Found it

Sonic Youth irrelevant

D. and I are there at the GAMH (gamha) taking in the scene, deciding what to do when suddenly he is there next to us, then behind us, all 6'6" of his rock star frame. Thurston. We know not to stare, we don't stare but we're having heart attacks anyway, silent ones, even though we've been in this same spot countless times. He's just so Thurston.

I am intent on being aloof. I am disciplined at this. D. pushes engagement. She's got her iPhone out and attempts to photograph me with him in the background. I'm dodging it, like, "no! no! don't do that! no way!"

Someone, an Asian guy, is chatting him up in front of the merch table. I do half turns, each time taking in a quarter percent of the vision. Then the Asian guy's camera is out and he's shooting pictures of Thurston and his girlfriend, HER.

Her, the girl who ruined Sonic Youth. HER.

"It's HER." I whisper to D.

We watch Thurston pose, something so odd. We've never seen anything like this, not in 25 years of shows and backstage passes. He's just too cool. And then Her swoops in next to him and he smiles a sexy smile. A really sexy smile, and he grabs Her, and I look at Her in a flash, just a flash, super super fast and she's pretty. Really pretty, and then I'm done. I am now listening and watching Sebadoh again and unstuck from the beautiful train wreck behind me.

"Phew," I tell D., taking a breath like the teenage kid of divorced parents, "that was a bit hard on the eyes."

After the photo-taking, Thurston stands in the audience awhile watching Sebadoh, me 5 feet away from him, remembering 1996. It's been 18 years since I last stood next to Thurston Moore, watching a band.

Then he gets onstage and tears it up so hard, he turns Sonic Youth irrelevant. I know. I can't even believe that's possible. But Thurston plays so hard and so happy, so fucking good...building rooms upon rooms upon rooms of sound...and like it's nothin'...just nothin', "just shredding here for a moment, excuse me, just shredding your eyes out of your head and turning your toes into basketballs. Don't mind me, I'm just Thurston, shredding the shit out of everything and it's nothin."

Peeps couldn't believe it. This Jones is satisfied.  

(Thurston has a muse.) 

Artifact

"I like punk rock. I like girls with weird eyes. I like drugs. I like passion. I like things that are built well. I like innocence. I like and am grateful for the blue collar worker whose existence allows artists to not have to work at menial jobs. I like killing gluttony. I like playing my cards wrong. I like various styles of music. I like making fun of musicians who I feel plagiarize or offend music as art by exploiting their embarrassingly pathetic versions of their work. I like to write poetry. I like to ignore others' poetry. I like vinyl. I like nature and animals. I like to be by myself. I like to feel guilty for being a white American male."

Fake Leather, Don't Do It

 

"Rx, what do you think of me getting one of these fake leather jackets?"

Today Rx and I are in Target (trigger: thank god nobody says, "tar-jayyy" anymore)...and I see a wall of fake leather jackets, which I'm seriously considering possibly wearing. There's one woman nearby, and as I speak loudly to Rx, I get that she's listening, yet go with it anyway. Who cares. It's fun and entertaining to ask a 3.5 year old questions probably beyond their understanding.

Without missing a second of a second of a beat, Rx replies: "Don't do it."

She's riding her Skuut around Target, and she's so cool, she doesn't even look up.

Woman next to us says, "I need to take her shopping with me."

Painting Teacher

Teaching painting has a hidden element to it, something I never imagined. It's hard. There are conflicting rules/non-rules. Sorting through those ideas brings in theory and philosophy and thinking—something one should never do when making paintings—which adds another confusing and strange layer to teaching it.

I have told my daughter, age 3.5, "you shouldn't do that." And that's true, you don't want to paint with water on a canvas already soaked in acrylics, but what am I doing telling her that? Because there aren't any rules. By making rules, you block out possible miracles and masterpieces. But...I told her..."No one paints with water." UGH. WRONG.

Then I realize I'm getting uptight, so very bad when teaching painting. Then I see her bangs dip right into the puddle of acrylic. UM.

I have told my daughter, "Don't push on the brush. Only pull. You have to respect your brushes." And that's ok, right? Respect the tools, right? I don't know...Kurt Cobain didn't respect his guitars very much and he made miraculous music. HMMM.

For a long time today we painted together and it was wonderful. When she wasn't going nuts, I was more calm than I ever am. Eventually, I told my daughter I was wrong to instruct her not to put more and more and more (and more and more and more) paint on the canvas, that there aren't any rules in art. Except for a couple (that ok?).

Like respect your brushes.
And don't mix your paint in the paint bucket. Mix it on the canvas or on a palette.
And no dipping hair or body parts in a bucket of paint.

The best part of the "class" today was watching her discover splatter art. Somebody probably told Pollack he couldn't do that and now we see what beautiful things happened there.

"Mommy! Look! Lookit this!!"

Amazing.