the state of my studio:
tape, coffee, and everything I could find in the kitchen:
new sculpture:
still from a new video:
video's I wish I made:
Monday, April 19, 2010
pre-finals in the studio
current obsession:
the state of my studio:
tape, coffee, and everything I could find in the kitchen:
new sculpture:
still from a new video:
video's I wish I made:
the state of my studio:
tape, coffee, and everything I could find in the kitchen:
new sculpture:
still from a new video:
video's I wish I made:
Friday, April 09, 2010
MFA art auction
This event was stressful and made me want to die ... however, we raised a shit-ton of money for our MFA thesis show in NYC. Thanks to everyone who came out!
Another perk of the evening....me and my family made out like bandits!
An awesome print by John O'Donnell
Two of my favorite Siobhan Landry photos.
A coveted Ben Piwowar painting
Two sculptures from a Monica Bock installation.
Another perk of the evening....me and my family made out like bandits!
An awesome print by John O'Donnell
Two of my favorite Siobhan Landry photos.
A coveted Ben Piwowar painting
Two sculptures from a Monica Bock installation.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Wonder
“When our first encounter with some object surprises us and we find it novel, or very different from what we formerly knew or from what we supposed it ought to be, this causes us to wonder and be astonished at it. Since all this may happen before we know whether or not the object is beneficial to us, I regard wonder as the first of all passions. It has no opposite, for if the object before us has no characteristics that surprise us, we are not moved by it at all , and we consider it without passion”. -Rene Descartes from ‘The Passions of the Soul’.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Artist as magician
Current obsession: Jamie Isenstein
Changing the viewer's perception of reality... transforming the norm... um.
Changing the viewer's perception of reality... transforming the norm... um.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Friday, February 05, 2010
Yes and yes.
"The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he's always doing both.”
-James A Michener
-James A Michener
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Thank you social networking site...
My work is currently featured on the free artist network site MYARTSPACE.com. Cool, thanks intertubes!
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
A quote that will find its way into my thesis...
"In some of my work there is that initial, not drive, but outcome that has to do with deflation of power. There are power structures and particular power conglomerates around us. I don’t necessarily mean power of the state but, for instance, the power of meaning to crystallize and not allow any other interpretation. It seems to me that I have an impetus to deflate that. Sometimes, in a very profound situation of deep sadness, there’s even more room, something really ridiculous seems to be part of it too. This extra space, this possibility for another turn, has something to do with the power of oxymoron.
There is an absurd side of the ‘necessity for existence.’ On one level, everything that exists justifies its own existence — it exists because it does. The fact that it’s there proves that it needs to be there. On another level, the whole system of trying to understanding this is completely absurd. In the most serious questions of life and death there is not only dark, but an absurd and ridiculous side as well. And I just can’t avoid it. It just comes out. In Bulgaria, for instance, there’s been an early medieval heresy, the Bogomils. They were Christian dualists who were told that the world was created by the God and the Devil at the same time. So there are negative things created by the negative, and positive by the positive. They have this apocryphal saying, “I believe in God, but I don’t trust Him.” The first part of that sentence is like a credo, the second part completely deflates that. Maybe they’re saying, “I don’t trust the human mind that speculates about God.” On one hand I have moments when I experience the profound level of interconnectedness of everything. On another I don’t trust my drive to completely comprehend it, because I appreciate that it’s enormous, it’s inexhaustible. My attempt to know it is ridiculous because I’m ill-equipped. In some of my works you see me experiencing this limitation." - Daniel Bozhkov (my current obsession)
There is an absurd side of the ‘necessity for existence.’ On one level, everything that exists justifies its own existence — it exists because it does. The fact that it’s there proves that it needs to be there. On another level, the whole system of trying to understanding this is completely absurd. In the most serious questions of life and death there is not only dark, but an absurd and ridiculous side as well. And I just can’t avoid it. It just comes out. In Bulgaria, for instance, there’s been an early medieval heresy, the Bogomils. They were Christian dualists who were told that the world was created by the God and the Devil at the same time. So there are negative things created by the negative, and positive by the positive. They have this apocryphal saying, “I believe in God, but I don’t trust Him.” The first part of that sentence is like a credo, the second part completely deflates that. Maybe they’re saying, “I don’t trust the human mind that speculates about God.” On one hand I have moments when I experience the profound level of interconnectedness of everything. On another I don’t trust my drive to completely comprehend it, because I appreciate that it’s enormous, it’s inexhaustible. My attempt to know it is ridiculous because I’m ill-equipped. In some of my works you see me experiencing this limitation." - Daniel Bozhkov (my current obsession)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Here's a fun one...
