Itinerantdaughter's Blog

This is a photographer friend of mine being interviewed about one of her books.

Q. How did you choose the water theme?

A. My interest in mineral waters evolved from meeting the surrealist
painter, Leonora Carrington in Mexico where I went to recover from a break
up of my engagement.  She told me to heal in Mexico you either have to do
mushrooms or “take the waters.” I chose water and she guided me to
Ixtapan where I soaked in a bathhouse with Indians. They taught me to put
water on my heart to heal my soul – in their language “washing away
physical and mental ghosts making them sick.” I was impressed by this
experience and researched other spas and set out to photograph them. My
water images encourage the viewer to explore the isolated unknown in
nature and be transported toward natural mysteries. The images orchestrate
a paradigm for absorbing nature into our consciousness.

Oftentimes, when one is viewing art, it is difficult to tell whether or not something is really avant-garde or just really awful. I have come up with a brilliant way of answering this age old question. As you glance around the room at the exhibits (Jesus made of feces, score provided by accompanied by a dgieridoo and three crying Chinese women, perhaps), ask yourself: do I FEEL like I’m in a mockumentary right now? If the answer is yes, then it’s really bad. If it’s no, it’s worth further investigation.

It is helpful, in this case, to have at least rudimentary knowledge of mockumentaries. A quick rundown: Christopher Guest is the undisputed king of the mockumentary genre, having directed such classics as Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show. The latter, about show dogs and their obsessive owners, is amazing, but my personal favorite is This is Spinal Tap, which is pitch-perfect in its imitation of 80s Hair bands. A hidden gem of the genre is Drop Dead Gorgeous, starring Kirsten Dunst and Denise Richards (I know, I know). This one follows small town Minnesota beauty pageant participants and is disturbingly quotable. “Fucking…beauty queens blowing chunks everywhere.”

Why, you ask, would I need to know the difference between really avant-garde and really awful? I’m going to let you in on a little secret: when it comes to art, nobody really knows what the fuck they’re talking about. The key is making it sound like you do. This rule is almost ENTIRELY foolproof (no rule is universal), so if you settle on an answer, just use some flowery, pretentious words in close proximity and you’re good to go.  It’s actually really empowering.

For example:

A: Really avant-garde

“Goldfish on a Hunger Strike is so reflective of the insatiable appetites of the postmodern world, and also the insularity of technology and socio-cultural practices. We’re all in gl-ahhhh-ss bowls.”

B: Really awful

“These flowerpots decoupaged with pictures of Kirk Cameron’s face and spattered with Tabasco are WACK! Let’s go drink tequila.”

Words of wisdom for the day, and it didn’t even cost you anything! Look at that.

Inside of the city of Vilnius, in Lithuania, where I visited in early April, there is a small neighborhood that has declared itself a Republic. It is, for sure, the Republic with the vaguest boundaries ever, but its constitution is a poem of Zen-proportions.

The Republic of Uzupis

Everyone has the right to live by the River Vilnele, while the River Vilnele has the right to flow by everyone.

Everyone has the right to hot water, heating in winter and a tiled roof.

Everyone has the right to die, but it is not his obligation.

Everyone has the right to make mistakes.

Everyone has the right to individuality.

Everyone has the right to love.

Everyone has the right to be not loved, but not necessarily.

Everyone has the right not to be distinguished and famous.

Everyone has the right to be idle.

Everyone has the right to love and take care of a cat.

Everyone has the right to look after a dog till one or the other dies.

A dog has the right to be a dog.

A cat is not obliged to love its owner, but must help in time of nee.

Sometimes everyone has the right to be unaware of his duties.

Everyone has the right to be in doubt, but this is not his duty.

Everyone has the right to be happy.

Everyone has the right to be unhappy.

Everyone has the right to be silent.

Everyone has the right to have faith.

No one has the right to violence.

Everyone has the right to appreciate their unimportance.

Everyone has the right to encroach upon eternity.

Everyone has the right to understand.

Everyone has the right to understand nothing.

Everyone has the right to be of various nationalities.

Everyone has the right to celebrate or not to celebrate their birthday.

Everyone shall remember their name.

Everyone may share what they possess.

Everyone cannot share what he does not possess.

Everyone has the right to have brothers, sisters and parents.

Everyone may be independent.

Everyone is responsible for their freedom.

Everyone has the right to cry.

Everyone has the right to be misunderstood.

Everyone has no right to make another person guilty.

Everyone has the right to be individual.

Everyone has the right to have no rights.

Everyone has the right not to be afraid.

Do not defeat.

Do not fight back.

Do not surrender.

G: You’ll have to leave my meals on a tray outside my door because I’ll be working pretty late on the secret of making myself invisible, which may take me until almost eleven o’clock.
Me: When you’ve got that figured out, can you give me a shout?
G: Of course.

No one knows that I am here.  No one knows that I am speaking.  This is a good thing, to have secret space, for someone who is paid to exist for someone else, essentially, to be young and vibrant and healthy and always these things.  (This is an exhausting profession.)  I could jump in right now, but I won’t.  I’ll leave the more fantastic stuff for later.  I want to quote Frank O’Hara, but I can’t find the right poem.  I know where it is in my parents’ large house in the suburbs; in a large closet, an old notebook from college, on a three-hole punched sheet of paper, boxed in by my sharp pencil.  “I haven’t shown you the most beautiful things in my lives yet.”  This is so rough.  When I Google it, I get “Song (Lana Turner Has Collapsed!)” and “Meditations in an Emergency”, both fantastic, but not what I am looking for, as usual.

While searching for the correct thing (I think I have found it in “Memory of my Feelings”, but no), I find a posting on a poetry website written by one M.S.

“Dear Frank O’Hara,
Are you alive?
I’ve read your poems and know that you are.
But are you available in person?
I’d like to ask for more poems…
that’s all.”

This is perhaps the best poem I have read in quite some time.