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I had sent rough drafts, really more like completely
raw, uncooked, just dug out of the ground and not
washed off, writings from this past summer to my
friend and poet, Jim Moore. Along with the unedited,
uncorrected words I sent a notation about WHERE
each story had been written. One story had been
written on the sixth floor balcony of a friend’s
apartment. The narrow perch overlooked the Isle
St. Louis and the Seine. I wrote about how my grandfather
lost his leg and what became of the severed limb.
The tale had nothing to do with balconies, or Paris.
The apartment in Paris just happened to be a comfortable,
convenient place to write.
Each of the other short stories I sent Jim were
written at night on trains, one from Antwerp to
Paris, the other from Paris to Venice. Again, no
association existed between the stories and the
place I had hunkered down in, to write. Jim suggested
that it might be of interest if I wrote about the
variety of places I have written and perhaps why
I chose to write there. His suggestion tipped my
focus upon a particular quirk of mine; the ability
to relax almost anywhere at any time and drop off
to sleep or to , quite recently, elect to write.
Sleeping in strange or noisy places is a lifelong
skill that I have sharpened to a razor point. I
have been known to fall asleep at motorcycle races,
hockey games, or just about any venue of my choosing.
It's not undiagnosed narcolepsy, I just decide to
sleep and I do. My father used to play a cruel little
game with me. He knew I’d fall asleep in the
front seat of his pick up truck when I rode with
him. He’d wait until my head sagged forward
and then he’d violently swerve the truck,
as if we’d hit a deer or been side swiped.
He got his jollies that way. I knew he was going
to do this, so about half the time I only pretended
to have drifted off into vertical slumberland. After
he did his slamming of the brakes or simulated barrel
roll stunt, I could settle into a real sleep.
That was my part of the game. Falling asleep was
my default travel mode. It beat being car sick and
suspended time. When I was in high school I used
to read on buses or long car trips, but as I grew
older, the cyclical vibrations of the moving vehicle
made staring at text caused me to become nauseous.
If I dare to read in a moving vehicle and don’t
get sick, my default sleep mode takes over. Defense
mechanism, I guess.
At some point in time I discovered that while I
can’t read on a train, plane, car, or sporadically
jerking pick up truck, writing is possible, and
melts time in quantum hunks. Writing has become
the new default mode for condensing time. If I can
find some paper and pen, I can write. I sure can’t
edit, under travel conditions, because that’s
the same affect as reading, but I can think with
a pen. It was a great discovery and a delight to
find I didn’t have to be moving through space
to write. I thank my wife for this breakthrough.
We went to the movies, but found it sold out. So,
we purchased tickets for the next showing and went
to kill three hours at the nearby shopping mall.
Gale said she needed some new jeans, so I went along
and sat outside the dressing room. As I sat with
nothing to do but wait, I discovered that inside
my jacket were the notebook and pen I carry when
I fly.
At this moment I am again on a bench in a crowded
shopping mall, with thousands of shoppers passing
by. Some stop to share my bench. I am aware that
they are there, but keep on writing. I'm relaxed
about writing, so long as no one is looking over
my shoulder or correcting my spelling. To anyone
passing by I could be making a grocery list or writing
a postcard. Whatever I might be doing wouldn't be
of interest to any passerby, or attract any attention.
So, given a place to sit and feel secure, I will
write or sleep. Sleeping had always been the default,
but since discovering how easy it is to bring paper
and pen along, I prefer to let my mind play with
controlling a line of ink.
Can I write anywhere? Anytime? Certainly not. But,
so long as I know I'm safe and will probably sit
in one spot for more than a few minutes, I pull
out my materials.
Part of writing, for me, allows me to escape situational
boredom. Have you ever waited in the doctor's office
and found an interesting new magazine to read, or
a framed "artwork" on the wall worthy
of contemplation, or is the television tuned to
anything that doesn't drive you mad? I pull out
the notebook, just like I've done now, and write.
