This question reminds of one that plagued me at art school, "Why Chuck Close?" Why was I reproducing his 1968 self portrait image? I wrote an 80-page thesis about the possible whys but never really got to a clear because. So I started to write a ficto-memoir that might at least explore the question. I've written one chapter and bits of two more. I'm going to Berlin to work on the book. Or, at least, that's one reason.
When I was pushing to finish my thesis in London, Ontario -- a small city that, to me, was more like a suburb dropped into the middle of a stinky and bible-thumping cow patch (I discovered all the brown people were doctors hiding out in the hospitals only after I started to date one. Otherwise, sea of blonde) -- I read a number of articles about Berlin, about how it was an amazing cultural centre but without a snotty arty attitude, and I just had this feeling that I needed to go. And not really even for the art part.
My mother's parents were from Berlin. From the best version of Berlin: the 1920's and 30's Cabaret Berlin. More than a city, their Berlin was a cutting-edge culture in which my grandparents could sleep together before marriage, where my great grandmother held salons for poets, philosophers and other thinkers, where my grandfather studied architecture at the Bauhaus while my grandmother studied medicine, where my great uncle could be flagrantly gay and where my great grandfather lived a life that lead to syphilis, a disease, in his case, of which I'm strangely proud.
Of course, I knew that would not be the Berlin I would find when I went. When I finally got the opportunity to go last April (my dear friend Abi was there while her partner was on sabbatical), I took it, and what I did find was a feeling, one of coming home. Clichéd as that may be, it also happens be the truth. One day into my week-long trip I already knew I had to come back.
In the intervening five months, a great deal has happened. One of which was my decision to rent an apartment in Toronto from Oct until next April. A week before I did that, I thought Berlin was my final destination. It still could be. Which is what I'm going to find out.
While there, I plan to do a few things. Work on my book. Check out the art scene. Spend quality alone time running and reading and drinking milch kaffé. Counting my blessings because who is lucky enough to go to Berlin twice in one year????
How did I get to be this lucky? Marc Chagall. And my grandparents. At some point in their post-war lives, they started to modestly collect numbered and signed artist prints. They had a couple of Miros, a Picasso and a Chagall. When they died, I inherited the Chagall. I had it re-matted and reframed and then I lived with it for a few years before I realized that, actually, I did not really like it that much. Although I have a soft spot for Chagall the man (he loved his wife so much he painted dreamy scenes in which they floated in their wedding garb over their lost cities), I seemed to have outgrown his pretty pastel palette and sweet images. I was lying in my bed in Montreal last year looking at the print when it came to me: I could sell it and travel! I think Chagall would approve. I even think my grandfather would approve!
When I think of how Chagall has affected my life in this way, I feel close to him. Chagall. Close. And now I'm thinking of Chuck Close. Why? Here's a possible response:
In the early '60s, Ed Ruscha made a painting of the 20th Century Fox logo (a.k.a Large Trademark with Eight Spotlights). I love that painting for many reasons, not the least of which is that it provides a kind of answer to the Chuck Close question. To me, Chuck Close is most definitely a 20th century fox.
Stay tuned for more. I will be posting here regularly, and when I can figure out how to link this to my flickr page, you'll get images, too!
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Online Community and My Not-So-Secret Love of Techies
Community -- building one, shaping one, educating one, and sharing one -- is, of course, the raison d'etre for most blogs. I have always thought of myself as social in the extreme, a community member par excellence, simply because I could have filled my calendar 24/7 with coffee and dinner dates. And I'm talking about friends here, not acquaintances. I have those, too. As you might imagine, it was hard to get work done.
But I recently had to ask myself: is that really what community is -- all the people I know? Me thinks not. My new understanding, thanks to my burgeoning interest in web communities, and thanks to W, my recent Web guru, I can see that a community is a group of people who come together around a shared something -- ideas, purposes, passions, etc. I suppose one could argue, based on this definition, that I do belong to a bunch of different communities, such as friends who love eating, friends who love gossiping, friends who love books and movies, friends who like knowing other people who are just like them, or friends who like knowing other people who are not like them at all. These communities, however, really only exist as groups in my mind; The "members" would not necessarily see themselves as part of a specific community that, for instance, loves food because we are not a gourmet dinner club, per se. There is no mandate or stated purpose or expressed shared interest for the get together. We just like each other. And we like food. Did I mention food?
