Click Here. “There are whole gardens in my chest, whole storms.”
America is cheerful. We have a day off, a gift from our forefathers. I’m not feeling it. The gift, the cheer. I feel heavy and slow and barely visible.
But: I keep seeing Northern Flickers around, and they’re so pretty. And my job is to look at and understand and classify artworks. That’s a good job. Today I loved this:
Gabriel Orozco, Maria, Maria, Maria, 1992. Phone book page with erasures, 11 x 9 1/8″. See it at MOMA.
I like the meaningful nothingness of what isn’t there, the presence of absence. I decided to classify it as drawing. It’s like drawing with an eraser, the negation of line and form rather than the creation of it. I want to find more works that involve erasing. I want to tackle a big eraser project — pick a name and start working my way through the phone book. It sounds a little therapeutic. It’s probably just crazy.
It was not a good time to read Milan Kundera. He writes beautifully about emptiness. I finished The Book of Laughter and Forgetting alone on the light rail the other night. Alone, alone — not a single person in that whole car. It’s a disjointed work, supposedly comparable to variations in music (whatever those are, I’m not really sure), one theme, one thread running through disjointedness. Only in a different way every time, so that you look at the theme(s) (laughter, forgetting, humanity, sexuality) from every angle. Interesting. But his world is so hopeless. His best characters are heavy and empty and sad. This is not what I should be reading now. Because I believe it too, too much.