 Katie, San Francisco 2016. This week in my Writing for Artists class, we read "Bluets" by Maggie Nelson. Taking inspiration from her work, we were asked to write our own list of propositions about something that fuels our own artistic practice. This is my piece. Enjoy!!  Autobiography of an Artist 1] Imagine that you and I are having a conversation. You ask me questions like What do you want to be when you grow up? Or What’s more important to you, money or happiness? I don’t give you answers. I fiddle with the paper label at the end of the string on my green tea sachet. I might peer into the empty mug, trying to will it to refill with boiling water with my mind—Anything to avoid eye contact, to avoid your questions. I’ll answer, but not with the words you’re looking for. Instead, I’m going to tell you a secret—I’m in love with love. 2] I’ll explain to you how chasing after something as intangible as an emotion has set me on a divergent path with a unique set of landmarks. I’ll tell you about the things, places, and people I’ve fallen in love with on this journey. 3] With a new sparkle you’ll have never noticed in my eye before, I’ll look up from my empty mug full of wonder and excitement. I love talking about love. Why don’t we all? I’ll tell you about the stories I fell in love with first—My copy of “Alice Through the Looking Glass” that my mom bought from my elementary school library because I loved it so much in it’s plastic jacket with a sticker marking it’s Dewey Decimal Classification: FIC CAR. I’ll tell you how I imagined seven impossible things before breakfast just like Alice. I fell in love with more stories: paintings, photographs, music, and films. I’ll tell you about my first yellow composition notebooks, how I feel when I watch “We Bought a Zoo,” and what it’s like to hear Fleetwood Mac perform “Landslide” live. I will confess that the only concept that ties these things together is love. Love unifies everything. 4] I’ll collect our mugs and make sure they’re full for this next part, they need more water and a drizzle of honey before I can continue. I’ll set the warm ceramic down upon the counter and tell you about the places and people I love. Places and people are more ephemeral than stories, paintings, music, and films—You can leave a place or a person, and a place or a person can leave you too. 5] I’ll tell you every detail about what it was like to teach art lessons at the farm for eight summers. I’ll tell you about the fairy houses we built by the creek, the alpacas named Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, the chocolate fudgesicles we’d give the campers once a week for a snack that would melt in the sun, the boat races, the paint splattered clothing reserved for work, the charcoal covered faces, the Friday pizza parties and art shows, and working alongside my best friends and role models. It was incredible. But, I’ll also tell you what it felt like for the owner to retire and for me to lose the place that was always my future, my safety net, and my sanctuary. It was heartbreaking. This summer feels different, it feels like a hot winter. 6] I’ll tell you about how my life has felt like a cycle where the people I love most leave me behind. I’ll tell you every detail about what it was like to withdraw from UC Santa Barbara after my freshman year. I’ll tell you about my roommate, Francesca, who has remained one of my closest friends. I’ll tell you about the road trips, the boy, the zebras in San Simeon, the $12 smoothies I’d drive to Malibu for, and the hundreds of pages I wrote on a tear stained MacBook keyboard. It was liberating. But, I’ll also tell you what it feels like to live at home when everyone I love is pursuing dreams that take them away from me. I feel abandoned. 7] I’ll tell you about everyone I’ve ever been in love with, I think. The story will start in 8th grade on a camping trip that I left earlier than everyone else in my grade. That story won’t end until I’m 18. I’ll tell you all about unrequited love. I know a lot about unrequited love. There will be a lot of little loves to ruminate over. Lots of could-have, would-have, should-have kind of loves. But, I know your time is valuable and your tea cup is almost empty. We can fast forward a bit. We can talk about now. 8] I’ll tell you all about my first requited love—I’ll tell you the things I have trouble admitting to myself. 9] You have to go soon, and you politely ask me again What do you want to be when you grow up? and What’s more important to you, money or happiness? 10] In love and happiness.  © Annie Fay Meitchik. All Rights Reserved. All content on anniefay.com is my own or credit is given when applicable, please do not use any of my images before contacting me above or @ anniefaymeitchik@gmail.com.
