Wall of Art

One might assume after forty years in this body and two (three?) decades of pushing it to the max that I would know better than to get to the point where I am currently— hitting the wall. I imagine my wall as a concrete structure, the middle key grey concrete bricks held together by by cement mortar, threaded together by rebar. Of course my wall isn’t imaginary, it is drawn from memory. The edge of the barrier between the yard of my childhood home and the neighbors to the east with whom my family has never really gotten along. My brother would sometimes use that wall to kick a soccer ball against it. Hard thwaps smacking against the wall and echoing as the leather ball came back to him after a forceful kick. Occasionally he would miscalculate and that ball would go sailing over the wall. While the wall is probably a good thirteen, fifteen feet from the ground on my parents side, I don’t think it was quite as high on the neighbor’s side, as it was built into a hill. I don’t really know for sure, these are just my assumptions, my failing memory. I don’t remember truly ever seeing over the wall. I do know that it was a pain to try to get the ball back. Sometimes it would magically return right away. Other times the ball may have disappeared for days. I wouldn’t put it past my brother to have scaled that wall to go get it. But if he did, I have either blocked it from my memory or removed myself from the scene, so as to not know of it. For pretending you didn’t know what was happening seemed like the better survival strategy for attempting to avoid the wrath unleashed by parents who expected me to be just as responsible for my brother’s actions as he was.

Perhaps that bury my head in the sand survival strategy of my youth is why I didn’t see the wall coming, building up brick by brick. Rest and the self-care strategies usually keep the bricks at a reasonable height. Just enough of a barrier where I feel the weight every morning as I creak out of bed. Legs and back stiff and sore from activities of the painting and writing variety; too much sitting, too much standing, too much bending over a canvas, too little walking, too little resting, too little stretching open of my chest and shoulders counterbalancing the time spent hunched in various iterations over substrates, palettes, or screens. In balanced times my concrete wall is there, but I remain able to step over it. In the unbalanced times, the wall grows as if each day I do not fully rest, a new brick is magically laid upon the old until having not noticed how difficult it has become to lift my leg over, I am suddenly faced with a wall that I can no longer pass. I’ve always been one to push myself to the edge and keep going, as if there is some valor in the push. As if proving myself, earning an imaginary gold star of some authority figure’s approval, that the wall is no match for me. Yes it’s concrete, yes it is strong, but it’s not infallible, there are ways through. There are always ways beyond. But this is perpetually a delicate game, and sometimes, instead of paying attention, I avoid reality by pushing harder as the bricks multiply. All the evidence is there, “slow down,” they say, “take a break,” they plead. Instead, I imagine myself like the Kool-Aid Man busting through the wall. Oh yeah?! You won’t stop me!

Until… of course it does. Never the daredevil, I do not dream of ways of scaling the wall. I’m more of a find ways to obliterate the wall with force. Amass skills or tools to bore my way through somehow. Even, when it feels like that wall is not meant to go through. I know this about myself. I am tenacious and stubborn to my strength and my detriment. My creativity thrives on momentum, so I get concerned about what it means to get back into the groove when I take time away from my practice. Having written all my life, I also find myself tied to arbitrary daily word counts or time logged even if it’s not highly productive time. Sitting in front of the computer counts. And the other day, oohh did I try and massage the words out of me. Each one like a typist just starting to learn where to put their fingers. Hunting and pecking with pointers instead of my typical over 80 wpm, ten fingers flying version that strikes when I’m in the flow. The words just wouldn’t come. I set timers, I took breaks after 25 minute stretches. I tried drinking more coffee. I scrolled Twitter. I tried allowing the anxiety of the impending deadline to flow over me like a motivational pep talk. Still, the words did not come. All my tricks and for only a third of my typical reward, despair soon to set in. Three hours later I’d finally managed five hundred painfully extracted words and then I gave up. Not to rest, oh no! I went down to my studio and stared and stared at a painting. Too afraid to pick up the brush after my hands had failed me on the keyboard. I fretted, and paced, busied myself with things that need to be done but have not real consequence if I don’t complete them. Make progress, keep going, must keep busy, trying again to find a way to take some bricks out of the wall so I could bust through.

