THE DYING LIGHT

I had turned away

from the sun-kissed water

of late afternoon

to follow familiar walkways

back to my car.

I had no expectation

of sculpted light…

of tree in flight…

of tree-bird-light-flight.

I had forgotten

the power of the dying light.

As I near the end of the day that is my life on this earth, it is tempting to forget that this is the time when the light intensifies…offering magical moments to those who will see and believe. When I am open, I know that the things I see and record by drawing, sculpting, painting, or taking photographs are showing me who I am. The simple occupations of life are also capable of this. Since a few days after my surgery I’ve been going to rehab three afternoons a week. When it began I felt much diminished by my helpless right arm. Except for excruciating pain, it seemed to have died on me. It took surrendering to a sensitive and talented therapist to open my mind to the potentiality of healing. David has coached me through three months of hard work and tears, small victories and triumphant smiles. He has been patient, demanding, and encouraging. On Wednesday, he was back after an absence of two weeks, and I rejoiced to show him my progress…lifting both arms above my head like a proud child…taking in his unreserved pleasure and accepting his challenge of new exercises and heavier weights.

I think now of how different these exercises are from the nature-influenced exercises I practiced and taught for so many years.  Airth worked with gravity, yielding heavily that I might rise in an effortless way. Everything flowed. Yet, at rehab, I stand straight as a soldier, gather strength and push my way upward through the resistance in my shoulder and bicep. It is hard work and it hurts. These sessions remind me more of my early years in Ballet: The straight body with its unnatural turn out of the hip from which the leg must lift high and be held aloft.  That, too, was grueling hard work and pain was an essential part of each day. Then, too, the moments of brief triumph brought forth a child-proud smile in response to my teacher’s affirmation. I felt the years collapse as I left my session/class and began the drive home. I was still the young dancer smiling at small victories.

So what does this have to do with the magical hour before the end of day? Well, perhaps the whole day is contained and released in the hour before night falls; the whole life is contained and released in the latter years of our lives. If we will, we have access to every experience, idea  and emotion we have ever known.

Going home

I took the less traveled route

and beheld

in an inner harbor inlet

a concentration of herons.

On this day of frigid winds

and low temperatures

the birds had found shelter.

I had found confirmation:

for the many were one

as the sun subsided.

Camera in hand

I prayed with the herons…

one with the dying light.

I was ready to accept the approach of night.

A VISIT TO THE MUSEUM

I was still recovering when my son, Vanja, asked me to meet my granddaughter’s  class at the museum for their tour, and I had my doubts. But, when he told me Julia had asked if Nanny would be there, I knew I would go.

There must have been at least twenty children and adults in our “tour”, and my little camera did overtime as I focused and shot, determined to record their journey. Yet, later, when I looked at the shots of the larger group, I found a need to pull closer…to select and crop in order to catch the response of small groups and individuals. Each child matters so much in the overall experience.

It has been more than two weeks since that joyous day with Julia and her classmates, and time has allowed me to gaze upon faces and gestures and come to know them a bit. I am also revisiting my extraordinary father’s murals through their pristine perceptions. I thank them for that.

It all started with Melissa, who greeted the children at the door and escorted them into The Community Center: a large room originally built for community functions. In the fifties my father was paid a dollar to paint murals on the walls. One wall would depict the history of our little town of Ocean Springs. The rest of the room would be painted according to the artist’s choosing. (I was taking ballet lessons in the room while my father was painting those walls.) Melissa established a rapport with children from the beginning. She is a marvelous storyteller and teacher, and part of being a kindergartener is getting close and bonding with a teacher.  As I looked through these images, hands and faces seemed as expressive as the painted murals. In fact they seemed to be interdependent.  Their union completes the picture.

I think I will never see this pelican again without also seeing the enthusiastic raising of small hands.

Nor will I ever forget the loving gaze I received from Julia. I still feel the love that she paused to send in her Nanny’s direction. Her happiness was palpable, and I was, amazingly, part of that.

 Inspired by her love

and my father’s spiraling birds,

I led the children in a small dance of bird-like freedom.

Julia was ready;

 her lovely arms were ascending,

unfolding in the Airth way to form wings.

