Henna

Genevieve Levin (http://www.remarkableblackbird.com/) made this beautiful henna design at Space Gallery's flea market event Friday night. She put glitter on top for the paste; the actual henna tattoo will stay on for a few weeks!

Tree Series: New Drawing

Drawing portraits of trees is similar to drawing portraits of people. One can read history and character from branches, lines and contours.

Art & Fear

Art

Writing and drawing/art-making are my passions, yet I often feel like Sisyphus rolling his huge boulder up the mountain every time I embark on an artistic endeavor. Why should this be? I'm not sure, but I know it has to do with at least two things: time and faith.

Time

What writing and art require more than anything else is time. Time to contemplate, revel, see, think and work. When you have to budget your time due to jobs, household duties and other obligations, it is a challange to budget creative time, which always seems the most expendible, the first thing to get lobbed off at the knees. Even when you do budgt for creative time, it's hard to guarantee you won't be exhausted or overwhelmed when you're supposed to be energetic and inspired. Forget the myth of the creative bolt of lightning. Having the will to create is all it takes to be creative. Still, that will can be easily eroded.

Faith

Will and faith are interconnected. Lack of faith is crippling to having the will tor work on that poem or to start that daunting sketch (and every sketch is daunting). Here are a few thoughts that get in the way:

The world is filled with art and writing. There's just so MUCH of it allready. Why bother?

My work isn't any good. I'm never satisifed and I'm not really an artist.

I'm just an amateur. I don't want my work to be amateur.

The counterarguments go like this:

So what? The means ARE the end. The true triumph of creating lies within creating itself -- the act matters more than the result. The creation of art is a revolutionary act, a defiance of complacence, an emphatic declaration of the vital, immortal persistance of the human spirit.

Drawing isn't about "being great." It's about drawing. It's about a meditative serendipitous task that is filled with frustration, delight and, most of all, surprise. It isn't really about the drawing -- it is all about the artist.

By the way, the best book I've read on the subject of how artists struggle with art-making is a book called Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland. It's a psychological gem that demystifies alot of "art drama."

The Drawing

I wanted to draw a particular Copper Beach tree. I took photos (sometimes considered a "no-no") and one day got as far as finding the right piece of paper I wanted to draw on. Then I lost steam. Unmotivated and deflated, I lacked the mental enthusiasm and acuity I needed to start. So I put the paper awa and left it for another day.

Several weeks later, having gotten a jump on the endless round of household chores that weekend, I decided to start fairly early in the day, before I got too sidetracked or worn out. I got my paper, my pencils, took a deep breath, and dove in.

I was afraid the drawing wouldn't go well, but I tried to put all those kinds of thoughts out of my head and started. This was the key moment. I completely focused on drawing, trying not to worry about the outcome. After the initial sketch, I started doing light shading, mapping out areas, skipping from one area to another. For hours I worked, doing my best to capture what I wanted to capture -- the strength, beauty and mystery of the tree. I was occasionally niggled by thoughts of the dirty floors I had yet to sweep, the dust clinging to the furniture everywhere in sight and the dirty clothes I needed to wash for the next work week, but for the most part I was able to resist those evil saboteurs.

Artistically, one of the biggest frustrations I face is with myself. I long for my style to be freer, looser, more gestural, less controlled. Generally I think my style is too tight, too anal, too literal. On the other hand, part of me revels in the illustrative quality of my work and I don't think it is spiritless or passionless. Just awfully compulsive.

I love doing it and I resist doing it.

Next comes the evaluation stage. Time to take a break, stand back, move around and give the work some distance. Does it need more shading? Which areas need more work? Should the background be left white? My instinct was to lay in some nice blue color with colored pencils. Or would that be overboard? Would it look amateurish? Screw it. I'm doing it anyway.

This all takes patience. Like most people I want instant gratification with the least possible effort. Though the effort feels good -- true, real and validating -- it's also work and it's occasionally a big risk. What if I invest all this time and energy and I hate the results? Well, that's the hard part. But none of it is ever wasted, because creative work is active and instructive. Every failed effort as value, sometimes even more than what we think of as "the successes."

The real trick is to forget about time as a commodity, an investment, or a means to an end. In other words, the best thing is to forget everything society ever taught you. Then it's all pure bliss.

I love the tension, the conflict, the challenge of making, deciding, adding, changing, trying to find resolution and balance without going to far, without overworking the think and ruining it. It also drives me nuts and is exhausting. But it's the most inspiring kind of exhaustion in the world.

