Art Storyboarding

Pottery Graveyard (empathy poetry for potters)

2011-08-25T15:42:00.000-04:00

Movements that
should have stilled,

circles of warp,
lines of lean,

unfunctioning functionals,
back to dirt.

SHARDS

Beside a kiln loading area in Japan

My Art Lover

2011-08-16T13:46:00.002-04:00

Her Art greeted me. It seems so long ago, but I recall her sculpted metal lips...her cockiness and coquettishness as she leaned her presence in towards me to ask, "Can I catch a ride?"

She is Vision, itself. Thorns of acrylic adorn her India ink lines of a body. She pleats and curves, elongates and undulates. Her body is a compilation masterpiece of blended cross-hatching and brushstrokes. She folds and unfurls. I even recognize all of the subtle paintbrush switching to achieve these glorious marks, these incredible palette mixtures of paint. All from other artists, plural. With streaks of Pthalo Green jealousy, I consider just wrapping her into my mind and stowing her there. An artist's biggest fear is losing his Vision.

Sensing my intrigue, my latching interest, she tells me stories about her archival Art. She mocks all of her artist transporters with tests:

"Are you eager enough?"
"Can you carry me...day in, day out, no matter what?"
"What will you sacrifice for me?"
"Can you live with the consequences?"

She brags that she moves through people quickly trying to find the ones who can support her. As lithe as she is, she weighs heavily on our human bodies - on our minds - on relationships. With her goals of progression, she demands to move forward, at all times, and to be regarded as a priority: to be the number one, number two, and number three.

"Yes, I can do it." I say, as emphatic as I can, even though I have a fear of failure and a fear of success. Either way, I am going to lose, so I agree to her terms and bend down to pick her up for the ride. With a surprised expression and a shrug, she wraps her body onto my back.

"I can do this. I can handle her," I think to myself as I lift her and move forward. I wonder if she reads my mind because I instantly feel this surging connection as, with emphasis, she presses her sex in close, grinding into my back. I stand up a little straighter to give her resistance and like a horse responding to a clicking call,

we begin.

Along the way, she tells stories of others' plights - one after another. She is a blind spot in my vision: always there, always seeing, always directing, but just out of reach. She whispers mantras of creating and lust while we move together. She conjures ideas, designs and new obsession. She is Mixed Media.

Even though she warns about what will happen when I seduce her, I touch her anyway. She is a want for me...and a consumption of need.

"Ahhh!"

Her body burns like scorched Raku. My skin blanches white, then sears copper.

Later, I share the scars with all at the opening...like a possession. I am proud of her marks...the marks of an Artist.

But, secretly, in the chromatic black of night, I run my finger over the scars, wondering if it is a real connection since the flashing is only on me. I ask her about it, doubt filling my canvases:

"Are you mine, too?"

She laughs a knowing laugh.

"I am yours." and after a pause, "But only in your totality, your complete immersion."
Her answer does not soothe - it just tells me that I know the answer already. Her future with me exists in my complete artistic transformation. This veiled response is a warning: Do not falter.

I remember stumbling once, in pure exhaustion. I tried to reach around and release her grip to catch my breath from her crazed momentum.

"No-" Her linear legs squeeze me harder. Then, a little bit softer, she says, "You're almost there."

"Where?" I ask, speaking for all before me, all after me, all that I have to give.

"There...the place you've always wanted. The place you do not know how to find without me. You know..." and she presses herself harder against me. Unbleached Titanium runs down my back. "There."

Yes, my desire. The - what I've always wanted to do, where I've always wanted to go - the unbridled life of an Artist. I think about what I have to do to keep her satisfied. What I have to do to satisfy me, an eternally dissatisfied artist. We continue heading to There.

After a few years, I realize I cannot define Originality anymore What would I be without her silhouette cloaking me? What would I be without her voice, the incessant whispers? She signs all of my artwork. She marks me. Who am I to question authenticity? Surely she can exist in my art, too? I reassure myself with more of her inspirational murmurings. She is my completion. Always moving forward, I commit complete Cobalt Blue devotion to her, this fleeting moment of Art.

One late afternoon during our travels into a cataclysmic mixed media piece, I sense her slipping. Her legs are not wrapped as closely. I feel the firmness of her breasts sliding lower and lower until her nipples only flutter lightly against my back. She is aroused, but she arches away. I feel separation. The open space air breathes words of comfort, Dear John letters, and pours tea with leaves of boredom talk. As if checking her hair in the mirror, she looks far away as she speaks nothingness.

In the horizon of the watercolor sky, I hear laughter, sense intensity and complete immersion. Panicked, I know she sees the artist residency, too. Energy vibrates off of the collaborative arts channeling...it tantalizes. For her, the art camaraderie is riveting and avant-garde and innovation and modern progress. She envisions throwing herself in the scorching skyscape of these new artists, dousing herself with oil pigments, wiping away my fingerprints with linseed oil and the burnt sienna of the past.

In one elegant move, she slips from my clenching hold and steps her charcoal bruised legs to the ground, letting go. Completely freeing herself, she shoves my back away from her with embossing fingertips.

Apathy.

Apathy is worse than hatred.

Tears fill my eyes, but stay, never dropping, as if to shield me from watching her leave. In desperate refusal, I pull the canvas quickly off my easel and rip her away from the inflamed sky. Fraying the edges of the ungessoed love, I separate her from any other artist, any other future.

"You cannot leave me. You are my life-" I shrill the words, "You are Life."

Moving quickly, I frame Art's presence. Seizing her energy - even her apathy - I capture her passion for art, her mid-sentence seduction of another, her restlessness. I frame her within wood confines, tightened for extra caution. I carefully and methodically add a hanger to the back, even though her paint is still wet from her longing for more.

Then,

with an artist's high and an affirming nod,
I share her
only

with the wall.

Sacrifice

2011-08-15T11:33:00.000-04:00

With heated prayer, his weathered hands smear red clay paste of wind and rain on the men's faces. Hoods gift his son, his brother darkness.

"Ready..Aim"

Gunshots travel NC ground.

In unison, Tsali's body tremors, slumps. Awaiting death, he lifts proudly. His last Cherokee breath inhales deeply creating a bull's-eye of Future.

Tsali's Sacrifice

I can't look away.

2011-08-14T21:56:00.002-04:00

This world has an intersection. The roads lie on top of each other as if huddling to avoid impact. Black asphalt stripe after black asphalt stripe create an avant-garde plaid that keeps me frozen...above. Watching. Waiting on the collision.

And, finally, after the dirt grime starts to drip from my eyelashes into muddy rain and my puppeteer hands start to cramp from hoping to stop this accident, He shows up.

He gently drives the road, pausing for beautiful flying insects and saving each one dutifully, accelerating slowly with as much energy consciousness as any, and he listens to the only radio station he can pick up, NPR. He is satisfied with his journey, never seeking too much, never disappointing anyone, always existing on his path in his definition of fulfillment, unwarranted smiles to everyone. He lives. He exists. He functions. He is satisfied happy.

Then, just over the intensely graphic horizon line of the plaid,
She shows up.

She crashes into the wildflowers, screeches tires into the road to leave abstract paintings of wide black on black strokes. She rages against the dull traffic with aggressive horns that appear, angrily, out of the blood red hood and threaten the consuming, fellow cars. She "looks you in the eye" as you pass her in the opposite direction. She wants us to remember her. She is emblazoning a path so if you ever see her again...(She says, "You will see me again,") you will duck down, walk a little smaller, drive a little slower to passively let her get by and ahead. Her eyes pierce - them, me, all, us. Our eyes remember the imprinting tattoo. We will not ever forget her, just like She says.

And as He passes, He is the one who does not avert his eyes quickly enough. Although He never ever ever stares, He cannot take his eyes off of her. He studies her flaming expression; her lips, moist, open; and her streaming hair full of all of the wildness and shimmers of angry sex. He starts to count her lashes, consumed with the darkness next to the reds and blonds of her hair. She seizes his stare and imprints her needles into his eyes - an unhealing acupuncture of sorts. She makes it all the way to his memory before He, stunned, tries to look away. After what turns out to be the time eternities of civilization - the unruly ones with warriors and daggers and order existing through threats and power - She looks away and releases his eyes.

He did not realize He held his breath, and that He drowned. She took him down into the suffocating deepest part of our world, and She allowed - only on a whim and a quick, fleeting thought - him to come up for the exhaust air.

He inhales sharply, coughs, sputters, hits a butterfly, slips his sweaty palms to his pants to dry the dampness, feels his hardness, and shocked, He returns his hands to the steering wheel in the obligatory 10 and 2 position. After his struggle for life, for air, the NPR's on-the-hour newscaster droning infuriates him and He slashes at the radio dial, swiping his fingers over every button to shut it down. He screams aloud, his voice shaken because he has not ever spoken that loudly, he has not even yelled. The tenors of his voice vibrate, go shrill, and then return to the husky. "Qui-et!"

Then He sees the imprint, his vision altered with the tattoo of her. She is forever a part of him. The etching in his vision, outlining the world, but always with her face included. "My God..." He whispers in choked words.

Moving in the opposite direction, She slams on the brakes, shaken from the pull of his car passing her. In her rearview, She sees a thick, dragging metal chain, the kind that beats and holds and contains, rapidly moving like a whip to connect their cars, linked together, tail to tail. He, with a panicking calm, views the chain through her face impression.

After reconsidering the braking stall, she speeds her captured car forward with the hopes of creating a freeing break. She quickly surmises that the alternative is an imminent pull-back, an explosive lurch backwards...towards him.

His car slowly moves forward, in a swerving and careening way, but ever so slowly. He waits for her to be the action. He is the reaction.

