all the love in the world....

...and it was not enough.

What I know of depression, and I know it well, is love is not enough.  Loving a person with a depressive disorder is not enough.  Remember the old Al-anon phrases "unconditional love" and "co-dependency"? The relationship between the mentally ill and his/her loved ones is riddled with pitfalls, most notably one of perceived inequity.

We are not easy to live with, I know.  But neither are you, dear friends. Perhaps more than any other illness mental illness comes with an extra burden of guilt. In part because some of the ones who love us most deep down believe that if we only tried harder, got happy, took things less seriously we'd get over it. It feels like a set up to always letting people down.  That feeling of otherness eventually eats away at relationships.  It is easy to love  a mentally ill person "unconditionally" as long as you see yourself as the stronger one, the logical one. The saner one.

Let me tell you of the extraordinary feelings of exuberance, of joyful moments that the healthy mind takes for granted. To me they are gifts. These very gifts are what becomes my art. And those "un"sane moments? The unshakable dread, the suffocating anxiety, the escalating irritability that comes when words and sounds and sights converge into un-sortable chaos? They also become my art. I know these ups and downs tax the people I love. They are for better or worse woven into the fabric of me. Separating the illness, the behaviors and the core of who I am is tough work and often requires professional help. But most importantly, time in my studio. Art is the stabilizing factor that allows me to love and be loved.

godzillas in lipstick

Ms. Blog and Ms. Website whoop it up.  I have a headache.  They think they are so smart.  They are not.  Little monsters!

june

Labyrinth of Vision

"Start at no particular time of your life.  Wander at your free will all over your life; talk only about the thing that interests you for the moment; drop it at the moment its interest starts to pale." 

-Mark Twain, in 1904, about his method for writing  his autobiography

I have been trying to read the behemoth Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume 1 since December 2011. Has anyone really read the whole thing?  Then again, maybe that is Twain's point.  Life isn't chronological.  It only appears that way to us when we are staring at a calendar. So any reflection on one's life should not be chronological.  But 3 pounds? The book weighs 3 pounds! That's a lot of wandering.

I have been thinking about this wandering thing and art. The old saying "a picture is worth a thousand words" pretty much means "feel free to wander at will, without the linear restrictions of text."  I have been thinking of this a lot lately:

Wandering is critical to the development of vision and essential to growth in general.  But what happens when vision exceeds means and capabilities? How do you manage a vision that drives you, and gives you life but has grown complicated with external barriers and internal tangents? There is a common acknowedgement among artists that we are always chasing the vision, no piece ever feels finished, rather it is just the beginning of another.  It is often easy for us to get so lost in the hugeness of an idea, we fail to distinguish the parts.  I have made my share of Frankensteins - that is, a complicated piece that really should have been several pieces.

This has been resonating with me as I have been watching my friend Ilana deal with this very issue as she was working on her Boston Public Library installation. It's an imposing site to put art in and fraught with installation issues.  Over and over I saw her adjust, re-evaluate and change coarse while staying true to her vision, but in the end it is still the product itself which will be evaluated.  Sometimes adversity and sudden game changes suck the life out of an idea, yet sometimes it produces a more articulate, provocative and most importantly, honest art.

Is that a rubber-binder in your hot dish?

This is basically the equivalent of "Is that an elastic in your borscht?" Point being, there are infinite dialects and perspectives to describe such a situation.  There is a rubber band in the midst of your nutritional substance. And there you have it: the Rubber-binder Theory. Its kind of like String Theory for those with short attention spans, overactive imaginations and lack of appreciation for logic and math skills.  Artists. And such. We who appreciate that things are always falling apart.  And while they can not return to the same shape or condition they had been - well, a little duct tape, a few elastic bands, a little genetic engineering and they may not be the same, but they surely will be unique!