In high school, I once stood before a panel of judges in what is perhaps the most damaging activity a person could ever choose to do—I was a member of my school's "Intellectual Olympic" team as the official expert in the areas of literature and art. The point of this blog is not to reminisce about a not so distant past. Neither is it to tell of the social Hell of high school—that's a given and anyone who tells you otherwise obviously didn't go to Galt...Rather, my point (and I do have one, although perhaps it is not so much as a point as a catalyst into a different thought) is that last night I was thinking about how one of the judges asked me to tell him what Pop Art was. Standing there, in front of hundreds of people I didn't know (we were competing at a school in Montreal, not that it would have made a difference as I knew no one at Galt either), I babbled on for a bit to give myself a chance to think (the sound of my monotone voice can actually be quite meditative), and then, finally, I launched into a rant about how a lot of art can be intimidating, lofty, pretentious. We recognize that it's art because we stand in awe of the sheer genius of the sculptor's work, how the slightest quiver of a brush can damage an expression, change the meaning forever.
We go to museums to see 'art' because it is so precious that the protection of velvet ropes (soft as they are, they do have a certain authority about them…) becomes necessary. People love this 'art' because they know they would never be capable of such genius—an impossible endeavour. We may call this art 'popular' for a small, somewhat elitist portion of society, but in truth, sometimes images bleed into one another. One landscape becomes barely more memorable than the next. One dead aristocrat, battle-scene or biblical moment becomes not more striking, chilling or more sentimental than the next...We love it all, but this 'art' has nothing to do with our lives (upon reflection, perhaps that is why we enjoy it so much). It is an ancient part of someone else's history.
Pop Art, on the other hand, is for the people: the popular mass society; the strange; the angry; the addicted; the passionate. Pop Art is messy, imperfect, and often cheaply mass produced so as many people as possible will get a chance to see it. Its point does not follow Pater's Victorian idea of 'art for art's sake,' but instead elicits a reaction, be it joy, fear, disgust, anger, sadness or nausea. Pop Art wants to make you squirm. It wants you to question the artist's motivation and to realize that though it is undeniably art, perhaps it really wouldn't be so impossible to create something just as good, just as provocative. Pop Art essentially gives anyone the green light to call themselves an artist (whatever that is—it's highly open to interpretation…), just so long as the work they produce is seen, be it in a loft somewhere, a garage, or a freezing warehouse. To be seen is all that matters.
Late on Saturday afternoon, after I'd taken care of some business, I went again to Insa Dong, the traditional marketplace area, a space that simply (and so endearingly so) vibrates with life, color and artistry. Wandering around, we came upon a tribute to Andy Warhol, he of the multi-hued silkscreen
Upon entering this open-air, freezing cold building/warehouse, the first noticeable thing is part of the large ceiling, covered in little shimmering yellow Christmas-tree lights and open blue umbrellas. The lights looked like stars, I thought, and I imagined that had it been warm enough, I would have liked to lie down and get a better view upwards. Maybe, I thought, I would pretend like the sky was falling and that I needed to catch an umbrella (a la Wile E. Coyote) to protect myself from the dangerous stars catapulting to Earth.
In true Pop Art tradition, there was also a place where one might purchase a mug or a plate and paint whatever they pleased: Art for the masses. We were going to try it—and I'd still like to at some point—but we would have had to wait a week or two to return to retrieve it from the kiln's finishing touches. Everything is uncertain—who knows if I'd even be able to find this place again—or if I wasn't just imagining it in some feverish moment of delusion (I've been known to have them)—a fairy palace where time doesn't exist and that will disappear and change locations if ever exited.
There was a staircase to another level as well, decked out with weird little space cadets with rather android like qualities—their arms and legs kind of petered out into rounded-off points and their expressions made me laugh, as even with the long water/opium/hookah (?) pipes jammed into their O-shaped mouths, they gave off the sense of looking very constipated, yet blissful, like whatever they were smoking had prevented any movement, the utter inability to walk, and formed these bulbous little bodies which the skinny, feetless legs could never support. I loved it. The sign said "don't touch."
We also saw giant plastic flowers of all varieties and colors. The sunflower was cool and I recall leaning down to have my photo taken with a pretty purple, somewhat faded African violet (?), not realizing that these things weren't nailed down, were very lightweight and could just roll around at the slightest touch. I very nearly ended up on my ass. I was amused and thought of Alice in Wonderland after she'd grown to a "very respectable 4 inches" and had to deal with rather bitchy flowers.
