As ever, stay hungry and curious.
Forgive me, Over the past few days I've been working on something that just got progressively difficult. Then I got severely sick this morning. I do not have much patience or comfort to sit and write so, I've been nursing my stomach and the dizziness with tea, liquids, and bed rest. Steadiness may come in a few days. Meanwhile I am trying to rest and not get up at all. In a few days I'll have a comment or two. Maybe even a mention about my mind that has been working ideas into the wee hours of the morning. I'm afraid to break the pattern, lest I lose something. Friend is telling me to cut it off by six. Try to enjoy the rest of the day. Honestly? I am afraid to. What is there afterwards? Reading? Conversation? Cooking? All of the above and more. My schedule gave comfort once till I started lingering after six. What came after was not fit to breathe through. Jammed schedules.hmm. Forgive me, must go. Return possibly by Sunday.
As ever, stay hungry and curious. It is the middle of the night officially and I am on the chopping block it seems. I asked a few hard questions two days ago and words out that I am answering as best as I can. Friend and I are chatting the night away and he ask this: How can I rationalize continuing to produce art when I have low to no sales? Truly I was dumbfounded by the last word. I never considered art to completely be a commercial affair. If I give in to that type of romance with money and mind control (see book titled The Medium is the Message), I will never make what my mind sees. I'll never make that dream happen for more than me to see. I am not apt to make that happen any day. It is not the money; it never has been. As a friend observed about me, the crux is living an authentic and creative life. I am not out for being understood as a stereotype. I am not trying to put on an act to be accepted as special or gifted. All of the work I've done and pursue requires a tact and discipline far away from pricey meals with gallery owners. Still to mention I have not penchant for being an "it" girl. Honestly it is simple, I continue to create because I have to. Being a professional a requires dedication beyond the classroom. Yo do not give up. You cannot give up. That is liking more to a flash in the pan. A professional had to get up and get beyond the failures to keep producing. When you hit that newspaper review just right, you keep producing, honing, and exploring. The question seems to beg the least of me.
The question may point to my shift to the written word to learn, apply, and explore. I can easily stash and retrieve my objects on a jump drive. Still the next goal is publication and notoriety if you want it. Book signings and readings thrown in to make the journey interesting. That may be a part of a life I want eventually. Still with me, it is not about the money. It is sharing work and mingling ideas that fuel my engine. Running the engine by writing it all out sets the tone for bigger possibilities that I have not discovered yet. While tooling around The Tate Museums website, I found a few artists in the same time line as Damien Hirst. One lost a significant amount of work during a fire at and storage facility. So now I know where the art goes that sits till shown or bought. (The hidden costs of being an artist.) I also remember reading about artist Thorton Dial and his storage facility in the 1990's. So I learned there is time to be patient and wait. These are the places where thing wait for big or bigger breaks. I know now I will continue to create and take chances. I wonder about the painter Katz who had five flops as show before people started buying. Where, oh, where has that work gone? I need to ponder more about this, why I create, hobbies vs. work, and competition. As ever, stay hungry and curious. I finally settle into a rhythm and it is designated quitting time. Can you really put a time clock on inspiration? A good sketch for over the work table would be the muses in overalls punching the time clock out for a break. I've been tying up loose ends ever since I woke up today. Starting with sewing, I finished the last of the house tiles. As I pulled the last one out of the machine, I felt the pit of my stomach drop. I did not want it to end. Learning to draw with a needle and thread with and without a machine has seize so much interest in my brain that even when I finish a hand quilted piece, the bottom drops out and I feel my whole purpose has gone. I have plans for more complex orders of paper and they can wait into winter to begin. Hmm. My inclination to experiment has come back asking for integration and more complex orders of paper. So, with what comes next I will be cycling back through old discoveries whether minor or extravagant. In all orders it will be smaller 12"x18", numerous, but no series, and a push beyond the normal. Honestly? To call it painted paper quilting may be accurate, but too simple to recognize the complexities.