I see the whole thing. His fear, his excitement...this is the adrenalin-fused moment He awaited all of his small, small, simple life. He feels passion in in his veins and it moves quickly from limb to limb to mind to fingers and then surges, full speed, into his erection, to stay, until He is released, until the passion can move past his body. Fulfillment.

And I see her...the only blink She has ever blinked during one of her chicken-staring games. Her rage against the world softening, skipping a beat. She feels the rolls of energy pass through her, radiating, vibrating, and stalling in pre-orgasm. She reaches one hand down to feel her wetness. She glances quickly at her fingers that will not satisfy this feeling, this need. She needs Fulfillment.

"The chain!" she panics, out loud.

I do not want to simply sit here stapled above a plaid asphalt of winding lives, sensing passions and just waiting to see who crashes. I never wanted to be in this position, watching over intersections, reporting back to a sky of people. This is not what I bargained for.

When the chain pulls taunt, completely speeded out, it will ricochet back to destroy. No one can escape...even her with her determination. No one will make it out alive. I know it will happen. They don't. They may have heard of such a thing, but it was only dark tales. She thinks she see a way to escape. He thinks he will be tied to her, to her escape.

Can I help? My heart races forward, jumps over hurdles of clouds, and bounces back into my chest. My eyes wildly search for a way to disconnect their chain. I have nothing! The land is cleared into this stark moment. All I see is the chain pulling, stretching, and I see sparks in the slumping middle where the chain still scrapes - lashing the asphalt. I read the scorching words left behind: "There is no safety clause."

The skies own the jaws of life and they do not share. There's no way to save her, the lightning bolt of seduction, and there's no way to save him, the crash course of peace and earth and sincerity. For this one moment, they exist together, on this spaghetti turn of (should have been) straight turns, single lane roads passing, and we have to freeze it, destroy it. Moments like these cannot exist. "It can NOT happen." I have their orders. So I am only allowed to document, not release.

In my chart, I record their eyes, their fear, their arousal. I write notes about their realization of what is going to happen: the violent ricochet, the explosive reconnection in a crash. A thundering boom and a destruction like no other intersection doomsday before them and not like any other intersection doomsday after them.

Metals fragment the air. Guard rails sparkle like piercings weaving in and out of the rippling cars. Red paints the black asphalt like it is smoothing over awkward conversations, shushing the talk. His seat belt tears away to start writing an S.O.S. Her window crashes into shards of a life worth living, even if only for a moment. Fire starts, stalls, realizing it is not needed, extinguishes into a thick black haze. Smoke inhales the lust and exhales in the smell of death.

All is quiet.
All is quiet.

I document the time, as required, and I return, as required, my body folding into itself, to my crouched watcher's position. I am not even allowed to wipe my tears and they fall, useless, onto the pavement.

"Enough!" The skies bellow.
We all hear the skies - above, below, echoing in valleys and mountains, and in the worlds we don't even know.

"This, this, this..."
(rage spit spews from their sadistic mouths landing like hot rain on his and her deaths, their bodies slumped together, leaking, and finally fused).

"...This cannot exist."

There are consequences to my imagination.

2011-08-12T20:09:00.002-04:00

There are consequences to my imagination.

Surly faces of creative mind prisoners,

gaunt with deprivation, sidestep into my evening hour.
"Feed me." they say...hunched over in famine's pose.
I count ribs, like sheep, counting with nubbed finger knuckles.
(kind of like my uncle used to do when I sat - positioned just so - on his lap)

Knowing the day ahead, I calculate hours of sleep while rationing their food of art. It would be okay if the prisoners only spoke to me once, like a talking alarm clock....
but the over and over and over chanting is my black night's white noise.

Sleek, bewitched paintbrushes hear the artist prisoners starving and freeze with the last raspy breath of air and frozen leftover paint. Deadened and dried (but - oh, God - such color of life!),

Consequences to my imagination

the brushes exist just to remind me that I did not finish my painting.

"Did not complete," begins the Chanters as they shift, disrobing,

into full night.

The Blood Rush of paint-filled adrenalin is insulted.
He abandons me, seeking more prowess, with all of The.

madness.

raging against.

an
interrupting
artist.

I cannot hold their attention, these finicky, glorious, paintbrushes, because I cannot hold them.

Sluts for other artists, they only spread for me when water saturates wooden sticks, Mutating from male to female.
These brushes, the ones I desire, leave me impotent.
Water-logged wood transgenders into submissive, receiving shards. The Blood Rush does not want leftovers.
His stilted voice says, "Give me real sacrifice - or go away."

A collection of my failure statues:

I am left alone with these paint-dried paintbrushes,
standing at erect attention like soldiers mocking my intent.
Canvases shift from easel to wall to corner. Not corner to wall to easel. Not art, no art, not really.

The consequences.

My bulging eyes are no longer symmetrical. Just waiting and waiting in the dark disfigured these visionary pupils of light.

The eyes distrust now.
To make sure they cover the whole spectrum of pigments,
they peer eerily throughout the day.
Alternating blinks, one eye, then the other,
catching it all...
moments, movement, in-betweens, distortions.
My eyes message me so I do not miss that the time
is passing, the calendar dates are changing: ahead.
I know it is Future already.

Then, one really sunny day shows up on the Future calendar.

The shock of escaping darkness is limited by a

gasp.

My eyes, like little abandoned children,
run forward... wildly, desperately,

chasing the blood-reddest of all of the artist's balloons.

Neglected muses
pop
the balloons with a thundering explosion.

Blood Candy rains from the plein air skies.

Quickly, the grimy hands of Strangers,
carrying sly rope behind backs,
pick the sweets up for all of its power.
Then, with a gnarling grace (if you could imagine!),
strangers unravel their fingers
opening a lifeline to the candy for one of the children,
a girl...
the most creative one.

"Stop!" I yell. "Don't go near her!"

But my words are captured in a bubble caption above an unfinished drawing...

and the drawing sits frozen on the studio shelf with the erect paintbrush statues.
There is not enough time!

She does not hear me

and her eyes are too frantic with the sugaring hunger to read.

All she hears are the over-saturated voices saying,

"You can take, girl. Take it all. It's yours."

Her eyes peer upward, focusing evenly with a faith.

Even though she sees the unraveling rope,
the girl still looks upward hoping that this time,
the stranger will be different.

"But you must give, girl.

I will take.

There are consequences."

With a thwarted and small, small voice, she whispers back,

"I know."

Wait--for the madness, Day 24

2011-06-29T15:18:00.001-04:00

"Wait until you are educated and have a good job with money, dear..."

...until you make enough money to go back to school...until you graduate...until you pay off your school loan...until you have more time...until you get the new territory in Corporate America...until the senior rep is promoted...until you are making enough money

"Wait until you find the right person....you must kiss a lot of frogs, Juliet."

...until you get over the worthless ex....until you meet the right person...until you truly fall in love...until you learn how to negotiate with each other,,,,until you merge...until you have been together long enough to live together...until you two have traveled your "to see" list

"tick tock tick tock tick tock" - says the baby clock

..until you have been together long enough to have a baby...until you are ovulating...until month after month of "not pregnant" results...until you get in to see the doctor for fertility tests...until you finally go to the active mode in fertility treatments...until you see the 5 blastocyst embryos under the microscope...until you get the call from the fertility clinic...until you are pregnant...until the end of the first trimester...until you have the baby...until the baby gets out of NICU...until your milk comes in

"Look at him, he crawled. He said 'ga-ga.' He stood up. He is potty-trained."

...until he is 18 months to start your own business...until he is old enough to have another baby...until you stop nursing before starting the fertility treatments again... until you get the diagnosis that you will most likely not be able to get pregnant again...until you get to spread your legs for the rough, impersonal doctor for an IUI (focus on the baby, focus on the baby)...until you get the call from the fertility clinic....until you are pregnant...until the end of the first trimester to share that you are pregnant...until your scheduled repeat c-section...until your milk comes in

"Look at him. Look at him. Look at your two boys. Love, love. Beam, beam. But I'm sorry, you cannot sleep. I'm sorry, you must help break up the fight. I'm sorry, but your child is sick. I'm sorry, but the other one has strep, too. You are needed, Mom. They need you, Mom."

...until baby is 2 years old before preschool...until child dropped off before working on art...until children are sleeping before working on art...until you have spent enough daily quality time in your relationship to work on your art...wait until the laundry is done. the house is clean. the bills are paid. the garden is sprouting. the meals are made. the tables are clean. the closets are clean. the organization is done. the clutter is out. the repainting is complete. the home maintenance is complete. the loans are paid...

"Which comes first...the chicken or the egg? Which comes first...your family, your partner, your son, your other son, your friends, your work, your networking, your volunteerism, your chores, ...and in the smallest voice, ever...your art?"

...wait for art full-time...wait for graduate school...wait for artist residency

"It's okay. Really. I can see the future. I hope to be around a long time. I hope to have the future ahead of me. I am not getting older. I am not losing time. I am not losing ground. I am okay."

...wait until firstborn enters kindergarten...not this year, wait until he is older...he needs you...wait until second born enters kindergarten...but wait until he is past the beginning of his school to make sure he is okay...he needs you....

"I am here for you, son. I am here for you, other son. Your Mom is always here for you. You are my Number 1. You are my other Number 1"

wait for art...
wait for art...
wait for art....

"Mid-life crisis here. Now. Wake up, you 39 years and 11 month year old, and realize you cannot die until you create the art that you are meant to create. Did you know that if you died now and could not complete your art manifesto, you would come back and rage against this world and life? Pure and electrifying RAGE?" {off in the distance, the sound of sizzling and crackling}

over 20 years have passed. 8 and a half year old child. 8 more years of school before college. 5 and a half year old child. 12 more years of school before college. 42 and a half years old.

