Argentine

Across the way from mine (departing) a flight to Buenos Aires. Walking down Manhattan Avenue with Max still, discussing Kai and co's gift of a green typewriter, to punch out Borges on (a through line cross Jeff Preiss at Anthology, Ava at the Steiner bookstore). And this on the mind, days back:

Compassion

For yourself, says the visiting artist, first time I have heard this in a while…I need to sit down to read properly and have not been able to. 

Twelve

Twelfth house hit by the solar eclipse this week, not to mention the intensive flares, and while mostly buffered in the momentum of renewal energies I am conscious it is confidence, that department’s most surface level (“extimate”) purview, where I will feel it most. Confidence in art, especially, deeper questions around hiding. Yesterday a friend said, unprompted, but as far as my predilection to hide, put more of you in your paintings, more also of your taste, and of course I ask what do you mean, I feel unsure of how to do so, and also wanting to do so, wanting to get better, grow up, get really good. Vedic astrologer Jesse says, until Sun years, until second half of Saturn return, you can try but you won’t really find success, outward mobility though by all means push through, work hard, etc. So much efforting. Wendy two years ago: too much efforting! Where’s the joy? In a seminar last week I described to someone, I forget who, the pound of flesh dynamic, that there is an aspect of this art that requires sacrifice, like Marlene this morning on the podcast talking about her dead partner’s Marsyas, so much processing in real time. At a talk last night droning on and zoning out I had to draw energy from future then double back, no more sinning against presence. But as my teacher says, I do want it all, I do want it to be magic all the time, to live in the frequency of a momentous, enriched now. How to get there, be there, on a Zoom with Bhanu Kapil of all people, I described this as horizon.

Friday night lights

Flipping through Ada Friedman’s binder at the Kunsthalle show, my binder I tell him, it had chosen me as its matron during a preview of the exhibition earlier that day, I say, responding to his note of nocturne assonance, our sudden arrival on the same flight path, and would it work now, and when it does, wondering why don’t we always conjunct, why rarely so, when it’s good it’s good and when it isn’t—a silent curtain. I bring up Didion and Warhol for Interview magazine (Why can’t it be magic all the time / What.) and he says something like, well that’s a Pandora’s box of a question, but Angels never really talk to one another, as in amongst themselves, and I give him the long look that, to an external party, perhaps even to this friend, might suggest doubt, skepticism, a clamming before full close, but of course really means retreat to an inner glee of seen-seen assent.