Hours later, after leaving it for awhile, doing errands, coming back, I think it looks great. It's one of the best drawings I've ever done! Except for that flat part. How can I fix that? And what about the balance of darks and light. I think it needs to be touched up a bit. I think it needs work. Maybe it's not so great. Maybe it's even "bad." No, overall, I feel good about it. That's what counts. And I made something! I chose to wrestle. I didn't just lie down. I triumphed over lethargy and inertia. At least for now.

Finale

Is it done?

No.

Will it ever be done?

No.

But therein lies the real beauty. In the open doorway, the constant sky, the twirling cosmos, the undanceable danceable dance.

Ebune, The Procession of the Ram

Ebune: The 5th Annual Parade of masks, puppets and music in celebration of spring. The Ram is a symbol of fertility and renewal. The cross-cultural procession includes West African, astrological, Greek, Egyptian and Judeo-Christian elements. It is led by Oscar Mokeme, director of the Museum of African Culture, in collaboration with A Company of Girls.

Postcards From the Subconscious

This week I went to an Adult Ed "Past Life Regression" workshop with my friend J.L. I was very excited about it just because it was something new and different and utilized hypnotherapy. I didn't have any great expectations or prejudices to begin with, especially because I already knew that the state of hypnosis is not as obscure or romanticized as most people think from watching movies. I knew that daydreaming or being "lost" in your work are both light forms of hypnosis; that any trance state is, in fact, known as being in a hypnotic state.

I had also had some experiences with hypnosis in the past, having read hypnosis scripts and having hypnotized myself on occasion, resulting in extremely vivid experiences. As the teacher said later, "You will only see things you are ready to see. . . "

The class took place in a rather bleak classroom at an arts and technology high school. It had gray walls and old tables and chairs, but did feature an anamolous bright green carpet resembling astroturf. There were about 16 women and one man, primarily in their '40s and '50s, though a couple looked like they could be in their '30s. I wasn't surprised by the age group attracted to this topic -- as you start to age, you start to wonder more specifically about past and future lives.

The teacher, a Clinical Hypnotherapist, began by telling us about her background and how she was introduced to hypnotherapy and talked about some theories of reincarnation. She gave us the names of several authors to read, such as Brian Weiss, whom she had studied with, and Ian Stevenson and Michael Talbot. I had never heard of them or their books, though I thought I might look up some of their books at the library, just to see what they were like. Also on the handout sheet were some nifty quotes by authors like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, who wrote, "As long as you are not aware of the continual law of Die and Be Again, you are merely a vague guest on a dark Earth." As a student of Tibetan Buddhism, I tend to agree.

The teacher talked some more about hypnotism and reincarnation and gave us some hints as to what was to come. Finally, after a bathroom break, we were ready to begin.

I lay down on the floor, on the mat I had brought, head-to-head with my friend J.L. and made myself comfortable by wrapping up in a blanket and resting my head on the pillow I'd brought. I was very comfy in no time. The teacher dimmed the lights and put on some nice New Age-y music and led us in a long relaxation exercise, from head to toe, during which we were instructed to let go of our fears and worries, breath deeply, and allow each section of our bodies to become more and more relaxed. I had a slight resistance, having had a database snafu at work just before I came to class, which had made me anxious, but I soon forgot about the database, work, and everything else, and became sleepy and warm in my blanket-womb. I felt somewhat like an insect in a warm pod. As the teacher spoke, I visualized my body wrapped in a purple-blue colored gauzy energy that sparkled.

Then she led us in a guided hypnotic session, which I will recount as I experienced it. . .

I went down some stairs and came to an opening outside, with a path amongst many birch trees. On either side of the trees were fields and it was bright green and sunny with an azure blue sky. I felt intensely happy there and warm, with the sun beating down on me in a summertime climate. There were birds and the air was golden and pure. I walked down the path and came to a temple (see Postcard #1 above) that was oddly shaped and made out of large olive-green stones. It had some Asian features to it, but the most striking part to me were the large green stones. I went up to the door and went inside into a room that was lit by the sunlight streaming in from windows. There was an oldish man there, with ruddy cheeks and a white beard. He was friendly and smiling. This was my Spirit Guide. I don't remember him speaking to me.

