DAY 3: 57 DAYS OF FIBER PROJECT
After talking to my mentor about where I am in the making process, I was advised to be more aware of my surrounding, or the 5W’s of what, where, when, why, how I create my work.
I spent the next hour in the studio rearranging my furniture and taking down all of the (seemingly) irrelevant notes/drawings that I used to have on my walls. I put away everything except for Sol LeWitt’s letter to Eva Hesse so I can be reminded to make without thinking & to think without fearing.
DAY 2: 57 DAYS OF FIBERS PROJECT
56 days left…
DAY 1: FIRST OF THE 57 DAYS OF FIBERS PROJECT
While looking through my calendar this weekend, it dawned on me that I only have 57 days left until the end of my residency at the Textile Arts Center. My first reaction was to freak out and my second was to document these last moments — 1) for the sake of nostalgia and 2) to hold myself accountable for creating something everyday.
I am well aware that 57 Days of Fibers does not have the same ring as 300 Sandwichesor 40 Days of Dating. My title suffers from the lack of an even number (!) and my project suffers from the lack of someone asking for my hand in marriage on the pending 58th day. Unfortunately, I won’t have tasty recipes of sandwiches or beautiful typographic illustrations to accompany my text.
However, I’m going to push for the birthing of 57 Days of Fibers anyway. This project will serve as a reminder for me to experiment without judgements or rules even when the process of making resembles anything but creative. It will also serve as my homage to Sol LeWitt for encouraging Eva Hesse to “say ‘Fuck You’ to the world” in order to DO! and create one’s own un-cool without worrying about the consequences.
57 Days of Fibers is, last and not least, a documentation of my own reasons why I cannot walk away from exploring, making, and failing in art.
When You Meet a Lesbian
Women’s Studies 103, circa 1988
When You Meet a Lesbian: Hints for the Heterosexual Women
On Internal Racism & Interracial Dating
Tryna by spoken word poet, Alok Vaid-Menon
Letter(s) To My Mother
Letter(s) To My Mother is a multimedia project that consists of a knitted armor made out of steel wool and connective threads made out of unsent letters written by me to my mother. It’s a selfish and confessional endeavor that blurs the line between public and private information; the hidden and the obvious; protection and pain.
While working on this project, I often think about Sharon Olds’ poem, “Still Falling For Her,” which she has written for her own mother.
She Reminds Me
A love letter to the her who reminds me of.
Art Inspiration & Hero
Félix González-Torres, Letter accompanying “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers)
Voila! Moment in Remembering Art
I went to dinner with a friend last night and was asked about my favorite object at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To my own surprise, and probably to his disappointment, I was blanking out on a satisfactory answer. Would I be true to myself if I picked Woman Having Her Hair Combed by Degas, or Woman by de Kooning, or the collection of Georgia O’Keeffe’s photographs by Alfred Stieglitz? Have I visited these pieces enough to make them mine?
On my train ride home, I mentally walked through my favorite galleries at the MET — jumping back and forth between the Modern/Contemporary section and the Impressionist rooms. It was a voila! moment when I remembered the glorious Assyrian Lamassu that stands at 10 ft tall guarding the gates of the Ancient Near East gallery. How could I forget!
I remember my first time encountering the Lamassu; I was scared, in awe, and uncomfortable. This huge alabaster creature was towering over me without an ounce of mercy in its eyes and posture, not caring about me, nor I about it. Yet the more time I spent with Lamas (my nickname for him), the more I felt protected under his wings. His firm stance, his colossal beard, and elaborate headdress grew on me with every trip I made to the MET.
Last night’s dinner was a reminder for me to visit Lamas again and check up on how he is doing for it really has been a cold winter in New York.
(Photo by Rain Embuscado)
What We Talk About When We Talk About Us
Here is where you showed me Brooklyn and made me fall in love with her.
The first time we met up for breakfast, you told me the reasons why you can’t ever leave this part of town. Brooklyn has a strong hold on you and you wanted me to be a part of the spell. You brought me to Bedford Hill after the first night we spent together. We sat across from each other on a cold December day; you wanted me to experience the softness and quaintness of a Brooklyn morning with the murmurs from people chatting about things we deemed pretentious. We were excited to blend in with the scene because we sounded pretentious, too, with our talks about my art, my moving to Italy, and my shyness in admitting that I wanted to be with you at this wrong time and wrong place.
You held my hands then and asked if I wanted to try long distance relationship through the winter and spring. We would meet again in the summer when Brooklyn is at her best under the July sun. We would have rooftop parties and backyard BBQs. We would have whatever I wanted of Brooklyn — and of you — once I came back from Florence.
Fast forward to two years later, while standing on line at Bedford Hill, a friend asked me if our relationship ended on amicable terms, and I wanted to close my eyes and forget. We would never sit across from each other again at this coffee shop. You have permanently shunned this place knowing that it’s my favorite getaway. I have done the same with your local favorites in fear of seeing you mid bite with the her who had replaced me on your bed.
Since the night I moved out of our apartment, we have passed each other once or twice. It amazes me still the power we have within ourselves for a collective erasure of the past. Sitting at the yellow formica table now reminds me of the hows and whys we have fallen in and out of love. I can still recall our lives together during those last few days when the only things we could hold on to were a small apartment and the memories of our firsts.
I wake up now and again with green bruises on my chest. A woman told me that it’s a way for the body to release toxins. I hope she is right because I am willing to let it all go now.