Finally got around to throwing my first bash at the new place, a rejuvenating experience after not really doing that sort of thing for over a decade now. Towards the end of the evening, it was suggested by some to make it a regular occurrence, perhaps on a monthly cycle. Something along such lines was certainly in the back of my mind when setting the place up, establishing sort of what the kids call a “third place” these days.

A few lifetimes ago, I used to share an apartment with two other artists halfway across the world. Aside from it being where we lived and worked, one of the extra rooms (it was a rather large apartment) was turned into a makeshift art gallery where group exhibitions were held every two months, mostly showcasing the work of other artists around the city. With each exhibition “opening”, a party would naturally ensue, and it generally became one of the defacto artist hangouts in town. Before long, the apartment across from us became the office of a small but feisty indy journalism outfit that grew exceedingly prominent, and the neighbors downstairs had these open-invite weekly brunch gatherings. Pretty soon. another one of the apartments in the building became a multi-artist studio setup, but dare I say it all started with my flat-mates and I moving in.

Utilizing one's residence for happenings that aren't entirely private, “events” that border on the public-facing, don't really happen in America (at least not anymore, it was different back in the 60's-70's, at least as much as I can gather from my readings), but I would argue that it's an integral part of the engine of cultural ontogenesis.

I understand the fear of losing one's solitude, but I think such fears are quite unfounded. The residence never becomes fully public-facing, it becomes something else, something multifaceted and malleable. A place that can be what you want it to be whenever you want.

And that's sort of what's becoming of my new digs; The hermitage, the sanctuary, the art studio, gym, fulfillment center, indy “cinema”, intimate library, writer's study, cafe, eatery, spa, and third place. Hard to fathom given the space's extreme smallness, but it is somehow working and with that a return to myself after almost a decade of largely antithetical existence is also taking place.

#journal

Harry Harrison (via Warren Ellis' Orbital Operations):

“Joan's mother, a paragon of virtues in all other ways, does not realize the basic needs of a writer or she would not have opened the door when I was writing, as she did once years ago when we were staying in her home, and say, 'Harry, since you aren't doing anything, would you go to the store for me.' A writer's family understands; my daughter knows when I have that glassy look in the eye and am staring into space that I am not to be disturbed because I am 'working'.”

Sums up why I will never cohabitate again, because truth be told a writer's family doesn't always understand. If ever circumstances were to once again necessitate the unfortunates of cohabitation, then this is the only way I might deem it workable:

The studio homes of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, separate structures connected by bridge. Masterfully designed by Juan O'Gorman, photos will never do the place justice. It's a very spacial experience, as spaces ought to be. It was something of an eureka moment for me when I first paid it a visit in Mexico City a couple years ago. For both Rivera and Kahlo, the majority of their home(s) was designated studio space, because a true artist's art practice is in fact their life. None of this “work/life balance” nonsense, that shit's for office jobbers.

Edit: That Harry Harrison bit is apparently from the book HELL'S CARTOGRAPHERS, a short article from which lives on Michael Owen Carrol's website.

#journal

Newsletter drafted and scheduled for tomorrow but my week—despite it being a Friday evening already—is still not over. Much email to catch up on and my RSS reader is at 36. Would like to bring it all down to zero before night's end. If I can.

#journal