Inspiration in the Rabbit Hole

the follen house Right now I should be writing about Rinko Kawauchi. Specifically Illuminance and her ability to offer the most intimate and poetic 6x6 images of the mundane, the macabre, and the tiny beautiful gestures which pepper our daily existence.

Instead I am getting myself deeper and deeper into what I lovingly refer to as an "internet rabbithole."

We all know the feeling. You start by checking your reader, (right now I'm using Feedly to replace the doomed Google Reader, but  if you have a better suggestion, please share!) which leads to a series of twists and turns and suddenly, you're at the end of a choose-your-own-adventure novel which has to have had a beginning, you just can't seem to recall it.

Sometimes this seemingly endless accidental consumption of more information inspires me, but more often it just makes me feel guilty. Guilty for not producing enough. For not publishing enough. For not being more inspired. It's a shame spiral. And that shame, while it could most definitely light a fire under my ass, mostly just makes me feel sad.

I'm a collector. I'm a magpie. But it isn't enough to be attracted to these wonderful, beautiful, shiny things; great art, impeccable style.. I want it all. I want to do every awesome DIY project, buy every great print, make more in general, and I think constantly "damn, why don't I do more of... I should write about... that isn't as good as my..." and of course, in the words of The Jealous Curator: "DAMN I WISH I THOUGHT OF THAT."

The thing is, though, that it's hard to absorb all this visual information and not immediately compare it to your life. It's not enough to apply bits and pieces, for me it has to be an all-out transformation or nothing. To clarify: if I'm writing a blog post about something, I can't just post it, I hem and haw over every detail until I'm convinced its stupid or boring or pointless and I don't post it. As if I have readers. As if anyone is judging me. And regarding my own artwork, I am a terrible editor. I can't, even after 10 years of considering myself "an artist," actually figure out some sort of statement-portfolio-identity which I feel is accurate and authentic to my aesthetic.

I digress. the reason I started writing was to point out that tonight, something changed. Maybe it had something to do with an email exchange with Vincent Serritella after reading about him on The Jealous Curator. We wrote about the state of the Art World and the necessity of giving art away for free. We thanked each other. We were transparent. In a world where emails are often unrequited, I felt held. Maybe it had to do with moving into our new apartment, or Spring finally coming to Boston. Whatever changed, I felt a little lighter.

I then comfortably spent the next few hours clicking: through Autumn de Wilde's amazing photographs without feeling jealous that she is Beck's go-to or had an intimate photographic relationship with the late Elliott Smith (OK maybe a liiiitttle jealous of that), which led me to Shirley Kurata, which led me to Nothing Major and so on and so forth. And the only thing I felt, other than admiration, was inspiration. No sinking feeling, just read, learn, go, do.

And so I wrote this post. That counts for something, right?