogs with mustard. Or perhaps to survive on coffee and tea and cigarettes and parfaits and small salads.
I will seek out delicious meals. I will pull my thighs tightly together and squirm in my seat as the flavour hits my tastebuds in waves. I will smile faintly, or boldly.
But the truth is, I would try to survive on almost nothing.
I am rich for you.
4.
Slips
and black clothing
and gardenia body lotion
and jasmine tea
and sketchbooks
and charcoal smears
and oil paint
and white lilies
and paper lanterns
and freedom
and a sharp tongue
and singing in the studio
and unplanned picnics
and laughter
and cherry blossoms in D.C.
and climbing bridges
and red leaves
and the sound of trains late at night
These things have a lot of substance. I brought them all in my two hands, in my chest, in my head.
You have given me things I did not care enough to give myself.
Some good meals
and love making
and Hayden
and a comforting voice
and reciprocated honesty
and willingness to accept a promise
and my closest
and someone who agrees we should do it our way
and keeping up with me
and keeping up with him
and matched competence
and understanding
and unstrained silence
and a partner in crime
and a million inside jokes
and something new
5.
That's why I don't just say, "I love you."
I say, "Thank you."
Thank you for you.
6.
Still, I wish he would have told me about that letter. Mentioned it casually between what I did today and so when you're here... People should never just find things. I am not a detective. Don't make me pick apart the pieces and determine the plot.
7.
I know better.
I know.
And I'm not worried. I'm just not used to caring this much.
8.
Recharging Venus.
Remember, I'm erotique, but not like Picasso's babes. I'm not vulger. I'm not careless. I won't fuck just anywhere. (Usually.) Intensity. Desire. Aggressivity. Softness.
I'm in your shower. I'm standing naked in your bathroom brushing my teeth with my toothbrush and your toothpaste. See, that's teamwork. And that's all I want.
9.
Yes.
I enjoy the thought of him coming in and looking around, knowing I had cleaned up the house. I think about this as I'm folding his clothes or sweeping the white linoleum kitchen floor. I hear his voice telling me I shouldn't have cleaned up after those slacker housemates of his.
But I know you like it when its clean, and I don't mind really.
Briefly, I'll forget that I'm leaving (too) soon...
10.
"What do you think it'll be like living together?"
"Laughter."
Thank you. |
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| eggs in your love shoes |
[Dec. 14th, 2006|11:21 pm] |
There's an art to packing for one week with only one backpack and the overbearing urge to stuff it with sketchbook, pencils, charcoal, camera, journal, black ink pens, book, glue, and Sharpie's.
I remembered the black panties, the pale yellow slip with lace across the top, warm socks.
Rose oil doesn't travel well.
Theoretically, one needs clothing and toothbrush and identification. (We were only half joking about staying in bed with movies, skin, drinks, and laughter.)
(We were not joking at all about skin.)
Vermont,
then New York,
then New Jersey.
South Jersey on the beach in winter is when the Banshees and Aphrodite meet for coffee; half-dressed, unkept, and salty. Abandoned boardwalks and shops. Used condoms strewn about under the pier like forgotten relics. Everything is forgotten when that ocean turns grey and the sky is a blanket of heavy clouds. But She has something to say.
I can appreciate harshness. Intensity. Burning burning burning...
She has something to say. |
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| I know you want my queen |
[Dec. 12th, 2006|06:49 pm] |
Currently untitled and unfinished.
Archival tissue paper, wax, oil paint, thread.
I don't know the exact size, but the paper is about 7 feet tall.
detail:
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| illuminating |
[Dec. 12th, 2006|06:45 pm] |
This morning as I was leaving my studio...
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aftenlandet's journal