A few communities I have never built, or have avoided joining, are the ones formed around art and wage work. I avoid art communities for a number of reasons, most of which boil down to my own insecurities. I have this critique of the art community (as if there were one monolithic group out there) that the art community is not very NICE. That kind of critique, shamefully, says more about me than about it. Like, hello, am I five?! I make these gross oversimplifications and quick judgments because I don't feel I belong. And I don't feel I belong because I don't feel good enough to belong. And the reasons for that are for my therapist to know and not for me to expound here. Suffice it to say, I distance myself, tar the community, and stand sulking on the sidelines wishing I had more courage to jump into the fray. As for work communities, whenever I've had interesting jobs, such as working for Mozilla Mark and CSI Tonya (in the old days of Web Networks and rabble.ca), I gained entry into their world of friends and colleagues (usually one and the same) and met the most amazing folks -- fired-up, engaged, purposeful, funny, insightful people I placed on pedestals because they were following their blisses, and I was too scared to follow mine. But, instead of joining their ranks, I decided, once again, I was not up to scratch, and I bowed out.
In a nutshell, that's how it works for me: either I feel superior (nicer) or inferior (dumber), and either one inevitably leads to my withdrawal. Dont' get me wrong, I am still social; I enjoy the dinner parties and I participate in conversation enthusiastically, asking questions probing enough that, as Tonya says, I could give Oprah a run for her money, but I shy away from actually joining the group for fear that I have nothing to offer in return. Always the interviewer, I keep myself ignorant so that I don't have to actually contribute and expose my ignorance. It's a vicious cycle. And it's one I hope to break.
When I turned 40, my Facebook status update declared this: There is no giving up after 40. With that promise trumpeted to my 123 Facebook friends, I felt I had made a marriage-like public commitment which I was on the hook to honour.
So, here I am. I'm not sure yet what community I'm building here with this blog, or even if I'm building one. But I am following a few other online communities so that I can at least find out what's up out there. I have to say, what I love about the online communities is being able to follow the conversation and jump in when I feel safe, and being an observer when I need to be. I did publish a query on the Mozilla site asking about their beta test of Ubiquitous yesterday, which I wanted to help test, but when I downloaded it, I got a message telling me it was not compatible with my Mac. Not compatible. My worst fear. But since I'm no longer giving up, I sent a query to the Ubiquitous site users asking if that was really the case, if I am really incompatible.
As a girl who finds techies excessively sexy, just posting a query to this community was exhilarating (imagine, a whole community of techies! Do they have their own online dating site????). Still, what if someone replies? Does that mean I've been acknowledged as having a legitimate question? Is THIS the community I secretly want to belong to even though I have not one techie bone in my body? Maybe I could get a job as their interpreter? Or matchmaker? Which reminds me, I need to go check the site and see if I got a reply. I blush to think of the possibilities . . .
But I recently had to ask myself: is that really what community is -- all the people I know? Me thinks not. My new understanding, thanks to my burgeoning interest in web communities, and thanks to W, my recent Web guru, I can see that a community is a group of people who come together around a shared something -- ideas, purposes, passions, etc. I suppose one could argue, based on this definition, that I do belong to a bunch of different communities, such as friends who love eating, friends who love gossiping, friends who love books and movies, friends who like knowing other people who are just like them, or friends who like knowing other people who are not like them at all. These communities, however, really only exist as groups in my mind; The "members" would not necessarily see themselves as part of a specific community that, for instance, loves food because we are not a gourmet dinner club, per se. There is no mandate or stated purpose or expressed shared interest for the get together. We just like each other. And we like food. Did I mention food?
A few communities I have never built, or have avoided joining, are the ones formed around art and wage work. I avoid art communities for a number of reasons, most of which boil down to my own insecurities. I have this critique of the art community (as if there were one monolithic group out there) that the art community is not very NICE. That kind of critique, shamefully, says more about me than about it. Like, hello, am I five?! I make these gross oversimplifications and quick judgments because I don't feel I belong. And I don't feel I belong because I don't feel good enough to belong. And the reasons for that are for my therapist to know and not for me to expound here. Suffice it to say, I distance myself, tar the community, and stand sulking on the sidelines wishing I had more courage to jump into the fray. As for work communities, whenever I've had interesting jobs, such as working for Mozilla Mark and CSI Tonya (in the old days of Web Networks and rabble.ca), I gained entry into their world of friends and colleagues (usually one and the same) and met the most amazing folks -- fired-up, engaged, purposeful, funny, insightful people I placed on pedestals because they were following their blisses, and I was too scared to follow mine. But, instead of joining their ranks, I decided, once again, I was not up to scratch, and I bowed out.
In a nutshell, that's how it works for me: either I feel superior (nicer) or inferior (dumber), and either one inevitably leads to my withdrawal. Dont' get me wrong, I am still social; I enjoy the dinner parties and I participate in conversation enthusiastically, asking questions probing enough that, as Tonya says, I could give Oprah a run for her money, but I shy away from actually joining the group for fear that I have nothing to offer in return. Always the interviewer, I keep myself ignorant so that I don't have to actually contribute and expose my ignorance. It's a vicious cycle. And it's one I hope to break.
