Monday, February 14, 2005

I am giddy on chocolate. Someone gave me See's.

Just got an e-mail from Jose the art patron and he thinks drinks are great. [sigh] He said his wife wants to meet me, too. He thinks he went to the Academy with me. I don't remember any Joses. That was a long time ago, though. I met hundreds of people during those years. If he is right, he will be the third academy alum I have reconnected with this year. His e-mails are still flirty. Which is good, I suppose, as long as we know what the boundaries are. He described looking at my painting in language that is just suggestive enough to make a victorian nervous. I never thought of people making love to my art... maybe I should have thought about that before. Every once in a while my naivete hits me like a ton of bricks. Hm... it just never crossed my mind that things I thought are sensual would be considered sensual by others. ("laughable" "quixotic" "ironic" "weird" "revolting" "ridiculous" "neurotic"--- yes-- but not sexy, not me!). Or that I would be interchangeable with my work. This is a weird world... weird weird weird. Natural boundaries seem to be blurring between Jose, the painting and me. I am so used to making things for my own amusement and my own perverse sensibilities and not thinking at all about how people would be taking them (my thinking hasn't gone much beyond "my parents would be deeply disappointed by this"). I feel guilty, like I should have been aware of this. I think part of me has. How can I know something and not-know it at the same time? This is giving me a headache. Every once in a while I realize how far my influence goes, and then I promptly forget again. It seems so egomaniacal. How does one find a balance between thinking what they are doing is insignificant and having a realistic grip on the responsibitities of being an artist? If I remain obscure, I won't have to worry about it.

Am I not just making pretties? I am not a witch doctor practising voodoo. We live in an age of materialism and technology. There is no magic here. Mystery, and psychology, perhaps. Maybe even some spirituality. Why does it feel like magic? This disturbs me because it is out of my control.


Wobbly is abandoning drawing tonight for some Valentine's night goth club thingy. He said he had a date. Pshh. The nerve. Unconstant trollop. I am going to be the only single person under the age of 50 and over the age of 15 there tonight. I am sure anyone who has a sweetie won't be drawing tonight.


I am at work ostensibly to write a letter to one of our funders, begging them for money. I really don't feel like doing right now, but I am not sure I will ever feel like doing it until it is too late. People are depending on me. I didn't want this job, I resisted, I complained, I whined. I'd rather be doing many other things. Like eating more chocolate. I made the box last 2 hours! (it was only 4 ozs... not a whole pound... I shudder to imagine).

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I blog about life and soup, but mostly soup.