New York has embraced my work. One of the things I cherish about being an artist is seeing and hearing the way others reinterpret my work. This fact even goes out to the journalist who title the articles and retell my story. When I saw the headline given in the issue of NY Arts Magazine, "Standing the Test of Time," I thought to myself that there was no better description for what I achieved with the Sacred Stones Collection.
When I returned from Paris, I lived a house away from an artist. When Derek and I would discuss paintings or techniques I would often say, "I need to execute the colors in a way that they will be visible one hundred years from now with the same vibrancy of today." His reaction often was "Who cares about one hundred years from now!" (I do.) When I paint, I often think of my work in terms of outliving me. For me, the longevity of my art is something I always take into consideration, from the way the canvas was created all the way down to how it has been framed for viewing. The question of endurance never escapes me. This question had to occupy the minds of the masters that traded in days of their lives and hours of creative focus to produce something that unknown people occupying the unformed empires will someday be able to witness. They all had us in mind.
Each masterwork that I produce is the result of collective days spent in complete solitude and the experience of an inner revival. However, when I look at my collections I see the many weeks past, evaporated by the everlasting tic-tok of history's momentum and the moments I can never get back. It's like a visual diary of my emotional life. The title given by NY Arts was so fitting because I have withstood time and overcome the fluctuations of day to day life in order to consistently deliver a message that I know will be observed by a future that my eyes will not know. I am my own constant.
To thrive as an artist requires a unique strength that is only heard by those called to do it. Painting is a compulsion from a source that transcends me. No one will ever be aware of the costs made to so skillfully reconcile the world of my imagination with the outer world I live and breathe through. My life has been sacrificed for the sake of my passion. And my joyful hands are my willing tools.
"NOW DO YOU WANT THE TRUTH OR DO YOU WANT THE TRUF?" -Keariene Muizz
Both of my parents are from Chicago, born and raised. However, my mother, unlike my father, managed to escape life without the native Illinois city accent. As children we couldn't help but snicker when listening to our father pronounce certain words. Especially words ending in th. Whenever my father opened his mouth he always managed to give away his origin through a mangled word or two. The word with became wif. Mouth could easily be converted to mouf depending on the parent we spoke to. When my baby sister was about to be born the explanation was that our mother was, "going to give birf" (not birth!) at the hospital. But the ULTIMATE word that would send all four of us reeling in a laughter so powerful that we'd get tears in our eyes, behind his back of course, was the word earf a Midwestern variation on e-a-r-t-h.
The four of us would be planted on our brown plaid sofa, two to a cushion, watching him pace before us asking, "What's the circumference of the planet earf?" Sometimes, we couldn't contain ourselves and we'd steal glances at the sibling beside us, our eyes widening with the laughter our mouths couldn't reveal. Other times we'd secretly nudge one another with our elbows whenever he said earf, laughing mightily on the inside.
That was so long ago. I have a lot of -isms, Keariene-isms, if you will -things that only I would say or come up with. For the past decade, the people that know me up close and personally, friends and family, mostly, have often heard me say, "Now do you want the truth or do you want the truf?" In response to an inquiry they may have made. At first this question usually prompts them to scratch their head and say, "What's the difference?" And I let them know. "The truth is what you tell someone when they want their feelings spared and then the TRUF is the undiluted reality." This usually makes them laugh.
You see, I always speak the truth, but much like my daddy, I speak the truf on occasiontoo. It is always best to know if someone can handle it beforehand as everything has it's time and place.
Speaking the truf can be freeing. You'd be amazed at how many times someone would prefer to hear the truf over the truth -especially when that dress doesn't make them look bigger than they really are! Just ask them, you might be surprised.
Adrian Rayment is many things to many people. As a dear friend I have the fortune of knowing Adrian (Aid) beyond his acting career and The Matrix Reloaded. To me, Adrian is the epitome of a renaissance man. His dedication to transcendence is an everlasting romance, a never ending exchange between ideals and emotions. More than most artists I know, Adrian lives to push himself beyond the confines of physicality and all that bodily preoccupation encompasses -a passion I also share but approach from a different direction. And I guess that's why I imagine I'll know him forever, because Adrian is unaware of himself. He is completely unaware of his grandeur. It is in this absence of ego, from the lack of self-consciousness, in which Adrian Rayment is able to deliver the undiluted purity of an emotional event.
