The woman who used to be addressed in a manner other than "my wife" and I have been discussing those bygone days, the reason being a series of essays required by most every institution I am approaching for an opportunity to receive a regular paycheck. (Rest assured, the approach is more straightforward than the fluff you just had to wade through.) Her questioning centered around the ease at which I approached the old blog compared to the tortured and sabotaged (her word) thrust of these essays in search of a livelihood.
The overall answer is to be found in a discussion of the appropriateness of transparency and authenticity. Take for instance, the below rewrites of an opening paragraph. The first one is a slight variation of the "old standby."
Because my spouse and I live and work on a small organic farm, I have sometimes referred to myself as a “farmist,” part farmer, part artist. The amalgamation of identities has not always been easily reconciled, for the two cultures sometimes do not mesh well. If my neighbors think it a bit odd that I build a compost pile full of art magazines and a dead coyote, in part as an homage to Joseph Beuys, and then videotape the event, so be it. It’s just the type of art I do out here in the middle of “nowhere.”
"No good," says she, for a number of reasons. So, I try again. Her suggestions begin to become evident.
I have lived and worked on a small organic farm since 2003
as a farmer and artist. The demands of each role are sometimes at odds with the
other; however, one way both identities survive is through an amalgamation in
which both have some thematic needs met or, at the very least, there is an
uneasy truce. This struggle of
themes also plays out in the mediums I have chosen.
Still, she suggests, I had another life elsewhere that goes largely ignored.
For almost nine years, I have lived
and worked on a small organic farm. Somewhat of a return to my rural childhood,
it was quite a departure from the decades of city life as an artist, writer and
gallerist in Chicago. As an installation artist with conceptualist
proclivities, I filled galleries with expositions on topics such as the death
of a friend from AIDS, on art making as a promiscuous compulsion and on the
blind self-righteousness of evangelical Christianity. As I left all of that
behind, I knew one phase of my life as an artist was coming to an end, for
farming is incredibly time-consuming and relentlessly pragmatic. Still, knowing
that I would continue making art, I would have to adapt.
Better in some ways; confusing in others; and she is insistent that with the last two sentences there is a hole in my foot where there was none before.
There are a couple more rewrites after the above, but even I grow weary of this little exercise. I will fast-forward to the end. Note how fluid meaning can be.
For almost nine years, I have lived and worked on a
small organic farm. Somewhat of a return to my rural childhood, it was quite a
departure from the decades of city life as an artist, writer and gallerist in
Chicago. Back then, my artwork primarily focused on multimedia installation
with conceptualist proclivities, and three exhibitions of note dealt with very
differing subjects, including the death of a close friend from AIDS, on art
making as a promiscuous compulsion, and evangelical Christian values and
consumerism. While it may not seem an appropriate response to the gravity of my
subject matters — yet, also because of the absurdities surrounding the issues I
was addressing — my work contained elements of whimsy and untoward humor. The
move to the country has brought with it new avenues of investigation in my art,
and not all are as pastoral as one might expect.
Clearly, the last is superior to the first. What lessons are there to be found in this process?
Between us, there must have been ten versions, the bulk of them coming within a twenty-four hour period, finishing fifteen hours before the application deadline. We went to bed at 0930, which is partly the reason I am awake before the sun is up today.
The rewritten paragraph represents a fairly small portion of all that was written. The remainder received the same amount of scrutiny. And while I am indebted to my wife, I still turn inward and recall that I flunked English 101 the first time I took it. Was it because I thought my first effort was sufficient and didn't put in the extra work required for superior work? Then what about the apparent ease with which the old blog was a-blogged? Did I expect it to be perfect? Certainly not. Professional? Proficient. Readable and enjoyable? Most likely.
And what of "Spot?" I had hopes. Yet, like the development of that opening for my artist statement, it takes time to become self-aware and thorough-going and understandable. The quick edit I do today before clicking "Publish" will do nothing to gain deeper understanding in regards to that question about lessons learned.
So, here is my resolution for 2012, one week in: you deserve better.
What lessons are there to be found in this process?
ReplyDeleteThe lesson: Listen to DW - she's a wise lady.
Mojo - She has an attention to detail that I lack. She also knows her guy in ways he cannot see. I provide her with certain insights as well and we achieve a balance. Still, when I woke up from a nap after writing the above post, she met me in the dining room with an expression that should be reserved for news along the lines of the death of someone close. A part of a sentence in the cover letter had somehow been omitted in the draft that was sent out. Too late to do anything about it, yet we both went to my computer and made the correction for the others to be submitted this week. As for the mistake, the rest of the material should help them get past it. If not, so be it, for it is not as significant as what I can offer the department and students. This latter attitude, for better or worse, is something that we both eventually come to agree on.
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