Finding My Rushmore
["United Nations" Scene from Rushmore]
I had my writing class tonight, so sleep is still a distant idea. It is now after 10:30pm, and I am usually sound asleep by now, but every Wednesday for the past eight Wednesdays this has been my routine. I come home from class wide awake and energized to the point of feeling like I could write my next book before dawn. This evening was made all the more tingling by the fact that I read one of my pieces in class, an intense piece that I’ve been working on obsessively since last week. I started on it less than a week ago and am already on my eighth draft, and after tonight’s comments and questions it will continue to evolve, grow, and change course. It is as if I was given a gift last week when I wrote the first word of the piece, a gift wrapped in layer upon layer of colorful paper. With each draft, a new layer is peeled back, and I don’t know what I will find underneath. I could uncover just one more layer and find the gift I have been searching for – the meaning and direction of the piece – or I might have to keep going and get to a point where I discover I have been unwrapping not one box but two or three. This piece has a ways to go, and that is fine. I feel this way about my writing in general. There is so much more I have to learn and understand about writing, about my own writing, about my weaknesses and strengths, tendencies and shortcuts. I am learning not only how to write but who I am as a writer.
My work as an artist has given me command of a number of tools I can use as a writer. The idea of spending time on one draft only to alter it beyond recognition in the second, third and fourth drafts does not bother me. I have spent hours and days on works of art that eventually got covered up by a new layer of paint, scraped off or otherwise completely covered over. On one of my current mannequin projects, I spent all morning gluing on the first layer of papers – covering the entire torso with tiny, hand torn pieces – only to have them all fall off the next day. (Note to self: make sure glue to water ratio is carefully measured). I also know when to walk away from a piece – artwork or writing – when I’m feeling stuck. In those instances I have to listen to my instincts when faced with the choice of trying to push through or letting it sit quietly while I work on something else.
I am still learning how to be more flexible as a writer, still trying to let myself write everything I need to write on a subject before I try to figure out what it means. This is my biggest challenge – an area where I am getting in my own way of digging as deep as I can into all the tiny details that make up a story. Searching for meaning is what I do pretty much all the time, so it will be interesting to see if I can let loose the reins on trying to decipher what every bloody experience in my life means as I learn how to write for longer stretches of time without needing to know what it is about.
I had a moment in class tonight where I almost burst out laughing – at myself. I was feeling a bit nervous right before I read, and suddenly imagined finishing my piece and having everyone in the class burst into applause, teary-eyed and touched by how perfectly I placed every word. It immediately reminded me of the opening scene in my favorite movie of all time. I knew my piece wasn’t perfect, knew it needed more work, knew every word would never be “perfectly” placed, because what does that even mean? But it was a funny thought that calmed my nerves, made me think of my favorite movie and made me think of my favorite lines from that movie:
Herman Blume: What’s the secret, Max?
Max Fischer: The secret?
Herman Blume: Yeah, you seem to have it pretty figured out.
Max Fischer: The secret, I don’t know… I guess you’ve just gotta find something you love to do and then… do it for the rest of your life. For me, it’s going to Rushmore.
Anza Borrego
There is something about the desert that makes me feel more deeply connected to the universe than any other environment. I know this sounds very new age-y and hippy spiritual, but it is the best I can come up with in the limited amount of time I am interested in spending at my keyboard right now. I have not spent an inordinate amount of time in the desert, can count my desert experiences on one hand – most of them in Joshua Tree, one near Bryce Canyon and this past weekend in Anza Borrego – but every minute I've spent in the desert has felt like a whole new awakening to all that miraculous in the world. Whether it is the sudden sound of water trickling in an environment of boulders, sand and cacti or the flash of bright pink blooming forth from a plant too prickly to touch, the desert is full of surprises. The more I am willing to pay attention, turn down the volume of my thoughts and listen, the more rewards I am given.
Do you have any idea how bright and colorful the desert is? It is a palette of silvery greens, eye-popping fuschia, turquoise the color of a Bahamian ocean, bright yellows, pale lavender and bold, clean whites. At certain times of the year, flowers abound and at certain times of the day, rocks sparkle in the sun like glitter. Bees buzz louder than anywhere else and the crunch of hiking boots on the sand has its own unique harmony. In the desert, paying attention is the most important activity, looking closer the most rewarding experience.
