kaet@rachacha.com
April 21, 2007

I don't do anything purely for the actual interest in it anymore; I do it for the experience. Writing is really my only interest, these days. Several months ago, I headlined my own open-mic tour (and documented it), touring poetry open mics in the New York City area; a few months ago, I moved to New York and became a barista; last weekend, I debuted my first art exhibit in Brooklyn. Living individual dreams, whether it be working in theatre, filming fake video blogs (or vlogging for you cool people), being a zinester, short form documentary filmmaker, comedy scenester and, now, artist. I've never called myself an artist, I don't consider myself the Artist, I'm not Prince! Writer/conceptual designer of visual things - sure! Artist - hell no! The Big Art Show allowed me to be an artist for the first time, and it was much more than I expected.

The Big Art Show is devoted to the collective arts of, well, anyone who would like to partake. It's the antithesis to contemporary galleries located in Soho, Chelsea and the Upper West Side who usually curate pieces into a month-to-two month show. At the BAS, some are devoted to crafts, other painting, and for myself, conceptual photography. Based in New Jersey, but visible in surrounding areas (and never advertised commercially), sometimes the show goes on tour; earlier this year on the East Coast, later next month the Midwest. I've never had any formal art background or exposure, and I don't remember when or how, but I came across the website for the Big Art Show, and I was jealous because I didn't have any pieces to my name. A composition notebook full of New York Times pictures and headlines? Collages I make on black foam board? My zine? What the hell would I show?

The piece I started this year, inspired by Scott Bateman's Bateman365 (a flash animation everyday for a whole year), The Twelve Months of Kaet, uses polaroids as a medium to capture one moment a day, everyday for one whole year. This night was filled with many moments, starting when I left work at three in the afternoon. Fell asleep on the 1 train to 14th street, transferred to the L (mind you with a change of clothes, books, supplies and my three pieces), got off at Bedford (home of the hipster capital, Williamsburg), stumbled to the bar Supreme Trading and quickly set up my exhibit. I met Brennan, my wall neighbor; he gave me a Miller High Life (made me feel like I was Ossie Davis in Do The Right Thing), got in trouble with the bar, packed up my clothes and walked around Williamsburg. It feels like the skuzzy part of Pittsburg where my sister used to live (I love it), bought a mocha latte at Verb Café, walked back to Supreme Trading, changed into a yellow and brown plaid outfit that my roommate, Becca, let me borrow and a nice pair of pumps. I head to the bar; it's six in the evening.

I talk to another artist while sucking down Red Labels and Ginger Ale (so weak), Becca and her coworker, Alex, meet up with me, I drink another scotch and ginger, and another. I'm getting drunk, sort of, the drinks are weak. I sit at the picnic table in clear view of my exhibit watching people looking at my photos and my design, I'm totally getting off on it. Some people tell me it's like a visual diary, others tell me they like the cast of characters. Yes, the cast of characters, the people in my life... characters. Some people tell me they know people in the pictures, I explain to others that this is my life, these are people I know, things that I do, and where I live... it blows their mind! Maybe I'm just drunk but it blows their mind! Some how I end up at a pizza joint on Bedford, after my fifth scotch and ginger, still wearing pumps mind you (I didn't remember until I got home that night and saw the sauce embedded in my cuticles). I'm tired, it's late, I've been up since six in the morning, I've had very little sleep, and I fall asleep in front of my exhibit. I repeat: fall asleep in front of my exhibit. Brennan, who I had been hanging out with all night shakes me awake, says he wants me to go to a party, I said maybe. It's almost midnight, I grab my pieces, pack them away, change my clothes and I walk to the L, transfer to the 1, and lay down in my bed... accomplished, again.

I don't do things for the interest anymore, just the experience. Maybe its creative investigative journalism to an extent, I did want to be a journalist at some point in my life writing truths and honesties that people were afraid to write about. I love writing; it's my stability and my catharsis to the rollercoaster of my life. I also love this thing called art, it's very new to me and I like it. I'm very proud of my pieces, what I have accomplished and loved the Big Art Show (I'd like to do it again), but lately I feel like I only do things to write about, and that's an empty feeling. I want to have interests and hobbies; I want to be interesting. Maybe I'm just talking. Maybe there really isn't anyone more interesting than a fake vlogging, blog reading, scotch drinking, Polaroid taking, Prairie Home Companion listening, poetry open mic-ing, comedy scenester-ing zinester from Upstate trying to make a life and career for herself in the big city!