anna kiss

how it all happened

08/01/2001 - 09/01/2001 09/01/2001 - 10/01/2001 10/01/2001 - 11/01/2001 11/01/2001 - 12/01/2001 12/01/2001 - 01/01/2002 01/01/2002 - 02/01/2002 03/01/2002 - 04/01/2002 04/01/2002 - 05/01/2002 10/01/2002 - 11/01/2002 11/01/2002 - 12/01/2002 03/01/2003 - 04/01/2003 04/01/2003 - 05/01/2003 05/01/2003 - 06/01/2003 02/01/2004 - 03/01/2004 03/01/2004 - 04/01/2004 04/01/2004 - 05/01/2004 05/01/2004 - 06/01/2004 06/01/2004 - 07/01/2004 07/01/2004 - 08/01/2004 08/01/2004 - 09/01/2004 09/01/2004 - 10/01/2004 10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004 11/01/2004 - 12/01/2004 12/01/2004 - 01/01/2005 01/01/2005 - 02/01/2005 02/01/2005 - 03/01/2005 03/01/2005 - 04/01/2005 04/01/2005 - 05/01/2005 05/01/2005 - 06/01/2005 06/01/2005 - 07/01/2005 08/01/2005 - 09/01/2005 09/01/2005 - 10/01/2005 10/01/2005 - 11/01/2005 11/01/2005 - 12/01/2005 12/01/2005 - 01/01/2006 01/01/2006 - 02/01/2006 02/01/2006 - 03/01/2006 03/01/2006 - 04/01/2006 04/01/2006 - 05/01/2006 05/01/2006 - 06/01/2006 06/01/2006 - 07/01/2006 07/01/2006 - 08/01/2006 08/01/2006 - 09/01/2006 09/01/2006 - 10/01/2006 10/01/2006 - 11/01/2006 11/01/2006 - 12/01/2006 12/01/2006 - 01/01/2007 01/01/2007 - 02/01/2007 02/01/2007 - 03/01/2007 03/01/2007 - 04/01/2007 04/01/2007 - 05/01/2007 05/01/2007 - 06/01/2007 06/01/2007 - 07/01/2007 07/01/2007 - 08/01/2007 08/01/2007 - 09/01/2007 09/01/2007 - 10/01/2007 10/01/2007 - 11/01/2007 11/01/2007 - 12/01/2007 12/01/2007 - 01/01/2008 01/01/2008 - 02/01/2008

current

contact anna kiss: annakiss at annakiss dot com

A Month of Poetry

painting until four-thirty in the morning is good and i am grateful for it and i am grateful for all that i am incapable of seeing and all that i am incapable of seeming to be, to myself, to my life, in and of myself. i am grateful for the things that come when they come, that i cannot force them, that writing is all about sitting down to type. which must mean that painting is all about sitting down to paint, that living is all about starting to live and loving is all about feeling love - it comes when it comes and comes freely when it must and if you think too hard it will stick, frozen in your skull, itching you and never freeing itself. it is so irritating to be an artist, to make art, to be crazy. we are incapable of ever being satiated - we are tantalus, the mouth of the river, ourselves, and it is not coming out properly, we are never reaching that which we desire though we see it perfectly. and all that is clear to us is nearly invisible to the world and all that the world might worship in us, or might see and appreciate in us, is invisible to us. we cannot simultaneously be objective and creative. when it comes to ourselves, we can never be objective, and art that we make is merely an extension of us, another limb that we carry around; it pokes and prods and itches and aches, like love and of love and sometimes the definition of love itself. it is about being narcissistic and wanting to reconcile the differences between the artist and the audience. we want to reconcile that which is intended with that which comes out; that which is painted or written, or scrawled in fits on walls with that which is permanent and fixed in our brains; that goal - to achieve the impossible and reconcile that which is real with that which is not. the emotional with the logical. the structured with the chaotic. the perfect with the ugly. the world with ourselves, ourselves with each other, ourselves with ourselves. all that is reconciled with all that can never be. it is about being self-absorbed and thus owning and manipulating the coatings of our insides - expressing more perfectly the conditions of being, yet never being capable of expressing it perfectly. the work we do to satiate the thirst makes the thirst grow stronger, and you find yourself ending things with phrases like this: i cannot think to think.

posted by anna kiss @ 9/04/2001 11:44:00 AM

9.04.2001