--Index--
One night at my parents' place, I cleaned my ears with two cotton swabs right before going to bed. The swabs
became all yellow from the ear wax. I placed them on the nightstand, and the next morning, I put them into
the pocket of my pyjama pants in order to throw them away.
Yesterday, I pulled out my pyjamas from the washing machine. I had forgotten to throw the cotton swabs away.
The washing machine had cleaned them thoroughly, they looked great.
blabla bla bla.. bla bla. bla bla, but hey, bla bla blablabla? Grz...
My take on X:My take on everything right now: X
(My take on everthing right now: cringe. My take on drawing little drawings with everything that's going on atm: cringe. Cringe having become my take on
things that used to be fun because of everything that's going on atm: apparently also cringe.)
Trying to formulate a differenciated take, but I don't want to scare rundgang people away. Welcome!
Okay and then this mood of being driven by outer forces, The Bureaucratic Forces, and you just need to go through all this shit, writing contracts and
reading them (cringe), working money-job, applying for shit, finishing this, finishing that, throwing away all your crap... (cringe)
Sometimes I am really excited to leave. Sometimes I am sad about the reasons why. Sometimes I wanna kill That Fucker. (just kidding :p) Right now I feel like a little
robot that is here to fulfill bureaucratic tasks. And I have three arms. Left, right, cola. I never spill it though. I am careful. Careful and content and really done for
today.
Nora S and Christiano R
A coordinate system with cool-axis, cringe-axis and whatever-axis. YL 100-100-100.
Weekend wrap-up: hundreds of thousands of euros, but unfortunately, that's not quite enough to be happy. Cold weather, cold feet, cold ears. Small ears and normal ears and small thumbs. Brachydactyly Type D. Adding people to the list. Adding friends, but I don't have a list for that. Super many cool people with cool scarfs. X Factor with Jonathan Frakes. A glass bottle on a head. Lære dansk. Thank you for yesterday. Thank you for the past 1,5 years. Diploma plans. Future plans. Not many plans.
I deactivated my Instagram account and it was dope. (Apparently deactivating doesn't count, but 100% whatever). I feared being lonely and disconnected but actually, I think I have'nt been more connected with others and happy with being present for a very, very long time. I read a fucking book. I don't know if I can hold this up. But so far I haven't missed much. Except for David Lynch's death. Not knowing much of his work, he seemed to me like the kind of person that could have been dead for a long time already, but somehow they never really die anyway and there will just be more and more Lynch movies coming until the end of time. But yeah. 60% whatever rn.
In bed with a flu or so since Monday. I have been doing nothing else than watching Supernatural.
Also this guy said I would get more ach blablabla i am getting exhausted over this
While I am working on this - I correct, while I am trying to find a reasonable access to any work-like action - my mind wanders all the way to L., where we sit on this bench in the dark and watch a video - I correct, you try to watch something, and I don't care about it. All I see is your beautiful face and your neck, and I take your hand, and I touch your face, and I smell your neck and I kiss it, and I glide my hand down your body, and I can feel your x pushing against your x, We can't do that here, but you're hard anyway, so you drag me to the toilet, and you push me down on my knees, and you grab my neck, and I lose my head, and I do it like you want it for the very last time.
So no, actually, I am not working on this or that. All I did for the past 7348 hours was think about that grip of yours - or, I correct, I've been doing anything but this and that for the past 7348 hours.
While I am writing this, I can feel time running through my fingers, time that could be used to produce a crazy bronze, a weird drawing that could be framed or sold, an insane sculpture that would make people in cool jackets say What the fuck. Yet still I lie here in my bed, writing this, not doing that, and worst of all: my head is neither here nor there, it is in L. constantly, on the toilet, hip-height, safely kept in place by your tight grip.
While I am writing this, I am in the backroom, sorting out my working material. No, I am actually in the backroom of my old apartment in L., still sensing the energy you left when you moved away. While I am writing this and sorting out my stuff in the backroom, I think about the black-ink-traces you left all over my body, mapping you, preserving you inside my body like a second skin.
While I am writing this, I am somewhere else already with nothing more than a suitcase and a bicycle.
While I am writing this, I am scratching my left Oberschenkel, and I see dry skin coming off, white dandruff, protecting the black-ink layer underneath, a map of yours, like a second skin, mapping you, black ink preserving you inside me until my skin falls off for good.
