Wednesday, December 20, 2006
I am leaving Big Sur this morning. I am cleaning the studio with a heavy heart. I am filled with thoughts about the Mudds, who I feel I got to know during this last month, thanks to the loving stories shared by Jim Cox, their ranch manager and friend for many many years. Yesterday I saw some photographs of the Mudds when they were young and vital, laughing at parties, at their daughter's wedding at Glen Deven Ranch, snapshots of graduations and intimate dinners, with horses and dogs, a photograph of their children around a Christmas fire. As I sit here writing the last entry to this blog, I am witness to the seasons changing before my eyes. Santa Ana winds have become Arctic blasts. Dusty ruts in the road are puddles now.
I intend to preserve the awe and joy of the previous weeks here, an unprecedented time where I remained spiritually open to every change. I was undaunted by carpenter ants and rewarded with rainbows. I read Walden while living Walden. I painted with energy and the work was received with enthusiasm. I met dozens of new people, every one of whom I'd like to see again. Still, as I pack up the paint and dispose of the perishables, I 'm trying not to feel sad. Though the residency has come to an end, tomorrow will be the beginning of something else. Just as the Mudds, though long gone, are surely pleased by the gift they gave me, I will find ongoing pleasure in giving gifts of my own. In January, The Big Sur Land Trust, the Big Sur Arts Initiative, Jim Cox and myself will begin to assess how this can become an ongoing opportunity for other artists. And I want to leave you with one last gift: my hope for those of you who found your way to this blog, that you too now realize it is never too late to pursue a dream. I hope I've especially shown my children (including those I did not birth --you all know who you are) that it is always good to stretch your boundaries, but also, to be occasionally very quiet and listen to what the world and nature are trying to tell you, and finally to be grateful for what you have received. I love you all.
(On the subject of gifts, that reminds me,.. I'm in deep trouble in the Christmas gift department. Unless you put in an order for tie-died socks a.s.a.p., I haven't even thought about the holidays, so forgive me if you don't get a present until March.) Today, I don't feel sharp enough to articulate an ending to this journal worthy of what the experience calls for. I'm looking our the window again at the last sunset I will see from this seat for a while. In the sky, which is beginning to fill with rose tinted clouds, a plane flies high above the Santa Lucia mountain range. I am reminded of the very first time I flew alone. I was fourteen and I went to visit Judy Murray in Carmel. The flight was from LAX to Santa Barbara to Monterey Airport. I had a window seat and my face pressed to the glass the entire flight. I wondered who lived in those little houses tucked into pines along the top of the mountain range so far below the belly of the plane. Now I know: I Do.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Sede II
I have been painting a series on paper of Big Sur, expressionistically rendered with furniture floating in the atmosphere, often, a white chair. The white chair is similar to the Shabby Chic relic falling to shreds in my L.A. living room. This series solidifies something I've artistically experienced here: The sense of being here and there. A balance of finding ownership of what can't be bought or sold. And the down-filled white comfort of that thought. I'm going to call these paintings "The Sede" series.
Still reading Walden, the mid-nineteenth century record of Thoreau's experiment living alone in the house he built himself on Walden Pond. In describing the land where he eventually chose to build, he wrote: "At a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every spot as the possible site of a house. I have surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live. In imagination, I have bought all the farms in succession, for all were to be bought, and I knew their price. I walked over each farmer's premises, tasted his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind; even put a higher price on it, --took everything but a deed of it, --took his word for his deed, cultivated it, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, leaving him to carry it on. Wherever I sat, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly. What is a house but a sedes, a seat?"
Reading Walden, and not the Cliff Notes I frantically scanned decades ago, has been like icing on the cake. When you are alone this long, you begin to "commune with nature" and "contemplate your bellybutton" (two expressions my dad used derogatorily all throughout my teenage years ) so it's comforting to know that others experience similar bliss. This land is your land, this land is my land, Dylan sings. And this studio feels like it is mine today. I don't need to own it. I live here in Big Sur, and in some ways, always will.
