for the first time since coming back to NZ, I started pooling charcoal on canvas with my bare hands. it was my first canvas I've ever stretched all by myself, so it wasn't done very well, loose in the middle somehow, probably lopsided on an angle. like all my pieces that have existed in the physical world, they are rough and are never perfect. I think dyspraxia makes it really difficult to be precise in any way. to plan and execute something meticulously - that requires measuring of time, distance, space, and recall of information and follow through with a logical order of things - seems doable but it slips out of my mind and hands and limbs when I am in it. maybe that is why I am drawn to pseudo-scientific approaches, or diagrams, or labels. things that make something look they have order. and in that curious space of illusion create something humorous or silly or (dis)honest.
I fear I have forgotten how to make. how I made work. but perhaps I do not need to trace back my steps to how I used to make. that is not me anymore. but could I move forward without remembering my history? it feels like a vast disconnect from the 'artist' character I was. I do not remember how I made 'good' work. I remember the feeling when I made 'vacant' work that felt so borne out of nothing I wanted to throw up. I do not know yet what I want to make work about. I just know I have to be honest. so this is my attempt at being honest. this is a confession. I have forgotten myself all over again. I feel my body disconnect when I try and recall how I 'made'. I do not recall how I moved my paintbrush. how I thought of words. how can I operate as a shell? empty machinery?
is this the end of the road for me? or am I simply shedding away the last of my casing, revealing a shiny. raw, curdling blotch of a thing? am I simply using charcoal without planning ahead because I am afraid? am I using mediums eager to be erased because it means I don't need to ever, ever, ever commit to an image? am I tumbling head-first to my demise or hearing my artist call? should I forget who I was from this morning, when my hand was black from pigment? do I even have a desire to exhibit? is that road to far away from me now? have I been in the supportive, guilty, envious crowd browsing great art for far too long I've lost my way? am I too far from everyone in the world? am I too far gone?
I feel like a sham. I have never investigated one thing long enough to have a decent understanding of anything. I jump from surface to surface, tell myself I am obsessed with it, hold it in my hands, yell into it, and leave. because I forget. I forget why I was obsessed. what pulled me in. I cannot rely on my recall. or maybe I am just telling myself that. do I just not care anymore? I cannot tell. is this not why I grasped onto documentation like it is my lifeline? because I do not want to forget? now I accumulate so much documentation maybe it becomes worthless. that is not true. those were just words.
now I have an opportunity to write about others' art and exhibitions. will that make me miserable? how can I ever collaborate again if I am unable to even start my studio practice up again? will it simply come back one day? how long is it supposed to take? am I still considered young? emerging? an artist?
today in an attempt to learn more about art writing I read half of the 'how to write about contemporary art' book I had for years and never flipped through. it was actually a wonderful experience. there was a quote used, ‘Art’ occurs when an artist or group brings together a set of materials (or circumstances) and the results somehow add up to something greater than its constituent element(s). Good art writing tries to put into words what somehow happened - what was inexplicably extra - when the artists brought together those exact materials, objects, tech, people, pics, etc.' something like that. and I really liked this. it feels like magic. and it feels so wonderful to know art is not stable. I certainly do not feel stable and I feel I need language to stabilise myself also. perhaps that is exactly what I am doing right now.
perhaps diving straight onto a surface is the wrong approach. it felt liberating at first, but then it felt empty because I was operating on nothing but my subconscious and I keep drawing the damn train again, always in the same position, always vaguely phallic when I don't mean it to be. I feel some kind of call to video right now. I've been making some (well, just four so far) videos for the sake of content creation because I've always felt drawn to it and now I'm finally getting back to it. in my drafts there is one about starting over as a fine artist. I wrote a script and shot list and everything. but I didn't execute it because it felt too 'fine art' to post on the platform. but perhaps I can push it even further. am I a video artist now? how many identities and characters do I have through these different mediums? I feel I am always pushing myself yet it never is enough. I talk about how a rebirth is a performance. perhaps I need to perform. perhaps I Need To Perform.
update: I've painted for the first time back the next day.