The artist didn’t have time to make it pretty

I get how what you’re saying [about surrendering to a world with certain values and attributes] makes sense for a novel like “1984,” but how does it make sense for art forms like nonnarrative music, which you make, or abstract paintings?

That’s the most interesting question you could have asked. I’m absolutely fascinated by this question, because I think I have an answer, and I don’t think it has ever been well answered. What happens when you go look at a painting you’ve never seen before? What I think happens is that when you look at that picture, you’re seeing it in the context of all the other pictures you’ve ever seen. When you go and look at something new, what you’re saying is, “What’s different about this experience?” In many instances, there won’t be anything different, in which case you’re not that interested. But if you can look at it and say, “That’s more angular. That’s fuzzier. That’s much more this, much more that” — we’re very good at understanding differences in feeling within our own long narrative of looking at pieces of work. But what does it mean, for example, when a picture is scratchier than another? You read that as, This is urgent. The artist didn’t have time to make it pretty. We read messages that don’t have a text quality to them, and we still pick up on the ideas that make them different. Or take Bauhaus. When Bauhaus comes along, it’s saying, “We no longer think of the world as divided into beautiful things and functional things.” That’s a philosophical position about the world. Art, even when it’s nonnarrative, makes those kinds of points all the time.

Brian Eno interview with The New York Times

Building a Resort

For a month I helped build an eco-friendly resort in Puerto Escondido called Barbarenas. We worked mornings from 8 to noon, sorting through piles of rocks, grouting walkways, and plastering the pools with natural mud. By midday, it was in the low 90s and we enjoyed lunch together (rice, beans, and veggies in a tomato base). I worked with my roommates (Niels (pictured), Nada, and Stijn). There was a local artist, originally from Cuba, named Yunior Marino, who was part owner and in charge of the interior design. He’s a phenomenal painter and sculptor. He enjoyed sitting in the shade and smoking cigarettes. My other coworkers were locals who worked extremely hard for very little money (although a decent local wage). On the walk home down the hill and towards the ocean, I’d enjoy a paleta. The rest of the afternoon was mine to play volleyball, surf, and swim.

Ruta 5

It was pretty much out of a horror movie. We pulled in to this hotel late last night while heading south on Ruta 5. As we parked the car it started to pour as a light switched on and a man came out to greet us. Jeff may have cried himself to sleep but we've finally made it to Pucón. And we’ve named our car Hoopdita.

2014

ginger licorice tea

 

I’ve been trying to take care of my body more— better sleep, cleaner meals, stretching, moving my body daily, cold finishes in the shower, meditation, slowing down.

This morning I made a ginger licorice tea and put on a Tara Brach meditation. I felt resentful of how hard I have to work to be in the moment. I’m swimming up stream. Why has stimulation become the baseline of my life? “Even if your mind feels lost in the clouds of thought, just come back.” The act of returning is the practice itself, right? But still, why is it so hard to take 18 minutes out of my day to ground myself and keep clear of the noise?

We are living in a system of distractions. Is it possible that all the noise and routine of Western society is humanity’s tool for avoiding our own pain? What is it about stillness that is so scary to us? And how much pain are we creating by leaning into these systems that do not gift us the opportunity to turn inwards?