TropicAna

I had typed this whole blog on Ana Mendieta, and a book for $20 on sale at the Whitney and how I needed to go and check out the Kara Walker exhibit and pick up the book at the same time and when I went to post it, it was rejected and than the screen was blank. I guess Ana didnt like what I had to say. Sorry Ana. There are artists in our lifetimes that touch us, make us feel alive and never alone. Their work speaks to us and to the temporality associated with the lives we are currently living in ways that extend beyond the academic discourse that permeates the walls of institutions of higher learning and even higher spending-- and you thought the Yankees had a high payroll LOL.. more on that later. Such was the case with Ana Mendieta, her work touched and continues to touch me. I find a kinship in her deterriotorialization, her distinctly Cuban condition of temporal homeland mixed in with the stability of a place you would love to to reject but that is also very much a part of you. I never immigrated to the United States. For better or worse, I was born here and studied here. My travels seem to take me to places I enjoy visiting but can't see myself living in. How does one make home out of strangeness? How does art reflect the very basic need for belonging when one is never going to belong? were Ana have created home-- permanent home, not the transient/temporal one she seeked to carve out of her rock, earth patch or running river-- her work would have changed, her meaning lost. TropicAna was the name she left on her answering machine as she danced around before going out to job around Washington Square Park. The offices I worked in as a graduate assistant faced the building she lived in. I wish I had something mor einteresting to say, I feel like ass- head and chest congestion...more tomorrow