It is Written

Hello Dear Readers,

It's been a while...

So here's the deal, in a nutshell, after nine wonderful years living in The Hague in The Netherlands, I left the land of water, bicycles, and sky to make a giant leap back across the pond to none other than The Big Apple, not without getting my feet wet.  I'll spare you the grueling moving details, we've all been there and I don't want to dredge up past moving trauma for you (purging personal belongings, packing, living in boxes...  ok, I'll stop there.).

Coming back home there was the sense of the familiar, yet I felt a stranger.  Seventeen years in Europe can change a girl.  My first impression was one of immensity, of feeling, of sky, of opportunity.  It's NYC after all!  Going to the grocery store I was in a state of shock, so many choices!  After searching for apartments, saying no to the plethora of towers with doormen and parking available, I managed to find a cozy basement apartment with, wait for it... a garden.  Yes a garden in Manhattan.

And yes I feel priviledged.  In fact I feel privileged every day.  I walk out the door and I think, "Wow, I am in New York City," and my spirit lifts a few feet off the ground.  I'm not even going to list all the benefits of being here, it's just a plethora of all that I would wish for in a city, but mainly it is the people that make the city for me.  They seem to have this deeply ingrained optimism, and lacking that a great sense of humor.  Sigh...  

It is vast though, and I knew that without an "in" it could be overwhelming, so I grabbed the first straw (which actually I had been secretly dreaming about for a while) and jumped into classes at the Art Student's League, figure drawing no less.  I started with one class and quickly added two and began drawing all day.  Organizing our new home and daily chores immediately took a second seat to my new love, because that is what it is, love.  How can one help it?  To be allowed to create in a such a timeless place, to contemplate the conundrum and beauty of humanity with like-minded (ok I'll say it, obsessed) artists was like putting a warm blanket around my heart.  

So was that enough?  Of course not!  Because there was higher ground, The New York Academy of Art.  How many times had I looked up the Academy and drooled over all the possibilities it offered?  Well, I won't say, because that would be embarrassing...  Suffice it to say, it was the golden fleece.  I made a mad dash to get all my ducks in a row and crashed the gates (me and my ducks) so that now I find myself "in" the illustrious institution.  After the first week of "orientation" and beginning classes (using quotes here because it's actual title should be "trial by fire"), I am full of that fire which has ignited a hundred new ideas and an eagerness to expand some of the tried and true.  

The end of the first week was finalized by an introduction of our work to the student body.  Not daunting, not at all...  (insert rolling of eyes here).  The level of talent of my peers left me gobsmacked.  What does one do in such a situation, with one minute to sum up your life's work?  Grab a pen and paper, um no paper, ok, a hand will do...

And so here I submit the first piece of my "body" of work.  

NYC, you have written your name in indelible ink on my soul.

Observation

Walking into the kitchen, the neighbor across the yard sits in red with the light on.

Yesterday she turned the light off when I looked her way.

It's inevitable.

She's across the way.

In the window.

With the light on.

In red.

Who wouldn't look?

Today I look away.

I look at the pigeon on her roof.

I look at the sky, trying to determine which will win today, the gray or the blue.

I look at the bamboo growing up from the other neighbor's garden and

the two stumps of pine tree that they have left to hang their hammock on.

The water boils and I stir it into my chicory.

Three drops of stevia.

As usual I think it will be too sweet, but I do it anyway.

I open the fridge.

I close the fridge.

I turn.

She is still there.

In red.

With the light on.

And she is looking at me.

TTT

More images of Totally Terrific Texel!

And more to come!

Texel Time

Texel is a municipality and an island in the Netherlands, in the province of North Holland. It is the biggest and most populated of theFrisian Islands in the Wadden Sea, and also the westernmost of this archipelago, which extends to Denmark. (Wikipedia)

And for four days it was heavenly. Here's how I saw it:

One word - space. Ok, another, peaceful. Just one more... sunshine. The triumvirate and holy trinity all rolled into one and just what the doctor ordered. As Spring began tickling the ivories of nature and before the tourist take-over I left my sketchbook at home and just pushed a button. Who knew life could be so easy?

