- Published on
"Fragmented Genome" - mixed media on canvas paper, 20" x 16". Available on Artfinder.
It amuses me to no end how the universe makes a mockery of my suffering.
Because I don't think we were meant to suffer, but to overcome, persevere and triumph over every little thing (or big thing) that gets tossed at us by life. And sure enough, just as I was sliding into the abyss of self-pity, loneliness and a poor-me wallowing in the muck attitude, little dazzling connections begin to appear everywhere, tickling my fancy, bringing belly laughs and launching me back into happiness like a catapult full of jelly beans. The universe clearly thinks my self-pity is funny, and won't be dragged in to commiserate with me. Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids.
This past weekend, during the Coral Springs Festival of the Arts, I met an amazing family of creatives, including two young men, one a musician and writer, the other a composer. Sparkling bright lights of fabulosity, these two creative guys and their super encouraging mom are a beacon of BE YOUR WILD SELF to the world. And then there was a gregarious and broadly smiling couple, who had just decided to drop everything and move to the Dominican Republic, taking only their art and clothing, starting fresh in a wild new life...just because they could. I am delighted that one of my pieces is going with them. Another adorable couple, who knew each other in high school, lost touch, then rediscovered each other decades later, charmed me with their sparkly romance as the wildly creative lady pulled candy, jewelry and whatnots out of her magic handbag and handed them out freely, leaving a trail of pixie dust and joy.
The event became a woven tapestry of creative delight, one connection after another. And so my recently fragmented genome has been coated in a balm of joy and laughter, free candy and puppy parades, happy people and their stories. The universe may be mocking me, but I like it. :)
It amuses me to no end how the universe makes a mockery of my suffering.
Because I don't think we were meant to suffer, but to overcome, persevere and triumph over every little thing (or big thing) that gets tossed at us by life. And sure enough, just as I was sliding into the abyss of self-pity, loneliness and a poor-me wallowing in the muck attitude, little dazzling connections begin to appear everywhere, tickling my fancy, bringing belly laughs and launching me back into happiness like a catapult full of jelly beans. The universe clearly thinks my self-pity is funny, and won't be dragged in to commiserate with me. Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids.
This past weekend, during the Coral Springs Festival of the Arts, I met an amazing family of creatives, including two young men, one a musician and writer, the other a composer. Sparkling bright lights of fabulosity, these two creative guys and their super encouraging mom are a beacon of BE YOUR WILD SELF to the world. And then there was a gregarious and broadly smiling couple, who had just decided to drop everything and move to the Dominican Republic, taking only their art and clothing, starting fresh in a wild new life...just because they could. I am delighted that one of my pieces is going with them. Another adorable couple, who knew each other in high school, lost touch, then rediscovered each other decades later, charmed me with their sparkly romance as the wildly creative lady pulled candy, jewelry and whatnots out of her magic handbag and handed them out freely, leaving a trail of pixie dust and joy.
The event became a woven tapestry of creative delight, one connection after another. And so my recently fragmented genome has been coated in a balm of joy and laughter, free candy and puppy parades, happy people and their stories. The universe may be mocking me, but I like it. :)
- Published on
"The Return of Bubbles" - mixed media on reclaimed wood, 20" x 17". Ready to hang. This piece will be on display at World & Eye's "Stories of Home" exhibit opening this Saturday, March 25th. Inquiries: imajenation@gmail.com.
Post-festival Monday and the studio is in a shambles. Thank goodness I was super productive last week, because I may just have to dig out before I can paint today. :)
In the thick of reading Clear Seeing Place and a chapter called "Counting Sand", in which the author tells a tale of wanting to count every grain of sand on earth when he was a child. His point is a grand one: "Art is part skill and part insanity..." So many ideas seem outrageous when we begin, but oftentimes those either ARE the very best or lead us to another one that is. "Shout your nutty ideas to the world; we need more crazy," says Rutenberg. And that has me asking the question - how many of our own nutty ideas do we even explore, let alone shout to the world?
I am more likely to embrace my own loony projects when I feel supported and confident. Or very pissed off. Either one will light a fire under my creative time and foster bravery. The very best environment for nuttiness is when surrounded by a tribe of other nuts. You know the ones - they wear crazy hats when they want to, and do their own thing no matter what people say. I love creating art surrounded by folks who let their wild child run amok.
