We are called to rediscover
our innate compassion, dignity, and respect for life
in all its forms
with Joy and Wonder.
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dance
Category: art
a work of art, in progress
Out roaming the local trails, I came upon the bit of graffiti pictured above. I couldn’t help but appreciate the intent, despite the misspelling: “Live your life like a peice [sic] of art.”
Still, it somehow missed the mark, and it was bothering me.
I realized that the graffitist’s use of the expression “piece of art” suggested to me something complete and static, something to stand back and gaze at. It evoked a painting on a wall, or perhaps a sculpture resting, unmovable, on a pedestal. Everything over and done with, you know. The expression does not reflect on the journey.
The phrase “work of art,” however, draws to mind various stages of completion or even incompletion. It suggests a process. It hints at the messiness and energy of art and other creativity. It implies the endeavor itself.
As I walked along, I realized there was an even better phrase to apply: “work of art, in progress.” Here, we have all the possibilities in the world available to us. This work of art could turn out to be anything – depending on our intent and our dedication to the effort.
I can be satisfied with that:
“Live your life like a work of art, in progress.”
I think that describes things pretty well, actually. It honors our aspirations and inspirations, creativity, the necessary problem-solving, the nitty-gritty work, muscle, tools, education, intention, insecurity, and hope. It implies deliberation, intention.
I do think, however, that plenty of folks actually do live their lives rather according to the initial maxim’s unintended advice: “Live your life like a piece of art.” I think plenty of people attempt to live in a way that looks right, perhaps, more than it feels right. I think most of us do it at least for some portion of our lives, and others for all of their lives.
I prefer to carry on in the studio, if you will, where there is paint spilled on the floor, and dirty brushes, and perhaps some swearing. It is, at least, my hope.
Despite my nitpicking, kudos to the graffitist who had the guts to put this thing out there. I’m ashamed to say I wouldn’t do it. I love someone brave enough to break the rules to make us think, purposefully. So a misspelling, who cares?
“Live your life like a work of art, in progress.”
circles
I made my first penny rug about 2006. This was a piece of black wool felt cut into a circle, maybe 8 inches in diameter. On to it, I blanket-stitched smaller circles in a variety of colors, in a circle. The blanket-stitching was purposely very visible in black thread atop the bright colors.
This penny rug was the first of many, many penny rugs I made. They are called rugs, but they are usually decorative table mats or wallhangings. Each one was entirely hand-cut and hand-stitched, all by my own design. They were all very colorful, and often created in a family of colors – say, blues or browns.
I was inspired to make the first penny rug after a trip to Indiana, during which I toured a historic home. It contained many original furnishings. Among them was an actual small floor rug, created penny-style, very faded and worn. I had never seen one before, and I have never seen another quite like it. I could not get it out of my mind.
I came home and did a little research, discovering that penny rugs were a Civil War era phenomenon. Old wool clothing and blankets were repurposed to create the rugs. The penny part came in supposedly as pennies were sometimes inserted to weight the rug. I’m not buying that part of the story. If you’re repurposing your old wool clothing, you’re pinching those pennies, too. Besides, wool lays down all by itself just fine.
A more likely explanation is that pennies could have been used to trace the smallest circles.
I’m not sure I buy any of the explanations I’ve read. No matter. For whatever reason, I became driven to make these things (and still struggle with the urge, complicated now by my vegan views!)
Through the years, as I labored over these creations, I’ve given much thought to their design and materials. It’s all very simple stuff, really. Mostly solid colors and circles. Mostly carefully chosen, repurposed textiles. That’s pretty much what you’re working with most of the time.
But the more I worked on these things, the more symbolic they became to me. In later years, I titled them. I gave much thought to what the circles represented, how they related to each other, and the space around them. I carefully considered textures, stitches, colors, and the repurposed history of the textiles.
In the end, it became obvious to me that they comprised a metaphor for individuals and communities, a subject very dear to me. Each circle was like a person, and there it was fixed in place in a community of other circles – a panoply of colors that worked whether they were randomly placed or carefully selected by tone. Together, they all danced.
And then within the array of circles, that original circle was overlaid by two or three other, smaller circles, a small unit of its own, a tribe or a family, if you will, within the larger community – creating its own history.
I suppose it seems silly to imbue this much meaning onto my lowly craft, but, it is, in fact, there when I look at, or make one of my creations. There are always deeper significant nuances to each particular work, as well.
The very lone circle itself – it is both finite and infinite, isn’t it? Like each of us.
unfinished pieces
Unfinished pieces. Packed up to be given away, or already bagged up and thrown out. Except that when I walked in today, I suddenly saw these boxes, and what they held, and it startled me.
I kept hoping, I kept hoping all along it would come back to me. And I kept all my fabrics, and my papers, and glue, and threads, and paints, and letters, and inks and little treasures that just delighted me. I kept hoping it would come back to me.
But throwing them out, giving them away, it’s such a giving up.
