Hangin' with Bernini at The Met

Life is twisted, or at least one might think when viewing Lorenzo Bernini's (1598-1680) sculpture sketches at The Met.  Twists in fabric, posture twists, psychological twists, you name it.  Come on everybody, let's do the twist!  It's impossible to NOT see movement in these sculptures.  They are literally writhing with life.  I got a bit too close to one and guard suggested I might accidentally touch it but she needn't have feared, the risk was more that I would be the one who was touched.  Bernini's sculptures are like an arrow of energy, shooting out into space.

When one speaks of touch, what I find particularly appealing in these models is that you can literally see the finger prints and gouges of the actual artist.  There we are suddenly with him, watching him mold the clay like one would run their fingers through sand or water.  It is liquid life and he touches it  in such a way that we experience it's malleable texture and form.  Who knew that a simple piece of fabric could behave like a snake on wind and in space while existing as a solid piece of clay?

It's also fascinating to understand that Bernini did not hollow out his studies, but let them dry solid over time while being covered and kept damp to keep from cracking.  There is an immediacy in that decision that is felt in his work.  Who has time to hollow out  and perfect a study when an image must be torn from the ether and placed in concrete reality?  I think this rush to create is what keeps his models fresh and dynamic, which is later translated into his finished work.

His figures keep the same tension with impossible twists and turns showing bulging muscle forms at every turn.  (Actually, they're not as impossible as they look.  I did try a few just to see if they were physically honest, not that I'm any gymnast.  It could have been seeing these attempts on the stairs of the museum that led the docent to think I might be an irresponsible viewer.  So be it.)

His lion could easily be a morph of human into beast.  At any rate I wouldn't want to be there when it comes to life once the museum doors close.  Here Kitty, Kitty... snarl, snap, dinner, done.  (Um, you do know that all sculptures come to life when there is no one around to see, right?   Ok, well, count yourself informed now, and bring a lot of cat treats, not that they will save you.)  

Right, so where was I?  Yes, the muscles!  Omigosh, the muscles! Pulsing, flexing, twisting, stretching, you name it, they are like live eels!  (Starting to sweat.)  Only someone who has full knowledge of the science of kinetics could make these muscles do what they do, not to mention anatomical know-how that boggles the mind.

I should probably say something about the faces, but all memory of them fades when I think of "Ludovica".  Would it be inappropriate to say, any man who could make a statue look like that...  yeah, it probably would.  Oh well, I'll let you finish the thought.  The actual sculpture was not present but the museum thoughtfully supplied a photo replica nearby the clay model.  It was wonderful to see the decisions he made between the study and the finished work.  A slight repositioning of the hand on her breast, a lowering of a fold of drapery, small nuances that create a rhythm and harmony that sings out in the final version.  (Literally singing, cue to Madeline Kahn after an intimate moment with Frankenstein in "Young Frankenstein"...)  No, but seriously, it does sing, I know because I heard it in my heart.  I could dance to that rhythm, if I was Salome.

Ok, really serious now.  That sculpture rocks!  Why?  Because you can hear her intake of breath.  You can actually see how her diaphragm is depressed.  You can witness her trachea opening for that extra pull for oxygen.  Actually though, it is all about the hand on the breast, that perfect bend of foreshortening, the contrast of light and shadow (How'd he do that?  Magic!) and the way it pulls you in, telling you that there is a real live, breathing human being under all that drapery.  There is a woman buried in the marble, of that I am sure.

But you don't have to believe me, just go to The Met.  Check it out.  The models are on exhibit till the sixth of January.  Move.  Now.  Go.

Fade out to, "Let's twist again, like we did last summer..."