Bedtime Stories

My eyes are tired. From looking. Deeply. Into. Everything. Sleep, you might say. Close your eyes and dream, but then I'm still looking. Shall I describe the colors? Blue, black, embedded stars in the sky, white light. I hold tight to the ledge to keep from falling down and wake with clenched fists around the wooden handles of my brushes. It shouldn't be this hard, but sometimes it is. Sometimes it stretches so wide it breaks into ribbons of taffy that is too sweet and sticks to the roof of my mouth. So much to remember, color, line, form, warm, cold, proportion... I have doubts...

Then, today, with the fickle sun shining through the colored panes, I too entered the age of enlightenment (at least for the moment), realizing that it is not with eyes that one sees, but the heart. Just the facts, ma'am. Let the facts lie, as they do. I prefer the mythology of my own reality. Cream no sugar, thanks.

Then and Now

So, recently I showed you what I was doing back then, now I'll show you what I'm doing right now... well, not right now, but this last week, including today, when the sun was out..

So, firstly, here is a painting I've been working on of my father-in-law, Michel. I'm about three layers in but there'll be a few more coming, bringing the large masses together and softening edge, bringing in more light in some areas, reducing it in others, adding hue and taking it down a notch... you get the picture. He has requested that a bird be added so he does not feel alone, so I'm thinking about that one. It's tricky because I don't want the bird to be a distraction. I was tempted to get completely silly about it and have one coming out of his pocket or pulling a bee out of his ear ear or something... well we'll se what happens with that, time will tell. It's a bit blue and overexposed due to my slow learning curve in photography and Photoshop. I'll get that one figured out some day.

Sleeping Beauty

Some time ago, over four years ago now, actually, I was working on a series of batik paintings based on the story of Sleeping Beauty. The images I made came from figure studies I had done. I love that story, how she is enveloped in sleep and the roses and thorns grow up around her. They are supposed to be hiding her from her salvation but I wonder if somehow they aren't meant as protection as well. Anyway, wasn't she lucky? She didn't have to go through the whole dating game, she just had lovely dreams waiting for Prince Charming to come and save her. It seems to me she had it pretty easy! But I digress...

So, I've been going through my textile "stash" as I've finally decided that that period is over and I found a piece that I worked on quite bit but still with some wax on it. It took some boiling to get most of the wax off and I still have some work to do. I think I had in mind to do one more layer, but hey, bygones. It's done for what it is, unless I decide to do some embroidery on it. I think I'll turn it into one big pillow. She has two sisters which I'll eventually get around to showing you. The original drawing hangs on the wall of a collector. If I find a photo of it, I'll post it too.

Here's to past endeavors and new discoveries. Perhaps there's more sleeping beauty to discover and, no doubt, more thorns to endure.

Harnessed

"You are sentimental," he said. Because I kissed your harness before I gave it to the dog pound. It was not premeditated. It's just that it was yours and its synthetic feel reminds me of the softness of your fur, the curls in front and the caramel color which has now made me like orange, even though that used to be my least favorite color. Well, at least it's more of a rust-colored orange. Can't be going over to the other camp entirely.

Did you see how big the swan babies have gotten? The last day we walked together they were new. Mr. Swan was so protective the other day that he almost ate a small dog. You wouldn't have blinked an eye. Not you, the brave one who swam after the swan after you jumped/fell in the canal. He had his wings spread and was glorious in his whiteness, otherwise I would have noticed that you were walking too close to the edge. He came at you in full regalia but you steadfastly swam on, head on. A swan knows when it sees determination, I guess, because he hightailed it, or rather tucked in his tail and headed South. Not that that deterred you. As a mother I was fretful on the sidelines, but as a dog-in-spirit I was urging you on. Fearless. Luckily you stopped before the bridge and were willing to be pulled out, by your sturdy, red harness. You were feeling cooler after a swim, and quite a bit wet. You smelled of dog, wet dog, a wet dog with dry grass clinging to him, but exhilarated and I confessed to a desire to roll in the grass with you. I didn't though, I just kissed your harness at the kennel door. After all, it was the least I could do.

