restingmotion

Settling In to Small Things

It is raining, albeit lightly, and that does not mean that the trades are not scattered across the place -- working on the landscaping, hanging gutters, moving things out of the garage so it can be finished.  Goodness knows what else.  It also means I have towels by each door, towels for muddy shoes and to wipe muddy footprints, not that there have been clean feet around here for some time.  When it wasn't raining, the air, and every surface, was covered with stone dust.  You could not walk outside without tracking it in, could not open a door without trails of dust rushing to colonize new space. I have accommodated myself to the idea of dust, of footprints on the floor, both mine and the beasts'.  Towels only go so far, and cats are not known for their patience with foot wiping.

The stone masons have laid out most of the back patio and walkway.  This photo is from earlier in the week, incomplete, but the work has since been covered with tarps to protect it from boots and rain.  Grouting will take place later in the week, weather permitting, although the masons worked through the rain last week, laying and cutting stone under tents.  Despite the noise and the dust however, my house is an oasis of peace, if not order. 

Everything was moved into the studio on Friday  and I posted the photo above on Instagram that morning, happy to see how nicely my rug and the loom looked in the space, in a brief moment of peace before all the boxes appeared.  While men moved heavy things, I unpacked fabric and started placing it on the shelves. 

But this is not what the studio actually looks like.  Below is a more accurate representation.  There are a few things I need to do sooner as opposed to later, but I am not forcing myself into timelines and deadlines.  I can do whatever I chose, whenever I chose to do it.  

That idea, of accepting slowness, of patience, is easier stated than lived however, much as I have long paid lip service to the idea.  I realize now that I was only flirting with patience, that I put too much stock in the doing and not enough in the being.  Perhaps this is a lifelong journey, one with which we all struggle.  After years of stating that it was the little things that actually matter, I realize that I always merely flirted with that belief -- I always had a big project in the background, providing a comforting anchor.  And now there is none -- no project, just life.  Or perhaps "just life" is actually the main project and the others have all been distractions.  I don't know.  I still tend to think a good day is a day I do a lot of things, but what if a good day is just a day I don't worry about what I have done?

I am sure that point will take a while to embed itself into my conscience, and by the time it is firmly established, I may not even remember that it was once a struggle.  In the meantime, this morning I poured a perfect espresso, although it is technically somewhere between an espresso and a luongo, but it is my "perfect" and that is all that matters.  I think I will putter about in the kitchen, figuring out some of the what and where that still plagues the space, at least until I am tired.  I play bridge this afternoon.  Perhaps I will run errands.  Perhaps I will take a nap, or read, or knit, or all of the above.

Ups and Downs...

I wish I could tell you that I was doing fun and exciting things.

 

I wish I had erudite and fascinating thoughts to share.

 

But neither one is the case.  I am here.  I am in, and happy to be in my home, but it has been a rocky week, at least as far as my general state of mind is concerned. This move has been harder than I anticipated, harder than any prior move that I can recall.  And I can't explain it.

Sunday was one of my best days in a long time.  I awoke with a glad leap, and felt fully myself and full of energy for the first time since I moved back home.  I watched tennis, finished the grocery shopping, had a great workout, spent an hour or so doing kitchen prep work: washing vegetables (yes even triple-washed organic baby spinach), steam-sautéeing cabbage, roasting spaghetti squash, browning ground meat, roasting some chicken thighs -- prepping food so that it is easy to make dinner (or lunch) on those days when I need to eat, need to prepare a meal, but have neither the time nor the emotional reserves to actually cook.   Long ago, when I was in my 20's, I learned the value of some advance prep work and the way a little time spent on shopping day could help with getting dinner on the table in 15 to 30 minutes or so on those days when energy or inspiration prove elusive.  I still think cooking is fun, but sometimes I just need something delicious to eat without much fuss. I used to think prep work was a tedious pain, but I've learned to make a game of it and the payoff is definitely worthwhile. Without a mountain of prep, pulling together a simple meal can be quickly satisfying.