We sat down in the room across from a low table and drank fragrant tea out of square stone cups that matched a square stone teapot. After awhile, we arose and my Guide led me out of the room. He showed me another room, where there was a large sunken area of water, with blue dolphins painted above. Then we went down a hallway where there were many different doors, with doorknobs made of different kinds of gemstones such as lapis lazuli and agate.

I opened one of the doors and stepped into another world. . .







My bare feet were in soft warm golden sand and I was standing on the shore of a large sea. I am not sure if it was an island or a coast, but it was Greece in the 1950s. There were colorful boats in the distance and trees and birds and the water was blue-green. My name was Barbara (the teacher cued us to try to remember places, years and names) and I was wearing a robe-like dress and had long blonde hair piled on my head. I was in my late 30s I believe. Then I realized there were other footprints and other people in the distance. I saw a man a little ways away, standing next to a huge piece of driftwood. He had black hair and a beard and his name was Michael or Michel.

I knew Michael and recognized him as untrustworthy. I began walking, meaning to walk up to him, but instead I smiled and walked past him. Once I walked past I felt a great weight lifted, and was filled with a sense of independence and freedom. I enjoyed the vibrant scenery and sea air and realized I was wearing a pendant around my neck.

Then I stepped back through the door and into the hallway. I selected another room and put my hand on another of the gemstone doorknobs and entered yet another world. . .

This time I was a Japanese woman dressed in a beautiful kimono. I was standing against a breathtaking backdrop of rock, waterfall and mist-laden heights. I was modeling for a painting that an older man was painting of me. It was the 1700s and the painter was my master. I guess I was his concubine. My name was Kyoto or Kyoko. He was very kind and good to me and treated me extremely well. The two emotional conflicts I felt were that I was somewhat proud of my beauty, and though I had a good heart, I knew that this pride would cost me a certain price. The other emotion I sensed was loneliness because I had been taken from my family when I was young, so I had very few memories of them and was haunted by this absence. I was happy while modeling, however, because I loved my master. He signalled me over to him to take a break and have a drink of something. The scenery was pristine and magnificent.

Then I went back into the hallway, where the Guide was waiting. All the other doors were doorways to other scenes or lives I could come revisit at any time. He smiled and led me to a library that was outfitted with dark mahogany furniture and deep plush couches and a thick soft patterened rug. There were many old books on dark, well-built shelves and there was also a TV and DVD player and coffee (!). I picked out one of the books, which was bound in rich leather and had a white moon on the cover, and looked through it. There were rich three-dimensional colored pictures of sea-life in it.

Then I chose a DVD and put it in the DVD player and watched some footage that was a black-and-white movie about myself as a woman in in autumn in New England. There was an old car and a house on a suburban street. There was the sense of a tragic family life. I knew that my life would be short.

I opened another book and saw myself living in a village in Mongolia. I was in a village square, watching. All the women wore black shawls and long dresses and there was a yak in the middle of the square, which a woman was milking. The village was poor yet pretty and though it was a gray day, there was a sense of insular harmony and satisfaction. Or rather, the absence of "dissatisfaction." I sensed there was little leisure time in this village and that living here meant a lifetime of hard and constant work.

Then the teacher led us out of the library and back out of the temple and back along the path and instructed us to awaken.

I felt wonderful and groggy. My primary anxiety was to write down everything I had just experienced, knowing I would forget some details. As I scribbled frantically in my journal book, the others began to sit up and stretch, like animals emerging from hibernation or insects emerging from chrysalis.

There wasn't much time left to talk about our experiences -- just time for a few quick questions. Some of the women had been afraid to enter the doorways. I felt sad they hadn't had the kind of experiences I had.

In the end, I don't know if the scenes I entered were from past lives or not. I know I could have gone on exploring them, and may go back again to do so. In any case, these "postcards from the subconscious" were definitely a creative vacation from my waking life. . .

Note: After I did the drawings for this post, I noticed a recurring lunar theme posited in the shapes of the temple roof, the boats and the horns of the yak. I wondered if this was a subconscious reflection of the moon literature I had been reading (see previous post)or if it was connected to my current lifetime birthday in late August, during the waning moon. . .

Earth Hour

Yesterday was Earth Hour Day across the globe. It started in Sydney, Australia, and coincides with National Dark Sky Week in the U.S. It only requires turning off electric lights and other nonessential appliances from 8 to 9 p.m. on March 29.

