It's coming to a close for me. And the anticipation is mounting...

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My poem.

Fortunate for the ego and the id

The mind has an opening, it has a lid

And one can peer into what would seem

The consciousness running as a stream

And there within that scene now browsed

The identity is sitting there all housed.

Within such emporium so vast

Is all the future and all the past,

Knowledge, pain, hope and fear

And growth and change all appear.

Religion is there as well as doubt

And all the things we're concerned about.

And there as well, it should not seem strange,

Are all the seeds of growth and change.

It's true that within our tiny round

Are all the truths of worlds profound.

-Daniel Miller, Chair of Graduate Program at PAFA

ΔΔΔ

As a tradition, Dan Miller writes a poem for each graduating MFA student, to show his gratitude for our participation in the program.  It is a sending off of sorts, a "good luck and good bye" party - kudos - held over lunch during one of the last days of the semester.  Each poem is inspired by each student's thesis, as Dan reads every single one (39, this year) during his daily train commute between Lancaster and Philadelphia.  He came to PAFA in 1955 as a student, and never exactly left.  He is a true renaissance man, and an "elegant man" in the words of Murray Dessner.  The experience of hearing each poem read to each student was moving and inspirational.  I know I speak for all my fellow MFAs that this truly meant the world to us.  This poem will go in a frame, and on the wall of my next studio.

Thank you, Dan from the bottom of my heart.

practice

I've recently re-entered into my yoga practice.

acknowledgement, awareness, acceptance

I feel that my studio practice translates into so many other aspects of my life; from my relationships and interactions with people, to something as domestic cooking (like in post below).

Yoga, on the other hand, has translated into my studio practice.

acknowledgement, awareness, acceptance

Breathing deeply into positions that may hurt at first.

Eventually it feels natural, and it's time to breath and settle deeper.

> > > > > < < < < <

cooking in the kitchen = making in the studio

As much as cadmium runs in my veins, and as much as I talk about painting, I reject it as my primary medium.

I do not call myself a painter.

I do not believe in being a single disciplined artist.

It doesn’t offer me everything I need when I think about making.

It’s like saying I’m a chef, but I will only cook with tomatoes. You can do an awful lot with tomatoes, but not enough.

I believe in creating in a coincidental way, staying alert for potential, and reflecting or editing after making.

waiting.

Waiting and slow, slow learning how to be alone, and edit, and analyze. Practicing the art of keeping myself grounded and objective, when outside of the making process. It will be the same as when I am here in my Cherry Street studio. The solitude will echo for longer periods of time, but it won’t last forever.

We are never truly on our own. We aren’t like sea creature which are born and immediately subjected to life or death by virtue of luck or being in the right or wrong place at the right or wrong time. Then again...maybe we [artists] are subject to that level of natural selection?

New musings

A large part of the goals deeply embedded in seams of my practice consist of escapism. I respect my artist ancestry and I often look to it for guidance, but it is most important to me that the clarity of the immediate lineage, remains a mystery.

I work across mediums ultimately to advance and inform the others. There is no separateness between the life of a sculpture and a painting. I make them from each other and for each other; places for my things and things for my places.

I find myself interested in the body, distortion, discomfort and societal expectations of the body image [typically female]. Confusion and ambiguity work in tandem to encourage a “visual sustainability” about my pictures.

I retain an intense curiosity between interiority and exteriority, which play a role in my thing-making as well; capturing table tops or legs, crevasse or bulges.

So.

Weeks ago, I was contacted by one of my deans at Pafa. A proposal came in the form of an e-mail; it almost seemed too good to be true. An offer came from Anthropologie: for starters, Pafa faculty was asked to nominated select students. We were then asked if we were interested in submitting clothing patterns/designs to be selected by Anthropologie which would then made into clothing - to sell in stores. I reluctantly responded that I would be interested in trying my hand at pattern design. Shortly after we returned from Winter break, I was told to come pick up my fabric from Anne's office. I marched up there - or down, rather, for some reason whenever I use an elevator to go floor to floor, I think it's going up.

Anyway, I picked the black jersey (instead of the canvas-colored option). It had a skirt outline traced on it - a square with hips, basically. It had pockets on the bum. I thought it was kind of short for an Anthro silhouette, but got to work nonetheless.

Cut to 2 days later: I've ruined my black fabric. I throw it out, and go get the canvas colored fabric. It worked a little bit better, but I still struggled with the design of it. I didn't want to put one of my paintings, literally, on this skirt. I felt that would cheapen my oil paintings. I was rushed in working on it, and was trying to wait for it to dry in between layers. My head was somewhere torn between pattern and painting, and clothing and art... It was hard. A challenge to say the least.

