blu & yallow

[blu-yallow-blog]

While procrastination is always looked down on, I must say, the results are pretty good this time round; I have skimmed my whole hard drive for evidence of my time in art galleries since 2016 (the year I actually started bothering to do anything with a smartphone), and have filed everything neatly away. 

Despite my assignment being due in just two days (this is after a week extension, too!), it really doesn’t matter because I now can tell you exactly what galleries and exhibitions I have attended in the past three years! Super cool, riiiggghhht????

As this blog of mine is slowly developing into more than just me ranting about my life, I have taken it upon myself to step further into this realm of not-doing-any-uni-work and select, edit and group images that share the same tones! This I call: White. 

Have I mentioned that I kind of suck at being a student? Have I also mentioned that I study sculpture? -This means that I only ever have to do, what, 3 (max) assignments a semester? The rest of my degree is building stuff and scrap-booking journals together. Lastly, why do I do this to myself?

Enjoy my first collage and for artist, exhibition or gallery details -I have captioned each photo (because why not spend more time not doing my assignment!?). 

[blu-yallow-blog]

Photos from my porcelain class.

The past six weeks I have learned how to coil and apply slip between the porcelain beams, I have rolled out paper-thin sheets and embedded dried rosemary and tea leaves into the liquid, anticipating the negative space that the fire will bring. I have glazed over the bisque pinch pots, pressed into bark, poured porcelain onto plaster slabs and waited for the moisture to be absorbed.

It’s all words and if I was asked what a pinch pot was six weeks ago, I wouldn’t even be able to tell you that porcelain is a clay. Call me an idiot, I will take it lightly. 

The more I learn at uni, the more I appreciate everyday objects around me. You would have no idea how many processes there are to just one glazed pot. -Did you know they need to be fired twice? Or that the mixing of the glaze itself has a special technique and consistency required for it to sit on the surface perfectly? The pot itself has to be slowly pinched out, insuring that the thickness is the same all over or you risk the light transfer being uneven. Your fingers have to press into damp sponge regularly for the porcelain to not dry and crack, or it won’t even reach the glazing step. 

There is so much more to porcelain that I don’t even know, and the information I have soaked up is very overwhelming. Nevertheless, I love this material. 

[blu-yallow-blog]

This was taken at the back of the restaurant I work at. 

I love when the leaves warm into yellow and orange hues as the nights turn colder. It is the season you can comfortably sleep with the window open as your bare body generates just the right amount of heat beneath the covers. My housemate would say it’s too cold, but I love the crispy fresh air running nag champa around my room, brushing my skin with scents that remind me of my childhood. 

My mother had a Balinese and Indian retail store where incense was burned every hour and soaked up into her clothes. She’d walk through the door and my little five year old body would curl up in her arms on our sofa. 

Did you know that your sense of smell is closely linked to the region of your brain that handles memory and emotion? Studies show that odors trigger vivid memories and past experiences more effectively than other senses, and I associate the smell of my mother with comfort and protection. 

Memories are such a dominant topic in my life at the moment. Maybe it’s because my sculpture class’s theme for this week is Memory & Time, and I am subconsciously thinking about it. Each week in class we are given a theme that we have to develop an artwork from. A sculpture, specifically. But if you are an art student and also being provoked into thinking like an art wanker, sculpture can be anything. Yes, that’s right. Anything; sound, because ‘it’s a physical presence in a space and that’s what sculpture is’. Performance, because ‘sculpture isn’t just a concrete structure, it’s flexible and tangible and can be alive and only last temporarily’. A video piece, because ‘sculpture can be a two-dimensional form revealing a three-dimensional action’. I could argue a painting is a sculpture, because hell, that’s technically three-dimensional too.

I am actually thinking about creating a sculpture series, in traditional terms. I have the idea of asking people what their fondest memory is and when it took place. Through this I will try and create a visual representation from my perspective, incorporating materials that they mention from their memory. I want to wrap these materials together with rope or yarn, like messy knots and hang them from the ceiling. They will be pockets of memories from anonymous people, and you’ll be able to walk around them -experiencing their experiences. 

Has art school ruined me yet? 

On another note, I think I will be posting more about my art. Mainly for me to be able to reflect on my years at university and what was going on in my life. I have a feeling that I might regret not doing all I can to refine this moment in time and jot down the details. I want to remember things, even the bad things. 

[blu-yallow-blog]

My new share house has turned into my art studio. Initially I found myself setting up my paints and materials in the backyard and under the shed, filling plant pot shelves with ceramic mugs filled with all types of painting brushes and storing wooden boxes of oil, water, acrylic and gouache tubes of paint. In the corner I have boxes stocked with plaster, paper pulp, wire, cotton, wooden plates, nuts and seeds, paper, canvas, sheets of material, you name it. I am a collector of things and when uni turns around and tells me to sculpt something, I get overwhelmed with the possibilities. 

Lately my materials have crawled into the house and occupied my bedroom, bathroom, living room and kitchen. My toiletry basket is filled with plaster strips, kitchen stocked with modelling clay, living room coffee table layered in paper, paint and pencil sets and my room pouring out sculpting tools and paint mediums that I keep buying. 

Last week I had to cast my body in plaster. -Creating a hollow breast, leg and hand. The backyard is sometimes filled with music, wine and painting. A month ago my housemate modeled naked in our living room while we invited some friends and drank more wine while drawing her. This is where I need to be and I am so happy that I have finally found a space that I can work in. 

