written for class weeks ago but i wanted to share cause i made this new icon from an old school pic.
On the metro in the evening
The grass outside by the train tracks sways slowly and cautiously. Each individual strand reminds me of sea anemones underneath the ocean. I feel like I am in a huge submarine, a vessel, an iron lung, pulsating fast, fighting away threats of collapse.
There is an old woman in a sea green sweater sitting in front of me and I am staring at the back of her neck as a Microphones song is serenading me through my giant headphones. I notice a tiny bug crawling on her shoulder, confused, intertwined within the bright green yarn.
11:34 pm last night
I pick up the remote and pause the DVD, play it again, then pause it again, until I capture a still image on the screen that holds my attention long enough. Then I repeat, playing, pausing, staring at still images because moving images on the television suddenly scare me. My brain suddenly scares me, synthesizing so much information without pausing to think why it exists. Missing moments that could have meant so much if I just took the time to let the world stand still.
Driving on the highway on the anniversary of 9/11
Why did I get chills when I drove underneath that overpass and saw a man in a cowboy hat standing in front of his SUV waving a huge American flag? The type of chills that creep through your body when something is unexpectedly touching, but it doesn't feel right because I think my body is fooling me into a state of submission. This is a "loaded" subject that my brain has been forced to detach itself from because if someone in one of my art classes makes another "piece" with the twin towers superimposed within a picture of his/her face, I am going to scream. Equally effective is if I am shown a slide of Andres Serrano's Pist Christ and asked is this art?
Observations in class last week
Houndstooth might actually be a grid of atomic explosions Xeroxed in high contrast.
I like the smell of freshly photocopied pages and I like the word gleam, a lot.
I like the repetitive gesture of using the paper towel dispenser in the bathroom. I always stare at myself in the mirror pushing the handle up and down, up and down, dispensing folds of brown paper.
The grass outside by the train tracks sways slowly and cautiously. Each individual strand reminds me of sea anemones underneath the ocean. I feel like I am in a huge submarine, a vessel, an iron lung, pulsating fast, fighting away threats of collapse.
There is an old woman in a sea green sweater sitting in front of me and I am staring at the back of her neck as a Microphones song is serenading me through my giant headphones. I notice a tiny bug crawling on her shoulder, confused, intertwined within the bright green yarn.
11:34 pm last night
I pick up the remote and pause the DVD, play it again, then pause it again, until I capture a still image on the screen that holds my attention long enough. Then I repeat, playing, pausing, staring at still images because moving images on the television suddenly scare me. My brain suddenly scares me, synthesizing so much information without pausing to think why it exists. Missing moments that could have meant so much if I just took the time to let the world stand still.
Driving on the highway on the anniversary of 9/11
Why did I get chills when I drove underneath that overpass and saw a man in a cowboy hat standing in front of his SUV waving a huge American flag? The type of chills that creep through your body when something is unexpectedly touching, but it doesn't feel right because I think my body is fooling me into a state of submission. This is a "loaded" subject that my brain has been forced to detach itself from because if someone in one of my art classes makes another "piece" with the twin towers superimposed within a picture of his/her face, I am going to scream. Equally effective is if I am shown a slide of Andres Serrano's Pist Christ and asked is this art?
Observations in class last week
Houndstooth might actually be a grid of atomic explosions Xeroxed in high contrast.
I like the smell of freshly photocopied pages and I like the word gleam, a lot.
I like the repetitive gesture of using the paper towel dispenser in the bathroom. I always stare at myself in the mirror pushing the handle up and down, up and down, dispensing folds of brown paper.