The Written Word

I should love to write, tomes, volumes, a page, a sentence, something to empty my head and paint pictures in yours. I'd like to put down words that make you see what I see, the light on the canal, the changing grays and blues of the sky, the distance to the horizon and the butter on my bread. I'd like to have you dip it into the coffee of your soul and blend it into a mixture of your own tastes, your own interpretation, including jam of course. I'd like it to lift you out of your seat and make you want to dance a jig, then put you down lightly on a cushion of feathers, under which would lie a hidden stone, from the brook of my childhood running through the back yard. I'd like to give it to you like a gift, wrapped in pastel papers that whisper in your ear as you unwrap them, with a knot that is a challenge but not an impossibility keeping them closely ensconced until you can no longer help it but must untie it, taking the time it takes to figure out a puzzle on a cold, winter's evening by the fire. As you open it you will hear a sigh, barely audible, escape because I have been holding my breath waiting. Ahhh....

The Nature of the Beast

Art is cruel, art is kind, art will come up to you and slap you in the face then tell you you are a god. Do you want an easy way out? Don't do art. Do you want to be challenged to your foundations and then challenged again on the new premises you have formed? Then choose art. Do you want to look into your soul, your heart, your psyche? Then do art. If you fear your own shadow, don't do art, or do it and learn not to fear but to explore it. Watch it grow in the evening and disappear only to show up the next day.

Art is a mirror in a fun house and you are looking into it hard but the second you think you know what you see the mirror changes and you morph into something else, don't look too hard, or, look sideways and you may catch a glimpse of what is real.

Art is mercury. Break the thermometer of society's rules and let the mercury flow out. It looks solid enough but try and capture it and it will split and break into new channels then rejoin again.

Art can capture reality, then reality changes, focus changes. You can see clearly or in soft focus or not at all. Art will teach you that every thing, every one is connected but you can also choose to show that they are not. If you miss the connection though, you will be looking only partly and miss the forest for the trees, the myriad of colors in the sunset, the texture of the air. Yes, you can choose not to take the challenge, you can choose to see only partly and you will get from A to B, Life to Death, but you might miss C, the process, the shear splendor of "being-ness".

Art is pen and pencil, paint and stone and chisel and brush and canvas, movement and voice, gesture and sound and word, but mostly it is a way of seeing. You can keep your eyes shut but you will still hear it come knocking and you can choose to answer or not. It could be a lion at the door or not and you may be consumed but like the phoenix you will rise again and again because you have begun a journey that is never ending, you have become aware.

Waterhouse

John William Waterhouse. Yesterday I went to see an extensive show of this artist's work at the Groninger Museum. I took a three hour trip because that's just how much I've liked his work. I was excited and filled with anticipation. I thought about the beauty and color he portrayed in his "stories" on canvas, thinking, "At last I will see these stories come to life!".

Exactly the opposite feeling awaited me as I gazed at each, technically perfect, painting. More, what filled me was the feeling of being in a crypt. His models (or should I say model because he seems to use the same woman for every face) were all posed like mannequins, beautiful and graceful mannnequins, but dead to the world. Everything was perfect, from the veins in his marble to the weave of his rugs and yet...nothing, no soul, no life breathed there. In fact, I was surprised to find that I like his paintings much more in print then in real life!

He does get some life going in his landscapes, then he drops in a model from the studio and the birds stop singing. The wood becomes dead and nary a leaf can be heard to fall from a tree. Not surprising then, that the one painting that struck me was "Saint Elalia", which can be seen here: http://www.johnwaterhouse.com/view.cfm?recordid=76 (One of these days I'll figure out how to post outside images here.) She is truly dead and yet he brings more life to this painting than to all the other "live" models. His studies have more life in them. Pity he couldn't carry that over to his finished paintings, or "killed" it in the process.

So, once again, I am reminded that perfection and control does not result in beauty, no matter your skill in reproducing the real. Because real is not perfect, it is flawed, it is unfinished, it is faulted and it breathes life. This can not be captured by turning all to stone, immovable and unchanging. Leaving the mausoleum, oops, museum I strolled through the Saturday market and was restored to life, all the more poignant for this contrasting point of reference.