Intertwined

Is it possible that I used to be a far better artist and writer than I am now? If so, is there a way to reclaim that me? I can't go backwards and I don't want to copy my own material, but I how did I get here? I've taken a good look at my artwork, and the most consistent and impressive work that may still be on par with the old me is my writing.

I was looking for a poem I wrote back in 1996 called Sally Doll. I found the shiny turquoise folder with poems married together by a single paper clip and a yellow post it on the first page where I wrote "poems before the 'incident'". Sally Doll was in there - I wrote it two days before I was raped.

Underneath are poems I wrote after the "incident" as apparently I once referred to being raped. On top of all the words words words are letters of recommendation from RAINN, NYSCASA, two mixed media project proposals, photocopies of grants I applied to (one of which I received) and correspondence between me and Lorie (my mentor and once Tisch Photo department head) and Debbie (once RAINN Executive Director). So ambitious. So determined. I remember it so well. I remember the blanket girls did not want me to follow this path - they wanted me to take the job at George Magazine , where I met JFK Jr. carrying white tulips to his office.

It wasn't my decision - they hired internally. It certainly would have been a different life altogether. Instead I am here. And you know, this is who I was before the "incident" and I'm still very dedicated to Sheila's photographs. I don't question why I was asked to take self portraits of a character partly based on me and a woman who was raped two days before I was. I recognize that I am her, not the woman, but the woman I became in the photograph - when I was thinking of how it would feel. Now I know. I am proud of my past, and proud of the me now. Somebody's gotta be. I feel like I should resurrect one of these project proposals, throw the clip off the before and after and write it all on the wall. Something's got to stick. Life is too messy for it to peel off so easily.

Debbie was my angel. She's in my bio - she should be someone I give thanks to every night. I do through my work - at least I hope so. And whatever it is that I do, I do much of it in her honor. She was the first to believe in me. The rest is paper clip metallic history.

So here's Sally Doll (next post)

buying handmade

because it's unique, it supports people who make things with their hands and hearts, and there's very little risk that the recipient already has a cupcake recycled scarf and hat set...

making it your anniversary

liz has discussed how one deals with/celebrates/dissociates from the anniversary of a sexual assault. On Liz's survivor anniversary, I ate a YumYum doughnut. Some may think that's odd, random, unnecessary or all of the above (and then some). A doughnut has special significance to me from someone I loved and is no longer in my world. I've never eaten a YumYum doughnut (their purple signs are all over LA) but I ate it because I wanted to do something fun, a not-so guilty pleasure, something sweet to recognize the day as not the day it happened, but in celebration of all she has become, not because of it, but simply by being her, by taking a much harder path that paves the way for countless survivors.
Tomorrow is my anniversary. Sometimes I block it out and replace it with November 17th. One day EMDR may tell me why I remember it to be the day before. The first year, I got my first real expensive haircut. Not a $300 trim, but more than I would normally pay. Then I walked around the East Village and with each step, I was making my signature in the pavement. That was my home, I wanted to make it remembered that I was there first. What I did with my day may seem trivial, and many would ask why I would place any significance on it, for if I thought about it less, I could forget about it, yes? Oh, for shame. Memories do not work that way. November 18, 1996 may have a few pieces cut out like a snowflake, but every single one of those missing pieces makes it home in the darker spaces in my head. They visit me all the time. In pieces. I don't to see the entire picture all the time; it's not pretty.
This year I am taking some inspiration from my favorite four year old girl, Ava , who's love of life and infectous joy for all things beautiful truly amazes me (and for that, and a million other reasons she is also all about what is beautiful), and going out to breakfast for some chocolate chip pancakes at Jack and Jill's , taking in a movie at The Grove where the fake snow will be fallin', making my holiday cards, and playing with my art supplies. I used to make these pretty neat photo transfers; I promised myself once I moved I would get back in my art bin. And so I will. Because there's so much I can say, for once, without speaking a word, and there is so much healing in a black paper mate felt tip pen that bleeds green, purple and blue. Like a bruise. A lovely bruise that knows how to heal itself.

an ecuadorian firecracker in san francisco

Vero and Agata, 2006

We've all had those nights where we just want to go home and stare at the ceiling. Ok, I have nights where I plan lots of fun me things to do and end up painting five toenails and falling asleep in my clothes. Many years ago I was cozy in my east village apartment when my childhood friend, Joe, asked me to dinner with his friend Veronica and her fiancee, Jeremy. I almost said "no"; 300 square feet all to myself!

I hated the dinner, and I wasn't crazy about the fiancee, but Veronica was a keeper. Her passport is a sight to behold--she was born in Quito, and has lived in Chicago (where she met her husband at O'Hare Airport) Dresden, Verona , (insert more stamps here) and now San Francisco with her husband and little love bug, Agata.

She is many many things to me, but I write this because her artwork is quite lovely.

I wish the site showcased her work better, but I love her bio.

Welcome back to the US, Vero!!