Sunday, March 29, 2009

Some kind of progress

Today I wake up and think of new strategies of taste. When I drink water, I’m going to try and sense the texture, the flavor. I need to eat slower, take more time with each bite. Standing, maybe I can sense my tongue in my mouth, the air.

All of this interrupted by a project with my mother, for some reason I agreed to take a look at the bio she wrote for a new brochure about my grandmother’s art, this is an ongoing project so elaborate and frustrating that I can barely even write about it, but basically it involves my mother’s attempt to market my grandmother’s art, which seems to involve thousands and thousands of dollars and sometimes an elegant creation like a website or a show but mostly this endless cycle webbing my mother and grandmother together in a fight disguised as unity. Remember: this is my father’s mother.

Anyway, I take a look at the bio and it’s a mess, so then I’m frantically looking at the website and the catalog for the permanent collection of my grandmother’s art at the University of Maryland and then I’m already so drained I can’t even function. And I haven’t even talked to my mother yet. Why did I agree to do this?

At least I figure out what I want to say: you shouldn’t involve me in your stress. But then we’re talking and my mother’s frantic and I’m editing the thing for her and she’s still frantic and demanding, she wants me to look it over again after she types it up so then we got off the phone. At least I have this feldenkrais CD, calming me into the ground and when I get back up I can think about taste again.

Back to my mother’s stress, but then I do say: please don’t ask me to do something like this again, I mean here you are trying to do something that isn’t what you do -- you’re not a curator or an agent -- and I don’t think you should agree to do these things, although that’s a separate issue and what I’m saying now is that I don’t have any energy and when I do something like this it’s the only thing I can do the whole day and I don’t want you to involve me in your stress. My mother listens, and then tries to explain, and I say that I don’t mind giving advice, but usually when I give you advice you don’t even listen to it, and even with this bio you’ll probably take it to Rose and she’ll say she doesn’t like it at all and then what will have been the point? Or, when I said a long time ago that what you needed to do was to find a gallery to represent her, instead of spending your own money to promote her work because that’s what galleries do, you don’t have to spend your own money, and it’s only now that you’re trying to find a gallery. Or when I suggested that you get her neighborhood paper to do an article on her, because that’s the point of neighborhood papers and she’s lived in that neighborhood for 50 years and I’m sure they would be interested, but you never did that. And my mother doesn’t even remember that suggestion, so she says you’re right that’s a good example, and I guess I’m glad that even if I did this thing that drained me at least I could articulate exactly why, and tell my mother right away and so that feels like some kind of progress.

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