Showing posts with label Alyssa Froehling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alyssa Froehling. Show all posts
The line drawing me closer and closer to the works of French Canadian artist Alexandra Levasseur is first and foremost the color. Her works don’t necessarily overwhelm the senses with bright colors and patterns, but rather nudge a viewer into noticing all the small details. Paintings I otherwise would have labeled too busy and over-stimulating become interesting to look at in their entirety. My eyes first notice the color palette, and secondly, the facial expressions of her human subjects, often colorful themselves to match their environments.  


Temps Transfiguré

Levasseur’s works incorporate elements I enjoy in Januz’s Miralles’ work—a combination of hyperrealism and surrealism that doesn’t translate into fantasy but rather very real emotions pulled out into a physical realm.

Réincarnation Secrète

Allow yourself to look over these selected Levasseur works before free writing. The colors all create a different mood—the lack of expression, of body, and the surplus or repetition of the body, all do different things. This can be done in poetry as well. 

Body of Land

Add color to your writing—whether that mean literal names of colors, or colorful language you aren’t familiar with, or a description of a color without naming it. 

Summer Heat



Imagine if you were larger than your landscape. 

All images courtesy of Alexandra Levasseur


After merely skimming the title of Joan Didion’s “Marrying Absurd,” not knowing it was an essay about shotgun weddings, I thought to myself, I want to marry absurd. 

Because I want to marry Shia LaBeouf. 



Okay, so this is a very outdated meme. But there’s something artistic about absurdity. The production value combined with the composure of all those involved in this work of art is something to be called into question. Many talented people got together and choreographed the dancing and acrobatics, learned the routine, composed music, arranged music, wrote lyrics, sang like angels, crafted each paper mache Shia LaBeouf heads… the list goes on. The production value alone is enough to make you question is it really a giant joke? Not to say that you shouldn’t go far, way too far, and be way too serious about your humor.

The whole concept reminds me of my dog, mustache tousled, beady eyes ablaze, digging furiously into his plastic crate. He isn’t going to move any dirt. There’s no dirt to move and the plastic isn’t going to budge. But through his poignancies, his determination, he makes me laugh. Imagine my dog is Schnauzer LaBeouf.

The more seriously you take your humor, the more relentlessly you imagine it, the more likely you are to crack yourself up. And maybe others too. Or they’ll just think you’re ridiculous. But doesn’t the very idea of other people thinking you ridiculous, of looking on in disbelief funny itself? 

Imagine this. You are sitting at your desk job and someone slams a 20-pound malted milk ball next to you and begins to gnaw on it. At first, you hear the squelch of melting chocolate; feel the coolness of previously refrigerated shavings flying onto your arm from the point of chewing. Then, as your co-worker reaches the wafer level, and sound becomes airy on his teeth, and crumbs hot, spittle more frantic. Your workstation is ruined. There is saliva and chocolate permeating your keyboard. Your productivity is ruined. Imagine this co-worker is Snack-sinner LaBeouf. 

Source

Write manic.

The more vivid and impassioned the humor, the more absurd, the more attracted I am to it. Hence, I want to marry Shia LaBeouf. My mom doesn’t like that.



Perhaps you find you have this in common with me: you listen to a song more for the lyrics than the music. Music is a large percentage of what motivates me to write poems that can remain silent on a page. Don’t get me wrong, I have genres of music I don’t like very much in general, and ones I prefer, and sometimes a vocalist or style is a deal-breaker. But much like I took you through Modern Baseball’s Holy Ghost over the summer, I’d like to take you on a lyrical journey through one of my favorite albums of 2016: The Altar

The Altar is the sophomore record of artist Banks (full name Jillian Banks), a follow-up to her debut album, Goddess. While looking up other reviews of this record, I found a few different sources, including Pitchforkslamming the record, asserting that Banks tries for an edginess she doesn’t achieve, and her lyrics and vocals are often too strange to captivate a listener. Though I’m certainly biased, being a Banks fan for almost two years now, I found this surprising, given that Banks’ weird lyrics and brutal vulnerability are what make her music appealing to me as a listener. As my friend and fellow writer Sage wrote in a blurb about the album, “…by the end of the album, you’ll realize that Banks’ desperation to prove that she is indeed, dangerous, becomes counterintuitive. Altar shows Banks more vulnerable than ever. But this type of vulnerability is accompanied by confidence and anger- a new sound for any woman in the music industry.”