Like me, in seeking truth Adrian Rayment takes everything in through the only medium he has ever truly needed, his senses. I have many artists friends and there are experiences that only artists exclusively encounter. I notice that I go to each of them for different things. I usually don't ask people what they do for a living, I'd rather find out what inspires them, and if that includes their occupation -then very well. I've had friends for ten years and never knew what they did for a living. No joke. But what I knew was their love of James Baldwin or how they liked their coffee. I'm a details kinda girl. I can't help it. Well, with Adrian we never discussed work for many years. Then I broke the silence and find that I go to Adrian when I need to feel the company of a collaborative spirit. I love being in the presence of brilliant people. It creates a spark within me.
ADRIAN RAYMENT AS THE IRON MAN: ACTING & ARTISTRY
The metal creations produced by Adrian Rayment are an enlightened deviation from the mundane. The manner in which his tedious calculations not only foreshadow elegance, but calibrate it as part of a divine whole, is an unwavering trait which sustains the glorious ecomiums of critics internationally.
Of all the artist I interact with I notice that I have different types of conversations with each individual. Whenever I discuss art with Adrian Rayment the exchanges usually center on the topic of "the process." I realize I often reveal different parts of myself to different people and that Adrian gets glimpses of the embarrassed and childlike parts of me. Adrian has seen the Keariene that blushes. He has also witnessed the part of me that stands in awe; like the 1,000th time I saw French ultramarine (blue), but the first time I saw it in the tears of an angel in L'Offrande -that was the first time I was in awe of blue, when I grasped that the deceased have prayers and wishes for us too. Therefore, I was naturally curious to explore Adrian's process.
KM: I realize that I have most of my breakthroughs, with regards to business strategy or my work itself almost immediately after I hit a wall. What is your process?
AR: Breakthroughs? I'm convinced my ultimate breakthrough is always just out of reach, it's not a mind set I've nurtured. I intuitively believe in myself as a creative person. How to keep on the creative boil? Immersing myself in being true to myself and subsequently honest to those around me. This attitude is not purely restricted to flesh and blood. I find inspiration, emotive sensation, from man made inanimate objects as well as nature. Natural aspects specifically.
***
When I began the Sacred Stones Collection I noticed that the feeling I immersed myself in while painting would linger throughout the rest of the day, ruminating about death and how it affects us on a macro and micro level is not exactly a productive thing to do when one is roaming through the aisles of the Home Depot. Therefore, I had to learn how to "turn off" and disconnect from the theme in order to create an emotional barrier between my "art world" and my real one. Reggae music was the cue that would help reset my mood. (Think about it! It's impossible to be sad when you listen to reggae music. You show me a sad reggae song and I'll show you a lie!)
***
KM: Have you ever had a character linger long after you're work is done? How do you exit it?
AR: A lot of my creative concepts linger in the recesses of my mind's playful corridors. Some have been running a muck for years. They are my fertile projects of the future, my internal muses maturing towards an eventual birth. I do not rush them. I feed them and play with them in waves free of scrutiny and social filters. I let them pull the strings that make me tick, stir my very essence, we grow together in blissful ignorance.
***
The renaissance men of today are quite different from the days of yore. They have the ability speak in prose one minute and prove themselves as more than capable of holding a riffle and covering your back in a foxhole the next moment. Adrian Rayment is all of these things. He is qualified to pull from any agency which prompts the stimulation of invention, be it martial arts, sculpting, writing or acting. His life is one which fully encompasses all forms of artistry and I am thankful that he is fearless and exacting in all his pursuits that I may continue to stand in awe of his interpretations of existence and all that propels us through it.
I have many friends, known and unknown. As a very private person I will restrict myself to only discussing those whom have impacted my art directly... (scratches head laughing)...and I may refrain from relaying the story even then. Some things are too good to share, even and especially with the world. But to refrain from speaking of Sophie Barjac is to leave out a great piece of my Parisian history. Because I have not owned a television for years and rarely read magazines, I often do not know who people are upon meeting them.
Sophie was one of those people. She is the Diane Keaton of France. Extremely gifted. I was young when we meet. It was mere days after I identified the body of Jeanette O'Keefe. I needed a distraction from the journalists ringing so bad then. So I left the house, something I rarely did. Sophie and I met at a cafe near Trocadero and we've remained close ever since. We speak often.
All the friends in my life have two very striking character traits. The first is a tremendous capacity to freely give and receive love. The second is that they are not pretentious, even if they are wearing a 10 carat diamond ring (and you know who you are). They are the salt of the earth. Sophie Barjac taught me how to speak without an American accent as we read in French for hours on any given day of the week. It got to the point when French people rarely knew I was American. Sophie is my big sister. She is one of few people I allow to give me a nickname. To her I am simply Carrie.