Alternatively:
While I am writing this, I am scratching my left Oberschenkel, white dandruff coming off,
third skin removed,
second skin carefully preserving the map made of black ink you injected into it,
first skin is keeping it all together...
Packing List D.
- Favourite clothes
- Important documents
- Devices and cables
- Tattoo stuff
- Care products
- Medicine (pill, ibuprofen, x)
- Douglas
- Bike
- Danish books
- Wawwi
- Towels&sheets&bedding
- Sportswear
- Pencil case and notebooks
- Material?
Went back to writing in my journal a little. Might not archive this for some time. I'm happy to step a bit away from this blogging format. Still don't know what is the right thing to do right now, but I guess that will change.
N. said that it's sometimes touching to find a small note someone has left in a moving box between all their carefully sorted materials. Because within this whole big meaninglessness we seem to live in, someone still took the strength to make something, and this something can always only be unique in this time, made by this person, can only ever be unique.
N. also said that sometimes you do this one thing, and then you're left with the feeling that you already did that before, and what does that mean, doing the same things over and over again, maybe that means that this thing you're doing, that is truly what you are in that moment, that is what you are as an artist.
I don't know how to find answers on what to do. I recently experienced jealousy to be a big motivation, but I don't aspire to make this a central aspect of my production.
In a half-asleep state in the train, I can sense that the A. culture is finally beginning to thin out. A female (read) conductor with a C. dialect, short purple hair and a sparkling blue stone on her nose. Not a single beige MK bag in sight. How I missed this!
Later: a hard stop, the train comes to a stand. Police, fire department, emergency doctors, but none of them seem to be in a rush. Full closure, no trains pass in any direction. After two hours comes the final announcement: we are going to drive 200 meters forward and then the front of the train will be cleaned; after that, we can continue our way.
In the plane now, I get woken up by a random drunk guy in his 50s trying to tuck me in with my blanket. WTF?
X is soooo beautiful wtf. I walked around with a big smile all day. Cola is expensive here, bought a few bottles for 4$ each, But what's 4$ anyway, right. M. says the city is surprisingly quiet, and the taxi driver says so too. We saw sea lions and we ate nice Pad Thai and we went to MoMA. I saw AM and CT and MR (so x) and M. said some funny stuff about some artworks. I like hearing her straightforward, humbling opinion, and I like that she is opening up to my world. We went to a rooftop bar and had a view over the whole city. It's so sad that we have to leave so soon already; I could stay here so much longer than this. I also slept 12 hours tonight which is crazy for me. Now it's 9pm and I am really tired. I hope that I'll have some really nice x when I move to X.
Very cute&sexy dream about X and vegan yoghurt cake and XXXXXXXX... -> now very h. (h. stands for horny in this case)
P. S. I think I am finally done with xyz. Last c. was totally not as bad as expected (actually a bit disillusioning and thus ironically funny), and now I feel like I start really not to care anymore. I'm SO ready to fuck off now!!!
It is hard coming to a new place. Excitement has settled, now I am just pissed about everything that is not
working out. Maybe not the smartest idea to constantly move where things are getting more and more expensive when
all you wanna do is make art. Maybe smart though to take every opportunity to learn more about life and art and other
people if you wanna make good art. I am happy to be far away from X. though, and I will try not to take up so
many conversations about
Also P. said that there's always a reason to be sad, but the key is not to have anything or anyone spoil my fun.
Books I wanna read again:
- Writings by AM
- Alphabetical Diaries by SH
- (x...
I have always been living two lives. One here and one there. When I think about my life as a child, not too
many memories come up. What I remember though is this hint
towards a second life, a life that I never actually lived, but that has nontheless followed me every day.
Fantasy life.
I've been trying to cultivate real life recently. I think I have become good at it. My other life is not
so present anymore, only when I walk through the streets listening to music, or when I lie in bed at night; but there's not much
space for fantasies in my bed atm, and I just got a bike, so no more walking everywhere.
Somewhere between real life and fantasy life must be memory. Or maybe memory covers them both, like a wet, shimmery
layer of slime. Memory is such a weird thing. An absurdly big pile of non-objects, growing every day, yet most of it stays buried forever, never tangible, never archivable.