On the opposite end of that, there is nothing quite like a bunch of sensible folks and hard and fast rules to drive creativity into the compost heap with the cow dung. "Insulate your foolish self from sensible people," Rutenberg stresses. "If you're lucky, that insulation will last a lifetime." This chapter, this book, fills me with the determination to follow my own yellow brick road to wherever the magic appears.
I want to know, where do you, dear reader, feel most empowered to BE YOUR WILD SELF?
Post-festival Monday and the studio is in a shambles. Thank goodness I was super productive last week, because I may just have to dig out before I can paint today. :)
In the thick of reading Clear Seeing Place and a chapter called "Counting Sand", in which the author tells a tale of wanting to count every grain of sand on earth when he was a child. His point is a grand one: "Art is part skill and part insanity..." So many ideas seem outrageous when we begin, but oftentimes those either ARE the very best or lead us to another one that is. "Shout your nutty ideas to the world; we need more crazy," says Rutenberg. And that has me asking the question - how many of our own nutty ideas do we even explore, let alone shout to the world?
I am more likely to embrace my own loony projects when I feel supported and confident. Or very pissed off. Either one will light a fire under my creative time and foster bravery. The very best environment for nuttiness is when surrounded by a tribe of other nuts. You know the ones - they wear crazy hats when they want to, and do their own thing no matter what people say. I love creating art surrounded by folks who let their wild child run amok.
On the opposite end of that, there is nothing quite like a bunch of sensible folks and hard and fast rules to drive creativity into the compost heap with the cow dung. "Insulate your foolish self from sensible people," Rutenberg stresses. "If you're lucky, that insulation will last a lifetime." This chapter, this book, fills me with the determination to follow my own yellow brick road to wherever the magic appears.
I want to know, where do you, dear reader, feel most empowered to BE YOUR WILD SELF?
- Published on
"The Bog Village Horses" - mixed media on reclaimed wood. 15" x 17.5" x .75". Ready to hang. This piece will be featured at World and Eye Gallery. Show opens March 25th.
It has been a week of stories.
My own story, which continues to unfold, includes a long conversation with a sweet widow in Arizona whose husband was ultimately not my bio dad, but who gave me some new details of my mother's history and then told me her own story. Forty-eight years of marriage, two children and a lifetime of motorcycle adventures with her (now deceased) husband. She was so easy to talk with - it was like I'd known her forever.
The stories of others - those who were in similar circumstances or whose loved ones were. Their generosity in sharing stories, tears, joy and silver linings was touching. It seems my story is one often told in the days of modern science and DNA testing. I am part of a vast tribe of seekers.
The stories in the art - a week of intense studio time in preparation for a new show, which was deeply therapeutic and also completely ridiculous as characters emerged, including these colorful ponies, a chicken lady and a cowgirl. Oh, and Bubbles the donkey made a repeat appearance this week as well. My stories are tangled up in these pieces, along with parts of the stories of others. A delightful, colorful anthology.
And with the stories this week came so much connection and wisdom from others, including this: "We are not handed the truth. We are handed the story." Ah. And so, it seems, like Alice I have gone down the rabbit hole, into a story within my story which may include some truth but ultimately is, well, just a story.
It has been a week of stories.
My own story, which continues to unfold, includes a long conversation with a sweet widow in Arizona whose husband was ultimately not my bio dad, but who gave me some new details of my mother's history and then told me her own story. Forty-eight years of marriage, two children and a lifetime of motorcycle adventures with her (now deceased) husband. She was so easy to talk with - it was like I'd known her forever.
The stories of others - those who were in similar circumstances or whose loved ones were. Their generosity in sharing stories, tears, joy and silver linings was touching. It seems my story is one often told in the days of modern science and DNA testing. I am part of a vast tribe of seekers.
The stories in the art - a week of intense studio time in preparation for a new show, which was deeply therapeutic and also completely ridiculous as characters emerged, including these colorful ponies, a chicken lady and a cowgirl. Oh, and Bubbles the donkey made a repeat appearance this week as well. My stories are tangled up in these pieces, along with parts of the stories of others. A delightful, colorful anthology.