Second week in February: I see Anne in the lobby of the 4th floor, her arms full of rolled up student pattern submissions. The Anthro reps have just left; they made their selection. She sees me as the elevator door closes, nods her head yes and says quietly, "Anthropologie. You - " And the door closed. I think she said "got it." Oh my God, I almost died.

3 minutes later, I got a call from Pafa's main number. It was Anne. I did get it. I was picked. I couldn't believe it. They actually want to make my pattern into a piece of clothing to sell in their stores! Turns out they loved so many of the patterns, they picked 3 student works, including mine.

So it's gone off to some other country (unfortunately) to be manufactured (hand painted is the word they keep using. Good luck copying this:). My bio and inspiration has been written and turned in, to be formatted on a cute little Anthro tag and hung on my garment. It will be available in Anthropologie stores in June or July 2012. How amazing is that?! That's my big news for the year.

I am so excited.

And so honored to be picked.

And I cannot wait to see it in the flesh.

Here's to more opportunities like this!

struggling to unite the pattern...

it is a continuous pattern from left to right >>>

back panel

front panel

Meet: Zooey

Sometimes a new puppy is just enough to help you push past all the bullshit you deal with on a daily basis. Zooey isn't our pup, but we'll be seeing her often (just not at 4am when she needs to go out!)

Painting on Wednesday

Photos from finished animations.

full video, in progress

Once upon a time,

I was a girl who couldn't stand jeans under the covers.

Then I could.

Now, I can't again.

Shoes go without saying.

My shoes are on, and under the blanket on the couch.

It's all I can think about.

spending time alone

Sometime I can't get over how beautiful the swirls of oil paint look on my broken glass pallet.

Sometime I don't like how hard I have try to make intelligible art.

Sometimes the inside of my terp jar is perfect.

Sometimes I notice pigment caught in my linseed oil.

Sometimes I hate painting.

But what I love more is the feeling when I'm lost deep in making a painting.

How every mark I make can hold potential perfection. I love dancing around, considering the invincible nature of the artist. Then I sit down and look,

and analyze, and think about what a critical eye might say.

And I cover it all up.

Being alone is hard.

Being alone is hard, because sometimes I don't know what "they" would say about what I do.

It's difficult to comprehend how I was supposed to learn how to be alone,

and how I'm supposed to have developed that inner voice that helps the alone-ness.

Being alone is hard.

I've been feeling a sense of urgency

It's been strange. The past few weeks, when I'm not sharing coffee and girl stories with some neighboring MFAs, I've been flying around making and doing. I've started another 10-15 paintings, that will be waiting for me on Monday. For the first week officially back in the studio, I spent most of my time working on a side project that I will not be disclosing unless something comes of it. I am optimistic, but no expectations!

My space application for my MFA thesis show is due on the 15th. That's a little bit stressful; thinking about exactly what I'm hanging in the show. Stressful and terrifying. However, again, I'm optimistic.

special little things that make me happy

my Paperwhites starting to bloom

tickle tickle

The weaving shadow is a plus.

While making this piece, the words invasion and penetration kept swimming through my head.

I hung it at pelvic height (using my body as the gauge) hoping to bring the viewers' attention to their own body, and what the weirdness of the fingers mean to them and their hips.

In the making process, I had to modify the mold causing each finger to become grossly distorted and altered. The seam could no longer exist perfectly; some of them have beautiful crumbly growths. The amazing distortions conjures body image and body modification ideas. Perhaps even machine-made (as this finger was machine made) versus the hand-made (as the finger is apart of the hand)?

During my end of term review pedophilia was brought up. Something I hadn't considered. But the words invasion and penetration = pedophilia, right? At least in the same verbal family.

Vertebrae was also mentioned. In addition to this piece I also had a movie, and some drawings and paintings. Both the video and the fingers brought an adjacent discussion about aging. As much as my recent work has become about adolescence, going through the changes that the teenage years bring, and maybe eventually settling into a socially acceptable body - modified, of course - it also is starting to bring questions begging the examination of the other end of age; the deterioration that happens near the end. Or even not so close to the end; when we begin to lose the chance to procreate; what happens and what it means.

I haven't yet gone through this, so it is less personal, but I can feel the end coming for some of the elders in my family. I haven't lost a grandmother yet. An event like that, however much I wish for it not to come, will spur this examination on, and on and on.