I am also trying to cultivate memory, but it is so hard to sit down and remember, so sad and
painful, or rather so overwhelmingly beautiful. I have this urge to reproduce memory, I am looking for ways, but memory
cannot be reproduced in perfection. Only memory is perfect, not the reproduction of it. Only the idea is perfect,
not the reproduction of it. (AM Writings)
A few days ago, S. said If you feel like you might be too close to someone else's work, you probably are. Have been thinking about this. This and that, that time
in L. and everything that happened there. Everything I learned from it and everything it made me become. I am happy about who I have become. It is just so tempting to close my eyes
and dive into all these moments (cigarette after cigarette in front of the tilted kitchen window. It couldn't be opened because it was blocked by the kitchen sink.)
I am happy to be someone else now, more like myself, happier, more precise. But these lonely evenings in the apartment, this feeling of real emancipation...
- Giant pile of cake mass, painted black, shiny.
More cake mass, no oven to bake cake mass, imagine warm, fresh cake mass, ready to be formed, but you have to be fast, it starts crumbling already...
So much l. building up in my body. I just need someone to pass it on to. I have a placeholder as usual, but X. is basically a stranger to me. A mystic figure in r. life, a hot, salty-tasting fucker in f. life.
I'm asking Why do we ask the same questions over and over again without ever finding an answer to them and you say (something like) The whole point is making something
that communicates without words, works in a different sphere... or whatever, and I think Yeah, that sounds reasonable, and now I am sitting in my bed, (tired), writing about it, using
WORDS.
And also this thing again about when it will ever be enough, but apparently no one really gets it here...
Like I could make a million drawings and you could look at a million drawings but aren't we just gonna go INSANE. And yes, you can always quit, but withdrawing from the dilemma
does not fix it, quitting is not the answer
Statens Kunstfond granted me a huge monthly payment for the next three years. The only two things they asked for in exchange were a nude picture and my firstborn, wich comes in handy because I basically came here to get impregnated.
X.X. almost got beaten to death by a group of schoolgirls in Düsseldorf. Now he has Takumi-Verbot.
Enough with all the cynicism. I smoked a Bubatz and I am going to work hard for my new cardboard-dream.
P.S. M. reminded me to let things be what they are. Imitation he said, and I forgot what came next, but it was probably important...
Mommy's favourite (my favourite)
I wrote this absurdly long text about someones' dads' feet that I couldn't finish in the past month; I think I wanna let it go.
Something happened, and that something feels really good and it melts on my lips like honey and it makes me think that all of these things are in the past and just not my business anymore. I am simply somewhere else now, even if all of it is technically just around the corner. I think I am ready to put it all beside if needed, because I don't want to care anymore, I want to care about other things.
And talking about honey: I have been super sick for two and a half weeks now, and at some point the only thing that would help me was honey. I put my ideas aside and ate a few spoons, and it really helped me. I put other ideas beside; I smoked a joint and it was fun, and I ate honey all weekend and it was fun...
Cat shit in my old space. Cat shit in my new space. Full circle.
Thinking things:
- X.
- X.'s birthday (more precisely: I didn't wish him Happy Birthday because it feels like a fight and I wanna win it, or just not lose it all)
- Healthy and moving again, working on inhibition
- Tired of my Close Surroundings, and I know it's gonna change soon, but I am just very tired
- Nervous about my E. application; things are going so well here, and I really don't wanna leave
- Things are going really well here
- Things might be going a little too well here, since I haven't been able to make art really, but maybe it's not about happiness, maybe it's about
resources and spaces and capacities
- I should become more invested in the projects I am doing at the moment; I could carry a lot of responsibility, and doing so would probably do me good
P.S: I'm laughing a lot in my sleep these days. It's kinda creepy, but obviously also very funny.
I got sick again. On my way up. 49 dB. 43 dB with blinds. 43 db on a sunday. Why have containers when there is nothing to store in them. Minimalism as the easy way (fear). Minimalism as in having trust in what there is already (courage). A. and her sisters all have the same laugh. X. X. X.
