Posts Tagged ‘create’

My Experience

March 1, 2010

There are those who would misteach us that to stick in a rut is consistency – and a virtue; and that to climb out of the rut is inconsistency – and a vice. (Mark Twain)

tri-x 400 mf film in mamiya c330, shortcake
tri-x 400 mf film in mamiya c330, shortcake

I often chastise myself for my inconsistency, despite my apparent tendency to praise it.  Or maybe it’s the other way around?  And I don’t, in self-pity, mean inconsistency in skills, but in interests.  

This is not yet another defense or justification of my fickle-ness.  (There are far too many of those on this blog.)  I’m just sharing my thoughts.  I won’t even quote Emerson.  I promise.  But I might quote William Blake.  Yes.  I believe I shall.

Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained. (William Blake)

I do not have weak desires.  And I have many—some yet restrained, some not.  Here is where I am, regarding a few of the unrestrained ones:  1) in love with this film, and with putting bits of light and shadow on it.  2) in love with my novel again, and with fixing and strengthening it.  3) in love with this new guitar, and with building up these finger calluses.  (not only can i sort of play and sing my funny little nonsense song, but i can also sing and play “blowin’ in the wind,” and so how sexy is that?)  4) in love with pencils and ink and watercolor paper, and working on a new drawing.  5) moonlighting, obviously.

When I think about it, there is this annoying grown-up in me that wags a finger and says things like, “Stop this frivolous nonsense!”  and “Do the dishes!”  and “Go to bed before 1:30 AM!”  and “What is the point?”  and “If you would just focus, maybe you’d finish something.” and “Be responsible.  Make money.”  But when they are quiet, which is most of the time, there is myth and art and music.  And I can’t quite remember why that is a problem.  Myth and Art and Music!  I don’t want to remember why that is a problem.

So, to answer the annoying, finger-wagging, grown-up-me; there is no point, really—that is the recent epiphany.  The only purpose of all of “this” is simply to share my experience of It with a capital I.  If my whore-ish muse wants to flit and float, who am I to stop her?  This is how I experience it: an overwhelm of inspiration and emotion and passion and . . . everything.  And I do what I can to express that experience, simply because I want to.  It’s never enough, I’m never enough, it will never be enough, and yet it is.  And I am.

So there.

stirs in her winter sleep

February 22, 2010

 

stirring

She tells her love while half asleep,
     In the dark hours,
          With half words whispered low;

As earth stirs in her winter sleep
     And puts out grass and flowers
          Despite the snow,
          Despite the falling snow.

(Robert Graves)

 

Characteristically paradoxical, me.  I’ve changed my mind.  I’m now officially looking forward to spring, whether I like it or not.  I just read the above poem last night (in this book), and that is likely what secured it.  Yep.  I feel it stirring, despite the falling snow.  (Either that, or the extra espresso shot from this morning’s latte?)

This dead little flower is just outside my window, and I was sketching it today with the home-from-school-for-a-dentist-appointment kids, and whoops!  Hope and Mother Earth made an appearance.  Hey there, Mama.  Stir it up.

Use Your Illusion

February 19, 2010
Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that you live, if you do.  (Elizabeth Bowen)
tri-x film in mamiya 645af.  mowgli and a girlie friend.

tri-x film in mamiya 645af. mowgli and a girlie friend.

Today I’m thinking about illusions.  The illusions of vision, of art, of social role, of relationship, of should, of connection, of separation, of possession, of acceptance, of proper, of religion, of comfort, of security, of emotion, of praise, of beauty, of insult.  Hey!  Another one of those lists.  I haven’t gone all there-is-no-spoon yet, but I do think I’ll go on a quantum physics kick, now that you mention it.

I’m thinking about how we can become so governed by those illusions, and about what would happen if we . . . weren’t.  If we accepted their function when appropriate, loved the illusions for what they were, and then gratefully let them go in due time.  “Arigato Zaisho,” if you know what I mean

I’m thinking, and letting go of a few other . . . thinkings.  Oooh, I have a lot more to say here, but I’m operating under the illusion of time, so I must go.

Have the illusion of a happy weekend!

We now interrupt our regularly scheduled upswing with . . .

everything

and 

mental

 

By the time I descended into my lair to get some crazy out last night, I fucked up an attempt to do an ink wash of yesterday’s sketch.  And so I was infuuuuuuriated with myself.  Because I could have developed film or played the guitar or painted a watercolor or worked on that terrible opening chapter.  And those thoughts made me more insane because then I decided that I am just an all-around absolute loser, of course.  Why must I (TRY to) do everything?  My muse is not just promiscuous, she is a whore.  Because she makes it so that I am not even good at anything.