I digress, too much this time. So on to where my heart was at. It was in The Raven King. I finished the timings. With a straight read, by myself, I am just under an hour. That is right where I need to be, if I remember the stipulations correctly. I'll print those off tomorrow or at least sometime this week. I thought the contest comes round annually, but at the beginning of the year. So between the Dall Quilt Celebration deadline and that, I'll be busy with finishing touches across the board. If I have missed the play deadline, I'll submit for the following year. Meanwhile friend says it is just fine. I, on the other hand, see gaps and too much leading. I need the reader to understand on their own, narrator or not. It is just like with my art, it has to stand in its own integrity without aid or explanation. I can not be there for every showing to give a speech on each piece. Besides I do not want to insult my readership, I want to include them in the discovery and find each time. Ultimately, I would like readers to have an experiential relationship with word and phrase. Including them on the journey seems the only way to bind and tie the story sensibly from beginning to end. So, I'll dig in again tomorrow with notes. I feel so dog gone dragged to make The Raven King into a short story, its beyond me. Not to mention, in the middle of falling asleep last night I was on the verge of blacking out when the other solution I've been chasing came up. Friend and others wanted to know what happens to the King. I wouldn't tell. I wouldn't tel, for afraid I'd go to hell. I just wanted to say, buy it and read it when it gets published. I held my tongue, if not but for all the years when I asked my mother how to spell a word and she'd reply "Look it up!" What tha?!! is all I could not respond. I have not got the slightest idea of where to start. Why do you think I am asking? These were the days before the internet and Webster always ruled the household. Meanwhile I reworked the sense to use another word and started hammering spelling lists in reading class. Either way, win-win on both our sides. Last but not least, for the tirade of questions in the last post, I owe myself some answers and you as well. I brought it up, it has been sitting beneath the surface for years and maybe being an artist is not an acceptable life to some people. I am not going to redirect them to "The Agony and The Ecstasy" and have them call the little white men in little white coats. Maybe they see Jean Michelle Basquiat in me, along with an expensive heroin addiction. Maybe it is the ever present starving artist archetype bumming cigarettes and always asking for money. I do not qualify for any of that. Now I wonder if it is up to me to reeducate their sensibilities. Maybe I become firm that this is not about money. Money is appreciated, but not the bottom line. Here I am figuring myself out in terms of the world, I did not want to admit that I left. A little at a time will do. Not to forget the reality of survival at different levels does not mean I need to become a banker, or a receptionist, or web developer. Living an authentic life means some sacrifices like any other and nurturing the passions that feed our souls. As ever, stay hungry and curious. Slow day. Mostly because I need it to be and my legs won't move any faster. I have not touched sewing either. The rain has me glazed over in a mock sleep and not that hungry. I finished the first big edit earlier this morning and moved onto typing in the corrections and changes. Everything is starting to make clear sense. When I get to Kinko's to print for the next big pass, I slow down a bit and look for the nuances in the detail. I thought I was well on my way changing the method to a short story till I looked a few things up. Namely the length of a short story for publication. I am over the limit and headlong into a novella. Trimming and editing out may get me closer to publication, but will the story be told well? I think not. So I will pair The Raven King with other stories in my files that need finishing, fleshing, and finessing.
The other issue was the trouble I was finding in moving these characters out of a play format. I'm back in again for the sake of clarity. I was close to two hours for my first read through years ago. This is a far go from a one act which I think is a stipulation for the playwriting contest. It is an annual contest, so maybe next year I'll bear a little more fruit than usual. Another save today was finding out about placing stage direction, character notes, and background into the body of the play. I thought I would have to nix them completely. Now I know I am on the right track. So structure and flow comes in the next edit. I also remember I am officially released from following any rules and nothing has to make sense. I do not have to aspire to being this 18th century writer, let alone writing the wisdom of a dead white men. This time my voice gets to stretch. When I get to core, I'll let you know. If I am too ashamed, maybe I'll hide it out in the dark web. >Kidding!< Otherwise I'll get started by writing query letters and some other such nonsense to publishers. The Writer's Market, yes? And more writing. I think it would be vunderbar to have other finished pieces to publish on line and in print in the next few years. Right now I can not stand the sight of a needle. Whether on a machine or staked out in my tomato. This is the first day I've admitted to it. A little distance maybe? A little? How about tomorrow? Yesterday's occurrence blew a hole in my psyche and I was bruised. Beyond that I feel pulled out of my comfort zone and forced to evaluate my creative journey so far. Is it worth it? Is there any reward? Shouldn't you leave hobbies for the weekend and get a job? Why can't you just be like the rest of us? Why do you always have to go off and be different? If you are going to do this, why can't you be a realist? If you are really gonna make time for this why aren't you a black artist? You could make money if you would just change you style? I know it is your work time, but can't you come out with us? I'm frustrated right now. I know I have got support, but some days the questions are senseless and base. Whether internal or from prying eyes I've got to bear it somehow. Mind you. Yeah, you out there. You don't give up either. As ever, stay hungry and curious. A friend told me she's proud of me. I'm living the artist life bold and full. I am living the creative life and all that it holds. She is a writer and understands the trials and tribulations of creating. She also know the phrase " I just don't feel like it" doesn't measure up to any task. So I say kudos to her for recognizing the dark days and waterless wells from which I draw. The quip in my mind is that i may be out of water, but there is wind power in this paradigm. I also have to remember that beauty no longer rules the day. It is relevance and being well crafted. It means to me to take part in the political and social landscape. I'm not a pundit, but in terms of culture wear and tear, I should find a well laced comment out of my oeuvre. It is time to grow up, but I see no need to lose my fascination machines. Hmm. They too may have something to say about the current affairs of art. But before I go and get my lip busted, I should anchor in my surroundings even if the only way I see the world is on the Internet.
