The pieces hang in museums and galleries like stars, hang there like they spontaneously appeared in their corporeal forms.  I understand much better that books do not get spat out fully formed.  For good or ill, I know that they come in blobs and spits and sprints and marathons.  I am an enthusiastic painter and drawer, and as in all my auxiliary artwork, I am sloppy and impatient and happy.

I went by today to look at a map-inspired show, and ate it up.  Paper and ink assemblages like Pollocks in 3-D, a world map of Jesus-alia, maps rendered in sophisticated embroidery and beads, ink drawings in a bracelet chain, all settled in the color of salmon (particularly useful to me, in a pink period).  The ink drawings were a little Japanese, and other map-ish drawings were clearly from Asian painting tradition.

The best part is getting to go inside a sphere that surrounds you in maps.  They are mustard-family images of places the United States has bombed, which is a downer, but I am such a fan of the installation, anything I can be inside of, crawl around in, right away I was wanting to build my own.  What I really want is my own ride, so the whole experience is controlled, and not just to make you feel like you’re flying through Hogwarts or floating through a city under pirate attack, but having some other more aesthetically or politically provocative experience.  Maybe someday.

You know those pieces, looking so nonchalant on the walls of museums, came in blurry and like grown-up teeth, pushing other things out, but then there is the miracle that they became something that works.  You know they left dirty fingers and glue smears and scraps of thread.

Review of the show:


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