John Stezaker
As ever, stay hungry and curious.
N. A. Jones |
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John StezakerI was wrong about the soup. It is not potato and broccoli. It is butter, garlic, onion, potato, parsley, chicken broth, salt, and pepper pureed. I am on my second cold bowl and I am headed for my green tea latte to sip on tonight. Rest and contemplating coral shapes in paper cutting is busying my mental space as well as tree forms. I think I have a good tack at next year's show chair theme for DQS. Budgeting time for the work with other endeavors is making my lip twitch. I know, it is only May. It is not seven weeks, but seven months. A blip on my mental screen and I realize this is a part of being an artist. hmm. Patience.
As ever, stay hungry and curious. Foundations 10
Journal Entry: March 29, 1995 Journal Entry: April 3, 1995 Amedeo Modigliani Boy in Short Pants 1918 Oil on Canvas Excerpt: “I was writing religiously pages, volumes, ideas flowing, and now a cramp. I fear some may not want me to remember anything of what happens or steal from my life so I don’t chronicle but others do. The possibility exists. Not writing in the other log is crazy of sorts. Men women sexual attacks. Jealousy of many sorts shall I write all days, every day? There is …(him), “David”; “Michae: Marcus; and a gentle man friend from …. Invisible ink really works. Writers maybe trying to top my mind a paranoia of sorts. Still all possibilities in the universe exist. Monsieur from … has requested a weekend in a way. I still wonder if David is designed to love me or at least try, a gigilo, I hope not. As I am that important I imagine her being checked out as we speak. And a loss of memory is an illusion. Its all there and will never leave. I hope amnesia will not happen, still the dream of being taught how to move space. Going back to my body in a different time. On your own time period wonders of laying on a psychiatrist couch with the feeling of having forgotten bit and moans of my life. (I had the dream in high school I’m sure) Many days, and I wonder to let them go.” Note: There is no way to explain how I love Modigliani, but to say that when I gaze into the picture plain I am lost to the apparent world for what seems hours. I remember taking a hard look at Boy in Pants hanging from the gallery wall in the Dallas Museum of Art. I lost all sense of time and presence. I found myself listening to a headmaster counseling a young man in his office. I heard his secretary in the open room before. I heard the young master’s friends playing outside in the long yard behind the window in the office. I heard his parents echoing sighs before entering the room to claim their son. That day I knew why I called painting portals. Unaffected by the implications of studying photographs before laying out a painting, Modigliani’s models retain a heresy of mystery that CAD and Photoshop could only flirt with. Hmm. I need to find that article on Amedeo Modigliani that I carted around for years without complaint. I did not keep it for the retrospective discussion. It was the images, so many I cannot count, that I had to possess. There are so many picture in that article that not even a handful of posters from the museum shop could make up for the cache. Funny, there is an untrained painter carried by one of the galleries on Dragon Street in Dallas, Texas that just came to mind. He is a possible cross between African Tribal, Art Brut, and European finesse. The two exhibited side by side may cross inform and haunt each other well. As ever, stay hungry and curious. 2017 Dallas Quilt Show Dallas Market Hall March 10-12, 2017; Friday and Saturday 10-5; Sunday 12-5 www.quiltersguildofdallas.org Please forgive my extremely late notice. If you can make it vundabar! If not, I will be posting my other three entries under the 2014-2018 Quilting Arts Tab by this weekend. Meanwhile I am setting aside a little to spend on my favorite vendor. The husband/wife team sells silk from Japan. The other date I will be showing work this year is the first Saturday in October at the First United Methodist Church in The Colony for their Annual Craft Bazaar. I believe that date is the 7th of October. I will be reposting this venue several times as the date gets closer. As always, thank you for your kind word and support over the years. I appreciate you more than I can explain. This is Night Heron (1986-1987) by David Bates. It is located in the Fort Worth Museum of Art. If you haven’t guessed