A friend said today she thought that artists always hated their own work.
I'm not sure what the general feeling is.. Personally, I love what I'm doing but am always deeply disappointed with the results. There are always lots of little things that when you look at a work you've just completed, you wish you had done differently, or sometimes you just don't know whether it's doing what you want it to do or not, and you resent it just for the sheer possibility that it might be letting you down.
Professor Bustamante asked me today to explain my place project in a few sentences, which is a scary request. Words and art are by nature, um, non-transferrable. It's like when you translate a poem, and not only do the words no longer rhyme or alliterate or match the rhythm, the words don't even mean the same things. They have different shades of meaning, different little nuances and contextual associations. To translate an idea that honestly I can't hold in my mind all at once from one form of communication to another . . . it's a real mindfuck.
But it's also a great exercise, and it's a necessary thing to do. It's maybe one of the things that gets you to the next more successful work.
And of course, the work is about place. But it's place as seen through the lens of my personal themes and interests and quirks and so on.
One thing that I realized very early on in the conceptualization of this work is that I was working in a sort of roundabout, subtractive way. It was like, I was taking a place away, and showing how place still remains. I take away my home, and aspects of home come up everywhere and the compromised circumstances cause me to be even more confined to a small area. I take the two dimensional drawing off its place on a wall, and I become its wall instead. The table it rests on as I read or eat becomes its wall. Everything is its gallery.
I tried to bring art with me into my life, tried to make it real, tried to make it do actual things. I tried to pull this virtual thing, this data, that is a drawing out of its virtual world and thereby make it into a drawing in the real world. You no longer just look at the pen marks, or even the pen marks plus the paper they're on. You look at that ink and paper getting hit by light, being surrounded by trees, being pinched between my fingers and bent by wind and pierced by string (Yet, in doing so, I created a photography piece in which the drawing had retreated even farther into the virtual). But still it's a drawing first and foremost. I didn't want to make it into a hat or a t-shirt. I didn't want to subject it to some sort of torture or unnatural process. I wanted it to continue to act as a drawing, and retain those characteristics and that . . . personality.
I just find it unsettling how art takes place in this imaginary place, as if it were all hollywood or something. It's something you do when you're not doing your real life stuff, and it's something that interrupts that real life stuff. When I was a kid, like most artists, I wanted to draw comic books. And I realize now that the reason I thought I wanted that is because I had this addiction to day dreaming about being other people, super or fanciful or just cooler. And drawing was a way to fulfill a need to actually experience these personas a little further. And I remember this almost painful desire for them to do more than just stand flat on the page. I wanted them to be posed in different ways. I wanted to be able to make toys of them. I wanted for them to be animated. I wanted to make them real and for them to matter and for it to matter that I was drawing them and for it to have meant something that I spent all that time drawing them, for it to have earned me experience points, to use video game lingo.
And of course, the drawings didn't do anything or matter or amount to something. And as I grew older, I began to realize that nothing "does anything" or matters or counts for anything greater, at least not any more so than those drawings of made up heroes and the fantasies that went along with them.
In a very real way, you could say I just spent three days pretending to be Placeman. And I still have this wish for it to have somehow less absurd than . . . the universe as a whole. I think we all want that. I think we all want to create order and meaning, and to be able to feel as if the meaning we created isn't abitrary or just pretend. And maybe that even relates to the concept of place in the most abstract that's-quite-a-stretch way possible. But I guess it relates to every conceivable concept, and is at the root of the whole meaning of "concept", trying to make sense out of an existence that is, for all intents and purposes, completely devoid of sense.
And sometimes it feels like having to do complex math in your head in order to sustain some sort of Dungeons and Dragons style spell. Like, I'm conjuring up this conceptual placeness for myself and I'm doing the same drawing or taking the same photo over and over again to sustain what I've done. And now I've stopped. And I wonder how long the spell will last, how long I can hold the structure of it in my head. I wish I could continue to be push myself like this indefinitely, doing without sleep or leisure activities. I want to take art as seriously as humanly possible. I'm in an engineering school. Students are spending every waking hour studying chemistry and math and mechanics. But art should be so much harder, because it's impossible to make anything that functions as well as the simplest of mechanisms. People should be saying "Fuck, I'm glad I'm not an art major. Those guys are crazy!" because of how impossibly difficult art is.
. . . Gotta go to the senior exhibition.

went back home today a little after noon. it really was a relief at first, but then of course you get over it, and it just becomes that messy place where the internet barely works and you miss the long gone cat that you didn't even like very much to begin with. All in all it's about as good and as bad as the graveyard and the churchyard and the wafflehouse.
I guess it'd be an oversimplification to say that, with the exception of really horrible places like, say, torture chambers, place is a momentary sensation, and once the place becomes just your current setting, it sort of falls away. Or maybe really it becomes a part of you, and that's why it seems less noticeable to you.
*Shrug* As you can tell I'm not sure I learned anything profound yet. This is actually the worst part of the whole project for me. Not because the adventure is over or because I'm at a loss as to what to do with myself next, but just because I'm really tired . . . I have a sleep debt of like seventeen hours. And I still have to put the piece together. And my paper for art history is going to be very late. And so on. Oh well. Even so, it was a good thing to do, all in all.