Appreciate. Appreciate. Appreciate.

I celebrate each and every day with the gift of life, the lives of my children, the love I share, the beauty of the world, and the gift of the bubbling enthusiasm of gurgling ideas in art and writing, that I stuff back down, for the sake of all, over and over again.

"...but, ohmygod, help me. Help me find my way."

This pause button is ridiculous.

the start and stop is chaotic and frustrating. and I am waiting...
waiting... waiting... to find the moments in-between the moments...and to claim the spaces in-between the spaces....to throw myself into the art that I am meant to create...to make the art that I am meant to create.

It is a madness, really. Waiting is madness.

Pills, Day 23

2011-06-28T18:20:00.001-04:00

For son quiet, breath.
He needs you, me. He journeys
into tunnels. Find.

---------------------------------------

Haiku about son with ADHD. Trying to find him tomorrow with a pill from a medicine bottle of Focalin.

So this is how it works.
Actually that should be "So this is how it works-question mark-?"

Clay's Master, The Potter, Day 22

2011-06-22T13:47:00.001-04:00

Clay slams onto the wheel head
water of life spins out greeting the maker

Rhythm.

begins--

beat He molds the groggy clay with his hands,
one thumb and beat only one finger on his right hand,
(just to be born his mother took the medicine)
and a full set on his beat left - artist’s balance.
Pressing into the hum, beat he centers into a yoga balance,
clay breathes in, beat breathes out, beat
He opens quickly, dragging discreetly into a right beat angle, he is so quick that I almost missed it, beat
he is shy with his impairment, demo-ing for all, but self-conscious beat
with his compensating prowess.
He lifts clay, pulling it up beat into a perfect cylinder, spaced with fingertips
striping beat the passages around the clock,
spin,
Line.
spin,
Line.
spin,
Line.
beat And I hold my breath,
pulse. pause.
pulse.
pause.
to feel his synchronicity of creating, holding beat onto his visual explanation,
--art is always visual, words, almost meaningless--
beat “Watch the hand, not the clay, watch the hands,” he instructs.
I copy his hands beat in the air trying to feel the sign language of a potter.
He reaches beat within the recess of the feminine form, slows the wheel down,
and feels beat for a moment,

lustful,
pause

He pulls, stretches, beat seduces, and shapes her compliant body
into shoulders, belly, hips.
one more reach within (the feeling is familiar), beat. beat. beat.

And he gives her air.
pulse. pause.
pulse.
pause.

Life is born.

She breathes.

Empathy for the Tree, Hate for Electricity, Day 21

2011-06-21T23:44:00.000-04:00

Part 1. The Power Line Right-of-Way.
Intro.
The Tree was living, breathing. Growing, sprouting.
Thinking.

Wait.

I am still living, breathing. It is not over

yet.

I still feel the seeds burst each month, reminding me that I feel. Empty.
And me.
Almost energized (would it really be so bad to feel the current?).
And you.
With your steel and corporate power, twisted and turning coils of sharpened metal, already wound through my trunk and leveraging my shoots with your manipulation and your will. (I even dreamt that I lost limb after limb because you left the tourniquets on too long).

I would have been better off without you. I did not need you. What gift did I gain? You pushed through with your overpowering presence of blades and made me gnarly, stumped, hesitant. Lost.

And you took away my little ones. The seeds sprouting, gone, unused, wilting in their death. As if I did not want them.

I did. You did not know me well after all.

And here I am, breathing. Living? Yes, alive. And it’s you again. You think the penetration of You is over. That when you left. I stopped.

You

did not save
Me.

I did.

You only crush scars now. My future is mine. Just watch. My branches will twine together, saving each other. We know what to do after years and years of lessons.
I value my life. Now. I value my family. My gift? My present. My future.
Stay away. And leave what is left. We both know your power is brutal. We both know your force.

Steel Threads of Knives, electrocute.
Electrocute.
Someone else.

*************

This is a poem I wrote on the side of the road, with traffic passing by me, children impatiently waiting in the back seat, ordered to "not speak" until I finished writing. I wrote on behalf of the most beautiful, age-old, nurturing shade tree, as the electric company stripped it, piece-by-piece, limb-by-limb, down to a stump for an angry chainsaw.

I really cried for our loss. I paint this tree often. To memorialize? This poem is to share my anger with our rapidly moving technology and careless executions of nature.

But this poem is also about so much more.

Counting a life that counts, Day 20

2011-06-21T21:35:00.007-04:00

Eight.
He is snuggling, wrapped into a white cocoon of a soft coverlet. Sleeping deeply. I see the peace. He still does the newborn startling reaction if I touch his silken face. I blink back to our first days together. I could smell that he was my child. Just by his scent, I recognized him. There's something about the stirring of a blood and chemical reaction. I crave this child. I crave his being. His safety and his life.

Nine.
Other child is dressed. Brushed teeth. Reading a book in his bunk bed. Already fixed himself breakfast. Researching the rules of hockey. He is smart, smart, smart. And he laughs at me when I cannot answer his simple math quizzes. And we talk in multi-syllable words that are complex and challenging. He pronounces perfectly. He interprets perfectly. And he processes like an observational scientist. He doesn't throw his emotions at me. He retreats and withdraws farther into himself. My goal is to get through...to teach him how I get through the down parts of life. To teach him how to add in his emotions, his laughter, his silliness. He awkwardly looks at me. I know he is capable of any task I hand him. I just don't know how to pull out his feelings. He says "mornin, mom" and keeps reading. Efficient child. He makes it easier on me with the function of life. He makes it harder on me because I know he needs more attention.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
We all engage, separate. Emerge, retreat, and reemerge in our in-house interests. Younger child runs outside without notice. Older child tattles. Younger child hits older child.
Time out.
time out.
time out.
time out.
time out -
five minutes for the 5 year old. He rages. He fights. He thinks way after acting. He lives passionately and I find this intriguing, but I know it makes for a tougher life. The kind of life lived full throttle to the end. It takes its toll. God, I know the toll more than anything. My older child keeps the peace. He withdraws, like an abused child sitting in a shadow and observing, ready for flight at all times. I need to take care of this. House rules. No hitting. House rules. Penalty box. House rules. I protect you, my rule-following, stay in the lines, older child, with the hidden sensitivity deep down. You won't ever live this passionately, do not worry. I will create a comprehensible safety zone for you.

One. Two. Three. Four.
I wanted this first child more than anything in the world. I craved his being. I fought hard to get through the fertility clinics and the appointments and the injections and the procedures. He was born into tubes and iv's in NICU. I ran like a mad ranting mother (as fast as I could with a c-section scar) to this child...holding him to nurse. Holding his beautiful glittered head of blond hair and his button nose. He held my hand. I was his. I am his. He is my gift in life. He really gave me back my art. He gave me back my religious beliefs. He gave me my hope for life. He gave me a memory of his namesake, my strawberry blond-haired best friend from high school who drove off of a mountain cliff one night after a drunken frat party. He gives me logic. He gives me grounding. He likes routine and follow-through, early mornings and watch -wearing expectations. I need him. He doesn't even know yet how much I need him.

And my child two, the younger one, was my..."I know I am meant to have another child." I recall thinking, I may have to pause my art business, I know I may lose my right hand's movement due to another carpal tunnel via pregnancy. I know that I have this older, blond-haired child who does not want to spend a moment without me and I think...here is his company. Here is his long-lost friend. With four in our family, we are my definition of a family. He completes this package. He arrived.

Five. Six. Seven.
Witching hours. Chaos and routine at the same time. The Y's childwatch helps so that I can get an adrenalin surge from cardio to get me through these last few hours.

Eight.
A favorite moment. We read. We read quietly. We laugh. We snuggle. My children drop a couple of ages as they snuggle in to me, their mother, when they have me in all of the quiet of the world and are soothed by our white noise machine.

-and we pause-

Relax. And sleep. I know we have synchronized breathing. I listen ever so closely. This is the moment I feel most at peace. They are safe. They are mine in this fleeting slumbering moment. They are mine. My two children. I know I will send them on their way, but not right now.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. One. Two. Three.

I awaken. Now is my time. I awaken as an artist in an insomniac world driven by creative surges. I am driven and yet I am summoned. I am here...let's get this done. I work with a ferocity. I complete. I thrive. I accomplish. I collapse. I have nothing in the world left to give...to me, to my children, to my partner, to the world, to art, to writing. I am an empty, shaking shell...who is actually fulfilled, actively producing huge volumes of work and art, actively parenting, actively thinking about this life that we share in this world that we share. My vengeance in the day-to-day battles and the upsets, fights, disappointments, is happiness. My vengeance is my completion of this world of my family. I define the self of me, completely. I guide the selves of my children, hoping they will one day find themselves, just as completely.

Four. Five. Six.

Sometimes Seven,
Sometimes Eight,
Never Nine.

And God, do I sleep. Heavy, heavy sleep, as I snuggle in to a white coverlet cocoon and a down-filled life as a mom.

I need help with this one, Day 19

2011-06-15T22:17:00.003-04:00

So my son was officially diagnosed with ADHD today.

He has such a beautiful mind. He has a natural musicality and says he hears the beats and music in his head as he dances through the house. He "softs" all animals. He tells me when I hurt his feelings. He asks for a few more minutes before he gets up in the morning so that he can watch the purple sunrise shadows change on his ceiling. He asks me to plug in his homemade robot that he magically put together with electrical cords and nails. He is sad that his robot does not plug in or work, will not move and that it is only pretend.

He asks for sugar, meaning something sweet to eat. He tells me he can speak "Vegetarian." And he can also speak "Italienno." He eats chicken skewers and tells me that they are mice and really yummy. He laughs at the horrified vegetarian response that I give him. He says he likes meat, but he will make sure no one ever kills another animal ever again. He will even be half-vegetarian with pepperoni only on one half of his pizza.