yet, it has been one of my favorites for a very long time. I was prompted today to return to my memories and sights that I had to share with God because no one else was around to listen or watch. My repeated introduction to Night Heron hits the mark of vision every single time. In the last two years of graduate school I had a habit of leaving the studio early to venture out to North Lake Park in Denton, Texas. It was one place I could observe and find stillness without much trouble. Besides when I would venture towards the lake, there was never anyone in sight; the lake and landscape became mine and mine alone to contemplate. Come late spring a personal event occurred that marked my calendar for as long as I lived in that town and sometime after. It was the season when the lotus sprouts and blossoms take over the lake. During my time in Ohio, years before enrolling at TWU, I was mesmerized by mystic tales and depictions of lotus blossoms in Asian Art. For years they were but a simple fancy that became the base of my imagination. I fondly remember an image of Buddha nestled in the heart of a lotus blossom. Born out of a reaction to legends, my curiosity welled at eternity’s grace given to lotus blossom eaters. From then on, the lotus plant was as mysterious as ambrosia on Mount Olympus. With every season of the lotus came a determination to witness an open blossom. Watching blossoms open seems a marker of passage with every art degree I achieve. In college, the chair of the art department had cared for a Night Blooming Cirrus for decades. The plant sat in the window of the second floor taking up much, if not all of the window space. After I finagled a few dollars out of department to repot the plant, it grew exponentially from being root bound. That fall, Cirrus made over ten blossoms. Despite my planning and patience, I missed opening night for another season. I was frustrated. As a kindness, a friend started collecting the falling blooms for me every time I missed the fragrant opening nights. I kept them in an old cigar box, which, like my clippings of Cirrus, is long gone. With the Lotus in Denton, I settled for watching Greta, Gertie, and Turkey Duck paddle past tall stems to get to shore. It was “something to do” in my mind. I never fully understand the impact on my psyche of being close with nature. Years later I chat with acquaintances that have never been inside an untended forest or seen animals in the wild. I feel such a shame and pity for them, and then I wonder how God manifests in the suburbs. Their encounters may be just different not to be discounted. Come autumn’s exertions out of the studio, the lotus had been removed from the lake and the shore side was open territory again. What I wanted the Lord to see was what I never could imagined. The deep breath I took walking the shore those months was enough air to hold these lungs still and imprint shape, color, and line in my mind for Him as well as me. I look at Night Heron and tip over just enough so I won’t have to use stock photography or etchings to paint North Lake Park. It is not a moment in the mind to capture anymore. Too much time has passed in order to do that. I have nostalgia. I have desperation. I have eyes that summon emotive line not draftsmanship’s control. I am too selfish of the memory to drive up to the park and study in sketches before approaching any media. It is a moment in time no matter what I feel is suspended. Passage is always noted somewhere in the heart and the intellect. What I see in my mind’s eye now is a man and woman going down into the water, pushing stem after stem to the side. There is no baby Moses in the foliage. A large blossom sans green supports waits to be opened. A green beetle here, a fish tail there and the mind’s picture becomes a moving one. All I know is a need a pair of waders, permission, and a bag of mixed greens with vinaigrette. I want to taste what eternity is like, fresh from the Lord’s bounty. As ever, stay hungry and curious. For the inquisitive gormet:
