Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Camden Market Man

When the world of abstracts has shut its doors to me, meaning I fail to coax a painting out of a canvas, I turn to faces. Somehow they never fail me. A few months ago I had a show in my studio called "Say My Name". I invited guests to put names to the 30+ portraits I had on my walls. People had fun. But I couldn't call it a success in terms of sales. I am not sure why, but it is very difficult for me to sell a face. Do people not want that presence in their homes? Do they have to know the individual for them to invite them in? At least in this area the anonymous nature of a landscape seems to please everyone. It's comforting. Beautiful. Unchallenging. But my portraits become my friends. This guy was on a postcard advertising a tattoo and piercing parlor in London. He is my Camden Market Man. 

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

I'm back!

It has been quite a while since my last post. 4 years, exactly! I had been a prolific writer in the years between 2008 and 2013. There was a lot of pain I had to work through. I feel as if I have journeyed through a dark tunnel and come out into a world with a ceiling of clouds that often part to open upon blue sky. Better than before. Going forward.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Thoughts on Valentine's Day

This year Valentine's Day opens to a snowing scene, the beauty of winter still with us. I can hear a dove cooing outside. Jamie and I used to call each other "love dove". But I'm not feeling sentimental or sad today. I have had 4 years to observe my society of friends and family and how they react to my still single situation. For the first year I had a reprieve. And then gradually it started. "Oh, you really need a man." "We need to fix you up with someone". And the crueler missives from the family. "Do you and Muriel play bridge together? How about Elder Hostel? Too bad you're not older, you could get some old guy who just wants you to boil him a egg. Want to join my writer's group? (average age: 85)". I have cut off communication from most of the meannies, but unfortunately, I have to stay nice to the old lady, my mother in law, who begins or ends every conversation with "How's your love life, or Have you got a fella yet?"
I have become keenly aware of several things in the last several years. One reason people are disparate to pair up in this society is that it gives the individual value. To be in a couple, to be in a marriage, or a relationship is to say to the world, "Look, I have worth. Someone chose me. There is actually another human being on the planet that can take my bad habits and idiosyncracies and still love me." This is particularly true of women but I suspect it is also true of men. People want to have worth. They want to mean something on this planet. So we couple up and go forth, walking among the other couples who are like us, who have value, credibility. Couples become smug. They hear of the death of a friend's spouse and hold each other tighter. "Thank God that didn't happen to us.." They pay their respects, and slip back into their cars, in their appointed places, and go home, and shut the door, open up some wine, and find the remote.  Duty done. After an obligatory lunch date, back to the couples world where everything is safe, and they ignore that ghost at the door. The inevitable boulder that will drop on one of them no matter what they do to forestall it.
When I was little, my parents would play a record for me called "Classics for Children." One of my favorites was Diana and the Golden Apples. It told the story (to Prokofiev Lt. Kije), of Diana who was the fastest runner in ancient Greece. Melanion wanted to marry her and could only do it if he beat her in a race. The race started and Melanion threw down golden apples in her path, which she scooped up. They slowed her down and Melanion won the race and won Diana.
I would have kept running.

Friday, January 4, 2013

The Downward Spiral

January. A cold and cursed month. It has the leftover regrets from the previous year, like the half empty boxes of Christmas candy you are ready to toss. I look out to the woods to see beauty, and, yes, its there, but it is also January so that beauty turns bleak and frosty. I can see why people choose to exit this life in this month, as there is little to comfort a person who already has a vision forming of the next world.
It's a month to turn inward, for good or for bad, to catch up on writing, on reading, while the bottles seem to crane their necks out of the recycling bin. One has to work hard to prevent the downward spiral. Gather friends for homemade soup, meet for movies. Plan a trip to sunshine. I want to remember all the people that January has killed as my feet are in the warm sand of the south.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Standing up to ghosts

The quest and struggle to become a whole person, fully realized and independent, sometimes seems just beyond my reach. To stand alone proudly, without longing for something external to make you whole, this is the goal. But the world swirls with such demands, distractions, accusations, as to make such a goal a daunting task. And then there are the ghosts that appear right behind your eyes, ready to pull you even closer into an abyss. We have to chase those ghosts many miles to prove their transparency, the ephemeral nature of their being, chase them until they disappear as a fog burns off with the full coming of day and light.
"When I am alone like this evening it often strikes me what an infinitely small proportion my outer life, my life that is known to the world by conversations, letters, etc., bears to my inner life, the life I live with myself; hardly the spray that is thrown off the ocean by the wind."
Harry Kessler, September 18, 1888.

Friday, June 15, 2012

The destiny of a soul

I have lost my place in the book of life
And the shields I once used are worn.
But many is the journey of sundry ways
and the garment of youth is torn.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Night Writings

Strange dream

About some conjoined twins. Scads of them, all good looking young women. I borrowed their plastic legs, they were happy to let me. I went out and got lost in a parking garage, then wandered around a neighborhood looking for a bus to go home. But there was no home. 
I found home. A little bungalow in a working class neighborhood. I came home to an empty house. Not even a cat. I opened the refrigerator. There were cans of a soft drink I had never heard of, and I was afraid to drink. Upon opening the pantry I found mouse droppings, so I threw everything away. 
My purse was left at the restaurant, but it was ok, because there was nothing in it.
I read about a friend who I had met and had a crush on. He met someone on the internet. Now they are engaged.
 Almonds wrapped in dark chocolate.  Went home to leftovers in Styrofoam. 
Oceans away there are people. People who you will never meet. And people who can still hurt you, so many countries away,  they wield a hatchet with your blood on it. It slices a hair from your head that splinters into a thousand hurts. 
The screen was left open overnight. The cat brought in its bounty. Bats and the bones of bats. Pythons still alive and waiting for a sudden move. It’s skin is left and makes a stain on the carpet I just paid for. 
I’m getting up tomorrow and making instant coffee. There is another day right here, right now. The shadows of the night walk with me and are washed away in the shower. Down, down, down, the drain, a thousand wrecked trains I dodged but only barely. The tiger waits in the hall, silently.
So I carry the paintings to the freight elevator. I have to phone for the man. The man comes politely, making conversation. Delivery. I see the stairs I climbed 1 month  ago up to the roof.

Should life be contemplation and creativity or a flurry of activity with constant conversation? What will bring fulfillment?
The quest for purity. For honesty What are these things? Authenticity and the meat of the matter, the marrow, the soul. The poetry of forgiveness and the slaking of thirst. The hunger for a true experience that overcomes the sham. How long in the woods do we wander in  somnamblulance only to awake at the wrong moment, the wrong place and wonder, what place is this? And what time? I seem to have misplaced my very being.