money, family, appalachia.

No artist has complete artistic freedom if he plans monetary gain in his work. Ideas keep popping up in my mind for clothing or curations or ways of decorating public spaces. As soon as I consider endowments, awards, grants, marketing, etc, my original concept is threatened with uncomfortable alterations and dilution to accomodate a most-of-the-time broader audience. Not to say that money is the only pressure that might "ruin" the "integrity" of "you" in your work. It's pretty obvious just within art music who is trying to please others. In ethnomusicology classes, you learn that there are three basic categories of music: pop, art and folk. Much of the time, when I explain this to people, they want to deny that their favorite band is "pop." Well, if they make music with the intention to sell it, it's "pop." Maybe not in the Britney Spears meaning of the word, but it's still "pop." This topic just led me to create a playlist of art-and-folk-only music, perhaps with the possibility that I could excise money-grabbing from my aural life. So far it has raised a lot of questions, such as: "Is Phillip Glass really art music?" and "Why do I have Phillip Glass on my computer?" Obviously no music fits perfectly in one category, especially if it was recorded. Classifying Yoko Ono gave me a headache. And music for soundtracks. But I also begin to wonder, how can music ever avoid being made for consumption? If time is money, and someone is spending time making it, it's already been made for consumption. Then maybe this playlist should only contain tracks that were accidentally recorded and accidentally imported into my iTunes. Which would be none. I also wonder, on the opposite extreme, maybe art isn't necesarrily meaningful unless it means something to everyone in the world. Again, an empty playlist.

The Appalachian Regional Commission disgusts me. Why do obscure areas need to be developed? This begs questions like "why not be poor," "why fund technology," etc. While the region has become more economically competitive, its cultural isolation has been mostly lost. Maybe there is more to be learnt from the interesting differences (linguistic, ritualistic, or otherwise) from isolation that would be worth more than a globally homogenous economic system. Soon enough, local dialects will be gone; local rituals and culture will be forgotten; the people there are already watching "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" and trading in their rotting wooden porches for IKEA gazebos and fake grass.

Is it completely misguided to date someone with whom I only have a lot in common in a physiocultural sense? What I mean by that is: we had similar upbringings, older-than-usual fathers, the Southwest, similar mannerisms and ideas of ‘attractive’ and ‘romantic.’ But when the brain sets in, we have less to talk about than I usually think I need in a person. I don't even want to have to step over the latest issue of People regarding Ryan Phillipe, let alone be forced to watch something with Vince Vaughn in it. One professor recently said that our environs become us. Computers and televisions allow mass media to infiltrate our lives. I don’t want to become commercials about age-defying face creams. Last time I was in New Mexico, I saw an infomercial with a bunch of former fatties gathered round to talk about their weightloss achievements. The host said, “Sylvia. Let’s talk about how you’ve changed. I didn’t even recognize you from the photo.” A hesitant Sylvia: “I really don’t want to talk about it.” Then they handed her her photo. “How do you feel, Sylvia?” And then her eyes widened as the photo spilled across the screen. “I’m disgusted. … Ughhh!” I don’t want to become tv culture. I probably already am, but can I minimise it?

It’s interesting to look at how people use the word “family.” I could say that my friends are my family, or I could say that the people related to me are my family. A versatile word. An old man half-asleep snoring and talking to himself in front of a television set blasting C-Span eight-hundred miles away from me is my only family. Or maybe all these disparate bunches of friends I talk to are my family. Maybe CalArts grad students are my family. I can make them all my family. The word is malleable. Same with “art” and “music” and “poetry.” I didn't choose my relatives at all, but instead of removing those who are related to me, yet with whom I maybe have nothing in common, I choose to cultivate a greater understanding of them and myself by continuing to pursue their “familyship” and even friendship. I need more people in my life that don't make sense to me. And then I see friends of mine completely avoiding their parents, and I don't relate or exactly understand why. But I guess that's why they're my friends.