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.

FAREWELL AGAIN

On this day in 1965

my father breathed his last breath

before departing his body

to become the breath we continue to breathe.

It seems strange but in some way fitting that I should wait to do this post until this day. The pot came out of the kiln weeks ago, days after my time at the annex seemed to run out. It is certainly not the best pot done during my sojourn there, but because of the subject matter – my father’s surprising appearance on the pot – I chose to keep it. The time since has been a struggle to adapt to change, to attempt to live well while dealing with the discomfort of transition. Sadness has been part of it. Don’t we all grieve when something is over?

Truthfully, even during my last few weeks at the annex, I had been feeling the urge to grow beyond what I was doing there. I thought to take what I had learned to a whole new level. I had sculpted clay in the past, now there was the potential for expanding that…bringing incising, painting and glazing to the sculptured form. I dreamt of sculpted vessels that might invite the decorative element. But newness can be as frightening as it can be exciting. Thence the struggle…

I think of my father…

of his choice to go it alone…

his need to create and grow so powerful

that he chose to leave his wife and children…

to forego the sweetness of intimate companionship

for the sake of his quest.

He chose suffering along with art and ecstasy:

his suffering and ours.

Fatherhood seems to be

less compelling a force than motherhood.

My mother was an artist, too.

Yet she relinquished all to serve this man:

as wife available to model for the painter

and to share his bed,

as mother to his children while he looked elsewhere…

for that which waited to be translated by his brush.

Walter loved animals,

and this I understand with all my heart.

But he loved birds more:

their flight, their freedom, their variety.

My father hovered on the outskirts

of my life with mama and my siblings.

When hovering,

one can be ready in an instant to take flight.

I think I understand.

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.

Magic Through The Lens

For the past few weeks I have been in search of a new lens through which to view and record my journey. I am an innocent where cameras are concerned, and have seen beauty in many of the photos taken with whatever camera I happened to possess. I have been undemanding even when it came to recording my art, though I admit to some frustration over lack of clarity in my images of drawings and sculptures. For this reason I was open to my friend, Kendall’s, suggestion that a better camera was in order. My art deserved it. Her encouragement prompted me to begin the search.

Due to having owned Olympus cameras in my past, An Olympus xz-1 roused my interest and I read about it and searched for it in several local stores. I am not a shopper and am not brave when it comes to internet purchases, which is why I ended up purchasing an Olympus TG-1 with the understanding that I could take it back within 30 days. Call it an experiment, or call me a little dense for taking home a tough camera: water proof etc. It is a better camera than I’ve been using, and once I got past my initial sense of intimidation, I had a glorious time taking my first photographs. Magic seemed  an undeniable element, I walked outside to find my cat, Sunny, lounging in a tree as if pre-arranged. From Sunny I went on to the beach, let the dogs run free while I happily photographed seagulls on piers, Music dog peeing, the children of a gentle father. I stayed for the sunset and went home replete, delighted with the renewed vitality found by viewing the world through a brand new lens.

The next day I took photos of art before sending some images on to Kendall for her valued opinion. My innocent joy was not prepared to hear words such as noise and pixilation. I knew nothing of these undesirable elements. She did praise my eye, and thought the art images were better than before, but thought the camera not good quite enough for my vision. I was let down a bit, but had to admit I had noticed limitations when it came to close up shots. Besides the camera was heavy; I couldn’t imagine lugging it around Paris.

There was another possibility that Kendall had mentioned: a Canon s-100, and true to the magical aspect of this journey, when I took back the TG-1, the Canon was there, simply asking for me to “give it a try”.  Something fearless had been awakened in me by the ease with which I had bought, experimented with, and returned the tough camera. Why not? This time there was no intimidation. I was shooting the little Canon almost before it was out of the box, and I thought I could see the difference. Kendall did, even with the art.

I did see a qualitative difference in the sculptures, but not so much with the drawings. The whiter I make the paper through editing, the less clarity I see in the lines. I am pretty sure that is my need to learn more about recording my art and editing my images rather than the camera’s inadequacies. I continue to experiment.  And I continue to carry the canera with me in hopes of magical moments. Such as this one…