When I turned 40, my Facebook status update declared this: There is no giving up after 40. With that promise trumpeted to my 123 Facebook friends, I felt I had made a marriage-like public commitment which I was on the hook to honour.
So, here I am. I'm not sure yet what community I'm building here with this blog, or even if I'm building one. But I am following a few other online communities so that I can at least find out what's up out there. I have to say, what I love about the online communities is being able to follow the conversation and jump in when I feel safe, and being an observer when I need to be. I did publish a query on the Mozilla site asking about their beta test of Ubiquitous yesterday, which I wanted to help test, but when I downloaded it, I got a message telling me it was not compatible with my Mac. Not compatible. My worst fear. But since I'm no longer giving up, I sent a query to the Ubiquitous site users asking if that was really the case, if I am really incompatible.
As a girl who finds techies excessively sexy, just posting a query to this community was exhilarating (imagine, a whole community of techies! Do they have their own online dating site????). Still, what if someone replies? Does that mean I've been acknowledged as having a legitimate question? Is THIS the community I secretly want to belong to even though I have not one techie bone in my body? Maybe I could get a job as their interpreter? Or matchmaker? Which reminds me, I need to go check the site and see if I got a reply. I blush to think of the possibilities . . .
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Neophyte Philes
I am on a self-edumacation path. Since I spend so much time on e-mail and trolling sites, albeit inefficiently, I decided to take the advice of one hellova geek and get myself organized: bookmarked and blogified.
I spent a day last week setting myself up on a bunch of sites: Stumbleupon, Del.icio.us, FriendFeed, Twitter and then I built this blog, which I am now trying to reconfigure so that I can list my posts under discrete topics for easier access for my legions of fans.
Why am I doing this? Because I'm 40 and I don't want to get left behind. Because I love reading and writing on the Internet (which I hear is on computers now). Because I want to belong to communities of community builders since the ones I know in real life, i.e. Mozilla Mark and CSI Tonya, rock my world regularly. I want to become open Liz inside open everything.
So, bear with me while I experiment. I have the zeal of the newly converted, which is annoying if you've been doing this stuff for a while and you're all like, "um, Liz, I've been doing this stuff for a while, so, yeah, welcome to my world and all that, but could you please dial it back a little and ping me when you're ready to roll for real?"
OK, I have to say it before I sign off. If you are like me: 40 with no clue about any of the sites I mentioned above and the words Social Media make you think of a bunch of radio, television and print journalists getting together for a bender, then follow me and I'll show you what what it means on the Web, and I'll never think your questions are dumb. I volunteer for the guinea pig role and will gladly look stupid on your behalf since I'm already doing it on my own!
First: join FriendFeed. Then find me: LizzyPea. Then look for Social Media. Then, let's talk and play!
I spent a day last week setting myself up on a bunch of sites: Stumbleupon, Del.icio.us, FriendFeed, Twitter and then I built this blog, which I am now trying to reconfigure so that I can list my posts under discrete topics for easier access for my legions of fans.
Why am I doing this? Because I'm 40 and I don't want to get left behind. Because I love reading and writing on the Internet (which I hear is on computers now). Because I want to belong to communities of community builders since the ones I know in real life, i.e. Mozilla Mark and CSI Tonya, rock my world regularly. I want to become open Liz inside open everything.
So, bear with me while I experiment. I have the zeal of the newly converted, which is annoying if you've been doing this stuff for a while and you're all like, "um, Liz, I've been doing this stuff for a while, so, yeah, welcome to my world and all that, but could you please dial it back a little and ping me when you're ready to roll for real?"
OK, I have to say it before I sign off. If you are like me: 40 with no clue about any of the sites I mentioned above and the words Social Media make you think of a bunch of radio, television and print journalists getting together for a bender, then follow me and I'll show you what what it means on the Web, and I'll never think your questions are dumb. I volunteer for the guinea pig role and will gladly look stupid on your behalf since I'm already doing it on my own!
First: join FriendFeed. Then find me: LizzyPea. Then look for Social Media. Then, let's talk and play!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Starting over new . . . again
There's nothing like reinventing yourself. At least, there's nothing like the myth of it. I have created a number of these opportunities for myself by moving to new cities in response to specific crises at specific times. I have also been handed the "opportunity" for reinvention via swift and painful sea changes that came in the from of break-ups (two) and apartment fires (one).