Second try: Sat down in front of the window and watched the cars go by. It has its own kind of beauty from up here, white lights coming towards me, red lights disappearing in the distance. Leaned my head against the window when my vision got blurry; raindrops on the glass covering my sight. Raindrops covering peoples' rain jackets. Umbrellas covering peoples' heads covering my sight of them. Raindrops on the street gathering in masses raindrop masses being pushed away by fast driving cars.
xxx
I'm thinking about the talk we had yesterday... And I'm thinking what I already thought when I started watching the cars go by:
That I hope this is not becoming too poetic; that I want to suggest not a specific emotion, because looking at the cars go by made me think, feel a lot, but what is that even for you
(you as in you, the Observer, the Tracer), what is what I felt for you, I would so much rather share the image of it with you (lie) -
maybe I'm not there yet, at the image, but I can tell you, dear Tracer, that this was beautiful - and isn't that at least a nice beginning.
Photographically archive my morning shits and upload them on a website. (I'm vegan)
Designed new M. Paper. Will show me where to go
M. Paper
- Ax
G. L.
- F.s.
- F.m.
- Ae.
- A.
- H.
- Kn.
- Exp.
Honey...
Honey in my chia pudding. Pudding. Pudding. Five days without c. I can feel my body again!
Yesterday, E. and me put on these water pants and hopped into the lake on the roof of S. to clean the windows. We waded around the pool and jumped from window to window.
I slipped only once. We were the stars of the plaza. E. said I looked like I had a really big head in the water pants. E. saw my socks and I thought about the space between the toes
and the potential it bears.
Wasserhose
Wasserhose
The evening before, we all went to a dinner and I sat at the childrens' table. Afterwards, there was a cool party, and we were dancing and E. waved me to the dance floor bending his index fingers like this ___ __/, how do you say. I met some other nice people too. All in all it was kinda epic. I also got some sweet hugs from people of whom I did not expect. And I touched several people by their upper arm over the week, like hugging someone and then keeping a hand on the other persons' upper arm and smiling at them and moving your thumb a little bit as to reassure them of X.
-----!
Not enough t. --------a.
Justifying my absence in field x. with field y. Justifying my absence in field y. with field x.
I'm happy to have freed myself from Wizz, despite a remarkable collection of memories of said person getting lost in a chair and blowing incense around the apartment. One time I got sick when I entered, and later that night when we went out to buy a sandwich, the smell had gotten stuck on my hands, and the sandwich tasted like a poorly equipped h&m store. I threw it into the trash can behind my apartment. My stomach still turns on the thought of that sandwich, and the thought of W. for a fact, I think that's proof that sentence one is a lie!
After having ripped out my H. drawing from my X book and sticking it to the wall one month ago, right after I had moved in, I now moved it to the other side of the room, between the
pretty window and the morning window, and in between an accumulation of plaster-filled holes.
O O
O O
O O
O O
O O
O O
And last night's note on E.:
E.'s sweater is now carefully placed on the windowsill (the one with the best view), and out of curiosity, I couldn't keep myself from sniffing on it when I held it in my hands.
It is quite soft, and it smells like a mixture of sweet sweat, exhibition opening, rave party and what I associate with E.'s usual smell. I noticed an unfamiliarity which occupied
the whole room, and which turned out to be coming from said textile. Ironic; the person E. that has recently been taking up the main room in my working days has apparently followed
me into my private room when the party was over.
This week, I decided to finally grow out my natural hair color. It feels relieving, like a big step towards accepting not only my own physical appearance, but also my roots (xD). I am almost a bit annoyed for perceiving this decision as so impacting that I feel the urge to write about it. And this goes even further: as I examined my hair today, I noticed that between all the ash blonde roots growing out of my scalp, there were some singular grey hairs. I ripped one out and noticed that it was especially thick. I had never seen this before, and I am unsure what all this means to me. My decision to grow out my hair color had actually been about this very thing: I recently noticed that all my friends who are just a few years older than me start growing grey hair, and I thought that I can still dye my hair when I'm forty, but in a few years, my natural hair color will be gone and I might regret never having come to peace with it; and I thought I don't wanna miss this point when they get grey, and now I am here, writing about it, obviously impacted by it.
When I was 15, I begged M. to take me to the hairdresser's to have them dye my hair grey. She hated the idea.
KM
Ok realtalk.