(I am not looking for pity or smoke up my ass, here.  I am just spilling.  So pleeeeease, so help me, don’t.)

I’m a little thrown off by this.  And I’m kind of spinning in circles.  And I’ll do some business things when I can today, like working on the photography website and ordering shipping supplies.  Good, concrete, boring things.  And I will have a friend here for coffee, and I will screw a few hinges onto my cupboard doors.  And, of course, I will mother as a verb.  But I can’t promise that I won’t just go ahead and have a breakdown.  Which makes me feel weak and stupid and lonely, because who feels this way, really?  I mean, pull yourself together, woman!  There are real problems in this world!  Remember how you felt about your fellow college students who complained about their art woes while you studied organic chemistry and microbiology?  Where is that one chick?  Maybe she was just a sad, jealous, trapped little thing.  But maybe we could buck up and channel her today?  Huh?  You lunatic? 

 

Shoot.  I’ve just realized that there are people that blog to uplift and inspire other people, and not to talk to themselves in public.

And so I’m going to try really hard to post something normal-bloggy tomorrow.

*curtsy*

Durga in A minor

February 9, 2010
If you have never been called a defiant, incorrigible, impossible woman… have faith… there is yet time.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes
watercolor on arches hot press paper

watercolor on arches hot press paper

 This may be redundant, but listen.  The last couple days have plunged me into some ridiculous, epic journey of self-loathing and rage-y despair.  It was not so much a passive state of depression, but an active fury.  When I said I wanted to throw a temper tantrum, I totally meant it.  I was hard-core craving broken dishes on the driveway and screaming and kicking and throwing.  The desire was really just for the sake of the feeling of it, but more subtly, I suppose, it was the if-i-can’t-have-EVERYTHING!-exactly-how-I!!-want-it-and-NOW!-then-i-will-throw-a-fit . . . thing.  And not being able to throw fits all day long was like being told by the obstetrician to not push.

And, oh!  Look at the moon.  It is a little waning thing.  How predictable.  I hate myself for being so fucking predictable! 

(Just kidding.  But if I would’ve said that yesterday, I probably would’ve meant it.) 

 And so it was in this state that I did this painting.  I’m borrowing this guitar, if you remember, and although I’ve previously never learned anything beyond the first three chords in Harvest Moon or a Nirvana riff or two, I’m trying to get my rock on.  I really am quite terrible at it thus far, and my fingertips are red and swollen and sore, and hooray for a very easy E minor chord, but still, it just feels sooooo damn good to play it really loud.  It is also a good thing to have around when one is craving a temper tantrum.

A part of my self-loathing was regarding my inability to just be calm and sweet and nice.  I mentally noted one failed attempt at Zen, F minor, housewifery, and altogether goodness . . . after another.  I did try to wrangle it in, the crazy.  I was bringing my attention to that which is, but it turns out that that which was was the ridiculous desire to scream and swear and maybe even to bite.  Sometimes what presents itself is the painfully beautiful glitter of snow, and other times it is just, you know, biting. 

Considering the honesty of the emotion made me think (with a little help from my friend), waitaminutehere.  Maybe this is OK, simply feeling what there is to feel, as opposed to denying, or worse, becoming completely out of touch with, extreme emotion.  (And also, she told me that someone called a picture of me cute.  Ah, flattery.)  Fiery is a part of me, and trying to be “good” and “nice” is sometimes especially exhausting.  I woke up thinking about archetypes, and trying to remember some of the goddess myths that would point to the fierce aspect of the divine feminine.  And, so hooray for facebook, where Chameli mentioned Durga.  I cued up Ragani’s “Durga” on my iPod, and I named my painting after her.

 I’m putting the original up on my Etsy, as well as a few prints of both this rocking Durga and The Selkie.  The prints have not yet arrived from the printer, and so I’m listing them at a discount until they do (I am such the terrible businesswoman!).  You’ll get them cheaper for being a little risky and patient.  Apropos.

***EDITED TO ADD: the 8×10 prints have sold, already!  I’ve just listed the 5×7.***

Cue Obsession

February 2, 2010

grace1914

This is a photo of my great aunt Grace on the beach in 1914.

