It’s not art if it is not organized.
I am organizing. And pondering my theme. Is it by date? By subject? By feelings? What do I see?
This is what I see today, gathering old journals. Sequins. Sequins appear often in my work They are tacky, glittery, and full of color.
Aug 6, 1993
Each sequin I cut off and place in the crystal heart on my antique dresser. I organize the sequins by color. They are a reminder to get organized. I hope they set me straight, get me out of the caring mode. Caring in the sense of caring that I do it right, or caring about what other people think. Ever since artist, Deborah Koehne, came into my life and told me punk was fuck it, I knew that was my direction. I’ve written before about getting back to fuck it, and getting organized was part of the plan.
First, I arrange the jewelry and lipstick in the top drawer of my dresser. The one you have to be careful when pulling it open. Otherwise, it shakes and knocks over all the photographs and empty perfume bottles. I place the jewelry in coordinated white boxes. I glue sequins on top to designate the contents. I toss out the eye shadow I never wear. It’s not my color.
My mother’s dress lay on the bed. It was the dress I was removing the sequins from. It was the dress she wore when she was a can can dancer. I try to imagine my mother ever being like me. I try to picture her leaving us four kids at home with my dad and going off to rehearse. I only know she danced the can can because of photographs of her in a line with several other women. Their skirts were making circles, their legs kicked up and they were all smiling. Especially my mother. It was clear she had the drive to learn the routine. She did more than stay home and take care of babies. In another photograph, I can see my dad is proud.
This is the part that starts to get difficult. The sequins secured on the front around the darts and the pleats and the ruffles were stuck. I can’t get them off.