On-Off

I let the water run. While doing dishes. While brushing my teeth. While standing in the shower on those dark, cold early mornings. I turn the faucet on and off. On and off. There isn’t a lot of thought that goes into this movement. It’s part of a larger, sleepy, domesticated choreography, like putting keys in my pocket, pulling socks over my feet or opening the refrigerator door. I barely notice asking my hands to do the turning on and off. Yet it's nourishing me. It’s cleaning me, feeding me, hydrating me. These little actions I barely pay attention to are a large part of why I exist, why everything exists. 

This month I’m choosing to focus. Every time I turn the faucet on, I’ll make a mark on a page. The water I use will be measured, logged and photographed to accompany stories of some of the more parched moments I’ve experienced throughout my travels. 

Outside, ten yellow buckets catch rainfall, slowly replenishing the water supply I’ve too quickly depleted. 

This project (I am calling it On-Off) was initially inspired by the Recycled Rain Project. I’m a featured artist for their 2015 show which will open on May 9th.  

A dedicated webpage for On-Off is coming soon. 

Milked Dry

When I’m overworked, tuckered, and milked dry like one of those stray dogs you see on the beaches of Goa; those bitches with their tits dragging in the sand; those bitches that yelp and snarl and bite when another dog comes along and forces his doggy wiener inside her; that bitch; I sometimes think about quitting art. Or at least, I think about giving myself permission to make things without documenting the process or putting it out into the world. Or making things from a cozy hammock in say, Fuerteventura. And when I do think about this as an option my brain opens up. Ah. It says. I can breathe. Thanks! 

But now what? My brain asks minutes later. Who would you be to the world? A pirate? A hamster evangelist? A misinterpreter? A bunion? A bully? A panhandler? A swarthy sap? A pickaxe? A turnip farmer? A daydreamer? A nightswallower? A chump? A barnacle? A corporate wanderer? A willow tree? A doormat? A diamond reader? You're here to make things. Not things that can be held, bought or sold necessarily, but things that you care about. You know it. Don’t tell yourself anything else. No matter how little time you have. No matter how difficult it may be to work on your own stuff after working your ass off all day. It’s part of you. It is you. Follow your guts. They know what they are talking about. Can you please pass me the pepper? 

I then thank my brain for talking sense into me, take a quick stroll, sip a cup of tea and carry on.  

The Shedding of a Uterine Lining

In the spirit of all ladies who shed their uterine lining (mine is shedding as I type these words!) here is a series of images by the poet Rupi Kaur.

"i bleed each month to help make humankind a possibility. my womb is home to the divine. a source of life for our species. whether i choose to create or not. but very few times it is seen that way. in older civilizations this blood was considered holy. in some it still is. but a majority of people. societies. and communities shun this natural process. some are more comfortable with the pornification of women. the sexualization of women. the violence and degradation of women than this. they cannot be bothered to express their disgust about all that. but will be angered and bothered by this. we menstruate and they see it as dirty. attention seeking. sick. a burden. as if this process is less natural than breathing. as if it is not a bridge between this universe and the last. as if this process is not love. labour. life. selfless and strikingly beautiful." - Rupi Kaur