the passing of wind
i was sweating, as i had been all day. it was 95* in Valencia CA and i was on asphalt standing in line for death defying roller coaster rides. i had been on too many, and was feeling slightly nauseous and sea sick.
my bestie girlfriend, fellow dancer, fellow artist, wrote- 'you are now an exhibiting international artist!' and then, 'with an award to boot! whahoo!!'
in the first seconds after receiving that message i thought she was referring to herself, as she was a whizz at entering her artwork into galleries and was an absolute force to be reckoned with, when it came to the Matrix end of the process of showing her art to the world.
and i, well, let's just say i am a bit lazier when it comes to getting my 'shit' out there. so, my first thought at the news that i had been accepted into 2 online galleries, was, what- are they hard-up? she wrote back that she automatically thought the same thing, when she was accepted. it was funny and we laughed.
terrible, i know...
and i'm not being self-deprecating. i know i am 'good' at expressing myself. and getting better all the time. and it does feel good to get recognition of the effort of getting my 'shit' out there. but what i am interested in, is the story, the process, and the elicited emotions. tell me how you feel, even if it's repulsion or nothing at all.
to me, it's like watching porn. the acts of copulation are just the period at the end of the sentence. not very interesting. and kinda acrobatic. but the story, the angst, the emotion, the repression, the indifference, the anger, the drama, the process, the sin, is what gets me in the gut. i want the story. the art at the end of the process is just a snapshot of the story at the moment of creating it.
so in viewing art, i do not nor ever will judge it to be 'good' 'bad' or 'ugly.' it just is. it's a sneeze. an exhalation, a fart, if you will. expression of wind. rather meaningless and acrobatic. if i don't know the story of the art piece, and the artist, i spend luxurious moments feeling the story of my own, in my gut, in response.
i mused on this, as i sat at the edge of the asphalt, watching my granddaughter go on yet another roller coaster, a 53 year old grandma, aging, sweating, a front tooth missing, an award winning exhibiting international artist...