And with the stories this week came so much connection and wisdom from others, including this: "We are not handed the truth. We are handed the story." Ah. And so, it seems, like Alice I have gone down the rabbit hole, into a story within my story which may include some truth but ultimately is, well, just a story.
- Published on
"The XY Conundrum" - mixed media on canvas paper, 16" x 20". Inquiries: imajenation@gmail.com
DNA. That most unique of identifiers. The slightest mutation of which can result in a host of oddities, such as being more likely to become addicted to heroin (really!), a sensitivity to biorhythms and sleep cycles or the likelihood of having smelly pee after eating asparagus. And about a million other things.
It also connects families, details heritage and discloses what percent Neanderthal lives in your body. That explains the foreheads (or "fiveheads", as we call them) of a few people I know. It is a bit exciting to find out how many genetic relatives you have out there in the world, and to maybe make a few connections you would otherwise have missed without the miracle of genetic testing. It brings the whole wide world of family right there to your computer.
DNA also tells you who your parents are. And who they are not.
That's what happened to me last week. The sisters shared their genetic testing so that we could compare medical information. Instead, we discovered we are only half sisters. It has been Jerry Springer kind of week in our family, as we try to unravel what happened more than a half-century ago. Secrets are being revealed: stories spoken. A trail of clues as to who my biological father might be. And the reassurances of my forever dad that nothing will change between us.
There are tweety birds swirling about my head as I process this information, stunned and disoriented. In the midst of it all, a mysterious male appears in an abstract painting and gives form to what I don't know. The universe has a wacky sense of humor.
DNA. That most unique of identifiers. The slightest mutation of which can result in a host of oddities, such as being more likely to become addicted to heroin (really!), a sensitivity to biorhythms and sleep cycles or the likelihood of having smelly pee after eating asparagus. And about a million other things.
It also connects families, details heritage and discloses what percent Neanderthal lives in your body. That explains the foreheads (or "fiveheads", as we call them) of a few people I know. It is a bit exciting to find out how many genetic relatives you have out there in the world, and to maybe make a few connections you would otherwise have missed without the miracle of genetic testing. It brings the whole wide world of family right there to your computer.
DNA also tells you who your parents are. And who they are not.
That's what happened to me last week. The sisters shared their genetic testing so that we could compare medical information. Instead, we discovered we are only half sisters. It has been Jerry Springer kind of week in our family, as we try to unravel what happened more than a half-century ago. Secrets are being revealed: stories spoken. A trail of clues as to who my biological father might be. And the reassurances of my forever dad that nothing will change between us.
There are tweety birds swirling about my head as I process this information, stunned and disoriented. In the midst of it all, a mysterious male appears in an abstract painting and gives form to what I don't know. The universe has a wacky sense of humor.
- Published on
"Sweet Marta" - mixed media on reclaimed wood. 18" x 7.5" x 1". Ready to hang. Available on Artfinder.
Another sweet face emerged from the pile of wood in my studio this week. This one inspired by a lady with the biggest heart I know, whose life's motto is "love", and she lives it every day. Thank you, dear Marta, for being a sweet presence on the planet.
It's been a week of inner turmoil and redefining self, as I continue to explore the question of "what place stacked my bones?" which seems to remain the central theme of my days. The answers are becoming clearer with each round of questioning.
I'm participating in "Stories of Home" this month at World & Eye, creating pieces which will carry my stories and show them to the world. My very own story, the one I've lived for nearly 55 years, changed this week. Figuring out how to translate it into art is both challenging and therapeutic. And the universe, with its uncanny sense of timing, presented this art project at exactly the right time.
More to come as I plummet down the rabbit hole. In the meantime, I'll stick with these sage words: Always be yourself, unless you can be a unicorn. Then, always be a unicorn. Wisdom from whimsy.
Another sweet face emerged from the pile of wood in my studio this week. This one inspired by a lady with the biggest heart I know, whose life's motto is "love", and she lives it every day. Thank you, dear Marta, for being a sweet presence on the planet.
It's been a week of inner turmoil and redefining self, as I continue to explore the question of "what place stacked my bones?" which seems to remain the central theme of my days. The answers are becoming clearer with each round of questioning.
