Category: Life Lessons

August 17, 2017

Dance to Dance: Finding Art to Mend the Wounds

“This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.” Pete Seeger, written on the drum head of his banjo

Our spirits felt wretched from a weekend that saw American violence and the sour rhetoric that sometimes feels to be our new national pastime. We were in search of an antidote and we found it on a Tuesday, with a day that began with dance and song and ended with dance and song, book ends with art in the middle.

The calendar in our small rented Santa Fe house read the 15th of August. In the Catholic tradition, it is the feast of the Assumption of Mary, Mother of Jesus. For the people of the Zia Pueblo, it is a day of homecoming and festival, one that blends Native and Catholic cosmologies, expressed most profoundly in the Corn Dance. In a spirit of hospitality, the public is welcome to attend as honored witnesses.

So we found ourselves on a beautiful Tuesday in New Mexico, driving down into the desert, to a place where the cerulean blue sky holds the sun, and touches the earth, ochre, sage green, sienna, both sparse and alive. Even before we open our car doors, we hear the beat of the drum, the chant of the singers. Outside the small adobe church, long lines of dancers, outfitted in traditional regalia, youths of the community, stomp, shuffle, step, in a grouping that forms and re-forms, a call and response to the drum and chanters. It is hot and truly, blindingly bright. Some viewers carry parasols; most wear wide brim hats. We lean into what little shade we can find. Later I will discover that I am powdered with dust. But for now, we stand on Holy Ground.

It is almost noon, and the ritual begun hours ago will continue until sunset. Time is altered under the hot sun; we begin to sway slightly, intoxicated with heat and sensation. We are made small under the overarching sky; the dance and chant transfigures and begins to heal the sorrow and hurt. Anointed, we carry the blessing back to Santa Fe.

Back home we spend part of the afternoon at an exhibit featuring paintings by Wolf Kahn. Now in his 90th year, the artist is known for landscape painting and pastels, depicted with bands of unlikely color, abstracted, reduced, intuitively applied. Kahn’s childhood could lend itself to a Hollywood story. It was filled with sorrow, tragedy and the drama of living in Germany as Nazism and Hitler come to power, but balanced with opportunities afforded by being surrounded by a family of culture and means. Eventually he would be taken from his beloved great-aunt and her home in Hamburg, and placed on one of the Kindertransport, part of the British program ferrying Jewish children out of Germany into foster care.

For the second time that day, we are transported. Here in the gallery, we are surrounded by landscapes the polar opposite of the one we visited earlier. Rural America is depicted in vivid oranges, purples, greens, and bright yellow. The dance is here as well, the rhythm in the picture of the birches on the canvas, the stretch of color, the forward and backward of lights and darks, the pulse of brush stroke and line. Another small part of what had been lost and broken returns to our souls.

And finally comes the evening and our adopted ritual of walking to the Plaza after dinner. On the bandstand is the Levi Platero Band, a blues rock band. Hailing from the Navajo Nation in New Mexico, the trio is young, energized, and man can they play! Hate and dismay have no place here, it’s been knocked-out by music and dance. In front of the bandstand, couples shimmy and boogie. Those without partners move with a refreshing lack of self-consciousness. An elder is participating in a three way dance: herself, her walker, and her dance partner, a much younger man. Children toddle into the mix, dogs greet one another in their doggy ways. The Plaza becomes a microcosm of America, folks dancing and hooting, encouraging the young man on the stage to play one more riff on the guitar.

The inky indigo of the sky has flowed down softly, the strings of lights strung high between the bandstand and the small obelisk in the Plaza’s center softens faces. There, beneath the dancers’ feet, we read inspirational words some kind stranger has scribed in chalk, Love Exists. Another piece of our soul returns home.

October 5, 2016

Color My World

Artists are just children who refuse to put down their crayons.

Al Hirschfeld

I’m about to admit to a not-so-secret secret, a guilty pleasure I feel no guilt about, and just the thing that takes the sting out of summer slipping away, making the shortening autumn days more bearable. My secret? I have my very own Time Machine. It’s yellow and green and it can teleport me to the past, put me down in the present, or slip me forward in time. My time machine is a brand new box of crayons!

In elementary school, we usually got the 8 crayon set. If we were lucky it was Crayola brand, with the recognizable yellow box, the flap that lifted to reveal the crayons in a row, like soldiers, alert and waiting for our commands. They stood, sharp and unbroken, the enveloping paper not yet torn and discarded. They represented the magnificent drawings that were the future. They were the perfect partner to our coloring books, like Tom and Jerry, only better. Teacher told us to write our name on the box, cautioned us not to break the crayons in half, to make sure they got returned to their proper place, and never rip off the paper covering. There was something pure and holy in that experience.

What a lucky day, birthday or Christmas, when in place of the 8 crayon box there was the 24 crayon box or even better, the 64 crayon box that came with–oh, be still my beating heart– a sharpener! Round and round went the crayons in the little plastic sharpener, small slivers of crayon shavings everywhere.