 

The prep work came in handy on Monday. Monday was a different story. Monday morning I found myself fighting back a growing quaver in my voice as I discussed frustration over things not yet done in the studio, minor things to be sure, minor delays about which I had felt a trifle annoyed but not necessarily emotional on Sunday.  I struggled not to burst into tears.  I found myself hiding in the bedroom or the library, feeling teary and fragile, emotionally far more overwrought than the situation warranted.  I don't think it was just the delays in getting into the studio that set me off -- probably an impossible to discern jumble of things, a bit of a struggle in the gym one day, even if followed by a really good workout another, the constant presence of noise and workers and interruptions, the sense that I can never quite finish anything, never quite be alone, a conversation with friends where I perhaps allowed myself to be a little more emotionally vulnerable than is my wont -- that alone could kick me on the path to self recriminations -- but it also seems evident that a supportive response to that vulnerability also caught me by surprise.  I am far more prepared for rejection than I apparently am for tenderness and the surprise of it has left me feeling even more vulnerable, a touch more exposed, although I suspect that ultimately it is in a good way.

 

I simply don't know where I am.  I am not referring to physical location here, that is evident, but my emotional landscape still feels a bit jagged and uneven. I am confident in my intelligence, in the many things I can do well, and yet there is a vulnerability, perhaps partly in simply exposing a dream, and the realization that I have stumbled on yet more walls that need to come crashing down and more teary track's through the wreckage.

I am surrounded by energy and excitement. Bluestone arrived Monday afternoon. I was thrilled to see it, thrilled to watch it be unloaded, excited by all progress.  At the same time I am also exhausted by the very same hubbub, by the sense of being constantly exposed. By the time every one goes home I am too tired to pull myself together, and I feel as if all my nerves have been stretched thin.

 

And yet.....

I started unpacking fabric yesterday even though there is still no furniture.  Workers are uncovering the windows today.  I went out and bought a crochet hook.  I can knit tonight.

Part of the back yard is starting to take shape.  The stonemasons are here today, placing that bluestone on this patio.    As I sit here typing, three men are 15 feet away, finally finishing up the guest bathroom.... 

 

Perhaps even here, in my heart and head, as I sit and type, I am creating a new emotional path.  Will there be more tears?  Probably.  But how could there be joys in a world without tears?  Perhaps that is all it is, profound happiness, sometimes requiring its toll in profound sadness.  I would want to say it isn't so, but I would never give up the happiness, even if it meant fewer moments of tears. Somehow, someday, this particular vista will all fall in place.  And then the heart will find new paths to explore, new fields of flowers and new rocky shores..

 

 

 

 

 

Slow Fruits

In many ways this has been a week in which pent-up frustrations (previously hidden, at least to myself) become increasingly manifest.  And yet it was also a week of steady progress, of good times, and continued new beginnings.    Like a puff of smoke, those frustrations were freed, apparently only beholden to my own unwillingness to let them go.  For that I can thank the power of the spoken word, of naming problems rather shoving them back into the hidden drawers of my psyche, where they had no choice but to fester.

And yet I must also thank the power of handwork, even slow and at times tedious handwork that was not always meditative.  I wound skeins of yarn into balls.  I did it manually, by draping the yarn around the chair pictured and cannot pretend that I was always happy with the slow process of winding five skeins, five skeins each containing 580 yards of lace-weight linen.  I should have done it weeks ago -- I could have been knitting, but my darker frustrations were too busy nibbling away at my energy.  Of course, now that the yarn has been wound, it is possible that I may move into the studio next week, and that ball winder may be unpacked.  It is only a month after move-in, after all.  But promises have been made before, and the ability to knit, to knit something I am actually eager to wear, is both a gift and a therapeutic balm.

 

The yarn is Prism's Euroflaxx Laceweight Linen Layers and it will be used to make Laura Bryant's boxy linen tee from the summer Vogue Knitting magazine, pretty much exactly in the color as shown.  I don't subscribe to Vogue Knitting anymore, after being a devoted subscriber since they began publishing again in the 1980s.  I have enough knitting patterns, and it is rare that enough appeals to me to keep the magazine.  Summer sweaters are difficult given that I live in a place that is both hot and humid in the summer and I prefer neither.   But I can wear most "summer" sweaters in the winter here, and perhaps this one even in the warmer transitional months of early summer and fall.  Perhaps this is all just an indulgence in wishful thinking.  Perhaps I need to travel someplace cold and drafty for the winters so I can wrap myself in wool.

