The research and discovery process for writing a dissertation in contemporary art history (and perhaps for other fields?) is akin to bailing water from a doomed little boat. There’s always more water surging into the vessel, and you’re either going to exhaust yourself bailing or concede to life under water. Every day I stumble upon new work and new theory that rocks the supports of the unsteady structure I’ve begun, as if in a dream. Did I write that? Was that my idea? It’s strange to simultaneously feel so entangled with and so disconnected from your work. I almost lost my mind over a passage in Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections the other day, convinced that it would brighten the dark corners of my project but completely flummoxed by its real meaning. For about 10 minutes I was resolved to recreate Jung’s miniature stone village in the hope of “discovering my own myth” and the vivid mute secrets of dwelling that are the foundation of my work. Then I made tea and went back to bailing water.
The past few months have been filled by many such ridiculous crises, and I have little else to report. Moody and I dressed up as Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix for Halloween, and were correctly identified by no one. We had a sweet little Christmas together and sailed into 2015 with tummies full of pizza.
Happy New Year!
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