Child-wings soon filled the air,

eyes were alight with flight.

I may have been a grandmother

and the air around me filled

with fledglings,

Yet, together, we were dancing/flying with my father’s birds.

After an extremely reluctant descent from the world of bird, the still softly peeping children were led by the patient Melissa down the long hallway to The Little Room.

The Little Room was once attached to Walter Anderson’s cottage on the Shearwater Pottery compound. For many years after my father’s death in 1965, visitors were led into the painted room as into the holy of holies, often by my mother, the artist’s wife.

Mama’s reverence for the room

was now echoed by Melissa.

Her rapt expression even reminded me

of my mama’s…

as the light from the window caused her to glow

along with the walls.

I remember Mama standing in the room

her arm raised and her hand

all turned to light.

Here, now, was little Julia standing

beside Melissa

her small hand turned to light.

And all the children were receiving…

LIGHT!

Paper Doll Dancer

This dancer existed before she existed, from a time when I was doing paper cutouts for my Christmas tree. A plain white  sillouette, she livened my tree along with others in various poses. Lights gave them their glow… and even the illusion of movement.

She has been revived for an exhibit of paper dolls, planned by my friend, Diane Stevenson, to open at the Mary C. Okeefe Center on April 12, 2013. Many artists will participate.

This was a project that I had procrastinated about for some time. I don’t have much confidence as a painter, and I could barely imagine making costumes that would fit. It was something new, and I was much occupied with other things.

When I finally faced the fact that it was now or never.  I took out the sillouette “en arabesque” (she was slightly bent out of shape from being sandwiched with the others between the covers of an old drawing paper pad). I straightened her carefully (She was definitely the one.), and traced her onto a sheet of very good watercolor paper. Then I went and had lunch.

The next day I pushed all my nervous doubts aside, filled a bowl with water, and opened my box of Prang paints. Once settled on my old “kneeling seat”…brush in hand, a strange calm came over me: a sense of belonging right where I was. My heart gave a sigh. I had been here before: Hadn’t I illustrated my “Blue Chair” book a few years back with considerable ease and pleasure. Yes… It had been a while. But the sweet familiarity of wetting the brush and mixing the paints brought me back…gave me courage for the task. Applying the brush to the contours of the young dancer, bringing some color into her pallor, seemed to liven her whole demeanor and – by so doing – enlivened mine. We were both revived by this process. We were one.

For the first costume I kept it simple. A pretty little dancing dress, a small wisp of color and freedom that just might appeal to a young girl for whom dancing freely is the best sort of release.  As for me, I was feeling my way…still not quite secure enough to be more inventive. By the following day, my balletic past had asked to be honored. More detail would be required. By then I was up to the challenge. A tutu!

Alright…yes, I could draw and paint a tutu, could make it fit the slender torso of my dancer, find a way to make it less confining, less expecting of exactness. Oh! Brilliant idea! I would use the colors of the chakras to soften the rigid shape, add a playful note to a less than playful moment in my memory.  A flower for her hair brings to mind the Don Quixote pas de deux. But no fan, please…

After this I moved on to my liberation, when – thanks to Isadora Duncan, and the birth of my daughter – I left ballet behind me, and eventually discovered Airth: my dance of balance….my long time devotion to oneness with nature through uniting breath and movement.

Ahhh…comfort. Ahhh…ease of movement. Ahhh…freedom reflected by the flow of thin muslin…freedom based upon a strong sure torso practiced in the undulation at the core of all natural movement. I am nature, I am human nature. I am convinced that I am free to be me…and teach others the same. I perform and teach in equal measure, and they overlap. Airth was a long run…probably still running, though the outward expression has changed. Has evolved?

It is time to move on. The older woman, with a new kind of freedom in mind, flew to Paris. Her heart woke up in the city of lights; every step seemed a dance. She fell in love…with Paris, returning again and again. The older woman remembered the dream of her younger self, and wrote a novel in which Lily/Leif got to dance at the Paris Opera. L’Opera! I give you the last costume..now. Voila! La Danseuse en Paris.