 

The winding itself was slow.  I admit to being spoiled.  I miss my yarn winder, and in the missing began to fret about all the unpacked things that I miss, almost all of them are tools for handcraft.  The missing fed the sense of tedium and frustration, reminding me of the fragility of our perception of the world, that the difference between tedium and mediation is purely state of mind. Once I was willing to let go of my own perceptions of the self-importance of my time, it became evident that this yarn was probably best being hand-wound. The linen tends to grab onto itself; I myself tend to push myself, and inner demon crying  "harder" and "faster" -- the combination could have quickly spiraled into a massive tangle.  The quickest skein took me a little over an hour, the slowest, most grabby and somewhat tangled skein, took two.  

 

And so it seems that despite my initial petulance, the bitter muttering and grumbling, by the end, the act of winding itself had become something that offered time for quiet and reflection.   For all that I say, and do believe, that it is the slow work of our hands, of sustenance and existence, of slow moments with friends that bring meaning, I am also a product of my time.  I want instant gratification, easy access, more and more and more.  Time and again I have to slow myself and give in to the process itself.  Time and again, I must relinquish and be relinquished from the bonds of rushing.

 

Is in this, the process of living, of doing, of making,  that peace is found, in our connection with this place that is actually home, this earth.  Perhaps we have fallen too much under the spell of "life is brutish and short" mentality about labor, about the slow physical acts of feeding and clothing ourselves.   Joy is in those moments with friends, in the actual labor of our hands, in the making, both of things and connections, not in the consuming.  And yes, in this world, consuming isn't just about things, but also about busyness and experiences, about being more and more and more, when what our souls really want is less and even less.

Every day I drive under this crape myrtle, into the construction site that is my backyard.  The construction site is filled with busyness, and often ugliness, but also promise.  The crape myrtle simply hangs there, and is.

 

Tuesday: Fragmented Thoughts

My brain has felt fragmented of late, as if I cannot hold onto thoughts -- they skitter away like mice seeking shelter.  I played bridge yesterday, for the first time in a couple of months, but after an initial semi-burst of focus, my attentions wandered, bouncing around the room, flitting between conversations, everywhere and nowhere all at once. I lost count. When I was supposed to deal I shuffled.   I don't remember being this scattered after a move before.  Perhaps I was and have simply forgotten; the fractures in memory perhaps a gift.

 

Perhaps I should just capitalize on that, meandering and fragmented thoughts today, assuming that cohesion and coherence will follow in their own good time.

 

(1)

This is the first week that I am not constantly exhausted, that I awake with a glad heart rather than yearning to burrow deeply beneath the covers, seeking rest but really unable to slow myself down enough to actually achieve a restful state.  Actually, I started to feel rested over the weekend, and I took a break from exercise, which may have helped.  Rebooting my exercise regime while moving may have been a tad ambitious;  but then I've always tended to operate at either full-throttle or full-stop. Overdone or undone:  one has no recourse but toward self-compassion.

 

(2)

 

The shelves for the master bathroom finally arrived last week and I was able to finally unpack and begin to organize.   This photo was taken when there was still a yellow film over the window.  I posted another picture yesterday, of the other set of shelves once the window was revealed.  I am well aware that open shelves would not work for everyone, but I've come to hate drawers.  They are never the right size for the things I want to store in them, and I am very particular about things being grouped and lined up particular ways, about there not being a mess. No junk drawers for me.  If it can't be lined up in a way that everything is visible, then there is simply too much.  

 

My mom is probably rolling with laughter at that because she well knows how much I tend to create huge messes when I am in the throws of some creative inspiration.  Perhaps that is exactly why I want the rest of my life to be orderly.  Perhaps this is also the constant struggle in my own walk through life, how to balance my need for peace and orderliness with the danger and messiness of creation, tinged as it is with a basic underlying laziness.  One thing about maturity, one does eventually learn that it is easier to maintain a system than it is to wrest orderliness out of chaos.  There is always some spot of chaos in my house, in my relationships, everywhere really.  I don't think you can force life into a particular mold.  Life is never really perfectly balanced, always a delicate dance along a fine line.