Still reading Walden, the mid-nineteenth century record of Thoreau's experiment living alone in the house he built himself on Walden Pond. In describing the land where he eventually chose to build, he wrote: "At a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every spot as the possible site of a house. I have surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live. In imagination, I have bought all the farms in succession, for all were to be bought, and I knew their price. I walked over each farmer's premises, tasted his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind; even put a higher price on it, --took everything but a deed of it, --took his word for his deed, cultivated it, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, leaving him to carry it on. Wherever I sat, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly. What is a house but a sedes, a seat?"
Reading Walden, and not the Cliff Notes I frantically scanned decades ago, has been like icing on the cake. When you are alone this long, you begin to "commune with nature" and "contemplate your bellybutton" (two expressions my dad used derogatorily all throughout my teenage years ) so it's comforting to know that others experience similar bliss. This land is your land, this land is my land, Dylan sings. And this studio feels like it is mine today. I don't need to own it. I live here in Big Sur, and in some ways, always will.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Big Sur
These are the last days of the residency. Winter has arrived and the weather will change the paint on the artist's palette. When I first arrived in November there was such a delicacy to the color of a silver field against cerulean blue sky, a softness in the late afternoon breeze. Winter is the season that test the mettle of those who call Big Sur home. The creeks swell and spew rock. trees fall and sea cliffs reconfigure. Still, this is the most beautiful place on earth.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Rainbow Over Glen Deven
The view from here is like a movie that just keeps getting better. Today around sunset, it started to drizzle. I was writing in the studio and glanced up to see THIS sight before my eyes. From the spot where I shot this photograph, not eighteen hours earlier, I watched shooting stars like fireflies in the night.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Reflection in Artist Retreat Studio
The reflections in Virginia Mudd's studio inspire more reflection. As this Big Sur Artist Residency experiment winds down, untimely inspiration reveals itself and I can't help but wish there was more time to develop ideas. Ideas develop anywhere, but they first come to you where they come to you. For that, I will forever be indebted to those who enabled this experience.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Sunday Storm
As time is condensing, so will this post.
The last few days fuse into a blur of motions, weather, locations, color, light and darks. Late Saturday night, when the rain seemed relentless, I determined that it was not a good idea to drive my car down the road from the studio to the guesthouse. So I set out on foot, sloshed, umbrella and flashlight in hand. I admit: one does have fearful thoughts. What if I fall, what if a hungry mountain lion lurks beyond the curve? What if the road slides down the canyon and I'm on it? You simply walk through your fears, one step after another. I took a hot bath. I was feeling tired and brave, about to go to bed, when this ferocious clap of thunder shook the night. (I don't like thunder.) The electricity blew, lights went out and while I was trembling from those two surprises, suddenly, the estate's generator (located right next to my bedroom) roars on, vibrating the window and I'm sure, we're also now having an earthquake.
The first half of yesterday, Sunday, was a logistical juggle where all the balls dropped. Some local Big Sur artists were going to come onto the property, have lunch, then do some plein air painting. Unfortunately, it was raining. With no way of contacting them myself, I had to assume they were still coming. That meant I had to go up to the studio, get some art supplies, and bring down some food. Except, I'd left the car up the hill. It was a pleasant morning walk in the rain. It was not yet 9 a.m. Jim Cox, who was feeding the horses, offered to follow me in his 4-wheel drive if I wanted to get my car to drier ground. I safely navigated the road. The rain was relentless. By ll:00, I concluded the painting day needed to be cancelled. I have no cellular service here and couldn't reach Tom or Erin from the main house phone. That meant..... back up the hill...on foot, umbrella-less this time, as I'd absentmindedly forgot it in the studio. I fashioned raingear for the trek out of trashbags. And I mean, fashioned. I covered my lower half with one bag, poking leg holes and tying it about my waist, like pantaloons. My face poked out of the other trashbag which slid down over my upper body and a backpack. As I was trudged up the hill, I thought of all the hours I've spent in my life fashioning multi-purpose outfits, clothes that satisfy my aesthetic, but don't offend, let's say, a stepmother's, a Board of Directors, or a PTA. Believe me I was grateful knowing NO ONE would be a witness to this most unfashionable raingear. Almost no one. As I rounded the bend to the studio, the horses caught sight of me. They reared, they whinnied, they snorted, skittering backward across the muddy field. I seriously thought they were going to hurt themselves. Judging by the whites of their eyes, they must have seen what they thought was one ugly black plastic beast approaching the corral.
