A painting changes, and so do I
November 11 – tender sweet autumn, violet-grey shadows and a golden peach liquid light infusing the horizon, stealthily from below.
Art happens to you, like love. You can want it, ask for it, plan to set it in motion, and then nothing – a fizzle. But when you aren’t looking, when you aren’t trying too hard, something takes root and blossoms. This morning I awoke with a suddenly clear feeling and went right to the studio and transformed a painting. Getting to the flow of art is not often that clear or easy for me. So I enjoyed theclarity of purpose that I felt, and responded to.
I had an unusually sexual dream: I live in a community, and I am conveniently male, just in time for some satisfying sex with a lovely and willing female, who I shouldn’t have been with. After the lovely romp we pretended to regret it, but really, I felt pleased and glowing, with only a small shadow of worry about how she would handle it. Somehow I just wasn’t worried about her husband or what he would think. It's as if I were completely carried by the current of my lust, which smoothly justifies all of its acts; the sexual version of ”Violence CAN be used for good.”
As I returned to our little condo community, and noticed how far down into the basement our entrances were. (ooh, freudian! how low can I go?) True, the other side of the apartments were above ground and open, lovely, being into a steep hillside. But I had pangs of shame flickering, as if I caught myself justifying the value of something that was really quite shabby. The space was like several apartments rambling on together, and there was a great common space, with lots of costuming paraphernalia, and someone was there pulling out skeins of fabric, scarves, feathers, roping, and bangles, as if we were changing costumes and roles all the time, in a relaxed and natural way.
I felt a bit of skulking worry for having had that “whoops!” sexual moment with (what was her name?!) She is in my mind as one of the senior females in the extended household, someone I would almost hold as parental, or at least a leader. So there is that pleased yet guilty seditious feeling: I f***ed the boss’s wife, and she enjoyed it, but now wishes it hadn’t happened, but it did, and now, how would the 'play' go on?
I have been studying this business of theater, performance, mask, costume and character for a while now, even more vividly now that V is in my life. My housemate LW, commenting on my V obsession, said kindly: “the heart only opens a few times in a lifetime.” It was a beautiful way to give me permission to follow my bizarre muse, wherever he will lead me. And he leads me to ponder questions about the performance of my life, my identity(s). To consider my masks and costumes, as I travel on my journey of physical and spiritual change.
I am, after years and years of being morbidly obese, on a serious long term weight loss track, and I am changing the behaviors one meal at a time, successfully enough to have lost 66 pounds (nearly 30kg). This is certainly changing how I feel, and how I present myself to the world. It is mysterious and baffling to me to be changing physically. What do I really look like? Who are you, really? "And now for all the world to see..."
My best friend T is a playwright, and I encouraged her to go see 9 Parts of Desire last night, but warned her it was a tough, painful play, with stories of rape and torture and murder and war told unflinchingly. She is working on her own plays, a one-woman show, a medium that seems to rise out of liberation as the lost voice calling clearly now: we need to hear the voices of women, the hearts of women, the joys and pains of women. She called after the play late last night, in tears, good powerful tears of creative courage, after waiting for Heather Ruffo by the stage door, and having a brief but good talk with her. I am so proud of T, following her muse into the labyrinth of the heart.
Art happens to you. Like love. It rises up when you aren’t expecting, and infuses your heart. A waking moment calls me to the studio, the rising liquid cream dawn in the mauve russet forest, with the pangs of a dreamland love affair still hanging there, full of mystery and longing.
Beautiful. Move with it.
Art happens to you, like love. You can want it, ask for it, plan to set it in motion, and then nothing – a fizzle. But when you aren’t looking, when you aren’t trying too hard, something takes root and blossoms. This morning I awoke with a suddenly clear feeling and went right to the studio and transformed a painting. Getting to the flow of art is not often that clear or easy for me. So I enjoyed theclarity of purpose that I felt, and responded to.
I had an unusually sexual dream: I live in a community, and I am conveniently male, just in time for some satisfying sex with a lovely and willing female, who I shouldn’t have been with. After the lovely romp we pretended to regret it, but really, I felt pleased and glowing, with only a small shadow of worry about how she would handle it. Somehow I just wasn’t worried about her husband or what he would think. It's as if I were completely carried by the current of my lust, which smoothly justifies all of its acts; the sexual version of ”Violence CAN be used for good.”
As I returned to our little condo community, and noticed how far down into the basement our entrances were. (ooh, freudian! how low can I go?) True, the other side of the apartments were above ground and open, lovely, being into a steep hillside. But I had pangs of shame flickering, as if I caught myself justifying the value of something that was really quite shabby. The space was like several apartments rambling on together, and there was a great common space, with lots of costuming paraphernalia, and someone was there pulling out skeins of fabric, scarves, feathers, roping, and bangles, as if we were changing costumes and roles all the time, in a relaxed and natural way.
I felt a bit of skulking worry for having had that “whoops!” sexual moment with (what was her name?!) She is in my mind as one of the senior females in the extended household, someone I would almost hold as parental, or at least a leader. So there is that pleased yet guilty seditious feeling: I f***ed the boss’s wife, and she enjoyed it, but now wishes it hadn’t happened, but it did, and now, how would the 'play' go on?
I have been studying this business of theater, performance, mask, costume and character for a while now, even more vividly now that V is in my life. My housemate LW, commenting on my V obsession, said kindly: “the heart only opens a few times in a lifetime.” It was a beautiful way to give me permission to follow my bizarre muse, wherever he will lead me. And he leads me to ponder questions about the performance of my life, my identity(s). To consider my masks and costumes, as I travel on my journey of physical and spiritual change.
I am, after years and years of being morbidly obese, on a serious long term weight loss track, and I am changing the behaviors one meal at a time, successfully enough to have lost 66 pounds (nearly 30kg). This is certainly changing how I feel, and how I present myself to the world. It is mysterious and baffling to me to be changing physically. What do I really look like? Who are you, really? "And now for all the world to see..."
My best friend T is a playwright, and I encouraged her to go see 9 Parts of Desire last night, but warned her it was a tough, painful play, with stories of rape and torture and murder and war told unflinchingly. She is working on her own plays, a one-woman show, a medium that seems to rise out of liberation as the lost voice calling clearly now: we need to hear the voices of women, the hearts of women, the joys and pains of women. She called after the play late last night, in tears, good powerful tears of creative courage, after waiting for Heather Ruffo by the stage door, and having a brief but good talk with her. I am so proud of T, following her muse into the labyrinth of the heart.
Art happens to you. Like love. It rises up when you aren’t expecting, and infuses your heart. A waking moment calls me to the studio, the rising liquid cream dawn in the mauve russet forest, with the pangs of a dreamland love affair still hanging there, full of mystery and longing.
Beautiful. Move with it.
posted by Ven at 11:27 AM
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