Things and not-things

I often have the experience where someone asks me a question, I think about it, I really look deep into my mind, and then I conclude that, at least in that moment, I can’t find any piece of an answer (= “I have no idea”). When I was on the train home last night, I was thinking of one specific instance of this experience I had and I found myself picturing an abstract painting at the end of a long, dark hallway. I think the experience of not knowing how to answer a question feels like what this scenario looks like, but I was also starting to think that all of this is what looking at a painting feels like more generally--how when you’re standing right in front of a one, there are ways in which it’s not also all right there in front of you . I’m inclined to broadly say that a painting is often much closer to someone physically than it is conceptually. And conceptually, it’s always an unattainable distance away (distance that cannot be traveled, or possibly another kind of distance entirely...

There’s a short essay by Danielle Dutton called Not Writing . I first located and read it in n+1 , and later in Danielle’s book, Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other. (The book is divided into these four, noun-titled parts, and the essay, excitingly, appears in the "Other" section) . Somehow, I’m inclined to not only keep reading, but to keep rereading (I don't know if there's necessarily a distinction here, but "keep rereading" is nice in its being an excessive way to express enthusiasm) this short essay, both because it interests me greatly and because I never seem to entirely grasp it. For a while, I’ve been sitting in the awe that reading it brings me--the feeling of receiving a powerful takeaway without being very clear on what the takeaway actually is. More recently, this has developed into an urge to write something down. I like the essay so much that I almost want to just describe it, or simply restate it (not something I typically feel a tendency toward or ...

I’ve been thinking generally and specifically about the interactions I have with objects I walk past on the street. Well, “interactions” may be a little too strong of a word; I’d describe these moments as mild forms of interaction at best–maybe “encounters.” (Somehow this term seems to more justly convey the passivity that is coming across a static thing.) Usually, passing by an object is fantastically boring. Here are some things I moved past today: crunchable leaves, a "NO THRU TRAFFIC" sign, squared off hedges, a piece of twine, pots of mums, a blue bench. (How do these items either build or get incorporated into my stream of looking? Do they suspend or extend the continuous process of seeing that I'm carrying out?) In defense of boring, I often think this quality gets attributed to things that are actually just difficult to know how or what to think about them. The boringness in the above examples comes from the complicated simplicity of seeing an everyday street item...

The problem of connecting one thing to another feels very present in the visual work I set out to make. Connection is always at hand because there’s always more than one component that I’m using (is it true that connection becomes a necessity when you’re dealing with more than one thing?), and a problem is always what I’d call it because connecting things kind of feels like the ultimate impossibility. (At least in the world of making by hand, can you actually make multiple things, multiple materials become one? One as in something with the appearance of a singularity?) Though, maybe it’s just that the methods I use for connecting (gluing, taping, placing next to) are processes that leave a seam in the line of connection--that don’t promote a flawlessness between entities. Some connections: A whole and a part -Doesn’t form something new and nameable. Two of the (almost) same item -May be strange and funny because there isn’t actually anything so strange or funny about it? An almond ...

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...