Maybe it is the weather. Maybe it is my reaction to the winds that brought the clouds that brought the rain. My mood shifts with the seasons and the presence of water. I picked herbs from the garden for dinner and got a little wet. Nothing phased me standing where the wind passes through the fenced in yard. The most intriguing always happens through the slats: The oak shelters roots, the grape vine peeks out, and passersby peek in. So I stood under the tree feeling desperate to stay outside. Friend says "no" and tells me to come in,"more important things are going on". The wind passes again and I finally feel like I can breathe. Friend and an early dinner win out and I between the corn bread and the sausage remember today's disappointment: My free motion foot broke earlier round high noon. I had no expectation of an adventure day today, but either way it happened. I took an unexpected trip to Dallas expecting and hoping it would be a no hassle trip. Bottom line? They did not have the part. I'll have to wait two or three weeks for the next order to arrive. Meanwhile she told me that there are people who do the work without the foot. I was game from that point on. The trick of it all, she said, is to keep your fingers from slipping under the needle. Almost an hour later I'm back at home doing the putz around thing after resting. I could not touch my machine. I guess I forgot to grieve. The back story is this is a machine I bought for $10. I put about $75 in maintenance a year. My possessive attitude for it all is that it has zig-zag stitch that can be used for quilting and thread painting. I lose this machine I am purely out of luck until I can save enough for a refurbish. With all the reverse machine applique I do, I refuse to slow my progress and development for any reason. So now I am back to my wish list and my saving list to try to hold off this regular headache. This is not to mention tension issues I've had repeatedly. I'm not giving up. I am not giving up. I refuse to give up. So, the rough twenty minutes before bed, I sit down and test the shop keep's words. I had other problems well up. As a result I am using the all purpose foot to substitute for the free motion foot. Other than that, I bought chocolate for the first time in a few months. Lindt Truffles are tasty. Here hoping this not the beginnin gof another cold. Ack! Focusing on writing through the weekend. As ever, stay hungry and curious. I do not mean to seem here and there in my emotions as I post. I've wondered for the past week what I was thinking and wondering where the hell I was going. It was slow going and now I feel Acme brick imprints all over my face. I hit not so much a proverbial wall, so that image was not good. What I do feel like is that the personal well I draw from is shallow and I do not know how to fill it. I know it sounds awkward. I have three king sized quilts to finish, I have finally seen the sun with the top I am currently working, all the words for The Raven King have been mustered into a manuscript, and lastly I am developing the pieces for this year's mixed media series. How could I be lost? Too much multi-tasking can ruin a girl. I may not get anything done in record time, but who needs that now? My work is not to fulfill an assignment. For survival sake, my work better be beyond textbook limitations. Still to linger, to create nuances, and the meander the passages in the work means I am getting at the magic making itself and not depending on me to stand there PowerPoint presentation in hand.
