Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Statement of Purpose
So I'm working on some applications for grad school. Even though my application (ONLINE APPLICATION) got lost to the one and only school I applied to last year, I am hopeful that I will at least get a response from one or more of the schools I'm applying to this time. I'm applying to UC Berkeley, which is a great school because it is in the bay area, and it is famous for its hippies. I guess it's not that hippy-y anymore, but it still looks like a really great program where they make you take non-art classes and expand your mind and don't try to give you any marketable skills at all, which is the main thing I look for in a place of higher learning. Truly.
The thing I most hate, though, about applying to grad school is the statement of purpose. I never know what they want- do they want you to be a professional self-marketer and state outright that having an MFA is the only way you can teach and make money as a fine artist, or do they want the flowery view that your art is your life and going to grad school will let you hone your practice and unlock the innermost chambers of your secret spirit animal cave?
This is what I really want to say:
Art is hard. The truth of this statement obliterates its clicheness. The job of the artist necessitates him/her to confront nonexistence on a daily basis. Every new project is a leap into the unknown, and the daring of this act is matched only by its lack of monetary or societal value. Sometimes it's the opposite. Sometimes we begin in the world of the concrete and take pieces of it into the void of the abstract. This is also a daunting task. As artists, we take once useful things, urinals, vacuums and render them physically useless, making them into conceptually loaded cultural artifacts. Most of our peers, at least in America see no value in our work if they are even aware that it exists. The few that do usually treat it as no more than a source of commodities or a ridiculous hobby. Even though I am an artist, I too sometimes lose sight of the value of this endeavor. I once clasped tightly Sylvia Plath's sentiment, "People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep." I would be lying, though, if I said that I never had doubts about the value of art. If you're to be successful as an artist, you show in museums and galleries owned by rich people, used as a tool for collectors to boost the value of the works they own. You network and become a business person representing your work like so many pork bellies. I have seen the dark side of the art world, the insipid ramblings about Warholian superficialism, postmodernism, and esoterica one thousand times removed from anything resembling the visceral grit of the real world. It disgusts me sometimes. I have been in the world of academia where a pile of genuine human shit can be the focus of actual educated adults' attention and analysis for several hours. This, too, disgusts me.
Why, then would I apply to graduate school and pile drive myself even deeper into this abyssal world of what amounts to either a lonely tribulation or a convoluted, expensive form of navel-gazing? I have no fucking idea. This is what I do know: my parents said they would help me pay for it, and I could really use some studio space.
Augh, I know that makes me sound like King Cunt. It's just that going to graduate school, or making art at all, is something that when I sit down and think about it makes no sense to me. I keep doing it, though, because somewhere in my secret spirit animal cave, I feel like if I keep doing it something good will come of it. Something actually good for people other than myself. I want to do good for people, but I can't remember the names of muscles for shit, so I can't be a doctor, and I suck at math. So I have to figure out a way to make this shit art brain of mine worth something to somebody. Not money-wise, though that would be good, too, but worthwhile. To people. Normal people, not just people that look like this:
So that is what I hope to glean from graduate school.
Also, I miss being scrutinized on a daily basis.
The end.
The thing I most hate, though, about applying to grad school is the statement of purpose. I never know what they want- do they want you to be a professional self-marketer and state outright that having an MFA is the only way you can teach and make money as a fine artist, or do they want the flowery view that your art is your life and going to grad school will let you hone your practice and unlock the innermost chambers of your secret spirit animal cave?
This is what I really want to say:
Art is hard. The truth of this statement obliterates its clicheness. The job of the artist necessitates him/her to confront nonexistence on a daily basis. Every new project is a leap into the unknown, and the daring of this act is matched only by its lack of monetary or societal value. Sometimes it's the opposite. Sometimes we begin in the world of the concrete and take pieces of it into the void of the abstract. This is also a daunting task. As artists, we take once useful things, urinals, vacuums and render them physically useless, making them into conceptually loaded cultural artifacts. Most of our peers, at least in America see no value in our work if they are even aware that it exists. The few that do usually treat it as no more than a source of commodities or a ridiculous hobby. Even though I am an artist, I too sometimes lose sight of the value of this endeavor. I once clasped tightly Sylvia Plath's sentiment, "People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep." I would be lying, though, if I said that I never had doubts about the value of art. If you're to be successful as an artist, you show in museums and galleries owned by rich people, used as a tool for collectors to boost the value of the works they own. You network and become a business person representing your work like so many pork bellies. I have seen the dark side of the art world, the insipid ramblings about Warholian superficialism, postmodernism, and esoterica one thousand times removed from anything resembling the visceral grit of the real world. It disgusts me sometimes. I have been in the world of academia where a pile of genuine human shit can be the focus of actual educated adults' attention and analysis for several hours. This, too, disgusts me.
