Petey is curled up in a very awkward position on my stomach/chest (with her tail in my face, of course), so I have to stretch my arms around her to reach my lap top. She’s shifted since I started writing this and is resting her head on the back of my left hand. She doesn’t seem to mind all the typing at all. She’s got this great ability to find a comfortable spot almost anywhere. I’m still adapting to cat behavior (Petey is the first I’ve ever lived with–the only cat I’ve ever liked, really.) She’s a cutey, but quite difficult to figure out.
And that’s my strange segue into the Mark Ryden exhibit I saw this weekend. It was, in many ways, like a cat. Childlike. Cute. Strangely comforting. I just reviewed some of his pieces online and am still trying to figure out what it all means. But then, maybe it’s like Petey. Maybe there’s little or no meaning to be found in the repeated images of Lincoln, bumble bees and raw meat. Maybe, much like cats, Ryden’s exhibit is like a cat–unpredictable, graphic (since I started writing this, Petey has shifted to a spot on the floor where she sits, legs spread wide, and licks herself in her ‘nasty spots’). And in spite of all the shocking or graphic images Ryden uses, I still find myself drawn to his work in much the same way that I’m drawn to Petey (who bites or scratches me on an almost daily basis).