I'm participating in "Stories of Home" this month at World & Eye, creating pieces which will carry my stories and show them to the world. My very own story, the one I've lived for nearly 55 years, changed this week. Figuring out how to translate it into art is both challenging and therapeutic. And the universe, with its uncanny sense of timing, presented this art project at exactly the right time.
More to come as I plummet down the rabbit hole. In the meantime, I'll stick with these sage words: Always be yourself, unless you can be a unicorn. Then, always be a unicorn. Wisdom from whimsy.
- Published on
"Little Lizzie" - mixed media on reclaimed wood, 7.5" x 18" x 1". Ready to hang. Available on Artfinder.
Thanks to a local residential construction site with a huge pile of discarded lumber odds and ends, I've got some amazing boards stacked up in my studio this month! There is nothing quite like painting to the scent of freshly cut wood. This particular girl was inspired by a fierce young lady with quirky top-knots - she is girl power personified!
Closing in on the end of my first full season as an active member of the SoFlo art community, I have discovered why so many in the local art tribe use spreadsheets. Organization is key when your art is in half a dozen or more places at one time, with forms, rules, fees, receptions and media for each one. I am determined to have a fully functioning system in place by fall.
In case you are now in full snooze because I mentioned the word "spreadsheets" (you thought I didn't hear that quiet snore, huh?) let's head back to Clear Seeing Place in which Rutenberg refers to himself as a "weirdo painter" while chasing the story of one of his heroes, Glenn Gould. His self-described weirdo-ness delighted me...in our constant quest for accomplishment, recognition and success, how refreshing to embrace strangeness and quirkiness and plant a flag advertising it. Today, I will embrace my inner weirdo.
And for all you weirdos who like to play with your food, here's a little something to delight you at the start of your week: vegetable carving art.
Thanks to a local residential construction site with a huge pile of discarded lumber odds and ends, I've got some amazing boards stacked up in my studio this month! There is nothing quite like painting to the scent of freshly cut wood. This particular girl was inspired by a fierce young lady with quirky top-knots - she is girl power personified!
Closing in on the end of my first full season as an active member of the SoFlo art community, I have discovered why so many in the local art tribe use spreadsheets. Organization is key when your art is in half a dozen or more places at one time, with forms, rules, fees, receptions and media for each one. I am determined to have a fully functioning system in place by fall.
In case you are now in full snooze because I mentioned the word "spreadsheets" (you thought I didn't hear that quiet snore, huh?) let's head back to Clear Seeing Place in which Rutenberg refers to himself as a "weirdo painter" while chasing the story of one of his heroes, Glenn Gould. His self-described weirdo-ness delighted me...in our constant quest for accomplishment, recognition and success, how refreshing to embrace strangeness and quirkiness and plant a flag advertising it. Today, I will embrace my inner weirdo.
And for all you weirdos who like to play with your food, here's a little something to delight you at the start of your week: vegetable carving art.
- Published on
"Flower Child" mixed media on cradled hardboard, 16" x 16". Ready to hang. Available on Artfinder.
March already! Spring has sprung here in SoFlo, where the trees are simultaneously blooming and pushing off last year's leaves, and pollen and leaves swirl together in the air, mix with the humidity and land in a clump of organic cement on cars, sidewalks and driveways. The clouds have returned, hinting at the rainy season to come. Snowbirds have begun to plan their return to northern homes over the next two months. And the lake in our back yard is filled with waterfowl mating rituals and the promise of gangs of ducklings emerging to terrorize residents with their irresistible cuteness.
It's also the big ramp up in art events before the end of the high season here. Half a dozen shows are going up over the next two weeks. My studio is a turnstile of paintings coming and going. Sheer madness.
I'll be jumping off the deep end into the art festival circuit later this month, sampling the art gypsy lifestyle under a brilliant white tent. Fortunately, I've got a strong man to set up and tear down for these events. He works for greens fees.
And then there is the art. This piece appeared out of nowhere, making me smile. A reminder to slow down and sit a spell, put flowers in my hair and enjoy the moment. A complete change from bossy queens, this one sweet and calm. I think I'll take a fashion cue from her today and wear clashing patterns. She tells me it's the latest trend.