Sand(y)storm from Sandman

Sleepily, lacking sleep, what is that Japanese word for trying to wake and not being able to?  That was my state on Sunday last.  Sandman had not yet let go of my hand when I entered the sandstorm, or the insan(e)dstorm which was called Sandy and defined as a hurricane.  She blew in from the coast for a quick visit, liked the city and stayed, finally leaving with not so much as an adieu, with much to be done in her wake.  Her vision still hangs like a pall over many lives, lost lives, lost homes.  And still I am dreaming.  Am I not?  Otherwise, how can it be that when I look out the door trees still bear their leaves yet nearby lies the lost city of Atlantis, underwater, out of breath and out of time.  Sparks exploded in the air taking away what we take for granted.   Light, by any other name would smell as sweet.  She came, she wept copious tears in gusts of fury and left, taking with her a part of us, leaving behind her refuse without pity.  Ah Sandy, such a woman as you must be protected against and yet, though our defenses were up, you breached the barriers and emptied our pockets.  Wicked were you in the taking.  Not to be forgotten, even in the forgetting.  I close one blind eye and reach for my spyglass to see where you have gone and where you have left us.  In the space between.

On the Couch with Composition

How do I love thee...  let me analyze.  I'm taking a composition class at NYAA and that is the requirement, finding our true love painting and understanding it's compositional elements thoroughly, or as I like to call it, "tearing it from limb to limb".  While this sounds like a painful process, it is actually one of the most enriching exercises I've done in a long time.  Wade Schuman offers such a wealth of insightful information as to set ones neurons on fire.  I can honestly say I think he has directly influenced the way I look at paintings today.

Here is what I'm realizing, love can be superficial, love is fickle, love is a many splendored thing...  I first chose Waterhouse's "Lady of Shallot".  This is the painting where she looks pained as she sets off to her death after having had a glance of her true love.  Wait...  should I be worried?  In truth, I picked it because I once loved it.  I saw it in an exhibit of J.W.'s work and though I still liked elements of it, the magic somehow left it in confrontation.  So it was kind of like bringing up an old boyfriend and saying you still had feeling for him even though they are a shadow of what they once were.  After going through a brief analysis in class, this became painfully obvious to me and I thought, do I really want to spend a whole semester with this boyfriend, oops sorry, painting?

My second and actually first choice was Caillebotte's "The Scrapers".  Ok, valid choice.  I spent some time returning to and staring at this painting in the Musee D'Orsay, though admittedly in a frenzy of passion because I was surrounded by so many inspiring works.  Kind of like being surrounded by all the attractive people I've ever met, or not, no not that superficial...  ok, more like the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa (although I think I did a better job of concealing it).  I really did love it, for it's feeling of space, it's inner illumination, it's muscular men (not really, just checking to see if you're paying attention), it's feeling of movement and rhythm, and it's wonderful mnemonic of Parisian life.  Really, it's true, believe me.  Then I started analyzing it...  Yes, you guessed it, the love began to wane.  It faded from a fresh flower to an artificial bouquet.  Lots of elements that I love, but somehow they seemed less real, less vibrant.  (Cue to "How Deep is your love...")  Apparently not so deep.

This was worrying.  Am I really so shallow?  Does true love exist and stand the test of deep analysis?  Am I like a bee flitting from flower to flower?  Well, no probably not, but love is scary.  Looking deeply into what you love can be revealing and maybe, just maybe I didn't want to go there, into the cave.  (An analogy I know a lot about now that my studio is in the cave of the school, better known as the "Garden Level". ) So where does that leave me, am I a lost soul, destined to sit in my parlour with an old wedding cake?  No, I think not.  These revelations are driving me to think deeper about what I love, without shame, remorse, or fear of estrangement.  To that end, I hereby reveal my true love, or at least one of them...  Hammershoi's "Interior with Young Woman from Behind".  Have a gander (possible analysis to come, give or take a few hours of sleep):

So there you have it, true love.

(Perhaps I'm not so shallow after all.)

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.

Glazing Over

I've been spending much time reading about what others think these days so I thought I'd put in a few cents of my own. Actually, the time I've spent on others thoughts has been scattered in short increments, because for the last couple of months, I've been in intensive study of portraiture. Whew! What a process! It's been a struggle both personal and creatively, learning new techniques but mostly banishing old bad habits. ("Out, out damned spots!," she cried as the nasty bad habits clung to the hem of her psyche.) Currently though, things are going good, connections are being made and old memories of knowledge being mixed with new understanding.