Variations On A Theme

Variety is said to be the spice of life. My own life has tended to embrace this reality, but when I am spinning from this to that occupation or obligation, I may long for  periods of simply idling through the days. Truth to tell, I can handle only the briefest periods of nothingness. I would much rather follow the precepts of my Airthly dance – trust the calm, sweet center to see me through the chaos. The balancing of these seemingly opposite forces could be said to be my “purpose” – albeit with the knowledge that balance can only be realized by tossing oneself on the wave of life as it tips and spills and scatters you this way and that. Braving imbalance inevitably shows you the balance that is not dependent on control. The result is variety, whether in dance or in life.

This past week has been teeming with variety. True I was not always aware of the spilling and scattering I have endorsed. It began with the relatively calm occupation of working with the wire. Having been asked to provide a few pieces for ARTWALK – to take place in downtown Ocean Springs in September – I took up the wire. I hadn’t done any animals for a while so I braved the possibility of a dog. The result was a humble hound: a calm creature, almost stately in his unassuming demeanor.  But, rather dull? Well… Being me I gave him the wings of an angel. This is certainly my experience of dogs. My furry angels… And then came the dragonfly. I couldn’t resist a touch of frivolity. Then came the puddle of water at the base of the air conditioner, and putting myself at the mercy Airmasters. These are supposed to be masters of air??? Before the week was done I’d been visited by five of these masters. Variety it was, but the mystery was much too mysterious for these nice guys who knelt or lay on the floor of my studio and studied the situation. The universe really tried to make things more interesting for me, but I wearied of this particular variety long before the last master left with an optimistic smile on his face. An hour later I closed the door on the roaring and vibrating unit with its seeping puddle and took my angel dogs to the park. When we returned, the floor was dry.

Even as this and other mundane examples of life’s variety was going on, I found time in the evenings to return to the wire and surprise myself with  an elegant little cat. This was done with the wire that had just arrived – supposedly the same gauge I’d been using for years. I found it more flexible and when I placed the cat beside the dog that was done with the last bit of wire on the old spool, I found it thinner and more delicate looking. No matter… It suited the feline form and was easier on my slightly arthritic fingers. My cat wears a necklace adorned with a flower. She, too, is winged, and even in her crouching state, she seems expectant – prepared for movement. Even as I see her close connection with the earth, it seems fleeting. She crouches only to spring into the air. I trust her rebound as I trust my own. The dancer and the cat have much in common.

Whoever reads this may question my use of the word teeming, but I havn’t mentioned the mothering, the grandmothering, or the sistering that the week contained. I havn’t mentioned the driving or feeding of grandchildren, or the phone talks with children who cope with their own lives of variety and longing. And what of my daughter’s amazing benefit for The Women’s Center: YOGA For NON-VIOLENCE? I was there as witness, observing the many devoted participants who would move through 108 sun-salutations under the guidance of my beautiful daughter. This took place at the Ocean Springs Community Center before my father’s glowing murals. A momentous occasion, and the very next day I accompanied my sister to The Biloxi Little Theater’s production of “Rent”. Yes, teeming…

Finally, I kept my appointment with my therapist, and gloried in the long drive through the rain – singing my earth-mother poem, allowing the words of my younger self to remind me of my ongoing connection with the earth as mother: “…curled to her broad warm back like a babe.” From my belief in this reality – this calming source – I can be ready for the dance of life, however varied the dance may be – wherever it takes me.

Savoring Every Note

The dance of the voice becomes more clear and more easily relatable to the dance of the body. As my lessons continue, a real simpatico becomes more evident between my extraordinary teacher and myself. I think it helps that I have been open and honest with him. But could I have done so if the man had not been sensitive to my background and big-hearted enough to welcome Airth into our classroom? At the first lesson, J T told me with tears in his eyes that his copy of DANCING THROUGH AIRTH had been swept away by Katrina, so when I returned I brought him a new copy. From the beginning, he had welcomed my references to the breathing dance, and made them himself. He is very verbal as he teaches, and his choice of metaphor is often so evocative of Airth, that I cry out with pleasure and instantly grasp his meaning.

