the kindness of strangers

Okay, so here's what happened to send me over the moon. First, some background -- and because all good stories have at least a little suspense. . .

I don't know how I stumbled onto the blog Art Propelled, probably by following the "I also follow" lists on someone's blog, but what a lovely place it is. Back in March, Robyn, proprietress of Art Propelled, did a post about taming procrastination in which she said to herself "just do one cow." She carves things -- in case you haven't skedaddled right over there, which you must do -- and had in mind a fairly large project involving the bas relief carving of many cows. But first -- phone calls. And then -- tidying. And then . . .

We all know how this goes. Back when I was writing, I had the world's cleanest oven because any time I need to write something I was overcome with a compulsion to clean the oven. Which I did. Even if I hadn't used it since the last time I'd cleaned it. This is not, on many levels, a healthy habit.

But enough about me, back to Robyn. So she said quite firmly to herself "Just one cow." Sure enough, one cow led to many cows. And these are very beautiful cows. So then, in my life, much tumult and many false starts. As I began coming around again, I was haunted (in a good way) by this idea of "just one cow." Being an acquisitive American, I thought "I wonder, if I asked, if she would make 'just one cow' for me?" And I was afraid to ask. But Mom always said -- "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." And I often told my students "It's amazing sometimes what you can get just by asking." So I asked.

And Robyn, who doesn't usually do small things and doesn't like to do commissions but who is the very soul of kindness, made a cow for me!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Except, hmmmmm, she lives on the other side of the world and posted it from there. Egad, the wretched hateful Post Office. . .
BUT -- yesterday I remembered to take the USPS's standard-issue "We missed you!" delivery slip to work with me.
And I left work on the dot of five -- which is rarely possible, but somehow yesterday it was possible.
And I zipped down the highway and met no traffic at the exit -- which is usually backed up for at least half a mile.
And got a parking spot right in front of the P.O. (This is not so amazing, I have astounding luck finding parking spaces.)
And went inside -- no line. There's always a line. I've been there at 8 in the morning and joined the long line of folks who were queued up outside and waiting to queue up inside and wait.
Went to the window. Where there was a mildly cranky clerk who became all smiles because, I think, of the South Africa return address.
I signed, and got my package, and was home well before 6.

Where I opened the envelope
and found
Just
One
Cow:

Such a simple, beautiful, and -- to my eyes -- perfect, thing. I am completely delighted and so overwhelmed with happiness that I may cry. Again. In a good way.

And so, a toast: to kindness, to wisdom, to daring, to perseverance, to new beginnings, and to the World Wide Web. Cin, cin! and also L'chaim!

Oh, and this is my 100th post. Seems appropriate, somehow.

something wonderful

Something wonderful happened today. It involved a trip to the post office -- which is not always, or often, prelude to something wonderful. But this is wonderful. I'm not being mysterious in that tiresome "I know something you don't know" (at least, I hope I'm not). I just need my camera battery to charge up so I can share the Wonderful Thing that came in the post. And find some words for it, because I am uncharacteristically speechless in reaction the wonderfulness (< is so a word).

Stay tuned.

easing back into it

I went up to Montgomery, NY, this weekend to see my ether buddy Denise and to take a class in abstract painting with Nuala Clarke at the Wallkill River School. I can't say enough nice things about both experiences.

-For a long time, I was one of "those people" who believed that abstract painting was a kind of fraud. But recently (like, in the last decade or so) I've had a change of heart and mind. In particular, Anne Truitt's published journals changed my thinking. So when the opportunity of Nuala's class came up, I thought I'd try it.

-Nuala started the class with "blind drawing." We got out our pads and pencils, she put on some music, and we drew for the duration of the music with our eyes closed. This was not as unsettling -- or as difficult -- as I expected it to be. Then we drew to the same music with our eyes open, and compared the two pieces. Most of the people in the class preferred the blind drawing. I liked my "seeing" one better -- not enough to brandish it, but better.

-Then we took a big piece of paper and cut it in quarters and did some small painted pieces. I painted this vertically:

But I like it better horizontal:I think that this one (below), is more a background than a painting. I'll take a look at it again in couple of days and see if an idea for it has coalesced. There are some tentative orange slashes in the middle section that might grow into something.Next, we used half sheets of paper and did "collaborative" paintings. Each of us started a painting, worked on it for a bit, then shifted around to the next person's painting, worked on that for a bit as though it were our own, then moved on again until we arrived back at our original stations and finished "our" paintings. Each person in the class had a distinct style of brush work and wildly different color preferences so this grew more challenging as each piece grew more complete. I'm not sure how I feel about the result, but I liked the exercise a lot.

Next we took another half-sheet and did a collaboration with one other person. Then -- da-da-dum -- we took a full sheet of 18 x 24 paper and did a painting all on our own. In the materials list, Nuala had said we should bring "one item not usually used to put on paint." By now, I've taken so many surface design, "print with anything" classes that I had a hard time coming up with something that would be provocative without being difficult to use -- or simply ridiculous. I decided on something I have a good and ready supply of: two sizes of cat food cans. Again, I think this is more background than painting, but it's closer to being a painting, I think.

el alma es eterna

On the day of the service the weather was beautiful, the family appropriate (we once had a fist fight between two female relatives at the wedding of one of my aunts, so I have reason for concern), and the service was . . . unsettling in the moment, but in retrospect, just right. I had sent the minister a longish email about my Mom for background, which he read (after asking permission) as the sermon/eulogy. I was a little freaked out. I'm always uneasy about my writing -- and now here it was being read out loud and in front of people -- but I think the anxiety about the reading took some of the edge off the sadness. On Monday, my aunt and I went into the woods by the house and scattered some of the ashes. I'll scatter some more in the park across the street from this house, and inter the rest in the family plot in the cemetery near Valhalla (yes, really). And then settle in for the long adjustment.

