Scarlet Letter

Nathanial Hawthorne’s classic novel The Scarlet Letter was really the first piece of adult literature I ever read. I think I was 13 the first time I read it. And it was really the book that turned me on to a love of reading. Immediately, I was captivated by the novel, and felt compassion for Hester Prynne, the woman marked with the letter.

One of the brilliant things about the novel is that in a sense — literal or metaphorical — we are all marked the same. Each of us bares the mark or the scar of our shame or insecurities. Mine is the letter ‘L.’ If you look back, perhaps you can get a sense of what this means.

If you think about it, we are all Hester Prynne.

Pointless

pointless \ˈpȯint-ləs\ adjective

Date:

1582

1 : devoid of meaning : senseless <a pointless remark> 2 : devoid of effectiveness : flat <pointless attempts to be funny>

— point·less·ly adverb

— point·less·ness noun

Miasma

miasma \mī-ˈaz-mə, mē-/ noun

Inflected Form(s):

plural mi·as·mas also mi·as·ma·ta \-mə-tə\

Etymology:

New Latin, from Greek, defilement, from miainein to pollute

Date:

1665

1: a vaporous exhalation formerly believed to cause disease; also : a heavy vaporous emanation or atmosphere <a miasma of tobacco smoke>2: an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt <freed from the miasma of poverty — Sir Arthur Bryant>; also : an atmosphere that obscures : fog

— mi·as·mal \-məl\ adjective

— mi·as·mat·ic \ˌmī-əz-ˈma-tik\ adjective

— mi·as·mic \mī-ˈaz-mik, mē-\ adjective

— mi·as·mi·cal·ly \-mi-k(ə-)lē\ adverb

The New Breed (or Bitter Music)

I was 21 years old when I got my first drum set. I had been experimenting with music for a few years at that point, but discovering drumming completely changed my approach to music.

This was a rather dark time for me. I was still into drugs, mostly LSD and Ecstasy. I was also into some rather strange ideas; a number of my friends at the time were into Wicca, and I discovered a bit of occultist ideas myself. I was also getting over my first broken heart, the complete collapse of my first love (a break-up that lasted close to year).

Drumming became a remedy for all my troubles. I completely immersed myself in it. I got a copy of Gary Chester’s book The New Breed, the drummer’s bible. On the front page of the book, I scribbled a quote from Salman Rushdie’s book Midnights Children, “An overdose of reality gave way to a miasmic longing for flight into the safety of dreams.”

The View from the Bottom (or at Least from the Outside)

This email was in my box earlier:

Hello Brian,

Thanks for your postcard on “In a Place Where Pigs Fly.” I have bad news
for you. The jurors did not pick your work for the L**** W*** Grant. Let me
know if you have any questions about it. Overall, the jurors had a hard time
to understand the boxes as an art object rather than a loose collection of
images. A letter and a press release about the grant recipients is in the
mail to you.

Best wishes,
H**** F****

When so downed, I like to read this poem by William Stafford, a favorite for years (since I am so often let down):

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me

mistakes I have made. Ask me whether

what I have done is my life. Others

have come in their slow way into

my thought, and some have tried to help

or to hurt: ask me what difference

their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.

You and I can turn and look

at the silent river and wait. We know

the current is there, hidden; and

there are comings and goings from miles away

that hold the stillness exactly before us.

What the river says, that is what I say.

William Stafford

The letter and press release soon followed the email:

If you’ve never seen or gotten a form rejection letter, this is what they all look like. The sentence, “We received many well-qualified applications, which made the selection of just three recipients extremely difficult,” is in each of them. In this particular letter, they didn’t change the recipient’s address, so the address on top is the person whom the letter was addressed to before it was addressed to me.

I’m not sure whether I’m a dumb-ass or just suck, but either way I’m living much of my life somewhere I don’t belong. I spend too much of my life fooling myself, trying to convince myself otherwise. If often seems ironic to me that I teach art. Invariably, each year a student asks me about “being an artist,” or “surviving as an artist.” I typically give a canned response about figuring out your own way, and it’ll be different for each person. The truth of the matter, however, is that I simply don’t know. Despite 9 years of seeking and applying, I’m about 0-147 for grants, residencies, and publications. I don’t even remember the last time I sold a print. It’s been at least 6 years, and I don’t think I’ve ever sold anything at a real price. Typically, I lose thousands of dollars each year pursuing my photography; it’s a labor of love, or maybe an addiction. I’ve had two galleries take on my work, but both dumped me. I make pictures everyday that time and money allow, but aside from that I don’t know a thing. I have nothing to work for or with except my own love of pictures.

Ah Pook is Here Part 2

If you are interested in learning more about my post the other day, Ah Pook is Here, just listen to this…..

And as for the stalemate of the Democratic Primaries, perhaps there is a certain wisdom here too….

Notes on a Work in Progress Part 2

The real material of my work is the life being lived.

I really can see no other option than to photograph my life, all that I see everyday. I hope my photographs illustrate my struggles and aspirations, and the incredible enigma that is this.

So whether it is these pictures of my kids, or these nudes, I hope my pictures show the struggle between what I see and what I believe, or at least what I feel. This is my life, and it is all I’ve got; I hope it is enough.

As John Berger said: “The photograph is a manifesto of a life being lived.” Or in writing about Paul Strand, Berger wrote, “One has the strange impression that the exposure time is the lifetime.”

One Among Many

I did it again. I submitted my work for the Museum of Modern Art Portfolio Reviews.

I sent a unique artist’s book, Pillow Book (Or a Few Reasons I’ve Come to Love Women). It’s a collage book based on soft-core pornography, all pictures taken from old Playboy Magazines, pieces from my youth.

This time I was called about ignoring the rules.

Why do I do it? Who knows. I suppose I just want to feel that I matter, that my ideas are of consequence. It seems we all trick ourselves into believing that we matter.

Notes on a Work in Progress

I’ve attached a couple of pictures below from a work in progress, a new experiment for me.

A few weeks ago, I posted an ad online for a model. I’ve never worked with the figure before, at least nothing more than pictures of girlfriends. It seemed like a new challenge, and since I find myself between projects, it seemed like the right time to take it on.

I got a few responses to the ad, but only acknowledged one of them. I’m still not sure why, but in the end this is precisely what I find most engaging about these photographs.

After exchanging a few emails with this woman, we finally got together to make some pictures. Our time together came easily; she was relaxed, confident, expressive, and poised. I suppose I felt the same way; the pictures came quickly, and it all felt very comfortable.

Upon further reflection, I have become more and more engaged by the photographs. The pictures are good, certainly not my best work, but also strong enough to make me want to make more. What I find most meaningful here, however, is the communication between us. We found ourselves working together, two strangers basically, and yet there was a feeling of open communication. As I reflect on it today, I see that we are two people of disparate experiences, and yet with a meaningful common ground. We both have something to say, and have met to find a way to say it. There is a sense of trust, which I like, and no sense of shame. This is honest, and however we got here together doesn’t matter, as long as we have the chance to voice these experiences together.

If you back up a few pages, and read my notes on Metempsychosis and James Joyce, I think you will find that this is precisely what I was trying to write about the other day. Here we are, two people brought together by a common need. Strangers in many ways, and yet able to connect and identifying something in ourselves and each other. Perhaps more than the pictures themselves, this is what I find most meaningful. As I said before, we are all in this together, and it’s too infrequent that we have the chance to actually voice this kind of experience.

Further Notes on “Lessness”

My three year old daughter made this drawing the other day. The circle in the middle of the forehead is the brain. What an amazing insight. Simplicity.