Why, then would I apply to graduate school and pile drive myself even deeper into this abyssal world of what amounts to either a lonely tribulation or a convoluted, expensive form of navel-gazing? I have no fucking idea. This is what I do know: my parents said they would help me pay for it, and I could really use some studio space.
Augh, I know that makes me sound like King Cunt. It's just that going to graduate school, or making art at all, is something that when I sit down and think about it makes no sense to me. I keep doing it, though, because somewhere in my secret spirit animal cave, I feel like if I keep doing it something good will come of it. Something actually good for people other than myself. I want to do good for people, but I can't remember the names of muscles for shit, so I can't be a doctor, and I suck at math. So I have to figure out a way to make this shit art brain of mine worth something to somebody. Not money-wise, though that would be good, too, but worthwhile. To people. Normal people, not just people that look like this:
So that is what I hope to glean from graduate school.
Also, I miss being scrutinized on a daily basis.
The end.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Beginnings of nothings.
Here are some writings that I meant to make into something substantial, but never did.
5/8/2011
"Letter to my Couch"
6/22/2011
"Not"
Waiting for my internet to work is painful. This is the story all about how... I was about to type out the theme song from from fresh prince, but then I decided not to. I want to write a book. I've been trying to do so for about six years and I have basically nothing to show for it more than a few hopeful paragraphs, just like this will probably turn out to be. the problem is, I want to write a book, but I have no ideas for a plot, or characters, or a theme of any kind. All I know is that I want it to be very good and I want it to fully illustrate all the inner workings of my soul, and therefore the soul of all humans living now or in the future. The past humans I don't care about, because they won't have a chance to read it. If there were alive, though, they, too would find my book profound and deeply touching.
My job ended today. My boss is flying to Germany on Tuesday and today is Sunday, so my job is pretty much done. I was an assistant to one of my old art school professors. Well, she's not old, but I don't go to the school anymore, so it's my old school. If this was going to be a book, I would have something interesting happen by now. I'm gonna try to get serious and write for real here you go.
I parked my car in front of my boss's house. I had just smoked about two drags of a cigarette and then flicked the rest out the window, as it gave me an instant headache. I don't know if it's the cigarette or just boss-induced anxiety, but my stomach's in a knot and I feel queezy and like I might throw up on her as soon as she answers the door.
5/11/2010
"Audio Tour"
Hello. My name is Richard Weatherfield and I'd like to welcome you to Makeshift Museum. This exhibition explores the evolution of the apartment of contemporary artist, Kate Rhoades. And in it we regard the many significant objects which are held therein.
This piece is titled "A box of the rocks that my dog has brought in over the last two years." As we gaze upon this accumulation of stone, we can only imagine the strain that both dog and artist went through to create this collection. The dog, named Walras after Leon Walras, the french economist, is an 18 pound chinese pug. The rocks weighs about as much as he does. The box was generously donated to the museum by AT&T communications company. Its contours could only be rendered in the finest American cardboard and the viewer must certainly be reminded of the robust, but transitory nature of one's own existence when one absorbs the full impact of this piece.
5/8/2011
"Letter to my Couch"
Dear Couch,
Yesterday I sewed up the hole in your arm that I accidentally caused when I was trying to burn cardboard with a soldering iron. You are orange and plaid, and the thread is white, but it’s appropriate because scars are white on humans and you’re pretty human. You have been drawn, bled, and slept on. Not to mention all the things my dog has done to you. Yet you persevere. Please forgive me for what you’ve become.
Love,
Kate
12/10/2010
"Smell Story"
Every place you lived smelled like the reptile house at the Toledo Zoo. I helped you move to and from three different places and eventually they all managed to produce their own noxious atmosphere. Maybe it was the Kombucha tea, probably poisonous, you were brewing on every horizontal surface in your kitchen. Maybe it was the wall of neglected plants you carted like children to each new place. Maybe it was how you’d let your geriatric Siamese cat’s vomit solidify until you could pick it up in one piece. Or the myriad boxes of organic food share vegetables you let rot in your tiny refrigerator. Those vegetables grown so lovingly by a band of dreadlocked, shirtless men and driven thirty miles directly to your door. Then left to wilt while night after night you ordered Jamaican take-out.
Perhaps the smell was the result of your sudden love affair with alternative medicine; the apple cider vinegar and cod liver oil you were choking down to fix your high cholesterol. I still don’t believe that you actually had high cholesterol, by the way. And I especially don’t believe you can determine such a thing from a Ouija board or a witching stick or whatever was going on in the opium den living room of the woman you called a “doctor”. Or the smell could have just been incense and the weed you claimed not to have or smoke. It could have been the smell of dirty clothes, or mold, or broken promises. I don’t know, but I can still smell it. And though I haven’t seen you in ages, I’m sure it shrouds you at this very moment.