March already! Spring has sprung here in SoFlo, where the trees are simultaneously blooming and pushing off last year's leaves, and pollen and leaves swirl together in the air, mix with the humidity and land in a clump of organic cement on cars, sidewalks and driveways. The clouds have returned, hinting at the rainy season to come. Snowbirds have begun to plan their return to northern homes over the next two months. And the lake in our back yard is filled with waterfowl mating rituals and the promise of gangs of ducklings emerging to terrorize residents with their irresistible cuteness.
It's also the big ramp up in art events before the end of the high season here. Half a dozen shows are going up over the next two weeks. My studio is a turnstile of paintings coming and going. Sheer madness.
I'll be jumping off the deep end into the art festival circuit later this month, sampling the art gypsy lifestyle under a brilliant white tent. Fortunately, I've got a strong man to set up and tear down for these events. He works for greens fees.
And then there is the art. This piece appeared out of nowhere, making me smile. A reminder to slow down and sit a spell, put flowers in my hair and enjoy the moment. A complete change from bossy queens, this one sweet and calm. I think I'll take a fashion cue from her today and wear clashing patterns. She tells me it's the latest trend.
- Published on
"Deconstructed Dreamscape" - mixed media on watercolor paper, 22 x 30. Inquiries: imajenation@gmail.com
My love affair with chalky abstracts continues...this one is my largest yet! Layers upon layers. It was a chameleon, changing its colors, composition and meaning with each layer, following the path of twisting dreams.
Last week, I was reminded again of the deeply satisfying energy of tribe. A workshop of creative souls, willing to cast their cares into the wind and explore new approaches to letting the art chickens out of the hen house. The laughter and camaraderie surrounded us like fluffy mounds of cotton candy, Sweet sticky goodness. The transformative miracle of creative play. If you've never seen a tribe of art chickens, you are living a deprived existence. :)
It takes a lot of personal energy to teach a workshop, leaving me truly exhausted and craving pajamas and tea. But it also refills my bucket of inspiration and joy - the incredible creativity of others, the heart-felt stories of their artistic journeys, their courage...I am in awe. It leaves me more determined than ever to hold these moments in sweet reverence, building a treasure chest of joy pockets. And to cherish each and every tribal connection these moments provide.
Almost half way through Clear Seeing Place, I reached the chapter called "Tyzack" (referring to the British painter, Michael Tyzack, Rutenberg's mentor). Another short one, but it hits home "Take care how you address fellow painters, regardless of their age or resume." Rutenberg is clear that there is no room for being "dicks" to other artists. Respect, good manners and dignity for all, "because painting deserves our best selves." How wonderful, to hear an artist of his stature advocating for niceness within our tribes! I'll make this one my golden rule: "The best artists are also the nicest."
My love affair with chalky abstracts continues...this one is my largest yet! Layers upon layers. It was a chameleon, changing its colors, composition and meaning with each layer, following the path of twisting dreams.
Last week, I was reminded again of the deeply satisfying energy of tribe. A workshop of creative souls, willing to cast their cares into the wind and explore new approaches to letting the art chickens out of the hen house. The laughter and camaraderie surrounded us like fluffy mounds of cotton candy, Sweet sticky goodness. The transformative miracle of creative play. If you've never seen a tribe of art chickens, you are living a deprived existence. :)
It takes a lot of personal energy to teach a workshop, leaving me truly exhausted and craving pajamas and tea. But it also refills my bucket of inspiration and joy - the incredible creativity of others, the heart-felt stories of their artistic journeys, their courage...I am in awe. It leaves me more determined than ever to hold these moments in sweet reverence, building a treasure chest of joy pockets. And to cherish each and every tribal connection these moments provide.
Almost half way through Clear Seeing Place, I reached the chapter called "Tyzack" (referring to the British painter, Michael Tyzack, Rutenberg's mentor). Another short one, but it hits home "Take care how you address fellow painters, regardless of their age or resume." Rutenberg is clear that there is no room for being "dicks" to other artists. Respect, good manners and dignity for all, "because painting deserves our best selves." How wonderful, to hear an artist of his stature advocating for niceness within our tribes! I'll make this one my golden rule: "The best artists are also the nicest."
And now for something completely different: our pineapple top, planted when we arrived here in June 2015, is now sprouting a pineapple of its own. I suppose this means we are beginning to put down roots?
- Published on
"The Bird Whisperer" - mixed media on cradled hardboard. 12" x 12" , ready to hang. Available on Artfinder.
