I guess some writing pieces are like songs.
Color in the Coal was a core sample of a mountain my generation came upon.
My own drill even cut across the geographies or stratography of my own life. Some of us turned focus to art even as the dust of the Towers got on the foreheads of football players turned soldier and answering the call to duty.
I was reluctant to get back into more scholarly thinking and writing. Making money and so good sleep was the priority. And I've always been more business than artistic. Sinead O'Conner was still alive. Fiery messages in music had coiled into swaths of style, interests, and occasionally some person from some popular front would make it across a bridge from somewhere else. What it felt like right up to loved ones being taken hostage.
Reading a history of Women in Art left me confused. That confusion was compounded by what was happening in the world. I couldn't find the healing efforts put into hybrid fields of work in the art book. There'd been scenes, and shows, and movements, it looked like, there were scraps of "bodies of work" and rumors about what had happened. I scrounged for art, marks, sounds, something left behind by the other artists.
Was piecing together pieces of the story of the artists of Black Mountain College and the Happenings, Kaprow wrote about the art of the time breeching the biege bulldoze by people participating. Like the "new journalism" being progressive within newspaper page, hard to pin someone's personal growth in an endeavor as what's happening across the board. I think that's something that happens with pop culture. Something cool, centerstage!
Doesn't necessarily mean the nation would vote for the something cool.
I gottah get ready for work. This weekend is one of the first for lots going on post-winter.
I got out of the books and pamphlets because one artist shot another with a handgun. Because I was a paperdoll who cared to project bust dysfunction. Only a step ahead of what cracks a couple decades ago
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