Starting my first online workshop with the wonderful Jude Hill on July 15! I can't wait. Another set of deadlines to motivate me, along with the SAQA meeting later in July.
I'm at home this morning, having a little "just BE" time - probably won't produce anything artistic, because it takes the whole morning just to find my way back to a comfortable headspace right now... There's much too much on my mind, too much happening at work. But later, maybe tonight, I'll be able to create.
I thought I'd post a detail of the current piece so you can see what I did with the cemetery flowers, but I think my camera is at the office. Later then.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
a moment's pause, a gift
It seems sometimes there is nothing more beautiful than rain coming down in the spring, and wind in the thick leaves of trees. The leaves which only recently budded, not yet gnawed by insects or curled by cocoon-spinning worms; not yet browned by drought or darkened by summer's heat. Today is such a day, and this morning is a gift, time off of work after weeks it seems of pressure and tension; only a morning off, really, but a gift just the same. I'm listening to the wind and rain; to the whistle of a train as it approaches a grade crossing nearby to the north. Long stretches of cloud and rain become stressful, but a regular reprieve from the full gaze of the sun is a good thing. More smells and gentler sounds.
I'm in the sewing room this morning, moving a bookshelf and taking out a layer of clutter. This summer I'm hoping to switch rooms with my son; maybe I should wait until fall, since this room is warmer in winter by far but may not ventilate as well in the heat. We'll pull the last remaining carpet out of his room, exposing the wood floors beneath; and I'll have more space for all my supplies and equipment. He will still have room for most of his toys and books, but at his age he doesn't spend tons of time in his room, preferring still to be where we are. When he's older, we'll give him the option of a remodeled basement, to make into his boy-cave. All boys (and men) seem to need a cave of their own somewhere. Fine with me.
I may or may not sew this morning. It's bubbling away in the back of my mind, the current piece, but it feels good just to putz around in here. Attention to self in this way. The sewing room isn't really a cave -- more of a nest, to be sure. My nest. I feel guilty for comandeering a space in our small home in this way, but I can't help it. It's what I need, and has been since I can remember. I've never compromised on this. Though I sometimes feel too accommodating, in truth I am quite rigid about certain things. I must always have a studio space of some kind. I must never curate for free. I may never sell my work, since that makes me uncomfortable, but I'm happy to give it away from time to time. Much of my world, my feelings and opinions, seem swirling and variable. This artist space, the physical studio and the corresponding room in my psychic interior, the principles that apply, that dramas played out therein -- these are a constant. This is the core. I throw a fair amount of energy into most of what I do, and so I get pulled away from this space -- g-forces. Sooner or later I'm desperate for this balance.
Rain is thumping into the downspouts and pattering on the maple leaves. Birds chirrup pleasantly from their perches, since the weather isn't all that heavy. The train echoes on in the distance. The mail carrier clatters past the front step, swaddled in plastic. In between, lots of quiet.
I'm in the sewing room this morning, moving a bookshelf and taking out a layer of clutter. This summer I'm hoping to switch rooms with my son; maybe I should wait until fall, since this room is warmer in winter by far but may not ventilate as well in the heat. We'll pull the last remaining carpet out of his room, exposing the wood floors beneath; and I'll have more space for all my supplies and equipment. He will still have room for most of his toys and books, but at his age he doesn't spend tons of time in his room, preferring still to be where we are. When he's older, we'll give him the option of a remodeled basement, to make into his boy-cave. All boys (and men) seem to need a cave of their own somewhere. Fine with me.
I may or may not sew this morning. It's bubbling away in the back of my mind, the current piece, but it feels good just to putz around in here. Attention to self in this way. The sewing room isn't really a cave -- more of a nest, to be sure. My nest. I feel guilty for comandeering a space in our small home in this way, but I can't help it. It's what I need, and has been since I can remember. I've never compromised on this. Though I sometimes feel too accommodating, in truth I am quite rigid about certain things. I must always have a studio space of some kind. I must never curate for free. I may never sell my work, since that makes me uncomfortable, but I'm happy to give it away from time to time. Much of my world, my feelings and opinions, seem swirling and variable. This artist space, the physical studio and the corresponding room in my psychic interior, the principles that apply, that dramas played out therein -- these are a constant. This is the core. I throw a fair amount of energy into most of what I do, and so I get pulled away from this space -- g-forces. Sooner or later I'm desperate for this balance.
Rain is thumping into the downspouts and pattering on the maple leaves. Birds chirrup pleasantly from their perches, since the weather isn't all that heavy. The train echoes on in the distance. The mail carrier clatters past the front step, swaddled in plastic. In between, lots of quiet.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
at the cemetery
Yesterday we went up to the cemetery: an hour drive there, an hour or so in town, an hour back. I picked up stones from nearby sand-hills and the roadside, to place them with my son's help on the markers for my father's parents. We paced the miniature lawn of the tiny small-town graveyard, and my son explained to me the meaning of the American flags ranked before the white cross, twined with roses; carefully reiterating a new wisdom imparted by his father.
On the way to the car, I noticed a few brightly-colored patches among the wheel ruts in the grass. Weathered petals torn from silk flowers, and bits of tattered ribbon. The detritus, wind-blown, of scattered offerings. I picked up a few ribbons and a handful of beautifully faded blossoms where they were pressed into the earth, and brought them home, and added some to the piece I'm currently working on (deadline July 14). Pictures soon.
On the way to the car, I noticed a few brightly-colored patches among the wheel ruts in the grass. Weathered petals torn from silk flowers, and bits of tattered ribbon. The detritus, wind-blown, of scattered offerings. I picked up a few ribbons and a handful of beautifully faded blossoms where they were pressed into the earth, and brought them home, and added some to the piece I'm currently working on (deadline July 14). Pictures soon.
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