When I was a child my mother kept an Aloe Vera plant on the table near the kitchen window. Amazingly, that heat loving desert species thrived on the thin and infrequent sunlight of northern Alaska. I would sit at the kitchen table staring out at snow drifts under street lights or finishing an after school snack and absently stroke the fleshy green spears with their thorn laced edges. I'd marvel at the new red shoots emerging from the sandy soil. A few leaves were always cut and puckered at their tips, where my mother would snip a bit of the plant to put on our cuts or burns, instant relief, a little green band-aide. Maybe that plant survived in that improbable environment simply because it was needed, a tiny desert oasis in a frozen realm.
my practice work sample
Thinking like a teacher...
My artist brain has taken the multiplicity of small manipulative tasks involved in art making and fused them into a fluid sweep of motions that I do with little consideration. For example, in this basic weaving sample my needle hand wraps, loops and pulls while my other hand tugs and untwists. These things all happen simultaneously in that mystifying graceful dance that hands can do with practice.
My teacher brain (considerably less developed than my artist brain) really struggles with breaking down the fused motions of a task into accessible steps. As I practice a project intended for the classroom, I attempt to write down the steps as I work. The resulting literature reads like those complicated toy assembly directions that have been written in an incomprehensible blend of several languages. "stick needle between strands 5 and 6 while holding unwoven yarn parallel to strand 4, bring needle back up btwn strands 4 and 5, keep weaving yarn to the outside of needle" What the hell am I talking about? This work fills me with renewed admiration for people who can write a really clear instruction manual. That is a special skill indeed!
imagine the maniacal laugh of a power hungry artist...
When I spend my day quietly easing clay into uniform shapes or laying little squares of fabric in careful overlapping patterns I emerge from my work somewhat distorted, feeling larger than life. I briefly see the whole world as a waiting workable lump of clay. I arrange our dinner's chopped vegetables into neat colored piles. I imagine my words as tools, capable of molding or shifting the moods and actions of my teen and tween daughters. I engage with my neighbors over repainting their dull beige houses. It is no small wonder the stereotype of the reclusive work obsessed artist exists. I experience an odd, wonderful, intoxicating, power when I sit and work with accommodating clay and cooperative cloth. In that realm I am creator, ultimate decider. I shape landscapes and build beings. In the real world there is chaos and the unforeseeable whim of others. In the real world I am merely a participant, an influence, and sometimes even a victim.
a giddy reunion
Summer is over. My daughters are back in school and my own teaching schedule is relatively set. I have the immense pleasure of proclaiming (albeit to myself in the quiet confines of this room) thursdays and fridays as my new studio work days. I will wear slippers, drink cold coffee, and listen to podcasts while I make ART! This is my second week back at it, and it really feels as if an old dear friend has returned to my life.
art out loud
This evening I am performing solo at InEugene Realty (100 East Broadway). There will be snacks, drinks, football photography (how I wish I'd taken the time to learn the Duck's fight song), and me on my ukulele, crooning and strumming. The act of making music is astoundingly satisfying. While my visual art making is all slow tinkering and subtle quiet unfoldings, music making is electric. I am a conduit for energy, energy that holds memories and creates new ones, energy that travels through us and connects us. When I create a piece of visual art, there it is, looking for a home, pleasing me or haunting me. When I finish singing a song, the song dissipates leaving space for another...
proud mama
My 13 year old daughter recently competed in the Springfield Chalk Art Festival. She drew this amazing image (6'x6') of elephants, free hand. She won second place in the youth division. What impressed me most was how gracefully she took on the challenge. Six full hours in the hot sun, squatting on dusty concrete. No complaining or renegotiating. She made a decision to do this and she stuck by it. I was so proud of her.
Heads will roll!
Ironically, while building these ceramic heads I listened to a podcast (Criminal) about people stealing petrified wood from Arizona's Petrified Forest National Park. Despite warning signs and ranger talks, tourists stick the petrified wood down pant legs and in their cleavage to smuggle it from the park. Even stranger, they often mail the rather heavy wood back to Petrified Forest along with elaborate apology letters. I collected (stole?) these bits of wooden antler on our recent backpacking trip. We walked through acre upon acre of burned out forest. We clambered over countless snags and massive piles of dry blackened branches. We were traversing tree graveyards, scattered with brittle white bones and pocked with gargantuan crumbling heaps of deteriorating stumps. There were vivid green saplings peeking out of dead root systems and growing along the wide white backs of downed snags. I was a crow in that world, every twist of sun bleached branch seemed like a treasure. I filled both arms then came to my senses. I couldn't carry that fragile bundle of sticks for the next two days of hiking. I chose these four pieces. Twisted, charred, riddled with hairline cracks, they are a glimpse into that hot crackling landscape we visited.