With the art day cancelled, Erin suggested I drive down to Nepenthe, and join her at her mom Holly's house for the Sunday "stitch and bitch." Should you wonder, a stitch-and-bitch is the 21st century version of a women's quilting bee, in this case, knitting squares for a baby quilt. Holly's renowned for her knitting, an artist with needles. To my eye, most of the women were pretty sophisticated knitters. There were about fifteen of us, some cross-legged on the floor, others cushioned on couches, slippered, barefoot. The only conversation remotely bitchy involved Mel Gibson. Otherwise, it was what women, gathered voluntarily, do best: laugh, assist each other, discuss film, praise the coffee cake Holly baked, reminisce about travels, husbands, children, fret about their teenage drivers. Erin taught me how to knit and I completed half a square for this lucky unborn baby; Holly finished it. The ladies left. Around six, family members began to pour in from all doors at once for Sunday dinner. Tilapia tacos and cake were great, but the company was even better. (Made me miss mine.)
Today is Monday. I am wearing a multicolored cap that in fact was intended as a sweater sleeve. Erin knit it and the colors are inspirational. I will wear this as my art hat, as others have worn berets.
The last few days fuse into a blur of motions, weather, locations, color, light and darks. Late Saturday night, when the rain seemed relentless, I determined that it was not a good idea to drive my car down the road from the studio to the guesthouse. So I set out on foot, sloshed, umbrella and flashlight in hand. I admit: one does have fearful thoughts. What if I fall, what if a hungry mountain lion lurks beyond the curve? What if the road slides down the canyon and I'm on it? You simply walk through your fears, one step after another. I took a hot bath. I was feeling tired and brave, about to go to bed, when this ferocious clap of thunder shook the night. (I don't like thunder.) The electricity blew, lights went out and while I was trembling from those two surprises, suddenly, the estate's generator (located right next to my bedroom) roars on, vibrating the window and I'm sure, we're also now having an earthquake.
The first half of yesterday, Sunday, was a logistical juggle where all the balls dropped. Some local Big Sur artists were going to come onto the property, have lunch, then do some plein air painting. Unfortunately, it was raining. With no way of contacting them myself, I had to assume they were still coming. That meant I had to go up to the studio, get some art supplies, and bring down some food. Except, I'd left the car up the hill. It was a pleasant morning walk in the rain. It was not yet 9 a.m. Jim Cox, who was feeding the horses, offered to follow me in his 4-wheel drive if I wanted to get my car to drier ground. I safely navigated the road. The rain was relentless. By ll:00, I concluded the painting day needed to be cancelled. I have no cellular service here and couldn't reach Tom or Erin from the main house phone. That meant..... back up the hill...on foot, umbrella-less this time, as I'd absentmindedly forgot it in the studio. I fashioned raingear for the trek out of trashbags. And I mean, fashioned. I covered my lower half with one bag, poking leg holes and tying it about my waist, like pantaloons. My face poked out of the other trashbag which slid down over my upper body and a backpack. As I was trudged up the hill, I thought of all the hours I've spent in my life fashioning multi-purpose outfits, clothes that satisfy my aesthetic, but don't offend, let's say, a stepmother's, a Board of Directors, or a PTA. Believe me I was grateful knowing NO ONE would be a witness to this most unfashionable raingear. Almost no one. As I rounded the bend to the studio, the horses caught sight of me. They reared, they whinnied, they snorted, skittering backward across the muddy field. I seriously thought they were going to hurt themselves. Judging by the whites of their eyes, they must have seen what they thought was one ugly black plastic beast approaching the corral.