18 January 2010
I wonder if I will manage to keep my studio clean through the weekend. For a long time I was in denial about being an unorganized, filthy, wretch. I believe this period of denial was continually being fed by a love affair with office supplies: filing cabinets, Post-it notes, pads of paper the color of easter eggs, I loved them all. I was talking about my obsession with office supplies with a professor of mine, and while most people I have told understand to a degree but mostly think it's weird that binder-clips make my pee-pee tingle, she totally got it. She said that office supplies were tangible symbols of hope. Tiny beacons of light that steer the filthy and scatterbrained in an uncharted direction. A banker's lamp or a felt-tip pen will make us organized at last, will give us new life. Office supplies like the smell of a new book gives us hope that this time we will finish something. This time we will be better.
My studio will stay clean for a week, tops. After a week I will start a plaster project and my room will be painted white with plaster dust and my worktable will be littered with hundreds of broken molds lined up like tombstones at a veterans memorial.
What if this year could be different? What if I could collect less, not less office supplies of course, and throw away more? What if my bedroom could stay clean rather than turning into dunes of dirty clothes and snot rags?
In my studio I put together a table for my craft and office supplies- the Holy of Holies. On this table is a small shelf made of gray bricks and a piece of scrap-wood where I placed a perfect wooden bowl filled with clementines and lemons. Next to the fruits is Edie, my plant. Surrounding Edie and the wooden bowl are stacks of the most beautiful felt, lavished colored straws, emerald twist-ties and my beloved assortment of adhesives.
To the right of my table I have a series of shelves pregnant with papers and books. The gray industrial bookshelf has books strategically placed in a haphazard fashion. I learned this from an insane ex-sort-of lover I had. I say "sort of" because we slept together but never had sex; moreover, he was always convincing himself, not that he liked me, but that he should like me because I was a good artist. And why shouldn't a cool artsy guy like him be lovers with a mildly attractive, low self-esteemed, sculptor chick? In the end he left me and that's fine because in the darkness of our apathetic nights while he slept curled around the edge of the futon opposite of me I stayed up and read his books. I cannot remember anything ex-sort-of lover ever said to me, but I remember his books.
I wonder if I will manage to keep my studio clean through the weekend. For a long time I was in denial about being an unorganized, filthy, wretch. I believe this period of denial was continually being fed by a love affair with office supplies: filing cabinets, Post-it notes, pads of paper the color of easter eggs, I loved them all. I was talking about my obsession with office supplies with a professor of mine, and while most people I have told understand to a degree but mostly think it's weird that binder-clips make my pee-pee tingle, she totally got it. She said that office supplies were tangible symbols of hope. Tiny beacons of light that steer the filthy and scatterbrained in an uncharted direction. A banker's lamp or a felt-tip pen will make us organized at last, will give us new life. Office supplies like the smell of a new book gives us hope that this time we will finish something. This time we will be better.
My studio will stay clean for a week, tops. After a week I will start a plaster project and my room will be painted white with plaster dust and my worktable will be littered with hundreds of broken molds lined up like tombstones at a veterans memorial.
What if this year could be different? What if I could collect less, not less office supplies of course, and throw away more? What if my bedroom could stay clean rather than turning into dunes of dirty clothes and snot rags?
In my studio I put together a table for my craft and office supplies- the Holy of Holies. On this table is a small shelf made of gray bricks and a piece of scrap-wood where I placed a perfect wooden bowl filled with clementines and lemons. Next to the fruits is Edie, my plant. Surrounding Edie and the wooden bowl are stacks of the most beautiful felt, lavished colored straws, emerald twist-ties and my beloved assortment of adhesives.
