All About My Mother

I have only just recognized that tension is my watchword; tension between photography and paint, tension between the size of a physical canvas and a digital image, tension between a realistic palette and (what my current mentor Jules Jones referred to as) “radioactive” colors, and tension between plotting (intellect) and doing (instinct). 


Abe Avnisan’s got me thinking via Katherine Hayles, Shelley Jackson, and Mary Shelley about the tension of experiential and goal oriented art-making and art-consuming. Stitched together narratives, monsters, hideous progeny… We are talking electronic lit specifically but the larger takeaway for me is the assemblage (the tissue of citations) inherent in all human creation.


I have been reflecting a lot this week on how out of touch we are with our looming demise. I’m making panic paintings. Recording what’s precious. What can I do to change things? I have little time to Organize because I am raising children. But raising children into what? Is the vain attempt at capturing what’s sacred or loved ultimately a conservative act? Or maybe, being more compassionate: a conservationist act? Or is it just more yelling into the void? An attempt to fight back against mortality?


John Neff’s got me thinking via Michel Chion about acousmatization in film—a disembodied voice, essentially, on screen. “The voice is inscribed in the umbilical rupture”. We first make sound at birth. There is a web of sound in the womb created by our mothers. The theater emulates the womb. We live forever in the ever-growing disillusionment which begins at birth