It is particularly this “counterintuitive” blend of vulnerability and anger that makes me such a huge supporter of Banks and The Altar. Speaking for myself, I know how many times I can contradict myself in a day, through a trauma, or in general. I find a lot of her work, past and present, revolves around the push-and-pull of human relationships, how we inflict hurt one another and how we internalize hurt inflicted upon us. Banks speaks truth to the fluidity of passion, proving the complexity and coexistence of a myriad of damaged human emotion. Without any further rambling, here’s a selection of my favorite lyrics from each song on the album.

  1. Gemini Feed
    “And to think you would get me to the altar/Like I follow you around like a dog that needs water.” The idea of an altar becomes something darker on this album. Originally, and in context, it draws to mind an altar of marriage—but something darker is going on, something sacrificial, cause the word altar to expand. This song contains a lot of beautiful imagery in terms of frustration and righteous anger, alluding to an abusive or manipulative relationship.
  2. Fuck with Myself
    “I got two diamonds and a feather/Gimme three reasons why we ain’t together/I push my body through the floor.” Both metaphorically and literally, confidence and impudence meet to create this “self-love” tune. 
  3. Lovesick
    “Cause I'm lovesick/I ain't even ashamed, oh oh/And I'm hard up for some time in your sheets, oh oh/Would you been down to spend all your time with me?” While I have to say this isn’t a favorite on the album, nor do I find it particularly “poetic,” I do like the movement of (especially a female) artist proclaims she wants and enjoys sexually expressed love.
  4. Mind Games
    “Better look amusing cause my addiction to/These contradictions make it confusing/And if I walk away I'm scared I will find other muses/Cause I know you like olden days/I don't understand, you claim that I'm a handful/When you show up all empty-handed/The way you say you love me/Like you've just been reprimanded.” These lyrics call to mind Vernon’s article on muses, as it is clear that the relationship between the singer and the person sung-to is somewhat surface level and idealistic, rendering it unhealthy. This song digs into the platitude of loving the person versus loving an idea of a person, and like all conflicts, both sides seem to love and hate the “game.” Dating truly sucks.
  5. Trainwreck
    “I heard it from the state/They told me you were never gonna let me get away/And if you took me fishing, you will never give me bait/ I had to get away, I had to get away, I had to get away/Hey, you try to compensate/You thinking with your one brain, I should decapitate/You show me all your letters and I should've confiscated/Both my eyes were weighted, I had to get away.” This song holds a special place in my heart because it somehow combines catchy linguistic music, anger, desperation, and humor all in one go. The lyrics are somewhat disjointed, nonsensical pieces of rhyme without reason, connected through emotion coming through in the vocals. For whatever reason, I picture the Greek mythology characters of Tantalus and Sisyphus while listening to this track, probably due to the dead-end, repetitive, disillusioned relationship Banks refers to.
  6. This is Not About Us
    “What you told me/It never mattered/I never needed/This is not about/That you were tongue-tied/And what you sold me/I never bought it/This is not about/How I found out/That you were vacant/I never stood up/This is not about/All the times I tried to prove to you.” Like with “Lovesick,” I don’t find this track particularly poetic, but barer boned: the speaker has something to say and she’s saying it, point blank. However, this is another song in which I nod to Sage’s assessment of the album. Banks is telling the listener all about what the song is not, as if a sign of defensiveness, but simultaneously divulges intimate details while trying to put up said wall. 
  7. Weaker Girl
    “I'ma let you know what you don't wanna know/We just gonna see what we gonna see/Cause I'ma need a bad motherfucker like me.”
    Another to-the-point song, a great confidence booster. It documents the singer’s movement and growth away from a toxic relationship and expectations of another.
  8. Mother Earth
    “Underwater, consuming all my kind/Destined for alterations/And my mind ain't aligned for her daughter/I know I'm mother earth, I see the weather.”
    This track is a reminder that you are a force of nature. The power to heal, the power to alter the places in which you don’t fit, or that don’t match you values, the power to express your sexuality, all lie within you. The song is self-intimate and poignant, sacrificial but self-sufficient.
  9. Judas
    “Don't need you to make an effort, this should be effortless/Nothing can last forever, you're such a pessimist/I was your prized possession, and who was your exorcist?/Thought you was heaven-sent, you left for the hell of it.”
    These particular lyrics, besides just sounding satisfactory to the ear, I believe to be more complicated than they appear. Personally, I think this is a call and response between two voices, representing either internal conflict or conflict between two people. Ultimately, this metaphorical song is all about betrayal, and this betrayal extends beyond a lover and into the strife of one’s own mind. 
  10. Haunt
    What do you want? I wanna know/I brought a dandelion you could blow/While you stay mourning for something creative/But memories baited from your loneliness, I see.”
    “Haunt” is another track that is more straightforward, speaking directly to the disappointment of loving and giving to someone who is more wrapped up in themselves, as you try to protect yourself from the damage. The image of someone handing a dandelion to another is childlike, reminisce of an innocent, altruistic type of love, making both the obsession of the speaker and the apathy of the spoken to heartbreaking.
  11. Poltergeist    
    “I started all the wars, I started all the wars/I've been getting messages from my deep waters/I'd be a resentful caretaker/Blame me for your false indicators/You mistaking all my mistakes for my crooked nature./Oh my god, I think I saw a ghost/Follow me everywhere I go/Don't even try to get creative/I smell a clown looking goofy, dressed up as a native.”