I have had some difficulty sustaining the breath long enough to complete the phrasing. This has been frustrating due to my easy attunement to the breath when dancing. Toward the end of my most recent class he pointed out that I anticipate the high notes, straining at the peak instead of trusting the rise and letting the high note float from my throat. Then on descending, I release the breath too quickly, running out of air before completion. Instead, the descending notes should be savored. Pace the exhalation and each note will have its moment. Allow the notes to drift down like autumn leaves. This was exquisitely familiar. This was Airth. Suddenly singing was not this alien and tension-producing new world to conquer. It was a dearly familiar world with new facets to explore. Here was an opportunity for Airth to grow, and for Leif the dancer to grow beyond herself. The perception that Airth might be stalled – and Leif with it – was simply that: a perception easily released. I need only breathe – and savor…every…note.

Winging It

I have flown to New York and home again since my last blog, and though I was blown about a bit by circumstances and events, I begin to believe the trip was worthwhile – that experiences gleaned will gestate slowly into something new and surprising.

The drawing I have posted is in the exhibit at the Luise Ross Gallery, one of three that was hung. Called “Joyful Reunion”, it was purchased at the opening by a lovely man with whom I spoke at length about dance and yoga, and how the practice of meditative movement can transmute into other forms of expression. I am pleased that this particular expression has found such a home.

It is a lovely exhibit – with art by my father, Walter, as well as by my Sister, Mary, my nephew Christopher, my niece, Mary Annette – and, of course, my own work. There is also a silkscreen from my father’s blockprint of Beauty and The Beast, printed by Carolyn Anderson and painted by her daughter, Mary Annette. The arrangement on the walls seems almost random – no names are with the pieces – which accentuates the relatedness of all the art. The “legacy” is apparent; we have all been affected. I think, especially, the influence of nature is echoed through out this blending of diverse personalities from the same family. Given this acknowledged influence, I cannot give all the credit for my creative expression to my father’s genius. It is said that we who are related to Walter Anderson cannot call ourselves self-taught – no matter the lack of training. I have difficulty with this, because I was there to witness my own awkward fumbling with various mediums – the initial messy attempts that led to piles of ink or paint-smeared paper on the floor around my feet. I was there to lift cracked or exploded sculptures out of the kiln. I have allowed myself to play with color as a child might play – splashes and smears of paint going onto the paper without thought for what might manifest – with occasional interesting results. I believe that whatever courage has led to these endeavors comes primarily from my experience with dance. Improvisation is my delight. Though I did have training in Ballet, and I did find form through Airth, my most dependable approach to the making of art has been to wing it. And to wing it one must transcend the fear which always comes first. As with the little birds that inspired my drawing, I must let myself fall before I can fly.

The Unquellable Dance

The dancer has been chosen; “Pure Joy” will dance her way onto a New York wall. Apparently, the lines were strong and clear enough to state her case, or to state the case of her creator. My emissary she will be; flaunting fluently the womanly curves I have lived to celebrate – still live to celebrate. Yes… Even as the body ages and the dance would seem to be diminishing, the dancer lives within – emerging powerfully  to state her case. She is adept at adaptation – flowing forth through the materials at hand. Soulful determination takes on form; whether it be through words, wire, clay, or ink on paper.

If I am honest with myself, the dancer spins her magic even when my obvious co-operation appears to be dormant. For I can see the dance that lives within – perceive it in the world I occupy – receive it in the easy gliding motions of a great blue heron, the frolicing abandon of my unleashed dogs, the flutter and sway of a pinetree in the wind. I see reflected what I cultivate within. Pure Joy will out regardless of one’s mood or state of weariness.

One recent evening I was witness to a dance of such determined joy that I could not deny my secret participation. I watched  my baby grandson – not yet crawling, yet so clearly moving with the forceful joy of a river in spate. The momentum of the life-force in his small sure body was unquellable. After a bath – not yet encased in diaper or protective sleepwear, the beauty of his rolling and reaching, curling  and unfurling progress around the room was mesmerizing and enchanting. Also, definitely reminiscent of the old floor improvisation engaged in by my students in every Airth class. I have long taught the use of gravity – surrender to the flow of weight, so recognized the baby’s inherent attunement to natural law. My own awareness made of me participant, but this one had no need of teacher.  His pure pleasure in the moment was his inspiration.