With the art day cancelled, Erin suggested I drive down to Nepenthe, and join her at her mom Holly's house for the Sunday "stitch and bitch." Should you wonder, a stitch-and-bitch is the 21st century version of a women's quilting bee, in this case, knitting squares for a baby quilt. Holly's renowned for her knitting, an artist with needles. To my eye, most of the women were pretty sophisticated knitters. There were about fifteen of us, some cross-legged on the floor, others cushioned on couches, slippered, barefoot. The only conversation remotely bitchy involved Mel Gibson. Otherwise, it was what women, gathered voluntarily, do best: laugh, assist each other, discuss film, praise the coffee cake Holly baked, reminisce about travels, husbands, children, fret about their teenage drivers. Erin taught me how to knit and I completed half a square for this lucky unborn baby; Holly finished it. The ladies left. Around six, family members began to pour in from all doors at once for Sunday dinner. Tilapia tacos and cake were great, but the company was even better. (Made me miss mine.)
Today is Monday. I am wearing a multicolored cap that in fact was intended as a sweater sleeve. Erin knit it and the colors are inspirational. I will wear this as my art hat, as others have worn berets.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Last Pear on the Tree
The last week of the Big Sur Residency, the beginning of the end. We are in the second day of the first winter storm. My companions today are rain, clouds, wind, the mountains, a sycamore tree, near naked of foliage...and David Bowie. "Ground Control to Major Tom...eat your protein pills and put your helmet on, commencing countdown, engines on..." I am sitting in the warm studio, eating graham crackers, drinking coffee and trying not to acknowledge a creeping sadness that this time has so quickly passed. It is almost unbearable, the comfort of solitude, the illusion of safety, the freedom to bare your secrets, open all senses and make art out of it.
Gifts just keep coming to me here. Not ten minutes ago, I glanced up from my work to see a rainbow, moored to the canyon floor, its arc practically at eye level. It was gone before I could capture the image, replaced by a downpour, leaving me wondering if I'm not going Kerouac on myself, hallucinating it.
There are many literary references in stories about Big Sur to people hearing music that has no discernible source. I admit I've heard the music. I think it is the drumming bass of the ocean waves hitting shore, combined with the whistle of the wind, birds and bees, crickets and crows, but I'm not sure. I am reading a novel called The Memory Keeper's Daughter. There is a conversation that takes place between a father who is a photographer and his teenage son. Against his father's wishes, the boy wants to become a musician. The father, also a doctor, shows his son a photograph he took of a human heart, which at first glance, looks like the silhouette of a tree. Musing on the mystery of perception, he says, "Sometimes I think the entire world is contained within each living person." They are standing in a darkroom and as he sends a flash of concentrated light through the enlarger, slips paper into developer and finally into the fixer, he tells his son: "Photography is all about secrets, the secrets we all have and will never tell."
The son responds: "That's not what music is like...Music is like you touch the pulse of the world. Music is always happening and sometimes you get to touch it for a while, and when you do, you know that everything's connected to everything else."
Another gift I recently received came by email from Erin Gafill. It was this poem, written by Marie Ponsot, Tom's favorite aunt-poet. Now I am giving this present to all of you.
A Rune, Interminable
Low above the moss
a sprig of scarlet berries
Soon eatened or blackened
Tells time.
Go to a wedding
as to a funeral:
bury the loss.
Go to a funeral
as to a wedding:
marry the loss.
Go to a coming
as to a going:
unhurrying.
Time is winter-green
Seeds keep time.
Time so kept carries us
across, to where
no time is lost.
-Marie Ponsot
I'm cranking up the volume now. "....This is Major Tom to Ground Control. I'm stepping through the door and I'm floating in a most peculiar way. The stars look very different today."
Are you all still with me?
Gifts just keep coming to me here. Not ten minutes ago, I glanced up from my work to see a rainbow, moored to the canyon floor, its arc practically at eye level. It was gone before I could capture the image, replaced by a downpour, leaving me wondering if I'm not going Kerouac on myself, hallucinating it.
There are many literary references in stories about Big Sur to people hearing music that has no discernible source. I admit I've heard the music. I think it is the drumming bass of the ocean waves hitting shore, combined with the whistle of the wind, birds and bees, crickets and crows, but I'm not sure. I am reading a novel called The Memory Keeper's Daughter. There is a conversation that takes place between a father who is a photographer and his teenage son. Against his father's wishes, the boy wants to become a musician. The father, also a doctor, shows his son a photograph he took of a human heart, which at first glance, looks like the silhouette of a tree. Musing on the mystery of perception, he says, "Sometimes I think the entire world is contained within each living person." They are standing in a darkroom and as he sends a flash of concentrated light through the enlarger, slips paper into developer and finally into the fixer, he tells his son: "Photography is all about secrets, the secrets we all have and will never tell."