I draw the well usually in darkness, musing until first light. Clarity takes pass after pass to construct and polish up before I'm hooked. If I work it hard enough and review my notes, sunlight hits and everything makes sense. Then I can see the piece through to finish with of without the initial sketch. Transformation always happens in the dark. Afterwards the piece is never the same in the light. It just dawned on me that maybe I am angry because I am not fighting it through on multiple fronts. I get tired of fearing ruin because of dire corrections and put the piece down till I have enough energy to muster a charge and try not to bulldoze the passage into oblivion. Rest and temperance the key. I am not on a deadline and my heart is fearing boredom. Maybe to work one process for more than a day to make a commitment to accomplishment. So I am busy in the studio and in the kitchen. I may be in the zone as even my UFOs are being picked up with interest again. But my heart? It seems to be sitting to the side waiting for something. Clearing out old commitments before the new year may be the place I have found myself in. I'll trust my instincts and script it in a calendar for understanding my own revolutions around the sun. As ever, stay hungry and curious. I was toiling and musing in the dark trying to fall asleep. How that combination would lull me off I do not know, though be assured that time passed and my limbs ache less because of the snickering and private jokes. Eventually I quieted down. The funny thing is I looked at the clock and I passed from 9:32 p.m. to 9:47 p.m. with ease. I thought for sure morning was upon me and I truly did not mean to escape Morpheus for another night. Sand demons in the corners of my eyes and friend captures my attention to leave the quilted covers and write. Thus and so here I sit trying to remember the day before dreams consume that awareness translating it into colors the dead and some living never see.
I am tired tonight and hungry. The day was full and I accomplished one thing that meant no other task need be done. I finished writing the last scene of The Raven King this morning. Typing the remainder of the manuscript took on high noon and I made a visit to Kinko's to print the whole thing afterwards. A little rest and dinner followed with the first big edit. In the throes of language over my meal and I missed sundown. Since then I closed it up and tended to night chores. I am anxious, but now resolved that the plot line makes sense through the first act. Pondering Act II comes with tomorrow morning's tea and toast. I'll seize Tuesday's form with making the first changes. Then the transformation into a short story begins. There is so much more I want to show that dialogue may not be able to reveal. At least not to my tastes and it rather may speak of the limits to my skill sets. What am I doing if not to publish? I have no answer to that. I never was a closeted writer, but I share only in enclaves and behind quiet doors in the back of public libraries. Right now I seek to polish the rough chapters and gather other writings for polish and shine. Somewhere, anywhere to start. A bone for a small publisher to chew on and review. A magazine to publish TRK for the first go. I'm scared. I feel I'm stepping out of someone's place for me and the discord has only begun. You know the type; I'm the only writer. You can't write because I write. Your stuff is shit anyway. I don't have to read it 'cause I know I'm better than you. Maybe I need to return to the support of the library group. Though sometimes I really need to be torn from limb to get to the core of the piece. No matter that, its the pablum and honey that overflows. Cushioned voices and tempered comments seem to be the rule even when my commitment is obvious though my emotion and printed word unsure. I need to know I haven't lulled anyone to sleep. I guess I did not reach you after all. The joy in today? I have not written a short story to completion since third grade reading class with Mrs. Meyer. Each of us was assigned an animal to write about. I scripted fiction with How the Badger Got His Mask. I forget the grade but I remember reading my writing for the first time to an audience. My memory remembers not the audience being transfixed, but just as so I felt eyes insistent on my moving mouth for the rise and fall of my voice during the read. Thirty-five some years later and I'm returning to the assignment it seems. Yet, there are permissions now that make culling easier. There are encouragements now that let the dam break. There are supports now to retrieve characters from my potential darkness and learn to script and participate in the play no matter the sensibility and confusion. Some decade later, it may all come out in the wash and logic can not sit at the head to explain it. Abstraction and free form; how sharp is the structure that bends? As ever, stay hungry and curious. According to the time it is late. According to my inner watchman I have work to do. It is hard to calm down these days. I'm attributing my late night bent of Benedryl to the ragweed and cotton in the air. Watering the vegetable garden every late afternoon brings on a sneezing complex that does not end till after night fall. Right now I seem to be itching and scratching everything. Then my face grows red and I have to beware of swelling. No artwork at night, thus and so; the swelling can be unbearable.