He wants to snuggle. He wants to make me laugh. He is a jokester, a trickster, and a funny, funny boy. He wants to go to theater camp so that he can be on TV. He wants a green horn in his hair, which I later find out is a Mohawk with the tips of the hair dyed green.

He talks to anyone...about anything...he does not know a stranger. He says he will protect his more mild-mannered brother from bullies and robbers. He says he does not need to train because he is a natural martial artist.

He can put together a MEAN Lego spaceship and he can follow short series of directions: Stuffed animals, bed. Books, basket. Clothes, clean, closet. Clothes, dirty, hamper.

He goes barefoot all summer, all spring, all fall and all winter. He loves Batman and pirates and football. He pretends to read. He writes "I'm sorry" books to his brother. When he is upset, he recovers quickly and with a hug, his world is complete. He practices yoga breaths in his room when he is in a time out (I peeked in...too funny).

He is my beautiful, beautiful, creative child with a beautiful, beautiful ADHD mind.

I am scared of losing his uniqueness. I am scared of tempering his emotions. I am scared that he will blend in to this cookie-cutter society a little too well...and I want to see his exaltation, his passion (good and bad) and what he is going to accomplish in his life.

There is something there. I feel it. He is a bubbler...steeping now, but bubbling over one day. It will be true LIFE, I feel it within him. I am captivated with this young child with a big heart, big hazel, engaging eyes, a tenacity like you have not ever seen, and a boldness that makes me squirm uncomfortably into corners, but laugh at his daring.

I wonder - if medicated - if he might go farther, have more friends, create and complete masterpieces in his form of the arts, he might jump higher, sail longer, and organize his life in an efficient way to truly live during every available moment.

I want to record his thoughts and his questions and his meanderings so that I may compare - medicated, unmedicated.

Who am I to tamper with his mind? To temper his mind? Who is the Doctor to prescribe the latest and greatest pill to get him to sit quietly in a big, public school class? Who am I to fill the prescription hoping that he will be happier, more successful, learn more, and lead a better, fulfilled life? Who are we to change this child? Who are we?

The Edge: the end? the beginning?, Day 18

2011-06-15T14:48:00.016-04:00

Come to the Edge

Come to the edge.

We might fall.

Come to the edge.

It's too high!

COME TO THE EDGE!

And they came,

And he pushed,

And they flew.

====================
~~Christopher Logue, poet, playwright and screen writer. Poem inspired by his idea of Apollinaire as "a daring figure."

My feedback?

It is always about THE EDGE....whether it is about where the edge begins, where the edge ends, when you fall, if you jump, who pushes you, what beckoned you, who invited you, how did you get to the edge, how long did it take, how long do you hover,

And how to make yourself fly.

And how to let yourself soar.

May we all find our edge, and fly, fly, fly.

The child's mind, growing up in paint via Aelita Andre, Day 17

2011-06-15T12:13:00.014-04:00

Enjoy this video of Aelita Andre. It is worth our reflective moment.

Don't judge. She is a child. She has supportive artistic parents. She has studio space. She has access to tube after tube of paint. She has large canvases and triptych formats. She has clothes to destroy (or decorate, depends on how you look at it). She has a space for just her thoughts, her childish meanings, her interpretation of this world. We have not tempered her...yet.

And she has the song of an artist in her mind. This is the purity in art that I mentioned yesterday. Unencumbered. Undirected. Uninfluenced. Open-ended. Exploring. Tactile pleasure and design inhibition.

We grownups are the ones who slowly chip away and critique and instruct and polish and contain and limit and direct and confine and redefine. She is already in full criticism in the world, with both art appreciators and non-art civilians. She is exploited, judged. Her artwork is reviewed and cast aside and her parents are scorned for allowing such a thing...the chemical exposure, the audacity to think their daughter's art is great, the pressure the parents forced upon her to create, and constant questioning..."is she really an art prodigy?"

Really? Really?

I would love this gift at 24 months, 3 years old, and every day of my 42 years of life on this earth. If we all had this space, access to art materials, encouragement, awareness, freedom, this method of processing the world around us (beautiful, beautiful coping skills, by the way), the luxury (and in my humble opinion, it is a luxury to be creating fine arts in this commercial world)....

...my idealistic and dreamy self believes that we would have a different world with artistic explosions beyond anything we could possibly imagine.

As a mom, I had this vision of birthing babies; sharing my studio space with my toddlers as they intricately found their own way through my tools and supplies; giving them full, head-on encouragement for their art and welcoming their creative spirits; and the same toddlers would slumber quietly when it was time for me to work on my "masterpieces."

hmmmm.....

Reality:
The studio is an off-limits zone. No children allowed. It is my refuge. It is one of the quietest places on this earth where I can run and hide. I throw pottery to find my zen zone after the child-chaotic and frenzied energy. I smooth paint over a canvas to try to check back in to the silky tactile-ness of paint and to check back in to myself.

And shame on me. Shame on me and my artist and mothering hypocritical ways.

So I do what every rational and logical person does in a moment like this...I load myself up with excuses. Here it 'tis...

But this is survival....my artist's survival. As much as I want to give this gift of art and open-ended studio practice to my children, I have to give it to myself first. My rationale (and it is not too far of a stretch): I am making up for lost time. How do I get my children there when I am not even there yet to pull them forward?

tsk, tsk.

But what if???? What if????

My "what if" is living vicariously through Aelita Andre.

Did Crayola spike their crayons with REBELLION essential oils?, Day 16

2011-06-14T23:13:00.000-04:00

Purity in art, and then doomed to the aromatherapy of artists:

Learn all rules. Play all games.

I cut paper dolls...rows and rows of paper dolls. I keep my crayons nice and neat - orderly in the 64 count Crayola crayon box. Periwinkle is and always will be my favorite color. Sharpened down to nothingness, whittled-away periwinkle is the panic-filled alarm for a new box.  oooohhhh, sharpener, too. ~*lucious!*~ Must. have. crayons. NOW!

Can someone package retro crayola crayon smell in a perfume? I would wear this classic scent all of the time...it makes me do such wild things...unimaginable-imagined, wild things.

*Rebellion, eau de toilette du Crayola*

BREAK.
ALL.
RULES.

Them: "Color in the lines. Color inside the black."

Me: Outline the black and you control the picture. Then color. Lightly. And darkly. Gradients. Reverse gradients.

Them: "Draw this two-dimensional perspective drawing." - high school art teacher. "Paint this Santa on this coffee cup. Paint this Pink Panther in this pink color." - art lessons from art teacher in a large victorian house.

Me: Where can I paint? This wall in my bedroom looks perfect - taller than tall and higher than high.

Them: "What did you do? Why did you paint all over your walls? What is this drawing on the inside of your drawers? Everywhere...did you have to write your name on everything in your room?" - parents, after priming and painting yet another room of mine, and after replacing the carpet for the latest paint spill.

Me: I create my own calligraphy. I mark that I was here. That I am here. A special, young, punk kind-of-thing: "Kilroy was here" a la Greenville, SC, circa 1980.    My loops in my L's look damned good!

Them: "I don't recall seeing your ripped-up Zeppelin rock jeans in the laundry room, the pair of jeans that was signed by your art class, bleached out in a hand-painted Clorox design, and repainted by every artie-farty you could find, with the wonderful* (*sarcasm, 'we are worried about your mental state, dear') quote of Longfellow: 'The leaves of memory seemed to make a mournful rustling in the dark.'" - parents.

Me: silence. the clock ticks on in perfect rhythm: I am here. I am here.

Them: "Paint with bright colors." - painting professor from college who did not believe I could mix color without muddiness. "Paint the sun hitting your subject." - fine arts center professor concerned over my obsession of painting dead roses in the back room by myself.

Me: If I paint these reds to purples to maroons to *gasp* PERIWINKLE *shock* to the deepest chromatic blacks and back to crimsons- over and over again, in this darkroom with garish light backlighting the dead roses, I think I could paint a rose in perfect memory. I must remember each line. I must train my hand. Repetition repeating repetition to move forward.

Them: "Paint the back to the front." - painting instructor from Sawtooth, post college.  "Paint the front to the back." - recent quote from a monotype on clay instructor from a Penland School of Crafts class.

And.

Me:

I paint the landscapes and rolling hills of the earth. I paint aerial views and the low-lying ground from above. I paint stripped farmland and cropped fields. I paint humankind's wrath on our land. I paint color after color of a sunset, using every Crayola color combination I can possibly think of.

Then.
And Now.

I reverse it all. Torque the rules. Paint front to back, upside-down, and then disclose the image, surprise (even me), color over it and carve down through that last layer of thickening paint exposing something hidden...scumbling, sgraffito, carving, scratching, covering, disclosing, just one...more...time.

My mocking "what if?" in my paintings laughs at all rules and tapes of The Voices Past.

Me: I graffiti one last KILROY WAS HERE, my secret code for "yeah....let's see what happens next."

na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na...BATMAN!, Day 15

2011-06-14T13:32:00.001-04:00

The bats are back.

$1,500 paid last summer for bat removal.  Two young men bounced on a ladder high in the sky round our house, sealing all of the cracks and adding in one way doors for the bats to escape from our rafters...

Two weeks after the professional Bat Removers left, I saw bats flying out from our shutters. With lots of laughter, we had a redneck bat removal.

Definition of REDNECK BAT REMOVAL....
***
no more money for bat removal, add in beer, a few friends hanging out, nosey neighbors wondering what the hell you are doing, some time at dusk, a garden hose with a nice hard spray of water.

Then spray the *@#* out of your shutters.

Pause (for bat escape).  Spray again.