The son responds: "That's not what music is like...Music is like you touch the pulse of the world. Music is always happening and sometimes you get to touch it for a while, and when you do, you know that everything's connected to everything else."
Another gift I recently received came by email from Erin Gafill. It was this poem, written by Marie Ponsot, Tom's favorite aunt-poet. Now I am giving this present to all of you.
A Rune, Interminable
Low above the moss
a sprig of scarlet berries
Soon eatened or blackened
Tells time.
Go to a wedding
as to a funeral:
bury the loss.
Go to a funeral
as to a wedding:
marry the loss.
Go to a coming
as to a going:
unhurrying.
Time is winter-green
Seeds keep time.
Time so kept carries us
across, to where
no time is lost.
-Marie Ponsot
I'm cranking up the volume now. "....This is Major Tom to Ground Control. I'm stepping through the door and I'm floating in a most peculiar way. The stars look very different today."
Are you all still with me?
Friday, December 8, 2006
Sunrise in Big Sur, December 8
The way the children would wake me in the middle of the night, the window behind the four poster bed in the guesthouse, taps me on the shoulder if there's going to be a sunrise I wouldn't want to miss. Trust me, I am not an early riser. But today at 6:30, the light was like a bugle. I got the camera and had to run to the ridge from where I wanted to view it. Trust me, I'm not a runner either. But look what I saw!
The first winter storm came on shore today. Before it began to rain, I drove to this spot that has coastal access and hiked to within one foot of the edge of the continent. From there I could peer below me as the waves churned and hit the stone bluff, coughing up houses of foam.
All day it has been raining and windy. The studio almost vibrates with weather. It makes strange noises which startle me, one sounding like a pot just fell on the roof.
The first winter storm came on shore today. Before it began to rain, I drove to this spot that has coastal access and hiked to within one foot of the edge of the continent. From there I could peer below me as the waves churned and hit the stone bluff, coughing up houses of foam.
All day it has been raining and windy. The studio almost vibrates with weather. It makes strange noises which startle me, one sounding like a pot just fell on the roof.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Of all the cool moments in my life, my favorites involve the combination of friends and foreign territory. Pleasure, multiplied. Maui with the Greenwoods and all our young children. The English Lake District with Binzi and Kyle and the kids, making blackberry cobbler with Richard Nelson on Bainbridge Island, hiking by firefly light down from Montecatini with Erin and Tom, Judy Murray and I in an elevator in Italy, Ireland with Suz, thumbing through photo albums with Melanie in Seattle. Add to that today's lunch with Ken Peterson at the Monterey Aquarium. Decades may pass between visits but our common history include friends, schools and love or hate of certain neighborhoods we may have inhabited. We liked Rome. We hated the San Fernando Valley. We love Big Sur. Strangely, Ken lived for many years on the other side of the Glen Deven property line. And...the lobster sandwich at the Portola Cafe inside the aquarium was totally memorable.
After lunch, stopped at Searles Art Supplies to inquire about framing a couple paintings on paper for the reception next week at Judy's. Too late. They're swamped with holiday orders. Art stores for me are like candy stores to kids. I can't enter and not purchase. Today I bought two tubes of green, a yellow I've never heard of (diarylide yellow) and some water soluble Derwent pencils. The salesgirl and I got into a conversation about the Big Sur artist residency. She's an abstract painter who studied sculpure at Otis College, where I taught for ten years. The next thing I know, the sun is beginning to set.
Stopped by Judy's to pick up the glasses I forgot last week. We played three games of backgammon and I returned to Big Sur.
I'm feeling the tug of the end of the line. This residency experiment is too rapidly coming to a close. I never made it to the Weston's house. I wanted to get to know the artists I met the first week. I want to know where the hot springs are. I wanted to thank Bill Leahy in person, to walk at Pt. Lobos and see Sand Dollar beach. I want to buy granola from Ventana, see Holly's house, eat beet salad at Nepenthe.
