I’m about to go out and search for a little foot stool or something chic and transportable to set my laptop on at either urban outfitters or world market. Two stores a block from my house with an assortment of colorful, half-unique looking home decor options straight from Taiwan and less expensive then the nob hill furniture boutique ran by middle-aged fruity men. But anyway, the purpose of this message is to really express my long-felt disgruntlement over the excruciatingly high number of “artists” in Portland, (and from my experiences Eugene and other nearby towns, not to mention the west coast, Austin, NY, etc.), who are known for being the artists in their community but really just a bunch of babbling finger-painting butt wipes. They are good networkers and portfolio-making winos. Many edit a good collage, understand printmaking, buy vintage outfits from Buffalo, and cut their hair lopsided with long side burns. They smell like coffee and cigarettes, or yerba mate and marijuana. They say things like “groovy” and “tight” because these old phrases disappeared off the radar and reintroducing them is appealing to historical connotations of hipness as well as innovative reintroductions of indelible phrases in new linguistic contexts. Yet these collages, reinventions, basic nostaligias are morphed with eager needs to please, and a swamp of character is lost in a blase mixture of gaudy egos, all bright colors and loud spirits regurgitated into a fad of ideas, long mustaches, and big bangs all pickled together in a package of controllable, quotable, calculable, marketable, and consumable widgets and wits. I see widgets because people are further morphing into one-click wonders, their personalities exposed in online portfolios and profiles, their entire character summed up in a paragraph of theories throw-up from a senior course in the philosophy of art, and a handful of photographs of their best friend dressed in a tutu and leather jacket, playing the fashion model of a make-believe cinema still. I am only coarsely judging these neighboring hipster fashionistas, designers, photographers, painters, printmakers, and artists of mixed media, because I too have expressed my share of magazine wall collage torn from Vogue, and scattered costume garments worn to work under a work shirt to express, as immutably as possible, the expression of a character that is at once vivid, youthful, and alive, and also extremely confused, complicated, and immersed in a capitalist world amidst critical parents, eager-to-please businessmen and egomaniacal entrepreneurs. I am merely trying to survive, and in recent months have mentally detached from my job of retail and socially detached from nocturnal outings with fellow creatives and networkers, in order to return to the roots of my inspiration devoid of bad credit and crimped spirits. I am returning to what made me tick at five, and love at twelve, fight at fourteen, and run madly away into the unknown at eighteen. I am reading, and bathing, and staring into the space of everything have yet to understand and can only feel when I’m in my world separated from histories and expectations. The lone artists, and naturists, the hermits and quiet types intrigue me. What is a loud voice but a need to be heard over the quality of your words. I want to hear the silent fellow who returns to his room to make art for himself, and hear what the natural world says apart from urban industries and profit. Profit in the quiet contentment of a product made for a feeling in yourself. Well, that is a big bundle of words I’ve again spitted out with my first cup of “morning” coffee. And now I’ll contradict my own stream of thoughts by going out and finding a foot stool, (one in mind, actually, a purple one at Urban, would complete the complete lack of color scheme in my room). And also time for more coffee…
Tag Archives: inspiration
Seeking inspiration tonight:
An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.
– Ernest Hemingway
I drink to talk to assholes… including myself. -Jim Morrison
I’m actually going on week three without liquor, but that should change soon…in moderation. I may quit altogether if I can’t be in complete control.
Feel tension? Listen to Lewis Black or Billie Holiday. One expresses it, one soothes it. Instead, I was watching Kinsey which helps lend to me OK as AGAIN sexually frustrated me. Like seeing a warm beach scene when your standing out in the cold rain…makes it that much colder. Or like PDA and valentine’s day when you’re single makes you feel more single. Or dreaming about love and waking up to a cold room and a hungry cat makes the cat that much more a pain in the ass, and the room that much emptier and colder. That last one was my recent morning, prior to Kinsey, and this whole day of solo pleasures, deliberating, teeter-tottering between exhaustion and energy. So I’m no bonobo chimpanzee, or hippy, or Kinsey prodigy, I can’t deal with polygamy; I’m emotional, sticky, complicated and devoted, like an old, blind dog….thus picky but horny, I miss cuddling, sex, making tents out of bedsheets…in this mood pansy and prissy chic lit irritates me, PC talk makes me gag…in this state of being I break things with nerves… my greatest talents wasted, lost to pickyness, to bad dates, for shame. True there is always my ballet yoga dvd, and music and walks…an occasional social outing for inevitable conversations with dull sots…in these times Elliot Smith songs and Sex and the City episodes plague my hippocampus. I eat too much chocolate frozen yogurt. Bake too many organic chocolate chip cookies. Dream too many fantastical dreams (like last night’s where I owned a giant castle but it was disappointingly located on a movie set). And I watch things like Kinsey and wonder where a romantic monogamous sex fiend (the emotional restless, you’d think I was a Gemini) finds peace.