PicoBlog

The mind-bend that is Daylight Savings Time, temperatures above 15 degrees and sunlight with detectable traces of warmth are all back again. Like clockwork, my body has somehow detected this and I’m shedding like a seasonally-affected reptile. Considering it was the end of Rot Girl Winter, it seems appropriate for the skin I was in for that period to die and fall away.

A lot of things needed to have their metaphoric death this winter. Since separating, I started posting memes with my own, highly self-deprecating slant (added at a pace best described as ‘fervent’) on my instagram stories. I’m rolling my eyes typing this - who writes about their own social media activity, FFS - I do, apparently.
Please forgive me.

I was so uncomfortable in the thick of blowing up the structure of what had been the majority of my adult life. For better or worse, lengthy emotional processing walks and making fun of myself in front of strangers were my weapons of choice to deal with it. The walks were consciously chosen as a coping mechanism, the memes were almost a compulsion.

They not only allowed me to laugh at the ridiculousness of my life, but also catered to an almost insatiable need to highlight to anyone that:
- I knew that I was quite fucked up
- separating seemed like a chaotic choice (it wasn’t)
- my life resembled a storyline from The Bold and The Beautiful.

I was hypersensitive to the fact that my life hasn’t exactly followed a traditional trajectory, and I was busting to point it out before anyone else did. I could’ve also just written I know I look like a fruitloop on my forehead and saved some time. I didn’t feel like separation was a failure. But as a person, and everything else I’d ever done, definitely was. The feeling that I didn’t have anything valuable to show for myself was burning a hole in my stomach. The only thing I felt I’d done was be a wife - and I’d just rescinded that title.

The cure for those rather uncomfortable emotions? Making fun of yourself in front of strangers, naturally. It did provide a superficial relief, C/O the curse of social media dopamine, but it also fed those highly corrosive beliefs that have been a part of me well before any relationship.

The proverbial house of cards fell in on itself when I got to trot back into a hospital for a procedure. When I woke up from the general, in an opioid haze and dutifully trying to give myself a shred of physicians and psychologist instructed self-compassion, I understood that I could probably do with giving myself a fucking break.

A byproduct of this was becoming aware with how proficient I am at inadvertently getting in my own way. I’d filled a void of guilt/generally feeling shitty by lightly humiliating myself. And I’d taken up the responsibility to make myself feel that way seamlessly, as though there’s some universal requirement for it.

I’d suspected that Meme Era wouldn’t last forever, but it became crystal clear that it was well and truly time for it to end. Primarily to get the brain space to develop the kind of artwork I’ve had a knack for leaving in the back of my brain and never pursuing. As fun (and perversely satisfying) constantly making fun of myself is, it doesn’t get me any closer to being the kind of artist or writer that I want to be.

So I’ve shed the fervent self-deprecation schtick, for the most part. I’ve got some ideas that I’m invested in exploring and am actually just fucking doing that. It’s quite a relief to stop waiting to feel legit enough, because that’s never going to happen. Particularly if you’re very busy posting a lot of memes about how stupid you are.

To condense it down, for me anyway, Art Hoe > meme lord. Bring on Sordid Spring.

Like most of the western world, I’ve just watched Fisher Stevens’ (AKA the man behind Succession’s slimiest comms exec Hugo Baker) creatively titled miniseries Beckham. I’ll be the first to admit that I was entirely there to hear salacious gossip directly from David and Victoria’s perfectly filled lips. But it turns out, the man was alarmingly good at soccer?

Having had a negligible interest in the most popular sport on earth, this series did a great job of showing why the fuck people actually enjoy watching it. As David, various teammates and managers discussed Manchester United’s/England’s/Real Madrid’s (sorry, LA Galaxy, nobody cares) performances in various competitions, I was startled to find myself invested in these years old outcomes? As I’d never followed Beckham’s career, all the archive footage was brand new to me. Being ignorant made the career highlights exciting. When people actually play forward using skill and strategy, not just kicking backwards, it’s actually interesting - who knew?

It was also fascinating and disturbing to observe the Beckhams’ lives as global celebrity fodder of the ‘90s and 2000s. The extent of the dehumanisation that occurred got me thinking about how strange it is that people idolise professional athletes, yet love nothing more than to tear them down from the pedestal they built for them. How incessantly and dangerously the entire family were pursued by media was confronting. The vitriol of the British press and people was also on full display in the wake of Beckham’s infamous World Cup red card, along with the traditional sexist reporting about Victoria.

As far as gossip goes, a lot of the good bits have been meme-d to death already. I was surprised by both Beckhams’ candour, but (not surprisingly) they spoke about the cheating scandal in generalities. Fair enough, it’s their business. What was truly shocking was how many massive, entirely selfish decisions (involving international moves) David made without consulting his wife or considering his family at all. If they weren’t so rich, I’d say give Victoria a prize of some kind.

For fans of celebrity, soccer or neither of these I’d say it’s engaging and entertaining. Find it on Netflix.

There is a lot going on right now (understatement of the century). Here’s some things I’m putting into my brain to try and counteract the horrors.

It took me several months, and a period of angry abandonment, but I’ve finally finished Tove Jansson’s biography Life, Art, Words by Boel Westin. Jansson found prolific international fame with her Moomintroll books and artwork. This biography deep dove into her life, family, relationships and work in a way that I found highly irritating. The earnestness was too much for me and the extent of the details excessive, it was very evident Westin did a PhD on her. I’m relieved it’s done with.

Memory Palace is an exhibition by abstract painter Carissa Karamarko and ceramicist Tessy King. Both have strong, unique points of view that are refreshing given the insatiable appetite for trend based aesthetics at the mo. Find it on at Modern Times, 311 Smith St Fitzroy.

Mitski’s new orchestral pop album The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We dropped last month. She examines commonly explored themes like disillusionment, isolation and broken relationships - but is one of the best doing it. Consume as a whole and then listen to your favourites on repeat (Bug Like an Angel and My Love Mine All Mine for me). Find it on Spotify.

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