How gorgeous is this?  I could stare at it all day.

Except instead of stare at it, I’m going to develop a roll of film and print out staff paper. *

Because I’ve got my music back. 

I don’t know what happened, but some dam burst in my head.  And suddenly, it is all MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!

Actually, it’s rather annoying.  I mean, seriously.  I must have ADD.  Just do one thing already, right?

But the damn . . . dam.  It’s as if it was always there, the MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC! building and building and building, and it just reached this threshold, and fwooooosh.  I can’t really stop obsessing about music right now.  It’s quite obnoxious.

I do tend to be fickle, of course.  And so, surely this too shall pass.  But for now, there is nothing more pressing in my life than to learn to play the electric guitar, and more specifically, to play this one song on it.  And maybe one or two more.  Luckily, I know a guy.**

It was impossible to not be musical growing up in my family.  For as long as I can remember, up until I left the house, it was always MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!  For the rest of them, it still is.  But it hasn’t been, for me, for whatever reason.  I mean, I’ve got a piano sitting in my living room.  And I play it sometimes.  And I’ve even played this one song on it.  But the full moon, and the thought of an electric guitar, these were the last two straws.  Or water molecules.  Or whatever.

fwoooooooooooshhh.

I’m not predicting future mother-of-four rockstardom or anything.  Just, MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!  until I’m bored.

 

* You should know that I forgot to pick up Mowgli from school while searching for this.  Doesn’t the red flag for clinical psychosis have something to do with being unable to perform daily tasks?  shit.

**I’ve known these people for a couple years, and never took the time to listen to their music.  Don’t make the same mistake, go listen right now.  Scroll down and find Hello, Hospital.  RRRRRRRRRRRROCK!

selkie

February 1, 2010
watercolor and ink on arches hot press watercolor paper

watercolor and ink on arches hot press watercolor paper

 

As Shortcake was making her way into the world, I was listening to Aine Minogue’s (an Irish harpist, singer, and folklorist) song The Selkie on my iPod.    It’s beautiful, and it resonated deeply with me the first time I heard it.  But I had no idea what she was saying!  I had heard of the mythological selkie, but knew only that it had something to do with water. 

Recently, the Celtic myth of the selkie has come back into my life en force.  She is a shape-shifter, a sea creature whose sealskin allows her to live in the depths of the ocean.  Her home is there, in Sule Skerry, but she can take off her sealskin and become human for a short time as well.  In the myth I’ve just read, a human man falls in love with her in this form, as she is sunning herself on the warm rocks, and she becomes his wife.  The husband (jackass!) hides her sealskin, so she remains on land, gives birth to his son, and starts to get all parched and peely and icky.  She can live without her sealskin, but only for so long (7 years, I think?) before she needs to return to her watery home.  It is her son who later finds her sealskin, and she returns to Sule Skerry.  Her son is able to travel between the two worlds, and he is who I really identify with.  But enough about me . . .

Here the selkie looks out to the ocean, dreaming of Sule Skerry and longing for her sealskin, pregnant with the child who will eventually aid her return.

I know this feeling well.  Don’t you?

I’ve listed the original painting on my Etsy, and will be listing prints soon.

 

img767x

 

 

 from my moleskine today:

{yes. there are dishes and there is laundry and there is the floor, which Karen Maezen would suggest attending to attentively.  and zen . . . . . “meditation” according to the man in orange robes is “doing what needs to be done joyfully mindfully etcetera” but it always seems like this is the thing that “needs” to be done and so then what is the other stuff?}

I should let you know straight out that I’m going to talk about tarot cards.

And that this post, once again, contains tube socks.

Are you still with me?

Heh . . . lo?

So this drawing / painting / sketch /whateverthehellyoucallit was supposed to be about patience.  I was thinking about natural intuition, reception—patiently waiting for that small, directive voice in the stillness.  I was deep breathing and feeling all openness and attentiveness and patiennnnnce-ommmmmm.  But then her hair got out of control, and before I knew it, it was all wildness.  And then her face took on an impatient scowl.  And then the restful, crossed arms became tense and ready to burst.

And I saw, not patience, but impatience.  More than a simple restlessness, I saw a woman attempting to restrain herself, trying desperately—and almost sorrowfully—to keep her wildness under wraps, betrayed by her crazy hair. 

