and then, while no one really paid attention – distracted by other things….
this painting is called ICARUS and, not being too much of a study in mythology, david told me the story. now, somewhere in the bank of knowledge that i have learned and somehow forgotten, it resonated. no matter. it is certainly relevant now. the shout of “squirrel!!” and the shifting of gaze happens time and again. our attention-deficited-culture becomes distracted by you-name-it and we miss things that are happening, that are more monumental than we realize. icarus flew too close to the sun. we try too hard. we push. we seek to achieve. we don’t pay attention. we miss. we get burned and fall. others fall around us. we don’t really pay attention.
what is really happening in our world while we are paying attention to the latest headline? what is really happening in our world while we get caught up in the latest rhetoric? what is really happening in our world as our politicians play shell games with us while the stuff of real importance they skirt past us?
david knows that i don’t really like this painting. it’s one of a very few that i would say that about. (just as i am quite sure there are musical compositions of mine that are not his favorite.) i feel a kind of mayhem, a kind of negativity from it. it unnerves me. but, alas, it is a contemporary statement. we don’t really pay attention.
my sweet momma had a painting of a modestly nude woman hanging in her master bath. she was proud of this painting and of its location. it traveled with them from long island to various homes in florida, an item that made the keep-it cut time and again. now, this painting was not a brilliant work of art, for it was actually a paint-by-number that she had painted at some point before painting her own abstracts. (more on paint-by-numbers at a later date.)
but momma’s painting was meaningful to her and i suspect it represented a powerful statement – the beauty of a woman’s body, the grace of line, the respect shown. perfection. i think it resembled her in her youth, and in later years reminded her of earlier years, an earlier body before babies and emotion and injury and surgeries and wrinkles and time changed everything. changed the shape and the look of body but added strength and wisdom that only life lived can add. momma was indeed a woman before her time.
CLASSIC is such a painting, but is exquisite art. the beauty of a woman’s body, the grace of line, the respect shown.
momma would have loved this painting of david’s and, probably, would have convinced him to hang it for her in her own home. it would remind her of how much she loved being a woman. of how she taught her daughters and granddaughters to embrace being female and yet, not to stand by meekly or idly or retreatingly. to revel in the beauty of having a body that is female, but not to tout or compare or compete. to move with grace as best as you can, for in that movement grace will be found. to show and expect respect for your own body, in all ways. to recognize perfection. in all the times of life.
he painted this early on in the days he lived in wisconsin. a big canvas, his brushes moving effortlessly, carefully, intentionally, jars of paint by his side. and JOY came to be. i immediately loved it. equally, i loved being present for the process. i got to WATCH. a creation in the making. beautiful. he stood back and looked at his work.
regardless of your belief, you certainly must acknowledge that somewhere along the way there was a big blank canvas. a divine being named whatever-honoring-name-you-want-to-name-this-presence moved brushes effortlessly, jars of unimagined colors, buckets of stars, clouds full of rain and snow, mountains of hills and mountains, fields of fields and open rangeland, oceans and lakes full of water, gigantic test tubes of atoms and cells that would eventually turn into plants and trees, amoeba, bacteria, organisms, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, people – all by the side of the canvas. this supreme being moved effortlessly, carefully, intentionally. and the world came to be. a creation in the making. beautiful.
we hang this painting and gaze at it, interacting with it daily. we feel the joy of it, the color. we have relationship with the painting; it speaks to us and we listen. we respond to it, respecting it, hanging it out of direct sunlight, preserving it and keeping it beautiful.
we stand in the world and gaze at it, interacting with it daily. we feel the joy of it, the color. we respond to it, but do we respect it? do we have relationship with it? do we listen as it speaks to us? do we concern ourselves with its sunlight, its atmosphere, its water, its land, its living things – all of them? do we preserve it? do we keep it beautiful?
the studio in our basement is full of beautiful paintings that haven’t yet found their proper home. it is also full of boxes of cds that have been replicated and shrink-wrapped, ready for their new homes. there is no shortage of completed work down there, no shortage of heart projects, no shortage of sweat and tears. there is no shortage of work in progress, canvases prepped, notebooks of lyrics and melodic gestures.
we moved our 20’s father’s paintings last week. today we will move the remainder. as we carefully loaded big red, you could not help but feel wistful about these paintings moving away from their home, to be stored by 20. duke was a prolific painter and his work is stunning; we wondered where and how these mostly large pieces would find a permanent home. where does it go from here?
any artist, thinking about the impermanence of life, wonders that. where does it go from here? who will purchase it, hold onto it, look at it, listen to it, read it, ultimately – feel it? will it matter later on? does it matter now?
i researched. for months. looked at tons of sites and reviews. i ordered brochures from the chamber of commerce (which, incidentally and almost predictably, arrived after we returned from the trip.) i poured over other people’s adventures and stories, made lists of things to do and places to go. it was a really important time for me and i wanted it to be perfect: my-children-under-the-same-roof-at-the-same-time. the perfect mom-gift.
always up for a roadtrip adventure, we drove to hilton head in our littlebabyscion. first thing upon arrival, we opened the shades in the living room. the dunes and the ocean exploded into view, the sunset beckoned us. without unloading, we took two juice glasses of wine and a blanket down to the water’s edge and watched the sky relinquish day. night arrived and it was perfect.