Repeat as necessary.
***

One after another, soaking wet and very clean bats popped out to fly away.

Fast forward to now....the bats are back. Bat droppings...the "Tell-Tale Heart" of bat inhabitants. Later, I spy 9 flying bats, leaving our eaves during a beautiful approach of night. Redneck bat removal process, proceed! Phone call to Professional Bat Removers, initiated.

Hey, wait a minute.

I love bats! I love their upside-down position in our ecosystem. I named my pottery studio, The Bat Cave. I buy my youngest son everything Batman. Our home IS Batman paraphernalia. A Batman customized drawing is my favored tattoo-choice-of-the-day. I adore...really adore Catwoman...and will forever remember the scene where she falls from the building after her love interest in Batman is disclosed. (the scene still haunts me, especially when Batman dabs his tears and blows his nose in his bat hanky).
Video of Catwoman's Fall

Did she live? Does Catwoman have 9 lives? Are my homeless bats still alive...? Are the bats out there, somewhere, eating many a mosquito, in the infinity of the unknown, and enjoying the lush darkness that I call "the night artist's quiet?" Does my bat infestation get 9 lives, too?

And what I really want to know....

...is there a catsuit in my future? Slink the s to the k. A bat-tattoo ahead? (to do list: hire babysitter to watch children so that I may schedule tattoo appointment.)

And will a therapist determine my infestation of bats to be semi-symbolic of my past goth phase; of my current emo-punk phase full of Twilight, True Blood and Vampire Lestat; and of my continued rhapsody of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata after watching the Dark Shadows TV series as my official quality time growing up with my dad? (tip: catch breath after that sentence, that is some really thick stuff).

Vampires. Cats. Bats.

Give me black. Keep my 5.5 liters of blood pumping into eternity. Keep me young to forever slink (or at least help me remember slink from days gone long by). Give me the night. Give me flight.

Hidden here, in this passage of batville, is my "meaning" and my life's theme.
The non-existant therapist may actually say...."It is all becoming quite clear."

And then (in reality), my oldest son says to me...."Mom, you know you are not a vampire, right?" My youngest son wears yet another Batman tee. And life goes on.

Tune in tomorrow, same bat time. Same bat place.
I hope to be around a while!

I must complete. Day 14

2011-05-17T21:50:00.000-04:00

I feel fulfilled. I am piecing together dreams that I have dreamt for a long time. I have had a fury...this creating-artist-fury. But now I subdue this chaotic, angry "not enough time for art" pull every day with my installation project. By pursuing these dreams daily, actively, thoughtfully with a fierce discipline, I am fulfilled. I am meant to create this narrative in my art.

It is a crazy calling....to be an artist. It is not usually one of peace. It is not convenient. Not expected. Not easily honored by friends, family, children.

But for some reason, this art mission that I am on is all that I need to soothe the seeker.

I am making.
I am creating.
I am writing.

I am pulling together unraveled and loose ends from my days and weaving them into my life story. I am doing what I have always wanted to do. My focus is unwavering. I do not know where this journey will end or when this journey will end. I am not sure why this project is even important and if it will ever really matter.

But I know I must complete, write, create, and document these days.

Mother vs. Sex Kitten, Day 13

2011-05-17T21:12:00.001-04:00

Being a Mother is finding cinnamon, ooey, gooey red, melted gum all over the inside of your slinky black bra, shaped lavishly across your breast. After your initial shock of the new growth on your boob, you recall deciding earlier to use the gum as a positive behavior reinforcement during an outing with your children. Since you did not have any pockets, you tucked the gum by sliding it in the top part of your brassiere. It was a hot day. And no positive behavior.

Long live cinnamon-smelling and gum-sculptured black bras, Mothers!

With all of my heart....art, Day 12

2011-05-17T20:57:00.000-04:00

"Is all you think about ART?" says son #1.

I do not answer.

He continues: "I mean, c'mon. You go to school, you go to Penland, you teach, you have a studio, you work on art all of the time. Everything you do has to do with art!"

I do not answer.

Of course, the answer is no. I do not only think about art. I adore this child and my family and the intricacies of life and this world. hmmm. Although he has a point...I do invest quite a bit of time in art, meeting artists, talking art, thinking art, quoting art, planning art shows, creating art and more art. But still, the answer is no.

My concern is the 8 and a half year old, with a hint of fragility, fuming across the dinner table. I guess that he misses me. I try to fill in his gaps of what he really needs to say and what is he really upset about. What can I do? This is the mothering part that is unexplainable...incommunicable....inexpressible. Usually, art is my preferred communication when the words stop...but art can't help me now.

And then my inner inadequate mother voice starts...I had a show last weekend.   I am leaving for a two week workshop. I have this blog, my project, his school installation, I'm teaching tomorrow. He used to have me all to himself. His brother takes away his time with me. Art takes away his time with me. In swoops mommy guilt. I am trying not to feel it deep down, but I know I do. This is censored writing. I do not mean it to be, but it is screened so that I may put him to bed in the next 30 minutes, without crying and without any hints of martyrdom (one of my least favorite attributes). I will reassure him in a strong, stable mothering way that I am always here for him and he is the most important thing and person in my life...and that I would do anything for him and his brother.

The emotive artist side is cracking underneath this zipped-up armour wanting to know how in the world I am supposed to accomplish everything I want to accomplish in my life, stay true to myself, my creating self, and still be the best, most giving, selfless, and available mother.

I feel the ripping so I stuff it back down.  But I am still ripped apart.

Ultimately, I will end up with this cracking divide in my life, and so will he. We exist with the constant prioritizing and reshuffling and sucking it up, and the taking one for the "Team Family," and the sacrifice. For me, it is losing my time for art creations and losing my availability as a mother. For him, he loses some of his constant, reliable companion and supporter.

We learn how to fill in these hunger zones. No one is really whole, but these chopped up parts make us here and now in a mismatched, hodge-podged reality.  The broken part of life is how grownups lose our ideals and we accept that it will not be "how it was supposed to be..."

This broken part is how I found art.

And time moved forward over the rough spot of our dinner confrontation. The clock ticked this blaring divide away.

Now it is bedtime...

.....and time to go say our prayers.

**********
PS: Check back in a few days to see the corresponding artwork from today....

How am I supposed to compete with Google's doodles?, Day 11

2011-05-11T23:56:00.000-04:00

What a beautiful way to start this morning...

awakening. quiet. coffee in hand. a quick opening of my browser.

...and then THIS:

and here's the quiet version if it is still morning for you....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsPqRKDxDDM&feature=player_embedded

Google's doodle of the day (hopefully week) honors the wonderful Martha Graham's birthday. Graham said, "Dance is the hidden language of the soul.”

Today's Google doodle....
art meets computer meets dance meets lines meets browser entertainment meets choreography meets graphic arts MASTER meets my memory of Disney's magical Fantasmic down at Hollywood Studios.

This Google doodle (I like saying "google doodle") is my visual ecstasy! BRING IT!

I can awaken every day with this dancing greeting. It set the stage and inspired me as I traveled from mundane reality spot to mundane reality spot along May 11th's hourly timeline. The back of my mind was building up reflecting on Google's image...and my ideas surged with the Google doodle's movement and line quality, fantasy, and its grace.

Lyrical graphics. I am honoring Martha Graham with lyrical graphics of my own. Thank you, Google, for the beautiful and inspiring beginning of May 11th...

....now "take that!"

psssssttt....check back on the original blog pages to see the images from today. http://artviewstudio.blogspot.com/

Granting myself a vacation day, Day 10

2011-05-10T17:30:00.000-04:00

So today is officially my vacation day. Vacation from writing deep thoughts and seeking quotes and compiling my words in the most logical way possible so that someone, somewhere, might get my mind and how it thinks.

In honor of my vacation day, I watched a video called "Painterly Printmaking Monotype" - here's a link...MONOTYPE DVD. The artist hosting the video demos keeps painting an iris, over and over in different layers and translucencies. All I want to paint is that iris - in my own interpretation, of course.

So nothing profound. Just an iris.

Although if anyone needs deeper meanings, I am also reading 10,000 Years of Pottery and found the following Georgia O'Keefe table setting so, so clever....

Georgia O'Keefe's place setting in The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago

And here is a great blog detailing this piece in Feminist Art History:

Table for 39: The Dinner Party, Judy Chicago's iconic work of feminist art, stands the test of time.

Looking for others....Day 9

2011-05-09T19:46:00.001-04:00

"A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject."~~Winston Churchill

My son had a field trip to a strawberry patch farm this morning. This means parenting social hour...I am not so good at that.

I ran into a friend and fellow parent who asked the polite and standard..."so what have you been up to?"

I replied, "I am working on this journal art and writing thing...it is consuming me....I cannot stop thinking about it and how and when my life will end up in the writings and drawings today..." I laughed and said that he "may even show up in the writings tonight..and the artwork is pouring out...I am so focused......blah-de-blah-de-blah."

He had the official Glazed Look.

I stopped.

And then I asked him the polite and standard..."so tell me about you and what you have been up to...."
Good save. Kept friend.

I really do have trouble coasting easily between this divide of reality, the parenting chit chat and friend niceties, and then moving all the way to a fanatically-focused artist's surreal life of creating.

How am I supposed to float back and forth...create interesting conversations that are neutral and engaging when all I can think about is my artwork? What am I supposed to talk about when colors are hidden in our conversations, when I want to draw facial expressions and mouth lines as it moves in speech and when skies want me to paint their fleeting moments and when the texturing lines of sgraffito help me vent the day's stress?

As long as we were not talking about me, I think I did well being a friend and listening attentively and remembering enough of the available parallelisms to choose a mutual topic.

