Sitting on My Art

I am in a ridiculous funk with my art, as if my studio has put a voodoo spell on me not to enter its doors. Yes, I've been incredibly busy lately, with all sorts of projects underway that are not necessarily art-related. But "busy" doesn't usually prevent me from painting a little, or at least stepping into my studio to have a cup of tea while staring helplessly at unfinished pieces of work.

Granted, I am brainstorming like the plague. This will soon be unleashed I know; because there is only so much "planning" one can do (especially with regard to my own process) before having to make the necessary mistakes that deplore direction and invite new ways of seeing and thinking about landscape and its intended impact. I rarely ever blue print my work, but this is exactly "what's new" with me. I am moving from my traditional approach of direct canvas attack, divide and conquer; and towards a more conscious mental mapping approach. I am inclined to use literary symbolism and cultural metaphors to obtain a specific desired effect--and this can be very difficult when the bottom line is that all conceived and perceived work is subjective, from the artist and viewer respectively. This may not be the case however, if certain imagery is used--icons and avatars that unequivocally represent something specific. This is what the art of branding does; it creates a language that is collectively shared. Pop Art has been able to apply these languages in very compelling ways.

My brainstorming sessions need to transform themselves into real attempts at reifying these ideas on canvas. Or else, I'll soon be called-out on my cop-outs.

Cafe Central

cafe doodle, 2010

I have become so accustomed to spending hours in a coffee shop, using it as an extension of my home office (well, if you count the kitchen table as a pseudo office space) or studio. I buy a coffee, and somehow this purchase warrants my seating space for the next four hours. Sometimes I people watch (depending on cafe's location), doodle (depending on how scattered my brain is that day), or surf the web on my laptop; but most of the time I read. And this is because I've almost forgotten how to read "serious" books at home! (serious book: a non-fiction book based entirely on facts that leaves little to the imagination but requires cerebral prowess and memorization skills for maximum mental digestion--which I have very little of).

It's as if I need to have all around me the cling clanger of dishes, the chit chatting of people, and the shhhhhhhhhhhh of the cappuccino steamer machine thingy, to keep my concentration in check. Silence is far more deafening to my ears and therefore hinders full engagement with books that require more than 1% of my brain power to process. This only leaves me with my novels to read at home. But sometimes even novels require the presence of the coffee machine and public restrooms with door codes or keys attached to a massive spatula. It's a funny world.

But I like it, and find myself rotating among my five favorite coffee shops in the city on an almost daily basis. I get a hell of a lot of work done in these houses of the coffee enterprise. I'm a real sucker for the table right by the window and I don't care if it's meant for a group of five. At least I don't have a mac that takes up the table's entire surface area. And if I'm feeling courageous enough, I always get myself a second cuppa--though this runs the risk of overstimulating my nerves which are incredibly sensitive to coffee number two of the day. I tend to move into the tea zone soon after my one cup coffee quota.

As someone who no longer has a full-time job, I'd say the coffee house has become my new "cubicle" with none of its negative associations, i.e. claustrophobia, containment, boredom, box, depression. I get to enjoy the day, come across new and interesting characters (in a city like San Francisco this makes for an intriguing pastime) , and work in my own pace--well, that is until the manager starts to notice the cold empty cup that's been sitting by my laptop for well over five hours.

Portraiture In The Back Room

I took it upon myself to devote the entire day today to a celebration of natural endorphins and what I like to call "art-strolling". The former was achieved with a 4 mile run from my apartment, all the way to the Ferry Building in downtown San Francisco (the route took me right by the water almost the entire way and into the hustle and bustle of my favorite farmers market). The latter endeavor brought me to the heart of the Mission neighborhood and into a handful of local art galleries and collectives that rest side by side in a complimentary fashion (harboring less competition than what we're use to with commercial galleries). Needless to say, it was a good day.


I stumbled upon Kyle Ranson's solo show at the Adobe Books Backroom Gallery aptly titled Portraits. Interestingly enough, I had heard of Kyle before, through some vague online art blog which name or content I have no recollection of other than the fact that his work struck a chord with me. I've been to his website several times, admiring the intensity of his body of work; its subjects rendered in garish blood red colors, at times invoking a macabre sense of doom derived from our beastly natures. Some of his stuff reminded me of earlier work by the infamous brothers Jake and Dinos Chapman, particularly their 3-d homage to Francisco Goya's Disasters of War etchings.