 

(3)

I wrapped the shade around the Alta Costura lamp last night and it is finally standing in my living room, for the first time since moving into this house.  The shape is made by the artful shaping of a long rectangle of translucent PVC.  Designed by Joseph Aregall in 1992, the lamp is inspired by the work of Balenciaga, and is a wonderful lesson in the art of draping, and a reminder of what I like about dressmaking.  It is always that transformation that appeals to me, in sewing and knitting as well, as taking a simple line or a simple 2-dimensional rectangle and creating something three-dimensional that flatters and is beautiful.

 

This detail, this small thing, somehow in my heart, cries "home at last".

 

 

 

In....And In Progress

Oh dear, oh dear, I feel like I should be channeling the White Rabbit, muttering some variation of "I'm late, I'm late" except that it is more like "I'm behind, I'm behind, I'm terribly behind".......

I am back in the house and most everything in the house was completed before move-in but there were still enough unfinished things that the first 10 days involved the house being constantly being filled with workers from the various trades.  There were days I could unpack and days where I was surrounded by rooms in various states of undress, with various half-unpacked and half-finished projects dominating the scene.  It was more stressful than I could have imagined, and there were several moments where I was supremely grumpy or close to tears.   But a quiet house over the weekend, and some lovely time spent with friends has also helped.   I am here now and there are a few small oases of calm, one of them here, in my library/office/occasional guest room, although I am afraid the guests may get short-shrift being relegated to an aerobed with a feather-bed topper.  Fine by me as I am more interested in owning a house I use daily than in space that sits empty but for a few days a year.

 

A couple of views from my desk this morning, out the window next to my desk (top) and into the library from my desk, which is at one end.  Books are all on the shelves, although not necessarily sorted or arranged in any coherent order, but that can happen over time.  My desk is actually a mess, I haven't yet managed to organize this corner, but that is not as upsetting as it might be simply because I am able to look out, past the clutter into this calming and inviting space. This is one of the few places that is safe today, a place where Tikka, Moisés and I are happily ensconced.

Although I may have to wander downstairs soon for another espresso.  I haven't quite mastered the new espresso machine yet, but I have made many cups of very good coffee and even occasionally almost gotten the right proportion of rich dark coffee and crema.  I knew it would be a work in progress with a bit of a learning curve.  But pulling an espresso has proven to be one of those simple joys I look forward to daily.  

 

Otherwise, not much to report.  I've been to the farmer's market, bought my first, small, bag of food, roasted a chicken, started playing with new appliances, but am not yet really fully settled...the kitchen itself is not yet fully settled or installed so it is a bit of a process, but life is always an adventure.  Here's to hoping that the studio is really finished by the end of this week (as promised, and no I am not holding my breath) and that my house and eventually a studio will be a refuge in the midst of the chaos that ensues when my parking lot is turned back into a yard.

 

More later....

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quick Update -- Some Progress and Some Delays

I finished a couple of sweaters that had been sitting around.

 

First, a slouchy teal cashmere sweater that I was knitting off and on last year, posting this photo last December:

I finished the knitting in February and blocked the pieces, with full intentions of sewing everything up during March.  That never happened for various reasons,  but it was the first sweater I put together while I was visiting my mom in Texas.

 

Sorry, no photo of me wearing it, yet, but already I am looking forward to cashmere weather. The Pattern, named Simple and Relevant,  is one of the Sweater of the Month patterns from L'Atelier in Redondo Beach, I think from 2017, and the yarn is DK weight cashmere.  Although you can't really see this in the above photo, the sweater is wider at the shoulders and more fitted at the hips, and the sleeves are narrow and closely fitted (which you can see).  This was exactly the shape of sweater I was looking for when I started this sweater, having felted a beloved, 10-year old cashmere sweater with a similar shape in the apartment washing machine on the not-so-delicate, hand-wash setting. The pattern calls for a wider boatneck, and the neckline on my sweater is a modified boat, with small amount of drape, which suits me much better. 

 

The second sweater is a summer sweater that I originally knit in 2012.  I don't really know why I didn't finish it but suspect it was because I was smaller at the beginning of 2012 than at the end of the year, when George was failing rapidly and I was struggling with depression.  I was about 20 to 30 pounds heavier than I am now.  In retrospect, now that I have finished and tried on the sweater, I think I was afraid it wouldn't fit so I simply put it in a box and forgot about it.  This I will wear now, and it is seasonally appropriate.