But, help!!! Is there empathy out there? Am I saying those things that other people think, too (or at least have thought...at least, once......maybe???)? Do others have to try really hard to field the world and casual conversations with poise, humor, and good intentions, full of responsive head nodding? Do others also try and struggle to pay one hundred percent attention, even when 99 percent of the mind is back in the studio completing the latest work or fanatically designing the next art creation?

As an art fanatic trying to fake it in a non-art fanatic world, I'll change the subject, good 'ole Winston...

...but my preferred subject and friend, MUST. CREATE. ART., keeps tapping me on the shoulder (almost like a pleasurable Chinese water torture), changing it back.

"I do not pursue art. It pursues me. It dogs me throughout my day and never rests. It is the beast I must feed that is never content. I did not choose to be an artist, to create, to express what is in my head. It chose me and I am its slave."~~Toni Ciserella

Thinking twice, Happy Mother's Day, Day 8

2011-05-09T18:39:00.000-04:00

"When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.” ~~Sophia Loren

In my Mother's Day, designed by me...

I am awakened late morning with breakfast in bed; given quiet, reflective time to lounge in the sun, reading a long lost novel...a really, really long long lost novel; I get to hear my children laughing as they quietly play together, sharing so easily, and saying "good job" to the other when one of them loses and "let's play again;" and I get to listen to jazz music and Nina Simone and some of my new age, dreamy music, and some Shahin and Sepehr moving songs that travel through all of my thoughts; and I get to eat tofu spring rolls and fresh strawberries and blueberries; I sip green tea in the afternoon...tea that is still hot and not over-steeped; throw pottery as the sun sets and paint a large canvas until the striking clock of midnight, when I selfishly think I could use another Mother's Day, the very next day, and the next ...and even one more day to spare.

So that was me thinking once....

That tricky twice part is the reality:

My Mother's Day, part deux

I awaken to the dog barking angrily, so concerned that he has jumped the fence again, I run out of bed and downstairs to make sure he is in the back yard. I make coffee, trying to find a clean coffee cup since we are out of dish detergent and I have yet to run to the store this weekend (our sink overfloweth); I listen to the boys tell me what they want for breakfast and I try to recreate their "gimme" requests; I read the first page of each section of the paper; I call my Mom to wish her a Happy Mother's Day; we find leftovers for lunch...and dinner; I try to encourage the boys to play together and to get along by threatening "if you hit your brother again, you will spend the rest of the day in your room..." ; and then I try to keep him in his room the rest of the day after the hitting incident since he comes out every 5 minutes to say he is "sorry" and "it will not ever happen again" (...it does...); I paint images of chaotic cityscapes on pottery while sitting outside in the driveway in an old cow milking chair (think awkwardly low to the ground), while coaching a basketball game and cheering on Chuck-O and begging them to keep their ball away from the artwork and at least to yell "heads up;" in time to warn me; and then I tell them to tone down the "heads up" as they charge towards me screaming and knocking over all of my expensive glazes every other shot. The boys take up recycling - their chore on Sunday nights...and it takes one full hour since my youngest wears every box on his head like a robot to deliver the cardboard to the curb; again, I patiently coach how to walk recycling up and down the driveway properly (is there a procedure manual for this stuff???); I make sure everyone has clothes, trimmed nails, baths, homework done, permission slips in; and then we all choose books, read, and everyone is asleep by 8pm. (~~*whew!*~~I am exhausted just typing this....)

The "I love you, Mom," times two, at the end of Mother's Day was worth every minute.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL...AND TO ALL, A GOOD NIGHT!

Inside the lines, Day 7

2011-05-07T13:51:00.001-04:00

Day 7: Inside the lines, Monotype on Clay

I have shared before, but this quote is worth sharing again....

"When I was in elementary school my teacher pinned a note to my shirt for my parents to read. It said, 'Charlene is not coloring inside the lines.' My parents contacted the teacher and asked the teacher what the purpose of 'coloring inside the lines' was. The teacher didn't quite know what to say, except that the direction she had given was to color inside the lines. My dad told me to color any way I wanted to and when I was done coloring, to draw a black line around my picture."

~~Charlene Felos, Ceramics Instructor - Cypress College

Cheers to you, Ms. Felos! Today, it is all about you!

...PS: Check back with the blog every few days to see the corresponding images that I will post as the clay dries. Here is the official blog link if you want to follow this art journey: ART BLOG

.

Visiting Suessland, Day 6

2011-05-07T12:20:00.033-04:00

Day 6: Visiting Suessland, Monotype on Clay

“Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities.”
~~Dr. Suess

To me, children's artwork is the ultimate world of fantasy. We get to see life through this other end of the telescope. And we get to laugh at all of this grownup nonsense!

I am working on a large mosaic installation at an elementary school with a group of artists...the children, their teacher, and a few other volunteers and professional artists. We invited the children to create pieces of whimsy. We shared the nature theme and gave them clay.

It was an arts explosion!

The children made small hands high-fiving; happy-faced snails; butterflies with hearts on their wings; bugs that are ooshie-squooshy...and cute; fish complete with gills of swirls and fins of children's initials; birds with human feet walking upright; sailboats smaller than the fish...and even a hotdog from the child who was hungry during our clay handbuilding moment.

We see their unbridled creativity. They are not tempered ....yet.
Refreshing!

Color after color, frenzies of imagination, natural intuition on how objects appear. The children expose their version of this world, this journey....not our dulled-down version from grownup land.
What fun!

"I guess when you turn off the main road, you have to be prepared to see some funny houses." ~~Stephen King

Their imagination is amazing! I want to celebrate this pure art delight today. My motivation is from these children and from Dr. Suess. Nothing like these creativity geniuses to help me in today's art endeavors. Sharing for all....

“My alphabet starts with this letter called yuzz. It’s the letter I use to spell yuzz-a-matuzz. You’ll be sort of surprised what there is to be found once you go beyond ‘Z’ and start poking around!” ~~Dr. Suess

I am starting with the letter yuzz and doing the IMAGINABLE...

“Did you ever fly a kite in bed?” ~~Dr. Suess

I am ready, set, go, go, go-ing!

...PS: Check back with the blog every few days to see the corresponding images that I will post as the clay dries. Here is the official blog link if you want to follow this journey: ART BLOG

Tonight, I will be brief...thank you, Western Union, Day 5

2011-05-06T00:11:00.002-04:00

Day 5: Interrupted, Monotype on Clay

From HOW TO WRITE TELEGRAMS PROPERLY, A Small Booklet by Nelson E. Ross, 1928:

"Brevity is the soul of telegraphy."

{He continues with ~~this~~ ~~thoughtful~~ idea of ~~getting~~ to your point quickly....}

How to Save Words -- Naturally, there is a right way and a wrong way of wording telegrams. The right way is economical, the wrong way, wasteful. If the telegram is packed full of unnecessary words, words which might be omitted without impairing the sense of the message, the sender has been guilty of economic waste. Not only has he failed to add anything to his message, but he has slowed it up by increasing the time necessary to transmit it. He added to the volume of traffic from a personal and financial point of view, he has been wasteful because he has spent more for his telegram than was necessary. In the other extreme, he may have omitted words necessary to the sense, thus sacrificing clearness in his eagerness to save a few cents.

{His ~~interesting~~ note on manners...}

A man high in American business life has been quoted as remarking that elimination of the word "please" from all telegrams would save the American public millions of dollars annually. Despite this apparent endorsement of such procedure, however, it is unlikely that the public will lightly relinquish the use of this really valuable word. "Please" is to the language of social and business intercourse what art and music are to everyday, humdrum existence. Fortunes might be saved by discounting the manufacture of musical instruments and by closing the art galleries, but no one thinks of suggesting such a procedure. By all means let us retain the word "please" in our telegraphic correspondence.

So...here is my attempt at a brief blog post and a brief message to my children, dedicated to my new art journal entry briefly called, Interrupted.

CHILDREN COMMA STOP PLEASE STOP INTERRUPTING ME STOP PLEASE STOP FIGHTING STOP PLEASE DO NOT THROW BALLS NEAR MY ARTWORK STOP PLEASE GIVE ME FIVE MORE MINUTES TO BE AN ARTIST STOP LOVE LOVE AND MORE LOVE COMMA STOP MOM STOP

Unfortunately, Western Union's eloquent, polite and brief style of message delivery halted all physical delivery of telegrams in 2001. STOP

Kite Sailing back, Day 4

2011-05-04T15:37:00.010-04:00

Day 4 - Kite Sailing Back, Monotype on Clay

Had a long talk with a close friend.

Her son called, 47 years old, breaking down from the day-to-day travels of his job, living in hotel rooms for 3 plus weeks at a time, missing his wife, his home, himself. He broke down on the phone call to her saying he was dying inside. He could not do it anymore - the travel, the commute, the corporate life. My strong, (super-strong, actually), friend wept that night for her son. She feared the unknowns ahead for him. She feared that her son would lift his feet off of the ground and that he would not return.

He asked for a leave of absence. They laughed. Offered him $50,000 more. He said, "No way. Money won't fix this. I'll be dead within 5 years. I can't do it anymore."

And off he went. He is at the coast. Wants to teach kite sailing. He wants to take a few weeks to detox Corporate America and return to himself. He wants his timeout --not a midlife crisis, just the silent pause--to find his new direction in life...and he's hoping that he gets to kite sail back to his soul.

We all hit this moment. Different story. Different version. We all get to decide if we can sail back to ourselves. My version? Take the risk. Sail on...

The fine line, Day 3

2011-05-03T20:31:00.002-04:00

Day 3 - The Fine Line, Monotype on Clay

I asked a friend to read the start of this blog...

"So, what d'ya think?"
Response: "Great!"

Seeking more, I asked: "Can you see my art vision in the writing?"
Answer: "I guess...sounds cool."

