A warm cup of coffee late at night--my guilty pleasure. The smell of its sweet, nutty and energetic qualities waft through the air. The caffeine courses through my veins as I click through the steady stream of knowledge that the internet offers, exploring yet another of the plentiful rabbit holes that sprinkle the internet in the information age. Scouring page after page, I click on hyperlink after hyperlink as I jump from topic to topic, tab to tab, my mind whizzing with possibilities of what to explore next. I remember that I have other work to do, but really I avoid it as I mentally connect various processor microarchitectures to the concept of what makes humans, human. I think about what Sam Sax poem I should read next and cry to, my boyfriend, how my friends are doing, and when I’ll have time to worry about whether or not my family will pay my rent so I can stay at Cooper. The rabbit hole deepens as I consider heading out of my studio into the cold night to take a brisk walk, to think about what I read—and how brutal and hard it is to make it in the art world. As I descend in the creaky elevator I think about how so many things have already been done, how good they all were, and how much work I am not acquainted with. Do you ever try to think about what blindsides you? It really fucks me up. I like it, I bask in it, and I try to use that feeling as much as I can—knowing that we do not know so many things. I walk out of the foundation building, the icy air bites my nose as I head towards the familiar warm glow of the spherical lights that brighten the sidewalk on the west part of the building. I continue towards CVS to buy some Pringles. I want to understand what to make—I want the answer, I want directions—I end up understanding that I will not ever have those. I think about how to be genuine in what I make, I think about how much we hide from the public. I think about people’s façades and why we have them, and that they are meaningless in the end. I read the Times as I crunch a chip and head north, the caffeine keeps me high-strung and I like it. Somehow I avoid the idea of trying to figure out what to make, trying to be open to as much as I can. Realizing that everything I take in will be internalized. Some sad song in my headphones compels me further, passing people who I will never know. The air is electric, full of feeling, my body is small as I think about why I ended up here. I wonder, “Why is everyone so picky at Cooper?” as I pass the neon sign advertising billiards humming next to the street. The red glow of the sign wants me to know what to do. I want to know what to do. I keep going and decide to go west. I take photos of people in the street, knowing no one else will see them. I pass a sleeping homeless man; I pass some boys who are absolutely certain I know what gelt is, and tell them I’m not Jewish. I pass four women donning Louboutins. I smell cookies, cupcakes, then piss. I am alone. My headphones isolate me from the world. I am comfortable, cold, electric, ambitious, curious. I wonder who thinks about me, I look into restaurants, into the lives of people who are worth hundreds of thousands more than me. I head back to my studio. My laptop is warm from the 3-D rendering I was working with, practically on fire. I think, “Maybe I’ll try to make a banana dildo.”
