I need to write again, and I promise that I will. I need to for my sanity and my practice – my practice especially. Maybe I haven’t been writing because everything about my work has changed; maybe I have yet to find the words (although I am aware that this is a thin excuse, that this blog has been the exercise that has given me my words all along and that I have an artist statement due at midnight that isn’t going to write itself). I was on spring break, in a blizzard deep within the isolated woods of Connecticut in a snow-globe of a house with a dog, the love of my life and his family. Now I am above the desert in a sunset sky, when I return, then I will write. I will write of all of the new happenings within my three studio walls, of my transition from photographer to installation artist, about the things I am making that I cannot believe are coming from my hands. I promise there will be images too. Today, however, I will write on this trip and our venture into New York City, Yale and the liquor store. These are the things that have inspired my practice all along; my art and my life are intertwined so deeply that it is a hopeless task to separate the two.
We saw art and we became (more) cultured. I doubt that I will ever feel completely comfortable amongst museum goers and the form fitting black dresses of cocktail bars. My life lives in limbo somewhere between a junkyard and MoMA. It was relaxed, the city only softly abuzz. A stress free trip thanks to Neil’s aunt, our wonderful tour guide and host. This is a side of New York that I had yet to meet. It is this side that I now adore. Here we are anonymous faces amongst a nameless crowd. No smiles, no tears, no acts, just people content with being under a gray, luminous, pulsating sky.
The art was incredible, as well as the company. We ate burgers after getting off the train in Grand Central Station then walked wordlessly content towards the Museum of Modern Art. We started by viewing Stephan Shore’s retrospective, then branched out to Pollock and Rothko, Grigorian and Ruscha. I was stopped in my tracks, surrounded on all four sides by Twombli’s seasons in a room in which I sat and stayed for awhile. We drank bourbon at a cocktail bar with finger sized foods much fancier than last night’s chicken wings. It was another silent walk back to the station, our cheeks warm from the alcohol and red from the cold. His aunt and I paused at a storefront to admire a display of diamond encrusted wedding gowns. When we turned around Neil stood, hood up, amongst a dozen or so white plastic trash bags on the curb, a cigarette dangling from his lips. My heart fluttered.
There is a magical aura that surrounds New York City, so much life in such a concentrated place. Many people travel there to be discovered, but even more wander there to be lost. I live somewhere between the two. In Grand Central I bought a twenty four ounce Corona for the train, out of the city, into the woods, drank it in a thrift store dress and mud caked hiking boots. As quickly as we entered, we were gone, hidden in solitude by a cold winter’s night. It was there that we would sit and wait for two feet of snow to drop down upon us, sealing us into its spellbinding world.