abigailnicole: (Default)



In one interview, he said "When people ask me, 'Who is your public?' I say honestly, without skipping a beat, 'Ross.' The public was Ross. The rest of the people just come to the work."
--from his wikipedia page


from my class notes:



Felix believed that e go through life in couples--one individual life is fragmented. Untitled (Orpheus Twice) is two mirrors side by side--if you stand between them by yourself, you're bisected. Only a couple is complete. 




Untitled (Perfect Lovers), 1987-90. Two clocks in perfect sync--but they fall out of sync, they lose time, and one will stop first. His partner, Ross, was dying of AIDS.



Untitled (Ross), 1991. This exhibition is hard candy that's been poured against a corner. He called this a "portrait of Ross": the candy weighed exactly what Ross weighed. You, the viewer, were supposed to take an eat a piece of the candy. Every morning, the museum owner would replenish the candy to the correct weight.



For the celebration of the "Day Without Art", to look at the impact AIDS had on the art world, galleries were supposed to put black veils over all their paintings. Felix rented billboards and showed this photo of an empty, unmade bed. No text, no context, was given.



Untitled (Blood), 1992. Made of hand-strung red and white glass beads: turns people into ghostly figures on the other side, represents a liminal space between life and death, sickness and health, separated by the composition of blood. Felix strung the beads for this curtain, along with Untitled (Chemo) of 1991 and Untitled (Golden) of 1994, while sitting at the hospital with Ross.




Felix died January 9, 1996, of AIDS.
abigailnicole: (Default)

the equinox
me, taken by my boyfriend, september equinox 2011
(I like very few pictures taken of myself and this one I like a lot.) 

 

hi. 

today the weather is cold (cold, so cold, it was 58 when I awoke and is all the way up to 64 now) and wonderful and instead of enjoying it I am inside completing secondary apps for medical school.

 

they say things like

"Give an example of personal feedback in the last few years that was difficult to receive. How did you respond?"

 and 

"The most meaningful achievements are often non-academic in nature. Describe the personal non-academic accomplishment that makes you most proud. Why is this important to you?"

 and 

"Describe a problem in your life.  Include how you dealt with it and how it influenced your growth."

 

which are of course the kind of things on secondary applications. It is just exhausting to answer more than fifteen "DESCRIBE YOUR ENTIRE LIFE FROM THEN UNTIL NOW AND YOUR FUTURE PLANS AND WHY" questions at a time. I don't want to talk about timelines (please don't mention/ask) and goals and the various medschool "what? why do I wanna do this? WHAT IF I DON'T" freakouts I've had over the past few months, especially summer. There is no past and no future and there is only the purity of color and the way the wind sometimes feels like fabric against your skin, and the way the ends of your hair split into such fine pieces that you can only see them as golden lines in the light. 

Since reading Gravity's Rainbow it is harder for me to worry about little things. I think this is a good thing. I have a sense of perspective which certainly makes my mental state better: there is no bomb going to be dropped on me. How can you worry about wordcounts and deadlines when a.) there is no V2 rocket hanging over your head and b.) you know something beautiful and meaningful exists in the world? I cannot. I am calmly giving this my best shot, telling them what they want to know, and leaving it at that. Sometimes I need to stop and make tea and bake a cake and go to lunch or ride my bike around in this lovely weather and that is just how it is. I will work on it and get it done on time. 

I need this equanimity now. Last night I dreamed both my thesis readers came to me and said: "we need to read your thesis RIGHT NOW" and awoke relieved that I had a solid 50 pages to give them, with specific spots marked that I was working on and writing for. I saw one of my thesis readers last night, on Magazine Street. It was Art for Art's Sake, which is an event where the dozens of art galleries on Magazine street have open houses and each one has free wine and food. I walked up and down Magazine for three hours and lost track of how much wine and how many tiny sandwiches and tiny desserts I ate. My professor was walking into a little gallery near Napoleon and I said hello, asked him how he was enjoying the art. "I just got here," he replied, to which I said: "Well, you better start on the refreshments!"  My mother has raised me to be a charming, hospitable person who is capable of making small talk, and she is a wonderful perfect lady. 

Our favorite exhibit (mine and my boyfriend's) was at a little art school near Jefferson, which I've walked past many times but never entered. One room had 3D paintings--sculptures that hung on the walls and came out from them, unpainted clay that came out from the wall. Many of them were distorted, like photos taken with a wide-angle lens. One had death walking through the streets, second-line style, in a suit with an umbrella. Another had a nude woman standing in front of a mirror: on the other side of the mirror was another sculpture of a woman, standing in the same position, in a room full of 3D objects. I wanted it to be lit from within. The woman was connected to the sculpture only by the slightest connection at her elbow: she hung there, torso suspended in air, held in place only by her reflection. 


Yesterday I wanted ginger ale and so came home and made my own ginger soda: this is very easy. You boil equal parts sugar and water and however much you feel of sliced ginger, then add seltzer water. When I opened the seltzer water it spewed all over my clothes (the first long-sleeved shirt of the season) and I was upset for all of five minutes. When I checked the ingredients on seltzer water it said the following: "CARBONATED WATER." The CO2 diffused and the water evaporated. I took a nap on the square of sunshine on my bed and my shirt dried. Are all my problems so small? 
 
abigailnicole: (not envy)


in atlanta again. doing the lat night blog post thing from a different house. every time I spend the night in an unfamiliar place I want to write you all a post describing the experience, just in case it isn't repeated? I want to remember all the nights I spend in strange beds far from home.

today we drove through atlanta for two hours, in bumper to bumper traffic. in times like this the waiting is useless and there is no conversation and bad radio music. I think I alternately slept and listened to Repo, which set off a chain of events beginning with an insatiable urge to call Evian and sing: "I'M INFECTED---BY YOUR GENETICS!" into her voicemail (which I didn't do for fear she'd answer and there would be an awkward, 'I-wanted-your-voicemail' pause) and culminating in me listening to this soundtrack seven times. It...grows on you.