Here is the pretty sucky selfie I took in a hotel mirror yesterday morning.  The pattern is from Lang Yarns Fatto a Mano #182, published in January 2011, pattern number 67, and it is knit in a cotton ribbon yarn called Sol Dégradé.  The original pattern called for a fairly high crew-neck, and I simply lowered it to a more flattering scooped shape.  I have lost the piece of paper with the math, but I really don't need the now.

 

I am moving in to the house today, but I am not sure if I am living there yet.  There is at least another week's worth of work in the house itself, but I should be in residence over the next couple of days.  It will be an adventure.  The studio floor is not yet finished; therefore all fiber-related furniture and materials will be in a temporary holding area and unaccessible.  I suppose I should be grateful as this will force me to settle into the house, when I really want nothing more than to be playing in the studio. I have one more (winter) sweater to assemble and finish with me, and some linen yarn to start another summer sweater.  I think I will drape that linen yarn around the chair in my hotel room tonight and manually wind it into balls, ready to begin.  It is always good to look forward and start something new when one is a little frustrated about the present.

 

Ready... (or not)....

I'm ready. 

 

I've spent a few days in Texas visiting my mom.  Today I begin the drive back.  I no longer do 13 hour drives in a single day, not traveling by myself, or with Tikka.  Probably not even with a human companion as I fear the consequences would be a certain lack of ability to stand up straight. We adapt.  

 

Wednesday is the first day of moving back into my house.  A couple of new rugs arrive, rugs the were not necessarily required as part of the remodel, but which were ordered anyway.  I may have gotten carried away.  I can accept that about myself, an excess of enthusiasm, a tendency toward too-muchness, a lifelong battle that, balanced with the sure knowledge that the entire issue of too much or too little is really almost irrelevant.  It is not the things or the space that make life worthwhile, or which bring satisfaction, joy or contentment.  Perhaps not even happiness, but then it seems to me that happiness is but a fleeting thing, a shadow emotion and perhaps we give it too much weight.  Joy and contentment, satisfaction, peace -- these are all more deeply lasting, and they carry no dependence upon external things.

 

On Wednesday the first load from the movers also arrives.  137 items.  Mostly boxes, I think, but furniture as well.  The majority of the kitchen and master bedroom, but not all.  A fraction of the books.  The remainder, the things that have been in storage the last 10 months arrive on Thursday.  I am ready, although truthfully unpacking is something that one looks forward to both with joy and trepidation.

 

Although I am ready, ready to be home, ready to arrange and rearrange, fret and fluff, I fear the house is not.  Well, the house is probably mostly ready -- it has been progressing without me although I had been warned that they may still be working in a couple of less essential rooms.  There is always a punch list.  The studio is probably not ready and that is proving to be source of frustration because even as I know it will take me time to unpack, to settle, to arrange and rearrange, the place I really want to be is in the studio.  I want to make something.  New pajamas come to mind.  I am in desperate need of new pajamas, but that is really just an excuse, a first step.  One must steel oneself, prepare to expect little and hope perhaps to be surprised.

 

Tomorrow, the house.... 

 

 

A Scattershot Update

It has been over two weeks since my last blog post.  Not intentional, but there it is, another example of my lack of focus staring me in the face.  Actually, I have simply been focusing on other things, and I should have anticipated that I would not be able to attend to details on finishing the house, moving, packing, the maintenance of obligation and a social life, and also have the mental wherewithal to spend time stringing words together in coherent form.  Not so much lack of focus but a form of "your eyes are too big for your stomach", or gluttony -- the ongoing dream that I can have, and do, everything simultaneously.  Oh yes, I am human.  No point in beating myself up about it.

 

I move out of the apartment in a week. I have been packing, perhaps not quickly enough.  Somehow, there always seems to be more time than one needs, until there isn't.  Another human conundrum.  There is still a great deal to do.  It will be done, of course -- there is no alternative but for it to be done.

 

Thursday I fell at the job site, banged myself up a little here and there, and bruised the upper end of my left femur.  I am bruised and sore, and was moving stiffly.  I had trouble walking the first 24 hours or so and went in for an x-ray, but no fracture is visible, although my doctor thought some small cracking or chipping may be possible.  It is irrelevant in terms of treatment.   I took the weekend fairly easy, ie, less packing, and although still stiff, I am moving much better today.  Today I have to pack, but I will work intelligently, and on lighter things.

