Biting Off More Than I Can Chew

I've done it again and bitten off more than I can chew, or can afford to pay for. Why is it that right when you need money the most, everything kind of collapses in on itself? How can I be a 26 year old woman and still I haven't figured out basic life stuff?

Actually, stop. Rewind. Since this is only the second blog I've written all year, I should probably try and start it off on a positive note.

Actually, fuck that. I feel like bitching.

First of all, I'd like to publicly say "Screw You!" to the security company that works at my complex. Listen, pendejos, you've seen my car. You know that the driver of the ugly white deathtrap Mazda 323 is the cute, friendly, charming girl from unit #273. You know me. I'm the one who always smiles and merrily says hello to you every time I see you even though the entire world knows that rent-a-cops are virtual toolbags.  You know that I can be a little bit of a space cadet from time to time and park in the wrong spot when I'm unloading groceries, but you love me for my free spirited and whimsical nature. It brightens your days when you turn the corner and see me climbing through my second story window wearing a miniskirt because I locked my keys inside of my room.  So, why oh why did you feel like it was so necessary to tow my car last Monday? I could have used that money for good, and instead you forced me to used it for evil by making it necessary to fork it over to a reprehensible tow company that will do nothing but buy and sell crack to kids.
Maybe instead of concentrating your efforts on complicating the lives of innocent and well-meaning people, you should be compiling a report on my downstairs neighbors who deal crystal meth and steal air filters from cars in the parking lot. That is if you aren't too busy making shadow puppets on the asphault, which seems to be your primary occupation at 2 am. Just an observation.

Speaking of my crackhead neighbors, I'd also like to say to publicly say "bite me!" to the their 2 mini pins who antagonize the entire neighborhood. Last week, they drove Bonsai to the brink of insanity with their incessant yapping and he charged their window headfirst, breaking it, causing a huge scene and costing me well over 200 dollars.
Also, to the person who is stalking me, could you be a little less cryptic in the notes you leave on my car. I don't know what to think about the last one-- "FYI, you should be concerned for your safety". That would definitely never be written into the script of a horror movie, and there's a reason for that. It's boring and too ambiguous.

In addition, I'd like to give a shout out to Sima, the smog-repair technician who was so friendly and jovial and let my car pass the smog test (even though it really shouldn't, being the smoky little tin can that it is). I wondered why, when I looked in my rear view mirror, you seemed to be sighing with relief. I then realized it is because you broke my key off in the ignition. Thank you, Sima, as I am perfectly ok with leaving my broken key in the ignition 24/7 as no one with a modicum of pride would steal my car (even though apparently, I should be concerned with my safety).

Entry Number Two: Life is What you Make it

The other day, someone brought to my attention the idea that you become the average of the five people you spend the most time with. I hope this is not true. I spend the most time with my dog.

Still, it makes me wonder about the people I chose to spend time with. Don't get me wrong, they are amazing and worthwhile people, but I wonder why most of my very good friends are not artists. How would my life, my priorities and my motivations change if I started hanging out with people that had similar goals and aspirations?  Maybe we could  inspire each other, bouncing ideas back and forth, until we spurn a new ingenious and overwhelmingly successful artistic movement, grow fabulously successful, blow our money on fancy lofts in Manhattan, and spend half the year travelling around the world, footloose and fancy free..... Or, because my friends new friends are flighty, offensive, and intellectually obtuse, I lose perspective on appropriate behavior and my bad habits (such as turning off my phone for days in order to paint, ruining designer jeans by besmirching them with burnt umber, and believing that if beer is dark enough, it can be considered a meal) are reinforced. Or, maybe, if I was a part of an urban art cadre,  it's only mean that I'd have easy access to narcotics and eventually die of a drug overdose after battling with addiction for years.

Anyway, this is silly. I have artist friends who I simply adore, but the truth seems to be that we're all so busy working that its hard to juggle or schedules and find time to meet up. And then, who wants to talk about art when you are finally taking a break from it? It gets tiring. I'd rather talk about life, drama, intrigue. You know, human stuff.

