Sweet Dreams are Made of This

*There are run-on sentences, and fragments. My English prowess tells me so*

Before waking this Sunday morning I had a dream, or thought about my grandma. It started with my realization of my death. And the fear of being inanimate jolted me conscious. In my attempt to sleep again, I considered how I would be buried. For the first time I considered being interred at my home in Iowa. And then I thought about The Farm, grandma Ibeling’s home in Dumont. And thought about being cremated there, or half my ashes in both locations. Then I thought about being buried with her in her plot in the Dumont Cemetery.
After this I was nearly back asleep and had a thought of making an illustrated book about my childhood on that farm. I remember the sunshine, the straw hats from the 50s, strawberries, the huge garden, fishing in puddles (sometimes dried up ones) and I remember pumping the well, even though it was dry.
I woke excited. Thinking of my mono prints and painted books. I have always wanted to create work about that experience. I believe that death is traumatic; from my own experience I get this idea. As a child many people in my community, and church were past the age of 60. I was no stranger to funerals. But my first jolt, the primary intimate acquaintance with death was in 1997 when the most important person in my life did what felt like leaving me. Naturally now I understand the nature of the event. The last years of what should have been a joyous love were unjustly and cruelly manipulated by misdiagnosis, and the misusage of mind-altering drugs. One of the most painful moments was having her be unable to recognize me, and then after that feed her at Christmas Dinner while she was almost no more aware of her surroundings than the vegetable casserole on the plate.
I have been critiqued within the last few weeks that my work is highly personal, and that I give little access points to viewers.
You may now have my official response: Work, is nothing if not personal. The artist is essentially a glorified filter for everyday experience, and the works that filter produces will always be a story. Rather, a record of their existence, the world around them, and their circumstances.
Access points to me are worthless. I would not know how to make someone see exactly what I was going through at the time of making; I think it is enough to simply enjoy what you see. In a struggle to make work accessible you lose the joy of doing. You risk not following the compulsion that propels you, and you ultimately jeopardize the truth of your experience, the one you are trying to depict; for the sake of another human being’s desires. This is not my game, I prefer cards or jacks.

Why is any of this important? Because in the nasty throes of graduation, and the BFA show I am realizing what is important to me. My time in Chicago has been a very lonely one, with little supportive community and my last year has been without all my friends save for one or two. (They are in other states or have graduated). I am loath to say anything negative about the school because I love it, I would not be who I am now without my experiences. But I will call it as I see it:

Dear SAIC,
You must provide a MORE SUPPORTIVE, AND ENCOURAGING COMMUNITY.
Namaste,
Mary
For this reason my grandma is always on my mind when I make things. It was with her that I first realized the depth of my imagination, and the power in my soul for what moves me. Without her encouragement I do not know where I am. When I discovered bookmaking and binding it was her who showed me the way. *She taught me to sew at an early age by showing me how to thread a needle, and gave me free reign to sew around the boarder of her green tablecloth of the dinning room table until my thread would run out. Then I would cut out my stitches and do it again and again. I didn’t know such joy before, except for maybe fishing in dry puddles with the sun on my back.
Every time I sew a book this is what I remember, and I see her smile, her enjoyment of my joy.
I have little seen this played out within school. Here, you feel as if you are always never enough. But, this is largely due to our own limits as artists. Are we not perfectionists? Do we not strive for that feeling of rightness within ourselves each time we do something-that momentary click of certainty that comes with knowing our idea, and technique are in synchronicity? Hah, I do. Just ask my letterpress teacher. ;)

So, I can think of nothing better after five years of questioning myself save for to STOP doing that. To release myself from this endless cycle of approval seeking, and remember those simpler days. My mission will be to let those experiences guide my work, because apparently it comes to me in my sleep for a reason, and to REACH OUT to the small community I have found who understand my reasons for Being, and who do support my joy with their joy.

* I will be pictorially reporting on my BFA piece within a few days*