Artist's Date #11: Chasing The Muse

and the synchronicity of library books

Just as soon as the rush of the muse comes in — the fizz of the bubbles on the edge of the wave — it goes out, pulled back by some oceanic force, an untouchable power. A writer friend suggested the artist’s portal opens and closes with the cycle of the moon. Not that she gave that kind of thing a lot weight, she caveated; must be an earth sign.

I’ve noticed it myself: some kind of everything-makes-senseness followed by a period of meaning glazed over. The artist’s dates had become unclear to me with dark of the new moon: what was an artist, what was a date, how was I to do one again, for real by myself? This was coupled with a case of the maybes: Maybe I was writing well before but maybe I'll never have good writing again. It’s like being in love - when you’re in it you can’t imagine how you ever could not be: you’re just caught up and will never get untangled and hell you don’t mind. Then it pulls away and you’re held by the ankle, let go or be dragged.

Are you here? I asked my creative self.
Yes I’m here, it answered, I’m just shrinking.
How can I help? I asked.
You can be more consistent, it said to me back.
Can’t say that it didn’t.

I was driving and fawning over to the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album and the spoken-words of the last song and I knew she was singing about, at the beginning, about the psychedelic experience of being a mother, before she mentioned her son.

Also just loving these lyrics:

I’m hungry like a wolf,
I’m bleed like a wolf,
I’m lost and I’m lonely
I hunger for you only
Don’t leave me now
Don’t break the spell
In heaven lost my taste for hell
Taste for hell

I made a conscious effort to think: this is art, not a love, it’s inside me, not outside me, and just as I did, I remembered, that fucking diner.

It’s just a place to get eggs and toast and some bacon on the side, but I’ve come to find I like the anonymity mixed with the regulars and the way you don’t have to explain eggs over easy. I like the way there’s a bell at the door and clattering of dishes in plastic tubs behind a long bar. I like a no nonsense server. And this one, on the bay in Sausalito, just four minutes away, had long been on my list.

Inside there is a man in soft shoes sitting at the counter reading the paper, the actual newspaper. His elbows are wrinkled, but you know, whose aren’t, and he’s eating a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and raisins. The space is much nicer than I thought it would be: there are Christmas lights at the counter and you can imagine a holiday here feeling warm and welcoming.

The lines on the floor boards of the thin railroad shaped space, go opposite the lines on the tables which have an unpredictable pattern. The tables at the window sit exactly one person opposite the oth≠≠er; the picture of intimacy; small and contained. The shelves are covered with ships and a lone photo, on top of the fridge, pictures a cliff side hotel in the same gray fog that had covered the road on my way up.

The mug in my hands is warm and I pour the second cup of caffeine which I probably don’t need. I forgot to even open the menu and I order the special.

There’s a mother and daughter sitting talking about the social dynamics of a party they have not yet hosted. They both have the same smooth skin and are wearing gray sweatshirts. They talk about the girl’s friend who lets other people - soon I learn men, take advantage of her. I have compassion for her but I don’t, says the young woman - because she’s doing it to herself. Her mom says something too softly to hear, and her daughter says back: what that she has no power? The mother is still, like she’d say something more but doesn’t. Then she says she’s quiet because she’s reflecting on what her daughter is telling her. 

When they leave, the mom walks out first, opening the door with enough room that her daughter does not have to touch the knob herself to walk out, and the daughter swings her keys on that lanyard that all sports kids had, but I don’t know why.

There’s a Porsche parked in the back, a dusty old one, that looks like it’s been covered in duct tape — the paint is so bubbled. On the south side of the restaurant, there’s some dude who sits with his collar up and white, and his sunglasses are moved up over his hat. I wonder what’s it’s like to live that - the audacity.

It occurs to me that for something to happen here I might need to talk to another person. It occurs to me nothings happening here. It comes to mind that there is no story. It occurs to me that we - this creative muse and are - not in touch. It occurs to me that I miss you - my creative self - as if you were a thing outside of me that was real to be missed. 

I go across the street, where there just so happens to be a Heath Ceramics. Olive, just that morning, had said: I have to show you something mommy and brought me, by hand, to stand up over one of our two nice bowls broken into three pieces, that still fit together but could not be glued. It felt like maybe the same as our family.

