Jan 3, 2025
“I push my paintbrush and conjure a new world while this one is slowly washed away…” — XTC
“God, what a mess! On the ladder of success. Well you take one step and miss the whole first rung.” – The Replacements
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So now I paint, and stitch, and make books. I don’t make pots anymore, or haven’t for so long it seems like that’s done. I call myself a former potter. I miss touching clay, and maybe a little nostalgic for firing the kiln and those attending rituals; but not the rest of it.
I’m thaaaaaat close to moving my wheel from it’s primary spot in the (outside) studio, where the southern light cascades in through the large glass door and window. Like mentally ready to do it, emotionally probably ready to do it, and waiting for physically (eg. my back) to be ready.
If I do — when I do — I’d love to make a DIY easel from scrap wood around the studio; like a real ‘shitty first drafts’ version, but with the intention of using it like I mean it.
I pieced together some curtains for my room, from my stash of painted and collaged fabrics; some of them hung outside on the front porch, weathering for most of a year, first, and now they show through the morning light, and filter out the lone porchlight from the front of the (former) clay studio, sitting out across the yard and driveway in its dark.
I still play guitar, and PlayStation. I’m a full-time job person, and a half-time Dad. I fricking adore oil paint, and had no idea that I would. Like my discovery of silk threads a year or two ago, oil paints remind me of porcelain: that special, reserved status — almost too elevated or precious or legendary to approach as a material. But then, when I get over (again & again) my inbred hesitation and only-partially-schooled-and-therefore-imposter-syndrome, and just go for it… whew. Amazing.
90% off lightly used art supplies from The Idea Store sure doesn’t hurt. Freedom to explore; the rationale to treat paint and threads as if they were virtually free, and the goal is to use them up, so as to earn the right to buy more; because they were almost free, and that, in this one small aspect of life, anyways, is a fantastic goal to aspire to.
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What is it, to wake up and after first coffee want to do all the things, all at once?
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I’m not sure if I believe that I made contact with that HP, then, and that its still accessible to me; but having the practically unwaivering desire to make things any time I can, as much as I can, is the sort of proof point I’d be looking for, if I were to make a systematic attempt at sorting that out. I don’t think I’m going to.
And what of that? Is it a plateau or a dead end? Or something in between — geez, maybe just an ongoing path, that sort of refreshes itself, yard by yard or brick by brick, as I move down it. Up it. Hmm.
“Uhmmm… having your best friend’s ashes in a ziplock right next to where I charge my AirPods is a little — uhm…”
“Yeah, I understand, honey. I’ll take care of that.”
moves baggie and pot we made together to a different tabletop in the other room; good intentions.
So.
In (much) more prosaic matters, I just got the Wemo “smart plug” that I purchased during pandemic re-situated (factory reset required, duh) into a useable, useful place, and holy shit, the ease of being able to ask the robot to just turn on a damn light in the former Showroom, without walking in in the dark, fumbling around for a twist switch that lost it’s knob around the time baby Maggie was born.
progress
And wow does that take me back.
That’s a weird place to stop, and that’s what Imma do. Stopping and always restarting; it’s all the same writing; just different eddies on different days.
january 2o25 :: week 2
something is happening for me with this largest canvas, the biggest one I’ve begun so far; and in particular because it’s hung up beside another one, which is about the second largest yet. The total space of the two combined is, say, six feet wide by almost four feet high, with the top edge just at about the top of my head. When I get in to paint on those —especially when I get in close, like I was the other day with a very small brush (1/4” or so), it’s like I step into the painting, instead of merely up to it.
I saw a Reel the other day where someone — artist or critic, I don’t know — said the purpose of art is not to depict this world, but other worlds. If my interior world of thoughts, feelings, memory traces, momentary impulses, etc qualifies as a “world” (and, if it doesn’t, why would I care? I mean — in that case, what are we even doing here?); if that’s so, then I really like that distinction. Like photography and digital art are fully sufficient at capturing, portraying, mimicking what can be seen with the eyes; especially with the holy grail/unholy scourge of AI-based tools just invented, and which will only get bigger/better/badder/faster/more ubiquitous from here on into forever. Paint, by contrast, seems so well suited to putting those internal, essentially non-visual things into visual, physical form. Or at least the process of trying to do that seems super well suited to it; and, as I’m discovering on a near-daily basis lately, especially with oil paint. Holy moly; it’s the porcelain of painting, for sure.
Jan 30 ’25
Seth Godin is full of shit. (Sorry, Carter!) A critique of Sgt. Pepper’s based on it’s lack of “efficient” production (eg. time spent in the recording studio) is so blatantly missing the point I practically screamed in a department meeting.
And I don’t think he knows the first thing about art. Or is conflating it with commercial design, shovelware, and various other products of the capitalist consumption hierarchy. No thank you.
There was never any such thing as ‘good enough for spec’ for me with pots — that’s a long way from Towards A Standard — and god help me if that’s not even more true for paintings. They’re done when they’re done, with literally no accounting for time, attention, labor, or materials cost. NONE. I couldn’t do it — I am unwilling to even try to do it — any other way.
Godin’s full of shit in ways that are similar to how Malcolm Gladwell’s full of shit, with the difference that Gladwell is very well intentioned and deeply engaged in trying to educate to improve the state of the world; Godin is all about Godin.
Anselm Kieffer, on the other hand, is very much not full of shit. That dude is not playing around. I mean he is, but on an epic scale and with grand topics. Look up that doc if you haven’t; holy fuck.
Anyways. Hi again, and thanks for reading (or skimming!) again. This is fun.
–Scott
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