His show Portraits, however, didn't espouse the same gory effect that I just described. The mood was a different one, produced by these lonely figures with complex histories made real by the expression on their faces. Pretty moving figures actually. I really liked his brushwork and incredible use of color. It got me inspired and craving to attempt a couple of portraits myself. I have to say, living in a city that provides limitless opportunities for art-strolls, just a skip and a hop away from where I lay my hat, is enough to keep those endorphins circulating.

It was a good day.

Jobless Yet Smarter

I can't decide which came first: getting smarter or losing my job. Either one could be a precursor to the other I suppose. Leaving a job that may have given the look of success but kept you from expanding the horizons of your imagination, is in my books, a smart move. Losing this kind of job also propels one to feed the imagination in limitless ways. But here's the important thing to note: I don't regret anything, not a single one of my jobs. Intolerable at times, they still led me to this very moment.

I worked my ass off, as equally as I slacked off; I've been a keen bean as a new employee, doing extra work just to get those brownie points; I've also been the disgruntled and jaded executive assistant who's literally had enough (when push came to shove I moved to the other side of the country). I've met extraordinary people; I've also met the worst of them. I know what it's like to have to run around like a mad woman in Union Square because the office was out of Diet Coke, which is the only drink the Chairman of the Finance Committee of the Board of Directors will have. God knows what would have happened if he never got his Diet Coke. What would have become of the fate of the organization?

I equipped myself with my own personal survival strategies. I tried very hard to concentrate on the larger picture, and to remind myself that there was a greater purpose to what I was doing. But the larger picture became incredibly abstract; and in the end, I could vaguely make out what was on the distant smoke screen. It felt alienating, and I couldn't connect the dots much longer between what I was doing, who it was I was really helping (who exactly was benefiting from my work), and the kinds of impact I really wanted to make. But most of the time, it just felt like I was trying to trick myself into a silent surrender. It didn't feel right anymore. My pay check eventually became the biggest reason behind why I was doing what I was doing.

Despite the daily frustrations and inferiority complexes I suffered, I was able to build a little piggy bank filled with nuggets of wisdom from these jobs. Besides, I was adamant about never straying too far from the kinds of work which kept me in the loop with issues I was ultimately passionate about. I never once had a "random" job. Each one made sense to what I had always claimed to want to do. And in fact still want to do.

The only difference now is that my brain is literally growing, and I am to use it as I wish. That, and I don't have to run around in frantic search of a Diet Coke in the middle of the city.

London, My Friend

A shot taken by my brother while he was out on a run in London

London has an odd, yet cherished place in my heart. I call it home sometimes. But I don't claim to be British; I've never identified myself as British through and through. A British passport holder: yes; but not an English woman. However, my eight years in the UK were fundamental "growing" years--it is after all, the country in which I became my own woman.

My nostalgia for the city of London grows ever more intense and overshadows any scrap of doubt over which city in the world I know best. And I'm not necessarily talking about the streets, museums and the brick and mortar of the city landscape; but it's character. If cities could be people, London would be my closest friend.

Living In Color Again

I've regained my colorful sensibilities. My appearance, a reflection of this rebirth. For the past few months I let myself slip into a monochromatic world of grays and constant overcast. This showed itself in my choice of drab attire--I cared very little for my appearance and defaulted to baggy tops and ill-fitting trousers. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing. I felt proud about not giving much of a rat's ass over my choice of clothing, feeling no need to parade around like a prized peacock.

But this pride was very misplaced. It came from somewhere negative: a place of remorse. I mistook a care for my appearance as egregious vanity, and replaced it with the far less attractive practice of self-debasement. I felt like I didn't deserve to look nice; nor did I really want to--given that I had eaten my way out of my "skinny" jeans. In laymen terms, I lost my self-confidence and found my appearance wanting in this regard. My beautiful fabrics and resplendent outfits were pushed to the very back of my wardrobe where they collected dust in clothing purgatory.

Now that I am slowly and steadily resurfacing, my lust for color has been revived. I'm feeling more like "me" again. This is not a reinvention, or some new phase of self-awareness. I've simply brought back to life what has only been dormant for a little while. I am reacquainted with myself again, and feel as if beams of light are bursting right through each of my fingertips. This must be what recharged batteries feel like.