I don't know shit about writing, and I don't know shit about art. I don't know what to say, either. The past eight days have been more than I can share for now.
It's fucking hard to write, especially when you read and what you read is written too well to be from this world, men sucking each other's cocks on some cornfield, and you'd love
to be on that cornfield too, maybe not for the cock, but for the wind that's blowing though the grass and into your face, swirling your hair, making you dizzy, making you a
little bit crazy.
So I'd prefer to be on that cornfield, but instead I am in between places, none of them I can call mine, in a way I am deciding for one thing, in another I cannot let go of either.
Rejection as the point where you realize you never really wanted this, you just ran after it because it was easy to keep yourself busy with the non-essential.
Rejection as a damn good reason to finally let go. Rejection as an unexpected blessing. The nature of rejection: inadequacy.
I encountered two strangers yelling at each other in the supermarket. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but they ended up bringing their fingers together in the Michelangelo way, and as I followed one of them outside, he raised his index finger up towards the sky and a little bug flew off.
Technically, this story is a lie because he scratched the bug off his finger on a plastic box outside the store. The gesture was still kind, at least kinder than expected, so I hope I'll exchange memory versions to make it perfect. I'm still wondering if they both went home to cook sliced chicken after this.
OV's prose is more worldly than his poems. I feel relieved.
C.'s show showed two flattened lamps, one off, one on, different formats, different paper temperatures. I liked this show. I also liked that show. What did you think about this show? Didn't like it.
Thinking rejection further; I don't know where to position myself in it, not for myself and especially not for others. People bring concern, pity, lack of understanding. Non of those I need, and non of those I am thankful for. Or are people witnessing me with a rational blankness in which I project my own hidden thoughts? Which leads to the more general question of Why do I care? Which leads to a possible answer to whether I liked that show or not.
Feeling
past Future
Decision
Leisure (!) Vacation mode. Success I cannot quite celebrate (aftertaste). This feeling of doing things, but not really doing anything. This blankness, being out of words, not because there is nothing to say, but because all words (all thoughts) go into other documents, other outputs.
I resumed this certain way of drawing. I still remember how N. said it's good to stop doing something if it doesn't lead you anywhere. Currently I'm thinking: maybe I am exactly where I am supposed to be, and maybe there's a kind of courage found in the habit of capturing. Like N. said in another talk we had.
Progress and deeply practicing my stuff - coming back to old thoughts with a fresh mind. Picking up practices that make me happy / that make me / unmake me.
Hard to write about things that must be felt. I am trying!
Digitally manifesting this morning's bad-mood-list:
- reading one or alternatively two annoying books, and despite being fully aware that this is my own choice and that I could just drop it and read something fun instead, I am still
clinging to this idea of finishing what I started, and maybe more importantly, I am trying to give this way of thinking a chance because X. is so into it and I am trying to understand them,
trying to understand why there is this growing distance between us, and the more I read of this book, the more I read X. into it and it sucks! This book sucks!
- immorally wet dreams, pointing towards something I might or might not want to explore, but mostly do not currently have the capacity to feel pressured into by my own desires
- the mutual understanding that X1/X2/X3/X4 and I do not give a shit about each other, nontheless feeling offended by their (probably) consciously constructed language barrier
- pissed about this being what's going on in my mind on this beautiful morning
- feeling very much in sync with myself these days, yet (/thus) feeling out of touch with the world and people around me. Shouldn't being connected with yourself mean being connected
with all?
The tension between: every moment arising anew and: saving my thoughts in a public digital file
GA update: Christina Yang is finally back at work. Shepherd has started the clinical trial for Alzheimer's and realized that Meredith is the right person to assist in this trial.
What a great day!
Going to work naked. (With cut nails.) The thing is, no matter how short they are, I still have Harissa and coffee grounds stuck under them at the end of my shift. My hands smell like coffee for 24 hours, even if I take a shower, EVEN if I swap my shower gel for a scented one. The smell of coffee follows me everywhere. Also I cooked these noodles yesterday and my index finger still smells like garlic. And now it also smells like oranges. I'll go wash my hands before work, I promise.
I washed my hands today, but a lot of turmeric spilled on my fingers yesterday and now the fleshy corners around my nails are all yellowish-brown. Especially where I ripped parts of the flesh off with my incisors. My nails are starting to grow again, but instead of a white line they push out very dirty, stained ends.
