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The Chronovirus

My sons are native Texans: Mispronunciation is their birthright. These mispronunciations are often mundane (the word “hair” gains one to two syllables, for example) but they sometimes border on works of expressive genius.

For a while, when my 7-year-old said “Coronavirus,” it sounded like “Chronovirus.” I never corrected him, because I think this name for the virus is more descriptive of what we’re going through. (“Chrono,” from the Greek word “Kronos,” meaning time.)

For those of us lucky and healthy enough to stay home and isolate, what the virus really destroys is our sense of time. Days feel like weeks. Months feel like seconds.

Who knows what day it is? Who cares? (Every day is Groundhog Day.)  It’s a return to circular time: all you can rely on is sunrises and seasons. I don’t even bother wearing a watch anymore, but I did enjoy making these virus collages out of watch ads. To pass the time…

PS. My 5-year-old: “Look, papa! My Oreo looks like a Coronavirus!”

How Jan Steward wrote Learning By Heart

Just a few weeks after I shot this video about how Corita Kent has impacted my work, I found out that her former student Jan Steward died. Steward was an artist and photographer in LA, but she’s also responsible for Learning By Heart, the book of Corita Kent’s teachings that sort of fizzled when it came out in 1992, but has now become a kind of cult classic for folks like me.

In the 2008 foreword to the book, she wrote:

It was in 1979 on a trip to Little Tokyo in Los Angeles when Corita asked me to write this book. We would work together. It would be quick and easy. It was neither. She lived in Boston and I in Los Angeles. We worked by letter and phone and progress was painfully slow. We worked for hours on content and every few meetings the concept would change—sometimes radically.

They went back and forth about titles. Corita insisted it be in black and white so it was affordable. She didn’t want any of her own work in the book. (Imagine!) Corita died in 1986, with the book unfinished.

In a great 2009 interview with the LA Times, Steward went into more detail about how she wrote the book. She said she wanted the book to feel like being in one of Corita’s classes. (True to her name, she was a steward of Corita’s teachings.)

“Corita was loath to formalize things,” noted another one of Corita’s students. “She thought something would become calcified the moment it was written down.”

So Steward had to come up with the right approach:

She scribbled her teacher’s thoughts on pieces of paper, found copies of her lessons and collected stories from other former students. Then, she threw each into a cardboard box that most closely matched a particular part of Corita’s curriculum. The contents of each box turned into chapters such as “Looking,” “Sources,” “Structure” and “Connect and Create.”

(I’m reminded of Twyla Tharp’s banker boxes.)

Steward wrote of the book,

The process I want to describe is living and squirming and very difficult to pin down. The process is one of teaching, learning, growing, and doing things to make the world a better place. Whether that world is within you or as great as infinity.

RIP.

I forgot how to write again

“After I finish a book, I forget how to write,” says Patricia Lockwood. She followed up: “And then I always forget I’m going to forget how to write and plunge into the depths of despair … so beautiful.”

(LOL SAME)

Here is how my friend Maureen McHugh put it:

Every time I think I’ve figured out how to write, I discover that actually, I’ve just figured out how to write the thing I just wrote, and I have no clue how to write the next scene, the next story, or the next book.

I think all the time about this paragraph I clipped from comedy writer Tom Koch’s obituary:

Can I do it again? Probably. I mean, I have before?

I like what Meaghan O’Connell wrote this week about revision:

Imagine taking the very sharpest thought you had each day for two years and then adding it to a pile. If someone walked by and looked at your pile of best thoughts, they’d think you were a genius.

Yes! Something small, every day. The slow accumulation of bits over time. “BITS & PIECES PUT TOGETHER TO PRESENT A SEMBLANCE OF A WHOLE.”

Workin’ on it.

Return of the pansy sailor

Last night I was flipping through They Knew What They Wanted, a book that collects poet John Ashbery’s collages, I zoomed in on this 2008 collage, Chutes and Ladders I (for Joe Brainard):


It’s the Pansy Sailor from Vick’s Floral Guide!

So not only did Ashbery write about the “seed-packet look” of Brainard’s paintings and collages, he actually took an image from an old seed catalog to make this tribute. (Who knows, it might’ve been one of the clippings Brainard used to send Ashbery for his collages.)

Nice tricks to make friends


Another zine made from the book, How To Entertain With Your Pocket Calculator.

Someone on Instagram commented that they hoped I chuckle to myself while I’m making these as much as they do while reading them. Probably moreso! They are made entirely for my own amusement, that is for sure.


I feel, actually, that this is still an entirely underrated reason for making stuff: simple diversion and amusement to entertain one’s self. I mean, honestly, if we can’t find some pleasure in making, why bother?


Other zines in this series: How To Talk To Someone With A Missing Imagination and How To Draw What is Invisible.

Read more of my zines here.

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