"What exactly are you doing?" my neighbors with the raised eyebrows finally ask.
Well, I was sitting in a boa in front of my toaster oven, which was laying unplugged in my yard. Okay, maybe their yard. But, judging by the looks on their faces, they already knew all this.
I was taking a photograph from a light-proofed, pin-punctured salt shaker, strategically placed within my toaster oven to burn the light reflected off of the grates of the oven as well as my boa and myself onto a sliver of photo paper.
Would this information be comforting to my worried neighbors?
I doubted it, but I eagerly stumbled over every word anyway, anxious to justify my weirdness as something as profound as Art. The neighbors nodded and grunted with the appropriate Understanding. They glanced at each other (perhaps they were flattered that I had deemed their yard more aesthetically-pleasing than my own) and shuffled back inside.
It was the first time I had felt the sharp swelling, some cocktail of pride, embarrassment, uncertainty, and stubborn dedication to some idea I was pretty sure existed, which I have only experienced from doing weird shit for art.
The photos of the television you transplanted in a nearby cornfield (made possible by half a dozen extension cords) won't come out light enough, dark enough, or forwards; carpet will only stand on a tree for about 20 minutes, your mother will throw away the tampons you dress up for ballroom dancing, and no one's gynecological needs will be met in the school nurse's office you transformed for that venture into independent filmmaking.
But that's all irrelevant. I am addicted. Not to making art, for I?m really unconcerned with whether I make something or not. Making implies a product, implies pride in something crafted, and while I have these feelings, the reason I continue to feed my habit is the rush I get knowing that I?m doing something for the unadulterated sake of doing it. Was the photograph the most significant result of the pinhole camera I placed in a kitchen appliance on my neighbors? yard? Certainly the experience was more memorable, more life-affirming, more fun.
Unfortunately, we at Carver are in an environment conducive to product-oriented artwork. Poems and choreographed dances, paintings and monologues - somehow they're always due tomorrow. Even those of us who would love nothing more than to savor the moments of action, rather than the stagnant end-result, often find all potential savor evaporated by the wee hours of the morning, when we finally get around to looking for it.
Out of time and out of energy, what is an artist to do? Rather than digging for that smaller canvas deep in the Utrecht shelves, rather than typing some sparse dialogue for your screenplay, rather than taking some quick photos of your feet, I propose you paint with a broom for ten minutes; I propose you go to the most disgusting diner you can find, and record some conversation; I propose you take some photos of lame attempts to confuse your neighbors. I propose that if you can't work really hard for hours and hours today, you at least do something memorable.
So you're tired and drained and you probably have more productive things you ought to be doing instead of reading this, but don?t go labor over something dreaded, something draining you further. Just go do something odd and allow yourself to savor your embarrassment when your neighbors ask what exactly you're doing.