>She said my work was too strong for me to have just left graduate school. "They usually train the wild out of you before that happens," she intimated.< Friend is up and talking. I am laying here listening to the rise and fall of his voice and the others. I fare better with a closed mouth and open ears. For me, this is the slow and methodical way to learn and for another night friend does not cease to amaze me. It was my post about anger that caused another conversation going into the night. What I hear is that it has other artists and writers considering the issue as well. I tried not to put up a hearing block as I am not nearly ready to talk about anger, let alone my anger. So I lay in the dark for a while longer before memories came with pictures and I am now officially uncomfortable. The anger I had then, the type that I quietly quelled with stuffing my emotions into a little packet in my gut, has returned. It has been several turns of the wheel since then and I am still opening a flesh wound by wondering where some old drawings were. I used to handle anger by exploring mark making using drawing and painting tools. I was in graduate school at the time and I became livid at how controlled and trite my marks were. Exploring etching marks was to much of a mainstay. I was tired of my drawings looking as if they came straight off the press. I needed random. I needed haphazard. I needed aggressive. So I started with changing my method of holding a pencil. I looked at Cy Twombly and his meditated and lyrical marks. I was not there. Mentally I was not there and physically I did not have the strength to challenge his rhythms with my own lyricism. It was worth my time to find that type of peace in mark making, but it was not me. I was still wild, unkempt, and fairly undisciplined. I was, still am, looking for the power in my own hands and so the frustration rocked me senseless. In those months of study and play I gouged tables by hacking and diving in to the paper. I cracked paint filled long brushes by stabbing and pulling on wooden canvases. Eventually I stopped and asked myself where was I going with this and what did I learn. I grew into new media better suited to my biceps and tracing pupils. The line and draw became thicker and more expressive as if finally tamed. I learned pressure and tension in ways I want back if not but to meet this subtle anger brewing in my sternum if but for other reasons now. I am minded of my Madame Blavatsky and Annie Besant days and automatic writing. Harkening a bit toward the movie The Sixth Sense, but then I took it as a tool to draw it out of my subconscious; it worked. That little irritation taking root and fixating itself upon my spine like dry air and taut cracking skin; it is an irritation to draw out in multiple exercises. Anger these days makes me sit and source it all out. There were the days I was afraid I would hurt someone by accident. Then the real pain would begin. Essentially I am harmless, but there are days when my mouth gets ahead of me being conscious. If you have not guessed yet, I have not touched pencil to sketchbook about all this. Working it out in my head is the relied method. Then I talk to friend and have to face the feedback. A different form of confession if you will. I am almost positive I'll hit righteous anger in the next few weeks. I wonder if it all comes back down to being validated. A few simple words to use in the middle of the hardest days: I see you. As ever, stay hungry and curious. Sleep will come easy tonight no doubt. I've been busy since I got up this morning. I am obliviously thankful not to have cooked either. Don't get me wring, I love cooking, but some days I'll I can handle is a PB&J on wheat.
I finished up today with tarot studies. I am through the second round of learning the major arcana by taking notes and trying to convict images to old memory. Please do not get the wrong idea. This endeavor is not a whim. I started with tarot my freshman year in college in the early 1990's. I pursued it as an on again - off again minor obsession. My first deck was of the Sforza line. I bought it at a museum shop. Go figure! While I should have been bulldozing my midterms, I sat in the student center and practiced over and over and over again. I was more inclined to approach the cards as an intuitive than studying the manuals. For the time then, it worked well. When I read for others, I asked for nothing in return. Getting the practice was the most important thing. As the years went by, I put them away, but later picked up the Mother Peace Tarot deck in my need to assert my feminine aspect. So after I started collecting the decks that I believe would flesh out my talent the best for the method I started to read in. Even an ex-boyfriend encouraged me in the stead by buying me a deck that he thought was what I needed most. Working it came easily, but like the other decks and divining tool, they have gone away. Right now I am working without a deck. I use the standard imagery from books I buy at 1/2 Price book store and write into the tomes both large and small. I do not plan on selling them back. When I am ready to type up my notes before moving on to more in-depth studies, I'll have my sources in order so as to reduce any confusion. I have no traditional deck in mind to buy right now. I'll meet that decision on both feet when the day comes. Meanwhile I desperately want this exercise of word and picture to produce fruit. I push at it harder these days because I am a bit disillusioned by the