The act of changing locations seems to set in motion a kind of emotional alchemical process that transforms stinky turds into shiny fetish objects. Example: I moved to Montreal after grad school because I wanted an interesting city in which I could quietly fail as an artist while eating really good food and drinking exceptional coffee in buzzy, happening cafés. But what really happened was that I got lonely because I knew no one. So, I registered on an online dating site and proceeded to go on dates with strangers. The men I met, however, all very nice indeed, did not fill the bill nor the void. So, instead of continuing to meet them, I decided to paint them instead. I focused on the images of men who did not attract me. Through the painting process, I somehow grew to love their faces. I added pink to wan skin and some loving pounds to gaunt cheeks. This process made me think of my favourite passage in The Little Prince when our hero becomes disillusioned because he encounters a planet with many, many roses, and realizes his rose is not only not the only rose, but not even the most beautiful rose in the universe. Crestfallen . . . devastated, even . . . he eventually recovers his love for her when he realizes that the love he feels is not about her beauty (and certainly not about her personality, which is petulant and demanding). He loves her because he has cared for her. Love happens through devotion which happens through time. As beauty fades, love grows. Real love does.
My point? The myth of reinvention, for me anyway, has always included this idea that I might be able to go away somewhere and quietly and anonymously improve myself, returning to the scene of my friends and colleagues with a loud TA DA! Behold the new Liz: graceful, better informed, fit and cut and hot, not to mention a painter with gallery representation and a few great bodies of work behind her, and lots of media attention -- a woman worthy of being loved.
What did I miss? That I was already worthy and lovable as I was: broken from heartbreak, addled with fear of failure (aka success), and as flawed and fragile as every other human being on the planet. Still, it took my apartment fire, followed by a failed relationship with my childhood sweetheart, a move into my father's home and turning 40 with none of the trappings of happy life I thought I'd have -- notably a loving partner and a family -- to wake me up to life's great reality: I am it. I am my own reality. And it is great because it is what is happening right now. It can't be anything else. So it may as well be something worth loving.
I can't say that I am able to maintain this crane-shot view, the one that usually puts my painting "failure" and relationship "failure" into perspective. No one gets to define these for me. I am my own definition as I live each one, making it up as I go.
Why a blog? Because I write about zillion e-mails every day, so I may as well be putting that energy into polishing my heart's thoughts, hopefully creating a surface shiny enough to reflect me back to myself. I know it will ease the anxiety and possibly mitigate the fear. And I know that I will have blissful moments in which might be able to say, "There you are, Liz. Wow! You really are beautiful!"
The act of changing locations seems to set in motion a kind of emotional alchemical process that transforms stinky turds into shiny fetish objects. Example: I moved to Montreal after grad school because I wanted an interesting city in which I could quietly fail as an artist while eating really good food and drinking exceptional coffee in buzzy, happening cafés. But what really happened was that I got lonely because I knew no one. So, I registered on an online dating site and proceeded to go on dates with strangers. The men I met, however, all very nice indeed, did not fill the bill nor the void. So, instead of continuing to meet them, I decided to paint them instead. I focused on the images of men who did not attract me. Through the painting process, I somehow grew to love their faces. I added pink to wan skin and some loving pounds to gaunt cheeks. This process made me think of my favourite passage in The Little Prince when our hero becomes disillusioned because he encounters a planet with many, many roses, and realizes his rose is not only not the only rose, but not even the most beautiful rose in the universe. Crestfallen . . . devastated, even . . . he eventually recovers his love for her when he realizes that the love he feels is not about her beauty (and certainly not about her personality, which is petulant and demanding). He loves her because he has cared for her. Love happens through devotion which happens through time. As beauty fades, love grows. Real love does.
My point? The myth of reinvention, for me anyway, has always included this idea that I might be able to go away somewhere and quietly and anonymously improve myself, returning to the scene of my friends and colleagues with a loud TA DA! Behold the new Liz: graceful, better informed, fit and cut and hot, not to mention a painter with gallery representation and a few great bodies of work behind her, and lots of media attention -- a woman worthy of being loved.
What did I miss? That I was already worthy and lovable as I was: broken from heartbreak, addled with fear of failure (aka success), and as flawed and fragile as every other human being on the planet. Still, it took my apartment fire, followed by a failed relationship with my childhood sweetheart, a move into my father's home and turning 40 with none of the trappings of happy life I thought I'd have -- notably a loving partner and a family -- to wake me up to life's great reality: I am it. I am my own reality. And it is great because it is what is happening right now. It can't be anything else. So it may as well be something worth loving.
I can't say that I am able to maintain this crane-shot view, the one that usually puts my painting "failure" and relationship "failure" into perspective. No one gets to define these for me. I am my own definition as I live each one, making it up as I go.
Why a blog? Because I write about zillion e-mails every day, so I may as well be putting that energy into polishing my heart's thoughts, hopefully creating a surface shiny enough to reflect me back to myself. I know it will ease the anxiety and possibly mitigate the fear. And I know that I will have blissful moments in which might be able to say, "There you are, Liz. Wow! You really are beautiful!"
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