My ordinary life and William Copley

 

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2016 | Young age | Gouache on board| By Tati Vice

When I looked and it was June, half the year was gone already. Hobby Lobby has all the July 4th decorations ready to go, and soon it will be time for the Xtmas trees. In Houston, it has been raining since 1845, with floods that reach France and Argentina together, and in Brazil things seem to be er… a little off centre. As usual, I have NOT comply to any of my non-New Year’s resolutions, which in a way, makes me feel quite good, but I’ve been keeping up with the news.

One of the things I like to do, as my 5 readers are well aware, is to cook. Before I go into the bloody mess,  I should say that, I shall not publish disgusting photos of my stitches or of my severed index finger. Things like that irks me. That’s why I still live in the time when we wrote letters to each other and, if we had to tell the person of our little mishaps, photos were definitely not included. I won’t go into much detail, I shall only say that, I may or may not have turned on the blender and well, I shall leave at that. All I can say is, typing has been a little slower than usual.

This bloody event reminded me of a story I heard on the moth radio a while ago. This poor chap, Ed Gavagan, survived being stabbed by a gang in NY, followed by a car crash, and if you are not doing anything interesting, you can hear his story in the Moth Radio page, here. I find it beautiful how the human body can heal, indeed a miracle, as I look at my own skin and see things trying to return to a normal finger tip.

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Last weekend I went to see an exhibition of the works of  William Copley, of whom I’d never heard before. I say things like that because I do believe in confessing my ignorance, it makes me a better and clever person. As I was looking at the huge canvases and the way he seemed to paint with total freedom, I read in the exhibition leaflet that he was a self-taught artist and would get his inspiration from porn magazines and other photographs, hence a certain obsession on the theme. They say inspiration is everywhere, and I agree, it is, what you do with it is what matters.

So, I’m taking my inspiration in everyday life and from the people that live in my head. I have embarked into a new project with a friend and should be fun to show the work to the people that booked all the cheap Airbnbs for the summer in Sag Harbor, NY. We will be in a studio/ gallery for the weekend and that’s all the details I have.  Summer is coming.

Arrivederci.

Of when I fell out of love with dance

The pastor | Mixed media on wood panel
The pastor | Mixed media on wood panel – By Tati Vice

Art can die; what matters is that it should have sown seeds on the earth… A picture must be fertile. It must give birth to a world.

Joan Miró

There is no way to say this, so I’m just going to say it: I fell out of love with dance. This is that. Thank God, being in love and loving it, are very different things.

As I read an article this morning by Claire Armitstead about Miriam Elia, an english artist, who stopped making  radio comedy as she “fell out of love with comedy” but still keeps the sarcasm on her books and illustrations about the contemporary art, I felt relieved.  The kind of relief that one feels when sees or reads something that translates a sort of anguish that one could not quite identify or understand, but someone finally said something, showed the way, and there was light, the skies opened, the  angels sang.

I love Dance. I think it is an universal  privilege, moving is good for the body and mind and everybody should do it. A dear friend, who is a musician told me once that, although he is not playing or composing anymore, he understood that everything he does in life, is music. He makes the most amazing and original printed fabrics designs I’ve ever seen – he is making his music.

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I  felt relieved to understand the kind of nausea I feel when I see some performances: my stomach is the first thing in my body to signal when something is not digesting properly. I understand that my eyes are contaminated by by own background and biases and, to keep things into perspective – hard – I ask Mike, what he thinks, how he sees it. Mike is an engineer, he is the common audience at the theatre, who paid the ticket to enjoy a show on a Saturday evening. He is not an intelectual writing to impress his peers, or a visual artist who hungs the rotten meat at the exhibition to shock people, or the dancer in the audience salivating poison as he observes how fat the other one looks on stage; or the actress, who realises from the audience, the blank stare as her colleague forgets the script and improvises on the spot to make the show go on; or even the maestro who sees that the Étoile is coming down on the diagonal, speeding up the déboulers and he now has to accelerate the orchestra to keep up with her.

Mike often helps me with honest impressions and makes things clearer for me. One of the directors with whom I worked in Brazil used to say that, a work in progress should be showed to your grandma, to your aunt’s friend, or the maid, to see if your piece is communicating, if there is any noise. If so, the work must be revisited, as if does not communicate, it does not reach out, doesn’t sow the seed, does not make a difference.

The only way I can understand the world is through difference. We are not all equals, will never be. When an good idea becomes a vocabulary to be decoded, learned and repeated, we lose the fertility of the seed. Life becomes a marketing, as I quoted here before, “that turns creators into Pavlovian creatures hooked on constant and immediate positive reinforcement via “likes” and “shares,” [Maria Popova]

A profoundly individual gesture is anonymous. Being anonymous, it allows the universal to be attained… The more local anything is, the more universal.

Joan Miró

Foto Tati Vice©

Quote du Jour

Miro

First read on Brain Pickings, a great article by Maria Popova about the spanish artist Joan Miró and his creative process.

In an age when the vast majority of our cultural material is reduced to “content” and “assets,” factory-farmed by a media machine that turns creators into Pavlovian creatures hooked on constant and immediate positive reinforcement via “likes” and “shares,” here comes a sorely needed reminder that art operates on a wholly different time scale and demands a wholly different pace of cultivation. (I’m reminded of Susan Sontag“Our task is not to find the maximum amount of content in a work of art… Our task is to cut back content so that we can see the thing at all.”)