bus stop ladies

toaster (undone)

Undoing is about getting to the it-ness of an object. It’s a toaster and it serves a function to warm up a carbohydrate square but it is also a system of wires, metal plates and plastic. It collects the bits and pieces of toast over time and eventually every last mechanical surface of the interior becomes coated with crumbs of a certain age. Crumbs of every shade from black to light brown live on long after the toast has been eaten and sent back to the eco-system. Undoing a toaster even has a certain sound to it as the delicate metal ribbon is un-threaded and reverberates off the thin metal plates. It’s a specific toaster-undoing-sound, particular to this make/manufacturer of toaster. I see now that every undoing will have it’s own soundtrack, which I'm looking forward to. The whole toaster assembly was held together by 10 screws. The majority of the structure is accomplished through tiny folded metal tabs and slots. It’s surprising how such little gestures provide so much structural strength. I actually worked up a sweat trying to pry it all apart as deliberately and non-destructively as possible. The toaster parts all have a “look” to them: flat, folded, tabbed, slotted, holed. The electric parts look completely different: flaming red copper wire, winding thick black cord…so true to their functions and their opposite roles of mechanical and electrical. In opposition they bring each other to life, converting current to heat and synchronizing levers to toss toast upwards - although this toaster had become out-of-sync.

Part II – transformation or something that looks like a messed up re-arranged toaster, we’ll see.

a three inch bug

While hiking up the backside of Cowles Mountain and imagining I was serving out some ancient penitence under the heat for the monotonous route I had chosen, I finally reached the summit and as I endeavored never to stray off the main trail again I saw a huge three inch bug land on one of the dry little brush flower boquets. The bug brought back the memory of my Great Uncle's study (which later became my bedroom) and the framed beetles, tarantula and giant flies on the walls. He was an entomologist and in his study he had two metal base cabinets inhabited by trays upon trays of collected and categorised specimens. Above his desk were two overhead shelves packed with reference books on insects, birds, and flowers. The walls were naturally painted an olive green and the floor had a crimson red carpet, it kind of was like being inside a bug. I realize now that he had hoped for me to be a naturalist too. He tried to take me on trips but that stopped after I wandered off and was lost for 3 hours. I remember him giving me little science kits and instead I was drawing all the time. I was going through a portrait phase while I was living with my Great Aunt and Uncle and I was especially intent on drawing celebrities: Steve Martin, Christina Applegate, Whoopi Goldberg, Bea Arthur. Don't ask me why I chose to draw these particular celebrities. After my great aunt died I remember spending a day with my great uncle and his new wife (he remarried at 7o-something) and newly adopted grand-sons whom were very scientific and nature-loving boys. He was out in the yard showing bugs to them and the expresson on my face must have betrayed me because one of my unofficial in-laws said to me in astonished voice "Jennifer, what's wrong?" - how disturbed I looked, I will never know.

This morning, my mother asked me how my "hobby" is going. My heart fell out the car door and onto the road, killed. Since this morning I also read Susan Vreeland's novel "Artemesia" cover-to-cover (kindly loaned to me by my French-friend before selfishly abandoning me for Costa Rica). The intersection of three-inch bug, art-as-hobby-comment, and Artemesia has brought forth the notion that on a certain level I am a disappointment to my uncle and parents. Unless I'm doing flower still-lifes, creativity has been my ticket to alienation with them as it holds little to zero significance in their value-systems. These latent emotions and value disconnections have revealed themselves to be another aspect of the couch project. The de-couching is not a destructive impulse of requital but a de-constructive impulse moved by intuition. When something has been domesticated and then de-valued and cast out, either intentionally or through calculated neglect it's only road back is through transformation.

I'm going to make butter for the 4th of July

After you read this article, you'll want to make butter with me!
BUTTER

Ice Building

Scenes from the new studio that I will be sharing w/seven other artists in North Park. This is temporary for 6 months until it is torn down for condos. As soon as I can acquire some suitable candidates (and find willing friends to help me move them) I will begin the couch deconstructions!