Evaluatataion

This semester, I'm back in Chicago. I figured I'd start blogging again, as there are things I need to think through. It might also be helpful to write them out - it will also be helpful to finally evaluate last semester in New York properly. I won't write so much about the program, because I think that's mainly for the organizers of it (and they already have it), but about the projects made and the co-habitation or lack thereof in the space.

I did not write about it while it was still pertinent because lots of things were happening, and the last thing on my mind was to blog about it.

Above was the final project for the residency, along with this:

and also:

These were projects trying to think about my time there, and also some of the frustrations experienced personally and within the group. Finally, a small collective was formed, the Rolo Collective, with two fellow students at the program. More information to come about this.

This is a brief overview of the end, I'll get into the details more as the semester progresses and the spring gets digested. Safe to say, I am still "working" on the projects I begun last semester, but slightly differently. Mainly due to me being back at SAIC and not having the same, rich environment in New York (with BHQFU and other initiatives), it's changed a bit. I'd like to find something similar here in Chicago, but the art environment is very different here.

A large part of this is the almost absolute domination of SAIC (School of the Art Institute of Chicago) in the city and the galleries - everyone seems to be a current student, teacher or alumni of the school. Last week I visited a UIC-gallery, and the feeling I had in the space was totally different. Earlier in the evening we'd mainly visited SAIC-galleries where we bumped into acquaintances everywhere and the art mostly consisted of colored lines and line drawings, something not-yet-peripheral-painting-like and "geometric abstractions and explorations." Therefore, entering the UIC-gallery was refreshing, as the art seemed to be a little more politically oriented... or something. I also realized UIC offered free art classes during the summer! Free and open to everyone, many of the classes seem to have been oriented toward political engagement and activism. I wish I could have partaken in this, as it's hard to evaluate from the outside (considering who funded it and their requirements).

Which is what I'm writing my thesis about. For now, that is the continuation of working I can see. Looks like it'll be about art education, how expensive it is and what it does to art making and values for me to graduate with $100,000 in debt and a BFA. Plus evaluate some alternatives, like BHQFU and the School of Making Thinking (representatives of which were present at the Unpanel).

And that will be it for now, as this is already pretty text-heavy. Finally, this might be a way for me to work through the thesis topic and a sort of exploration in Chicago's alternatives to art education, as this is where I am now, and will have to work with this!

4

i can come across as sharp, at times, even bitter or sad, but it's hardly true
you find in me something unspoken that i hadn't dared touch but still wanted badly to see
everything i write is in the form of love letters to you don't you know that by now? certainly
it must be totally obvious
i don't know who you are
although i've met you several times
and spent so much time with you
there is something harsh in being with you without being there
but it is satisfying nonetheless
except describing it
talking about it
isn't so good, so much of the time
yet some aromas come up as the words leave my fingers
like peppermint
parsimmon
cumin
(which smells a bit like sweat)
rosemary and lavender, then

i rubbed my own shoulders this morning, in an effort to relieve the aching muscles in my neck
it helped for a while - an icy cold was there, and i felt it
but i wished for something else
a little cup of shaved ice with some cherry juice on would have been good now
alas, i could not have it, so i went for the little bread with eggs and ham and cheese instead
a croque monsieur almost
it was either way incredibly good
incredibly delicious, just perfectly savoury, and otherwise

well i don't know what's the point of this. if all i want to do in my days are things which are creative and then elsewise
why is this something i bother wasting my time on
switches in my head yeah right
i mean, i believe in it
i believe in so many things, like we have an apothecary in our own head its true
i heard it on the radio i tend to believe it
but switches are harder because you adjust them yourself
but there really are such things that you don't want to get used to
you don't want them to get better
so why are you here, my dear? is this just a fun play trip for you? something to brag to your friends about?
hah, nevertheless, it's paid for, room and lodging, even an occasional piece of bread
in the morning
dip it in your coffee, it's not so bad
i got into the habit of eating something sweet each day
it's like a reward
you got through another day, good you
good good, very good
so here is your reward
there are no more rewards (i decided to stop)

then they all told me to write, i thought, they're older
maybe they're right
will you recognize yourself in this? will you see where you belong? can you tell what's true, what's made up?
will you tell me later? will you remind me, it was not what i said
it was not what i meant
or,
that must be me. she means me. well, you know, you should know, i do. i mean this for you, but perhaps you won't know for a while. perhaps you won't know. but it's for you.