Everyone's expecting the first winter storm this weekend.
After lunch, stopped at Searles Art Supplies to inquire about framing a couple paintings on paper for the reception next week at Judy's. Too late. They're swamped with holiday orders. Art stores for me are like candy stores to kids. I can't enter and not purchase. Today I bought two tubes of green, a yellow I've never heard of (diarylide yellow) and some water soluble Derwent pencils. The salesgirl and I got into a conversation about the Big Sur artist residency. She's an abstract painter who studied sculpure at Otis College, where I taught for ten years. The next thing I know, the sun is beginning to set.
Stopped by Judy's to pick up the glasses I forgot last week. We played three games of backgammon and I returned to Big Sur.
I'm feeling the tug of the end of the line. This residency experiment is too rapidly coming to a close. I never made it to the Weston's house. I wanted to get to know the artists I met the first week. I want to know where the hot springs are. I wanted to thank Bill Leahy in person, to walk at Pt. Lobos and see Sand Dollar beach. I want to buy granola from Ventana, see Holly's house, eat beet salad at Nepenthe.
Everyone's expecting the first winter storm this weekend.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Day 27
My friend Erin Gafill called this morning to ask if I wanted to paint with her at Sobranes Point. Did I die and go to heaven?
Finding this particular location proved slightly more difficult than planned. I drove up and down the coast between Rocky Point and the Carmel Highlands about five times. No sign of Erin. I stopped to ask three people picnicking out of the back of a van where Sobranes Point might be and they told me I was standing on it. At that very moment, Erin's Suburban passed by going north.
We finally met, and situated ourselves along the side of the road. The golden light was beginning. Excitement was in the air. Two women artists, two easels, a highway that is already difficult to keep eyes to the road. Sobranes Point is the scenic spot on the Central Coast where, if you look south, you see mountains meeting rolling knolls meeting rocky cliffs, sky and sea (and a little cabin off to the side.) It is the quintessential Big Sur view and a favorite subject of Erin's work. Rebel that I am, I decided to paint the view looking north instead. That way I could warn Erin if a car was going to run us over. My view was not as majestic as Erin's; it essentially included Highway One, the telephone poles that dress it, and all the ambient hues that are Big Sur at that hour. As the setting sun charged the air with color, invariably, tourists stopped, totally blocking my view. (Couldn't really blame them.) At least one honeymoon couple pretended they were photographing each other, but they posed to include the "artists" in the background. Did I mention I was wearing Erin's psychedelic tie-died painter's apron?
Racing with the light, Erin made brilliant headway on three small paintings. I would buy them all. As for my "on the road" picture, I'm keeping it.
Finding this particular location proved slightly more difficult than planned. I drove up and down the coast between Rocky Point and the Carmel Highlands about five times. No sign of Erin. I stopped to ask three people picnicking out of the back of a van where Sobranes Point might be and they told me I was standing on it. At that very moment, Erin's Suburban passed by going north.
We finally met, and situated ourselves along the side of the road. The golden light was beginning. Excitement was in the air. Two women artists, two easels, a highway that is already difficult to keep eyes to the road. Sobranes Point is the scenic spot on the Central Coast where, if you look south, you see mountains meeting rolling knolls meeting rocky cliffs, sky and sea (and a little cabin off to the side.) It is the quintessential Big Sur view and a favorite subject of Erin's work. Rebel that I am, I decided to paint the view looking north instead. That way I could warn Erin if a car was going to run us over. My view was not as majestic as Erin's; it essentially included Highway One, the telephone poles that dress it, and all the ambient hues that are Big Sur at that hour. As the setting sun charged the air with color, invariably, tourists stopped, totally blocking my view. (Couldn't really blame them.) At least one honeymoon couple pretended they were photographing each other, but they posed to include the "artists" in the background. Did I mention I was wearing Erin's psychedelic tie-died painter's apron?
Racing with the light, Erin made brilliant headway on three small paintings. I would buy them all. As for my "on the road" picture, I'm keeping it.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Day 26
Today began with bugs. Another morning invasion of carpenter ants in the studio. But I managed their elimination in what I thought was a fairly ingenious way: I used artist tape to pick them up as they crawled out of woodwork, landed on walls and floors.