 

One thing I did accomplish over the weekend was to go through many accumulated collections of knitting magazines, remove the patterns I still love and might dream of making -- there are still far more than I could actually humanly make, but that is another project, -- scan them, and discard the magazines.  I am tired of things that take up so much space.  It is easier to find and sort digital files.  There is still a 40-plus-year collection of vogue knitting magazines, which will also be eliminated, but I might not get that finished before the actual move date. It will be finished however.    

 

I have long known that I tend to hang on to magazines.  I tell myself it is something hopeful, but actually it is something destructive, a yearning that can't be filled for some imaginary life. I have mostly let go, but the knitting magazines remained.  Dreams can be good until they become a burden.  And I have long known I do not have the mind of a person who archives, or who builds a collection. Yes, things will be lost, but I am not interested in being the keeper of memories.  

 

The good thing about sorting through old magazines is I was reminded of sweaters I knit long ago, and reminded that I don't really need to save the patterns or even the images, that the past is the past, I did not even need to spend much time reveling in the memory, a glance was enough to bring a fleeting smile, and a memory to be released into the ether.  I am no longer that young woman.  I am always that young woman.  Everything is lost, and yet nothing is lost, at least as it a part of the person I am -- always absorbing, always evolving.

 

Perhaps today I wish I had scanned in a picture of the first Anny Blatt sweater I ever knit, an oversized crochet extravaganza from the late 80s or early 90s, from the first Anny Blatt book I ever saw.  I became a devotee.  That sweater took me over a year, and I wore it until it was in tatters.  Probably good that is is gone now.  I would not wear it.  I made it in the colors shown in the magazine, deep autumnal colors.  In those days I had had my colors "done" and been declared an Autumn.  I am not.  But in those days my skin was pale and sallow.  It is probable that nothing looked good.  That was before we learned that I had a hole in my heart, that my skin was sallow from lack of oxygen circulating in my blood.  In those days I was miscast as both an Autumn and a Winter, probably depending on how pale and drawn I was.  When my heart was repaired I suddenly became pink and mauve.  I also later learned that soft summers like myself, those who look good in cool and neutral colors, rather the grayed and muted versions rather than the sharp clear colors, are often misclassified.  Now I get to wear the colors I have always loved. I don't always of course.  But hey, what can I say -- human.  

 

And just like that, memories are rediscovered and released,in a happy puff of smoke. The relief at being freed of the burden of paper more than compensates.  Not that my life is free of paper at the moment.  It is filled with boxes.  But that too will end.  I don't wish my life to be stored in boxes, to be packed in the attic, to grow moldy with regret.  For all that it is a pain, moving can be a blessing, a chance to free oneself, to stop holding tight to the past, or to dreams --  to free them and let them soar. Who knows, they may return, trailing something new in their wake.

 

 

 

48 Hours: Part Two -- Seeing

Friday afternoon in Chicago, mid-April.  My friend Patti, her husband Norm, and I are at the Art Institute of Chicago.  I have asked that we see the new modern art wing, and we have been wending our way through the galleries, finally arriving on the third floor.  Looming ahead of us in all its majesty is a painting, Bathers By A River, (1909/1910, 1913 and 1916-19170 Henri  Matisse.  Photo courtesy of Wikiart.org, here. 

The painting is huge.  These figures are far taller than I.  At first, my mind already beginning to be overflow with sensory input, I pause, slightly as if unable to completely register what I am seeing. I haven't read the plaque.  I see a blending of images, I see reflections of the lush tenderness seen in Three Bathers with a Turtle,  I see echoes of the lyricism of Dance; But I also see cubism, and intense feeling of danger. I wonder if it is a modern painting "after Matisse" but of course it is not. I've seen pictures of this painting before.  I should recognize it from that alone, but I am unprepared for the impact of the painting itself.  The painting seems to overwhelm me with the fractured lines of human experience, the sharp edges of innocence and experience overlapping each other.  I try to back up far enough to take a photo but I cannot get the right perspective. I want to stop here, not to rest exactly, but to be pulled in, to simply exist for a moment in the space this painting creates.  The finish on the canvas itself, the depth of the colors -- the pure presence of the piece is far more overwhelming than a mere picture can convey.  But of course I cannot stop here.  The gallery is just beginning.  There is no place to sit, no wall upon which to brace myself, only the doors, which keep opening when I want nothing more than for time to stop.