penchant for abstraction in everything I do. After finishing the Kandinsky book I was committed to it. I felt I found my method and means without sacrificing any more tears as I do not dwell in the figurative. I can draw the human body, but it is to visceral for me now. I seem to echo to its parts, but not as a whole. I reach into the mind's aether to create, form, and reform. I dwell in the psychological. I dwell in the associative. On the occasion, if I find a tap root, I dwell in the symbolic. Most of the decks I've seen, an that is not a lot, are completely figurative. I do not feel the need to throw myself in the lot with them. Even then, the pieces I have found for a collaged deck still celebrate of anything non-figurative. I'll not fight the madness and the inclinations to jealousy much longer. I must trust my instincts and not mind the pursuit of aetheral's paper hounds and tigers. I'm starting to see little fires by my heart burning light for the tarot and quilt endeavors. There is no denying that I have the desire. I must learn to nurture that fire even on cold and damp afternoons. Drooping eyelids. As ever, stay hungry and curious. The day? Mostly wrapped in study. This itch I have for tarot imagery and symbols is obsessive. I feel like making everything into a tarot card these days. My lost visual vocabulary from graduate school is rearing a drooling ugly head. During nap this afternoon the image and word of "House" kept manifesting on the inside of my eyelids. The site was not painful as some others have been. The depiction was close to that in Jealousy's Private Dominion, but upside down. The word house lay in bold typeface below. It is not like I was daydreaming The Devil from a Trumps Suite. Still if my life is about to turn the house upside down, I'd rather know. At least the card did not say "Home" and position itself upside down. It might mean I'll be homeless soon or without emotional support. "Home" is part of everyone's grounding and a supportive method of consistency that preserves even in Tornado Alley. "House is not a tarot card in the original tradition. Still, it means enough to me to heed the sight when planted in plain view. That said, I'll stay mindful even of the crocodiles from last years dreams. I seem to draw the primordial on occasion and I tend to take that as a time to heed. I may not have anything I can do to steady the sand and stone beneath my home, so I'll heed the philosophies of a prepper.
The joy? I finished my first pass through the major arcana. I think I'll finish the second turn through notes tomorrow. Other joys are in finding more structure in the deck I am building. As I build the manual and have a standard deck to clarify aspects of my cards, the process will smooth out. If I find a method to building I may test it and build more than one deck. Friend saw it before I did and I can not argue with the observation. I discovered a inherent flaw for now. Comparing my process in culling meanings are almost met in isolation of each card. What I found today in making notes is this massive interlacing of connections in the tarot; even between the major and minor arcana. I started seeing the deck as an extreme snapshot of classist society, interpretations clinging to feudal systems, and the archetypes of royalty. It is a different era in centuries by far that created a backdrop for using the cards. So what do I do in my democratic republic? Find the strata from the business billionaires and the insanely faithful, through the performing artists, and down into the strata of the underground/underworld. That might be worth the grief and a trip to the police station for research. Chances are the deck already exists and I am on the edge of a sword from where I stood over ten years ago. Ensuing years will prove my fascinations and my mental toys to have more weight than just a product of a gaming system. I'm enjoying research again is what really matters right now. I turn my sights on something renewed every few months, nee years, and scour joy beneath the dirt. I love to actively learn, though I know what I do with needle and thread is obvious, but the hidden skills applied tend to terrify me with what I have done. Even down to crushing eyes of needle in my finger tips I have to learn restraint and balance in the split second and preserve my tools as best as I can. At this point moving on to professional gear may be the only option. Today I appreciate more than I can see. As ever, stay hungry and curious.
Eyelids drooping.... As ever, stay hungry and curious. Where I sit right now is a little uncomfortable place called anger. I am not here often. It takes a lot to get me there and when I get there it is the most uncomfortable place ever. I drown searching for a vestige of inner peace just to ground. I used to admonish myself for not expressing my anger like others sometimes do in screams and destructiveness. Honestly I tried that once, or twice, and it left me so bereft with guilt that I could not function. Thus my penchant stay in what little I know of Buddhism and a little mantra in keeping mindful that I do not know what the other person has been through in the last five minutes, let alone the last twenty-four hours. So, when I catch myself, I move into understanding and patience instead of acting out violence both physical and emotional. Right now I'm numb, and as usual the occasion affects every thing else -at least for five minutes and hopefully not twenty-four hours. Forgiveness gleamed and I can rest in that.
