A NECESSARY LABOR

Since departure from the Annex,

I have come to this:

The modeling of clay…

and form discovered;

The long wait through the holidays

and prolonged grieving over losses;

The tentative and awkward coloring of form

with untried glazes.

Shame and grief have been replaced

by celebration of the feminine form…

and patience as the only road to truth

I have looked closely

at my youth and aging

as collaborative.

I have caught glimpses of

my own delight in detail.

Artistic process at its best

reflects the life:

Hard work and perseverance

simply aren’t enough.

I cannot shut out what my heart is suffering…

my mind is sorting through.

Nor can I shut out

the distractions caused by my attachments,

for these are born of love and vulnerability

which making art requires.

Ambivalence accepted

can reveal essential elements:

Though I may struggle against

my need for restful emptiness of purpose,

I know my own soul’s reverence for timing

must be reckoned with.

As I cry out for wholeness and completion

It is being realized.

LANTANA DREAMING OF MUSIC…or…(MOMENTS WORTH RECALLING)

As I was pondering another blog post with yet another decorated pot (Two just emerged from the kiln), I was browsing pictures that I had liked enough to process and save. I stopped on this one and felt myself drifting into it…recalling that day, that moment that captured more than my eye. I came across others as I browsed, moments that never made it to the blog or any other mode of sharing, and decided to honor a few of those. I will also include a shot of each of the pots that I like as photographs…as moments worth recalling.

Weary of trying for decent images of art as art,

I allowed my butterfly pot to alight upon old Chicago bricks.

Long after the Spring’s abundant blooming,

a single Wisteria vine dances en l’air.

My old dog, Music, continues to teach me

to smell, taste, and listen as I step into the muck.

My cat, Pearl, eats, drinks, and is merry…

bef0re stretching out to absorb the light.

The light broke through like magic

as the water rushed the shore.

I place my lizard pot on a stump to photograph,

but my camera prefers the stump to the pot.

After breaking free from her old outgrown skin,

the cicada dries her wings before flight.

Ode To A Benevolent Camelia

All week I have been beset by an inexplicable weariness.  I seem to move in contrast to the bouyant  me I celebrated in my last blog. My new eyes still astound me, though the dryness brought on by the drops I continue to apply is  uncomfortable. Frequent “Tears” are necessary to keep the vision clear. I have continued to take photographs, but without the enthusiasm of recent weeks. The physical tiredness that slows my body slows my mind as well. My whole system struggles to keep up with small tasks…to interract with children, grandchildren and dogs, yet my heart is especially tender. Emotionally I am raw…as aware of the sorrows of others as of my own. I am torn between pushing myself to carry on with the usual responsibilities – hiding my weakness and vulnerability – or yielding heavily to my present being…blessing the weight that pulls me toward surrender.

Yesterday, as I walked home heavily, little dogs pulling me eagerly down the path toward our house, I noticed one large camelia on an otherwise barren bush. It hung low on the bush, almost concealed by the dark green leaves of the plant.  The flower was obviously bowed down by its own lush blooming, and I felt myself strongly drawn to its solitary and barely evident expression. I must take the dogs inside and return to photograph this unexpected gift…slipping my left hand beneath cool petals to turn its face to the light.

After taking the shot, I found that I couldn’t leave it to be beaten down further by oncoming rain. I must pluck it and carry it with me to place in an old blue bottle that lives in my kitchen window. Of course I photographed its journey to a new setting.

Her head still drooped a bit with the weight of her own loveliness… and the effort of blooming for all the other buds that remained tight-closed and fell to the ground unrealized.

As I aimed the camera and shot the simplicity of flower in bottle, I thought of a sculpture, perhaps born of a similar weariness at another time in my life. A reclining woman, a resting woman… Placed beneath the benevolent countenance of the Camelia, she seemed to complete the image. I felt that I was being shown by my slightly wakened creativity my present reality: bowed down by the years of blooming…in great need of rest. Weariness must be affirmed as a beautiful thing. no shame in letting go…in yielding to this moment in time that claims me.

As I shifted the sculpure in relation to the Camelia in the bottle, my sense of play returned; my spirit froliced a little as I leaned gratefully into the beauty of the years that weigh me. I watched my familiar body lie down and felt the deliciousness of surrender to the light that made me.

Angels and Foxes

It continues to be a time of rehearsing and preparing for this and that performance. I am doing my best to embrace the activity, the sharing, the anticipation. Doubts visit me at times, especially when I think of singing for an audience. Yes… Once again the voice is called upon to dance its way into existence. In the coming performance at the Mary C, which is to be a celebration of America (the 4th of July), I shall be singing – re: the vietnam war era – “Where Have All The Flowers Gone”. I shall need angels to buoy up my confidence  and to clear the conduit from soul to sound.

The angel in the photograph was finished this Monday. In the midst of all the involvement, I found some evenings to re-acquaint myself with the wire and to summon a confident and soaring angel. Thankfully, she came willingly to my awkward hands, easing my struggle by her readiness to be. By opening her arms, spreading her fingers, and allowing her torso to flow into dancerly legs, she convinced me of my own readiness to soar again. But not with out a balancing  element.

I guess, for me, the balance comes from daily life: The often tedious business of living where I am, the endless tasks that can distract but also ground one for the less tangible reality of making art (in whatever form). Tedium and sweetness come from these tasks, and though they sometimes leave me depleted and having to summon the will for creative projects, they serve that old necessity of yielding to gravity’s pull that I might rebound.

After seeing my wire angel lifting free – nearly dissolving into the ether of infinity – I decided she needed a balancing element, a little extra weight to balance her flight. I thought of a dragonfly, but no: a dragonfly is surely more of the air than of the earth. Think, Leify… What creature is clearly of the earth: at home in the glory of created matter, yet fleet of foot – mysterious in its nature? Is there such a creature in your own environment that attracts your interest on a daily basis, coming and going in a fascinating and unpredictable manner? What creature can you imagine hitching a ride on the large spread-fingered right hand of your soaring angel? A fox, of course…

There are indeed foxes afoot in the woods surrounding my house. I first became aware of them as I walked the dogs at night. An unearthly scream pierced the air and – not knowing its origin – my imagination created a banshee, with me in mind for a feast. It seemed to be matching our pace, coming closer, getting louder. My heart quickened and bounced in my chest as my own pace increased and I yanked the dogs from their fascinated sniffing and their urge to pursue. It was some time before I discovered who this infrequent and frightening visitor was. By that time I was catching glimpses of the sleek russet body, the distinctive pointy nose, the marvelous tail so like that of my orange cat. Ah yes… The cat… Sunny seems to have made some agreement with the fox, some sort of mutual admiration – at a distance, of course. I have seen my fat orange cat recline on the bricks of the entranceway to my home, while the fox sits only a few yards away. Their gazes are joined in an unfathomable communion.

So I follow my cat’s example, have decided that acceptance of this frequent yet somewhat ephemeral visitor – albeit at a respectful distance – is the way to go. I have even grown accustomed to the screams that penetrate my nightly slumber. I can lie there in drowsy awareness as she makes her way through the underbrush and onto the path to my house. I listen as she lingers, sending her cries forth in an agony of wanting. My heart seems to recognize these cries, and in my mind I speak to her through the darkness: Dear little fox… What do you long for? What do you cry for night after night? And why do you search my woods every night, yet seem almost content when I see you in the light of day?

So as I have allowed the fox to hitch a ride on my daily life, I have invited a foxy image to accompany this moment of creative soaring. I have decided that foxes and angels can be compatible – in life and art.