Things and not-things

I am thinking about these two terms, ground and background, and the varying ways they function for objects. Actually, mostly for artwork. Artworks can be hung on the wall (background) or placed on the floor (ground) (and surely arranged in many other ways as well, but I’m just thinking about these two). Generally, “hanging on the wall” seems to imply suspension, a certain form of potential energy, an abstinence from gravity, whereas “sitting on the floor” implies a there-ness, a final destination-ness, an in-the-way-ness, possibly a greater inertness. These qualities seem to rest largely within the respective words “hung” and “sitting.” Is the action an object must carry out to reside in a certain place what determines the qualities of its state of being more than the fact of it being in that particular location? Or, is its action one in the same with the location itself? What happens when you distinguish between the action required to be in a location and the actual location? (...) On...

I like when objects look like they’re trying. (I haven’t written here in a while and I’m feeling like I probably always begin these posts with some version of “I like…” which…is actually a pretty honest display of the fact that I do usually happen to be writing about what I like. Anyway, I like the way objects seem when they appear as though they are trying to do or be something other than what they are.) Versions of this include an object: -trying to look like another object -trying to form a certain shape or structure  -trying to look larger (or smaller) than it is Though, I question this as I say it. Is an object “trying to look like another object” just one object that resembles another? Is an object trying to form a certain shape just an object taken out of its typical, found state? Is an object trying to look smaller than another just an object that is squished, or, out of proportion to its environment? Is to say that an object looks like it is trying [to be something] the sa...

I was in the mood to write a little something and luckily a spill occurred and this wet floor sign appeared. I sat for a bit, looking at the sign, thinking the usual questions of what draws me to an object (why do I always feel a little skeptical of myself when referring to something as an object ?) such as this one? Why write about something I am drawn to? Do I want to write about everything I am drawn to? Is there a subset of “things I am drawn to” that I want to write about? Do I enjoy writing about things that seem like they don’t necessarily deserve to be written about--things that may be self-explanatory, and that make writing about them seem like an extraneous effort? One way this wet floor sign stands out to me is in being one of the few objects in this coffee place that names itself. That has already written itself. (I also see “whole milk,” “half and half,” “simple syrup,” “water.”) Actually, the wet floor sign doesn’t name itself like these other items do, but names the scen...

I’ve been trying to think of the perspective from which, or the question out of which it occurred to me to think about objects on the ground and words on a line. To think about these two things as being similar scenarios. Have I been thinking of objects on the ground as words on a page? Have I been thinking of the line under words as a ground? Am I asking what happens if I do?  A lot of the objects I like live on the ground. Ground objects = construction cones, fire hydrants, bushes, mailboxes, recycling bins, etc. Each one of these items has a connecting point to the ground, and is perpendicular to it in a way that resembles words being perpendicular to the lines they stand on. (Stand on?) Though, a thing about words on lines: It seems true to say that handwritten words are the only words that exist on visible lines (i.e. writing on loose leaf or in notebooks). Which in turn leads me to feel that there’s something about these ground objects that I like, that also happen to be r...

I think the shortest name for what’s shown in this picture is the back of a sign . It’s not a mouthful, but it is kind of a clunky thing to say as something’s name. While the back of a sign can only be indicated by saying the back of a sign , it seems clear that the front of a sign can be referenced just by saying the sign --that this term refers both to the physical object that it is, and the perspective of it from the opposite point of view shown by this photo (its front). To state a third variation of this: in referring to the sign , the object and one particular viewpoint of it are both conveyed, but with the back , only a viewpoint is described (not any physicality or objectness). (Well, actually, I don’t know…how does the back of something relate to its overall objectness?) The designation of the sign intertwines one portion (maybe one half) of the sign’s two-dimensionality with its entire three-dimensionality; it puts these two planes on an equal footing. With this logic, it ...

I was thinking about–or, I actually made a note to think about–the fact that a lot of the things I’m currently making are planned out, plotted out, started in a notebook. I work on them flatly, small-ly, without the dimensionality that they end up with. (A dimensionality I often feel unsure about...)

  “ It was the first poem I had experienced not just as verbal or intellectual construct, or even as music, but somehow as a material object, a kind of sculpture. ” 1