To the right of my table I have a series of shelves pregnant with papers and books. The gray industrial bookshelf has books strategically placed in a haphazard fashion. I learned this from an insane ex-sort-of lover I had. I say "sort of" because we slept together but never had sex; moreover, he was always convincing himself, not that he liked me, but that he should like me because I was a good artist. And why shouldn't a cool artsy guy like him be lovers with a mildly attractive, low self-esteemed, sculptor chick? In the end he left me and that's fine because in the darkness of our apathetic nights while he slept curled around the edge of the futon opposite of me I stayed up and read his books. I cannot remember anything ex-sort-of lover ever said to me, but I remember his books.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Daily Bread
I have committed to write for an hour each day. Now, I used to be a Christian which means I know a thing or two about commitment and discipline. What I know about commitment is that commitment is generated by discipline, and when you are a Christian, discipline is fueled by guilt. I said I was going to write for an hour each day this semester and I actually will do that. I will be able to do this not because I am a truly honorable person committed to the craft of writing, but rather I am a stubborn, slave-driver who sets the bar too high for herself. I have been setting the bar immeasurably high for myself all my life and when I would fail to reach that bar, as I often did, I would come down on myself the way Jewish people describe their Jewish grandmas who live in the Brox come down on them.
I think that this is why I have had such a hard time coming to grips with the loss of my faith. I had disappointed the imaginary Jewish grandma that lived inside of me so much that she would say insane things to me like, "No wonda ya' can't get a man to take care of ya, you couldn't even keep Jesus fucking Christ, God bless him, around." According to Fake Grandma Jewish- Bronx who lived inside me, it was my fault that Jesus fucking Christ, god bless him, left me with so many questions.
In undergrad I went to a bible school; actually, I attended The Bible Institute of Los Angeles. B-I-O-L-A, (or Biola) like every other Christian acronym (and there are many), not only had letters that stood for something but the idea of the acronym as a whole alluded to something else. In the case of Biola, the Bible Institute part of the acronym really stood for a major accredited liberal arts university, and the Los Angeles part stood for south L.A. county, which really meant Orange County who, as it so happens, has an acronym of its very own. BIOLA as a whole stood for a place where Christian people learn how to be better at being Christian people.
Days one and two of my writing extravaganza have been ridiculous and terrible. Yesterday, I wrote drunk. This resulted in stupid drunk person writing where I, the heroic and witty main character was seated on a plane next to Actor Seth Rogan who, naturally, wanted to have sex with me.
Today, I have returned to writing about my faith. This is frustrating because faith, or the lack there of, seems to be the only subject I can write on without the result being 81 lines of dialogue with Seth Rogan.
My friend Sydney asked me about faith this summer. She said that the last time we spoke I had mentioned something interesting about faith, but she couldn't remember what it was so she asked me if I remembered what I had said and if I could elaborate on the subject. I told her no, I in fact don't remember what I said last time we spoke and therefore could not elaborate on it. And then she seemed okay with that and I thought for sure I was going insane.
Honestly, I have no idea what I think about faith. So I kind of wish I had remembered whatever I said so I could elaborate on it for myself, but Sydney and I would just have to go on living having no clue what I am talking about.
Anyone who had any sort of affair with the evangelical church is aware of Hebrews 11:1. Even I, after almost 5 years of heathendom, can recite the famous biblical verse: "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."
Yeah, I don't by that.
I think hope and faith are more medicinal than anything else. That is, we humans use faith and hope the same way a cancer patient would use a trial drug. This trial has worked on this percent of patients and maybe if you try it the drug may work for you too. Those of us who have seen cancer, in all of it's brutal glory, know that the trial drugs work for a while until our friend cancer creeps back the way it always does.
