Kendra Ever After

Oh what a lovely day the universe has given me. Sheathed in captivating conversations about everything from eastern religions to the magic of gingerbread houses and lumberjacks, it was a whirlwind of beauty and fervent pursuits of the arts.

My alarm interrupted my dreams of canning my own jam in the Portland frontier and I unwrapped myself from the covers to get dressed for school. I arrived early to my Expressions in Clay class and checked the kiln for my rejected compartments.

Aren’t they gorgeous?  They are aborted fetuses of my brilliant idealism. Only the first one has color: a light blue underglaze and an inky manganese wash. The second one says 'dear beloved, if it happens to you, i recommend FIRE'. The last one is the beginnings of a  mangled crib, intended to look pieced back together with bricks that, once rearranged, spell out ' i think we've lost her'.
Oh poor, neglected things.

BUT! I’ve not told you about my new piece. Because I was quite literally REDUCED to an iota of my original idea, I decided to make this one piece COUNT, damnit.

It is a site-specific installation: a series of small ceramic steps ascending from the ceramic room tiled floor to the waist-high canvas-covered table, leading to a stage.
ah, fuck trying to write it all out, heres a quick and dirty coffee-shop sketch:

Its sideways, but it reads: Happy Birthday Darling/ We Love You/ Very……/Much

It is progressively covered in ceramic pills, which will have PTSD diagnostic criteria, as well as all the emotions my BPD has me experiencing so intensely, printed on them. And yes, that is a candle on that pill bottle, whose dosage instructions  will read “Off With Her Head”.

It is called “Diagnosis: Don’t Look Down Pretty Pretty Princess”.

I’m actually significantly timid of it. It’s highly personal and it is my first work about my BPD. Working on it has been especially emotional, and I’ve lost  count of the number of times I’ve ‘snapped out of it’ to feel tears running down my cheeks and into the slabs of clay I’d been pounding out.
my biggest trepidation? That it will say too much, reveal too much.

You see, I’ve become exceedingly self-conscious about the diagnosed intensity of my emotions. I don’t want to scare anybody, or ‘weird them out’, or put them off, all things my Intensity has tended to do.
Even at work! I am so happy there, I become thoroughly giddy, nearly to the point of delirium. I know I must contain myself (my BPD), and so I vow to only emit 50% of myself, and I run to the ladies room and do a series of jumping-jacks to release the anxiety of the remaining 50%.
And of course the negative emotions come just as fiercely, though with more turbulence. They are much harder to contain, as the reservoir of my anger and rage wells from the depths of my corrupted childhood. Oh my the hurdle is Sisyphic.

Anyway, the second part of my day entailed my dragging  a handful of fellow art students to the opening reception of the Andy Goldsworthy exhibit at Haines Gallery. Mr. Goldsworthy himself showed up and of course I stood across the room and stared at him, willing the glass of white wine to imbibe me with the ability to form the words of all the questions I had for him. When I got to the bottom of the glass, I walked across the room, stared openly at that infamous Clay Wall, and vexed myself.

No matter, folks. I left feeling abundantly fortunate to have been in the presence of amusing students, a talented artist, and significant art.

A clove cigarette while I waited for the train.

A glass of Malbec.

I am complete.

current mood: forever, ago.
current music: nico - these days.