We are dealing with glazes now as we add color to the layers of grisaille. It is magic. I was lost for a while watching the magic, then I remembered a painting class I had back in college, back in the day as they say... The teacher was Frank Hobbes, a local painter and he was only there for a semester or a year, I believe. Too bad they didn't keep him because I would have taken any class I could have gotten from him and learned perhaps a bit more of what I am now learning years later. He had me paint a copy of a Rembrandt, a self-portrait (one among many). With that portrait I learned about...glazing! And with that memory comes back the knowledge that I can apply today. It's a case of adding a glaze of color to push back the painting into the shadow, and then adding more light, then when that's dry doing it again, and again, till it becomes clear and full of layers of light and color. It never ceases to amaze me how it works, pushing it back, then pulling it back out again into the light.

Pondering this miracle, I was thinking it's not unlike the process we go through in life. We have these moments where the light gets in, then times when it is pushed back down, then we must look for the light again and pull it out of the shadows. This happens in layers upon layers all our lives. It's so easy to stay in the shadows, feeling our way but never coming clear. So difficult to know where to look for the light, to pull it out of the murky darkness. But there it is, and when the light is revealed we become more three dimensional, more whole.

Some of those things that were in the shadows can remain. They don't need illumination, and actually lend to the beauty of the light. They have their own colors that will be reflected in the light to give it life. Without those shadows, there would be no light, only flat color. So now, as I paint my glazes, or perhaps in quiet moments of reflection such as this, I am observing the shadows, their colors, how sometimes I was in the deep shadow but reached for the light, no matter how feeble. I can feel my skin vibrate with the interplay of the two and their own nuances as I watch the portrait of my life develop and become whole. When it is done it will look just like me.

P.S. Thank you, Frank Hobbes, for believing in me. You once said I had the guts to be an artist and those are words I still cherish.

Creatures of Habit

Every morning my cat wakes me up in that very special way that cat's have. She begins by standing, stretching, then carefully walking all over my body. If this receives no response, she tickles my face with her whiskers, that failing, she will go scratch the rug, a sure-fire way to get me out of bed to keep her from destroying it. We go downstairs where she will circle, show her leg, rub against my legs, in other words, plea in no uncertain terms that she must eat or starve. A guy named Pavlov figured out why all this takes place a long time ago and since we're all familiar with his theory, most of us, I won't bore you with the details.

Now, right up there with Pavlov's star in the sky, I have placed Twyla Tharp. She has hit the same nail on the head, but at a different angle and it has gone straight to my heart. She has written a wonderful book called, "The Creative Habit". I haven't read the whole thing yet, so I can't comment on all of it right now, but what has had a major impact on my day is her concept of ritual. Well, it's not really her concept, because it has been going on for centuries, but her application of it is so clear that it can't be ignored. I won't rewrite her book for her, but I want to tell you how it's affected me.

Since reading her book, I began getting up at 6 am, feeding the cat (no need for an alarm when you have a cat) and doing yoga. Then, I have breakfast in front of the computer, do the rest of my morning preparations and go for a walk for an hour. When I get back I make a big cup of chicory and oat milk (my substitute for coffee) and face the canvas. This is my new ritual. I'd say I've been doing it for about two weeks now. Previously, I got ready in various ways without examining my "ritual". Some days it worked, some days it didn't.

This works. Not only does it work, but I've discovered something important this morning since I've changed my ritual. I slept in an hour extra, or tried to, anyway I lost an hour. I'm not doing yoga this morning because I have yoga class this evening and yesterday I changed it too; I didn't take my morning walk and went to the store instead. What I have noticed is this...it is unsettling. I woke up this morning needing that stretch and I'm not getting it. Something seems amiss. I have to think about what I'm going to do next. I feel out of sorts. I did this last week too, missing my yoga in the morning and it took me all day to get some sort of creative flow. (I hope that's not the case today.) What I'm saying is that I've developed a habit. Just like the cat. If she doesn't get her morning meal, she thinks she might starve. Her stomach tells her that too. Just like me trying to sleep in, my body woke up at 6, ready for it's morning stretch to start the day.