These weren't just any pair of shoes, but my favorite pair of see through sandals purchased from a vintage clothing store in L.A. I loved the shoes so much that two days after purchasing them I phoned the store and had the exact same pair placed on hold and drove back up to the City of Angels just to have a spare. So when Dondee and I escaped from the cemetery and I was like "Why am I barefoot?" In the back of my mind I knew the emergency pair were nestled safe and sound in a mint colored box somewhere at the bottom of my closet, but this did not suffice. I always had this scenario that played over in my head whenever I imaged the type of meltdown that would drive me to have to dig through the labyrinth also known as my wardrobe and search for my replacement footwear. I envisioned the mundane, a trip over uneven concrete that would snap the plastic tie between my two toes, rendering my sandals useless or even better, I imagined escaping the duties of my art long enough to dance the night away somewhere and be spun so hard that my shoe would snap as I twisted into a spiral of a dozen joyful circles. I couldn't accept the fact that I lost my shoes because I imagined myself on the "Madea Goes to Jail" poster. And even though I got home near midnight and fell asleep with my makeup on, fake eyelashes and all. I woke up at the crack of dawn and drove to the cemetery the next morning through traffic in order to rescue my shoes. Yeah, I knew there was a 60/40 percent chance they'd still be there but I rarely find things I love. I've been known to sew dresses and outfits if I think there's nothing available that truly expresses who I am. What was even crazier was that I phoned my videographer and he was only three blocks away from the place! He laughed and offered to help me search for my lovely clear plastic diamond encrusted sandals. He laughed because he knows I try to match those sandals with everything. Some people have security blanket, well, I have security sandals. Enough said.
Fortunately, I knew the exact location where the crime took place. And sure enough the trip was not in vain. I celebrated by picking up the tab for breakfast at the chicken and waffle joint we went to.
I love my life. I know some people have real problems. The foster youth I've mentored over the past seven years says I live like a rock star. I'm sure that if my shoes got to choose which spirit they would be possessed by, a rock star's soul would be their first choice.
5 FWY / OCT 8th: MY PHOTO SHOOT CAUSED YOUR ACCIDENT ( -MY BAD- ) (OC)
We got kicked out of the cemetery. And had I not lost my shoes there your accident may have never happened. But please, allow me to explain.The cemetery office hadn’t cleared us to photograph there. Usually, Partansky takes care of those types of details for me, but she’s been in Jordan and so many of the things that she would never let slip through the cracks became details I somehow managed to bypass.So when I saw John, the cemetery security guard, parked a couple yards away from where we were unlawfully shooting, I panicked.You see, I waited three months for Dondee Quincena to even have an opening free to photograph me –he’s just that amazing.The night before, I spent hours getting my art packed and wardrobe ready, and the strain of wanting to be on time as to not warp any one else’s schedule got to me. Having to meet my makeup artist the afternoon of the shoot and giving up on my “natural” look by trusting Patty enough to give her the creative freedom to put blood red eye liner on my bottom lids, all this, on top of driving to the location, took a toll on my organizational skills –ALL my list checking became futile as I somehow left out the part about getting authorization for the shoot for my Goth Girl interview.I couldn’t help but go into fight or flight mode on the cemetery lawn. When I saw John, I ran, forgetting I was barefoot.I told Dondee we should go as I started to grab as much camera equipment as my little arms could hold to my chest while proceeding to run towards the vehicle we had carpooled in –fast, like the time my older sister & I heard a rattle snake shake it’s tail from behind the volleyball I lost fast (because I served it over the fence of our backyard and into the canyon below). Only then I was seven and the noise from the rattlesnake made my knees lock into position and I was frozen stiff. My sister, who had the common sense to run, was more than halfway up the hill by the time I broke out my haze.She woke me from my then petrified state by calling my name over her shoulder and screaming me into action by adding “Run fool! Run!” as if to remind my feet what to do.
Fortunately, Dondee is just as easy going as I am. So as we started to pull out the cemetery parking lot and the question of where should we head to next came up, there was such a strong professional commitment to the shoot that he didn’t hesitate when I said I wanted to continue on a set of rail road tracks.Dondee & I drove past L.A. and we began to discuss how we came to fall in love with our separate art forms.He said he broke his father’s camera when he was just a boy living in the Philippines. That his father gave him the broken camera as a gift, bought a new one, and a friend repaired the broken camera for free –and the rest was history.I told him how in high school someone stole the only baby photos I had left over from all the moves my family made and that I began to paint so my future children (and their children) could “see” who I was.I began painting portraits, but that my other beginning, the one with statues, came after my friend Jeanette O’Keefe had been murdered.