Anyway, the coffee is wearing off and the bed is calling me.

Entry Number One: Lets try this Again

So, needless to say, I wasn't able to complete the one hundred paintings this past year that I anticipated.

Of course, I chose to spark up the old blog again on a day when I'm feeling totally ineffective, but maybe part of the reason I'm feeling like such a (useless) tool is because I have five million thoughts, ideas, and plans swimming around in my dead and I haven't even attempted to put them in any kind of sensible order.

For my own mental clarity, and for the enjoyment of my four followers (although I'm sure that this number has probably dropped to one, my mother, and I have to call her after I post a blog and demand that she read it) I'm going to recap 2010 with a short list of things that I accomplished, lost, etc.

2010 In A Nutshell
1. Committed to paint 100 paintings in the year 2010, but only completed 41.
2. Did not commit to sell any paintings in 2010, but sold 31.
3. Planned on getting married in 2010, but instead became single.

"What are you trying to convince me of, exactly?
That you're as useless as an asshole right here?"

4. Planned on running the Great Wall of China Marathon, The Midnight Sun Marathon, and the Florence Nighttime Marathon, but instead ran from my house in Santa Ana to Dana Point and needed a blood transfusion the following day.
5. Planned on losing 10 pounds due to training for above marathons, but instead lost 170 pounds of dead weight (see number 3)
6. Planned to go to China (only) and instead ended up going to these countries: Mexico (does this count? I go twice a year there to see my dentist in Rosarito), England, Belgium, Luxembourg, Switzerland, France, Italy, Holland, Germany, Hungary, Spain, Turkey, Poland, Slovenia, Czech Republic, Austria, Slovakia, and Morocco
7. Planned on writing a ton of music and performing with my band, The Art Stars, but ended up calling a quits do to problems with battling egos and bandcest. (see number 3)
8. Conned my way into a job at The Capital Grille after blowing all hard-earned painting money overseas.


So, its 2011. What now?Well, Okay, don't laugh, but I definitely want to create 100 paintings this year, despite the fact that I don't have all day every day to paint. I've been thinking more about this and want to expand it to not only painting, but also installation, performance, and video art.

I'm trying to expand my artistic viewpoints past what I originally called art. Although I love painting, I also realize that in order to be successful in relating certain complex ideas, I may have to think beyond a single two dimensional images. Until now, my mind has been closed to non classical forms of art before but I'd like to experiment with them this year. Visually, I'd like to talk about simulated realities and even try to convert cubism into a kind of interactive simulation.

So far this year, I've completed two paintings. So, I'm on the right track. And... although it is hard to concentrate on painting now that I am now working for the man at the Capital Grille, what makes it even harder is now having a social life. Like a real one.Of course, because I am single, I have started to date again which is much weirder than I thought it would be...and pretty awesome lately. I'm trying to decide how much I should reveal on my blog because I have a feeling that it will end up biting me in the ass eventually. So for now, I'm going to maintain a modicum of class and simply state that life is simply delectable. Devilishly lovely.

Catch you on the flip side.

Push and Pull

The restaurant I work at sucked out my soul yesterday, but I think I've done an moderately okay job of retrieving it.

It's humbling to be back in the service industry, and don't get me wrong, it is fun, but woe to my dignity.

I have an innate need to speak honestly with people. So, yesterday when someone told me that they had never been more angry in ten years (because of their botched lunch), I wanted to say, "Congratulations, Sir," but instead erupted in spurt of frustrated tears.


Over lunch. Over lunch. A fucking HAMBURGER made me cry.

After a few martinis, I came home took my dog for a run and sitting down and working on my masterpiece was easy, relaxing, and sweet. It felt wonderful to become totally absorbed in my work. I can't wait to post pictures, but have to hold off until it's finished.

I've been rereading Rothko's book "Artist's Reality: A Philosophy on Art". Its really challenging me to change the way I think about color and the application of paint. I think with my goal of 100 paintings in a year, of course I was able to create a lot of (awesome) work, but one specific thing was missing.