This meant I didn't have to sweep their little carcasses afterward. I made a sculpture from the accumulated strips of tape which I intend to give away... to someone special. I don't like killing things, even bugs. Because not all of them died instantly on the artist tape, they wiggled, some for hours. A morbid curiosity took over, not to mention occasional sympathy. But they're not so nice, carpenter ants. I have a magnifying glass and it was trained on this one creature who unfortunately had only half its body damaged, the big black sac that held what were clearly its eggs. For one hour, with pointed little teeth and flicking arms, it ate its own eggs! Was it hungry? Did it think it would survive if it ate its progeny? Was it just pissed off crazy? In any case, it wasn't nice.
And the day ended appropriately, also with bugs. This time in my computer. After recounting the day for this Big Sur journal, the effort just suddenly evaporated into thin air.
My intent today, every day, was to create something artistic to show for my experience. Once again the weather was so mild as to find me sleeveless on a morning walk on Garrapata Ridge. (Forgive me, beloved friends in New York, the Midwest and Europe. This information could be too much for you to bear.) It feels like the residency is almost over and in many ways it has only just begun. I understand in certain art retreat experiences, the artist comes with a clear cut series in mind. That not having been my choice, the art I create here is closely aligned to my visceral experience of Big Sur. Alternately, it is grand, peaceful, vibrant with energy, wildly beautiful, mercurial in color, and often whimsical. (Big Sur, that is.) A theme that had been quietly generating before I came to Big Sur concerned the concept of "home," and included a symbol that has been making appearances in my paintings for years: the simple pentagonal shape that is a house the way children draw it. That symbol first appeared in a painting right after 9/11. A glowing white house inside a whorling crimson tornado. It was called "Longing for Kansas." In the last five years, other paintings with names like, "Homeland Insecurity" cathartically expressed my frustration with our country's direction, and this house shape is integral to their composition.
What I've mysteriously discovered in Big Sur is a persistent sighting of this "house" shape. It's everywhere, cast as reflection on the mirrored walls of Virginia's studio, bird houses, barns and cottages, shadows on mountain, altars. Consequently when this shape finds space in any of the work produced up here on this mountain, it doesn't hold the former emotions of fear, terror and dinintegration. For that alone, I am grateful for this residency.
This meant I didn't have to sweep their little carcasses afterward. I made a sculpture from the accumulated strips of tape which I intend to give away... to someone special. I don't like killing things, even bugs. Because not all of them died instantly on the artist tape, they wiggled, some for hours. A morbid curiosity took over, not to mention occasional sympathy. But they're not so nice, carpenter ants. I have a magnifying glass and it was trained on this one creature who unfortunately had only half its body damaged, the big black sac that held what were clearly its eggs. For one hour, with pointed little teeth and flicking arms, it ate its own eggs! Was it hungry? Did it think it would survive if it ate its progeny? Was it just pissed off crazy? In any case, it wasn't nice.
And the day ended appropriately, also with bugs. This time in my computer. After recounting the day for this Big Sur journal, the effort just suddenly evaporated into thin air.
My intent today, every day, was to create something artistic to show for my experience. Once again the weather was so mild as to find me sleeveless on a morning walk on Garrapata Ridge. (Forgive me, beloved friends in New York, the Midwest and Europe. This information could be too much for you to bear.) It feels like the residency is almost over and in many ways it has only just begun. I understand in certain art retreat experiences, the artist comes with a clear cut series in mind. That not having been my choice, the art I create here is closely aligned to my visceral experience of Big Sur. Alternately, it is grand, peaceful, vibrant with energy, wildly beautiful, mercurial in color, and often whimsical. (Big Sur, that is.) A theme that had been quietly generating before I came to Big Sur concerned the concept of "home," and included a symbol that has been making appearances in my paintings for years: the simple pentagonal shape that is a house the way children draw it. That symbol first appeared in a painting right after 9/11. A glowing white house inside a whorling crimson tornado. It was called "Longing for Kansas." In the last five years, other paintings with names like, "Homeland Insecurity" cathartically expressed my frustration with our country's direction, and this house shape is integral to their composition.