My Girl flew in the next morning and My Boy the very next day. the sun was bright, the sky was blue, the sand hot, the ocean was a constant lure. walks and conversation, games and homemade sangria, bold coffee and generous glasses of wine, watching crabs on the sandbar and googling jellyfish, chips and guac and kirsten-margaritas, eating out on the deck under the umbrella and time in the pool, watching kirsten or craig prepare a meal or two, relaxing on lounge chairs and a one-time bowling adventure. this was the stuff. it was hot; over 100 degrees with the heat index; a bit too hot for kayaking or standupboarding under a sunburning sun. but time seemed to morph and days passed us by in the way time on the beach does.
later i wondered why i didn’t take out my lists, my research, my reviews, the brochures i got from the grocery store. why i didn’t insist on an adventure-a-day, an activity. but jen encouraged me to let that go. she said she does that every time she is lucky enough to have her children all-under-the-same-roof-at-the-same-time as well. a mother’s brain (and heart) on overdrive.
it isn’t the activities or the adventures. it’s simply the time. when you are there and you are real and you share bits and snatches of life, joyful or trying. when you catch your breath gazing at your children, beautiful human beings experiencing the wide spectrum that life offers. and you love them beyond words, grateful that they have given you this time. together. under-the-same-roof-at-the-same-time. HH. hilton head. perfect.
summer is coming. at least that is what the calendar indicates. in recent days it has snowed in colorado. it has been rainy and damp and cold in wisconsin. the spring storms have been devastating the central states. but summer is coming.
and with summer comes a little slowing-down, moments to linger in the sun, sit in lawn chairs and chat, sip iced tea on the deck, have picnics under the canopy of a tree. we pick clover and make necklace chains, count the petals on a daisy, lay in the sweet smell of freshly mowed grass.
i am a list-maker. i come from a long line of list-makers so dna is definitely involved. with the layer-cake of jobs that comes with being an artist – performing, visual, any kind of artist – lists are a necessity. i use paper calendars, old spiral notebooks with kirsten or craig scrawl on them, pa pads that my sweet poppo made, composition books. sticky notes, pencils, highlighters and sharpies rule my office-supply world. i am analog. and i love having all my ducks in a row.
we were on our way to hike late one afternoon when we encountered these ducks. walking the crack in the street, all in a row, i heard in my ever-present-soundtrack-mind, “quack, quack, waddle, waddle, quack, quack, waddle, waddle (from an 80’s mcdonald’s commercial – watch for 0:54).” they seemed unperturbed by our approach. we stopped to let them pass and get safely to the side of the road. i’m positive i saw the last one carrying an office max bag.
when we moved into this house 30 years ago the kitchen floor was an old green and orange linoleum. needless to say, this was not my favorite color combination nor was it my favorite floor. we laid a clean white tile floor on top; a temporary fix to hold us over. a couple years later we chose to put hardwood down, mimicking the rest of the house. that required stripping off the old floors – the white one and the green and orange one. weren’t we surprised at how many layers we found! but below all that mess was the sub-flooring, a solid foundation on which to lay new hardwood, a new start for the little kitchen.
peeling back the layers to expose what’s beneath it all can be exhilarating. but it can also be intimidatingly revealing. we are nervous to find what is below the surface. we feel trepidation about the underlayment; should we rip out and replace? what will we need to do to shore it up? can it withstand this?
it’s the same for each of us. we feel vulnerable letting others know what is underneath it all, this positive front of ours. the complexity of sedimentary-life-layers is confusing and we seek ways to not feel them, not acknowledge them, not share them.
but the firm subfloor is there. we are resilient and fluid. we have been shored up by the obstacles we have climbed, by the challenges we have surmounted and we are surrounded by others who all can relate, were we to tell them.
the orange and green linoleum of our lives is still there, underneath, but it is now serving us, either as the underlayment of our ever-learning-ever-growing-future or part of what we found, dealt with, ripped out and replaced. either way, there is room for the hardwood. the foundation is solid.
one of the cool things about living in kenosha is the ability to easily get to two major cities – milwaukee and chicago. we drive up to milwaukee to putter around, go to the art museum, walk along the river in the third ward, go to antique shoppes. we usually take the train to chicago, driving south a couple towns for more frequent schedule choices. we walk the streets of the city, find places for coffee or glasses of wine, attend national geographic live events or a play or concert, visit with friends.
but we are actually less city people than we are outdoors people. and so, more often, we will head out – west of the i – and take a drive out in the county. in next-to-nothing we are surrounded by farmland, breathing in the scent of rich dirt in fields that are turned over for planting, some yielding early croplings*.
in also next-to-nothing time, david whips out his sketchbook and pencils to capture the really gorgeous patterns in these fields of green. (these words make me think of the stunningly beautiful song fields of gold. if you haven’t ever heard it, please take a few minutes right now and click HERE. you will be glad you did.)
just a sketch, but a reminder of the moments we passed these fields, talking or listening to music, singing along or simply silence in the car. a breath of fresh air, a drive to rejuvenate, maybe a hike on a trail to restore us – all west of the i.
there are those places – where you sit and your breathing slows down. the blue of sky calms you, the warm sand molds to your shape and the water beyond where you sit lulls you and quells the inner mixmaster of your thoughts.
for me, many many years ago now, that place was crab meadow beach. i felt some kind of kinship with the seagulls and the lure that shoreline had on them. off-season still found me sitting on the pebbles along the waterline, in the sand gathered in small wind-dunes, on the cement dolphin or walking, walking, walking, ankle-deep in a surf that changed daily. a place where i could sort out growing up, it soothed me, challenged me, spoke to me.
it’s not always a beach. or the top of a mountain. or a quiet lakeside cove. or an inviting stump on a thick woodsy trail. most of the time we don’t all have access to these things on a daily basis.
but there is a place. where you can find the silence you need. for david, this is often in front of his easel, a fresh canvas waiting or an unfinished painting beckoning. this painting – ALKI BEACH – reminds me of that place. the places nearby, the places within. the rocking chair in the room upstairs, the adirondack chair in the backyard, the piano bench. the place you draw the seagulls close, whisper your thoughts to them and send them on their way back into the world.
reverse threading 