I remember that once, I threw an iron pill into my mouth but it was too big for me to swallow. I had to fish it out with my thumb and index finger, breathe for a second and put it on my tongue again, but I was still unable to swallow it. I repeated the whole process four times until I could finally get it down. The taste of iron in my mouth made me nauseous and my thumb nail got tinted in a dark grey that I wasn't able to remove, I had to wait for it to grow out.
Baked oats and GA. A walk to coop and the thought that maybe, there is no need for a path. Your voice on the phone. (Me alone in your dim room. Pillow + blanket = head + body = substitute = Vertretung.) This woman dancing her ass off in front of my window.
I think I have enough!
Epic summerhouse vacation. My tummy hurts because I put too much salt in my pasta.
baked oats for breakfast/zähneziehen. Now my head hurts because I had to find a title.
The coughing reflex that is provoked by putting a finger in your ear is called the Arnold's reflex. How I know this? Definitely not because I just put a finger in my ear.
Honestly, I feel bored of writing about my bodily sensations. I could write about the huge construction site they started right in front of my window, or I could write about several of these things that go on in my metaphorical stomach, or I could write about memory or art or about writing or I could share very personal details. I could write about how good transcendental meditation is because David Lynch said that it is really good. I could write about spending hundreds of euros on something everybody can get for free. I can write about this fashion scout who came to this opening and he lives in New York, and he divided the whole bar into people who could make it to Milano and people who couldn't. He guessed L.'s star sign correctly: Virgo, how did you know.
Blood clots and ibuprofen. Sunburn and mood swings. A soft bed in a quiet apartment, dim light entering through the blinds. Me on that Agnes Martin type blanket, alone.
Soon to be waking up at an average morning hour, walking down the stairs to the kitchen. A glass bottle filled with delicious caffeine-infused pomegranate soda is waiting for me in the fridge. I open it and take a sip. How delicious. Then I turn to the right and open the glass door to the living room. A decision: going out into the garden to soak up the beautiful silence and meditate a bit. Or sit down on the couch and brainrot with Grey's Anatomy. Easy choice, hehe.
No breakfast, no cola. No reason to stay.
I walked past this beautiful space yesterday, an old electric stuff type shop on two levels, right in the center of the city. Old wallpaper and ugly lamps, and some white metal shelves dividing the cellar
space into pieces.
I want to have my own again. Not because I am so much into curating, in fact I believe this is far from being a strength of mine. Like all this talking about art and artists and artworks and why to do it
like this and not like that, because you think this is good and I think that is good and this is bad, and then another one comes and things both are pretty horrible, and whatever we do, it's lowkey
horrible, and they would have done it compeletely differently. And then it is more a question of what you want to achieve, not of finding the best way to do it, and frustrates me a lot.
Anyhow, I don't miss the part of curating too much, even though I love having artists so close to me. So now that I think about it, this is something I miss. But what I miss mostly is the practice of
hosting, because I genuinely think that I have a hand for this. Bringing people together and stuff. And what I also miss: having a space and being able to change it, adapt it to what it needs to contain in
this moment. Moving in a space as if I own it, not in the way of owning something, but in the urban dictionary way. Owning this space. Making it something.
K. talked about YWV as if it had an influence, and even though I lost this intention in the process, it did make me proud in a way. Not because I wanna influence, but because it is a great honor to hear from someone that what I did influenced them.
I have this thing that I always sleep with an open mouth, especially when I fall asleep sitting. When D. and I took the S-train today, we both zooded out. Next to us were two youngsters sitting in front of each other. Only half-awake, I noticed how the guy leaned over to the girl and whispered something in her ear; she grunted. I felt them throw looks at me, so I went all insecure, thinking that they were making fun of my open mouth situation. After a few moments I realized though that he had said "Barfußschuhe". I blushed and turned my head away.
I told D. about the situation when she woke up. We talked briefly about it and my heart didn't feel so heavy anymore. Yet still I am wondering if I should have protested.
Maybe rip open my eyelids and stare at them for a few seconds like a freak. Or jump up and scream how comfortable my shoes are. Or I could have stood up and told them that there is no need to be scared of the blank space between our toes, that we should dare confront ourselves with it, and then left the train.