When you spend a lot of time with a painting, it starts to speak to you. You almost create a dialog with the work, its a push and pull. It's thrilling, invigorating and incredibly satisfying.

More than that, after you spend a certain amount of time with a piece, it starts to breathe. Mark Rothko's paintings were fabulously alive.

Silly Me.

I just reread my last post. What melodrama. I really need to cut back on the Tolstoy and Flaubert if I ever want to get my head out of the clouds. Drinking wine while blogging doesn't seem to do much for self censorship (the self preserving kind).

So whats new in the art world? Don't ask me. I've only been painting crap. Still working on the last figurative commission that I hope to do for quite a while.
It's getting easier to sit and create without getting agitated, although lately I do find myself inclined towards the morbidly beautiful rather than the simply beautiful.

As for romance, it's not worth talking about. One of my readers commented that "nobody really cares" about the personal life of an artist. You're right, even though I think your comment was *not nice*.

My new job is in a nutshell running around in a black skirt and fishnets and talking about alcohol. Not the most intellectually demanding job, but it can always be worse (see: The Gypsy Den)

I'll have some more pictures of the paintings I've been working on soon.

A Conundrum

Being me is so awkward.

This new job at the restaurant is taking a toll on my creativity. Of course, because of training, and mandatory wine tasting, and endless studying, these past two weeks have been a little hardcore.

Why get a job at all, you ask? Why not continue struggling to sell my paintings for a fraction of what they're worth, and keep telling myself that I don't mind wearing jeans I bought six years ago? Tell myself I don't mind shoplifting bags of dogfood from the grocery store? With this new job I have more money than I know what to do with, but not enough time. I'm exhausted, still trying to paint at least 30 hours a week...when I'm not walking my dog, studying different grape varietals, working as a cocktail server, or crying over lost love.

Speaking of that, it is so unnerving to be single again, and it's only sinking in just now. Sometimes, if I think about the good aspects of my last epic relationship, of course I feel devastated. When I think about alternative outcomes, such as me being married with a child, I feel ambivalent. Being utterly feminine, my biology craves that sense of belonging that comes with home, family, stability and love. Being utterly wild, my soul feels exalted that I dodged the bullet of domesticity. Of course, I'm too eccentric to ever have a conventional life, even if I did have a family. I would continue to create art, poetry, music travel and live passionately regardless of the path I decided to follow.

The hard part for me is that my biology is constantly distracting me. Yes, I mean that in all the implied ways. Passion and romance is essential to my personal happiness. For the last five years, I had someone to lavish love and attention on daily and as a result, I was able to focus intensely on my art.

If I were smart, I would stay far, far away from the thought of love, but I'm not smart. The problem is this...well, there are actually several problems.

One, I am slightly jaded and suspicious of anyone who is interested in me. Ulterior motives? I wish I had a remote control to fast forward and see the type of person they would be in 2, 3, 4 years from now.

Two, I live in Orange County. Enough said.

Three, I'm attracted to either manic depressive jerks, pathological narcissists, or people who live much too far away. Sometimes, all three. Honestly, I really enjoy manic depressive jerks and pathological narcissists because I suspect I maybe be both myself, and I can empathesize with a lot of the trials they have to endure (i.e. the world not understanding their brilliance)

How did I get onto this boring topic again? My brain is playing tricks on me, damnit, I was supposed to be blogging about art, not men.

The truth is that I am simply not over the last relationship and I don't think I will be recovered until I exact revenge (just kidding, Tom, even though you probably aren't reading this, since you've relinquished all technology). I think there was this poignant moment when I realized that we would probably never fix all the problems in our relationship. To be fair, I think I really twisted the knife by leaving for Europe, and that was what ensured that there would never be an "us" again.
When I was in Morroco, I bought a drum at an outdoor market for Tom and knew at the time that it probably wasn't an appropriate gift considering the hell we had been through prior to and during my trip. I was able to keep the drum safe and in tact for about a whole month, despite the fact that it's base was ceramic and fragile and I was carrying it around in a flimsy, unpadded backpack. It stayed in one piece through several flights and five or six train rides. But, when I arrived at home and opened up my backpack to give him the drum, it was broken into about twenty pieces. It was such a poignant, intensely sad moment... I arrived back at home after spending so long making myself happy, but when the crucial moment was at hand, the moment of presentation, I crumbled. Nothing had changed. In his presence, I was as hurt and weakened as when I left. A few days later I read this:

"I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken - and I'd rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived." (Margaret Mitchell)

Of course, I read this and felt the significance of it immediately. But, what did I do several days later? I went to CVS, bought some Elmers glue, and glued the bastard drum back together, unable to fix numerous gaping holes and chipped pottery around the egdes.

Today, it sounds like shit and it's as ugly as sin.

I promise next blog I will actually talk about something substantial.

Day 281: For my four loyal followers.

When I created this blog last January, I had absolutely no idea how much my life would change over the course of the year. In the last eight months, I have worked harder at painting than I thought possible, have shown more work than ever, and have sold twenty nine paintings. Also, I have run over one thousand miles, experienced my first broken heart, visited 17 new counties, and gone from living with my fiancée and dog, to only living with my dog. And now after spending all my money on world travels (this is my self-prescribed therapy) and completely exhausting myself, I find my self back at my most basic urge. To create something great.
Here's the thing. I know my standards are high, and at times I've even been accused of being an art Nazi, and visually puritanical.

Until recently (within the last six months) my main goal was to create objects that would be genuinely lovely, employing an intense attention to detail. Over time, my critical eye has not been resting on my ability to create objects of beauty, as that is fairly simple to do with enough dedication and practice. And in the end, the most aesthetically stunning object I could possibly create using my two hands is a mere shade of the beauty that exists in nature already. My focus now is this; to distill images down to their emotional power. I want to make paintings that create immediate, overwhelming nostalgia. The nostalgia/dejavu is necessarily created through a familiar subject matter, but through ambiguous images that we have all seen one thousand times. The success of the painting will be determined not only by my ability to paint correct subject matter, but to paint in a way that evokes a sense of loss. I've been experimenting with this idea over the last few months. Here is an example of a painting that is what I refer to as a stepping stone.
"Stepping Stone" means that the painting has no value to me except as a learning tool, something that I create that teaches me what to do again, and what not to do. (In honesty, I feel that all my paintings up are stepping stones, each taking me closer to my end goal of creating something truly spectacular)It is obviously a painting, and yet, somehow, it reminds you of photography. I have to ask myself as an artist if this is a good or bad thing.

As much as I hate it, this art is reactionary.

Of course, I could say "What in this world is not reactionary?" All major movements of art were born out of the chaos of the world, the artists' response to social stimuli. But I think this painting in particular, is personally reactionary. I am reacting to criticisms regarding my art, often people that it is realistic, photographic, shallow, lacking depth, etc. Of course, people say "I can take a photo, why would you need to paint so photorealistically?" I knew the answer to this question of course, but until recently I was not able to own it.
Two reasons. One, because I have a giant fucking ego and the easiest way to impress people is with realism (when I say people, maybe I mean specific people, but that of course, is a long story). And two, because until I mastered realism, I felt like I was not a good enough painter.

Maybe this painting isn't the best to talk about my goals with, since I feel like it was generally unsuccessful. The values are too middle of the road, the colors remind me of fruit salad, there is

not drama. The one thing that I thing is successful about this painting is that I feel it creates a sense of memory, and maybe even of something lost, or about to be lost.

I hope that when I paint semi realistically and then manipulate the images I create to make them appear fuzzy, vibrating, or moving, it insinuates a feeling of transience...of things constantly, moving, changing, morphing, dying, recreating themselves. This is what I would like to convey in my paintings because this is essentially a reflection on the human condition. Here are some other attempts, mostly failed:

I know what you are thinking. Time for a bonfire.

Now, I am working on along overdo commission that I think may be the best work I've created this year.

I'll post pictures as soon as I'm approaching a finishing it...