Meanwhile, same time, same bat channel... I painted today. Oil that is with all the glory of stains and fumes. All five small canvases are sitting on top of a cabinet beginning their two week journey to dry. I'm hoping to make it through the set by Christmas. Maybe even finishing off another set as well. The panels have been sitting in storage for a few years. I feel the need to close up old projects while taking a break from my quilting pursuits. One great thing is that my eyes have changed, nee developed, and I seemed to be moving through the panels with a greater ease than before. That first build, construction, and laying of color that I remember was an effort. Putting them away for those four or so years gave me rest and time to grow stronger. What I am noticing is that I have a greater understanding of Kurt Schwitterz than I did before. It is not just the choice of paint, but the method of creating a unified piece. Trumpe L'oeil approaches are beginning to echo in my ears as well. Though I do not want to copy, I still feel the need to discover what masters went though to find a stable vision and approach. I'll keep in mind I am not a cookie cutter type of woman and continue to pursue taller and shorter vistas. Something different to see in every angle. The emphasis and importance always shifts every degree between the earth and the sun. Well, with that said, everything is put away for a few weeks and I pulled Medicine Quilt III back out. I may rest a bit before I take time with needle and thread. Right now I am honestly wondering if I need to do another thing. I welled in reading and cleaning yesterday. For now I'm fighting the urge to stay busy and shut out everything else. Oh, yeah, paragraph number one. I just do not want it to influence or change my work. Since college, every time I have not been able to wrestle in an emotion, my work changes. If the occasion has no resolve for months or year, the work changes. When a depression settles in, all the work suddenly loses inner relationships. I need to remember Jackson Pollock. I heard he was an angry drunk. His work? Solid. This all tells me to embrace the fear and the side trips off the blazing path. I maybe able to get fuel from all this. I may be able to stop the unknown from crippling me. Goodness! I have grown a bit. If you don't mind, I think I will commit to that decision. Tools. hmmm. Passionate expression may have to forgo the scissors for a minute and find a well in my sketch book. No matter, I'll take my time. Aside: Life is different without television. I've been trying to watch the Muppets on Tuesday night for two weeks. I missed it both times. I'll try hulu or something. I've been looking forward to it. Though other discoveries have been made in the while. Cooking!!!! As ever, stay hungry and curious. Links: Understanding Anger The Art of Anger Do angry artist make better work? I have an inordinate urge to discover Chase's again. I am not speaking of the bank, but of a reference book that you can usually find in a public library. Chase lists just about every holiday around the world including a history and cultural explanation of it. Autumn always hits me this way. When I bought a copy I perused it for an hour or more some days. Then I also made Challah after work every Friday to pass the time. The act became a personal rite to find place in the world. This was years before I walked into a Methodist church, sang and stayed. It was also long before I decided to put effort into understanding Catholicism with volunteer work and regular prayer.
The colors and patterns of religious festivals and their symbolisms informed my visual and written fascinations for years. From Islam to the heath and back through Christian tradition and biblical complexities. I'm a little slow with it and tend to listen more than mention, but my visual language finds enrichment with every pass under the moon and committing verse and the Sun to heart. Work started around six this morning. I woke up and could not return to sleep. That usually means a quiet morning without interruptions. I took my chances and I finished the first run of panels for Medicine Quilt III. I've started on the wide panels and I'm feeling a little hampered for patience. When I finished basting into the second run of panels I felt as if I was losing my drive. Much like a month or two ago, but I pinpointed that as illness, fatigue, and frustration to get ready for the craft bazaar. I am extremely confused as to continue or set the panel aside till I stop splitting hairs about what to work on. I have The King's Ransom and a pin basted top to continue quilting. The act of sewing still settles me and piece work some days is a God send. I bought a cache of images this past week. I had my preferences for the tarot deck initially, but now I am finding a richness in taking risks that I never felt before. Having a wide, rather scattered base of knowledge about archetypes, parables, pantheons, fable, fairy tale, legend, etcetera makes a difference in connecting with the deck as it forms itself. Even using personal occasion to flesh out symbology makes the whole journey easier. There were days when I could not place a card's significance in a reading. I have my methods, so it did not cause a vacuum in the overall interpretation. Matching verses and image to the letter of the deck and manual was such a pain some days. Then, running across the manuals that fleshed out every possible combination place weight on my mind so heavy I put the endeavor down for a while. Granted I was an intuitive then and now when it came to tarot cards. Honestly? It is the art that fascinates me, quickly followed by a seduction of occult interpretations. Go figure, it is one thang that can satisfy the artist and librarian in me. Meanwhile, I will immerse myself in editing and dinner shortly. BTW: I started the writing exercise with the photographs yesterday. I'm going back in for more flesh and length. Getting started was the only kick in the pants I needed. Besides that, I'd been mulling the photo over in my mind for about a month. Though a descriptive line did not start till the pen touched paper. As ever, stay hungry and curious. I thought I would catch a break after the craft bazaar. Boy was I wrong. It has been a whirlwind of catching up on messages, grocery shopping, supply shopping, mowing the lawn, and picking up on research I put aside the week before the event. Rest comes in spurts and watering the vegetable garden has started to keep me sane to say the least. I quickly grew tired of being tired and having to forego cooking my own meals. It felt good to get back in the kitchen swing of things. The kitchen is another place to venture out and explore. I have not disappointed myself in a while with my foodie experiments. So much so, I continue to work on perfecting recipes and organizing my collection of recipes and notes. I used to muse about competing for prizes in cooking contests. I think I might venture to find something associated with the state fair. That would be a welcome experience of a lifetime.