I didn't do any of it. They didn't even seem too interesting to me personally, but anyway. It's just that I think it feels amazing to wiggle your toes and I think that the blank space that surround our feet are what makes them distinct and delicate, and I think that this is what makes our feet so beautiful and for this reason I want to celebrate the interdigital space - the Zehenzwischenraum.
People can make fun of my interdigital space, but the point is I don't care what other people think at all, all the jokes and contemptuous looks just make me stronger. More resilient.P. and I are going to play billards now. I did it on sunday and it was so much fun. I feel like this might change my life forever.
I wanted to write a long text about coming home and all this, familiarities, language, differences, culture and so on. But I am tired and we are going out to eat pizza soon, so I will call it a day and just take a nap now.
Complex stuff and nice stuff and beauty is surrounding me but I am writing here mostly about low-hanging fruit. Meaning what comes to mind first, what's easy to write about, which is often the small unhappy things.
I am quite happy these days, but often ashamed. This blog is a venom and its antidote. I don't browse through, don't edit. Once written, it's all out and that is sometimes shameful,
but why even be ashamed?
10x15cm photos glued on an A2 paper, framed in orange wood.
- A guy who reminds me of Edgar but his eyebrows look more real; he is standing upright and smiling into the camera while holding up his left arm in a 90degree angle and pointing his thumb up.
Hiding in a corner, but radiating subtle confidence.
- A young woman with red curly hair AKA sweet old bartender with long grey hair who understands neither my Danish nor English but she's quite good at reading my hands.
- Edgar again on at least three more pictures, making the exact same pose every time. Maybe he wasn't even there that weekend and they glued him on the pictures later, or maybe
he's the bar ghost hiding in the corner and secretly protecting his customers, making sure that things are Thumbs Up at all times.
- Portrait of a guy with a plastic bag covering his whole face.
- Young dude in a tracksuit sitting next to what could be his great-grandpa eating peas.
- Tits! Or was that the photo collage at Frank's?
- A green cake suggesting the form and looks of a Carlsberg bottle.
T. c.
Add/Mix:
- left ankle situation
- xxxx right foot
- effort right leg
- NS left stomach
- pants/dick left arm
- scratches left shoulder
Lighten
- Ps left arm
(- ssss right knee)
New
- whole back
New haircut. She insisted on cutting them armpit-length which I was initially planning on asking her to do but then felt too shy about. Apparently the hard water is damaging my hair. Which means I will have to stick to my shampoo-mask-conditioner-routine in order to radiate health and wealth. Also; she showed me that I am growing a lot of "new hair" as she called it, meaning short hair that looks like it's about a year old. I am wondering if this is normal, or if I had a stress-related fallout problem that was covered by my thick black mane. I definitely have a bindestrich-problem, now that I'm thinking about it. Buuuuut.
Now my hair is quite short and it feels a bit weird and unnatural, but that feeling will settle soon and I think I wanna grow it really long again even though it looks quite shitty with the blonde roots and the black lengths. But M. said I look rock-n-roll which makes me feel very cool. And maybe after all the good thing about this kind of hair is its inherent potential not to think about it for some months in a row.
More Xes on my foot. Took a walk to this vacant space and found out about the owner and thought about future stuff. I also started photographing all my belongings.
Started deep-cleaning my room and making more pictures of possessions. Also wrote in a "former" manner and not sure what to think about that. It's raising questions of how I want to be perceived as an artist these days and of why I even care about that. When it should be about fun for me. This as connected to the thought that in the future, art-making might not bring me any further than towards fun anyway. But I am here already and now, so any path is just imagination I guess?
Moyra Davey quoting someone who wrote Write as if you're already dead or something. And Moyra Davey writing about constipation and shitting herself in a maybe-dream-maybe-memory-approach, which leaves me shocked like barely anything else I read these days. Both things make me think about this platform, and I've literally been thinking all night. About the potential vulnerability I create by opening up, how many times it turns out to be a big, big mistake - but what are the options? In this environment you cannot run or hide and still maintain a position, you can only performatively submit to the bullshit and stay angry and pissed inside. The Danish way I call that. Sharing more happy stuff creates less vulnerability I suppose, but what is it worth if the space I created to move my soul into becomes an over-curated screenplay. I am pissed today.