several things are harder than they used to be. realizing that my dreams aren't true when i dream of home. waking up and not being able to call my grandmother with a normal phone. noticing that fall isn't the same everywhere, but it still gets colder. i put on pants for the first time in the summer and say, well, that's that, summer! we had a ball, we really did. there were things i did that were fun and sad and very good. but i will see you next year, you know i will, really, i will. we will be there, all of us, where you last left us. summer says, he he, okay. see you soon. 

i continue, although i'd prefer to open a new document

it's more harmless
perhaps this won't be continued for so long
i dream of something that will seize me, one day
and i think, then it will be something quite different
from what it's been before.
there is a level of threat to it, threatening the present:
just you watch it! another day will come, and it'll beat you to a pulp! that's right, blue and bloody!
watch it, day of today. you won't last long. 

imagining

the quiet mutters underneath breath reveal life, revel life, too, i can almost imagine,
ha-ha, if this is a poem i am my mother's mother
but still it comes through and we put it out and then there are several other ones who think
well, that can certainly be it, i suppose, if she needs it to be,
i mean, it's an act of imagination, you'd say, but then again,
many fruits are low-hanging doesn't mean you need to pick them all
after all
in sleep you mutter quiet words under your breath i can never catch only guess
at names and places you revisit but never speak of when awake
where they're lost, not recalled
sometimes i cannot find you in your sleep, too far away i have acquiesced to your secret-keeping
although i regret it 
and regress
to find you leaning in the armchair you love so much, asking
can we write love-letters to ourselves? or -poems for that matter. considering the other person, imagining they would write it for us, to us
as an act of empathy? for ourselves
a sip of tea, you look down. there are books in piles around your feet, they come up to your calves although the chair you sit in is high
granddad's arm chair, lion's feet for legs
several of them are dusty, whoops they are gone, and time has moved forward so quickly, you are much older now!
there are letters and words at your feet, piled on high, cluttering about your ankles, but we don't know what they are
now

i recline in the couch and look up at the sky
imagining being the person who loves you seems a terribly lonely thing

perhaps

and then, as I survived,
another day, another night,
I held you bright
I held you tight
and there you were
right next to me
your skin translucent 
your eyes in the hollows of your elbows
i mean, they were shining
with a thousand fidgety glowing worms
crawling about
on the ocean's floor
there you were,
out of breath, out of style
yet none could say you looked the same
as you ever had before
you were new
a new person
there, there
come closer, you will be comforted
and a thousand eyes are closed
they will not see, and you will not be seen
and the letters written on your skin will disappear
in due time
as they come around
i hold them back, say, stop
this is not the way to go
you cannot go this way, i mean
but around and around
they end up at our front porch
did we want this? we say
we were just about to have breakfast! 
and now we have a thousand glowing worms at our door step
certainly doesn't inspire hunger
for those scrambled eggs we'd been making
in fact, I'd say my apetite is irrevocably lost!
ha-ha! would you look at that
there is nothing better
on a morning such as this
but look, i held you for hours since the sanctimonious and peachy pre-dawn
you were still asleep
but you stirred, for a while, as i embraced you
you were warm and dry
feverish
like a child
and i held you, there
i listened to your breath and gentle snores
there, there
slowly, they sunk
deeper and deeper and deeper until you had sunk so far into sleep you came back up for air
snapping like a little turtle for oxygen
still i held you
mmm
there, there! sweet one
there is nothing to be afraid of
it is always like this
and when the worms begin to eat away at our house
we know it's time to pack up and go
certainly won't be finishing those eggs, today
but take the ceramic bowls, i like them so
and so do you, i think
they're of swedish design
we cannot find them in many places, i think
but if you forget them
do not fret, for it is not important, really, not important at all!
when thinking about it
just bring a change of underwear and your passport
the maggots will have the rest
in fact, are we in our grave? for as i can recall, or rather
i cannot recall ever having seen these kinds of white-and-purple squirming ones anywhere else than in a grave
so perhaps then we are actually dead
i suppose it would make sense
i did hold you for a long time this morning
but perhaps that was just the morning
or the last one
i cannot remember... 
it seems to fade, a bit... drift off, so to speak... 
do you know several other people in this house? 
can we be there alone, too? sometimes
i know we should get to know other people, but i really need to spend some time with you
right now
this is the time for being sullen and quiet, i think
after all
in brief stints it comes to me
and then i can focus! say, hello! is that you, there?
i had forgotten...
long, lost... those were words of you

this could perhaps be seen so differently
and perhaps

jeg skriver på norsk!

jeg skriver på norsk
jeg begynner på nytt

jeg har tenkt på en ting
jeg liker
herreklær?
herre klær?
herreklør? 
herre klør?

