RD: I tried to look up the word for a very specific feeling I get when I think about eras and movements that inspire me, but also make me feel a sad longing. There is a pointed sense of yearning, mixed with mourning when I think about all of the spaces and people who do not fill this world anymore. I appreciate that nothing stays the same, but we have lost so much grit and crunch in the advent of globalization.

Phones are ruining things, but also what an important time in our history to connect online and document, document, document. We would not have been able to purchase SIM cards for Palestinians living through a genocide, we would not have been able to coordinate Mutual Aid groups to fight against ICE either. I am not a Luddite for these reasons. However, times are a changing and making art ain’t as cheap as it used to be. I have always felt aligned with a time I was never a part of, and I have always felt a significant sense of pull towards artists who would have been found at CBGB or Max's Kansas City.

I was bullied for being different starting in kindergarten, (I am Sicilian and very hairy) but in some ways it was flattering, because I was getting confirmation from the lames that I wasn't lame like them. Phew. I believe this is why I carried around Legs McNeil's Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk all of 8th grade. I lived for that book because it was as close as I could get to living out the fantasy of a punk lifestyle from the comfort of Louisville, Kentucky and not a squat in the Lower East Side. I plucked out Deee-Lite's famed album "World Clique" from a bargain bin at 13, not knowing how proximal I would be to the people, the art, the world they came from now.

A couple years ago I went to see Richard Hell read works of poetry at White Columns a few months after Tom Verlain died. I sat across from Joan Jonas and the whole time I just felt so pleased for 8th grade Rosemary. I don't think of it as coincidence or divine intervention or anything but me knowing exactly where I wanted to go and who I was since day 1. I aligned that for myself, so in many ways I also give props to young Rosemary for holding it down for future me. We have always been aligned with each other.

TV: Wow, that is a rare thing I think, to kind of know yourself and set out on a path, and looking back, being able to wink at yourself and know “that kid is gonna be alright”. I envied kids like that. You talking about the yearning and mourning for things kind of makes me think of the Japanese concept of mono no aware, it’s like a sadness for the impermanence of beauty. It sounds like you’re down for the experience, not just the end goal. So, to you, is the act of creating more important than the result?

RD: This is a complicated question! Isn't it about the journey, not the destination? Does that apply here? I frequently feel conflicted about how little of my process is shown in my "final" paintings. For me, the process of planning a painting is very very heavily rooted in writing. I write obsessively in my notebook: research on the concept I'm curious to explore, write poems about it, my thoughts on it, even charts and graphs. All of that happens typically over the course of a few months before I even prep my canvas.

I have been sharing more on Instagram pieces of writing or videos I make that are thought experiments on larger concepts I wish to explore. A lot of my work is about exploring systems that are happening concurrently. So, signs on the subway are happening as we are walking to the train, as we are way-finding or placing ourselves in the built or natural environment. I try to show that movement and energy of multiple things happening at once in my work. I don't think it is always evident how much research I do on performance, on climate change, on typography, graffiti, boats, water, oyster life cycles, red lining, etc. before whatever I paint makes it on the canvas.

But in some ways I also believe it doesn't matter. Even if I could make all of that "pre-work" clear, I can't control how people perceive it. It begs the larger question, are you making work because you want a reaction, or because you have this limbic itch you must scratch? I try to let go of the need to be understood in these moments, because if I scratched my itch I feel pretty damn good, and the result of that satisfaction is enough.

TV: I think it does show, because really I think your work would be different if you didn’t do the prep. Like an actor preparing for a specific character role spending time living that life before shooting or something, it might not be directly documented in the film, but has an effect on the performance. So even though you have a good picture of yourself and do all this kind of preparation repetitively, have you ever surprised yourself through your own art?

RD: The short answer is yes! When I was very young my teachers would let me stand up in the back of the classroom or at my desk because moving around made it easier for me to focus. I don't remember which diagnosis I have (ADD or ADHD) but I do know that focusing and attention to detail have always been a challenge for me. There are usually multiple thoughts happening at any given time in my mind, and sometimes rushing to get them all out feels like the least stressful way to process them. I think this comes out in the way I paint.

