Lammas Celestial Poetry Evening

[Photo credit: www.freedigitalphotos.net]

Thanks to my dear friend, Lunden, I attended the Lammas Celestial Poetry Evening at Southworth Planetarium last night. It was cosmic, to say the least. Sitting in reclining chairs in the celestial dark, illuminated by a facsimile of the night sky overhead, as well as occasional shots of the sun, moon and various astronomical events, we were treated to readings of poetry by Robert Frost, Shakespeare, Nanao Sakaki, Rabidranath Tagore and a number of local poets, by a number of local poets. There was even a song, sung in a plaintive lunary voice with accompaniment on a resonant parlor guitar.

The evening was divided into "Canto I: Earth and Sky," "Canto II, Moon and Worlds," "Canto III: Stars and Space" and "Canto IV: Cosmos." During the intermission we were treated to granola, cookies and delicious bread and butter, compliments of Big Sky Bakery. The evening wrapped up with a stunning performance/poem entitled "Micro-Macrocosm," that encouraged the listeners to follow a meditation paralleling the microcosms of the body with the macrocosms of the skies. COSMIC!

According to Wikipedia, "Lammas is a neopagan holiday, being a cross-quarter holiday between the Summer Solstice (Litha) and Fall Equinox (Mabon). It is opposite Candlemas or Imbolc, in early February. Lammas takes place with the Sun near the midpoint of Leo." "Loaf-mass" Day is also a celebration of the first wheat harvest of the year in olden times, back when we all had wheat harvests to celebrate. Apparently (also according to my friend, Wikipedia), "neopaganism" is any one of a variety of religious movements influenced by pre-Christian "pagan" religions. I think, at this moment in history, that being a neopagan, or at least celebrating a neopagan holiday, is not a bad thing by any means.

During the intermission my friend and I got to explore other cool things at the planetarium, including a holographic "ghost" whose head will turn to follow your movements, a portrait of the Mrs. Southworth who inspired the planetarium in memory of her husband (she looks like she's wearing a copper hat ), a machine that will give you a measurement of your weight on other planets and a bunch of cool old maps.

Remember: "lunatic," or "lunatik" in Middle English or "lunatique" in Old French, comes from the Latin lūnāticus, meaning moonstruck.

Stonington

driving
bright orange moon
dream roads




Friday morning
on an island
no cubicles

two larch trees
part of the harbor's
intricate music

meadow of sighs
rich forest scents
crows above

sun tastes
wild meadow
blueberries

such loud silence
to city ears -- lone
fog horn

summer rain
garden snails inch
the dusk

Thunderstorm Over Lake Saint George

The Mystical Nature Diary of Opal Whitely

My friend Lunden lent me the book The Mystical Nature Diary of Opal Whitely by Opal Stanley Whitely and Benjamin Hoff. It is amazing. Born in 1897, she lived in an Oregon logging camp, where she started composing a diary at the age of six. The diary chronicled her adventures with various animals (such as William Shakespeare the horse, Peter Paul Rubens the pig, Thomas Chatterton Jupiter Zeus the wood rat and Brave Horatius the dog) as well as flowers and trees, which she also imaginatively named. She established an animal and plant nursery in the forest, where she planted flowers, cared for sick mice and birds and held services in the forest "cathedral," where she would say prayers and sing. Unfortunately, this behavior garnered more punishment than praise from her mother, who was not generally impressed with Opal's shenanigans and explorations. Filled with sweetness and occasional tragedy, her diary is utterly unique.

"All those trees are my friends. I call them by names I have given to them. I call them Hugh Capet, and Saint Louise, and Good King Edward I--and the tallest one of all is Charlemagne, and the one around where the little flowers talk most is William Wordsworth; and there are Byron, and Keats, and Shelley."

"Aphrodite [a pig] has got a nice blue ribbon all her very own, to wear when we go walking down the lane, and to services in the cathedral. . . On yesterday, when I was coming my way home from school, I did meet with Sadie McKibben [a person]. It was nice to see her freckles, and the smiles in her eyes. She did have me to shut my eyes, and she did lay in my hand the new blue ribbon for Aphrodite that the man that wears gray neckties and is kind to mice did have her to get. I felt glad feels over. I gave her all our thanks. I did have knowing all my animal friends would be glad for the remembers of the needs of Aphrodite for a blue ribbon."

