On being defiant

I entered my zoom session with my supervisors in the midst of my work day, semi prepared, pleased and nervous to see them. I had got some reading, some writing and some organizing done though the heaps that I am needing to do beyond that look like a big wiry mess impossible for me to untangle. Near the end of our time my document on 'felt sense in the studio' was brought up, and the fact that it was far more interesting to hear about what was actially happening in my painting and how it might reflect my inner felt sense more than I had anticipated. Whether I had made the read more interesting, or that what I had written before was too obscure, I said I'd not initially thought anyone would want to read about what I was painting. This sentiment is however not quite accurate; what I wanted was not to write about what was in the painting but have people look at it to figure it out, instead of reading about it. Then I realized my writing was not about what was in the painting either, rather it showed a relationship between my bodily sensations and emotions therein and the activity of the work. This is interesting. I have read a bit of Maurice Blanchot, and his study of the dynamism between creator and creation. I noted that he was indignant about something I take as a given; that we only know our work when we are in it. I in turn was indignant at his expectations that it should be any different! Truth is I am jealous that he allows that we do want to know our work. My supervisors noticed I was angry, resentful even, that Blanchot swims into expectations of impossible connections, whereas I have kept myself dutifully away from any unrealistic dreams, even ones that a boy might have. I was suprised to hear my anger was noticeable. I, the therapist of equanimity and calm, have another side, hidden mainly from myself. I chuckle inwardly; I have been called defiant before, which at the time, deeply puzzled me. Now I can be grateful to Blanchot for revealing my anger. I hope to be in my defiance when it happens.

the thought of an alcove

This came together over a longer period. I would come back to the collection on my studio floor day after day and it was never quite right. I would leave it, change it, and then see I had returned to what I had done before! I knew the parts could work, but it was not forseeable how. The bit with the metal handle was integral, but where ever I put it, the nails poked out too significantly, or made the whole thing become ungainly, and the addition itself was lost. I feared altering the parts, as they lose their sense of self with too much tampering. Eventually though, and I could not believe it, placing it on top of the board I was sure I'd keep clear, worked. I had the thought of an alcove in the middle of it all, and I think this is what convinced me I could find more than just enough wriggle room.

>

Noli me legere and 'the errant intimacy of the outside from which he could not make an abode'

I have dipped into Maurice Blanchot's 'Writing of Disaster', 1980, and reading about him and his ideas has provided a crutch as I struggle to follow his words, which feel more like solid corpusules not able to enter my head, or vapours that slip past my nose unidentifiable. Maybe that is the point. Because I believe that words do not, can not describe what life is, and apparently this is Blanchot's gig. For me words have given parts of my brain something useful to do, which if those parts are not engaged, gets sad. Likewise words are a speaking aspect of communicating, and communicating is something my whole self likes doing, and I am uplifted by the activity. Perhaps I have resisted embodying words. As it is, communicating is done in numerous ways; by being present, listening, responding physically with actions, vocalizing, and, besides speaking with words, writing. It seems when you are not present, or words do not match actions, the experience can veer into being draining. Other things make communicating onerous, that have more to do with the nature of the exchange, such as power imbalances, mood, willingness, the content- meaningfulness and urgency. For more satisfying communication an agreement on exchange needs to occur, setting the tone of the relationship. Blanchot touches on this in regards to the relationship between the creator and creation in 'The Space of literature, 1955, where he observes 'For the work is the very decision which dismisses him, cuts him off, makes of him a survivor, without work. He becomes the inert idler upon whom art does not depend. ' p. 24. This could describe how my art as a painter appears to me. But I don't take umbrage, I do not expect anything different. I am often closed out as Blanchot's writers are from their work, though I do enjoy some appreciation when the work is going well. Ultimately the painting does not care who makes it, just that it is made, and I benefit from its presence. Is making an artwork similar to being a parent, with all its hurdles of accepting, letting go, being available and then most ideally left behind? Reading further on the same page, I could relate to 'The writer cannot abide near the work. He can only write it; he can, once it is written, only discern its approach in the abrupt Noli me legere which moves him away, which sets him apart or which obliges him to go back to that "separation" which he first entered in order to become attuned to what he had to write. So that now he finds himself as if at the beginning of his task again and discovers again the proximity, the errant intimacy of the outside from which he could not make an abode." 'Noli me legere', latin literally means 'do not read me'.To be read is to be touched. I have been kept at bay with Blanchot's words. I was further intriqued by his reference to an abode, as I look for ways in which to 'dwell' somewhere as a matter of survival. This does imply a separation, a sheltering from the world, but this offers a way to be in the world, where I would otherwise die. Making an abode has parallels to develping intimacy which requires differentiating. In psychological terms, healthy relations demand boundaries(walls) in order for people or groups to become closer in respectful manners. There are many ways in which this evolves and gives expression, and is significantly felt culturally.

'Diamond with Entry', oil on small drawer facing. Maurice Blanchot did alot of writing, and when he kept himself separate for health reasons, he wrote to his freinds. It was no doubt beneficial to keep in contact, and the physical action therapeutic. I would suggest the act of writing itself had a positive effect on his body, as his mind and heart agonized over the effects of the war. In this regard his presentation of the content mirrors his relationship to the movement of hand and pen. I sense ambivalence and passion.