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Like sands through the hourglass, so are the fucks of our lives.

6/16/2014

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on june 10th, as i do most days, i continued my journey of being awesome and not giving a shit.
on june 11th i posted the first blog i'd written in a hot minute. sure, i vented. i have ranted. i've talked it out through writing to myself over... and over... and over again. this particular time i created a fictitious jiminey cricket-esque art-bitch character who lives on my shoulder named rosie perez. i blabbed to myself my own thoughts as per "mallory's glorified public diary that no body reads" usual and carried on with my day.
on june 12th i missed a phone call and immediately received this curious and cryptic text from a number i hadn't known. it read, "Hi, we have spoke and you are no longer a resident artist of the generator. Please have your space cleared by the first of the month." how vague? how ... strange? how decidedly papal sounding in it's multi-personal self-reference? i inquired, "who is we? who is this? how very cryptic and intriguing." the number replied that it was, they matt schultz. the ''we'' must've been all the moods he was in in that moment. i quickly checked my voicemail to see what "the we'd" had said, "hey mallory, this is matt and i'm calling in regard to your space at the generator. after what was posted on facebook today, i'm gonna have to ask you to remove your residency from the generator. i'd like all of your stuff out of the genny by the first of the month. just not working out." i could hear it in "the we's'' voice. the fluster-age. the anger. the venting, the pacing, and, in "the we's" short, huffed ummmm's. so i wrote him back, "oh, matt. shit. didn't even have your new number? figured you'd throw a fit before we actually had a conversation. i'll be out. although... i do blame rosie perez." and that's how it happened. quick-like. peace...the fuck out.
on june 13th i woke up curious about what the world had to think of this bullshit example of diplomatic leadership so i posted on facebook and was swarmed with a shit-typhoon of response and support for me right to speak my mind. couldn't agree more. "the we's" reaction to my words is totally indicative of his general napoleonic mannerisms and further supports my animal farm correlation. i wasn't off base at all... as a matter of fact, i'm pretty sure i was only writing what other people have been thinking for some time now. also, turns out i don't particularly care what other people think (surprise!).
on june 14th i packed up awl muh shit from the pope's palace. i also saw this article which made me vomit in my mouth. if by hug, you mean...a dictatorship to call their own? if by hug, you mean wool over reno's eyes? if by hug, you mean art herpes?
on june 15th resumed daily life. happy father's day, dad.
today, i'm officially fuck-giving free. i just thought i'd jot this all down real quick for myself. y'know, keep it fresh for posterity and such.

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rosie perez and i will swallow your souls.

6/11/2014

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this is how i've decided to survive 2014.

there's an art bitch inside me.

imagine a tiny scantily dressed, art savvy and violently sassy 1990's rosie perez permanently perched atop my shoulder. she advises me what to tolerate and what to explode over... it's her little hands with bright, fake nails that help take my earrings off when i'm about to throw down semi-metaphorically on someone whom i believe is a) committing an art crime b) being a fucking idiot in need of real talk c) moving their mouth without intelligence d) sunday driving on a tuesday e) needs his or her ego put in check f) fucking up MY art g) wrong.

my solution? very little horrible shit coming out of my mouth and a tiny puerto rican woman to blame when it does.

it's been a relatively quiet year for me--art wise. i've been developing my tarot project slowly but surely and it's progress has thus far been very well received. i'm still planning on a solo show in september at singer social club--not particularly wild about the venue, but i totally committed to the place before i saw the layout, lighting, design. lesson learned. i've been in there a couple of time for the new and successful art walk reno and haven't been tickled. granted, rosie and i are really really hard to impress and quite frankly, we're sick of hanging my art in bars. been there, done that. it's dim, nobody buys shit, it influences the perceived value, and my work deserves better.

i haven't had any solo shows and i've only participated in a handful of group events (eric santti's circle project most prominently).
i'm working on illustrating some short story panels for my friend chris at Y A'LL ARE DEAD/Sunday Snuff which is totally interesting and outside my element. as in i get to draw aids infested toilet pubes and, if it enhances the story-telling, maybe a sick anus or two that's fallen out of itself from disease. cross your fingers, everyone. i'm stoked on this.

aside from a few rants about the generator's general hypocrisy and lack of follow through and leadership, that place still stands. somehow. i know that we're all supposed to help out our fellow man... and that artists should stick together and come when called upon and etc etc etc. i just have never seen anything like the ol' genny and it's animal farm-esque leadership. it feels really good in there sometimes and other times fake as fuck. again, the juice hasn't been worth the squeeze.

burning man is coming and no, i won't be in attendance this year either. unless some amazing project that is perfect for me comes my way... i get a free ticket... and i can jaunt off by myself without losing my job. so basically if the accidental stars align, i might head out for the weekend. otherwise, i'll pass.

i dunno what rosie and i are gonna do.
pretty sure we're just gonna blow this city out of the art water in the next year and until then maybe write a few more passive aggressive blogs to myself, for myself, about myself and wait patiently for our (mine and rosie's) time to shine.

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WHAT I SAY

Like sands through the hourglass, so are the fucks of our lives.

rosie perez and i will swallow your souls.

Mallory Mishler

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