Seeking more, "Does it sound 'whiny'?"
Response: "No. You sound more 'tortured artist'."

"Oh, great." I replied, thoughtfully.

She continued, "Just remember there is a fine line between tortured and whiny."
And we laughed.

May this blog follow that fine, fine line.

Day 2 - Reflecting on reflecting (and The Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays")

2011-05-02T16:45:00.007-04:00

Day 2 - the in-between artist

This seems so self-indulgent...but it is a part of my project.

Follow the path, follow the path.

I attended the wonderful NC Potters Conference in Asheboro, NC, this year. I spent an entire weekend talking pottery smak and clay techno tidbets with lots of rock star potters. I learned so much from the Jingdezhen potters and the china painter demos....their complete devotion to the profession and how it is survival and a job for their people.

The way the Jingdezhen potters make it work is through specialization. Throwing Master, Slab Master, Trimming Master, Slip Painter, China Painter...and usually, it is the China Painter signing the piece. Interesting. Each person was so well skilled in their area of expertise....and they did not multi-task like we do. I learned lots of clay artist lessons (or was reminded of the lessons...):

Art is in form
Art is in the surface
Art is in the firing
and...Art is in the promotion.

I talked a lot with a fellow pottery student, Ann, from CPCC...and we talked about trying to do it all. Trying to be the Master Artist in all of these areas...and how being a Master Artist means a sacrifice in another area of life.

I returned home, missing my children and family, but full of crazy art energy. I stayed up til 3:00am on Sunday night to work on a mixed media piece. I had started a large painting of the Blue Ridge mountains...and I wanted to add in words, in cursive, to "roll" along the hills of the Blue Ridge. I started writing on a 24x36 sheet of fine watercolor paper: "...I want to climb a mountain. I want to reach the sky and touch the skyscape of the ridge...." ~blah, blah, blah~ and I ended up with this *sob* dramatic epiphany of being grounded in motherhood and life's responsibilities, and being there for my children and for my family first...and how I end up painting and drawing and throwing in the wee hours and in the moments, in-between. It is a very...interesting... painting.

The creating process...it is vital for me. My epiphany was to focus my energy (and overwhelming lack of solutions) on a series of work about all of these teeter-tottering, mother-artist issues. I saw that I need to balance better, to work efficiently, to stop feeling mom guilt when I cater to my introverted artist ways. I always laugh, but it is truly..."throw pottery or straight jacket...my choice."

I realized that I am officially an IN-BETWEEN Artist.

I had such clarity in that moment of sharing the space of my life with others, but always struggling to hold on and to honoring the artist part of me. And how I cannot give everything away.

And then...
I awakened to Monday.

Back-to-school Monday at 5:55am, and children's lunches, and *oops* forgot to trim their nails, and what will they wear for picture day, do we have enough healthy stuff for their lunch, one to catch the bus, the other to sit in traffic to deliver him to preschool and afterschool care...and then on to the end of the day, homework, teacher appreciation week, forms to complete, responses for the class mom, email and email of my work stuff, and then--
CRISIS.
My child really needed me and he exploded into a million moments of insecurities. I jumped and responded to his needs. I was on task, ready for the emotional emergency, and completely in "fix it" mommy mode.

Stop. Halt. Cease and Desist. Back away from the painting. Back away from the pottery. Stop.

Welcome, Mom...100%.

There is no compromise at moments like these. The dreams, the lofty dreams...gone. Actually gone for some time so I could "fix" my son's issues and help him get to the life raft and teach him how to maybe handle it better the next time.

I am always a mom, first. Intrinsically, my children come first and that inner artist self runs away. ~quickly!~

The timing was uncanny. Running into my art obsession with open arms at 3am after a potters retreat and the *BAM!* home and day-to-day in the reality side of life that is just as full and just as completing. The timing was a sign.

I have created a lot since March......but I am not at the same furor and fervor of the artist/mom balance and the obsession to do BOTH at 100%. My compromise is squeezing in these moments. My compromise is this journaling project and the corresponding artwork.

Yesterday's first image is really funny...these abstract tents and the heat of reds and purples, and the newly colored green dog, marking its spot in my tent.

The Mom/Artist-wanna-be's life. Here it goes....

...and for fun...listen to this song running through my head today....
The Boomtown Rat's "I Don't like Mondays" song

Day One - New art journaling, with a smell in the air

2011-05-01T20:44:00.017-04:00

Day 1 - Monotype on Clay...look for the dog!

Of course I have chosen May 1st, 2011, as my official start date of a year-long project. Of course!

I keep quite a pace being an artist, mom, teacher, and trying to study more and more new techniques. My project is an art and life journaling on all of this...mom to artist, surreal artist life to glaring reality....so today is perfect as an intro to my chaos...and my fun.

Art Show Booth Display

I just returned from a weekend art show: working, selling, and throwing my soul out for all to see (and judge!). The funniest part of the day was being stuck in a tiny 10x10 art booth, in the hot sun, no breeze, when in walked the cutest, prissiest Havanese dog in my favorite shade of "black" and she POOPED in my booth. The owner did a quick scoop, but the smell lingered...and lingered. Guests quickly hurried in and out of my booth thinking they had walked in on the worst "stink bomb" ever! My artist neighbors kept coming by to give me their feedback on the smell dissipating.... they honestly said "nope, still smells bad," over and over again. Oh and every other dog in the festival wanted to come hang out, sniff, sniff, sniff, in my booth, wagging tails near all of my pottery. And then the poop flies showed up.

Lots of hustle and bustle and stinky pottery sales...literally and figuratively. Hey...it all makes for a good story and laugh. Art, especially clay, keeps my sense of humor alive and well.

So welcome to my first post of this new project. Can I keep it up? Will I commit to the full year? Will someone hold me accountable?

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.

But something is brewing inside of me and my art mind. It is time for me to share and really focus on this creative energy. More ahead.....

Join us for a Pottery or Painting Retreat in October

2010-09-09T14:07:00.004-04:00

OPEN TO ALL ARTISTS...Lake Norman Art League Hosts 1st Annual Fall Art Retreat

The Lake Norman Art League is offering its first annual art retreat, the ArtNOW Workshop, on October 4th through the 8th, 2010. The Fall getaway will be held at the Blumenthal Foundation's Wildacres Retreat in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Little Switzerland, NC, at the start of peak leaf season. The Lake Norman Art League invites all area artists to join the three full days of painting or pottery instruction during the four night and five day art retreat.

The ArtNOW Workshop chose master instructors to lead the hands-on, interactive workshops that include demonstrations and participatory instruction. Paul Keysar is teaching Oil and Acrylic Painting and Scott Cummins is teaching Pottery. Keysar and Cummins plan on challenging the participants to take their art to the next level. ArtNOW Workshop's goal is offering an intense and creative workshop as a venue for artists who need the space and time for a complete arts immersion.

Lee Ann Harrison, a Workshop Coordinator, explains the mission of the trip by saying, "ArtNOW means do not wait, do not put off the call to create and to cater to your artistic talent. We welcome beginners to advanced artists. Our intent is for the visiting artists to greatly improve their techniques by using this getaway as an inspiration, and as a leaping point for the artistic journey."

Space is limited, and reservations are being accepted first come, first serve. Rates are $420 for Lake Norman Art League members, $430 for members of other local art organizations, and $450 for non-members. The retreat fees include instruction, double occupancy accommodations, and all meals. There is an additional $15 fee for clay supplies. Non-workshop guests are also welcome at the same rate.

For full details and to register, go to www.ArtNOWworkshop.com, or call 704-596-1286, or email info@lknart.org.

Wildacres is a true retreat, undisturbed by traffic or noises of the city. At an elevation of 3,300 feet, Wildacres is situated atop Pompey's Knob, on 1,600 acres are adjacent to the Blue Ridge Parkway and thousands of acres of the Pisgah National Forest. Wildacres Retreat, sponsored by the Blumenthal Foundation, is dedicated to enriching lives by serving as a retreat and conference center for nonprofit groups and by conducting educational or cultural programs on topics such as music, art, science, religion, lapidary, craft and writing.

The Lake Norman Art League's mission is to enhance the health and vibrancy of the visual arts in Lake Norman communities. The League brings cultural enrichment to the region by offering events, programs, and services that cultivate visual artists and encourage public participation in the arts. The League was formed in July 2004 and is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization. Membership is open to all artists and art appreciators.

Upcoming Visual and Artistically Inspiring Play in the Lake Norman Area

2010-04-17T17:40:00.008-04:00

The Warehouse Performing Arts Center is so pleased to announce the upcoming performance, The Road to Mecca.

Premiere: April 30th, 2010

This is a must see for all artists and anyone who challenges the standard to create their own space in the world. Inspiring for all! Enjoy the creative ecstasy!

Here is a link for more info: The Road to Mecca

Abstract Painting - "Color Field" Discussion

2010-01-12T11:27:00.016-05:00

I started teaching the new session of an Abstract Painting Class this week at The Community Arts Project. We are off to explore new painting styles in the world of abstraction!

And my quote for the day in honor of the Color Field Artists:

"I think that if you can turn off the mind and look only with the eyes, ultimately everything becomes abstract." —Ellsworth Kelly

My goal as a painter right now is to step back and paint these large blocks of color. Large, I mean really, really LARGE! The good news is that I can use this moment as a jumping point for the class, too. In my current paintings, I get caught up in the intricacies of the brushstroke and spend hours with a small swirl of acrylic paint. My last three paintings have been rolling layers of paints and brushstrokes (every size imaginable) and texture that reaches off the canvas.