This is all probably not new to those of you who have a routine. All the more so since most of you have a job to go to in the morning. For me, it is a surprise. I've always seen myself as someone who has shirked the "routine". I've never made myself consistently do it because I thought I couldn't stick to it. Now I see if you don't set up a routine, you will inevitably make one. Why? Because we are "creatures of habit". For the first time I understand that phrase. Habit, routine, ritual brings comfort, stability, and room to breathe because if the routine is there then other stuff can happen without too much crisis, like when the cat throws up or my knitting goes awry, that's O.K., because I've had my routine (cup of coffee, morning run, hour of the morning news, shower, whatever works for you).

I spent 7 years going back and forth from France to the States every three months, only to discover that I craved stability, staying put. And now, at (almost) 44 I've discovered the blessing, the freedom, of routine. Who knew? This same routine is getting me in the studio every day. I feel like Twyla Tharp handed me a key to a new door but the key seems very familiar. Over the years I've had routines to get to work, but never looked at them this closely. Never said, "O.K., this is what works for me and I'm going to use it as a formula to get work done". That has all changed, I am now a creature of habit.

Backatcha

This week my painting got away from me again. I painted the first two days of the week, then contractors came in again and it was out the window. See, when I work I have to get into this peaceful space bubble and lose the distractions of the "real" world. Not so easy to do when someone is banging around.

Plus, I have this built in personality clause that says if someone is in your house you are the hostess/host and must make it a pleasant experience for them. Workers, friends, family, people who drop in off the street, doesn't matter. My home is like a part of me (well, my husband and I) and when you enter our world I want it to be a place of welcoming. Can't help it, it's there, like the impulse to kick when the doctor hits your knee reflex. So, I'm hopping around, making tea, making pleasant conversation, making sure they have everything they need. Not painting.

What I did do was knit. There's a million other things I should have done, empty boxes, do paper work, but I was dealing with my stress so I knit. Plus I have this deadline for class this morning and I wanted very much to meet it. (To that end I will knit seven more cm if I can this morning.) In doing so, I did realize that the knitting served it's purpose. It is helping my beginnings of arthritis and the cut nerve in my left hand is feeling a bit better, though I'm told I will always feel it. (I consider it my mindfulness bell and that rationale somehow makes it ok.)

Knitting got me back in a place I wanted to be again in my head, like leaving breadcrumbs in the forest, only they didn't get eaten by the birds. See, I don't deal well with moving, let alone jacking myself up on caffeine to get through all the necessary (?) renovations. Kinda waaaaay allergic to caffeine so that was a bad plan. (That's why the hand is a bell, reminding me not to have more caffeine...ever.)

So, now that I have come, more or less, back, finding myself home again, I need to reflect on the breadcrumbs. Do I eat them and say the cake is finished, back to work? Well, as it helps my hands and as it gives me great pleasure and keeps me mindful, no. But I have decided it will now have to take a back seat to the task at hand, that is doing my work (painting, drawing) full time all the time. I will pick up the knitting only at night to unwind that ball of yarn which is my thoughts. It's good to be back, good to see the blue sky in between the clouds as they break up. And if I need it I can always pick up the sticks, knit, purl, knit purl, knit, purl...breathe.

Love, Love, Love

I knew it. At least I knew it and then I forgot and now I know it again in a new way. If you want to do good art there is only one thing that matters, well one main thing, you have to do it with love. See, I grew up in California in the late sixties so I got a good dose of all that love hippie culture and man did it stick! I wore a groovy Love pin to school one day, purple and pink in big loopy letters. I sat in the big red leather reading chair while kids taunted me for believing in love. I was undaunted. Yes, I believed. I became a leader of a Circle K group and was asked in a leaders conference what my one word for leadership would be if I could sum it up, love. This was met with skepticism also. Still undaunted. I got into so much trouble believing this sometimes that it got me into some sticky situations I won't go into here.

But here's the thing. I still believe. I believe in giving it to others and in giving it to everything you do. I also believe now in something I had forgotten, or at least pushed back from time to time, in giving it to myself. Mom always said "you can't love others till you love yourself". Well, that's not altogether true, but it is true that you can't be your best to others if you don't treat yourself with love. I know that for a fact, folks.