On the drive to find my rail road tracks Dondee & I discussed things only artist experience. From creating on to misconception. Reinterpreting the world through our senses and having our sensitivities misinterpreted.“E-Conomy. NO-conomy,” I giggled. “I can’t stop (painting). This is who I am.”I began to explain why I needed railroads. “My next project involves the Holocaust.” I rolled my eyes, “I know. I know. I know.I take on heavy topics (cemeteries, death, grief) –things most people don’t want to look at, but I do this because I feel the urgency of the challenge. That if I can present strong subjects in a beautiful way, perhaps someone will allow themselves to open their eyes and look at something that they would have typically avoided. For me, art is a way to present a new perspective and maybe, then, my work will permit someone to see, even if only for ten seconds, that the Holocaust is not just a Jewish problem –it is a multicultural challenge that must be addressed before there are no more witnesses.” Dondee agreed. I told him about the exhibition that I have underway and how the Associated Press wants to be the first to release the details. I wasn’t thinking that in a hour he and I would cause your accident on the same freeway we were maneuvering through.Nooooo, not at all. I was telling him about how everything has culminated through this collection: my life, my friends, and my sense of personal liberation. That I’ve never been so content as now. And how hard I blushed when Larry King invited me to the screening of Valkyrie when he heard that the Holocaust was my subject. And that I’ve just been jumping up and down with joy these past few weeks knowing that I have commitments to immortalize everyone whom I’ve ever wanted to sit for me (well, everyone, except for Adrien Brody, that is).
“And what about the members of the Resistance,” I added, “the non-Jewish people who fought Germans, hid people, grabbed guns and choose death over tyranny –are all their lives a lie too?”My rant was over. The car had stopped by then and we were in a parking lot facing the 5 freeway.Four rail cars were clasped together on the tracks like school children playing ring-around-the-rosie.I could see the cars from freeway on ramp that they were moving a bit slower in the merging lanes out of curiosity. It was still daylight so the flash wasn’t as strong.A man in a great big truck with a flatbed asked for my autograph then asked if he could watch us work for a while.He stayed for over an hour.I asked if he could leave his email address on a piece of paper and put it on the windshield of our car so I could have some photos sent to him. It was dark then and whenever Dondee pressed his index finger down on the camera it felt like the whole sky lit up.I was hanging off the train and I imagine from the freeway what people saw went something like this: darkness, flash!, little black girl hanging on a train, darkness again, flash!, oh wait now she’s lying down on the tracks.
And that’s when we met (almost).I was sitting between the tracks when I heard it. A screech of tires and a Whomp! The kind of whomp that resembled a metal parachute hitting the ground and being bundled together.It was the crumpled up hood of your dear brown car. A black car was in front of you, I think it may have been a new Nissan. The rear bumper was smashed in.And I felt it, the possible guilt that our work had distracted either you or the black-Nissan-man. That you were doing your evening commute and flash! you wondered if you had just seen a little black girl hanging off a train, and in your pondering failed to see the car in front of you come to a sudden stop, and then crunch! I have been thinking about you all weekend but was unable to write you until today because yesterday was the Sabbath and I spent it with my Jewish family and was thus rendered unable to use electronic devices. I know you were physically alright. I saw you standing talking to the police. And while I know that while I wasn’t the one behind the wheel, I remember how I was in the exact spot as you. What’s really wild is before I ever had the privilege to work with Dondee I recall driving on the 5 fwy not that long ago and seeing the flashy lights of a photo shoot and thinking “keep your eye on the road” never knowing a year later I’d be working with that same photog in that same spot.So I wanted to say that if my work led you to lose yourself, I truly apologize.I would also like to send you one of my coffee table books and an invitation to be my guest at the opening of my 2010 L.A. museum exhibition. I’ll know it’s you because you’ll have to tell me the on ramp / exit where the crash happened. If you Google my first name it will come up with my gallery’s website (never posted on CL before so don’t think it will allow a link to it) Email Partansky at the info at xyzaddress and she will make sure you don’t fall through the cracks.
And if you are shy like I am shy outside of business, and around strangers and new people, and if this is going to truly be a missed connection, the least I could do, I figured, was embed some photos and release them out into the abyss that is cyber space so like a message in a bottle, perhaps, this note of goodwill will reach you and at the very least, you could see the photos of the scene you were trying to look at when your most unfortunate accident happened.
In any event. Be well. But most importantly...
Be You For You
-Keariene
Location: OC
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
