It might not surprise you that I regard art making and yoga practice as the same thing. At least, I'm only interested in the place where they intersect, which is to say, if you came here for an essay on yoga, you are going to have to use your analogy reception and application tools, because I'm still responding to the 2 week artist's residency that just lit me up and tossed me back to Chicago. And also I never really write about yoga, let's be serious.

Some of you know that I spent the larger part of my future earnings on an arts education. Five years of music school, followed by 3 years of art school, with 4 years in between of what some might call "day camp." Nevermind that for now. Since then, since I got out (odd way to put it, considering what I put myself through to get in), I've been trying to get myself more or less back to the way I was before I went in. I don't want to say that arts education was a waste of money. Well, I don't know. Maybe I do want to say it was a waste of money, but I won't say it was a waste of time. The hours I spent there were beyond good. I was asked important questions, and learned to answer them with new tools. Even so, now, as a mover and thinker and maker of things, when I consider my working philosophy, I feel that it was shaped by few teachers, and fewer teachings. When I make my work, I keep in mind 6 basic ideas. Today I'm going to tell you three of them.

1. "Art is not a punchline." Johanna Timpson. 2002.

During my first semester in art school, I was introduced to a slew of sassmouthed brats making simple, clever work that charmed me maybe more than it should have. For example, a guy hijacked a movie by buying up all the cinema tickets and not using them, so that the film played for no one. Another guy made a human-sized ball of rubber bands. A better known guy cast an inflatable toy bunny rabbit in steel. The thing about these ideas, the thing I didn't realize until my then-boyfriend's father's wife pointed it out to me over Christmas break, peeking over her knitting to hem me in, was that 'hearing' them was just as good as seeing them done. Standing in the presence of the work didn't offer much, if anything, more than I got from reading a line explaining them. Johanna told me that when you describe a work of art, something should be lost in translation, and that something, the thing that is lost, is the whole point. Let's call that thing the essence of the work, the thing that prompts a, "had to be there."

And it is true, regarding my recent performance. You did have to be there, so I hear, though I'm not going to offer that as a report of the event. To employ the phrase in post-performance exchange indicates a poverty of imagination or generosity, and while I may, at times, lack one of those things, I do my best to keep those periods brief. Even so, I am finding that to represent the work is itself an art with which I find I have little fluency. I have been compiling writing and images from my process, to give entry to those who weren't there in the moment, and what I'm finding is that those recreations, prototypes and narratives are making their own story, their own essence.

Yesterday I was hanging out at headquarters with my very learned friend Sam and he said something about the distilation of massive bodies of information and experience into pithy slogans and minimalist icons being one of the most crucial skills of the contemporary era, as most of us do the larger part of our experiencing virtually and with abbreviated attention. (Actually, I am not sure that is what he said, because sometimes when Sam tells me his thoughts I spend all my brain power using context clues to identify the subjects and verbs, leaving little left for the pairing of them, let alone the clauses. But. I think that is what he was saying. And I agree with that. ) I agree that it is an important practice, but number one it is no substitute, truly not, and number two the persons who take it upon themselves to translate an experiential gestalt into just one or two dimensions had better have a firm grasp of essence making, I reckon.

2. "The true artist address the spiritual," overheard on the 13th floor, 2005.

One day in art school I was eating cold pesto noodles from the cafe in the lounge. They weren't delicious, but when I was told by a visitor from U of C that they had the same pasty green cavatappi from the same cafe chain at their school, it made me feel like maybe I was getting a good education after all. Anyway, the quality of light in the lounge was excellent. Huge windows looked out on to the lake from a height, offering a generous expanse into which one could hurl the mind's anchor while at work. I often did that. It is legitimately demanding brain labor, though I admit it looks like laying on a couch and staring out the window. One day I was busy at this very task when I overheard a teacher with a grad student. There were always teachers and grad students having salads, talking about grants and depression and whether it would be a good idea to move to New York City. This particular afternoon they weren't talking about any of those things. They were talking about essence, more or less. The teacher said, "the true artist addresses the spiritual," and then I stopped listening, because I'd just heard the only thing I needed to hear.

I'd like to clarify that I don't know who the teacher was, or what she meant by that. What I know is what happened as I took it in. I felt like she was saying that art which does not in some way touch the essential questions is not really worth making. This not only challenged me to make more expansive work myself, but to ask more of my receptive eyes and ears. Could I find the spiritual in two or three dimensions? Could I find it in the profane, banal, vulgar and vernacular? Could I find it outside of my art practice? It turned out that I could. In fact, it turned out that the question wasn't so much, "is this artist addressing the spiritual?" but rather, "am I, the viewer, addressing the spiritual in my approach to this work?" Are you with me?

To give you an idea of where I'm coming from, I'll tell you this: One time I told someone I believed everything was spiritual, and he said, "going to the grocery store is not spiritual," which I found hilarious, and blurted out, "Are you even being serious? How is that not spiritual?" He went on.

"What about taking a shit?"
"Purification."
"Masturbating?"
"Ecstasy."
"Being a garbage man."
"Devoted service is spiritual, and cleanliness is next to godliness? Purification again, man, but on a bigger, more communal level. It is bigtime. Plus garbage men have great attitudes. Have you ever talked to a garbage man, dude? They are like freaking prophets."

It's true I tend to regard everything as deeply mystical and holy, but it's also true we have a bit of a task in front of us to find it on most occasions. More on that later.

3. "Be brave." Mark Jeffery, via email, 2011.

I wanted Mark to mean, "make something bold and brilliant and powerful!" Or, "Light bigger explosives!" But that is not what he meant. Mark meant, "if you do this right, you will have to face yourself, and that is going to be a bitch. Do it anyway."

Thanks, Mark.