I never knew what this blog was supposed to be. I did, however, know what I didn't want it to be. I never wanted it to become a lyrical, yet accurate journal - a sort of document that documented my traverse across distance and space. Sure, there are stories from my days -my days of traverse- that make it up onto here, but my life and the dramas that pull me into it, need not be recorded. I live them and they pass. My life and my writing, whilst at times interwoven, are very much separate whirlpools and I wish to keep them that way.
This being said, there are times when one of these whirlpools spins out, over and upon the other. The past few weeks have been such a time. In fact, if I am true and honest (something I very much like to avoid on this here page), the past few months have seen a steady increase of said swirling and distracting mass of water - the one that is Real Life. I would like to say that I am out the other end of this particular episode but, what I like and what is actual is not necessarily in perfect alignment here.
What I am trying to say, is that if my life outside this page, has unconsciously slipped onto it (and it has - not in the words and paragraphs you are thinking of now nor would be obvious to you, but it has still stained it nonetheless), I am sorry. I am. I am not so insecure that I am unable to raise my hand and admit to culpability. It may very well happen again, for I know not why I make so many of the same mistakes over and over again and when this does happen, once again, I will raise my hand in admission.
I want you to like the blog. I want you to read it. I want you to return to it. I want you to demand (as some of you have) that I return to it. And I know what I don't want it to be.
Ok, now on with the business of the day.
I find it hard to separate The Art from The Artist. All artists. All artists that I deign to experience their expression. It's not that I quest after their personal information or records of milestones or trivial anecdotes or authored confessions or retellings. I am not one who burrows deep into the information swirl available, desperate to acquire knowledge that provides framework for understanding of the mindset or inspiration or desperation or retaliation or disposition or emotion fueling an artist's work. The position that art is created from is irrelevant to the experience of experiencing the work, for the majority of interpretation has more to do with the 'state' you - the viewer - is in, and the impact this leaves upon what is taken from their expression. Regardless of from where it comes, it's is where it arrives to that defines all communication.
What tends to happen, is more of an unconscious collection of facts or stories that begin to piece together in a personal supposed mental image of a particular artist. This itself, is separate from their work, in so much as, it is not like I am a waiter, sitting on a low, leather clad bench at The Met, intrigued by the trance that a massive swirl of Jackson Pollack oil on canvas has me locked in, whilst someone tells me of the violent details of his mortal demise, but (and I could have ended the sentence there, but I do love a comma) rather that one day, whilst not even thinking about the bald headed, angry alcoholic, I awoke to the latter half of a documentary on the fellow and learnt of it this way. Does knowing the gory details of a rolling car accident impact upon a later personal experience with his work? No. Well, not for me anyway.
Hang on - what? Didn't I just write above that I have trouble separating The Art from The Artist? So then, surely that would mean that knowledge a dramatic event in the life of The Artist, would certainly effect the viewing of his work?
So let me clarify what I meant. In the moment, in the actual period of actual consummation of the art, I am alone with the work. Just the piece and me. Me - with my emotions of the day, rejections of the week, lingering euphorias of the night before, anxious anticipations of tomorrow and positions of now - and The Piece -with it's expressions it is projecting. However, once away from from the work, or at least away from being alone with it, then The Artist and The Art begin to form into one singular entity in my mind.
To give you an example that may better explain myself: When I listen to Robert Johnson, it is pure - it's just his music and my reactions to the words, the notes, the hammer-offs and the slides of only the song I am listening to and as it happens. But, once I think of him away from the actual listening, away from the moment or moments of experiencing his expression, this is when The Art and The Artist begin to take a singular form in my mind. At even just the mere typing of his name, into my head flows a refrain from Kindhearted Woman Blues, wrapped around that famous Photo-Booth shot of him and this then floats over the top of an imagined image of him from behind, drawling along down a long, dusty road, lugging a guitar and an empty bottle of bourbon.
In The Art itself, there is just The Art, but inside The Artist is The Art and The Life.
I know I am not alone in this self inflicted action of mental trickery and combination. Mention Monet or his work to The Darwinian and she immediately imagines gardens and gardening, his other great passion, at the same time as remembering his work. The Blonde compartmentalises Morrissey songs in her head, together with cats and veganism. There are those who wrap all The Lost Generation writers up in an Art-Deco image of the Effiel Tower, cafes in St. Germaine and lyrically worded romantic realisms and others I know that talk of famous Tarantino dialogue lines and working in video stores, at the same time. One of my Jazz Band friends, suddenly becomes himself more self destructive when speaking of The Bird and another grows particular facial hair when listening to too much Jeff Buckley.
I have all of the above associations wrapped together in my mind, plus many more to boot. (The same part of my brain wraps together Morrissey and vegans in an 'absolutely hate' compartment.) One of them, involves one of my cultural heroes, Hunter S. Thompson. I love all his works, from the collections of letters, to the Rolling Stone articles, to the Fear and Loathing books and even back to that definitive Hells Angels sketch. Without his work, without the style he pioneered, crafted, cultivated and released upon us, there would be no Hershatlarge. Period. But, it's the man - or shall I say, The Enigma- that dominates my lobe when remembering the man separate to reading his works.
There's a great many stories spread about the Father of Gonzo. If it was another individual, than we could easily dismiss many of them as fantastical nonsense. Not with Hunter S.. I'm sure, that with time, many of the tales have grown into exaggerated folklore, but they all have the genesis in an event or events of fact. The Man, as opposed to The Art, became synonymous with many expressions of excess. One such thing he is famous for is epic breakfasts.
Apparently, he was told that if he was able to consume the fuel necessary to maintain his (also famous) bodily abuse, his life would be elongated. So, every day, he awoke to a table set out on the lawn by his wife, overflowing with carbohydrates, proteins and fats, in preparation for the day to follow. In his own words:
Perfect. Perfect.Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert…. Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music…. All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.
Even now, as I read this quote back, I get lost in the great tangle that is The Artist and The Art of one of my most loved writers. Before ever coming across the part of The Great Shark Hunt where this appears, I myself too believed in filling up to the very brim, first thing after arising. Despite being able to cook the best scrambled eggs you've ever had, I much prefer to have breakfast cooked for me. So, all my adult life, I have ventured out for massive and quickly consumed meals. Once I find a place that meets my discerning level of expectation, I become a daily part of their existence and they too, part of mine. It is no fluke, that some of my best friends are people I have met at the breakfast cafes they either worked at or owned. I love those who 'get' my loves.
So too, here in the East Village. I may have new routine geographically, but not a new routine stylistically. Here, it all begins and ends at the one of the great smoothie shops of the world, out on the corner of East 11th and 2nd. And, as is part of my style, I have struck up a quick and strong little bond with some of the girls at said Smoothie Shop. And, as is often the way, it is my Breakfast Providers that become my most trusted confidants and relationship advisers.
I am not going to relate to you the advice Ms Spanish Harlem gave me the other day, for The Whirlpools must be kept separate. All I do wish to say, in this public forum, is Thank You.
Thank You. I have always relied upon the kindness of strangers and your kindness, now renders you, to me no longer a stranger.
Bring on the Breakfast Healing.
"Sometimes, change is doing what you normally do - just doing it better" http://twitter.com/behaimah
