two-faced

(Oct. 16, 2018)

"hey beau, I’m writing this on my birthday. when i woke up today we argued a lot over oatmeal. I feel like you were unreasonable about every single thing except the bananas ………"

 i’ve borne a lot of things, she’s definitely the best. “Beauquet” 48x60

i’ve borne a lot of things, she’s definitely the best. “Beauquet” 48x60

Last time I was here I wrote about my mental health and also a bunch of complaints. 

so then i got self conscious that all anyone hears from me is my negativity.

guess what, maybe you do.
When I write here I have some specific intentions and parameters. oh, and this conduit. 

Intention: tell the truth, as hard and humbling as that is. 

Parameter: inside my painting process, exterior of that for context as needed. 

Conduit: I mean, we’re here, right, on the interwebs?

I write solely about my experiences as a painter, what I bring in to the studio, physically and mentally. I process in there. That’s my private space. I used the word private here and you might be thinking, “this isn’t private, i’m reading this and i’m reading it out loud to all my 5,000 friends because they have nothing better to do than read a blog from some random obscure painter. we are at a bar and your blog is boring the shit out of us”. 

touché.

My studio space is private because you aren’t in there with me. you aren’t in my brain either, so that still falls under the umbrella of private. This blog is just a non-private portal to that private space; it’s dark and boring and tedious in there. you’re getting the private highlights; tell all of those friends.

 I paint in my underwear. unless it’s too cold. that’s the best i can offer for your bar talk. i’m a married woman. i’m a mom. oh maaannnnn, i wish i was at the bar with you, there was this one time……..

I paint in my underwear. unless it’s too cold. that’s the best i can offer for your bar talk. i’m a married woman. i’m a mom. oh maaannnnn, i wish i was at the bar with you, there was this one time……..

I do bring my personal life into it sometimes, but the details are specifically pinpointed. I mention relative details and the spiral they follow into my work. This does not make up my whole. 

painting is a whole in my life, made up of all the details I filter into that world. On the distal end of that paintbrush is truly me, but I also have an entire life on the other end of that paintbrush. So here, on this blog, i am on the brushy side, and you see and hear all the bits. 

but If you were to travel up the other side of my arm, away from the brush handle, into my daily life, there is also my life. 

both are whole:

distal anterior interior (brush tip world): where i paint

proximal anterior inferior (brush handle world): where i live

between those two, it’s just me, sliding scale: parameter.. . . . . .. . . ..and that’s where I start writing……...

 graceful, right?

graceful, right?

I love to write as long as its not a research paper, because I fucking hate those. I love to write as long as its when I feel like it and its not a research paper, because I fucking hate those. I love to write if I don’t have to, especially if its a fucking research paper because I hate those.

every time I post on le blog i have written and edited and written and edited and even after i press “publish” i cringe deep, cusssss.

i mean c’mon, i’ve probably offended/alienated/embarrassed/annoyed/bored/triggered/provoked you at some point.

My skin isn’t thick enough to ignore this, but it’s thin enough to learn from it.

I am repercussssssing through all aforementioned seven the majority of the week, so what I am really trying to do here is just be honest: 

with myself (hell, that’s hard) and the world (yikes). 

scary

vulnerable

risky

call a trusted friend:

360-555-4444. . . . .. . . . .. . . .. hi mom, you gotta minute?

I often wonder what my mom was like at my age. i could ask her….. but what about when she can’t remember…..what about when she’s not here to remember…..what if she doesn't want to talk about it?

I don’t presume that my daughter, Beau, will give a shit about my experience. 

But I definitely presume that she will want to explore her own experience. she might have questions. will she ask me? will i remember? what if i don’t want to talk about it? what if i’m not here?

So I have this platform: conduit. 

And a context: intention.

It’s one-sided, with some facets: parameter

Painting has changed for me over the years.

i had a lot to say for a lot of years all the time.

My feelings were present and heavy and loud: Immediacy, Urgency, Frequency, Passion, Pace, Transparency …….

I have less to say anymore. at least out loud, right now, oh my god do i even feel anything at all !?

yes, i feel too much, too deeply, more than I can handle.

so i paint about it. 

the thing I like to do with my body the most is to paint.

i just wanna do it more than anything else that i wake up to.

I guess I should be saying that my favorite thing to do is hang out with my kid, my husband, my family.

sorry. 

Josh and Beau are my favorite people. they are my importance, my favorite experience. that’s the proximal end of the paintbrush, closest to my heart. They live in there and pump all kinds of shit crazy stories of joy and pain down into the distal end of those bristles that I process and filter and stroke out onto canvas and paper with a fucking fervor because that’s my favorite thing to do and i wish i could do it all day long till all of us are dead and replaced by all of those behind us, no beats skipped.

but when it comes to moving my body, even in tiny increments, painting rules.

 paint. meditate, fate, date-night, procrastinate, narrate, patience, forgiveness, humility, laughter, hate. ruminate. late all the time.

paint. meditate, fate, date-night, procrastinate, narrate, patience, forgiveness, humility, laughter, hate. ruminate. late all the time.

so, when you read my blog, (every single 5,000 (okay, 5) of you) i’m so sorry if you feel like i’m a real bummer.

i really am though, that’s the bummer of it. 

We all have that distal end though. and right above it, a border that extends up into our closer bones, deep into our hearts. what’s up in there?

love on that,

g