uncompleted

I'm listening to pumping up music and writing this in a total mess in my apartment right this moment. I've been starting packing for my move and found so many notebooks--a few in boxes that had never been open since I moved in, a few in between of books, a few in my handbags, a few in a kitchen, a few in drawers...on and on. Right, I am kind of an ADD type and kind of people who read 3 to 4 different books at the same time and never finish unless the books were super engaging. Having said that, you might easily imagine my "notebooks situation." A few notebooks seemed to be initially served as word-books, which new English words to memorize were written, then after a few pages, all of sudden, a sentence like, "it is rainy and cold today, I feel miserable..." appears, then after a several pages, there is the list of the things need to be done. In another one, there are people's phone numbers and my account name and pass word for the bank account, the internet, or frequent flyer program, then out of blue in the middle of the white space, here it goes again, " why I can't love myself? blur blur blur?" I have more than 10 of such mysterious notebooks and all the notebooks is unfinished with lots of blank pages left. Interesting enough, in all those diary-looking pages, I could not find any lines like, "Wow, I am super happy!" I guess that is the nature of a diary? --- Poeple write when they are down? Or is that only me?
Anyhow, I really don't know what to do with those notebooks. They don't really serve the initial purpose as wordbooks or address books. Surely, they can't be used as a diary, as I am absolutely not a "write-a-diary-everyday" person.

Now, what? Pathetic? Looking at the unfinished collection of my notebooks in the mess with loud music, I ponder if I were really an uncompleted person. I am leaving NYC in the summer for a while to sort things out, independently work and start a new chapter of my life. This decision is like my notebooks? My life is indeed consisted of a series of different adventures--Traveling around, living in many different places (Sydney, Hawaii, a remote island in Japan and NYC), moving around within Tokyo and NYC so many times, changing professions too many many times. There has been no consistency in my life what so ever. (I once was like a hippie and now I am a gallerian....make no sense?)
If I could complete one of my notebooks, would I be able to figure out a way to integrate all the aspects of my life?
Oh Well, at least, before then, I’m going to have to need to finish one of my notebooks.

"There he was!"

I shouted at my friend, when I found Madeoff's portrait on the white wall at David Zwiner's booth at Armory's opening. It was a black and white watercolor image of THAT face, just straight. I walked towards the piece with feeling of victory, as I predicted that somebody, a silly artist, would definitely make a work incorporated with Mr. Ponzi schemer. (Obama’s face already seemed lame/ not-hot in the art world.) The fair was packed with people as always and with variety of hair colors —black, blonde, gray, red, brown— it was impossible to see any works in a full shot. However, around this particular work, there was nobody as if the work emitted such bad odor. My friend and I seemed the only ones who were nearby reacting this artwork.
No complex in the piece. It is the Madeoff with a gloat veiled in sort of uncanny aura. I bet there would be “ladies and gentlemen” who wanted to slash, cut, tear it down or set afire. Not us surely. We, in fact, could not stop laughing at the fact that there was his face at the fair for real, that this piece was made by a Chinese artist and that the gallery had balls to put up this work.
Well, my accurate prediction fed my ego, but I can't stand this "all-too-easy-way" in production of art. “Ok, now Obama, then Madeoff, let’s make something with something HOT.” What’s the difference between fine art and journalism then? It is insulting to genuine artists and viewers. I felt like watching a soap opera or some predictable films. Sorry, but just lame, easy, boring and cheesy.
While Madeoff warded people off, there was one work that glued peoples’ heads in an inch close and the owner of the gallery, Mizuma, was busy telling people to back off. It was the work, "Foretoken," by Manabu Ikeda. His pen and acrylic paper on board work (75” x 134”) took over one entire black wall of the gallery's booth. The work was intricate depiction of Tokyo like city swept by Tsunami waves. It recalled "Great Wave off of Kanagawa" by Hokusai. Though the work was huge, every single thing—people, houses, buildings, animals, graffiti images in the work was so tiny, meticulous and fine that a magnifier was needed to see the details. Having both dynamism and intricacy, it was indeed a beautiful and mind blowing work. According to Mizuma, it took one year for the artist to complete. Wow.

Exposing myself to thousands of art works during the fair, by now I only remember these two pieces, the work without a deeper meaning and the work with superb craftsmanship.
Perhaps, it could be because of my current bad allergic-like reaction against art and the art world or my low level of "intellect" in art, and the rests are gone with the NY wind right away.