But this isn't what I wanted to talk about. What I wanted to say is that if you are doing art, writing, creating, painting, forget about the money, forget that anybody is going to see it or judge it, go to that center place and ask yourself. What do I love? What do I want to paint that I love, that brings me joy, that I want to stare at for hours, curl up in, wind myself around? Can't guarantee that it will sell you some art, can't even say others will like it, but you will. And as an added bonus, if you put love into it, care for it, raise it up, it might even be a thing of beauty, one that perhaps comes close to that nectar of the gods you are looking for. But still, even if it's not, it might be the next one, or the next, and in the meantime you are in a place of bliss that will feed and nourish you to keep reaching for that chalice. Love is all you need, yup, I still believe in that, goofy, hippie, whatever. I am undaunted.

Mindfulness

Long time, no write. Mostly because I'm feeling badly about not giving you more pictures, but also because I've been working through stuff and still trying to get this apartment in working order. The good news: I'm back to painting, and yes I'll eventually get to a picture here and there. Also knitting. Knitting is teaching me about painting and my learning style and just in general how to "be".

For instance, lately I've been working on the back of a sweater and have "ripped" it out about, oh, ten times for various errors. So that means I started it over and over again. Now, I could get frustrated and give it all up (and don't think that didn't occur to me) but instead I'm trying to learn from it. See, knitting is a process of mindfulness and meditation for me. That's the whole reason I got into it, well that and getting out of the house once in a while to see people or else I will lose the ability to speak. (Dealing in images does that to me, just totally shuts off the verbal language of my brain.)

So, what has all this ripping done? Well, it told me that I was not being mindful, focusing, paying attention, whatever you want to call it. So, finally I sat down and spoke the word for the thing I was doing (knit, purl, knit, purl, knit, purl...) to remind me to focus. The world dropped away and I was enclosed in this bubble. Just like meditation, thoughts came up and I let them but I kept my focus on the knit, purl, knit and they passed right on through. Fast forward to painting today, all those voices that interrupt me came on (like "can I really do this?" or wondering if I have the talent to get it right, which is pretty much the same thing) but I could let that come, recognize it and let it pass through as I got to the important stuff, the task at hand.

The painting process in itself if a meditation. It makes me stop and look, and look again, and see what is before me. As an added benefit, it slows down time. I experienced this the other day too. I decided that when walking my dog Leon, instead of rushing pell mell, I would slow down taking in one breath for one step and exhaling with the next. Yeah, it took a really long time to get down the street, but in the meantime, I saw, really saw everything around me, the leaves on the trees, the wonderful contrast of shadow and light in the early morning, the rings of water around the ducks and I really felt at peace. Knit, purl, knit, purl, knit, purl, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. It's all good.

Food of the Gods

"My studio is a temple, I see it that way, I always have and I know a lot of artists who would agree with me there's something about a studio that is a sacred space and no non-artist would understand that but it is my religion. Art is my religion and the studio is the temple where I practice that and it's where I feel most comfortable and where I'm most myself, it's where I express the passion that I have for art making..." Michael James
http://www.unl.edu/mjames_quilts/

Picked up the above quote somewhere because it rang so true with what I have been doing the last 6 months. Constructing my temple. Since I'm going to be working from home, correction, am working from home, it is that much more important to me that this space that surrounds me echo the sentiments that I want to represent in my drawing and painting and art in general. Still not quite there yet...books need to be put away, curtains shortened, pictures hung, but I did nonetheless begin a painting, at least the drawing of it. Already I know this was the right decision, bringing my workspace home, where my heart and center is, even if there lies a bit of chaos to organize.

Spent this last week force feeding myself studies on perspective. It's a kind of math thing so my Brain is rejecting it, but I am insisting, so it is going to bend to my will. I keep trying to convince it, "This is fun! We can move things in space!" My Brain just sits there with it's arms crossed and brows lowered and says, "It's math." "Yes," I reply, "but look at what we can do with it! We can bend and shape reality!" Sullenly, "It's math," is all I get from my Brain. So this week I forced open the door and threw in a few items. A few were thrown back out, but I think I got it to swallow a few bits. Math or no, Brain will have to take this medicine. Anyway, we all know that a bitter pill is bitter because it is good for you, right? Right.

Off we go then, into the temple to study the knowledge of the gods and hope that fruit will be born of such sustenance.