to be sorted later #3
in which I'm on a quest
I’ve been on a path this week, ever since discovering Juanita McNeely existed at the same moment I learned of her death. In my notebook, I wrote down:
Juanita, I’m sorry / I’m late to the party
blood, horses, women’s bodies, sex — duh!
Joan Semmel — my quest
note to self: research all the women artists Joan lists! (see screenshot)
abstraction to figuration!
It’s nonsense of sorts, but I kind of like it as a manic, maybe-poetic to-do list. A manic to-do poem! Whatever. The point is, Juanita led me to Joan (more on that later) and next thing I knew, I was speed-walking around the Art Institute today in a quiet rage thinking about all the women artists I don’t know about yet.
I walked that quiet rage into the Camille Claudel exhibition, and then to the Remedios Varo “Science Fictions” exhibition for the third time. I felt a little calmer. Still, I caught myself nearly hissing at a man who stepped in front of me as I was studying my favorite Leonora Carrington.
Then I realized I had stepped in front of another woman trying to check out the Leonora and I thought I better relax and cut everyone, including myself, some slack.
I was also rather in awe of this couple I accidentally photographed in the Camille Claudel exhibit. They held hands the entire time, and I never heard either of them speak. They looked extremely bored or maybe enthralled, I couldn’t say. I saw them later in another area of the museum, still holding hands, still not speaking.
As I passed them, I wiped my palms on my jeans.
It’s the 50th anniversary of Fear of Flying. As I was reading the NYT piece about this over my coffee this morning, I scared my cat Simone away when I exclaimed “fuck yourself!” at the part where “young Martin Amis damned the book.” Who cares? It’s not for you, Martin. I remember reading a very serious book by Martin Amis for a literature class when I was studying in London and being bored to tears. Not going to find the “zipless fuck” there!
Anyway, it was almost a year ago exactly that I was thinking about Erica Jong and Fear of Flying. I wrote a little something about that, and would be delighted if you’d read it.
Reading this feature on Joan Semmel. I love her, I love her, I love her. Oh, and here’s that screenshot from my manic to-do poem. I have so much work to do.
If you, too, are falling in love with Joan right about now, I’d recommend watching this. It sealed the deal.
Sharing this article on the group thread: “Me and My Bosom” … it was the ending, for me.
“The image that we have of ourselves is always artificial. It’s always framed by external forces.” — Joan Semmel
previously:
to be sorted later #2
I recently ripped a poem out of my New York Times Magazine because I enjoyed it so much and didn’t want to accidently lose it. Naturally, I almost immediately got it mixed in with my to-collage materials. I keep finding it again by accident at least once a week, and I suppose that’s better than accidentally losing it altogether.