 

img748x

watercolor, arches hot press paper

It perplexed me, as those frequently-occurring paradoxes do.  (I!  AM!  ALL!  PARADOX!  It isn’t just me, is it?  Aren’t we all?)  And, to further complicate things (I just said that two blogs ago), my feelings regarding this paradox itself are split.  It is the eight of swords vs. the red shoes.

Are you still with me?

Heh . . . lo?

Journey with me, if you will, into my soul.  Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!  Does this restlessness-emerging-from-patience-piece point to this or that?

The eight of swords.  (this)

Tarot cards are, despite what you might think, not about fortune-telling, but about inner journey.  I am a visual person (obviously?), and the images on the cards can really assist me in finding psychological, philosophical, and spiritual clarity.  They mirror aspects of nature and of soul, which, perhaps, are one and the same anyway.

I first saw the card years ago, when Dimples was a baby, and I was in the depths of some Postpartum Depression / darkness / soulcraft-ish descent.  My cousin Amy and I would play with tarot cards, then she would babysit as I went crying to my therapist.  The eight of swords came up in a reading for me, and I considered the image: a blindfolded woman, arms loosely bound behind her back, standing in the center of eight swords (go figure!) that had been thrust into the ground around her like a cage. 

Yes!  I thought.  This is me!  Bound and constrained by motherhood and culture and circumstance, unable to fulfill my potential!  But when we studied the card further, we realized that the woman was not so terribly constrained.  She could easily escape the “cage,” and could free her hands and eyes with little effort.  Instead of relief, I felt offended.  If I were not a victim of my circumstances, if I could simply remove my blindfold and carry on . . .  Well, that was quite a lot of responsibility.  “Victim” was so much easier.

So “this” is one thought that came as I considered the drawing.  Have I given myself a new mental straight jacket?  Is there something inside me (some creativity, project, wildness) that is screaming to get out, and am I holding it back for some unnecessary and imaginary purpose?

–OR–

The red shoes.  (that)

To further encourage the eye-rolling of my most cynical readers, I will now, once again, allude to a story in the book Women Who Run With The Wolves.

Heh . . . lo?

The tale of the red shoes is, in short, about a resourceful little peasant girl who fashions for herself a  pair of red shoes.  One day, a rich old civilized lady takes the girl to live with her, gives her new clothes and shoes, and burns her old things.  The old red shoes had been so special to the little girl, that she tricks the old woman into buying her a new pair of (scandalous!) red shoes.  The girl becomes obsessed with these new shoes, and even when she has had a taste of their power (they magically cause her feet to dance, taking control), she craves them.  In the end, the shoes take over, dancing wildly and threatening, essentially, to kill her with exhaustion.  She is unable to remove them, and so, desperate, she asks a woodsman to chop off her feet.

The author (Clarissa Pinkola Estes) compares the little girl to a feral woman—originally and naturally wild (handmade red peasant shoes), but confined like a depressed animal at the zoo (shoes/wildness burned, child civilized).  Sighting the new red shoes is similar to when that caged animal (or woman!) snaps, remembering that bit of wildness that remains within.  But instead of having the knowledge or opportunity to reincorporate the natural way of being, she latches desperately onto anything wild-ish, even at the risk of losing complete control.  The girl dancing like a lunatic in pretty red shoes, the snarling tiger who suddenly turns and attacks the loyal zookeeper, the well-behaved mother who suddenly loses her mind, or becomes addicted to something dangerous, or abandons her family for the cruise ship attendant. 

I mean, not that I have a cruise planned anytime soon.  But you know what I mean.  (Do you know what I mean?)

And so in this light, restraint can be a good, natural, healthy thing.  It can be having the patience to ignore the flashy red shoes and holding out for what you intuitively know to be your thAng, or just hanging on to your old handmade shoes in the first place.  And so is it “that” that I’m seeing here?  Sort of an alert patience?

–OR–

None of the above, it was just a millimeter of a stray brushstroke on her eyes, or the espresso. 

 

(Now all of this passed through my conscious thoughts in approximately 15 seconds—-Eight of swords?  The red shoes?  Espresso?—-but it took, like a billion hours to write.  It would be so much easier if you could just understand my thought processes next time.  Thank you.)

And So Now We Need A Kiln

January 12, 2010

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. (Pablo Picasso)

In keeping with the theme of yesterday, I want to show you some pieces Kiki (age 10) made in her pottery class this winter.  She inspires me.

DSC_0613

DSC_0614

DSC_0615