å se mer mannlig ut. mannlig frisyre. mannlig holdning. mannlige tanker? hva betyr nå det? 

dette er bare et slags forord. nå begynner den ordentlige historien:

"hei, har du sett min frue?"
hun bare begynte. det var vel en måte å tenke på, men det måtte nødvendigvis også starte utenfra, eller i alle fall eksistere utenfra på et eller annet tidspunkt. 
"det er en muskel," fortalte hun seg selv, "en muskel som må trenes." hun likte å trene, og gjorde det ofte. trene her, trene der. en anledning til å bevege seg. 
"som bruce lee trente når han satt i kø i bilen sin, strammet magemusklene, eller whatever." hun leste litteratur om bruce lee, begynte etter at noen fortalte henne dette. ranulph fiennes, osv. bodybuildere. 
"kanskje det er dette jeg kan gjøre etter skolegangen?" tenkte hun.
"tone kroppen min, gjøre den fin, jeg kan se på meg selv! hei se der. i speilet! det er meg! jeg kan leve med meg selv, endelig. ha-ha!"
hun fortsatte å skrive. skrive og lese og sitte i dårlige stillinger på kafe, det var slik det begynte. 

alt dette er fiksjon.
det er noe vi skriver for å distansere oss fra våre egne tanker, kanskje? og hvis vi skriver kanskje? har vi også en sjanse til å si, nei! det var ikke det jeg mente. for det første skrev jeg jo, dette er klart fiksjon, har ittno å gjøre med virkeligheten, helt klar fikkesjon, som dom seier. fikkesjon, og i tillegg, alle mine klare og fullt utformede meninger følger med et kanskje? i halepartiet. altså, intet i dette livet er sikkert, så vi kan likegodt innrømme det.
si at kanskje er det slik? hvem vet.

folk misbruker ordet teori hele tiden, selv når de snakker om vitenskapelige fenomener. det høres jo ut som noe vi fortsatt kan spekulere på, men det er altså en hypotese som fortsatt må bli utprøvd, og en teori er en vitenskapelig sannhet. høres ikke sånn ut, men det er faktisk sant. irriterer meg hver gang, vil gjerne korrigere alle, men det kan jo selvsagt ikke la seg gjøre.

jeg vet ikke hvorfor jeg legger dette ut, jeg vet ikke hvorfor jeg vil vise dette frem. det er jo ikke noe særlig, kan man si. man fisker hele tiden.

denne sommeren fisket jeg. for første gang på veldig lenge. det var en fin opplevelse, eller, to fine opplevelser (en gang vi kastet. en gang med mark. fint begge ganger. kaldere den andre gangen.)

det er utrolig mange som skriver og leser i våre dager. jeg vil absolutt ikke være en av de patetiske unge, norske kvinnene som skriver om deres små, patetiske problemene med en slags tilgjort flørtende og naivistisk stil. ugh, blir kvalm, skal ikke nevne navn. kommer meg ærlig talt ikke gjennom bøkene deres engang. jeg er IKKE det. livet mitt er virkelig utrolig vanskelig.

lol. kødda. lurte deg. det er ikke det. veldig lett, faktisk. har det utrolig bra. vet ikke engang hvorfor jeg sitter på en kafe og skriver mens jeg drikker (gratis) svart kaffe. 
"vil du virkelig at folk skal ha innsikt til dette?
er det lurt? er det smart? vil du dette?"

du burde skrive igjen! skriv, du, det vil gjøre deg godt! få ut alle disse ekle tankene du har inni hodet ditt.

jeg jobbet på en gravlund hele sommeren, og tenkte sjelden om ikke aldri på mark som borer seg i vei inn i råtnende skrotter, øyehuler og hud i oppløsning. glurgh. men jeg vet en bok du ville likt om du ofte tenker på sånne ting. eller døden. e-post meg om du er interessert. nå har jeg ikke bodd i norge på ordentlig på en stund, så jeg vet ikke om man kan si det. "e-post meg" altså. som "e-mail me", som betyr "skriv en e-post til meg" på amerikansk eller engelsk. men det kan du gjøre. jeg bare sier det sånn: e-posten min er ganske selvinnlysende, hvis du virkelig tenker over det, og vet hva jeg heter. det slutter på gmail.