    The Weeknd’s backing vocals on this song are haunting, speaking of a haunt. It was difficult to pick favorite lyrics for this song because like “Trainwreck,” it is one of my all-time favorites on the album, and the track in its entirety is a beautiful, poetic, honey-dripping-bitter way… of calling someone out on all of their bullshit, while also owning your faults. 
  12. To the Hilt
    “People say we're better off, you couldn't keep up/I still keep one broken piece/The one that fits in that chip on your shoulder/When we made our master plans/Is this where you thought we would be standing?”
    One of the few true ballads of the album, the word “hilt” itself is intriguing, referring the handle of a weapon. Banks speaks of “dangerous love” while avoiding sounding trite through honesty and vulnerability. Perhaps she is referring to the same lover on some of her angry songs in this song—and true to the complexity of strong feelings, she expresses another side of her grief here. 
  13. 27 Hours
    “So you like the fear of falling/But you stand there looking dumb/Why'd you come here in the first place?/Baby, I am not the one/How can you not walk away after everything I've done?/It's been 27 hours since we even saw the sun/Since we even saw the sun.”
    Oh, hey, have you ever been recklessly self-destructive and then had the audacity to feel annoyed that people have the nerve to love you through it? Well, hoo boy, do I have a relatable song for you! Don’t worry. I can relate too. When you go 27 hours or longer without seeing the sun, it might be understandable to start burning things for light. 







    Inspiration through the artwork of Jenny Saville



    (source)

    In an interview with The Guardian, British artist Jenny Saville states, “I think I’ve accepted that making things that are beautiful is interesting, whereas before I was not interested in beauty at all. I was anti-beauty, I would say. I like that something reveals itself slowly, it doesn’t have to shout it. That’s shocked me.” 

    Saville gained fame in the art world young—by her early twenties, her subversions of the ideal female body, signature due to huge canvases containing bloated, overweight, fleshy bodies—were displayed in galleries across the United Kingdom and the United States. 

    Fulcrum

    Even in Saville’s portraiture, it is easy to believe she used to be anti-beauty, looking for other means besides contemporary visually appealing standards to create.

    Entry


    Bleach



    Stare

    Similar to visual art, I believe poetry also has this underlying expectation of beauty—observations of nature, the elements, placing people on pedestals, sealing lovers in metaphors. And of course, the macabre in poetry has always existed, same with visual art. Maybe I’m alone in this opinion, I’m no art collector—but I wouldn’t describe Saville’s work as macabre, or even really grotesque, either. Most of her pieces don’t have to with death, but life. Blood, motherhood, nudity, sex, womanhood, facial expressions (last time I checked corpses are somewhat limited in that function). There is an in-between idealized beauty and abject horror/death, and this is where life happens. Often mundane. Occasionally charming, crushing. How do we define ourselves in this in-between? How do we recognize the nuances and grey-areas surrounding us in our art? How do we represent them as truthfully as we can? There are target audiences; there is the ever aesthetically pleasing inclination to represent what could be rather than what is.  

    While there is nothing wrong setting out to contort reality, often this is a form of escapism and avoidance. Once again, this isn’t wrong, or counterproductive. But today, I challenge you to write your reality. Saville’s artistry may shock—but there are cultural reasons of what is acceptable and unacceptable provoking this reaction. I invite you to think of this as you write. Don’t set out to write beauty, to write death. You could set out to shock—but I would argue life itself, in all of its bloody truth, is unexpected enough. 

    Read more of Alyssa's work on Floodmark.

    (source)
    As my family began packing away Christmas decorations in light of the New Year, I entered my living room to find an old American girl doll box. Peeking through the plastic was not the red headed Felicity as the box label read, but rather the molded clay head of Santa Claus.


