100 figures/objects/continuous paintings and working with configurations. Space is too limited and hard to discern any sense of intention. Fewer blocks in same space has some initial promise.

Excerpt from paper 3:
A woman shall enter a museum and pick one up, a child in tow–maybe two–glad for a day without thinking about her pending desposition with a litigious ex-husband and a cheater, and possibly accompanied by a friend (male? handsome?). The child will walk around the display of blocks, distracted by his impulses and propensities, for several minutes and then decide (because it looks quite deliberate) to push and poke, while she is distracted herself, gladly, by the interest of her lover (or her female friend who laughs at her fantasies dared spoken aloud of boiling her ex-husband in oil). And the child will delight in the clamor of the blocks falling onto the white pedestal, an unspoiled plinth, though he won't notice its hallowedness at all but will only be curious as to whether his mother glances at him. She does not. But the flurry of his activity in the peripheral of her eye–like a fly, or maybe a gnat­–and perhaps the brooding attention of other diverse, first-class folks will coerce her into picking one up or maybe it makes more sense that she snatches the block from her child's hands (he is clutching it with both) and embraces it in the palm of her hand so much larger than his, manicured in the manner of someone not meaning to be pretentious but just in an effort to care for herself in some small way, beautiful blush tulips at the tips of her fingers, with her digits–organs of operation and feeling–wrapping around the edges, in hands not yet distinguished by solar lentigines. She does not so much look at it, as hold it. Loosely. The block is allowed to move mindlessly, but just a little, cuddled, fussed over, caressed by her fingers. And she realizes, suddenly, that, she has, not really, held anything, anything of her very own, quietly, thoughtfully, for a long time. She is more struck by this grief then anything else and puts the block down somewhat embarrassed– perhaps others notice her grief–and returns to laughing–or flirting with her friend. She will go home and make dinner or he will take them out to dinner and the one son will need his teeth pulled but will grow up and get married, and the second child we can't know much about, really. Perhaps all will simply go well.

new to archive....range continues to reveal 'a mind at work' and bolder, more vibrant works may recruit greater interest in handling the work. Continuing to confront the challenge of a painting on six sides, and meaningful original form/content.

Important part of experience is viewer's handling of piece: desire to handle it, interest in exploring it once in hand, sense-feelings including any of 'violation,' messing-with, interference with as hand covers image, intimacy/contact with artist, pleasure.

I am struggling with how much to refine images. Should I 'prettify' them, make them sexy and more attractive? Is this an urge related to recruiting viewer's interest, or too much worry about quality of work and living up to others, doubt about primitive or crude quality of drawings (as this is increasingly evident and perhaps even getting worse, ironically, as I find myself more psychically involved with the work)? It is very hard to appreciate the experience of the whole archive as it grows, and become obsessed with one image to the exclusion of how it works with the whole. Yet it must accomplish both somehow. This has become more clear with today's images, quite distinct and I see that they must be if there is to be any chance of reflecting emerging but fragmentary and momentary interior material.

More blocks (front and back), experimenting with drawing, unpainted blocks, better integration of edges with face as if one image. Photograph included with one of the letters (above).  Letters in progress...

I am interested in whether people can entertain something of some depth from their own minds in relationship to another person's mind, in the sense of one's mind being free to dream, to remember things, fantasize, imagine- whether there is a place for confusing, fragmented, odd, absurd, crazy bits of our unconsciousness that is a kind of creative/constructive revelry between two people (Thomas Ogden) (if possible anymore in the 2014 media age). I also want to feel less alone, and less alone with my art and have hope in the ability of others to help me make sense of experience/my art, etc. which is what we do with all experience (ideally) (Bion, Winnicott). Have a few postcards back from friends. Positive interest in the categories, and the idea of an art piece evolving from it. One friend, unprompted, suggested that the creative dimension felt more intimate and meaningful to her than ordinary discourse.

a1616 Shakespeare Hamlet (1623) iii. ii. 67 Blest are those, Whose Blood and Iudgement are so well co-mingled [1604 comedled].
 

Making new images on .75 wood stock. Experimenting with materials. Trying to make sense of the six sides, and process.

Enormous gap between my rational or thinking consciousness and other modes of consciousness stimulating images. I would like to understand this better.

Continuing to make new images/blocks. Time consuming this week as I attempted to make more complex, layered images. Challenge to do this and make all 6 sides relevant. 'Suprise' e.g. time, written entry, adds interest, depth, meaning?

Reading Donald Kuspit, "The End of Art," and am pondering how to better access my unconscious (with structure in exterior reality) as he posits this is art's purpose. Demands of schedule and academic requirements inhibit openness, curiosity. Must overcome this.

Heard Ann Hamilton interview ("On Being") and inspired better practice of thinking, observation/reflection, research (or discovery). Hamilton also suggested "everything is there for thinking, questioning."

Also reading "Bend Sinister" by Vladamir Nabokov.

(Continuing to work on postcard. Wrote text for peer's artwork.)