My old place reeked of sterility and perfection. Floor borders were wiped constantly, surfaces were polished even when unnecessary and tv remotes straightened. I couldn’t breathe there, let alone open up a box of paints. Some people just don’t dance with you on the same rhythm, and it makes living very hard and uncomfortable. I initially thought it was great that I had moved in with someone so opposite to me. Being their friend, we had a social connection on some aspect. But our study, family and friend life were completely different. I thought it was good that we could live in a space together, but still take on different schedules and interests to balance it out. 

God, was I so wrong. I definitely don’t regret the experience, because it only helped me learn what I do like and don’t out of a housemate and living space. But I lingered in that environment for way too long. It became toxic and very lonely. I remember returning back from Indonesia after a long month with family and a full, noisy, fun house, only to step into an empty, small unit where my living space was turned into an airbnb layout and my room mopped and cleaned while I was away. -Violated, basically. And then left. My housemate was never there, and when she was, she cleaned. So I laid in bed and cried, because what was meant to feel like home didn’t. 

I told myself that I needed to give this place one more shot. This place as in this country, this state. I needed to find happiness, or there was no point in me sticking around. I think I am finally reaching that, slowly but surely. I don’t think I am completely happy, but it’s dramatically different from my position just last year. 

[blu-yallow-blog]

Monday will be two weeks since I have had a cigarette. According to the internet, my sense of smell and taste has improved. If my body wasn’t rebelling against itself and I wasn’t sick, I’d perhaps be able to notice this. 

Week 9 is looking fun. -My cilia will be recovering. In other words, my  microscopic hair-like structures in my windpipe will be in better shape. I guess I’m looking forward to the inflammation in my airway to go down, or feeling the full potential and capacity of my lungs once again. Yes. Breathing, it will be good. 

This is all great, but wow I chose the worst time to quit. I guess I was already kind of sick, and I felt, I guess, spontaneous? and decided to jump on the health wagon. But this then made me even more sick, and I tried all the things; honey, lemon, ginger, greens, shots of apple cider vinegar with manuka honey (I know, lush), sleeping pills, cold and flu pills, panadol, sleep, sleep and more sleep (mother’s advice). So riding the natural-remedies and then the drug wave, I sat myself on the train to work where I ran the relaunch of the restaurant on a long weekend. To top this off, the town had it’s biggest annual fair on, which consists of 30,000 people from over the state to come and look at furniture-building stalls and eat overly priced burgers in 38 degree heat. Oh, also, it was market day AND exhibition openings on the same street. Basically, a very loaded weekend. With no cigarettes. 

To say the least, I cried for the first time at work and the chef had to come out and comfort me. 

It got better though. -I sat my ass down on that A. train home, only to find my B. train wasn’t running all the way to my stop. Then the replacement bus took it’s sweet time and I threw my hands in the air, said “fuck it”, and ordered myself an uber home. And still, I did not revert to tobacco sticks. Go me. 

So many shit things are happening in my life right now but aren’t linked to my control. I am reaching acceptance, slowly, but for the mean time spending $45 on a Frida book and starting to go to yoga classes again is looking like the best option. -Being delusional, basically. At least I will be able to breathe again in 10 weeks. 

[blu-yallow-blog]

snow peas

we sat next to the train. plates 

went passed. colors,

valued differently. time

valued once to you. you no longer valued 

time with me. 

do not forget me, your home

is here. 

your home is here.

snow peas passed, which

i could not share. 

three years passed, which i could not share.

you once valued time with me, but

my home is not here.

blue value passed us on the train. 

green, red, yellow and time. 

[blu-yallow-blog]

You laid there next to me with Frida ready to play, on pause, and spoke about poetry and why it’s written the way it is. It’s punctuation, spacing, grammar and vocabulary. -It’s all intentional and there for a very particular reason, even if you’re like me and don’t necessarily understand it. You read some to me, the way you would read it. “Some poets write in all lower case,” I watched you hold ‘bone’ by ‘yrsa daley-ward, “some don’t use punctuation at all. That way it’s read the way you want to read it, and that’s what the writer wants”. This made me think about how I wanted to read my intentions. How you read my intentions. My punctuation, your spacing. I thought about what we wrote, and how this wasn’t a success story.

I thought about how I wanted to write poetry and how you write poetry, and how that would entail me drafting something for an hour before giving up. I thought about writing letters, and how I want to write you a letter. A letter about then until now, my new everything, before I lost you everything. I didn’t want to lose you everything, by the way. My new everything isn’t great, by the way. 

You told me to move on, “don’t tell me you still care about her, that isn’t fair” you said. You sat across from me, eating the food from the buffet, thinking about what coins you have at the bottom of your bag to which you can drop to the bottom of the donation box. You are my dear friend, but you hurt me sometimes. This doesn’t mean what you said isn’t true. It isn’t fair at all. I still care though, maybe too much. 

You told me about letters you had written to your grandparents, asking them about their favorite books and birds, what he was feeling when he saw her, what she thought about when she thought about love. I told you to read ‘what we talk about when we talk about love’ by ‘raymond carver’, what do we talk about when we talk about love? I thought. Then I thought about you. You never spoke to me about much. Love was something very distant, even though it felt so confident. You sent a message to your mother, and I turned Frida on.

You have left this place, and it feels very lonely. Every time someone goes to touch me, I think about you and how I was only ever comfortable being held by you. Maybe I just knew you weren’t using me and it was for comfort, nothing more. Maybe that is the secret. I met someone, and she tried very hard to wrap herself around me. My neck hurt, my arms numb and my mind unable to sleep. She held me too tight. I still kissed her goodbye.

I am tired. And I’m thinking about you. And you have walked to your room, because Frida is finished. And I haven’t spoken to you since the gathering. And you look like you are enjoying Indonesia, even if you say otherwise. You look happy. 

I will read more poetry.