    (source)
    As we locked eyes in a staring contest in which I would always lose and perhaps become cursed from, I remembered something from my distant past. 

    From my birth to my childhood days, my maternal grandparents didn’t live near me, as they do now, but in a large house in Raleigh, North Carolina. Every summer my family would drive two days down towards the coast, spending a few nights with Grandma and Grandpa before heading towards Atlantic Beach. Grandma and Grandpa’s house was fun, for many reasons. The house had a grand staircase that my brother and I would drop beanie babies off of (once this resulted in shattering the humble abode of an innocent potted plant). The house had long hallways and multiple spare rooms where we ran, laughed, and tossed more beanie babies. There were beanie babies everywhere. Wait, I’m getting sidetracked. The memory that gripped me as I locked eyes with the sunken Santa head was a specific spare room in the house.

    Now, I never once remember thinking this was creepy as a child. But if my memory of the room serves me right, it looked like this:

    In the middle of the room, just carpet. The sides of the room contained desk after shelf after desk after shelf. Many of these surfaces contained spool thread racks. Some of these racks contained thread. However, on most of them, mounted in rows of empty, glassy eyes: clay head after clay head, each in a different stage of production. 

    (source)

    The most horrific detail of this memory is that the only reason I have these 360 degree recollection of the room is I used to go in there, leave the lights off, and just lay in the empty center of the room, meeting all the pairs of eyes, or eye sockets, around me…

    My grandma is still a fan of those molded elves or reindeer that plug into the wall and sway back and forth.

    (source)

    …it gives me the chills.

    My prompt for you today is the following…


    Write a poem titled “The Room of Dolls.” It doesn’t have to include any details from the room I described; what do you see when you picture a room of dolls? What are you memories surrounding dolls? Sweet, comforting? Something inanimate you swear saw blinking?

    Ugh. Merry Belated Krampus to all. And to all a night with no melting doll face nightmares. 



    Read more of Alyssa's mostly non-creepy-doll-related work on Floodmark.




    “…there is, for me, no difference between writing a good poem and moving into the sunlight against the body of the woman I love.” 

    –Audre Lorde, “The Erotic as Power”


    (source)


    Disclaimer/reader’s note: In the context of this article, I will be discussing the concepts of the masculine and feminine as Greek philosophy defined them, and as Westernized American imperialism defined them in opposition to one another. This means the masculine is equated with the mind, with the rational, with intelligence. The feminine is assigned to the body, to emotionality and physicality, to the unreasonable. 

    This is not to say that every man is masculine and every woman is feminine by these definitions, or that those of different genders or no gender do not have a place. It is my belief that we are all much too complicated to fit into this dichotomy: be it past, present, or future. 

    My discussions of the masculine and feminine in this article, and the excerpts included from Audre Lorde’s “The Erotic as Power” are in context with how contemporary American patriarchy has defined them. Lorde sought to subvert what was considered ideal and powerful, and this is my tribute to the essay that changed my view of the world and myself.

    ***


    “The Erotic as Power.” If you’ve never read poet and writer Audre Lorde’s essay, you may be thinking, as I did at first, that the piece has something to do about the power in sexuality. Are things about to get sexy? Well, the answer to that is that they could…but Lorde wants you to expand your definition of erotic and try to apply it to all areas of your life. 

    She opens her essay: 

    “There are many kinds of power, used and unused, acknowledged or otherwise. The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed or unrecognized feeling.”

    Are you familiar with any iteration of the following commands?

    “Stop being so sensitive.”“You’re just being emotional and dramatic.”“You need to stop letting your emotions lead you and think logically.”

    While there is a balance to be maintained between emotion and logic, it is pretty clear what our society tends to value more. The tender and feminine is seen as weak. The very reason we see the word “erotic” and think of the explicit and sexual is because passion is so often a half-nurtured emotion within us, that we feel the need, or are constantly reminded to tame and keep to “appropriate” levels. The masculine reigns. Anything else is hysterical, somehow less acceptable of a human experience. 

    Lorde goes on to explain the misconstruction of the erotic in her essay: 

    “The erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, the plasticized sensation. For this reason, we have often turned away from exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information, confusing it with its opposite, the pornographic. But pornography is a direct denial of the power of the erotic, for it represents the suppression of true feeling. Pornography emphasizes sensation without feeling.” 

    Porn is confused with eroticism because (at least mainstream) porn is dictated by the masculine. Pornography is stripped of passion, of any type of love for another or oneself, and condenses sexuality into emotionless imagery. It is simply the act of some sort of sex. Nothing more.