Additionally, though less striking, were 'shoetrees,'—not in the sense of the word we know, of course, but rather, actual trees, the branches of which housed trees of all colors and styles, sealed hygienically in plastic baggies. I wondered if any of them matched, though on second thought, to wear matching shoes is of probably very little concern to the artist. There were also these kind of gross, white, rather phallic objects with brown splotches on them, not dissimilar to nipples. I think the point of art like this is that the artist wants you to feel as though it's a piece that's open to interpretation, but everyone automatically associates it with something perverse. The artists wants us to go away thinking that we have dirty minds, are sexual deviants and contemplating the possibility that the person next to you may have seen something purely innocent in it. We came to the conclusion that it looked like a structure one might encounter in Whoville, or anywhere else on Dr. Seuss' fertile mindscape. I could go on, the warehouse was richly packed with things both sacred and profane—all subversive as hell, all thought-provoking—but I won't, because this is not meant to be a book, but a humble little blog with but a few loyal subscribers…(:
Later, we explored many booths and stores—I bought a fan and a little green stone that I had hoped to make into a necklace, but I fear I may have lost it…I have come to the conclusion that many Korean artisans tend to have wonderful and strange ideas about the things they make. There were all these little wooden key chains and statues that really reminded me of Tim Burton's The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy…I thought fondly of the "girl with nails in her eyes," "Stain Boy, et al, and became very nostalgic for some of the cool comic book shops in Ottawa…Oh, Silver Snail, how I miss your dollar bin….ha.. Anyway, these little statuette/ key chain things are basically little men decked out with spikes (or other unpleasantly sharp objects) through their foreheads….Little zombie Frankensteins. I thought they were adorable. My heart melts at the strangest things…
We tried to get our picture taken with these two people dressed as teddy bears, but there were just too many children who wanted it more, so I wasn't very assertive about it. A weird guy who loved that we were North American started rattling off all the
I know North Americans are often objects of interest here in
We went to a Vegetarian Buddhist restaurant for supper and it was great, just a nice, chill atmosphere with a lot of variety to choose from. It's the first exclusively vegetarian place I've encountered since coming here and I was grateful to eat something I recognized for once. I like everything, except the green bean dish, which tasted bitter to me, like sucking on an aspirin.
We went to Hong Dae, somehow ended up at Tin Pan (after a few relaxing drinks at a much quieter, more awesome bar) and drank shots, apparently. We decided to pull an all-nighter, stay up and catch an early morning train. I was really tired, but not very intoxicated. We met some 'interesting' (it's a very all-encompassing sort of word) people at Tin Pan who invited us to tag along to a Norebang. I'm not into singing, as I am tone-deaf, but I enjoy watching others do it, even strangers. It was pretty great. I finally got home about 9am after a really great day that I seriously needed—I'd had a rather depressing, unhealthy week, which I still feel very sad about, as the events leading up to it seemed somehow special and impacting.
I was not angry this week. I was just confused and resigned and desired some form of escape. But, as I've said so many times to so many people, how much farther can I really go? I've spent many years, my whole life, in fact, hiding out in my bedroom, turning off my phone, blending into walls, closing the light. No one here but us ghosts… And yet, upon reflection, I want so badly to be a part of something more important than myself. Maybe it is vanity that I rarely let that happen, or maybe it is fear. I hope people remember my rare moments when I really try to expose myself for the human I happen to be. I still find it difficult to come off that way. Humans, myself included, tend to make me physically ill.
I've met many people in my life. I tend to know them for short amounts of time. Never a repeat performance. I've never argued with any of them, really, except for family, but somehow they all just vanish into the night. Maybe that is why I feel strange and sad whenever I've told a secret. It's like I'm just passing on information. I am someone to remember, not to know. Or maybe people think that a couple of intense days is all they need to know a person. I'm sure that this may sometimes be true. One day, I'll fade, become translucent. I'll be a passing thought, that kind of makes you smile or maybe it will make you sad, or sentimental. I never really know how people see me. I never will. But, then, because of how I am, sometimes I think I like this—There is something mildly Romantic about it all—Rather like The Lady of Shallot a woman trapped in a tower, her only means of looking out into the world, a magic mirror. Her descent means alienation, banishment, misery, unhappiness. I know it's not the same thing. I do go out more often these days, I do speak to people, but I often feel very disconnected. It's rare that I feel comfortable. It hasn't happened for awhile that I do feel okay with others, and so I am confused, like I don't know who I am and perhaps I never will.
I am concerned about change. Even though I hated life as a child, I figured that if anything changed, it would be for the worse, because what good could possibly happen to us, to me. I honestly believe that we live in a culture of shame and guilt. These two are the only tangible sentiments people really instil on their children. Everything everywhere is constantly criticized. If it's not being criticized outwardly by someone else, you're doing it to yourself, making awfully sure to self-edit and censor your actual feelings because you know nothing in this life can be kept secret for more than a few moments. I treasure those moments while they're happening, because later, after the jubilation has passed, when we're in a public place and parting ways and I have been removed from the heady happiness of a warm place and a nice person to myself, the self-criticism comes to torment me and I experience an enormous, unbearable urge to leave where I am and run home to proceed to dwell on every sentence uttered, every possibly obnoxious look, strange posture or uncomfortable silence. I hate that I am this way and I know I 'm not alone in mental mind fucking, but I think I may be a more extreme case.
Before I decided to drop everything and come to Korea, I'd seriously considered seeking some sort of "help" (although I have my doubts about whether it would improve anything at all--it may just be the only thing that hasn't been tried, a convenient solution to my messy mind) but I can't actually foresee improvement in my current state. Everything culminates. Everything in my whole goddamned life has culminated to this moment, now, where I feel kind of nauseated, with my cramped fingers and my heavy eyelids, and where I am writing this blog as a means to avoid doing other, unhealthier things. I forget nothing. I repress nothing. It's all on the surface and I've become so ashamed of it, so guilty for seeing it in myself when I wake up, that I can't leave the house until it's been conveniently tucked away in some back pocket or other. Someone once called me a "delicate child of life" and I laughed at his reference to Thomas Mann. I felt it was out of context.
And so here I am with all my wisdom and headaches and weight and loneliness and guilt and denial and memories and disgust and moments of wanting to act on impulse so, so badly. Perhaps I am even nostalgic for 2 weeks ago. Should I feel stupid for thinking this? Maybe, but I can escape everything but my thoughts.
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