A return to my irresistible girls and their birds as I prepare for the upcoming "Art & Soul" event here in SoFlo. Whenever I paint one of these lovelies, it is like visiting an old friend, catching up on life and dallying awhile in a wonderland. These girls have stories to tell. But mostly, it's those chatty birds who are causing trouble.
The birds have been talking to me lately. An osprey in a tree near our lake, looking at me as I admired him through my binoculars. "I see you," he said. "I see YOU," I replied. A pair of ducks who kept me company for 90 minutes while I mulched and trimmed the front yard. They stayed within six feet of me the entire time, moving when I moved. "Alms? Alms for the ducks?" they asked in unison. A pair of moor hens, beaks brightly lit with mating season red, high-tailing it over to the shore of our back yard to grab a morsel as I inspected our fruit trees. "We're eating for five now," the male said. The female just laughed. A lone female duck waits for me outside the garage door, her feet slapping the pavement as she scurries over when the door raises. "Treats! Treats!" she exclaims. "Only in the back yard," I reply with a whisper. "Now shoo! Go out back before you get run over, silly." And one more pair of ducks stalking the corner of 13th St and 95th Ave. When our evening walk takes us by their turf, they come flying in like a squadron of awkward winged boats, landing with a thump at our feet and walking along side of us for awhile. I think these two are shaking down all passersby for food. Apparently, some ducks have formed gangs. Beware!
Still reading along in Clear Seeing Place. The chapter on slowness was just two pages long, yet I read it four times. "Art is the intensification of slowness. There is rich poetry in antispeed." Rutenberg praises long lines and delays - "forced interruptions". And then this: "Real awareness doesn't come in long dial tones of looking, but in the moments of clarity when the eye is halted and restarted..." I am using heavy traffic, check out lines and being put on hold as reasons to pause and look around, observing. Interruptions when I am in the studio usually irritate me beyond reason. This week, I am embracing the fractured studio time by noticing what happens when I walk away and come back. Magic, so far. Rebooting my view by stopping and restarting changes the whole perspective. Instead of seeking gracefulness in the process, I am embracing the clumsy, as Rutenberg recommends. Who knows? Maybe a whole new genre of CLUMSY ART will emerge? In the meantime, the ducks are tapping on the back door again...
A return to my irresistible girls and their birds as I prepare for the upcoming "Art & Soul" event here in SoFlo. Whenever I paint one of these lovelies, it is like visiting an old friend, catching up on life and dallying awhile in a wonderland. These girls have stories to tell. But mostly, it's those chatty birds who are causing trouble.
The birds have been talking to me lately. An osprey in a tree near our lake, looking at me as I admired him through my binoculars. "I see you," he said. "I see YOU," I replied. A pair of ducks who kept me company for 90 minutes while I mulched and trimmed the front yard. They stayed within six feet of me the entire time, moving when I moved. "Alms? Alms for the ducks?" they asked in unison. A pair of moor hens, beaks brightly lit with mating season red, high-tailing it over to the shore of our back yard to grab a morsel as I inspected our fruit trees. "We're eating for five now," the male said. The female just laughed. A lone female duck waits for me outside the garage door, her feet slapping the pavement as she scurries over when the door raises. "Treats! Treats!" she exclaims. "Only in the back yard," I reply with a whisper. "Now shoo! Go out back before you get run over, silly." And one more pair of ducks stalking the corner of 13th St and 95th Ave. When our evening walk takes us by their turf, they come flying in like a squadron of awkward winged boats, landing with a thump at our feet and walking along side of us for awhile. I think these two are shaking down all passersby for food. Apparently, some ducks have formed gangs. Beware!
Still reading along in Clear Seeing Place. The chapter on slowness was just two pages long, yet I read it four times. "Art is the intensification of slowness. There is rich poetry in antispeed." Rutenberg praises long lines and delays - "forced interruptions". And then this: "Real awareness doesn't come in long dial tones of looking, but in the moments of clarity when the eye is halted and restarted..." I am using heavy traffic, check out lines and being put on hold as reasons to pause and look around, observing. Interruptions when I am in the studio usually irritate me beyond reason. This week, I am embracing the fractured studio time by noticing what happens when I walk away and come back. Magic, so far. Rebooting my view by stopping and restarting changes the whole perspective. Instead of seeking gracefulness in the process, I am embracing the clumsy, as Rutenberg recommends. Who knows? Maybe a whole new genre of CLUMSY ART will emerge? In the meantime, the ducks are tapping on the back door again...
