I guess what I am coming to be interested in is the beauty of everyday, unnoticed things; the window displays or graffiti we pass every day and never think twice about… they’re very humble and real to me. In them, we exist... yet no one sees stacks of warm and flaky paste and thinks back to the hand that crafted them. While there are a number of skilled and revered street artists that leave incredible pieces of work throughout Europe, nobody blinks as they pass another spray-paint scrawled ti amo or another illegible, swirling tag. I like that these artists go unknown, that their work is free, humble, and – despite often commercial purposes, as with window displays – for the sake of creating something beautiful and sharing it with others. While the tags are a bit of a double-edged sword (I’m still torn between anonymity and ego), for the most part, these things aren’t for the glorification of an artist. They’re practical. They're born out of something else. They’re pure in the way that they seek no accreditation or show any sign of an artist’s hand. They represent a pure desire to aestheticize the world, to contribute to it, and/or to “better” it through art. These little moments are simple and free. and gorgeous.
In Theme Sequence this past Thursday, after tacking up a few abstracted ink drawings and photos of various graffiti art, glittering or abstracted light at night, and the late afternoon sun cutting out buildings and glowing on cobblestone, I was surprised to find all my newspaper sculptures turning into these humble bouquets, tied with twine. Maybe it’s silly, but they started to become these beautiful, simple objects to me… despite the banality of material and small cuts, they still retained the voluminous, exotic qualities of a bouquet of fresh flowers. In a way, considering the material of newspaper, its quotidian nature and contents, the bouquets become something new. Also, seeing all the bouquets laying out on my workspace, I somehow got to thinking of them as little gifts. As if you had so much love for the people in your life, or maybe one single, secret, pathetically embarrassing crush, that you could do nothing but just sit around all day in your house and, with whatever you could find (like newspaper), make bouquet after bouquet after bouquet to present those people you cared about - such a singular, unpretentious piece of beauty. As if these little bouquets could be a vehicle for all beauty or love you wanted to share. Maybe this all sounds silly. I’m not really sure where I’m going with any of this, but hopefully, eventually, it will lead me somewhere that makes sense.
On a final note, I had a wonderful experience this past Saturday afternoon in Palazzo Pitti. As I was camped out on a bench in the middle of the Sala di Apollo, I was surrounded by a group of French school kids. I had my earphones in, but I decided to turn off the sound so as to test my French a little, for fun. There were two boys, probably 13-15 years old, just hovering over my shoulder, one with a sketchbook. They whispered to each other... Ravissant! C'est Manifique! You should draw what she's drawing. Ask her how to draw the shadows... Do you think she speaks French? Just ask her, ask her if she speaks French... It's easy. No, she has her headphones in. She can't hear us. Is she Italian? Uh, ok... I'm just going to draw what she's drawing. I looked up and they both looked straight at me. My eyes fell back to my drawing; yes, I'll admit it: I let myself be intimidated by two pre-teen boys. The one boy sketched over my shoulder, copying the main figure of my detail shot. A few minutes later, he motioned to me and held out his sketchbook. "Not very good," he said in English, somehow guessing my native tongue. I started to tell him otherwise in French, but he and his friend quickly left.
I pushed Play on my iPod and continued sketching, amused. 10 minutes later, I looked up, and there he was, in front of me. In his hand, he held out the drawing, freshly torn from his sketchbook. I took out my earphones. "Pour moi?" I asked. "Yes... is for you," he said, blushing. I graciously accepted the drawing, and he disappeared. No name, nothing. 6:30 came, I shut my sketchbook, tucking the drawing carefully inside... potentially the best gift the city of Florence has given me so far.
Erin