I have come to appreciate the wisdom in what I once thought was ridiculous and self-indulgent -- the formality and protraction of Victorian mourning customs. The whole first year after a death really isn't the time to make big decisions about the present or the future. It's a time to muddle through with all the "first time withouts." There is more clarity after a year has passed. I'm not keen on the fetishizing of small and large memorabilia, but I understand the impulse. I also understand the impulse to throw everything out and start over. Neither is a wholly good idea. Patience is a good idea. Waiting and seeing. Picking up threads here and there and seeing what holds. Observing the formalities. Letting the sadness settle. Getting out more.

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and for you
And I think to myself -- what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue, clouds of white
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself -- what a wonderful world.

The colors of a rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands, saying "How do you do?"
They're really saying "I love you."

I hear babies cry. I watch them grow.
They'll learn much more than Ill never know.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

Yes, I think to myself
What a wonderful world.

I think Satchmo was right, don't you?

ceremony

Off to Delaware this weekend to do the memorial service for Mom. She was especially irreligious in a family not at all pious. As a consequence, whenever these events that require ceremony arise, I'm somewhat at a loss as to what to do. Fortunately, this time there's a minister in the family who has volunteered to take the lead and, having married into this family, understands our -- let's call it "informal" -- tendencies.

So we'll play k.d. lang and Tony Bennett singing "What a Wonderful World" rather than having an organ drone "Amazing Grace" and I made copies of a bookmark that Mom had on the refrigerator for as long as I can remember to give the attendees instead of those creepy memorial cards. What else is in store, I don't know. Maybe my aunt will say something. Maybe I will. Maybe not. Then there will be "family barbecue on the lawn" with my cousins and their young children who enliven everything.

Then home again to continue to wonder if it makes sense to keep this big, old, creaky house that my grandfather built, to wonder what to do with all this new found freedom I'm alleged to have, and to wonder if there are still dreams to be coaxed into the light so that I can believe in the magic of them. Good thing it's a long drive.

still good questions

Whilst clearing off my cutting/ironing table in preparation for working (see below), I again encountered the source for a post I did on March 9. It felt like a post from a long time ago, so I was surprised to see it was a few short months, just a quarter of a year, ago. These were good questions then, they're even better questions now:
-How do we find renewed meaning and how does this express itself in our life's work?
-How do we discover new maps, provisions, and travel partners?
-What is calling us and how do we discern our calling?
The workshop for which these questions are the foundation is in August. Hmmmm . . .

Digging back, I realized that, also in March, I overlooked the one-year (March 5, 2008) anniversary for the blog. I'll have to light some candles so I can blow them out. All together now --deeeeeeeeeeep breath.

Here's the cutting table -- a 2' x 4' "table top" from Home Depot, half cutting mat, half ironing pad, with "custom" storage below.

The board is raised up on flannel-wrapped bricks, set on a computer desk, with a filing cabinet under all. The not-at-all-attractive cat food boxes are actually the perfect size for bins o' stuff that I use all the time (fusible, precut batts, fabric scraps, cutting tools). The boxes can be made made more attractive; meanwhile, I can feel smug about "going green."

This arrangement is a rehearsal to see if the configuration would work in something more permanent. The jury's mostly out on that one, but it's been a while since I've done any work so I'll see how it goes as I work on the monthly-meeting-group swap. I remember liking having the shelves above.

And here's one of my characteristically vibrant palettes, under consideration as background for the swap pieces.

Excelsior, my friends. Ever upward.

Last Sunday, I went a little north to the Katonah Art Museum to see the exhibition “Lichtenstein in Process.” (That's the cover for the catalog, left.) I’ve never been a fan of Lichtenstein (hereafter “RL”), but the KAM always has something a little off-beat and interesting so I trust that if they’re presenting something, it’s more than worth 45 minutes of driving and the modest admission. And, well, “wow” is about all I have to say.

True to the title, the exhibition features the process the artist used to create his paintings. There are sequences of sketch-drawing-collage for paintings (and one finished painting) and some of the pieces have clippings of the source material as well. The walls have interesting quotations from RL – one that particularly struck me is: “All abstract artists try to tell you that what they do comes from nature, and I’m always trying to tell you that what I do is completely abstract.”

It’s an interesting insight into the mechanics of his work, and into the thought process of a very thoughtful artist. I don't know much about art -- and oftentimes don't know what I like, especially with contemporary art -- but the more I look into the 20th-century folks, the more I understand that it really does help to know what they were thinking about and what they were after in the work. RL's Benday dots, for example, "refer" to chiaroscuro without being chiaroscuro, they're kind of a painting of chiaroscuro rather than a use of it in support of another element in the image. And the minimalist in me is very intrigued with how stripped-down the images are.

If you’re in the neighborhood, go. The show is up until June 28. If you’re not in the neighborhood, the Roy Lichtenstein Foundation web site has posted an interesting interview with RL by Michael Kimmelman, excerpted from his book, PORTRAITS, Talking with Artists at the Met, The Modern, The Louvre and Elsewhere.