And the smell that is so recognizable that it cries out: CRAYONS! To this day, when I open up a new box of crayons the first thing I do after admiring their perfection is to lift them up to my nose, close my eyes and inhale deeply. There is magic in that smell, the perfect art perfume.

Written on the side of the crayons were names like Maize, Blizzard Blue, Thistle, all colors now retired, and new names added that are as fun to say as to use: Purple Mountains Majesty, Jazzberry Jam and Timber Wolf. As society’s expression grew to reflect the country’s diversity, the names of some of the crayons changed; the funky peachy color that was called Flesh and a reddish-orange color known as Indian Red were justly renamed. Thank goodness, because how can the multiplicity of the beautiful colors that make up the human race ever be confined to only one or two crayon colors.

Eventually our brand new crayons became broken and worn, and they were tossed in boxes and bags, melted for other art projects, or just neglected until they were thrown out by parents and teachers. I have such a box in the studio and classroom, and regardless of their state of being, their immediacy and simplicity makes them the perfect drawing tool. The bonus is that they play equally nice alone or with other art media. Often I like to combine them with mono prints, such as in my piece, “Comin’ Thru the Rye.”

Comin' Through the Rye — “Comin’ Thru The Rye” etching ink, soluble wax crayons

Lest you think crayons are just for kids and students, think again. I’m not the only artist that finds crayons a handy medium for expression; even the great Pablo Picasso used crayons to draw. In fact, at a recent art auction in South Africa, a crayon drawing by the Maestro fetched 3 million Rand, or about $220,000 US dollars. Think about that the next time you tape a crayon drawing by a young budding artist to the refrigerator.

So let’s celebrate our creativity this season by treating ourselves to a new box of crayons and going on a little time travel. Go a bit crazy and get yourself the big box with the sharpener, spring for bling and get some glitter crayons, or try out some of the many different shapes, colors and types of crayons that are out there. I can’t wait to see how you color your world!

This Week in the Studio

Spending time working on paintings for the 2017 November Exhibit at the River’s Edge Gallery. Never too early to get behind!

Next week I’ll return with a post about building a painting, as Munninn, Hugin and Minnin are coming along nicely and my painting about Thought, Memory and Desire is just about done.

September 7, 2016

A Letter to a Student of the Humanities

The calling of the humanities is to make us truly human in the best sense of the word.

J. Irwin Miller

Greetings!

It was several months ago when we first met, me presenting the whys and hows of our pledged encounter, you unsure and doubting of your decision. I could sense that you wondered if this was the best way to spend your time, together two days a week for several weeks, sacrificing a portion of your long awaited summer. Not everyone in a commitment such as ours sticks it out and many fall away. But you, you stayed all this time, and aren’t we both the better for it?

You began our relationship only wanting to know how to get what you desired, that perfect affirmation, that A+ grade. Oh, I sensed your skepticism when I explained that our journey was bigger than that, that we were going to spend time exploring what it means to be human. I wanted, and still want, more for you— for your third eye to open and for you to view yourself and the world differently.

So I’ve played Scheherazade, telling stories about how a grouchy Renaissance genius sculpted, from flawed marble, an enduring symbol of pride for a small city-state. How that same artist not only depicted the moment of animation of the Biblical first man, but how he also slyly showed Eve already formed and tenderly sheltered in the Creator’s embrace. That led to a discussion of time as being experienced simultaneously, in the present now and the far distant past, and that led to more talk about physics, time, and creation.

There were stories of an artist whose tortured sense of self meant his actions kept him away from the one thing he truly longed for— to love and be loved; and how he turned that ache into paintings and drawings and all kinds of wonderful things like stars that spun in the sky and planets whirling and whirling and whirling.

We looked at a painting that showed the fate of a teacher from Ancient Greece, a gadfly, who insisted his students question everything. I joked that whenever anyone asked me what I did for a living that I answered that I corrupted the youth of Detroit, and we laughed, because you understood what that meant; we all agreed that I shouldn’t face the same end as Socrates, and I remain pretty confident that I won’t.

Like giants we stepped from continent to continent, and like time-travelers we went from prehistoric caves in France, to Imperial China, to revolutionary France, and back home again before we took off on another world tour. All creative doors were open, and if sometimes the folks we met were different than us, that was okay too, because they were honest and interesting and very human.

Then one day we stepped outside the classroom to visit our local museum. It was there, in front of a painting that you had first seen in our text book, by an artist who had been sorely misused, who dealt with her pain and injustice with story, legend and paint, that you said the very words every humanities and art teacher longs to hear from her students:

“Art is about more than just paintings and drawings, isn’t it? It’s about things that happen in real life.”

It was then I knew that, although our time together would shortly come to an end and other commitments would soon take precedence, and in time you would turn to others in your quest for knowledge, at this moment you really understood what I was trying to show you. You understood that art is not a frivolous pastime or a casual undertaking; that to study the humanities is to connect to others through time and space, and to truly see you need only open your third eye, and your mind and your heart will follow.

