I met this book in the booth: Installation Art in the New Millennium: The Empire of the Senses" by Nicolas De Oliveira, Nicola Oxley and Michael Petry. This is a book I've read few times but still waiting for the price to come down, or until the day I meet a friend who specializes in stealing art books:)
Husband swung his head into my view field, saying: "this book looks interesting." He stayed for few more seconds as I flipped thru the pages. He saw some images that caught his eyes, pointing fingers: "look! what is this?" and "wow, look at that." I nodded as we went along, pretending nothing special is happening.
In my mind: "What happened to him? What have I done to you, my husband? Have I turned you into an artist? oh, I don't want you to be an artist... I just want you to be the you who supports art but doesn't make art. I can't stand marrying an artist..." on and on, the controlling me ignored the fact that Tim Howkinson's works often excite the artists out of everybody.
I looked at this man who understands me and my art more than anybody else, whose direct response to a piece weighs the confidence I have on the work, I wonder how much I know him. Sometimes I analyze his subconsciousness in a way that he didn't even feel the existence. I saw the artist in him who was caged in by the social expectation on men; I feel sorry for the incarcerated soul yet afraid of his power to consume me, not the physical me, but my little soul who is already consumed by my destructed mind and memory.
Family is a group of strange power struggle. I wish Mom and Dad and sisters were all here so I can tell them about Howkinson's Bat, but I am suddenly reminded of a segment from the movie "Pollock" when Pollock was exhilarated by the review on his show and the critic comparing him to Picasso. He was vigorously reading the article while families are talking, drinking and children running around; when seeking approval, they simply replied: "Is Picasso more important than your family?"
This scene pumps my tears, the tears of struggle, loneliness and inseparable bond of life and art, as if our hair grows so long that we often step on it. Fortunately for me who lives far away from home, I don't have to know what happened to the article clippings of my review that I vigorously sent to my family.