"I ran a quick run to the pig-pen, to show it to Aphrodite. I gave her little pats on the nose, and long rubs on the ears, and I did tell her all about it. I did hold it close to her eyes, so she could have well seeing of its beautiful blues, like the blues of the sky."

"When I did have her a nice bed for bracken fern, and some more all about her, I went goes to get the other folks. back with me came Brace Horatius [the dog], and Lars Porsena of Clusium [a pet crow], and Thomas Chatterton Jupiter Zeus [a velvety wood rat], and Lucian Horace Ovid Virgil [a toad], and Felix Mendelssohn [a pet mouse], and Louis II le Grand Conde [a pet mouse]. When we were all come, I did climb into the pig-pen and I did tie on Aphrodite's new ribbon, so they all might have seeing of its blues like the sky. I sang a little thank song, and we had prayers, and I gave Aphrodite little scratches on the back with a little stick, like she does so like to have me do. . .
"Now teacher is looking very straight looks at me. She says, 'Opal, put that away.' I so do."

As an adult, an edited version of the diary was published by The Atlantic and garnered accolades, followed by criticism, as reporters and critics questioned whether or not the diary was actually written by a child or Opal as an adult. Opal eventually traveled to England and India, but suffered from a mental illness (probably schizophrenia,) which grew worse as she grew older. She spent nearly the last 50 years of her life in an asylum in England. Benjamin Hoff has done a remarkable job of researching Opal's life and his book of her diary also includes rich historical background and photographs. This is a book I will never forget.

More info on Opal can be found at the Opal Whitely Memorial website and the Cottage Grove, Oregon website.

Sadly, Benjamin Hoff (he is also the author of The Tao of Pooh and The Te of Piglet) had less than inspiring experiences with the multinational corporations who now own a large chunk of the publishing world. His essay, explaining why he decided to leave the book-writing profession, is quite interesting.

Rilke's Letters on Cézanne

The German poet Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters on Cézanne, aptly translated by Joel Agee, is a treatise on seeing that manages to remain startling. Rilke lived in the late 1800 and early 1900s and the letters, devoted largely to responses to Rilke's viewings of Cézanne's work at the Salon D'Automne in Paris in 1907, comprise a strange meandering essay that reflects Rilke's own unique brand of spirtual aesthetics refracted through a prism of meditations on Paris and the painting process.

Rilke's writing style is both old-fashioned and timeless. Above all there is a sense of intellectual acuity and innate innocence combined with a sense of adventurousness that it would be all but impossible to recapture in our overexposed, oversaturated, cynical times. Although at times the theme linking the letters together seems a tad too strained to engender a unified book, the letters create a fascinating window into another mind in another time that is worth cohabiting.

Some excerpts:

"Surely all art is the result of one's having been in danger,of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, where no one can go any further."

". . . all the summer flowers, the dahlia and the tall gladiolas and the long rows of geraniums shot the contradiction of their red into the mist."

"Perhaps one has to have a clearer insight into the nature of one's 'task,' get a more tangible hold on it, recognize it in a hundred details."

"If only one had nothing but work memories from the beginning: how firm the ground would be under one's feet, one would stand. But this way, there isn't a moment when one isn't sinking in somewhere. That it's this way inside, too: double world -- that's the worst thing of all."

". . . with this disposition, which was completely developed now, thanks to his strangeness and insularity, he turned to nature and knew how to swallow back his love for every apple and put it to rest in the painted apple forever. Can you imagine what that is like, and what it' like to experience this through him?"

"Although one of his idiosyncrasies is to use pure chrome yellow and burning lacquer red in his lemons and apples, he knows how to contain their loudness within the picture: cast into a listening blue, as if into an ear, it receives a silent response from within, so that no one outside needs to think himself addressed or accosted."

