This weekend I had three pieces in a local art show and my still-life won 3rd place!
This is my newest and the first in my series based on Exposure and Response Prevention, which I’m using in my therapy for OCD. I’ve been setting up still-life pieces using objects that cause distress and trigger intrusive, obsessive thoughts in hopes of exposing myself to them in a creative atmosphere. The goal of ERP is to expose and control your response, which is typically mental or physical rituals. Giving myself a goal, like creating a piece of art, has helped ease myself into this. I am constantly exposing myself to really distressing objects and responding in a positive way.
It feels really good to capitalize on my mental illness and produce something productive. I’m really looking forward to finishing up the rest of these and propelling forward off of this accomplishment.
This is for @miyuki-nightmare and her request of Knives and Pens in a gif set. Thank you for the request! And I apologize for there being so many gifs, I couldn’t just place a limit since there are way to many good shoots in the video.
Norman Mailer was one of the world’s preeminent journalists, the winner of two Pulitzers and a co-founder of “New Journalism” – a style he shares with the likes of Truman Capote and Hunter S. Thompson. He’s a giant in the 20th century literary canon. He also tried to stab his wife to death in full view of dozens of horrified witnesses.
On November 19, 1960, Mailer threw a party to announce that he was running for mayor of New York City. In an attempt to set up a dialog between the rich and the poor, he invited all of the city’s most elite citizens, as well as a whole bunch of homeless people. He got a bit upset when, for some reason, most of the rich people canceled. It turns out that it’s not easy to get Rockefellers, Hearsts, du Ponts, or even Trumps to attend a party where the well liquor is Mad Dog 20/20. Purple flavor, of course. We’re talking about high society here.
As the night wore on, Mailer started getting mean drunk. Eventually, his mortified wife, Adele, stepped in to subdue him, and this escalated into a full-scale screaming match, which ended when Mailer pulled out a two-and-a-half-inch pen knife and stabbed her several times in the chest. Hopefully he had some sort of quip about pens and knives at the ready, but honestly, it was probably all rage-screaming at that point.
Adele survived. She told doctors that she’d “fallen on some glass” and stayed with Mailer for another two years. And literary types spent the next forever carefully debating whether or not Mailer’s genius was “super duper great,” or “just regular great.”
Things I like: fires, Venice, tequila, sunsets, babies, silent films, heights, coarse salt, top hats, large long-haired dogs, ship models, cinnamon, goose down quilts, pocket watches, the smell of newly mown grass, linen, Bach, Louis XIII furniture, sushi, microscopes, large rooms, ups, boots, drinking water, maple sugar candy.
Things I dislike: sleeping in an apartment alone, cold weather, couples, football games, swimming, anchovies, mustaches, cats, umbrellas, being photographed, the taste of licorice, washing my hair (or having it washed), wearing a wristwatch, giving a lecture, cigars, writing letters, taking showers, Robert Frost, German food.
Things I like: ivory, sweaters, architectural drawings, urinating, pizza (the Roman bread), staying in hotels, paper clips, the color blue, leather belts, making lists, Wagon-Lits, paying bills, caves, watching ice-skating, asking questions, taking taxis, Benin art, green apples, office furniture, Jews, eucalyptus trees, pen knives, aphorisms, hands.
Things I dislike: Television, baked beans, hirsute men, paperback books, standing, card games, dirty or disorderly apartments, flat pillows, being in the sun, Ezra Pound, freckles, violence in movies, having drops put in my eyes, meatloaf, painted nails, suicide, licking envelopes, ketchup, traversins [“bolsters”], nose drops, Coca-Cola, alcoholics, taking photographs.
Journal entry 2/21/77, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals & Notebooks 1964-1980 @sontagfilm
okay so i picture ryan outside of the crew as a naturally fidgety guy. it’s never a ridiculous amount of movement, but it’s a jogging of a leg when he’s leaning against something, tapping his feet/playing with his shoes when he’s seated, hands always in pockets and at the back of his neck and running through his hair and rubbing at his mouth and scratching at his ear.
when he’s the vagabond, he has to hide who he is. everything is changed, from voice to posture. namely, every significant mannerism, everything that identifies him as ryan, disappears. he moves little outside of necessity, stands tall and intimidating and still.
but he just can’t seem to rein in his hands.
he tries, certainly, exercises a significantly increased level of control over his habits. vagabond is a different headspace, after all, the reservation and lack of identity drilled into himself. the vagabond doesn’t need to run a hand through his hair when he’s nervous, as it’s pulled back in a ponytail or tied up in a bun. the vagabond wears a mask, couldn’t rub at his mouth if he tried. the vagabond recognizes that he blushes from the neck up, and that touching the area in his habitual manner just brings attention to whatever moment of weakness his hand is trying to conceal.
but his fingers are itchy, his fingers don’t rest. they drum against his hip, against the holster of his pistol, against the hilt of his knife. they snatch up pens and throwing knives and twirl, roll them across scarred and skinned knuckles almost too fast to be seen. they are the only thing about the vagabond that are not controlled, not a well-oiled part of the machine.
maybe that’s why they are so very good at the artistry of torture.