Lead-er

Things have picked up for my studio work; I am motivated to meet deadlines and set realistic goals that are checked off and archived. Waking to lightning and rain (the strange mystery), I see myself steering for the first time in months. I am energized and daydream about making work, no longer To-Do. No longer What-If, How-Come, Why-Not. 

I ordered some basket reed and it arrived by way of USPS today. Soon I will soak it in the bathtub and wrangle it into a form, nest-like. I will buy paper already pulped and stretch it across the basket reed bones. I'll take fabric and yarn scraps and learn new things about twining and form and color. 

Nest "ing"

A student came into the yarn shop yesterday looking for materials; a project with the prompt "nesting."  Today I woke up with an inspired list of things that could improve my living, including closet rearrangement and accumulating just one more bookcase. After dropping off another load of items at the thrift store donation center, I browsed for homeware. My errands closed and I went home to block some projects I had begun/finished. I submerged them and lined them out to dry, my rug a disappointing conical shape. I dreamt new forms for it to take, perhaps I rip it out or shape it into a pillow—both still round, domestic ideas. 

I spend all of my energy on building a home. Keeping my apartment clean, accumulating a surrogate family, claiming a gas station, grocery store and route to work. I can trace this mode all the way back into July, when I attended Mildred's Lane. All along I thought I was meant to study knitting and its construction. Study the history of software in contemporary media today. Pull these ideas together with everything I've read about folds and the electromagnetic spectrum, a stake-out while I want to fly back "home."

The funny thing.

House Dwell

Last week, my minutes were clear and allowed me to climb on top of everything yet to come. This week, I am not sure if it's the Santa Ana winds or the slew of work I am forging my way through, but it is easy to believe I am under. 

I began taxes like a good citizen and discovered four W-2s, two 1099 Misc forms, and a tuition report that I have to file. Not a surprise, considering I currently have four "jobs" circling my radar.

I think I've only talked about how much work I do, and not in the sense of my artwork. In that regard, I have begun a curriculum. Deadlines include some this month and some in March, collecting a few in April. Submissions range from exhibitions to residencies, and I am still not sure of what to truly make. I know that next week I will have my absolute sanity and will know more clear times to sit in studio.

(a title for House Dwell because I believe the house dwellers, with not much to do other than cookcleantakecareof, are grounded)

A Nod & Casual Wave

Progress in the form of career promotion: part-time yarn shop employee, part-time artist. I am making real and true strides toward what I (think) I know I want.

Most of these decisions have happened outside of me, I can't say I've thought through any of this. Not to say I haven't thought about it at all, but rather realization emerged through conversations with others. I would tell people I don't want to file papers, I want to be an artist, I want to go back to school. I spit words that had hardly crossed my conscious trains of thought.

And I think back a bit further and realize nothing existed for me after college. My entire life began and ended with my education. A twelve-year-old projected want to stomp around in a school less than fifty miles from my childhood home. Everything after has been unplanned in the fore of my thoughts.

Relative, I suppose. This last week for my bankers boxes internship. Who really knows what is going to spill out my lips next.

Orbital Period

I scrolled back through my Instagram feed recently, thinking I'd find a whole lot of "not doing much" but was pleasantly surprised. Rather than stamp the correct date and time on a photo, there is a log of weeks past attached to each photo. 4 weeks ago I took a picture of myself doing such. 7 weeks ago I took a picture of another project I was elbow deep in.

Progress is slow because this, that, the other. I haven't made much because blah blah blah. I know the simplest answer is to "just do it" ... but.

I am looking for something I haven't quite found yet.

Breaks

Our poinsettia is succumbing to gravity and everyone tells me they are difficult to care for. I still feel responsible for the fact that the only available window faces north.

After Thanksgiving break, everything became a blur and I wilted slowly. The new year imminent and so as a race, together, we reflect. For me, this means everything that unfolded after July. Easily I can find many things I have not done—I have completed one "piece" since moving. I've hardly kept a sketchbook, let alone a studio practice. I spend my evenings knit-knit-knitting and swallowing episode after episode of anything. 

The question then becomes "what happened when?" But I've learned it doesn't have to end with what I've yet to do.

What happened when? I've been making a nest and preparing to take flight.

The Overtime Season

Every morning this past week, the parking lot to my complex is always empty before I leave. It is empty when I come home. As for rest, I can easily say it is saved for the dead. The fog that has lifted into clouds is not helping matters.

We bought a poinsettia who is yet to repot. I find myself catching daydreams often and chatting while I work. It is hard to remain focused when running through the alphabet consistently for 6 hours a day. I have a theory, screen-tired. I am screen-tired after staring at a computer screen for the entire day and absorbed in emails. Screen-tired can also describe processing inane documents, carefully organizing them into folders with scrawled names across the tab.

And so what? You don't need to know such detail? I've tried making Christmas cards again this year. Let's see how much energy I have after the 4 jobs I've churned this week.

Be

Much has been brewing these past few months, and my frivolous concern for homemaking has made me blind to it. This past Saturday, The Branch Gallery had its opening reception, welcoming the knitting community to its fresh appearance. While there are many things I would have done differently, I am so glad we were able to host the ladies that have been loyal to the store. I am grateful to be part of this new journey with them.

I've been doing heavy and recycled thinking on my identity as of late. What I want in my career, my life. New goals to reach in the coming months—a new year is almost upon us, after all. And since fall has finally reached southern California, I might as well settle in.

Waits

A lot of people have asked me what "being a fiber artist looks like." Fiber artist because that is my identity at the yarn shop I frequent/work for. Fiber artist when introduced to directors at the gallery I intern at. Fiber artist as told by my bachelor's degree.

And yet I never willingly made any work out of fiber art, until lately. I am a draughstman, I tell myself. I make perfect, controlled imagery unless I am in over my head—my thesis, the reflection of my tulmutuous last semester. 

I tell them I intern at a gallery and work for the yarn shop part-time. The other time I spend in the studio. But is that true? Have I really made any of "my" work lately? I opened an Etsy. I made myself a capelet, a business card holder, numerous necklaces. I set up a Wordpress blog to start writing "my thesis." 

One long, ugly drawing does not count as "my" work. 

And Time Later

I've made a lot of small mistakes these past few days, and it is enough to make my eye strain come back full force. I also think I have a case of plantar faschiitis flaring up.

In any case, I believe I have settled into my new home. It still feels like summer, but I have weekly events that call my attention and schedule away from the relentless question of Why Am I Here. I drive down La Brea four times every week, and am greeted by the Hollywood Sign from afar. It is surreal driving through mountains like they are old friends. I listen to podcasts while I work as an archivist understudy that talk about LA and I think to myself, "I know what that place looks like."

It is a strange feeling, to be somewhere other than where I was born and raised. This, because I did not think I would be anywhere else—I simply could not picture myself living any place else. And look here, now.