Monday, 20 August 2012

The MoMa And The Mooch.

I took this photo of my Aunty Mooch's bedroom last Christmas when she and her husband Pete were in the kitchen .... they have a huge David Bromley hung on the wall behind their bed. SO COOL. Mooch is the owner of Moochinside, the most gorgeous shop selling things you don't usually see in a shop. "Moochinside promotes emerging artists and designers, showcases a range of unique products all with their own stories."

A few weeks ago, after a series of particularly wicked and hideous days, Mooch held my shoulders, looked me in the eye ... and told me that when I go to New York I am to visit MoMa. "Forget all the others .. MoMa is our kind of museum, Edie."

Dave and I saved it for our last day in NYC. The days were still wicked and still are. But Art exists in the world.

As soon as we walked in I started to cry. I don't know why ... something about being human, filtering and mirroring back the world as we see it. Trying to understand, grasping for knowledge and comfort and wisdom. I walked around and wrote this straight into my phone: "I wondered if my life was a museum ... what would be the pieces on show? The roped-off areas in need of security, the installations, the relics, the fragments, the dreams and half-truths."

The thing about art is, it can mean whatever the hell you want it to mean. I love this one - all of this dark stuff happened and I can never erase it so let's put it in frames and hang it on the goddamn wall. And get on with living.

I found myself watching the other people in the museum watching the art, wondering what they thought.

Jasper Johns "Flag" .... is not what it seems. Nothing ever is.

The museum itself is a piece of art.

"I feel most coloured ... " by Glenn Ligon

I took this photo of Spiderman for my boys, stood there missing them so badly it felt like I would never see them again.

A weeping woman stares at the Weeping Woman.

This is probably not an official artwork at MoMa. But it COULD be. You just never know. Because who defines art, calls the shots, calls the decrees? We do.

I'll be thinking about "Solo Scenes" for years. In terms of myself, my sense of self, my sense of you, social media, my alcoholism, aloneness ... and the day-to-day grind of staying alive.

"These 128 video moniters present continuous footage, run simultaneously, of the artist during the last year of his life. Roth recorded Solo Scenes in Reykjavik and Basel, Switzerland, while recovering from alcoholism. We see him working in his studio, sleeping, bathing, and using the bathroom - everyday activities that suggest the isolation, loneliness, and tedium of everyday living. The stacked arrangement of monitors across three shelves enforces a sense of order as each scene unfolds in sequence, from the left shelf to the middle to the right, and from top left to bottom right."

My beautiful friend Palemother once said that every morning as we get up, it's a performance art piece. Turning the coffee machine on, wrangling children, getting ready for the day, taking a dump. An orchestrated ballet dance of love and banality. All of it.

Later that afternoon in the balmy heat I took this photo of some graffiti on a New York street. It's not hanging in MoMa.

But it COULD be.

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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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