This week in my Writing for Artists class we read "A Tour of the Monuments of Passaic, New Jersey" by Robert Smithson. After reading, we were asked to write our own creative piece chronicling the signifiant things we observe in our daily lives. My essay is below. Enjoy.  I wake up to sunlight pouring in through my rectangular window. I can see one tree from the moment I open my eyes, but the tree count increases to 20 once I sit up. A dove dips down from the wooden planks outside. Against the cerulean sky, the distant leaves of a willow tree dance with the wind. I hear the soft hum of a lawn mower. I rub my eyes and stretch my arms towards the white ceiling above me. I tuck my Anthropologie bedding back into place and head downstairs to make myself breakfast.  I pause on the landing of the stairs beneath the skylight. After weeks of gloomy days, the natural light makes the pale yellow walls look orange and I squint. In the kitchen, I take my blender out of the dishwasher. The dishes inside are dirty so I wash the blender and it’s lid in hot water with rosemary-mint soap. I look out the kitchen window, that takes up half the wall, out to my backyard. The view was once just rolling hills leading to the ocean in the west and the mountains to the east. Now, there are neighborhoods, parks, and golf courses to observe.  I peel a banana and break it in half before plopping it into the blender with frozen berries, cacao nibs, a spoonful of peanut butter, and a splash of almond milk. I place a mason jar next to the blender and set it on ‘Smoothie.’ As the blender goes through it’s programmed settings, I warm a piece of french bread. The days that begin like this lead to afternoons stolen by homework. After hours working, I’m ready to leave my house. Barefoot, I enter the garage and get in my denim blue VW Beetle. I go to my current playlist and click shuffle. “Bags” by Clairo starts to play. The music overflows from my open car windows like airy bubbles out of a bathtub. I reverse down the driveway and pull off onto the wide street. Every house in my neighborhood looks completely different. Mine is made of wood, some are made of stucco, and around the corner there’s a pink house with purple turrets, a bridge that allows you to walk over a miniature moat, and flags like a castle. It’s an eclectic neighborhood and it’s been home for as long as I can remember.  On the main road, I wait at a red light. The drive from La Costa Avenue towards Pacific Coast Highway is stunning. To the right, there’s a massive lagoon with egrets, herons, marsh, and wetland plants. To the left, there are green mountains. Straight ahead is the Pacific Ocean. I turn left and enter Encinitas. “Baby Blue” by Tigers in the Sky starts to play. Skip. “Ocean Breathes Salty” by Modest Mouse instead. There’s always one of those light up construction signs with the orange lights on the side of the road with a message about being conscientious of bikers. As I drive past at 40 mph, I see part of the message that reads: SHOW BIKES THAT YOU CARE-O I reach the red octagon that always makes me stop my car and my mind. If I turn right I’ll be at my childhood best friends house in less than a minute. If I look to the left, I can see my boyfriends house. I drive straight ahead. A little bit down the road is my favorite café, Lofty Coffee. I go there to do work or catch up with my friends. I usually order an iced black lavender tea. “Dina” by Sports plays followed by “Wes Anderson” by Alex Lahey. It takes me a while to notice I’m singing along. I pass through downtown Encinitas. I drive past the art gallery I work at. I drive past the bead store and Lotus Café. I pass the Self Realization Fellowship and think back to the time I snuck into the gardens before they had opened. An employee had put in the gate code and something compelled me to follow. I reach Swami’s beach. “Striking” by Francis and the Lights is halfway through. Skip. “En nuit” by Videoclub. Skip. “So Now What - Flipped” by The Shins. Good. There’s a grassy lawn with a wooden Moai statue where I usually see a group of wandering bohemians participating in a drum circle or slacklining between two thick palm trees. The view from the parking lot is expansive. Looking over the wooden railings I feel like I can see the entire universe. The ocean and the sky merge together like a watercolor painting of the color blue.  By night, I’m back to that red octagon, but I’m headed in the opposite direction. Everything is flipped. My childhood best friends house is to my left, and my boyfriends house is to my right. I drive to the right. “Ivy” by Sales plays softly. My boyfriend has to be up early for work in the morning at a French Bakery one beach town north. I lay in his bed for a while as he falls asleep. Each inhale is marked by a snore and every exhale is marked by a whistle. These two sounds are linked in some way because as the snores growl louder the whistles whisper more softly. I think to myself, all I want to do is write. His hand rests between my thighs, but my knees can’t get comfortable being stacked one on top of the other. Upon extending my legs, his fingers become displaced like the four last hot dogs without buns. I get back in my denim blue VW Beetle under the moonlight and hit shuffle. I wonder if he realizes he’s a character in my story even now. Maybe he’s too busy drawing to notice I’m doing the same, sketching with words. “Bags” by Clairo plays.  © Annie Fay Meitchik. All Rights Reserved. All content on anniefay.com is my own or credit is given when applicable, please do not use any of my images before contacting me above or @ anniefaymeitchik@gmail.com. Today, I am sharing an assignment from a few weeks ago. In my Writing for Artists class at The New School, we each had to write our own poems inspired by Frank O'hara's work titled "Why I am not a Painter." Although this assignment was challenging, I was very pleased with my final product. I decided to confine myself to using the same structure as O'hara and adopted his format of arranging the stanzas into groups of three lines and then two sets of 13 lines each. I also experimented with capitalization and breaking up stanzas mid-sentence as he did. Enjoy and feel free to write your own poem to share in the comments below!!   My Poem and Art  © Annie Fay Meitchik. All Rights Reserved. All content on anniefay.com is my own or credit is given when applicable, please do not use any of my images before contacting me above or @ anniefaymeitchik@gmail.com. |
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