We turned off everything except the coffeemaker (essential appliance) and ate dinner by candlelight. It was strange and refreshing not to have any light or noise, to hear the city pulsating in the background and navigate the dark rooms with candles, as in an emergency or blackout.

By candlelight I read Moon Lore, a handsomely designed hardcover book that is part of The Moon Box, published by Chronicle Books. Moon Lore is one of four volumes; the other three are The Were-Wolf, The Moon Goddess and Somnium. Edited by John Miller and Tim Smith, the books are richly illustrated with small blue images from sources ranging from Assyrian times to old French texts and Sicilian coins. The Moon Lore volume includes folktales from South Africa and Tibet, as well as poems by Denise Levertov, Erica Jong and William Blake, fiction by Italo Calvino, and "Moon Gardening of the Pennsylvania Dutch" among other lunology. I got this for a steal at $4 at Strange Maine. (By the way, there's a great unrelated blog of the same name written by a remarkable local artist and lorist.)

I love the anonymous moon haiku included in the book:

The moon's in mid-heaven;
I wander
Through poor streets.

The summer moon shines
On transient dreams
In the octopus pot.

The next morning I had vivid dreams. In one of them I was rowing a small boat, using a spatula for an oar, which actually worked. Later I listened to "Star-Child" and "Mundus Canis" from George Crumb's Birthday Album ad Amnesiac by Radiohead. I drew the picture you see here and wrote the following poem:

Moon Lore

bitter bright unyielding
heart tome

silver spell trove
frozen sleigh bells

fine white ropes
from root to vein

old fear bones
and marigold scars

ocean dusk wine brine
sea horse skies

magic lantern
of demigods

March Haiku

city dressed in sparkling
white jewelry disappearing
in spring rain

[Photo and haiku March 1, 2008]

Seen, Heard, Read

Stay Close by Death Vessel (CD)
Amazing folk-rock songs with fanciful lyrics written and sung by a striking male tenor (Joel Thimbadeau) with help from his Philadelphia friends. www.deathvessel.com

Ivan's Childhood by Andrei Tarkovsky (DVD)
Tarkovsky's first film. Disturbing, touching, reverberating tale of a child soldier

The Quiet Child by Peter Hoeg (Novel)
Difficult tumbling tale by the Dutch master about gifted children with extra-sensory powers and the circus clown hired to track them down. A tough read, but worth it for sentences like this: "He lost consciousness again, slowly, like a young girl strolling downtown." And "A person must be careful when answering the telephone -- someday it could be one of the great clowns calling."

Ooga Booga by Frederic Seidel (Poetry)
One of the most amazing books of poetry I've read in the last few years, by a true virtuoso.

The Hill Bachelors by William Trevor (Stories)
Haunting stories with rich characters delicately described by the Irish master.

Jean de Florette/Manon des Sources by Claude Berri (DVD)
Tragic tale of fate, cruelty and love set in French Provence in the 1920s. The cinematography is lucid and riveting and the performances, especially by Gerard Depardieu and Daniel Auteuil, are supurb.

Burning Chrome by William Gibson (Stories)
I hate science fiction except for books by William Gibson, which I love for the imagery, style and visual descriptiveness. Since I've been doing a lot of database work, I especially liked reading "Johnny Mneumonic." Though his characters can be a bit stiff, there is a theatricality to his writing that is quite remarkable.

Pete Seeger: The Power of Song (DVD)
This documentary of Pete Seeger is absorbing and inspiring. Folk music as agent for social change and community -- what an idea!

Nature, Poems Old and New by May Swenson (Poetry)

Camoufleur

Walked in the swamp His cheek vermilion
A dazzling prince
Neck-band white Cape he trailed
Metallic mottled
Over rain-rotted leaves Wet mud reflected
Waded olive water
His opulent gear Pillars of the reeds
Parted the strawgold
Brilliance Made him disappear

Folk Songs by Trio Mediaeval (CD)
Traditional songs from Norway arranged for voices and percussion. Celestial.

Saint Morrissey (A Portrait of This Charming Man by An Alarming Fan) by Mark Simpson (non-fiction)
I found this one at the library sale shelf for $3 and it's somewhat entertaining. At times repetitive and irritating, this is not so much a biography of Morrissey as a psychoanalysis of his music, which, as the author notes at the start, pretty much speaks for itself. Nonetheless it's chock full of quirky details about the quirky pop star. Simpson even coins a neologism: "melanalgia" to describe Morrissey's trademark: melancholia mixed with nostalgia.