Now, I am craving the simplicity of the landscape...a far away view. I want to see a luminous quality in the painting, defined by a shared layer of the same color with a subtle hue difference. I want to literally "block" out all of the "busyness" I have found in my latest works by blocking with color and by adding in this contemplative tension with a dividing horizon line.

Just so we all know..."Color Field" painting is characterized primarily by large fields of flat, solid color spread across or stained into the canvas, creating areas of unbroken surface and a flat picture plane. The movement places less emphasis on gesture, brushstrokes and action in favour of an overall consistency of form and process.

The complete opposite of every art form I have created lately. *Whew* this will be a challenge! And it will entail mixing lots of the same color for uniformed color application. Time to hit the paint supply store!

To help us all....here is a commentary on "Color Field" for additional understanding:

http://www.biddingtons.com/content/pedigreecolorfield.html

And who has paved the way for us Studious Artists of The Color Field?

Clyfford Still

Robert Motherwell

Barnett Newman

Jackson Pollock - the initial "paver"

Neat tidbit....In 1972, former Metropolitan Museum of Art curator Henry Geldzahler said: "Color field, curiously enough or perhaps not, became a viable way of painting at exactly the time that acrylic paint, the new plastic paint, came into being. It was if the new paint demanded a new possibility in painting, and the painters arrived at it. Oil paint, which has a medium that is quite different, which isn't water based, always leaves a slick of oil, or puddle of oil, around the edge of the color. Acrylic paint stops at its own edge. Color field painting came in at the same time as the invention of this new paint."

Color field painting is different from abstract expression because of the way the artist handles the paint. Color Field painting initially appeared to be cool and austere. Color field painters leave off the individual mark in favor of large, flat, stained and soaked areas of color. These areas are considered to be the essential nature of visual abstraction along with the actual shape of the canvas. But Color Field painting is also a deeply expressive way of painting, although in a different way from gestural Abstract expressionism.

Here are samples to get an idea of the past & the current (and help us to create for the future...):

http://www.moca.org/pc/viewArtWork.php?id=31

http://www.contemporary-art-dialogue.com/color-field-painting.html

http://www.pbs.org/newshour/art/blog/2010/01/remembering-abstract-color-field-painter-kenneth-noland.html

http://www.picassomio.com/guy-delaroque/exhibition.html

http://www.ifpe.org/Reviews/Art-03.pdf

http://www.mfa.org/exhibitions/sub.asp?key=15&subkey=595

http://www.paulaschoen.com/index.html

And here is a Lake Norman local, Angela Vanevery Johnston...I love her work and had the opportunity (and honor, because she is a favorite...so, so talented!) to visit her studio and home during the Lakeside Tour in late 2009:

http://lknstudios.com/artists/angela-vanevery-johnston/

and her website for more: http://www.vaneveryart.com/

****

I will let you know about our creative output next week....Happy "Color Field" painting to all!

Attention Lake Norman Artists....Upcoming Workshop Feb. 6th - Photoshop Elements 8 for Artists

2010-01-10T18:16:00.008-05:00

http://www.stillriverstudios.com/pse/pse4art.html

This posting falls under...How to Promote Yourself. We all need to represent ourselves better, more efficiently, and more professionally. Lori Neill of Still River Studios, a prolific artist with an amazing studio and home (love it, Lori!!!), is offering a unique workshop for artists.

Here is the scoop:

Photoshop Elements 8 for Artists is a new workshop developed from the ground up with the artist in mind. This workshop utilizes the most current release (Adobe Photoshop Elements 8) available today, and not only provides an overview of the functions, but clearly guides the artist through real life examples in a targeted fashion.

WHO SHOULD ATTEND
Any artist that wants to move into the digital age. This workshop is geared toward the beginner, but on occasion we'll be delving into advanced topics. This workshop will be limited to a small group of students.

WHEN and WHERE
This targeted artist workshop will be Saturday, February 6th from 9:30 am - 4pm at the Lake Norman Volunteer Fire Department 1518 Brawley School Road, Mooresville, NC

IMPORTANT: LAPTOPS REQUIRED

Here is a link on YouTube with more info:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqnbGYIUtyg

Spotlighting Writers - Surge your creativity!

2010-01-10T13:40:00.011-05:00

To All of the Writers in the Lake Norman area....

Here is a way to commit to your creative writing for 2010 - Join in the classes at The Warehouse for Performing Arts. Schedule the time through one of the following workshops - you'll be inspired!

Marla Brown, the Director, has put together something special for all of us. You will enjoy the serene space at the Warehouse. She is a creative force in our community who offers us the physical and mental space to create, create, create! What a gift!

And for the writer within...Creating this space and time for your written musings is critical. I have the hardest time with this commitment since I am pulled into carpool, volunteering, new projects, helping a friend, sick children, trying to be "SuperMom" and so on and so on.

But this "cleared-schedule" writing opportunity is important! There is a cathartic sense-of-self as we work through the ideas passing through our thoughts. Commit to "Writing Time." Write it down. Release the energy to prepare for future writings. Follow the lead. I don't know about you, but my mind stalls on a plot, a poem, a phrase, an idea...until I release it into some form of readable permanency.

Join Marla and her group of Writing Leaders - yes, right here in Lake Norman! You do not have to travel far, so you can escape from the world a little while...and then return to reality for more material for the next workshop!

And share your works with me. I love the creative energy and completely support our local writers!

*******

I. MIDWINTER MEMOIR WORKSHOP with Gilda Morina Syverson - January 30th (day long)

Come join us on the day of a Full Moon to journal your personal or family stories.
We will spend the morning writing from prompts given by the instructor. After lunch we will continue journaling from ideas mined earlier in the day or excerpts you bring in from a story or stories you may have already begun to write.
(Excerpts are suggested but not necessary for afternoon participation).

There will be an hour for lunch. You can either bring a bag lunch or travel to a nearby restaurant. Suggestions for eating will be provided.

Bring: A journal and pen or a battery-run laptop*

Tuition: $55

Registration will be acknowledged by e-mail after receiving your check in the mail:
Gilda Morina Syverson
P.O. Box 1307
Cornelius, N.C. 28031
gmsyverson@bellsouth.net
www.gildasyverson.com

II. The Art of the Personal Essay with Rosie Molinary - February 1-22 (4 meetings)

The Art of the Personal Essay is a four week workshop that allows the participant to discuss the art of personal essay writing, explore memoir writing elements, complete several essays, receive feedback on their writing, and begin revising their pieces.

Mondays, February 1st-22nd, 2:30 pm until 4 pm
$77 ($70 fee, $7 warehouse fee)

III. Memoir Writing: Revisiting Personal & Family Stories with Gilda Morina Syverson (Feb - May, 4 meetings)

This is a once-a-month highly individualized class for writing your memoirs or family stories. Participants will bring selected writing for supportive feedback on how to craft a great story. You’ll be delighted how revision inspires more writing. Class Size Limited.

2nd Wednesday of the month: Feb. 10, March 10th, April 7th, May 12th
9:50 a.m. – 11:45 a.m.
$99 – to register contact gmsyverson@bellsouth.net or send a check to:
Gilda Morina Syverson
P.O. Box 1307
Cornelius, NC 28031

You will be notified of your registration by e-mail or phone, so please include both. I will also let you know how many pages of writing you will need to bring.

IV. Discovering Your Belief with Rosie Molinary, March 1 (short seminar)

This I Believe is a popular NPR series that invites everyday people to share a brief essay on something they absolutely believe to be true. From the simple to the profound, essayists selected by NPR share their beliefs in radio spots aired locally and nationally. In this workshop, participants will begin brainstorming and drafting a This I Believe statement that they may wish to complete and submit to NPR on their own for consideration.

March 1, 2010, 2:30 pm until 4 pm

$22 ($20 workshop fee, $2 warehouse fee)

V. Writing Your Life with Rosie Molinary, March 15 (short seminar)

Self-reflection gives us a much needed pause. It allows us a moment of inquiry, a moment to identify desire and potential. Generating awareness and then moving to personal solutions takes time and thought, brainstorming and checking in, enough repetition to want to change our choices and build a new habit, and the knowledge of why this habit will be good for us when we want to revert. Journaling predisposes us to a more successful embrace of our self and our choices. In this workshop, participants will discuss the importance of journaling and will actively engage in a range of journaling tools and practices.

March 15, 2010 ,2:30 pm until 4 pm

Cost: $22 ($20 workshop fee, $2 warehouse fee)

*******

Join Marla's mailing list. She hopes to bring Artist's Way and several other writing workshops--poetry, creative writing 101--soon! If you have any ideas, or have a course you'd like to facilitate, please let Marla know. The Warehouse's Writers Loft is a co-op situation where independent writers bring their courses or meeting ideas.

Also, The Warehouse is in rehearsal for several shows, so please come join The Warehouse for Last of the Red Hot Lovers in February (a fun comedy for Valentine's Day)!!

For more info, please contact Marla Brown, 704.619.0429
www.warehousepac.com

And of course, to surge your creativity...join in on one of the upcoming writer events! Happy 2010 Creating for all!

Welcome to the ArtViews of ArtView Studio...we're glad you are here!

2010-01-04T10:47:00.000-05:00

Welcome! Don't be shy! You are cordially invited to travel through fun explorations of Art in the area. Stay a while and collaborate, "artist-style!"

We will be sharing tips, techniques, events, shows, classes & workshop info, and lots of related links for painters and potters...and sometimes for writers & poets. We spend a lot of time finding unique tidbits to make us better artists...so let's share!

The more artists in the world, the better! And the more "better artists" in the world, the more original art will be treasured and supported by our better half: "The Buyers." And to our prospective and current clients, thank you for following and for your support!

Stay in touch, write back, and follow along. This art world is a fun, thrilling ride of adventure and creativity. Welcome to the ArtView side of things...and bring it on, 2010!