6/22/2011
"Not"
Waiting for my internet to work is painful. This is the story all about how... I was about to type out the theme song from from fresh prince, but then I decided not to. I want to write a book. I've been trying to do so for about six years and I have basically nothing to show for it more than a few hopeful paragraphs, just like this will probably turn out to be. the problem is, I want to write a book, but I have no ideas for a plot, or characters, or a theme of any kind. All I know is that I want it to be very good and I want it to fully illustrate all the inner workings of my soul, and therefore the soul of all humans living now or in the future. The past humans I don't care about, because they won't have a chance to read it. If there were alive, though, they, too would find my book profound and deeply touching.
My job ended today. My boss is flying to Germany on Tuesday and today is Sunday, so my job is pretty much done. I was an assistant to one of my old art school professors. Well, she's not old, but I don't go to the school anymore, so it's my old school. If this was going to be a book, I would have something interesting happen by now. I'm gonna try to get serious and write for real here you go.
I parked my car in front of my boss's house. I had just smoked about two drags of a cigarette and then flicked the rest out the window, as it gave me an instant headache. I don't know if it's the cigarette or just boss-induced anxiety, but my stomach's in a knot and I feel queezy and like I might throw up on her as soon as she answers the door.
5/11/2010
"Audio Tour"
Hello. My name is Richard Weatherfield and I'd like to welcome you to Makeshift Museum. This exhibition explores the evolution of the apartment of contemporary artist, Kate Rhoades. And in it we regard the many significant objects which are held therein.
This piece is titled "A box of the rocks that my dog has brought in over the last two years." As we gaze upon this accumulation of stone, we can only imagine the strain that both dog and artist went through to create this collection. The dog, named Walras after Leon Walras, the french economist, is an 18 pound chinese pug. The rocks weighs about as much as he does. The box was generously donated to the museum by AT&T communications company. Its contours could only be rendered in the finest American cardboard and the viewer must certainly be reminded of the robust, but transitory nature of one's own existence when one absorbs the full impact of this piece.
1/27/2011
"Wally Script"
Roberta - Upright, friendly, modest, soft-spoken librarian
Francine - Business woman
Roberta: Oh my gosh- Francine? Heavens, I never thought I'd see you again!
Francine: Oh, Roberta! You look amazing! What have you been up to? Where have you been this whole time?
Roberta: I was transfered to a library in Nairn. In the highlands of Scotland, you know? The position required me to leave abruptly and I didn't have time for a proper going away and all that.
Francine: Nairn?! I was just there on vacation- it's so lovely. I was just stalking Tilda Swinton. And her various lovers.
Roberta: Oh, no, would you look at the time?! I would love to meet you later, though, where are you staying?
Francine: At that little yellow hotel down on State Street- room 432. I'll be there all evening. Please come by, we have so much catching up to do!
--------
KNOCK KNOCK
(Francine squeels with delight and answers the door. Roberta comes in.)
Francine: I was afraid you weren't going to come!
Roberta: I wouldn't miss an evening with you for the world! And what luck we were both here in Omaha on the same weekend- so unexpected! How long has it been? Fifteen years?
Francine: Almost to the day, come to think of it. But you don't look a minute older!
Roberta: Neither do you, Francie.
Francine: Tell me everything!
Monday, October 10, 2011
Movie suggestions that I sent to my boss.
sad movies are blue
documentaries are red
foreign movies are green
Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001)
Brazil (1985)
Raise the Red Lantern (1991) (also sad)
Never Let Me Go (2010)
Breathless (1960)Requiem for a Dream (2000)
Jumpin Jack Flash (with Whoopi Goldberg - 1986)
Synecdoche, New York (2008)
Hard Eight (1996)
Magnolia (1999)
The Royal Tenenbaums (again)
The Darjeeling Limited (2007)
A Very Long Engagement (2004)
Love and Death (1975)
Logan's Run (1976)
Punch Drunk Love (2002)
Secretary (2002)
Network (1976)
Inside Job (2010)
eXistenZ (1999)
Sick (1997)
Brick (2005)
I Like Killing Flies (2004)
The Yes Men Fix the World (2009)
C.R.A.Z.Y. (2005)
Casino Jack and the United States of Money (2010)
An Education (2008)
The History Boys (2006)
Once (2006)
Dancer in the Dark (2000)
The Piano Teacher (2001)
Titus (1999)
Jesus' Son (1999)
Barton Fink (1991)
The Virgin Suicides (1999)
Thirst (2009)
Farewell My Concubine (1993) (also sad)
Delicatessen (1991)
Run Lola Run (1999)
Intacto (2001)
The Edukators (2005)
Dark City (1998)
Children of Men (2006)
Food, Inc (2008)
Capturing the Friedmans (2003)
The Thin Blue Line (1988)
Friday, September 09, 2011
Comic Books
Portland is comic zone number one. I have been into comic books since I would sneak into my brother's room and check out his comics in secret. He gave me his complete collection of the MAXX which probably changed my life in a way. Anyway, I have always liked comics, but living in Portland even for this short time has really expanded my awareness of comic culture. I'm really excited about it, but one sad part is that I just found out that there is a small press expo (SPX) going on this weekend in Maryland and I wish I had known about it, not that I would have been able to go, but maybe I could have? Anyway, that's my new goal for next year. To go and have a table with some of my friends, if they'll come, and hawk our books ( will have 100 books published by then), and go meet all my heroes that I didn't even know did this kind of thing! Seriously, I was looking at some of the presenters and award nominees and attendees, and just about everyone I love is going to be there! What the fuck!