Wishing you much wisdom and continued insight, I remain yours truly,

Martine

June 5, 2016

Write On! Life Lessons at the Tip of a Pen

Calligraphy is a kind of music not for the ears, but for the eyes.
V. Lazursky

Once upon a time, most of my artistic output was as a calligrapher, using the medium to create both fine art and in practical applications. Now, once upon a year, I return to the Land of Calligraphy, on the Isle of Italic, surrounded by the Sea of Ink. There I complete Certificates of Completion for the special needs adults at a school where my husband teaches. This year, as I bent to my task, it occurred to me that lessons learned from the end of the nib have parallels in other parts of life. Here are five life lessons that came to mind:

Things Take More Time Than You Think

There were only 11 certificates to complete, first and last names. I was certain that the task would be accomplished quickly. Still it took me a good three-four hours to finish. Howsacome? as Dad likes to say. Because the task was not only about the actual writing but also included the gathering of supplies, setting up the work station (the importance explained in a previous post, Everybody, Let’s Mise-en-Place!), doing the rough drafts, double checking the final product, and so on.

It seems to me that every project, in and out of the studio, always takes more time than first envisioned. When I am honest about that, I can give myself enough time (read: DO NOT WAIT UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE), so as not to feel frantic and rushed. So let’s do ourselves a favor and be realistic about the time needed, and then double it. After all, I don’t remember ever saying, “Whoa, I have way too much time for this project!”

Be in the Present Moment

When you are in the Zen of scribing, your attention is on the letter you are writing, the word you are composing, the stroke, the spring to the serif, the pressure of the pen on paper, the ink that rests on the nib. I have found that the only additional input that I can negotiate is listening to classical music. In fact, once when I was listening to an audio book I started transcribing the story I was listening to rather than the text I was copying. Oy vey!

To be in the present moment, at the easel, in the studio, home with kith and kin, elevates the ordinary to the sacramental. Sure it’s not an easy task, especially for those of us operating under the illusion that we can multitask. Still, as we scribe, so we thrive. At least that’s the official word.

Ink Happens

Plan, plan and plan some more–mix the ink to the right consistency, clean the pen, rule the paper, practice the font. Still, in spite of all, sometimes ink happens and the inkwell spills, usually when you are almost done, and then, gasp, the moment of horror when your realize all is naught, zip, zero, nada.

Oh jeez, is that not a metaphor for those times in our life, artistic or otherwise, when the Muse, in a fit of mischief, places us in such a state. We are then presented with the challenge: give up or go on. You know how we are my friend; we sigh, cry, clean up and solider on. So, hand me a clean piece of paper. Let’s make this happen!

There Ain’t No Eraser, Baby

You might find that your letter forms are not spot on and the lines of text are not entirely straight. The materials used in calligraphy are often indelible, and cannot be removed, or in some cases, even covered up. In other words, not every undertaking will be perfect and you are going need to deal with unerasable mistakes. Sometimes you can rethink a splotch (“Does this look like a bird? A little bird picture would be good here, right?”), adapt a misplaced mark (“That letter “p” just needs an extra curly-q to make it look okay.”), or worst case, you may need to start over (“Oops, I just wrote “Bib” instead of “Bob”! Do you think Bob will really mind if I change his name?”).

It is glorious when everything clickety-clacks along, but when things happen that can’t be undone, on the page or in life, identify what can be fixed, or figure how you can adapt the mistake, or recognize the need to discard and begin anew.

Above all, don’t be concerned about getting it all perfect; that’s never going to happen. Trust me, you can relax and let that worry go.

Find the Rhythm in the Black and White

There is beautiful rhythm that occurs when the white space between and within the letters are in balance with the black shapes of the letter form. A tilt in either direction throws things off-balance. Think in terms of black/white, yin/yang, light/shadow, you need the balance of both for wholeness. Balance is my biggest challenge in life, balancing my studio practice with the business portion of art; walking the middle way of commitments to family and friends and the need to create; maintaining the poise between work and recreation. In other words, finding equilibrium and harmony and a sense of centeredness in the daily dealings of life.

So that’s it, my lessons learned this week, found at the end of the pen nib. Maybe later I’ll share the lessons learned while running a race, just as soon as I clean up this ink spill.

This Week in the Studio

A great week in the studio, feeling productive.

I have begun a new painting, 20 x 30 inches, oil on board, title TBD. This is a new direction and it will be interesting to watch where this takes me. Here is the background with the words Minnin, Munin and Hugin (Thought, Memory, Desire):

I also was able to oil-out one of the self portraits, one of my favorite steps in painting, and I am pleased with the results. Once dry, I’ll deliver it to the photographer for it’s “official” photograph and share it with you then.

Speaking of self portraits, I’m back to the Mondrian pair, repainted the red rectangles (already repainted the other colors). Next will be to touch up the black grid, let them dry and then oil out the canvas.

Finally, I got another rondo, the ammonite (spiral shell), fairly completed.

Whew.