Futility Now

I love The Rasmussen.

I lived here two times, so did my sister.

Steve, the kindly & cranky manager, has a two times rule.  You can’t come back after that.  I understand it on principle, but it’s hard for me to imagine never living in The Rasmussen again.

This weekend J & I went for several walks, this was in Laurelhurst, at the teeny Oregon Park, another place that is full of memories.

We’ve been talking a lot about where we might live in the future; it’s so strange to imagine not being surrounded by remnants of earlier epochs (of my history as opposed to the world’s).  Discovery, instead of rediscovery.

J & I went down to the Portland Art Museum on Sunday to spend some quality time in the contemporary art wing.  We had the place pretty much to ourselves.  There are two Agnes Martins and a Louise Nevelson that I am extra-fond of.

Agnes Martin, Homage to Greece

I am teaching painting in a much more focused way than I used to, and certainly doing a lot more of it than I used to, so it makes sense that I’ve been more excited about painting in general of late, especially mixed-media painting.   But I think what’s prompting my enthusiasm is actually a new understanding of movement, rhythm, balance, and tension that’s coming out of the ballet classes I’ve been taking. Basically, I am moving my body in a new way, and that is resulting in a different experience of the world, which is resulting in a new understanding of art.  That I did not predict, and it’s pretty exciting.

I don’t have a more recent photo, but this one of me with pretzel moustache in France does a good job, I think, of capturing my enthusiasm.

I eat way too much dairy.

After avoiding the inevitable for months, maybe years, we finally caved to the food cart craze. Our first cart: Eurotrash, where I had a waffle with two pieces of bacon inside it, and eggs, and J had a sort of breakfast quesadilla that benefited from a healthy dose of hot sauce. It wasn’t great (nor was it exactly Euro-anything…), but it was cheap, tasty, and fast. That last bit is pretty impressive, if you consider that our other major brunch contenders often ask a good 45 minutes of waiting for a table.

The other exciting (?) innovation was at the coffee cart, where we picked up strong french press — the stir sticks were buckwheat linguini (ahem, uncooked). Oh, Portland.

While we ate (and tried to avoid getting mauled by toddlers and their SUV strollers), we admired the building across the street, and daydreamed about buying it and living on the top floor, with a second apartment converted to an office studio. I would manage it and teach ceramic workshops and write articles for magazines, and J would do something brilliant and computery.

Then we decided to walk over a bridge; we picked the Hawthorne. It’s a good thing we like it, because we were on it for longer than expected — it went up to accommodate a (presumably) very important sailboat.

It was hot.

Sunday, today, we almost didn’t leave the house, but hunger and peanut butter toast fatigue set in, so we went to a second cart, um, grouping or whatever, and had fried fish. Fine cuisine it was not, but satisfying, yes.

P.S. Sadly, I have no pictures to represent the other notable part of our weekend, which was spent spacing out to the Eluvium album over and over and over again.

At my opening last Thursday, J snuck a few photos for me:

My affection for Instagram (apparently) goes far enough for me not to care that the effects bleach out all of the details of my work…

Thank you to those of you who were able to come to the show — it went very well, in spite of the heat!