The words (thankfully) are flowing again today. Perhaps the wall knew, that if I could take some time away I would be rewarded for my troubles. You’d think I would have learned that lesson by now but instead, it’s one that I keep finding I am needing to learn over and over again. I’m trying to find new ways of thinking about my wall. What if my current task is to be grateful for it? I always tell myself that if the wall becomes too high for me to scale, then it’s time to reassess. It's time to buck the trend of trying to break through it. Just sit on this side for a bit, with rest the bricks will decrease again, one must keep the faith. I’m realizing as I write that I have been waiting for this moment, every weekend I’ve worked through lately, every time I pushed myself to keep going even though it would have been wiser to rest. I’ve known that the wall will always tell me when I absolutely must stop. But, now is such an inconvenient time for the wall to force me into stillness I bemoan. The wall cares not. The wall says, take a minute to simply bask in what you’ve put on the wall. For once, I’m seeing the wall differently and not wanting to tear it all down. Not willing to bust through and take a painting out in the wall’s shrapnel. I will listen. I will rest. I will trust. When the wall says stop and revel in what you’ve done, you trust the ball will come back over the wall.

What I’m Reading

Music is History by Ahmir Questlove Thompson

I’ve been trying to be more mindful of the synchronicities blessing my life lately and this book coming into my life via an audiobook checkout from my local library felt like a nice bookend to the recent viewing of Questlove’s academy award winning documentary Summer of Soul and my new hobby of listening to music on my record player. The book is organized by year and Questlove spends equal amount of time following a musical trend, artist, or otherwise historically notable happenings in each chapter beginning in the year of his birth (1971) through 2020 as he does on the questions of what makes history. As a scholar with an uneasy relationship to the discipline of history I appreciate Questlove’s questions, and his ability to give proper due to the chart-topping singles and the deeper cuts on any given album. What I most enjoyed was his ability to dissect a song or a musical movement to elucidate the broader socio-political implications. Questlove inspires me to be a smarter cultural critic and artist.

Artist Offerings

• I'm reeling from the announcement that Bitch Magazine is closing, reading Veronica's thoughts on the matter as former contributor and board member helped
• I learned of Windy Chien’s work while reading Jen Hewett’s book This Long Thread Women of Color on Craft, Community, and Connection (which is an excellent book btw) I’m mesmerized by the repetition of knots and her use of this fiber for beautiful installations
• Speaking of repetition check out this interview with Barbara Owen, one of my critique group colleagues, who is also engaging in repetitive forms in thoughtful ways
• I’ve been having amazing conversations with some of Springboard’s Rural Regenerators and Molly Hassler’s work, which includes this awesome instructional comic/worksheet on how to sew your own binder brings me a lot of joy from this queer social practice fibers artist

Creative Ritual 

I submitted a grant application for some travel funds to visit the Cheech (fingers crossed I’ll be awarded the money for a trip sometime before June of 2023). I’ve been making steady progress on another fellowship application and I started a new painting. I’ve been framing all kinds of tiny works, and photographs for installation of my Kitchen Saints show that is actually going up earlier than expected (next Friday April 22nd) at New York Mills Cultural Center. I’ll be having a closing reception for this show May 20th. My online shop will close tonight (April 15, 2022) at 8pm CST and will remain closed for a couple of months. Last weekend, I took a trip to Omaha to pick up my painting that was on view there and was able to listen to so many audio books! I am crushing my book reading goal.

Questions to ponder

What walls are you busting down?
What walls are you adorning?
Are you resting adequately?
How are the skills you’ve developed for thriving in need of attention or support

Thanks for journeying with me. I hope, as always, that you take what you need and leave the rest for someone else, or for another time. 

-KCF

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