It's a love/hate movie, definitely, not something you can see and just say: "oh, okay, I appreciate this but not my thing" no. love/hate. and people either love it or hate it for the same reasons. I saw it and immediately said THIS COULD BE THE GREATEST MOVIE (about an organ repossession man and his daughter) THAT I HAVE EVER SEEN EVER. the qualifier is both necessary and unnecessary. It's really not the greatest movie ever. The plot is kind of hmm? the characters tyical, the concept a bit ridiculous. But the mere fact of its existence is so important, the fact that there are people out there who can write music like this and a story like this and the costumes! the settings! The mere fact that it exists, when it defies all the entertainment-weekly sanctioned laws of culture, is so, so, so important to me. It's not even close to Rocky Horror but yes, it is the same.

It comes down to alternative lifestyle. Let's get this straight: I am not...that. I didn't like liberal arts summer camp because it didn't make sense, the things they advocated and fought for so fervently, the people were fair-trade shoppers and vegan but their attitudes were still closeminded. I think I've said this before--they couldn't understand why anyone would ever have voted for Bush, which is just---foolish, I guess, I can't think of a better word. Why would you be that elitist in your thinking? You're cutting yourself off from experiencing all that diversity you're so big on. But at the same time I am not a right wing conservative anything, because that doesn't make sense either, for reasons all the people reading this blog already understand (as you are all liberals except JR). It is important, and on the whole I tend to think conservatism is the more prudent course of action when no solution readily presents itself. it's human nature: be cautious and proceed slowly, testing one variable at a time. this is all common sense stuff.

And there are certain traditions within that. I am big on personal responsibility. If you want to get married, get married, that's your choice and your decision, I don't really care. (this is...mostly my gay marriage stance, by the way. If you are gay and want to get married, fine, whatever. I understand that 'marriage' has a certain connotation associated with it, but if civil unions give you the same rights under a different name...? I know in many places they don't. But in both cases, we're arguing over....symbolic semantics. Marriage is a symbol, sure. But the symbol itself doesn't guarantee the relationship and having a guaranteed, long-lasting relationship between two consenting parties that is a healthy environment for both (or more) parties really is a marriage, regardless of what you want to call it or what the government says. really, less government control the better, and this is true for just about everything.) But I digress. damn, what was my original point.

anyway, my real, first original point was on the thought of the house.

If you read my delilah story--1522 St Joan Ave--then you know about the house idea, the Party house. Amanda started this story but it wasn't her idea. I have wanted to live in a giant house with all of my friends ever since I was eight years old. And I wrote that story as sort of a wish-fufillment for me, because I do want to live in a giant old house where it doesn't matter if Hannah draws pin-up girls on the bathroom walls or I write haikus across my ceiling. I have this idea that things don't have to be nice to be meaningful. Taking in cast-out things. Taking in an old abandoned house and making it beautiful by virtue of the love and effort you put into it, even if it's not conventional, even if it "degrades" it in society's eyes by lowering the property value or whatever. But LOVING it is important. RESPECT. I don't mind people sharing my house, my fridge, my dorm room---but I make the mistake of overestimating people, I assume that people respect their friends and their friends' property because I do. And that is why this wonderful house idea will not happen, not the way I want, not in the way I imagine it and in a way that's workable and will ever happen. Ideas differ. People...don't respect things. The pin-up girl in the bathroom would get a moustache scribbled on her, the haikus would be replaced by 'fuck's in true Holden Caufield fashion. And that, to have that dream of my...Utopian community, I suppose...ruined like that, by those kinds of people, is worse than never realizing that dream. Is it better to have a dream you know is impossible or try to realize it and have it ruined for you? It's why I'm letting the Delilah house live on in fiction only.

Houses are important to me. A house prompted this post, my uncle's house. House of Leaves, for that matter. Being at home in my own house makes me think about living space, about the arrangement of Objects in Space and color and how houses are just representations of things inside you. I like old houses with irregularly-sized doorframes and big locks and narrow stairs for the same reason I like getting hand-me down clothes: it is something old and already lived-in that someone else has loved and is used to being a home, used to being worn. It takes a bit of work but that's just a chance for you to put a piece of yourself in it, just like the people before you put a piece of themselves in it as well. This is human heritage and tradition being passed down via material objects.

that also could be why I journal and photograph and create so obsessively. my heritage passed on through material objects.

my journal for 2008 is almost done. I have 37 pages left in my notebook for this year. That is a lot of pages to fill in three days, but thirty-seven is my lucky number--it is my birthday, 03/07. and both numbers are fairly significant biblically speaking. also they are both prime, for that matter all three are prime. 3, 7, 37. If you would like to, I would like it if you have any quotes/poems/cartoons/things that you would suggest as a good 'end of 2008' finishing to this notebook.

then it's time to start anew on fresh pages with fresh pens. 2009, here we come.
abigailnicole: (devil & god)

so that's what I did on my birthday, since I've been seventeen for two months.
songs!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5



6.



and YouSendIt keeps giving me free upgrades, so you can send me things at firefly.

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