Later, I must confine still quivering limbs – prepare the reluctant child for bed and carry him into the kitchen to heat his bottle. In the brief space of time it took to walk from room to room, I felt his weight subside in sweet relief against my body. I paused, delayed my pupose, turned my head to breathe in yet another dance. This dance was still, yet pulsing with the love set free by  mutual trust. Bone-weary as I was – and hardly in dancer mode – this dance was dance enough: pure joy released.

Dancing With Martha

Yesterday, during a long, soul-searching telephone visit with  my dear friend, Kendall, she mentioned Martha Graham as a strong proponent of restlessness in the artist’s journey. This reminded me of my one encounter with Miss Graham, when my restlessness brought me to New York City where I lived for several months in a studio apartment with my two-year-old daughter, Moira. Today, I want to go back to that earlier time, when my youthful self was innocent of dance as a mission. I simply was a dancer, through and through, passionately wanting to share myself, body and soul, through performing. I hadn’t yet seen myself as savior, responsible for teaching others the truth as I saw it. That would come later, when Airth became a method for teaching spiritual unity through dance.  No… In 1967, with a strong foundation in Ballet,  but  having  received permission through reading Isadora Duncan’s MY LIFE, I was dancing myself: My body was gladly discovering freedom through movement; my emotions were granted expression; dancing was love released and bliss was in sight. It might have helped that flower children were everywhere. My India print dresses and blouses, my bell-bottomed jeans and oversize naval sea cadet coat were in style, at least among the youthful rebels of Manhattan. I soon discovered that the world inhabited by the grande dame of the modern dance was a whole other story.

My mother’s old school friend, Nancy Hamilton, was a very close friend of Katherine Cornell, the actress, and Miss Cornell was good friends with Martha Graham. An interview was arranged, and it was suggested that I take some classes at Miss Graham’s school before I went.  Well, truth to tell, I wasn’t really a fan of the lady. I had seen her company perform and not been much moved, had even been somewhat embarrassed by the dramatic and limited gestures of the elderly star. So, just to be sure she knew where I was coming from, I sent her an album of photographs taken during a recent performance.

Some weeks later, I braved the doorman of her swanky  building, rode the elevator upward to her floor, and was let in to the holy of holies by the priestess, herself.  She was tiny, and watching her hang the heavy wool coat among her furs was agony. And the flimsy cotton of my homemade dress did not compare with the silk lounging pajamas that she wore like a costume. I had noticed a ballet barre attached to the wall, and I imagined her warming up for our interview. Her bony and aged face seemed made up for a performance. Against the thick white foundation,  the carefully drawn red lips were startling. The long black lashes made shadows on her wrinkled cheeks. She gestured toward a flawless cream-colored sofa and I gingerly sat as she draped herself in the throne across from me. Her expression was steely. Even so, I was hardly prepared for an attack. In her  long-fingered hands  she held my book of photographs – opened to a familiar image which until that moment had pleased me. Now I  listened to her berate me as yet another Duncan  impersonator. And who needs another dancer letting everything hang out? My lack of discipline was evident from how few classes I had attended at her school, and by my obvious reluctance to grasp her technique. Why, in the name of heaven, was I there, and what did I think Martha Graham could do for me? What make me think I could be a dancer? My eyes had been held by the petrifying glare of her black-fringed orbs, but there was no holding the tears that had gathered as she spoke.

The dam broke suddenly, and the watery flow was accompanied by words: “Miss Graham, I dance because I have to dance. I live to dance. And though my dancing may not seem as disciplined as yours, I have moved audiences, and I truly believe that I can inspire others by being honest through my art.” The lady was listening now, but she had also managed to produce a box of kleenex and a bottle of sherry.  If the flow was happening, she could make it a little more tolerable. I told her about my child, and how difficult it was to find babysitters each time I went to class. (I had taken Moira with me several times.) Then I told her that nothing would stop me from sharing my love for dancing with the world, and here she spoke the words which would return to me frequently over the course of my dancing life. “Miss Anderson, perhaps you should be an evangelist instead of a dancer.” My reply: “Miss Graham, perhaps I’ll be both.”

