it’s 8:52pm and I’ve had such a messy day. One of those ones where you wake up feeling off & you do everything in your power to put it back on track but it just won’t budge. So then I was at the gym later this evening trying to salvage whatevers left of the day & I had a thought. I think it stems from reading a Museum of Modern Love. I’ve become obsessed with Marina Abramović. The idea of performance art. I think her work just appears to be so cathartic. And I think that’s what I need at the moment. I need things to bubble over the top. Right now they’re just resting at the edge of the cup & that’s not enough. Things need to overflow so you can replace them. So anyway, I’m at the gym & I’m in pain (crunches) & upset (shithole of a day) & I’m thinking of things I can do to make this go away, because no matter how much I try to convince myself it’s good for me, shitty emotions suck & I want to get rid of them. So I [scribbles] go towards performance art. There’s something so incredibly alluring to me about extreme vulnerability. And I’ve had this thought in my mind:
In an art gallery. White walls & a large flat screen TV connected to a video camera positioned over an ikea table. I sit in a chair at the table. Maybe in a red ball gown (a lá Abramović). I have a journal in front of me & I write everything that comes to mind. When nothing comes to mind I draw a straight line_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________my hand never stops moving. Observers at the museum get a raw & unfiltered (?) glimpse into my consciousness. I write for hours. My hand hurts but I work through the pain. This is performance Art.
I think that in a situation like that I’d reach quite a meditative [state]. I mean, when you’re writing stream of consciousness for hours you begin to blur the lines between whose actually in control of the words on the page. Does my hand write them before my conscious mind can comprehend what’s even coming out? Am I the
vehical vehicle in all of this ?
Vehical lol ————- [scribbles]
What is going on I was walking down the street on the way home from the gym & just thinking of how FUCKED UP ↑ this word is. And I know it’s clichéd & I know it’s been said a million times before but capitalism honestly makes this world a fucked up place. How can we have companies that are worth almost 1 trillion $$ while I walk past the same homeless people on King street night after night & I feel like I’VE FAILED because I can’t afford to give them something every night. What sorta world is this that I’ve gotta find a way to somehow capitalise off my art because making it isn’t enough. Living’s just hard enough. But I gotta WORK to live & it aint easy. And there are people who have it worse than me & I know I’m so so fortunate but goddamnit it can get overwhelming sometimes. I was so anxious to drop outta law school because I had to fight tooth and nail to get into a privileged & elitist system. Beat the odds & then realised I’m just a part of the machinery. Work your arse off so you can do more work and for what ? —– [more scribbles]
All I know is it doesn’t make me happy. And money doesn’t make me happy but the fucked up thing is that I need it. Wasn’t expecting this to turn into some sorta anti-capitalist propaganda but it’s not Me.
It’s the Performance Art.
Honestly just wanna live my whole life with the sorta intention that’s behind performance art. Want people to look into my eyes & see the same intensity as those who sat with Marina. But most of the time I’m not even there
– EMILY MORGAN
_____________________________________________mind____________blank_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________And where do we go from here? Art as Catharsis But you won’t find me anywhere Submerged in between the letters of all the words I didn’t write Dancing on the potenitality of an adjacent life And why the Fuck does this always rhyme ?
I guess I prefer things to sound nice because romanticising is in my bones Make the devil into an angel with some carefully constructed prose [line drawing] I don’t know I guess it gives me a chance to find the good in life. Convince myself that every story has 16 sides And I can never truly know each of them in my mind The limitations of embodiment HA always got me fucked in the end
[drawing: self portrait + body]
What does it all mean. Sorry that wasn’t me it was my Hand she gets very existential when left to her own resources but now I’m back in control
THE ARTIST IS FRANTIC
[drawing of crude Dali-esque melting clock)
Tick tock tick tock only 19 but already afraid of time and what it means & how I’m supposed to achieve everything in this life [scribbles]. I had this theory when I was little that every single person/thing lived for the same amount of subjective time. Like if you died early it would just mean that your own relative time was slower than someone who lived longer. I’m going to draw a diagram.
[Diagram comparing life of butterfly with life of elephant
* Disclaimer: Not an animal expert]
I think I invented that theory as a child to console myself about the fact that life’s pretty unfair!!!!! IDK we all have our c o p i n g
m e c h a n i s m s
[scribbles] i think that’s all for now.
The Artist is ____________ ?