Source: Peterson Field Guides A Field Guide to Edible Wild Plants of Eastern and Central North America by Lee Allen Peterson Published by Houghton Mifflin Company New York Copyright 1977 ISBN 0-395-92622-X On page sixty is the American Lotus, Nelumbo lutea. Contrary to thinking that the flowers were edible, I was wrong. It is the leaves, seeds, and tubers that are of great taste to the palette. I am tempted to drive up to the park and harvest this year. Of course, only after proper identification and permissions are doled out. I also learned about Yellow pond lilies (Nuphar spp.) whose seeds and rootstocks are edible. I wonder if Monet went through this while he painted water lilies. I do not care to be a copy cat, but this curiosity has got me fixed between the car keys and sourcing memory. This draftsmanship argument that rises every single time I get fascinated about explorations in the abstract tires me out. Observation is starting to leave me raw and cold. Memory's shapes and colors spark fires in my intellect every night. When I work, I am warm. Even when intuition settle my hands white from stitching one hour to much, I do not sulk. I do not feel vacuous. I am not confused. I know where I am, even if it is high up in the intellect observing like a foreman over the work day. I may not always understand what I draw or why, but the drive is there as well as the passion. I find the whys and wherefores moths, years later. Sustaining the artist's hand from concept to finish piece is all I mumble passing through Saatchi and Artnews websites. Here's me, in the studio, still looking for place, context, and relevance. To quell my curiousity, I understand that I do not have to fit in. I briefly read about those artists that ban together and rise to fame together in the galleries and museums. There are other ways to show no doubt. I'll be looking for them with more effort between stitching time. As ever, stay hungry and curious. Three Rivers Fine Arts Festival Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania June 11, 1994 Jeff Zets, artist Angel's Cousin Gang Yellow Diamond High http://old.post-gazette.com/ae/20020622thomas3.asp https://new.liveauctioneers.com/item/42387050 http://www.invaluable.co.uk/auction-lot/zets-brothers-painted-collage-after-warhol-liz-d-1134-c-1644e349c8 I skipped ahead in the journal to find Jeff and Mark Zets. I was not able to find a substantial internet presence for other artists listed on the pages before their entry. The surprise for my eyes when I found their work was that the Zets team up to make collage works. So right up my alley right? Looking over the two images I found I had to calm my inner critic, be patient, and remind myself to find something good in everything I look at. Brutal criticism has no place in the studio, especially if I am trying to learn something valuable from each encounter. The Zets walk the bridge between Dada and 80's taste for icons. They seem to prefer to take an opportunity to create after the evening news. I wonder what my original attraction was to the work. It is folksy and full of humour - aspects that are definitely needed to promote sales from a buskers point of view.
I'm thinkin, for myself, Jacob Lawrence captured collage and folk better in term of bridging fine art and folk approaches. In terms of my own pursuits as a collage artist, I have never been the one for reducing reality into sign, symbol, and visual rhythm. The work produced in that vein can be not just compelling, but mesmerizing as well. I, on the other hand, demand from paper what a seamstress demands of fibers. For now, all I know is texture and rhythm. All I grasp is to read color from a map, not the locations. Human images I tend to shun. I fear I am lost in modernism and heed Matisse and his cut outs far too much. Still I cannot seem to turn my back on genius mired in accolades. (Thus another art history tome makes it too my list for collection). This will be the last post from the journals until next month. It will also be the last post until next week. If you are wondering what I have been doing in the studio, I can say I have stepped away from the boards for rest. I am writing and researching most days for the tarot set and layout I am designing plus a stone or two in weight of editing. The last of the grammar and style books arrived earlier this week. Not only do I have reading but I also have writing to flesh out. My normal switch to other pursuits than quilting that comes after the Dallas Quilt Show in March came early this year. I confess its was the last quilt block that I was assembling by hand that ended my drive. Since the numbness I will not be pushing to finish the quilt by the end of this year. I will wait and take my time. For now all I want is a job well done on that venture. The rest will just be icing on a cake donut. BTW: I've started the next series with a bridge from Introvert's Rhyme. It is slow going, but constantly brewing. As for Untitled 2017 I have got