I feel safe in the desert, at home in a world, where, if only for a brief time, I am given a glimpse into all that is possible. As if the existence of such color, delicacy and beauty in such a harsh environment is all I ever need to know about life. The desert is all about essentials like water and shade, and a horizon that is all about expansion. Whatever I bring to the desert is all I have – my hiking boots, sunscreen, hopes, fears, and memories. In the desert there is room for all of it, room to let my mind wander and travel along the landscape, whispering like the wind, spreading the seeds of my dreams.
Five Things
1. I love the kooky creations over at You and Your Little Brother's Etsy shop.
2. I just received the latest issue of Portals Zine, and I'm honored that I will be featured in their next issue!
3. Turning personal essays into three-dimensional dioramas? Sloane Crosley, I bow down to you…
4. Find out what's too kewl for skewl and promote your work!! Style Substance Soul is chock full of goodness.
Flow
The year so far has been a time of flow, a time to let my attention wander freely without the pressure of shows, focused projects or too many deadlines. With all this open space I have managed to create a nice balance between work that has a specific purpose – licensing projects, commissions, etc. – and work that doesn't have much of a function beyond the creative process itself. For the latter, I am simply doing the work that moves me, trusting that I will eventually figure out where it might go beyond my studio. It feels incredibly indulgent to be able to devote so much time to all this loosey-goosey creating of Things That May or May Not Ever Earn Me a Dime, but this is where I need to be right now, for at least a little while longer. The softer and more open I can stay while I allow myself the luxury of this inward, experimental time, the stronger the work I eventually put out in the world will be.
On any given day:
I am working on four mannequins, each with their own story, texture, look and palette.
I am finally finishing a huge mixed media piece on a 60" x 48"wood panel that has gone through who knows how many layers and mutations over the past two+ years.
I am writing, writing, writing, and also starting to send out submissions for publication. I have written about a breeze, a moment by Squam Lake in New Hampshire, Henry Darger, Tokyo, saying good-bye to my grandma and a stack of letters I received from a California prison back when I was running Swirly. Some pieces have gone through two handfuls of revisions and some haven't been touched in weeks. It is like any other creative endeavor – every once in a while I have to let a piece sit still in order for it to evolve quietly.
I am reading, reading and reading: May Sarton, Natalie Goldberg, The New Yorker, John Updike, Sloane Crosley.
I am pondering what kind of Sophie Calle-esque experiential creative project I might be able to do…what would keep my interest and how would I document it?
I am also working on our backyard, trying my hand at – I'll put this in quotes – "landscaping", which so far hasn't involved much more than digging up dead, overgrown bushes and plants and laying down topsoil. I don't think it is some crazy coincidence that I am in the process of such intense unearthing in my backyard at the same time as I am unearthing so many memories and experiences in service to my writing.
I don't know whether to say I am flitting around like a butterfly or curling deeper into a cocoon – both metaphors are apt. Perhaps I ought to say that somehow, in the magical little universe I call my imagination, I am flitting around within the walls of my cocoon. Letting myself travel around freely within a cozy, confined space, keeping a few secrets, refusing to let too many people in.
"Help us to be the always hopeful
Gardeners of the spirit
Who know that without darkness
Nothing comes to birth
As without light
Nothing flowers."
-May Sarton
Sssh
Monumental
There were no big parties this weekend – no grand parades, no profound revelations. We did not make any great discoveries; we were not awarded any great prizes. It was just a weekend. We enjoyed dinners with friends and re-arranged a few pieces of furniture. We moved artwork to different spaces on our walls, organized our CD collection and fixed a broken bed. I did so much yardwork I can barely move today and I listened to my husband create beautiful music. He, on the violin, along with two cellists and a pianist, filling our house with sweet melodies that swirled all around me as I sat with my eyes closed, listening intently.
We did not do anything spectacular – did not re-new our wedding vows, read poetry at midnight or howl at the moon. We simply enjoyed our home – sunk deeply into the haven we have created with each other, with our friends, with all the tales we've told here and will continue to tell for as long as fate allows. And in those tiny slivers of time between our comings and goings and playing and digging and laughing, I kept getting caught in tiny bubbles of stillness, where all I wanted to do was stare at my husband and marvel at our life, at all the ways we are weaving such a magnificently beautiful story.