But, now, here's the seed that sprouted from Jim
Moore's idea: I noticed that while I can sit anyplace
and start writing or making notes the same does
not apply to art making. So is writing not making
art? That's not the case and not my point.
While writing, I am free to think and mark down
whatever I feel like. At this moment I am in a urologist's
waiting room with twenty other people, each in relative
states of boredom, anxiety, or pain. They don't
even notice me or what I'm doing. If what I am writing
was published as an article in the out-of-date issue
of People magazine, they held in their hands, they
probably would glance at the pictures illustrating
the article, but not read; waiting instead to hear
their names called. On the other hand, if I pulled
out some materials and started making a drawing,
heads would turn. Or at least I believe they would.
That has been my experience in the past. I don't
sketch or make drawings in public. It's not the
way I work.
My time in the studio is my time in the company
of no one. I am isolated. I am on my own island.
I have found over the years that I can only work
in my own sacred space. There have been times in
the past when I have been invited to go make prints
in someone else's studio or go to one artist retreat
or colony. These seem far too alien to me. The idea
of where and when one creates is far too personal
and specific. (By the way, I'm in yet another waiting
room, this time in the Radiology department of the
hospital. Naturally, this follows the sequence of
the visit to the urologist. More tests means more
waiting and this time it's slightly different. The
magazines are the same, so is the CBS morning show
on television; what's different is that I'm the
only person with my clothes on. Everyone else is
wearing those open-back hospital robes. Even in
this environment no one pays attention to my writing.)
I don't know this as a fact, but I understand some
people not only are capable of working (creating)
away from their studios, but even prefer to do so.
The concept is alien to me. Making art outside of
my own studio feels like cooking dinner in a crowded
public lavatory. Before I start new work I have
to clean and adjust the studio so it feels right.
It has to feel right or the resulting product is
mechanical.
Imagine, if you will, what it is like to try to
create in a new studio. I know I am not alone in
my reaction to working in a different location.
A brand new studio is the worst! During October
of 2000 I visited Brice Marden in his newly built
studio, not far from the World Trade Center. His
studio was in a building still in the process of
construction. His space was crisp, handsome, and
beautifully lit, with windows all around. He had
moved into the space just that week and had not
started to make work. He loved his new space but
hadn't broken the ice yet on creating or trying
to create there. We talked about the story of how
years ago Richard Deibenkorn was stuck, unable to
move forward with painting in his new studio. One
day he walked around the space with his pants unzipped
, and pissed on all the walls. After that baptism,
he could get down to the business of making art.
Brice Marden hoped he wouldn't be forced into the
same method of breaking down the inhibition of creating
in the new space.
It occurred to me that the main problem is in the
focus. How does one adjust to a new locale, city,
studio, waiting room, etc. ; change (in general)?
How does one accept, be aware of the influences
of this new situation and accept/incorporate those
influences, grow from the change, and move from
that as a focal point to making the outside disappear?
That's really the key making the outside fade from
view so that focus can shift to the interior act
of creation.
That is why I have sometimes been inhibited from
starting work on a new piece of handmade paper or
writing in a new notebook. I get stuck seeing the
object in front of me, when it needs to disappear
as an object and become invisible, except as a bearer
or vehicle.
Back to Brice Marden, while in his new studio he
showed me some blank, green strips of handmade paper
someone had given him. Like his studio, he had yet
to cross the threshold of permitting himself to
violate the beauty of the paper. Someone asked how
I could possibly write on a train from Antwerp to
Paris or Paris to Venice? The answer is fairly dumb.
I have taken these rides a number of times and enjoy
the view out the windows. But I usually travel at
the start or end of the day, in the dark. Not too
much to look at as it whizzes past in the night.
Also, time passes more quickly when I'm either sleeping
or writing.
In either case, I'm free of the outside world to
a degree. But I can still lift my eyes to the skyline
as the train pulls out of Brussels or another stressed-out,
bare-backed patient glides by. Then I can rock back
in my seat and I notice that I've been making pen
marks on some beautiful white sheets of handmade
paper in a leather bound notebook.
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