to step away. For how long I do not know. I've been arguing with myself about execution and finish so much it tires me out. Putting it aside may be the best thing until I can get a mental hold on what stencils do and do not do. Integrating them into other work is likely at this point. Building a thick canvas that is rich with texture comes to mind. I think I just double dog dared myself into something. An experiment to try by the end of March is in order. As ever, stay hungry and curious. Christ and the Woman of Samaria at the WellFrancesco Solimena (Italian, 1657–1747)late 17th-early 18th centuryMediumoil on canvasMeasurementsH: 72 1/4 x W: 51 5/16 x D: 3 1/2 in. (183.51 x 130.33 x 8.89 cm)CreditThe Constance Mellon Acquisition FundAccession Number79.70LocationNot on View Image © 2006 Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh | License This Image https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Paintings_of_Jesus_and_the_Samaritan_woman_at_the_well http://www.getty.edu/art/collection/artists/751/francesco-solimena-italian-neapolitan-1657-1747/ https://artuk.org/discover/artists/solimena-francesco-16571747 I slowly scanned the journal I am using and I can gladly tell you that it is choc full of accenting sketches and notations about what caught my eye after college in museums and galleries. Like with yesterday I am jumping forward in the pages searching for the unexpected. Today's picture source is recorded in my journal with a star and reads as such: "Christ & the Woman of Samaria at the Well c.1695-1705 Attributed to Francesco Solimena Italian, Neapolitan 1654-1747 Christ sits Woamn is focal point of the paint he seems to look up at her for guidance, light halo @ her head." The sketch above the entry in my journal is the hand of the woman in the painting. I think Nicholas Poussin was lingering the back of my mind that day. For me to take notice of the minutae in the painting and try to lend it unreasonable symbolism means my mind weighed heavily on that French painter. As ever, stay hungry and curious. China; Beijing Ming dynasty Buddhist deity Guhyasamaja(Sandui), 1400-1600He is embracing the goddess Sparshavajra.Gilt bronzeAvery Brundage Collection Journal Notation: Yidam Mahamaya and his Shakti Buddha dakiniThis post was recorded between June 11 1994 and September 18, 1994. By then I had graduated from Hiram College and moved to Dayton, Ohio. I am presuming the piece I drew is housed in the Dayton Art Institute as I moved into that town by the end of June 1994. If vague memory serves anything to my aware intellect, the Yidam is a bronze sculpture in one of the galleries. I say this with confidence as the Asian collection did not house many paintings or prints. The upside down text reads: "... start up through the x power in me 100K up as a new being stretching w/ ampler breath to find oneself requires infinitely total conversion" The Lightning Path of Buddhism: The Power of Yidams - Buddha Weeklybuddhaweekly.com/the-lightning-path-of-buddhism-the-power-of-yidams Yidam practice is a teacher-guided method on the vajra “lightning path” to ... The unique nature of each Yidam relates more to what a student needs in his or her ... [PDF]Vajrayana and Hindu Tantricism - Australian Council Of Hindu Clergy www.australiancouncilofhinduclergy.com/.../5/.../vajrayana_and_hindu_tantricism.pd... by SSJB Rana - Cited by 1 - Related articles those as explained by Nagarjuna and his sons and Asanga\Vasubandhu ... come into Hinduism through Buddhism If he was Hindu Tantric, he felt that ... consciousness into the infinite Brahman, Chit, Chidanana, Chit-shakti, Mahamaya, ..... in Vajrayana are: 1) Guru 2) Buddhas and Bodhisatvas 3) Yidam 4) Dakinis and. Vajrayana Buddhism Vis-à-vis Hindu Tantricism - Chinese Buddhist ...www.chinabuddhismencyclopedia.com/.../Vajrayana_Buddhism_Vis-à-vis_Hindu_Ta.. Dec 31, 2014 - The main point is not whether Hindu Tantra has influenced Buddhist ... Chit, Chidshana, Chit Shakti, Mahamaya, Parasamvit, Paramshiva, ... Buddhist tenet comes from the expositions of Nagarjuna and his ..... These, it is made clear especially the Ista Devas (called Yidam in .... Dakinis and Dharmapalas 1. Mahamaya (Buddhist Deity) (HimalayanArt) - Himalayan Art Resourceswww.himalayanart.org/items/60675 Mandala of Mahamaya: A Tantric Buddhist Meditational Deity ... is depicted with four faces and four arms, blue in colour, embracing the consort Buddha Dakini. Missing: yidam Shakti
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