"To achieve the conviction and substantiality of things, a reality intensified and potentiated to the point of indestructibility by his experience of the object, this seemed to himto be the purpose of his innermost work. . . "

". . . it was Balzac who had foreseen or forefelt that in painting you can suddenly come upon something so huge that no one can deal with it."

"Landscapes, very light pencil outlines and, here and there, as if just for emphasis and confirmation, there's an accidental scattering of color, a row of spots, wonderfully arranged and with a security of touch: as if mirroring a melody --."

"The night cafe [by Van Gogh] I already wrote about; but a lot more could be said about its artificial wakefulness in wine red, lamp yellow, deep and utterly shallow green, with three mirrors, each of which contains a different emptiness. "

"Just as in the mouth of a dog various secretions will gather in anticipation at the approach of various things -- consenting ones for drawing out nutrients, and correcting ones to neutralize poisions: in the same way, various intensifications and dilutions take place in the core of every color, helping it to survive contact with others."

Post Mortem: I bought the hardcover volume for $2.00 at an annual local library booksale. The library does not retain a copy of the book. It was lightly marked with some pencil and probably hadn't been checked out in years. It is an excellent library, which I use all the time. Still, I wonder about the lack of a replacement copy and the decision to exile it in the first place.

Polaroid Archive

Tournesols

Indian Summer

Viola

Autumn Beguiles the Fatalist

Winter Zazzle

The Ice King

Recherche de le temps perdu

La Bicyclette

On February 8, 2008, Poloraid announced it would discontinue production of all instant film by August, 2009.

Space Auction May Also Serve As a Swan Song.

Trees Series: #4

Drawing With Imagination

I find it a challenge to draw from imagination, though I want to develop that ability. Illustrations and graphic novels are very appealing to me, and I would like to write and illustrate a graphic novel some day. I've perused countless drawing and creativity books. Most of them look interesting on the surface, but either present daunting schedules and exercises or long philosophical diatribes about "how to be creative" that leave me feeling more inept and unmotivated that before. Ironic that books about creative motivation should have that result. Most of the "how-to" books don't appeal to me either -- the technical approaches are often illustrated by the highly stylized artwork of one author and/or are technically dazzling but emotionally sterile.



Last year, however, I stumbled across a marvelous book called Keys to Drawing with Imagination, "strategies and exercises for gaining confidence and enhancing your creativity" by Bert Dodson. I found out about it from the lines and colors blog, my favorite art blog, which is filled with intriguing entries on fine art, drawing, illustration and more.





Keys to Drawing with Imagination is beautifully designed with a hard-cover wrapped around a spiral bending, so you can keep easily keep it open for reference. Best of all, though it contains delightful observations and insights, it isn't drowning in advice, but is mainly focused on fun, free-ranging exercises that plunge you straight into a world of creative experimentation. Besides featuring Dodson's lively illustrations , it also features examples by other artists (Steven Guarnaccia, Michael Mitchell, Zelme Loseke, R. Crumb and others) so you dont get stuck in one particular vision.


I've been working on "Doodling Algorithms," part of the "Doodling and Noodling" chapter. Though they sound silly, for me these are very liberating and instructive exercises.





Speaking of alogirthms, math is other thing I'm fascinated by but not very good at. An algorithm is basically a list of well-defined instructions that yields a result. Sounds simple. But they can be very complex. Also known as "calculation method," the term comes from a mis-translation of the name of the Persian astronomer and mathematician Al-Khwarizmi. What's even better is that no formal definition of an algorithm even exists! Algorithms are closely related to computer programming, flow charts and mechanical automation. Generative Art is a genre referring to art constructed by automated or programmed computer algorithms.









Dodson's algorithmic exercises utilize structured patterns, constructed in simple steps, such as waves, ropes, geometrics and shape clusters.

Another of his approaches, "building blocks," is reminiscent of fractals, patterns created through fragemented shapes composed of miniature repetitions of the whole. Naturally occuring fractal-like forms include lightning bolts, snowflakes, clouds and ferns.

Soon I'll be taking a class on creating picture books for children and adults, which covers everything from pocket art books to graphic novels, where I hope to put some of the ideas garnered from Dodson's excellent book into practice.

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. . .