Anyway, here is a list of some of the books and things and people of comicworld that I like, and that you might want to check out if you haven't:
Guy Delisle
Renee French
Craig Thompson
Stuck Rubber Baby
Chris Ware
Lisa Hanawalt
Papercutter
Gabby Schulz / Ken Dahl
Mail Order Bride
Drawn and Quarterly
Reading Frenzy
Anyway, here is a list of some of the books and things and people of comicworld that I like, and that you might want to check out if you haven't:
Guy Delisle
Renee French
Craig Thompson
Stuck Rubber Baby
Chris Ware
Lisa Hanawalt
Papercutter
Gabby Schulz / Ken Dahl
Mail Order Bride
Drawn and Quarterly
Reading Frenzy
Monday, September 05, 2011
Friday, September 02, 2011
4square Cleverness
I make creative, silly tips on 4square. I just wanted to come out and say it. If you do, too then friend me. We need to stick together.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
talking to my wife on google chat when we're 7 feet away from each other
In which we discuss how we are going to spend the target gift card that we got as a wedding gift.
me: portland has a gay man sex club
Buttercup: hoooootttt. lets go!
it's boys only
Buttercup: we can't just watch?
me: no
Buttercup: did you get my email? what do you want from target? I'll spend it all on earrings I swear
me: get a cookie sheet and a colander and a tea kettle
type!
Buttercup: sorry bitch
wouldn't you rather have a pizza pan? little bitch?
ahahahaha
no, what if we want to make cookings...haha
Buttercup: are you sure you want that teapot? I saw cuter ones
me: TONYA I WROTE COOKINGS
Buttercup: we will NEVER MAKE COOKIESINGS
me: it's so funny to me!
I'm giggling!
cookings!
hahahah
Buttercup: I hear you dingbat
me: wooo
Buttercup: i'm just ordering earrrings.
me: ok, what?
Buttercup: errrrrrrrrrings
earwigs
me: i dont give a shit, just order all the shit i just sent you, silly bitch
Buttercup: biiiiitch. i'm ordering cuter versions.
me: don't spend it all!
because it also has to pay for shipping!
Buttercup: I will spend it ALLLLLLLLL
DUH BITCH
DUH
me: cooking!
cookingds!
Buttercup: cookings
me: cookings!
Buttercup: cockings
cootchings
me: man, i did all the internet research i could to figure out where portlandia was happening, and i ain't got shit
Buttercup: duh, it was underground
me: i guess so
Buttercup: or directly underneath the bridge, in the scaffolding
me: they're going to be at laurelhurst park on the 27th
Buttercup: ayayayaya!
me: for the movies in the park thing
we have to go
Buttercup: omg SUPER EARLY TOO
Buttercup: Every asshole will be there. we should camp there for a couple days
me: hell no
we need to be crafty
and find them in their hidey holes
Buttercup: ok whatever.
i'm going to get that shit now.
me: stop making that fucking noise
let's go ADVENTURING
Buttercup: FUCKNO
FUCKNO
me: let's get cookings
Buttercup: FUCKNO
adoifhwoietbhro
me: remember when i said cookings?
Buttercup: no, when?
me: that was the happiest moment of my life.
Buttercup: really? what was?
me: when i said cookings
Buttercup: oh yeah? what?
me: tonya
tonya
let's go have an adventure
Buttercup: NOREALLYWHENWHA
NO NONO NOONONONONONONO
me: YES
fun adventure!!!!!!
Buttercup: give me 30 minutes bitch.
me: yaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Monday, July 25, 2011
Evceryero
Hey, blog. I'm sorry I haven't been writing in you lately. I have been busy with getting married and moving across the country and selling my soul and artwork on the internet and everything else. We've been together a long time and you always know I will come back to you. Well, I hope you know that. I love you very much even though I sometimes forget you exist. I hope you feel the same way. no matter what other cyber bullshit comes along for me to type on, you are my one and only constant. God bless you, blog. Don't be a stranger.
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