there's something about the language of clothing that made sense to me from the start. i understood it beyond words, i could see what things meant and what was missing - the negative spaces - untold stories - the secrets the subtleties. whether i was wrong or not, that's literally nothing, it was just a language i spoke even if it was my own dialect that out of towners couldn't comprehend. i don't have that yet with painting. it's a yearning i have but maybe that's what's wrong-headed: i never yearned for that with clothes. I just started with intense ambivalence and a vision for what i wanted to have exist in the world. Clothing was a problem to be solved. Clothing is a problem to be solved. painting feels like someone else's world. i don't want someone else's world. but i want to paint. i want to helenpaint.
unedited so who knows
We watched 2 parts of the 3 Wayne Shorter documentary last night and as always, as Mike and I watch we notice the holes that form in the narrative, the negative spaces. What's left unspoken. Who fades away. It's just who we are. One minute his brother Alan and he are like young twins with a secret language, a few hours later Alan has died and oh! he was also a working musician. It turns out he was playing free jazz. Oh, well I want to hear that now. According to Wikipedia Shorter's gigs in Europe would often end with him responding to the crowd's boos by yelling, "You're not ready for me yet!" but guess what, that was preceded by his brother remembered that .... things are slippery. And so my day begins with this. The other brother.