To me, the concepts of hope and faith are pretty much the same deal. Oh, you hope so badly that this week will not suck. And surprisingly Monday isn't that bad. So now you have faith that Tuesday, when approached with a good attitude, will be okay too; and it is, and you're happy. Then Tuesday night you know that Wednesday is going to be truly shitty, but its not and your stunned, and happy, and a little suspicious. The rest of the week goes this way until you get to Sunday when you let yourself sleep in because you had such a good week. And then you stay in bed, and you think about your ex-boyfriend. Now it is 3pm on Sunday and you have decided that you are obese. You fall back to sleep, only to wake up at 6pm and its dark and the day is gone and somehow you have failed again, and all the hope and faith of the week is struggling to digest along side the family-bag of chips you had for second breakfast.
I think that this is why I have had such a hard time coming to grips with the loss of my faith. I had disappointed the imaginary Jewish grandma that lived inside of me so much that she would say insane things to me like, "No wonda ya' can't get a man to take care of ya, you couldn't even keep Jesus fucking Christ, God bless him, around." According to Fake Grandma Jewish- Bronx who lived inside me, it was my fault that Jesus fucking Christ, god bless him, left me with so many questions.
In undergrad I went to a bible school; actually, I attended The Bible Institute of Los Angeles. B-I-O-L-A, (or Biola) like every other Christian acronym (and there are many), not only had letters that stood for something but the idea of the acronym as a whole alluded to something else. In the case of Biola, the Bible Institute part of the acronym really stood for a major accredited liberal arts university, and the Los Angeles part stood for south L.A. county, which really meant Orange County who, as it so happens, has an acronym of its very own. BIOLA as a whole stood for a place where Christian people learn how to be better at being Christian people.
Days one and two of my writing extravaganza have been ridiculous and terrible. Yesterday, I wrote drunk. This resulted in stupid drunk person writing where I, the heroic and witty main character was seated on a plane next to Actor Seth Rogan who, naturally, wanted to have sex with me.
Today, I have returned to writing about my faith. This is frustrating because faith, or the lack there of, seems to be the only subject I can write on without the result being 81 lines of dialogue with Seth Rogan.
My friend Sydney asked me about faith this summer. She said that the last time we spoke I had mentioned something interesting about faith, but she couldn't remember what it was so she asked me if I remembered what I had said and if I could elaborate on the subject. I told her no, I in fact don't remember what I said last time we spoke and therefore could not elaborate on it. And then she seemed okay with that and I thought for sure I was going insane.
Honestly, I have no idea what I think about faith. So I kind of wish I had remembered whatever I said so I could elaborate on it for myself, but Sydney and I would just have to go on living having no clue what I am talking about.
Anyone who had any sort of affair with the evangelical church is aware of Hebrews 11:1. Even I, after almost 5 years of heathendom, can recite the famous biblical verse: "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."
Yeah, I don't by that.
I think hope and faith are more medicinal than anything else. That is, we humans use faith and hope the same way a cancer patient would use a trial drug. This trial has worked on this percent of patients and maybe if you try it the drug may work for you too. Those of us who have seen cancer, in all of it's brutal glory, know that the trial drugs work for a while until our friend cancer creeps back the way it always does.
To me, the concepts of hope and faith are pretty much the same deal. Oh, you hope so badly that this week will not suck. And surprisingly Monday isn't that bad. So now you have faith that Tuesday, when approached with a good attitude, will be okay too; and it is, and you're happy. Then Tuesday night you know that Wednesday is going to be truly shitty, but its not and your stunned, and happy, and a little suspicious. The rest of the week goes this way until you get to Sunday when you let yourself sleep in because you had such a good week. And then you stay in bed, and you think about your ex-boyfriend. Now it is 3pm on Sunday and you have decided that you are obese. You fall back to sleep, only to wake up at 6pm and its dark and the day is gone and somehow you have failed again, and all the hope and faith of the week is struggling to digest along side the family-bag of chips you had for second breakfast.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saturday, December 05, 2009
write up!
" Kris Cowen + J.R.Uretsky's installation art brings together the intimate, the voyeuristic, and the abstract. Inviting the viewer to get close and nestle into the earpiece of an oversized audio cone, the viewer is then cradled by narratives of a false pregnancy alarm and imaginings of possible offspring."
-fineartbase.org
-fineartbase.org
Monday, November 09, 2009
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