That’s the real thing, though. There, in that box. Unfinished pieces. Of me.
good things
My little metronome goes beep beep beep, and my feet keep time with it. It’s the perfect cadence, and everything just works. I feel like I could just go and go and go. Why oh why have I not been running? It is my fix. I missed it and didn’t know it. I forgot how things click into place while I’m running.
And other good things. The IMA – Indianapolis Museum of Art. The giant fountain out front, Robert Indiana’s LOVE, and Ai Weiwei’s According to what? exhibition.
I was taken by surprise to be moved by “Straight,” but then, how can one not be moved by that?
And you can’t help but be amazed by the artist’s abilities. He works in wood, or marble, or rebar, or tea, or ancient pottery, or chairs, or bicycles. He seems to know what to do with them, and how to do it. And always burdened with his message. How does one get that? Is it just being unafraid? Is it not feeling barriers? The photography made me feel the same way. Here this fellow is out of focus, but I’m good with it, it tells the story.
And then there’s the things he says. Like
“For artists and intellectuals, what is most needed is to be clear about social responsibility, because that’s what most people automatically give up. Just to protect yourself as an individual is very political. You don’t have to march on Tiananmen, but you have to be clear-minded, to find your own means of self expression.”
Watching for stars tonight, but, aha, not exactly in the country anymore I’ve discovered.
by a thread
Last night dreams just seemed to tumble through my head one after the other, rich and crazy and busy and wild. I didn’t get up and start writing any of it down, but I wish I had, because it seems clear that my unconscious has something it wants me to hear.
I know one thing. I was about to take flight in a fighter jet. I was cool with it, too. The invitation came out of the blue, so to speak, and I didn’t hesitate. I knew I wanted to go up in the fighter jet, and I would.
Then there was the strange group of people, an unlikely mixture of fundamentalists and progressives, all sitting at a group of big tables. One of the fundamentalists was holding forth, everyone else keeping politely quiet, until finally one progressive guy just burst out laughing. And the fundamentalist turned, full of offense, toward him. But the progressive guy just somehow managed to de-fuse the moment while simultaneously giving himself and the others time to speak.
How about the scene where this huge machine was going to be moved from wherever-it-was-we-were to, I think, Washington D.C. It was some sort of mammoth machine, an innovation created locally by an individual, at their house. It was discovered, however, and certain people realized how important it was, so it had to be moved so it could be used. (Ah ha!) And then ensued this amazing scene of a gigantic train operation, as preparations were made to oh-so-carefully move the machine and all that. People scurrying about everywhere, and various pieces of equipment and cranes. Everything busy and purposeful. It seemed as if it was all in disarray, but in fact it was just the commotion of things gelling toward the objective. And over there was Midgley, leaning against the big fender of an industrial-sized truck, just smiling at me, wordless.
These are just the bits and pieces I can recall. A very hopeful set of clips, though, I would say. And as always, there’s so much value in trying to capture these things, writing them down. Even as I was writing the preceding paragraph, I suddenly knew what/who the machine was. And the progressive guy, I’m guessing that’s the old right brain finally piping up, scoffing at all the left brain nay-saying. (Thank you, Mike!) The fighter jet, well, that’s pretty transparent.
I stay perched on this precipice, though, don’t I? Still not quite willing yet to let myself fall and see my wings unfold, as Ray Bradbury suggested. I’m held back by mere threads at this point, but so far, they’re still holding. Need to find my little scissors, my snips. I could probably just bite them with my teeth. That’s all it will take, just a step.
“There’s something you haven’t said, something you haven’t done, some light that needs to be switched on and it needs to be taken care of. Now.” Hugh MacLeod.
whales, waterspouts, wind
So with all this sorting and packing, I am discovering all sorts of little treasures, lost memories, happy mementos. Yesterday, I chanced upon the only remaining pages of the log I kept many, many years ago when I set out on a long sailing journey, double-handing a wooden yawl. It made me happy to see it.
For some reason, all that remains are some copied pages of the log, spanning about three months of time. The log picks up at Harbor Island heading into the North Channel at the top of Lake Huron and covers the trip to Owl’s Head Bay on the Atlantic coast of Nova Scotia, via the St. Lawrence Seaway. The rest of the log, and the originals, are gone.
The rest of the log covered the rest of the trip, from Owl’s Head Bay all the way down the Atlantic coast to the Bahamas, then sojourning there for a few months before returning up the coast to the Hudson River and the Erie Canal. Those pages are forever gone, deliberately burnt in a fire long ago. Wish I had them now, though, because the incredible memories are getting fuzzy.
Anyway….. Fun to find these pages. I can see as I leaf through them how I grew comfortable with the cruising life, and how I enjoyed every damned day no matter the weather or the difficulties. Whales, waterspouts, wind, tides, locks, storms, mountains, fog, freighters, submerged rocks, cities, isolation, birds, people – it’s all there.
I was very alive, very aware. The whole point was the journey. It still is.
earth sky air 