Saturday, March 30, 2024

I lug myself across rain swept streets — and after the door unlocks, clicks into place, after heading straight to the shower — think of how a hot shower is such a luxury. To be able to feel clean.

Visited two famed shows — reminded of midtown gallery artist whose work was delightfully and chicly textured, with a medium list that framed the piece more than the artwork itself.* Came here from a protest and as I walk through these hardwood floors, each plank of which satisfyingly creaks under my weight, I ask myself do I really want to hold this kind of art in my heart as my personal canon? This hot off the trail from a sudden and slightly unexpected heart to heart with coworker where they (rightfully so) questioned the actual merit of underground technologist “community.”

I’m overwhelmingly unconvinced, to be honest, and it’s spring, sun beating down on us and a season fit for reconsideration of norms and ideals.

There’s some distant din of a scuffle in the background (emanates from one of the pieces) and I shift around in this elegant wood-twine chair and think about what kind of art I would want to make.

*here I mean materials that prefigure the artist as a scavenger; when what it’s made with says more about it than the blurb — which, with art world norms considered, is not so lacking after all?

I initially object to it because it makes the artwork in my cynical brain feel cheapened somehow, or that it’s dressing itself with signifiers and identifiers that speak to its rightness in blue chip or chic independent post internet art gallery pantheon. I’m realizing that art can be simply pretty to look at but I am evaluating these so called brilliant pieces by how much they move me to action.

During the heart to heart I noted my hypocrisy in easily tending towards overly niche and inaccessible topics that people honestly wouldn’t think to care about. Here I mean speculative digital materiality stuff — unsure how to formulate this critique yet.

Mentioned how I don’t like the sceneyness of it all. And maybe the fall was for me to stumble through feeling inadequate and not cool enough.

How fortunate I am to have hoodie sleeves to tug onto

You really begin to take the foundational things in life for granted, don't you?

The self that fell asleep on the train all the way upstate — when everyone leaves the train (knowing which stop they were) — what of the self that dozed off, legs crossed, periodically half opening eyes to peer through?

The self reliant on muscle memory as phone’s battery droops below 6% — the self feeling out the neighborhood on furious walks home.

Three, four of us in some measures of black. Black puffer jackets, mythology about city attire, city walks, talking about fine dining, shacks along the street.

Dreaming of pants that reflect an up to date worldview, to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve.

Thinking of phoning oiled city slicker politician to give them piece of my mind that goes straight to trash.

Old red in the face man stammering and shouting STOP! STOP! STOP! as young person demands end to indiscriminate violence.

Person next to me has Sudoku. I have sketching.