Well, today, finally, I was able to get some more stuff from my basement and my back yard, packed into the van, and hauled into downtown Newark (during rush hour, of course), to continue the process of... getting ready to make new work, in this new space, in this new program.
It's odd, I think, that I'm experiencing what seems like resistance, instead of rushing right in to engage in this terrific opportunity. I mean, I've made lists of things I want to bring, and things I know I'll want to use, and things I'm fond of, etc. etc. etc. But when I actually get into my basement (where I've been making work for much of the past year and a half), I kind of freeze up, and get sullen and moody, and don't want to do anything at all.
Part of this resistance is superstition, I think -- or something disguised as superstition. The new moon, you see, isn't until March 4th, and that's really the ideal time for beginning new enterprises. So I've been figuring that I've got until that first Friday in March to get myself more or less installed and ready to crank out the new stuff.
But really, on thinking this through a little more, I've realized that I'm already worried about what's going to happen when these six months (which have barely begun, of course) are over. I have such a penchant for daydreaming, for building up secret fantasies of splendid successes and wonderful art triumphs, that when the usual, respectable, reliable realities come to pass ('Nice to see you. Interesting work. What's it about?'), I feel flattened and confused. I've been doing this for so long, and enthusiastic reviews don't support storage facilities. I'm keenly aware of my mortality. I'm concerned about the amount of stuff I collect, and create -- and in six months, I'll have even more things to house... someplace, somehow. It's as though I'm already having the hangover, before I've even decided whether or not I'm going to take a drink.
I know these thoughts and feelings are more or less normal, but that doesn't make them any more pleasant.
So this is what I did today. I decided that I had an emergency. I pretty much just grabbed the closest things I could find -- mostly so I could clear off a table I wanted to bring along -- tossed everything into the van and then rushed down to the gallery like some kind of criminal. I decided I could only stay there for two hours (well, that part was actually true -- there was lentil soup simmering on the stove), and my job was just parking as close as I could, emptying the van, and then seeing what would happen next.
It was easier than I'd expected, actually, to find a relatively convenient place to park, and tote everything across Market St. Maybe six or seven trips, stowing everything first inside the front door, and then hauling it up to the third floor. Bags of plastic bags. Bags of plastic tubing. Bags of scrap cloth, and odd bits of metal. Pieces of paper, and a half-finished drawing. Push pins and tape and a broken plastic refrigerator drawer filled with spent CO2 cartridges. My tables, of course.
It was easier that I expected, to begin finding homes for these things -- a place for the plastic to live, a wall where I could pin up knotted lengths of red jersey, the built-in shelf/table that seems destined to be my 'headquarters'. I'm actually pleased, for the time being at least, with the way things are gathering themselves.
I think I even had a realization, actually, as I was playing with these odds and ends I'd grabbed, some from the snow still mounded in the back yard, some from the foot of the basement stairs. I've been tying things in knots. Just simple, overhand knots, like you're starting to tie your shoes. It just feels right. And I've been hanging these knots on the wall. I find them fascinating, so readily identifiable, yet unique, depending on what material I'm twisting this way and that. Rows of these knots. Do they... mean anything?
Here's what I think they could mean, for me, today. Just after I was born, pretty much the first thing, my umbilical cord was cut, and tied into a knot. Simple, quick, overhand, tucked in. I guess we all have that knot, don't we? And for now, I'm surprisingly content, to realize that, without thinking about it, I've been behaving a kind of signal moment -- a single, simple human link -- a clear, succinct gesture which has been helping me build what I hope will be a comprehensive, cohesive and convincing body of work.
But now it's time for bed. And, tomorrow, more...?
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