Pandora

After hearing about Pandora (music from the Radio Genome Project) I finally tried it on day and was instantly hooked. Best of all it's FREE!

The way it works, is you can easily and quickly custom design your own radio station to play all your favorite songs, and songs that you will most likely love. I quickly designed my own radio station to play a rotating mix of Pentangle, Dead Can Dance, Depeche Mode, Philip Glass, Elvis Costello, The Smiths, Bjork, Sigur Ros, The Cure, Toots & The Maytals, Star Sailor and others. It also analyzes your choices to play a wide range of "similar" musical styles. This is hit or miss, but you can easily tell it you like the selection or ban it from your radio station with a click of the mouse. I've even trained it to play a narrow and particular type of "bad" genre '80s radio music. I've also been introduced to some new artists I like such as Wizz Jones.

In the words of Pandora.com: "It's the most comprehensive analysis of music ever undertaken. Together our team of fifty musician-analysts has been listening to music, one song at a time, studying and collecting literally hundreds of musical details on every song. It takes 20-30 minutes per song to capture all of the little details that give each recording its magical sound - melody, harmony, instrumentation, rhythm, vocals, lyrics ... and more - close to 400 attributes! We continue this work every day to keep up with the incredible flow of great new music coming from studios, stadiums and garages around the country.

With Pandora you can explore this vast trove of music to your heart's content. Just drop the name of one of your favorite songs or artists into Pandora and let the Genome Project go. It will quickly scan its entire world of analyzed music, almost a century of popular recordings - new and old, well known and completely obscure - to find songs with interesting musical similarities to your choice. Then sit back and enjoy as it creates a listening experience full of current and soon-to-be favorite songs for you.

You can create as many "stations" as you want. And you can even refine them. If it's not quite right you can tell it so and it will get better for you.

The Music Genome Project was founded by musicians and music-lovers. We believe in the value of music and have a profound respect for those who create it. We like all kinds of music, from the most obtuse bebop, to the most tripped-out drum n bass, to the simplest catchy pop tune. Our mission is to help you connect with the music YOU like."

Gnarled

Weekend

or the obliteration of 9 to 5

island of mirth
tyranny of dishes
aged wilderness
pushed back and forth
trembling in the cracks
footholds and stones

silent aircraft
cushioned by warmth
sandwiched by cold blasts
from the icy furnace

lost ways
that begin to ravel
just in time for Monday's
senseless debacle

Metamorphosis: A Journey of Dolls

This is an amazing exhibit at the drawing room of dolls who were collaborated on by three groups of artists: Alex Rheault, Marina Post, Martha Miller, Debra Milman, Marti McGinnis, jackie Kazarian, Barbara Loring, Cynthia Atwood, Sue Beauchemin, Jen Davis, Jennifer Gingras, Kirsten Gingras and Jo Goiran. The dolls are very elaborate and come with detailed books of the creative process behind each doll, containing sketches, diaries, stories, poems, photographs and more.

The Shimmering City: Portland Haiku

Some Excerpts:

worn gray
buildings tilt in ocean
cell phone ring

yellow claw
digging up the city
from its roots

water view
reflections dancing below
this world

birds play
around the great crane's
iron sail

silver glints
seagulls picnic outside
the fish market

giant crane
digging hole where
the red sumac sang

the catch arrives
boats float on
green-blue clouds

castle clouds
summer city adrift
above the city

waterfront deck
The Doppelganger sails into
the rising harbor

blue businessman
shiny shoes
hole in black sock

sunmmer day
colored harbor: cell phones
glitter in sun

echoes of wings and ghosts
remain vibrant
in memory park

a million greens
and blues live here
in sunlit pines

three pine trees:
the summer city
listens

Inspiration

Recently Read:

The Hide by Barry Unsworth
The Partnership by Barry Unsworth
Night Train by Martin Amis
Miniatures by Barbara Guest
St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell
In the Dutch Mountains by Cees Nooteboom
The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill by Mark Bittner
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Recently Seen:

Pan's Labyrinth
The Illusionist
The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill

Recently Heard:

The Silver Tree by Lisa Gerrard
The Break In by Ari Hest
White Blood Cells by White Stripes

Damariscotta

Gilsland Farm Sculpture Show

Maine Audubon

A Sculpture Show by a Variety of Artists Presented by June Lacombe