While I rested earlier today I had a breakthrough. A small one, but I really was not expecting anything. In the lull before sleep everything comes to my close eyes. I am anxious about building shadow boxes for Daedalus and Icarus. My hanging problems will be solved. Plus, this time I am psyched about developing the inside of the box into an anthropological curiosity. Instead of having clean lines and surfaces in the box, the interior will be painted and/or covered in fabric. More detritus of anything can be added in from dirt to medicine bottles and wrapped sticks. The other framing issue is born from my fascination with layering the small and tall. Weaving are beginning to form in my head in tandem with quilted sections. I have a schlew of wooden dowel rods that I plan on using to give reference to a loom. Painting and collecting for those boxes would give it a kinship with Icarus and Daedalus. The whole problem is cutting the wood and building it flush and flat. Squaring it off has always been a problem for me. Every time I build, squaring the form, has always been hit or miss. The perfectionist in me feels I've wasted my time and the wood. Other times I relax and buy "l"-brackets. Another issue is securing glass on the front. Some might say find someone to build it for you or buy it off the internet. For the first time it dawns on me to find it on the 'net. Meanwhile, my gut reminds me about cost effectiveness and at heart a DIY spirit. I am back at Medicine Quilt III and I have one panel left before I move onto the next series of cut panels. I'm ecstatic! I play my doubts and champion my trials every day with this. After mediating doubts come panel four of this set, I could not help but wonder if the pattern was to simple and too damn repetitious. I played and eventually fought off this burning urge to change the design to a lyrical jazz like staccato. My mind was screaming for more bells, whistles, and drums. It took a lot out of me to sit in my confidence that the design will be powerful enough in its simplicity. On the flip side I made a few insertions no the panels so to not let the eye get bored for even reading across the finished quilt. That decision partially came out of resistance to waste space. Granted the quilting will handle that. I love building tender passages in quilts. It is the part that you rub your fingers across time and time again. Time seems to stop in those moments and contemplating beauty is all you are. Intelligence demands I sketch, meter out, and plan The King's Ransom. Ideas are fleeing from me as quickly as they arrive in the middle of the night. Beyond that I'm in denial about using my sketchbook again. The words "later" and "tomorrow" always eek out. I the fog of getting out of bed and crossing the room to hit the light switch, I always lose the muse. A light in the bookshelf seem apropos, as well as keeping paper and pen close the the bed. Back to task again harvesting everything given. Which also means back to a dream diary. Looks like winter plans are upon me. Got to make sure the tea and cakes land close by as well. As ever, stay hungry and curious.
As ever, stay hungry and curious. Getting ready has taken a bit of time. From hunting down the receipt book to loading the car and now I'm set. I finished setting up this afternoon for tomorrow's Harvest Craft Bazaar at the The First United Methodist Church in The Colony, Texas 75056. Festivities start tomorrow from 9 a.m to 4 p.m.
Meanwhile I got asked to make tablecloths for a woman's booth tables. All the handwork paid off. I got another compliment from two other vendors. I'll work my third in the next few months. I lucked out in a way; I broke one of the tables by accident. The chip board was so dry that when I leaned in on opening the foot, the screws and plate pulled out of the board. I was confused and deeply sad for a moment, but everything worked out. I'm hoping to remember to bring the camera to get pictures of the booth. Ah, yes, the little things and I have a little time to do the finishing touches before tomorrow. Excuse me please, I'm staring into the screen looking for nothing. Sleep and stress go hand in hand sometimes. BTW: Give me a day or two to recover from tomorrow. I may find a well of inspiration to write about it and other notions. I miss writing for curious, precocious, and surprising eyes. If you have not guessed, then be assured that you are it. As ever, stay hungry and curious. |
N.A. JonesPicking up where I left off. Archives
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