The Visible Woman...November 18, 2003

Yeah...I obviously believe I've created something both moving and cute. It's lame, I know.

I might as well admit it. I think when you create little graphics from photos and stolen objects, choose colors and fonts and type away that it is, somehow, art. It pleases me when I look at it and read it and it is somehow with its circadian predictability a performance art of sorts.

The whole question of 'what is art' and 'what is real writing' is often discussed here. Beaten to death really.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not expecting to get rave reviews in The New York Times. Or any other place, really.

No...I think it's art because, at the end of the day, after it's out of my and out there on the WEB it feels like I have expelled something that means something...gotten it off my chest. And that, I think, is what art is...even if it is an accidental arrangement of objects. If someone points to such an arrangement or photographs it and displays it and says 'I think it has meaning' then it is art. It may be BAD art, but it is art. Sometimes things that would seem to be art...say an oil painting...is really not. Because in its execution the creator did not think there was meaning, only paint.

reflection on Duval Street "Life being all inclusion and confusion, and art being all discrimination and seletion, the latter, in search of the hard latent value with which it alone is concerned, sniffs round the mass as instinctively and unerringly as a dog suspicious of some buried bone." Henry James, The Spoils of Poynton	I would be lying if I told you I didn't think it was art Yeah...I obviously believe I've created something both moving and cute. It's lame, I know. I might as well admit it. I think when you create little graphics from photos and stolen objects, choose colors and fonts and type away that it is, somehow, art. It pleases me when I look at it and read it and it is somehow with its circadian predictability a performance art of sorts. The whole question of 'what is art' and 'what is real writing' is often discussed here. Beaten to death really. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not expecting to get rave reviews in The New York Times. Or any other place, really. No...I think it's art because, at the end of the day, after it's out of my and out there on the WEB it feels like I have expelled something that means something...gotten it off my chest. And that, I think, is what art is...even if it is an accidental arrangement of objects. If someone points to such an arrangement or photographs it and displays it and says 'I think it has meaning' then it is art. It may be BAD art, but it is art. Sometimes things that would seem to be art...say an oil painting...is really not. Because in its execution the creator did not think there was meaning, only paint.
JUST TYPING Art is what? What I say? What you say? What the New York Times says? Art is what moves everything else along. Art is what we take away from the unknowable reality. Into our heads.
		Food Diary. *breakfast* none *lunch* a small amount of tofu no egg salad *snacks* some cheese, hot sauce, chopped onion, chips a little wheat roast a Dr. Pepper *dinner* cheese enchiladas and rice one tortilla with hot sauce a few chips and salsa Today I -remembered why I shouldn't drink martinis - didn't drink alcohol - waited too late to eat anything and hence had a soda to get some pep
		Time flies.... Man...that was almost a hangover! Still I got up early because, after all, why stay in bed if you feel that bad? I continued doing little things on my projects and delaying going to the club, though. I made coffee, folded laundry and piddled with Snapfish. Things are just so much fun in the digital age, aren't they? When they work. Anyway, it was after ten and finally I went to the gym. Because I really can't start doing other things until I exercise, can I? When I got home I continued my little projects and the maid showed up. I booted her out of the master and had a quick shower and piddled with things a little more until time to go to a funeral. The funeral was long and sad. When someone dies at fifty-one and leaves young kids, that's always sad. It was the wife of one of Forrest's clients and I barely knew her. Still sad. We came home and grabbed some food and got casual and went to meet an old friend for a 'Doug Sahm' tribute. Doug has been dead four years. We talked about a lot of things. FFP and I spent a while trying to remember when we'd seen Doug together. (Rome Inn over on 29th, we think.) We have a little Mex food and go home. It's still early. But I mostly sit in my chair reading old papers, dozing. Yeah, like always.

		Reading. Franklin and Winston: An Intimate Portrait of an Epic Friendship by Jon Meacham. Some old newspapers in which I discovered that there was a big bombing on Wall Street...in 1920. Current news says a recent Hepatitis A outbreak is probably traceable to green onions. Readers in this space know that this is the basic food on which I build my diet. So you will be glad to know that I've been vaccinated for Hep A. That was 1996, I think. I just checked, though, and after the second shot you have permanent protection. So, yeah, don't worry. I was going to Africa at the time and was told that I should get it if I was an 'adventurous eater.'
		Hey...this has words and we decided (above) that it was art, baby.
		Exercise some bike weight routines for chest, shoulders, biceps some treadmill
	. .	123/73 74 Rocky feeling when I got up. But generally just fine, thank you.
	It's a Tangled Web we weave...these days of our lives.	One year ago "People told me retirement would be like this but I didn't believe them. I have to shower before bed just to sleep with myself! " Two years ago "I wake up from a dream that included a wake for someone where there was a bar with a bunch of bartenders in lavender camp shirts."