Later-that-day-update: We ate some really nice cake this morning and then even more cake, and nice talks and so on... Yeah that was pretty nice so maybe I'm not even that pissed today after all.
Draft: You can expect to see an image of every object in my current possession plus a video of a Patrick Star figure with melted eyes which is, in fact, also in my possession
And edit: Probably the shitting part was a quote I couldn't fit into context. Still makes me think.
Painted a whole room black today + crunchy vegan chicken nuggets
Good at l. but how to s. ???
New curtains keep the noise away. Not because they make it more quiet, the cars just appear to be louder when I see them
5k debt and possibly 25k debt. But what is 30k, I piss that! (Zwanzig Euro die piss ich)
Epic evening and night + 6 figs on a piece of bread. My hands are dry from rubbing gum off the concrete floor. I am going to bake two cakes now, and hopefully a picture with everyone tomorrow.
A slight feeling of disappointment is directing me back towards what truly makes me happy; things are good as they are, comparison is useless, this and that
"XX of the diary, the compulsion to scribble, the delusion that we can hold on to time. The inversion of this xx is the anxiety of being read, the fear of wounding and, just as strong, the dread of being unmasked. William Godwin kept up a daily discipline and passed it on to his daughter, Mary Shelley. But Godwin's diary was the furthest thing from waste: he was cryptic, minimalist in the extreme, using dashes and dots to indicate sex. On the day Mary's mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, died, he simply recorded the time of death.
Moyra Davey in Burn the Diaries except from some words I couldn't decipher because I took a picture of the page with my phone in the half-dark yesterday eveningCashier at supermarket slides a rubber band around my plastic water bottle. I ask why. She says she's bored.
More shame about the past. I wish I had done things differently. I think about T. who would ask me why. I think that I wouldn't be able to answer that question fully.
I am thinking that the day was more quiet before other people came along; loud street noises are one thing, but your neighbour hammering and filing all day. This is what we're here
for though; sculpture school, not sit-on-your-laptop-and-hau-in-the-tasten-school. My tummy is preparing to growl. I ate breakfast and two vegan ham-and-cheese-sandwiches. I am going to
see this performance where X. is taking part in soon. I should eat something before. But no cookies. I am also trying not to drink cola here, but I really miss the taste of cola running
down my throat. Or actually, a lemon water would be even better maybe.
The sky is as blue as it gets, and I get a glimpse of it writing from the desk close to the window. There are six squares like this
O O -> These two are blue
O O
O O
Iman Issa wrote about the I as a therapeutic self-portrait, the I of a self-reflexive gesture, the I as a last resort. Once more, hearing other people speak of art and writing leaves
me with a feeling of insufficiency. This talk with D. comes to mind, she pulled something out of her sleeve that Isa Genzken had said I think, about not looking so much at other people's
work in order not to lose herself. I am not quoting here again because I am too lazy to try and find the line, which turns out to be quite a dangerous thing to do, obviously. Putting
words into other people's mouths. The furthest into erotics I can get on this platform today. I think the only reason why I suddenly use artists's full names without censoring
them is because Moyra Davey is doing it, and I am currently reading her book and nothing else really, so this is all that goes into my brain on a long day of executing ideas without
big thinking. In two weeks, her show will have opened and I will be done with the book and there will be no more reason to think about it, and I will stop feeling the responsibility
to reflect on other artists' works here and I will stop mentioning their full names, maybe. Just this one thing will stick. Write as if you're already dead.
Write as if you're dead.
Collage as a hiding spot. Cut out little pieces of cake and put them between layers of half-transparent baking paper. Covering big ideas, trying to pretend that I take myself less serious than I actually do. Rejection, expectation, comparison, future, past, feeling, spectacle, performativity, my emotivity, X.'s emotivity, equanimity, peace, letting-go, anger, compassion, pity, resentment. Big words used to map big feelings. I suppose it is just what it is, maybe I shouldn't have to be so scared to be read in that way, but then I also just wanna be cool and non-chalant. So I stick to the collage for now. Hiding my face behind a tiny piece of paper.
Boiiiink
Huge amount of space and cup noodles for lunch. I skipped this essay I already read twice, still feels like cheating.