Thursday, August 2, 2012

Getting Worked Over.

Yesterday, I completed my relocation from Penn State's third-floor MFA Cave into my new studio, the bed of my beginning as Assistant Visiting Professor of Drawing.

I haven't made a lot since springtime. The few weeks before our show's April installation were spent worrying, readying the 'chosen people' (the figural pictures selected for display), and finishing sundry schoolwork. Then the show went up, then it up and went, and the moon was shot: I had testified. Suddenly unsure of what more I had to say, or how better to say it, I went mute awhile.

Early in summer, I got back to making, slowly. Whenever I am lost, I go 'home', to myself - my body, what is my means, shelter, trap, or foothold. In June I went first to myself (the outside, the immediate, the super ego, the seen) and then to the Orgasm (the inside, the id, the felt). Looking for the Holy of Holies, maybe.

The drawings are pastel on shower curtains and bedskirts glazed first with sandy ground.

I am thinking about strife, mess, and inundation. Our bodies expel fluid when they are labored. From hardships emotional, psychological, or physical: sweat, vomit, blood, liquor amnii and vernix that come out with birth, waste, tears, snot - and ejaculate, in a nirvana impelled by extremest pain (Lacan on jouissance). I want to depict the trauma of orgasm.
I am thinking also, as always, about shame, and the argued right to pleasure. 

I want to try spilling or paving gel medium onto some drawings. Or tying them onto fans to see them quake and thresh.
Ecstasy, for its every meaning. Spirituality, sex, suffering.

this feeling has a thousand limbs, of a first and hymns
tell me, do you like it? 
too big to fit in this skin
this skin I'm in
because I'm a lover


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