Today, knowing more than I did in my youth, I find my heart softening toward the woman, Martha Graham. She would have been close to my present age, had recently lost a younger lover, and was facing a waning career as a dancer. I think of Errand Into The Maze and Diversion Of Angels, among other amazing creations, and I can’t help wondering if she was the one who was dancer and evangelist in one – long before I made my bold reply to her suggestion.

Gravity

Again the sadness… And again the reluctance to write this blog. I am also exhausted from yesterday’s grandmothering, and don’t really want to try to figure out why.  I want to bless it and move beyond.  Yet I find myself wondering if the expenditure of energy for child – for children – has been going on so long that I think no other way is possible.  Has this become my main purpose? Have I finally given up on personal fulfillment? Do I stil feel as though I am stealing moments for creative pursuits? Now that I do have more time, I am am lacking in energy and will – depressed, almost, by time speeding by, running out as I bumble my way through the days.  I still feel on call, as I did as a young mother, struggling  to keep the dance alive. But then, the fire of determination was fiercely present, and the discipline established during the pre-motherhood ballet years kept me going. I evolved the “barre” to suit a more free-form style of dancing – and maintained the daily exercises no matter what, even if it was often only in my mind. I became a mother at the age of twenty-one, so for most of my life I have juggled my need to create with the necessities of motherhood. I suppose I do not know any other way, but, dear God, I am tired.

It has been a balancing act, and at certain times I have felt successful. As a younger woman, I was idealistic, even conceiving of a purposeful way: a technique to follow and to teach that would balance divergent forces and lead to greater freedom. This was Airth, based on the balancing forces of air and earth, breath and body, spirit and matter. I maintained my faith and devotion for a great many years, and during those years the dance expanded into various other forms of “dance”. I realized Airth through writing, drawing, sculpting, painting, and  music. These later developments have definitely eased my way into my senior years – taken the strain off the body while continuing to fulfill my need to dance. But, there may be a down side to this. The physical dance – performing and teaching – connected me with others on a regular basis, whereas, all the other forms are practiced in solitude. Isolation becomes a way of life, except when it comes to family. And family doesn’t give a damn if I ever dance another dance. They love the me they see – expecting participation regardless. One can be crying inside for a different sort of interraction: that which can only take place between peers. Yet one can continue to play the part of sister, mother, grandmother, and cousin, and no one knows or cares. One is accepted exactly as one is, and lacking challenge, the dancer begins to die. Tired as I am, I don’t really want her dead.

Homeward

In 1977, in the wake of discovering and developing the dance technique that I came to call Airth, I choreographed a dance I called “Going Home” after the hymn written by William Arms Fisher. It was my first attempt at applying Airth to an actual, repeatable dance, and the music was the largo from Dvorak’s New World Symphony. This music co-operated beautifully with my breath-born movements, and of all the dances created that year, this was the lasting one. I found it a metaphor for life as well as a perfect companion for my “Airth” journey. I danced it countless times, in performances and for a competetion held in Boston in 1978. The last time I physically danced it was in 1998 at the Ocean Springs Community Center for a retrospective presentation of my dancing life. Yet, even now, hearing the largo on public radio eases me into the flow of breath-born movement. I release myself gratefully to the journey homeward.

Last night I dreamt I was seated in a theater watching “Going Home”. My dance was being performed by women of all ages. Smaller and larger groups interchanged with ease as the music progressed, and I rested happily in the unbroken flow of my own creation. This was a gift that surprised me at first, for I was observer; my own participation subtle. But no less real… I came to recognize and appreciate this new form of my old dance. I was glad to be where I was, and not prepared for the dream to end before the dance. Yet the glorious sound of the largo was replaced in an instant by  the sudden flapping of cocker spaniel ears, accompanied by the familiar tinkle of dog tags. This was music of a sort: my old dog Music, and when I resisted this wake up call, a silky head pushed its way beneath my hand. I let go of the dream to open my eyes on a small black dog named Star. I was home.