What I've mysteriously discovered in Big Sur is a persistent sighting of this "house" shape. It's everywhere, cast as reflection on the mirrored walls of Virginia's studio, bird houses, barns and cottages, shadows on mountain, altars. Consequently when this shape finds space in any of the work produced up here on this mountain, it doesn't hold the former emotions of fear, terror and dinintegration. For that alone, I am grateful for this residency.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Ants and Uncles
Sunday in December. It's as warm as summer. I had some visitors at my studio this morning, a swarm of carpenter ants. They're big. Imagine black Harley-Davidsons with wings. They were dropping from the ceiling rafters sounding a thud each time one fell. After about a half hour of trying to ignore the situation, I went after them, beheading the creatures with card stock, impailing them with pencils. By noon, the battle was over and I was the victor. I swept away all traces of carnage, and with it any momentum I'd had to paint today. My ambition fell prey to the glorious weather. I drove down the coast, visited the art gallery by the Spirit Garden, drove further to the Henry Miller Library where I bought a book of poetry by Robinson Jeffers. I overheard someone say they've come up with a new logo: "The Henry Miller Library...Where Nothing Happens." Totally brilliant!
On the drive back to Palo Colorado, I happened to be near my all time favorite scenic turnout around sunset. I stopped. A cool wind was whipping so I moored myself to a boulder to steady the camera. That's when I thought of my uncle.
Toward the end of his life, Uncle Bob once visited me when I was housesitting in Malibu. We watched a sunset together. He told me about "the green flash" you see just as the sun sets into the ocean. I thought he was pulling my leg so we watched intently. As I'd suspected, no green flash. Smiling, eyes twinkling, he insisted he'd seen it. It's phenomenal, he swore. Today, I once again trained my eye on the horizon waiting for the sun to drop, drop, drop already before I'm blind. Guess what, Uncle Bob....no green flash.
However, as my photographs will confirm, it was an amazing sunset.
On the drive back to Palo Colorado, I happened to be near my all time favorite scenic turnout around sunset. I stopped. A cool wind was whipping so I moored myself to a boulder to steady the camera. That's when I thought of my uncle.
Toward the end of his life, Uncle Bob once visited me when I was housesitting in Malibu. We watched a sunset together. He told me about "the green flash" you see just as the sun sets into the ocean. I thought he was pulling my leg so we watched intently. As I'd suspected, no green flash. Smiling, eyes twinkling, he insisted he'd seen it. It's phenomenal, he swore. Today, I once again trained my eye on the horizon waiting for the sun to drop, drop, drop already before I'm blind. Guess what, Uncle Bob....no green flash.
However, as my photographs will confirm, it was an amazing sunset.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
One Passionate Car
Susan Thacker says:
I don't miss television living on this mountain. And telephone calls from survey takers and political workers are no longer an incessant interruption. Reading has once again become the great escape. I've read so many good books in the last month, but my favorite thing to read is The Carmel Pine Cone, the local paper (and not because they did an excellent article on the artist residency.) The police log cracks me up. "Kid cited for stealing gum." Odor in apartment on Lincoln Street. When Fire Department showed up, they found the occupant ventilating the apartment with all windows and doors open. Odor was gone. Occupant advised if smell returned to call 911." Another great read is the rear of this yellow car often parked in Palo Colorado. My personal favorite, "If ignorance is bliss, why aren't more people happy?
I don't miss television living on this mountain. And telephone calls from survey takers and political workers are no longer an incessant interruption. Reading has once again become the great escape. I've read so many good books in the last month, but my favorite thing to read is The Carmel Pine Cone, the local paper (and not because they did an excellent article on the artist residency.) The police log cracks me up. "Kid cited for stealing gum." Odor in apartment on Lincoln Street. When Fire Department showed up, they found the occupant ventilating the apartment with all windows and doors open. Odor was gone. Occupant advised if smell returned to call 911." Another great read is the rear of this yellow car often parked in Palo Colorado. My personal favorite, "If ignorance is bliss, why aren't more people happy?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)