But what surprised me when I first started writing poetry in high school and painting a few years after that is the way that being creative in this way really slowed my brain down and allowed me to hone in on one thing. When I am writing or painting I am in a deep state of mindfulness. It's not that I am having no thoughts, but I am in a state of letting things flow through me without obstruction. And I had not really experienced that feeling before.

I used to feel very frustrated at my brain for not being able to slow down, and this felt like validation that I had unlocked a new way to manage that sensation. At the time when I first started feeling very connected to my craft, it felt like a miracle. It makes me feel more connected to myself and allows me to make sense of the clutter in my head. So that part of my work and process feels cathartic and reminds me that ADD and ADHD are extremely vague abstractions to make sense of our brains, a lot of which do not just assemble into conformed thought with ease. Can't we just call it "creative brain disease" or something?

TV: It sounds like you’ve found your own form of therapy and your process is like a funnel, collecting a wide array and narrowing it without diluting the outcome. You talked about evolving from poet to painter, and I’m sure you’ve continued to evolve. Can you describe the physical process of your work now?

RD: The physical process of my work itself is in fact quite physical. I go through about a notebook a month when I'm really in the creative groove. So when I start to think about what I want to paint or build or make, I tear out all the pages of my notebook that held writing or crosswords or charts and graphs I've made or reinterpreted and lay them all out on the floor. It is a lot like writing a paper in many ways. So I construct my "argument" and my thesis statement and usually try to think of it in terms of "what are you trying to say" and less so "how do you want it to look?"

From my pile of about 10-15 torn out notebook pages I pick the few that have the strongest "concepts" and visual aids to support those concepts. And from there I work out my message. Typically I paint from images I have taken on my phone camera, and they are representations for the concept I want to explore. Right now I am unequivocally obsessed with boats and the global shipping trade. To me it is an excellent metaphor for many ideas that are always floating around in my head: climate change, the ocean, escapism, transit, and the moral dilemma of being stuck on land but not wanting to ditch everyone when the flood/rapture comes.

So I will take whichever photo is calling to me and start pondering (read, walking and dancing while I think) how my concepts are best embodied in the picture I chose. It is interesting because I do all of this research and mental work and then I paint a photo I've had in my phone for sometimes years. I guess a lot of it is me making sense of things I'm attracted to, and understanding how our day to day lives are supremely embedded with meaning. To me making those mundane moments significant is very important and satisfying.

TV: I like that your work is both personal and reflective of so many different parts of society and culture. You mentioned that you are originally from Kentucky which is very different from where you live now. What is it like being an artist in New York City?

RD: Thanks for asking! New York breaks my heart once a week and then makes it up to me the following week. None of my takes on why this city is hard and beautiful to live in are hot or original. When you are low, the city will bring you that much lower. Same goes for when you're high. I think the trick is trying to stay as balanced in your personal life and open to change as possible. That applies anywhere you live, because hey, wherever you go, there you are.

Sitting with discomfort is a litmus test for how well you can tolerate it here. It took me a while and certainly not without suffering, but I have a network of friends and creatives here that get me through. I am constantly searching for connection and community, and I found it through a concerted and persistent effort. I love New York, but you have to grind so hard to keep your head above water. I worked my ass off in my early twenties (hey, I said this part wasn't original) and kind of burned out. I went to grad school while I worked full time, I always did handy work on the side of whatever full time job I had to pay rent, and I feel like only in the past year have I been able to slow down my grind time. I still feel like I'm putting in my hard yards to "make it" here, but I have tried to let go of that concept, because "making it" is so relative. I have made it, in that I have creative collaborators, I have friends, I have the queer community, and I am healthy and happily employed.

My biggest beef with New York is that it isn't the South. There is a lot of literature and art about yearning for the South, and I relate to all of it. I feel a deep longing to slow down and move to New Orleans, specifically. But I feel very happy to be happy and stable and making the most of my time in the city. I am more present than I have ever been, and New York is inspiring me right now.

TV: Well, you sound like a true New Yorker now. I’ve always said you have to love and hate New York because if there’s not that balance, you won’t last and you won’t grow and you won’t appreciate it, and that’s what the city is there for. Rosemary, thanks so much for sharing all of this, it’s fascinating to learn more about your work and your outlook!

Rosemary DeMarco lives and works in Brooklyn, New York