Something about waking up in a strange place . . . It's just about impossible to go back to sleep. Also, I learned that 70 degrees Fahrenheit feels way colder when you've been lying motionless on the ground for two hours than when you've been walking around. I never would have thought one's teeth could chatter at 70 degrees.
After I woke up, I went to Wafflehouse and ate breakfast, did art history research. I had the same waitress as last time. The familiarity and the food and coffee and the vague imitation of friendliness sort of created a sense of home. I can see why a certain kind of people really like diners. Like, Edward Hopper's Nighthawks painting . . . these isolated people finding comfort not in some sort of party or night club or get together with a friend, but just this intimately sized space in which there are other people sharing a location with you, experiencing similar feelings maybe.

It's difficult for me to gather my thoughts and recall the events of the day. I'm tired. I haven't gotten much sleep in the past two and a half days. I fell asleep twice today, once in art history class, once at the library, both for about thirty minutes.

I didn't have to work today, and I spent a lot of my time just trying to . . . find rest, I guess. I went to the school cafeteria a couple times. I spent a while on the quiet floor of the library. I spent a while outside the college radio station, listening to the music. I just came back from a long walk in which I had planned to go eat at, like, McDonald's or something, but all the fast food places were closed to inside customers.

I picked out a place to sleep tonight. The methodist church has this center area that's completely out of view from the roads. Being there was the first time I'd felt really creeped out. I don't know why. Maybe it was the fact that I was so far from campus, or because it was so closed off that it would actually be a good place to murder or rob someone with no chance of anyone seeing you. Or maybe just because the Christian god is scary.

I wish I were better able to think and write right now, but oh well. I will be going home tomorrow. I need my computer, which is there, to wrap up my project. and I already have more photos than I really need.

Slept on the floor of Wily tower, fifteenth floor. It was warm and dark and empty. Yet I still have a runny nose now . . . It's funny to what extent this project has suddenly become about me sleeping in weird places. No idea where I will try next if I do another night.

I keep thinking about St. Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. He was this giant who carried the Christ child accross a river, and as he went, Christ got heavier and heavier. It wasn't the first century AD or anything. I guess the young Christ time travelled or something . . . I don't know how it relates to me; I guess it doesn't especially. I'm certainly not a giant carrying a little god of increasing density. But I've thought of the comparison ever since I poked the holes in the drawing to put the string through, thereby creating a little stigmata paper. And the longer I do this, the more of a burden it becomes, with little sleep per night, with excessive junk food and caffeine.

I actually envisioned myself being homeless after this year of school once, since I will be a liberal arts major with no scholarships, people or job skills. I don't know how much that influenced my decision to do this. I guess it makes me more ready to identify with the homeless. My father, a drug addict and petty criminal, was a largely homeless man for much of my life. Not that I saw him very often at all; he didn't live on my block or anything. I guess for all I know he could have been living in a very nice house, but my conception of him is built upon descriptions of him as alternating between being in prison and having no place of his own, staying with friends or on the streets.

With no place to retreat to, to sort of "give in" at the end of the day every day, time feels very long. I guess if I did this long enough it'd become routine and time would move by as quickly as always.

There's this artist who I saw on Art 21 who knits her own clothes and made this floating habitat for her to live on alone for a month or something like that. Will have to look her up again. She was cool.

Slept in the graveyard. It was one of the best places I found to be out of sight. Didn't sleep long though, maybe a couple of hours. Woke up because I was cold. Didn't have any weird dreams; didn't wake up confused or thinking 'why aren't I in my bed'. Just felt disappointed that it was only 2:30 am, and I would have to find something else to do for the rest of the night.

I walked around downtown for a bit. I watched a couple of episodes of 30 Rock in the Tech computer lab. I went to Waffle House and drank a pot of coffee while taking notes for my art history paper. I left a large tip to say thanks for letting me loiter.

I feel pretty good I guess. Sleepy, of course, but the project so far has been very peaceful and meditative, sort of conducive to thinking. My favorite part is the sounds. As I walk the wheels of my rolling bookbag make, like, roller blading noises, and there are birds and bugs singing, and cars driving past, sometimes they have their radios on. It's like listening to a nature sounds CD. Even now, in the computer lab, there's all this typing going on, and this guy next to me keeps clearing his throat and sniffling. I don't know why my awareness of sounds has increased. But it's very pleasant.