Hello,

Jordan here. I owe everyone an explanation: you received Issue No. 2 several weeks ago but it was the same as Issue No. 1 because, well, I was doing so well at slowing things down, I totally forgot to keep it out of the Scheduled folder instead of the Drafts folder. I had initially intended on sending each new issue the first week of each month and yet here we are and it’s almost April. A+ in slowing it down for me.

So, consider this Issue No. 2 (Take 2: The Real One).

Thanks for understanding. Alright, we’ve got things to dive into.

The Response

I am very, very grateful to all who shared their thoughts about the piece Solar Plexus Quilt and took the time to process the shape of their subconscious. This project doesn’t work without a back-and-forth rhythm to the conversation, so let’s keep that momentum. 

Note: I’ve kept the names of folks who have responded anonymous; confidentiality and trust is key to a healthy correspondence.

A few highlights below.

Just last night I watched The Electrical Life of Louis Wain. I wasn’t familiar with him or his art, and was really moved by his story. His one word of encouragement when teaching art … look. That seems to be what your experiment in slowing down is for… seeing.

Profound subversion of the values from a fundamentalist, evangelical upbringing present here. The way you speak about masculinity in the caption, the fact that IT’S A QUILT, a craft which is so often seen as "women's work" - something the "lesser" sex does to pass the time to keep the people they love warm... something self-less, taking up space in the only channels we're allowed. The candor in admitting that we were told not to listen to our bodies, to suppress the signals, to ignore it and fade. The brightness of the colors, the very I AM HERE and I HEAR NOW.

My subconscious is formless. It’s a completely dark and infinite space where when I go into it, I use a flashlight and that’s when I can see that it’s filled with a myriad of things. Objects. People. Things I recognize. Things I don’t. Also memories that play out in different ways. Sometimes like on a screen in a theater. Sometimes like a live play on a stage. Sometimes in just flashes or pictures.

But it is much like outer space in that there seems to be no beginning or end.

This is why outer space scares me.

Self-Portrait (Funeral for a Self), 60 x 96 in., acrylic on canvas

Look at Behemoth, which I made along with you and which feeds on grass like an ox. What strength it has in its loins, what power in the muscles of its belly!

Job 40:15-16

Learning to wear a mask (that word already embedded in the term "masculinity") is the first lesson in patriarchal masculinity a boy learns. He learns that his core feelings cannot be expressed if they do not conform to the acceptable behaviors sexism defines as male. Asked to give up the true self in order to realize the patriarchal ideal, boys learn self-betrayal early and are rewarded for these acts of soul murder.

The Will to Change, bell hooks

Burdensome, heavy, immovable creature, rooted to land; twinned with Leviathan, monster of the seas, anchors buried deep in the stomach with lines running and running and running and running. Chronology, family cultures, communal cultures tethered by epigenetics, embodied experiences that trickle down the mountain and flow through silently, unexamined, unless you still yourself and listen. Separation, a counterculture, trickster ethos that fades or didn’t go far enough.

Dream, 3.21.23

I’m leading a team (maybe I’m the captain?) in a game on a basketball-like court with spotlights on the court and complete darkness in the stands. The game is some combination of indoor soccer and field hockey with two goals on either end of the court.

My team consists of of a ragtag, motley crew group of people: an old, graying and fit woman, a mongoose and three other figures I can’t make out. While externally we look like we’d get crushed by any opposition, we’re very skilled and are easily beating the team we’re playing; I am unable to recognize our opponents but they all have athletic builds and yet, their play is completely disorganized.

I feel internal satisfaction and deep knowingness and joy at how well my team is playing: the elderly woman is shooting the passing gaps, intercepting and scoring, the mongoose is causing chaos with its energy, breaking up the opponents’ play to recover possession and I’m positioned in the back, helping direct my team and lead them to the win.

Near the end of the game, I look to the stands and the area is pitch black. The gym is very similar to Immanuel, the high school I went to, and if there are spectators, I can’t see them. I feel slight annoyance that no one is witnessing our victory but that feeling doesn’t last long; my focus returns to the game, my team, its performance and I enjoy our play until I wake up.

Final question: what made-up, unhelpful laws are your thought police currently enforcing?

It may be helpful to examine our inner cops and, ultimately, destroy them.

My aim with The Correspondence is to create enough space and time to begin a collective conversation with you about art and its implications for our lives in a way that lets the conversation trail off when it needs to and lets those ideas, those feelings that come up find their home. And if you feel like others would enjoy joining the conversation, you can shoot them the sign-up link here.

Thanks for being along for the ride.

Jordan