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.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
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
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