rum boogie cafe
January. 28. 2012
what I miss most about the dirty south is the music (and the biscuits)…
she had fire for hair…
November. 25. 2009
The music just pours outta her…ya hear? It’s infectious too-
if I made music, it’d fall somewhere between them and good ole Sheryl Crow…
take another little piece of my heart now baby
October. 24. 2009
Gripped with this sudden desire to go public and “be an artist properly” last month, I went and submitted some work to a local art show. I came home with a piece of my soul missing, or so it felt- this giant gaping hole left in my stomach where my beautiful charcoals used to be. I don’t want anyone to buy them.
I’ve never understood how people can part with their art.
Everything one make is a self portrait- it is a matter of course…the pieces of a soul are intrinsically embedded in its expression- the artist and the work of art are so to speak, monovular in their genesis and their synthesis. Like Rushdie’s Farishta bound to the Prophet, or a child to her mother- the creation is bound to the creator…
“We flow in both directions along the umbilical cord.”
-Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
So how do you sever that sacred connection and let it go? It isn’t the selfish need to possess the thing that is made, more the fright of losing a piece of the self and becoming vulnerable.
I realize the irony of the situation- grossly enmeshed in it myself both as an artist and an architect. Nascent in the choice to make buildings for a living, there is an acceptance of the fact that our deconstructed identity will embellish everything we create- pieces of our souls scattered in every piece of architecture we touch. The scale of the profession leaves no choice in the matter- the Other and Otherness are both inherent in each reflection of the Self.
