The Enchanter's Theorem

Considering how I threw every obstacle I could think of in my own path to sabotage this shoot and this process, (no, really, I fucking was and it was fucking stupid, but somethimes you have to be stupid) it was a miracle that I got THIS shot, never mind the one that followed.

Saturday's shoot was the perfect example of what happens when I finally get the fuck out of the way of the work and just do the fucking work.Hopefully this time it'll stick. Cause it's not the first fucking time I've had this damn revelation.

But more on the shoot later...

* * *

And I begin  to catch you up...

I had a relapse. That's why I had not been blogging or talking as much and pretty much reduced to retweeting memes. Crushing depression, I had gotten to that stage of work with the Sutro Bath shoot where I just wanted to quit, because I hated everything. Ditto for the Apocalyptica and I'd only gotten one card in the bag. What the hell. Talk about resistance.  (I will be finishing up Sutro now, but it's on the back burner.)

So I put my head down and I kept swinging and I kept working,  but it felt like I am and was going so so so slow. Slow is better than not at all. It’s better than a lot of people ever manage. So why couldn't I just chill and do the work?

Because I was depressed and felt like shit and that was the hardest thing to do right then.

And really, if it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it.

So I just sat with how I felt. It is and was okay to feel like shit. Nowhere does it say that I have to feel great all the time and nowhere does it say that I have to perform happiness or wellness for anyone.

So it really fucking sucked to go through, but the jewel I found in the dark was worth it. I did say that this Apocalyptica was a journey of recovery. I just wish I knew a little more ahead of time when I'm fortelling, know what I'm sayin'?

Bloody hell.

aka Anji’s Guide to Surviving Artistic Failure

Well, the campaign didn’t make it.

*looks over the poor thing and pats it*

Happens. Not all art connects. Or is at the right place at the right time. I’m not sure why the show failed to fund, but my suspicion is that galleries have little appeal for folks today, in a world of short attention spans and iPads. Which is really too bad. Gallery and museum spaces fulfill an incredible spot in human culture. But like libraries, well, they’re not very shiny, now are they? They require you to slow down and stand in front of a piece of art and take it in.

That changes you. *she says, thinking of standing in front of the David in Florence, Italy*

But what this failure in particular means is that I will not be doing any more gallery shows for the foreseeable future, self-funded or otherwise. I’ll be focusing on my commercial photography. I don’t know how I’ll be releasing my fine art photography yet, but I’ll burn that bridge when I get there. What I do know now with certainty is that galleries are now a complete dead end for fine art photographers.

In the meantime, I have been getting a lot of notes of condolence and they are wonderful, but they seem to be coming from a place of, “Oh, you must be devastated!”

Except I am not.

I realized that I am clearly reacting to this all in a way that is passing strange to some of you. So I figured I would share why I’m not curled up in a ball under my desk, sobbing hysterically and eating chocolate and a gallon of Hagen-Daaz in reaction to the campaign not making it.

This isn’t my first time to the rodeo. I’ve failed plenty of times in the past. As a result, I now have a four-step process for dealing with artistic failure/loss. And I realized, DUDE. I should actually not keep it to myself. So here it is:

First: allow yourself to grieve. Yes, that means if you feel like crying a little in the bathroom because it didn’t work out, *that is fucking fine.* Then go wash your face and breathe. Because it doesn’t matter and it’s not the end of the world. Really.

Second: red wine and strawberries, aka do something nice for yourself. In my case, doing something nice last night meant eating strawberries in heavy cream and drinking a glass and a half of red wine.

Third: go to your happy place. In my case, this meant cuing up Jill Scott’s Golden on the iPod this morning, followed by multiple George Michael dance songs. Because music is the fastest way to change my mood on earth and it reminds me that life is beautiful, even in the face of disappointment.

Fourth: move on to the next thing.

THIS STEP IS CRITICAL.

In my experience, dwelling on what didn’t happen, on if onlys, is the quickest way to block the fuck up.

DO NOT DO IT.

If you are at all committed to the life of creating something, you already have another project (if not twenty *looks mildly guilty*). If a project doesn’t work out, it means that something better is waiting out there for you.

Could I be full of shit? Could your mileage vary? Fuck yeah. But my experience has always been that failure is merely a project overreaching or being wrong for that moment in time. It always leads to more: more knowledge, more experience, more strength.

Besides. At the end of the day, I made the art for my own delight. And Alice and her friends did that and more.

Look at that.

Success.

Originally published at ANGELA N. HUNT. You can comment here or there.

But it’s a little girl with a rock. How much luck do you think the White Rook is going to have here?

Yeah, me neither.

* * *

I have acquired an epic set of blisters on my right foot pinkie toe and may end up missing a run this week to give it time to heal a little more.

Yesterday’s fourteen-miler was an interesting one in that physically, I was pretty fine, barring the blisters. Yes, as I got to the last three miles, I was feeling *tired*. But that wasn’t what was eating me.

It was all the bullshit in my head.

It’s amazing the crap judgments we run on ourselves. Yesterday, it was all about how I wasn’t running fast enough, never mind the blisters, never mind that I ache like an old lady, it didn’t matter. Every time someone passed me, the Critic in the head would start up on how we should speed up, we were going too slow, yadda yadda yadda…

Except…

In comparison to what?

The part of me that knows better came back very quickly thankfully with, “According to whom?”

So here’s this last run’s lesson.

This isn’t a speed race. It’s an endurance race. The point is to *finish*. And this is true about so many damn things. Who the fuck cares if you get there first? Because I have news for you. Someone’s already been there first. ALWAYS. But not everyone finishes.

Slow doesn’t matter.

*DONE* matters.

And right now? As of yesterday, I ran more than half a marathon. The Critic can suck it.

Originally published at Angela N. Hunt. You can comment here or there.

And we return you to your regular broadcast schedule…

Slowly digging through the photos. I meant to do more work last night, but my brain was so burnt after the few photos I got edited, I had to turn in. I ended up reading a book of Leonardo Da Vinci’s collected writings.

He didn’t think much of the willfully ignorant either…

* * *

Training is continuing to go well, which sustains me. So does writing. Husband is on the hustle. Still no word on other things.

We keep on keeping on.

Originally published at Angela N. Hunt. You can comment here or there.

The Sky Warning II, originally uploaded by quennessa.

And a little moodier here.

Oh, I love how creepy it is.

White Queen's Judgment, originally uploaded by quennessa.

Love the light and silhouette of this. It's ominous and just wonderful.

Oh yes.

Love this project so much.