Walked straight through the latter half of the United States, spent an entire week apart. Work was irrelevant and I got up to make my bed. I absorbed the sun and brought it home to below freezing weather.
A solid critique tomorrow is the first hard date I've had in two weeks. Directed study will begin in the original studio space and organized weeks will spin out.
Four projects due over the next three weeks and I'm running on solar power.
Stopped just short of long days, I cannot find energy outside of 6:30AM-9PM
Should be dyeing cotton fabric, writing on samples, finding the next pathway, memorizing modern craft timelines... Instead I am stuck inside with carpal tunnel syndrome and wanting Jack White, only
Strictly, wanting mint tea accompanying lists instead of movement
Spending sketches on "Legendary Lovers," "Lacrimosa," "Jolene," and "Losing My Way."
They will all be modular projects to build a larger structure. It is a simple first step to see Cinematic Realism--pieces reorganized is an easy way to handle focus of depth. Though, instead of reorganizing lines, I will be reorganizing shape.
I circled through Justified all yesterday and will cycle to Futuresex/Lovesounds.
Justin Timberlake may not be opera, nor may he be NPR, but he is important in contemporary culture and I believe him to be absolute truth.
Inventory Friday:
- Updated images of the Ideology research wall; anticipating a 16:9 Modern quilt sketch soon
- Experienced the easiest exhibition application ever
- Self-consciously realized the Midwestern persona, and I am doomed
Progress has exponentially taken off since a meeting on Tuesday with a mentor. Between reviewing notes for midterms and constructing the ideology, alongside full-time student, I have been pushing 15 hour work days. This evening will loosen the knots in my back.
I keep wavering between arrogance and humility, slowly tapering down to a single, centered human being. It is strange to love something nobody else wants to see.
It's the same drowning that always happens, when.
Stuck reviewing notes, kept from moving forward and so the word is "play." The only thing left to do is play.
A forward falling mistaken for running, how else to learn, though. Phase II in sample wall means collaboration with a friend, fighting for three-dimensionality. I drew a sketch for her to create a moquette out of paper so we can further edit.
There are major gaps in my WWII timeline understanding and I am hoping to forge it, pursue it this week.
Applying for a summer workshop so I can escape in July. The dust in my throat is too much.
I have incredible eye strain, so impending migraine syndrome has taken hold. I have three exhibitions scheduled for the next three months. I am researching summer class "residencies" this summer, scouting potential professors for grad school. Busy is understated and I am so glad for the wiggling room. I want to revise my statement about reassurance;
proud people are never reassured
All I do is write, re-write, re-write the re-writes, etc.
All I do is make funny samples, all I do is organize a new periodic table, all I do is
The wall in the center of studio is nearly mine permanent and all critique dates are waved, for the sake of ideology.
Hard at work deconstructing and rearranging the a-heroic journey; blazing through The Hunger Games and Philosophy criticism, finishing Anthem in one breath and still trudging through blinding snow.
I find it easy to wake up every morning and work impulsively, without repercussion of failing a greater theory. It is freedom to work for work's sake.
Done waiting.
I asked for the center wall and now organize within it. I stopped looking for inspiration and move my hands infinite instead. I sit in corners when nobody else needs them, I can't wait to sleep because it means studio at 8AM sharp the next morning.
I make ugly things and bad art and wrong seams and awful decisions in the drop dead center of studio and I have never felt more alive.