Inside there are so many nice things: The softest bath towels, soap made with lavender and honey that you can smell through a brown cardboard box, and teas with names like wild is the wind, ramble on and caravan, labeled on in their square shaped tins. There’s a red wagon of the cutest kids stuffed animals ever - a lion with felt hair and a strange maybe buffalo shaped one with wide set eyes and a tail. 

Hi, I’m Hamish, it says on the tag: I like neeps and tatties and dislike cyber hackers. In short, they are oddly specific. 

I pick up a little zine about white people visioning which reminds me of my next destination: The Mill Valley Library.

The first thing that strikes me when I arrive is that this library has a working fireplace!!! A huge one. And a wooden deck. Ray Bradbury says to live in the library and I’d gladly live here. Outside you can smell the red woods and there’s literally someone playing a banjo through the trees. Upon closer listen, the banjo is actually the pre-recorded strums of a sitar, which is playing as the reception music for a wedding taking place on a simple wooden platform below the deck. 

There are just a few people: An officiant, the bride and the groom and maybe a five guests plus one taking a video.Part of me wants to go down the side of the building and get a closer look but I thought I might cry because there has never been a wedding I’ve been to where I’ve left with dry eyes, and I had work still to do.

The vows come so quickly. It’s hard to hear exactly but I think part of their simple ones include the following statement: I will try not to be jealous of you and the other people in your life. I’ve only just walked out here and in minutes the couple is saying I do. They put on the rings. I notice a few more people on the stage are dressed up. Just like me the rest of the people below are moving their heads around each other to get a look at the moment, but for me I’m looking around the sides of the trees. 

There are a few whoops from the crowd. The couple shares a kiss and holds out their hands to each other. The bride hugs the officiant in a way that makes me think he’s her dad. And the whole thing is done. 

Back inside the library a few books jump out at me from the aisles. The exhibit book of Alice Neel’s show at the de Young, and a big book of Carolee Schneeman, including a chart of erotic encounters she made based off a survey of 400 volunteers.

In another book about mostly male artists, one ends his interview with statement that catches my eye:

“My whole aim as an artist is to continue my search of fundamental answers to fundamental questions. I am constantly seeking clarity where confusion reigns. I want to find deletion techniques which would be fundamental in helping me find this clarity. It’s my most essential need.” 

I can’t decide if this is on point or empty. 

In his chapter he also remarks at the strange synchronicity that he, a person previously and presently obsessed with the symbolic nature of mirrors, should have kids who are twins.

Across the aisle I open a book about artist rituals and Maya Angelou, who’s practice is one of my favorites: in short, to write in an unadorned room that is not her own and then go home to make dinner. Strange it should strike me as so ideal, since I DO NOT COOK DINNER.

I walk back to the feminism and sex section - 305.42 Paglia, C, 305.42 Gay, R, and oh fuck, I know that it’s there, 305.42 Levy, A. I open the book and quickly reread a chapter that includes my name and not in a good way. I’ll give you a hint about why - it’s in a book with a title that includes the words chauvinist pigs. It’s amazing what almost 20 years will do for your perspective and what it will not - I still think that sexual liberation is not about being free of desire.

I pull out a large book of beaches which is basically just a whole bunch of different photos of ones taken from above. I like it, and I don’t like that I do, for so many reasons. The book does confirm my suspicion that art is a project of perspective which so often rich white men people get by means of an airplane or the view from a 20 story building. Sorry if this sounds bitter - it sounds that way because I am bitter. 

But also I remember the very first moment I, too, was surprised about what a difference it makes to look at things from above. It was an artist’s date I didn’t record and the impulse to go had come from a friend’s text the day before that said - “got 6 hours in the studio” and I felt jealous and I said to myself: get your six hours and the next day I did. I rushed to the black sands and took a million photos - the first of which was from stairs above the shore: the water turning turquoise against the dark colored sand, and it looked brand new to me, flattened from above. I couldn’t believe I’d never seen it that way before.

I leave you with a quote from Karen O:

For some people there's no boundary between life and art. I think there's totally a boundary for me. That's why it could seem, like, as neat as flipping a switch. Every now and then I'll hear, "Thank you so much, you really got me through high school." Or "Thank you, you really got me through freshman year of college." I don't know what to say back, except for, "Oh, really? Thank you! I'm happy I got you through that." But really in my head I'm like, "I manifested that shit for you!" I wanted to get in there like a motherfucker and that's what I did.