My Garden

Last night I was skimming an Allure magazine at NIMS while the new Liz watched an episode of Scrubs (the one where Elliot gets engaged to the wrong man) when I came across an article about blogging. The writer said that blogs are a place for publicists to find fresh writing and new perspectives. She mentioned a blog about fashion and another that was very crude. Instead of feeling like a part of a blogging community I felt like I should just stop blogging altogether. My blog began to feel like the line for American Idol auditions, impersonal and hopeless- and like someone else owns my destiny (the same way I already feel about my painting). I don’t like the idea of my blog escaping this ethereal land of the unspoken. I don’t like this Allure writer telling me that if I’m lucky, I might be found. I feel like fashionable America is encroaching on my dreamworld, like they want to steal my oil or poach my furry friends. I need to keep something creative that is just for me… not that I can’t share, but that I don’t have to try to sell. I don’t want to have to dwell on my marketability. I need a place where I can experiment, take risks in a way that isn’t smart or savy. I want to be heard but I don’t want to do or say things just so that I can be heard more.

I’m being so redundant. Yes, we all want to be liked and I want that but I just don’t want to let my creative spirit stagnate because I’m a people-pleaser. In my art I am too much of a people pleaser– people don’t even like my art. LP doesn’t. He told me that. But I still feel like I need to push more. I feel too easy-like-Sunday-morning. I want to get out my grit but I can’t find it and when I do, I know it won’t be pretty enough for even me to look at for too long. I don’t want to live with the ugly when it comes out.

I’m cynical when it comes to my real anger or sadness. For example, I smoke when I’m feeling like an asshole if I’m not drunk. If I feel like an asshole or if I hear a really good song and I want to take it all the way in. Either way, when I smoke I’m grown-up and serious. In my paintings, cigarettes are like candy or toys. All I can paint are my masks. I don’t have anything real to offer. I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to get it out… but I know it won’t happen in the guise of some fucking magazine writer. Thanks dumb bitch.

As far as paintings go, I’m currently empty. I have nothing else to paint and I feel like I never will. It will probably be another 6 months before I use my brushes again. I have 14 pieces in my cabin now. Completely painted. Unstretched. Unframed. I’m not going to show them because I don’t think they’re a part of me anymore. I have nothing to say about them. I loved them once and now I resent them. I’ll sell or save them but I’m not going to wander in a sea of strangers that think they know a great deal about me for all the colors and narratives. They don’t know. You kind of know and when I can dig out my little turd of a soul you can know that and maybe I’ll paint about it and we can have a real show.


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