    In the same hot breath, our culture demands: have passions. Loving is important. But don’t be too passionate. Don’t love too much. You’ll end up in ruin. You’ll end up vulnerable. You’re holding yourself up as a target to be destroyed. When you’re not just performing an action, when practical objectivity starts to get clouded with feeling…you’re in harm's way. You may even tell yourself this, since you’ve been sold this narrative so frequently. 

    But Lorde says:

    “The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings.”

    To be erotic is to let go. And it’s terrifying. You are releasing the chaos inside of you and allowing it to be a larger factor in steering your words, actions, your life and your way of loving others and yourself. To be erotic is to be passionate and loving, and to find passion and love in your every movement and our every stillness. It is to be genuine most importantly to yourself, which entails letting ourselves feel what we feel without shame, without cutting out the ugly fits of rage, the bilecrawling fear, and accepting it all as a valid part of your experience. As valid as your fleeting confidence and happiness. It is to allow certainty and stability to become what they truly are, make-believe. 

    This opens a realm where you can live your most truthful, painful, and sincere life. You can stop going through the motions and allow yourself to reach out and touch, or to close your eyes and be touched, whether that mean physically or by any other means. 

    Erotic humans reject capitalism and patriarchy’s definitions of success and well-adjusted adulthood, Lorde says. 

    "The principal horror of any system which defines the good in terms of profit rather than in terms of human need, or which defines human need to the exclusion of the psychic and emotional components of that need—the principal horror of such a system is that it robs our work of its erotic value, its erotic power and life appeal and fulfillment."

    To value the masculine over the feminine is to cheapen your life, deprive fire of oxygen. But to be erotic is to value your imagination, that fickle-fleeting moment of sadness, the rumination on the texture of your own skin…to let this all mean more than a part of us to hide away, to keep to ourselves. It is power to feel. Passion is power, not silliness. Lorde invites you to try to understand why you consider certain parts of yourself or others as impractical. Where did you learn that you had to keep your emotions at arm’s length? What value system is giving the feeling that being logical rather than emotional is going to earn you more respect? Lorde dares you to subvert it all. 

    While I do say this essay changed many of my worldviews, I still struggle with this myself. But I think it’s important for highly sensitive people, empaths, poets—and even those with opposite interests alike to realize the erotic as power, and to consider Lorde’s definition of the erotic, repossessed from a culture that profits off of dismembering women’s bodies within porn and then turns around and shames women for enjoying or appreciating their bodies.

    Lorde writes:

     “The very word erotic comes from the Greek word eros, the personification of love in all its aspects—born of Chaos, and personifying creative power and harmony. When I speak of the erotic, then, I speak of it as an assertion of the lifeforce of women; of that creative energy empowered, the knowledge and use of which we are now reclaiming in our language, our history, our dancing, our loving, our work, our lives.” 


    Go get erotic. Embrace the fear and everything else that comes with it. With your body, your art, and your life. It’s about time. 

    Read more of Alyssa's work on Floodmark.



    Intimidating and full of possibility—I think tree roots, sets of antlers shedding their velvet, rivers breaking into smaller flowing vessels, thin wrists dashed with purple, twisted branches, talons wrapped around their perch. Nature, our own biology, is the place to look when we’ve become too one-track minded and forget that our narratives are branching and multi-faceted. 

    When I look at Brooks Salzwedel’s art, I am reminded of this. 


    Salzwedel uses a variety of media to construct his mystifying yet familiar pieces, such as graphite and tape. 


    Almost everything in his artwork is recognizable at least in shapes: trees, weeds, mountains, ships, and bridges. However, his style obstructs conventional view. Nearly every shape is reduced to a silhouette. These objects are layered over one another, sometimes flared out, sometimes fogged out of their detail. 


    Salzwedel’s artwork may cause a viewer to feel displaced. There is no era, no specific location on the map in relation to any of his creations. Someone who is lost, who feels the painful branching of their life from what they thought it would be to what it really is, can see themselves in this art. The separation of mind and physical place, of what “should be” and what is, can certainly cause reality, while ever-familiar, to take on dissociated forms.   


    The excitement and the distress of the unknown combine in recognizable shapes and shadows. Wherever you are, Salzwedel reminds you you’re on your way. Among the complicated place within nature and yourself, you move forward. 




    You can view more of Brooks’ artwork on his website.



    Read more of Alyssa's work on Floodmark.


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