- Published on
"Babicka" - mixed media on canvas paper, 12" x 16". Ready to frame. Available on Artfinder.
Monday morning finds me buried deep in personal excavation. Strange dreams, weird happenings, solitude and introspection will cause that. When I was young, I dreamed of being an archeologist. Somehow I never thought that meant excavating the bones of my own existence.
These sentences, from Clear Seeing Place, sent me orbiting my own life and asking questions: "To experience transcendence, you must know your origins. Where do you come from? What place stacked your bones into the shape of you?" The author was referring to his own idyllic upbringing in the South. But for me, the same question of place was more emotional than physical What place stacked my own (now fragile) bones? My first thought was "nuh uh. I don't want to go there." But the muse sent me on this journey, and so I will follow her.
Don't get me wrong...I was never hungry or homeless or sick. My bones were stacked in suburban America, on streets that were safe day or night, in houses that had heat, water and food. But inside the houses were other skeletons - the kind you dare not speak of, old rattling bones that brought fear, sorrow, pain and loneliness. Even as an adult, it feels wrong to speak of the old bones, as if the mere mention of the word alcoholism would wake them.
But in those houses stuffed with dysfunction there was a magic balm - a glue that held my own bones together as they stacked and grew into the shape of me. My grandmother, a woman of the old country, one of the "Texas Czechs", a soft spot of love, old world accents and chocolate cake. In her eyes, I was never the scapegoat that the old bones tried to make me. She saw me as good, funny and lovable. We both had outrageously frizzy, uncontrollable hair. She set hers in pin curls at night; I tamed mine with a curling iron in the morning. We smoked cigarettes together as we talked about quitting. We ate sweets and discussed weight watchers. She read out loud articles from the National Enquirer with a twinkle in her eye, wanting to believe every tidbit, making me laugh with her sincere naivety. She showed me love, and it saved my own bones.
This piece emerged as I wrestled with the question, adding and then scrubbing layers. A hit of frizzy hair and rounded, soft body. A grandmother for the world, a balm for our bones.
Monday morning finds me buried deep in personal excavation. Strange dreams, weird happenings, solitude and introspection will cause that. When I was young, I dreamed of being an archeologist. Somehow I never thought that meant excavating the bones of my own existence.
These sentences, from Clear Seeing Place, sent me orbiting my own life and asking questions: "To experience transcendence, you must know your origins. Where do you come from? What place stacked your bones into the shape of you?" The author was referring to his own idyllic upbringing in the South. But for me, the same question of place was more emotional than physical What place stacked my own (now fragile) bones? My first thought was "nuh uh. I don't want to go there." But the muse sent me on this journey, and so I will follow her.
Don't get me wrong...I was never hungry or homeless or sick. My bones were stacked in suburban America, on streets that were safe day or night, in houses that had heat, water and food. But inside the houses were other skeletons - the kind you dare not speak of, old rattling bones that brought fear, sorrow, pain and loneliness. Even as an adult, it feels wrong to speak of the old bones, as if the mere mention of the word alcoholism would wake them.
But in those houses stuffed with dysfunction there was a magic balm - a glue that held my own bones together as they stacked and grew into the shape of me. My grandmother, a woman of the old country, one of the "Texas Czechs", a soft spot of love, old world accents and chocolate cake. In her eyes, I was never the scapegoat that the old bones tried to make me. She saw me as good, funny and lovable. We both had outrageously frizzy, uncontrollable hair. She set hers in pin curls at night; I tamed mine with a curling iron in the morning. We smoked cigarettes together as we talked about quitting. We ate sweets and discussed weight watchers. She read out loud articles from the National Enquirer with a twinkle in her eye, wanting to believe every tidbit, making me laugh with her sincere naivety. She showed me love, and it saved my own bones.
This piece emerged as I wrestled with the question, adding and then scrubbing layers. A hit of frizzy hair and rounded, soft body. A grandmother for the world, a balm for our bones.