 

So of course I wander.  Eventually I find a room with a bench.  I see paintings by artists whose work I love, but, having already been in the galleries for some time, I am dangerously close to being overwhelmed, close, in fact, being inundated in a tide of sensory overload. There is too much beauty, too much power and I feel like a small child in a candy store,  my eyes unable to find a suitable place to rest, as everything around me is competing for their attention. I momentarily catch a glimpse of an ethereal Picasso, although I am not quite sure that "ethereal" and "Picaso", have ever merged so coherently in my imagination before.  I need to stop and I find a place to sit, briefly, calmed by this landscape by Heinrich Campendonk.  My nerve endings feel slightly less frayed, but I realize I can absorb nothing further, so I leave the gallery to sit and wait by the elevators.

 

It has been a good visit to the museum.  We started with Rembrandt portraits.  I am not a lover of portraits generally, but these are exceptional, each with a character, and a point of view, each subjects gaze filled with humanity, either inviting you in or holding you at bay.  Either way the portraits are compellingly human, and one wishes to get to know each of these characters better.  Aside from the portraits themselves however, I was struck by a comment in one of the notes. Tthe curator was discussing Rembrandt's use of costumes, and mentioned that in the artist's time, painters were considered mere craftsmen, not artists, and this struck me in light of my own recent post on self-definition, art and the role of art and craft in creation.  I was struck by the idea that Rembrandt also might have struggled with that idea of artist vs craftsman.  Of course this should be no surprise, because Rembrandt was also human, because this struggle is one of the basic human struggles, just as it is a basic human characteristic to judge and categorize, and perhaps to idolize the past, forgetting that our heroes were indeed just like us.    Today, I think I am not alone in thinking of painters as artists, and yet I am also pretty confident that there are layers of perception and categorization, and we too categorize painting into "craft" and "art", dismissing out of hand broad categories that we deem closer to the former than the later.  It seems that this is one of those questions to which there are no firm answers.

 

(Barbara Hepworth, Two Figures (Menhirs), 1954/1955.

 

After Rembrandt we had moved over to the modern wing and starting with contemporary works, some of which seemed breathtakingly beautiful while others were more puzzling.  Some pieces seemed very dependent on having a basic understanding of the intent and process. Other pieces were more transparent.   I took more pictures downstairs, mostly to remember, but I learned long ago that taking photos and actually looking are often mutually exclusive.  The struggle to find the balance point between recording and experiencing, between movement and stillness seems to be the ongoing struggle.  How does one manage?  I remain uncertain.  

 

 

Sometimes what really struck me, and what I remember, cannot be captured by photographs at all; the photographs simply serve as a memory cue of sorts.  The Brice Marden above, (Study for the Muses, Eaglesmere Version 1991-94/1997-990) seems to float in space, to almost dance across the room.  In my photo you can see some of the layers of paint, of color of movement.  But the effect in the afternoon sunlight is magical.  And yet, as much as this painting alone is worth entry into this gallery, it is only one player in a complex dance.  As Brice Marden's painting shimmers and floats, it shares a space with the sculpture shown below (Katharina Fritsch, A Woman With Her Dog, 2004).  At first the light softness of the painting and the feminine pink sculpture seem to go together, at least upon initial impression, perhaps merely due to color alone and subject matter, but where the painting is soft and yielding, the woman is simultaneously soft and yielding in color and form but hard and brittle, like the shells from which she appears to be formed.   Easily broken perhaps, but not without causing pain.

 

 

And yet there is more.  Also in this room are some smaller works, strong and singular in their line and impact, occasionally stark.  Although there may have been works by other artists, I specifically remember two works by Gerhard Richter, Davos, 1981, and Venice, Staircase (1985). The harsh simplicity and tension in the smaller Richter works  stood both in opposition and in harmony to the Marden and Fritsch.  Standing in this room I felt challenged by the contrast of  permanence and impermanence, hard and soft, yielding and unyielding, dance and isolation. It is exactly this, this conversation, this play of art and ideas, of emotion and space that struck me about that particular afternoon, that I remember to this day.  In retrospect, I wonder how the effect of this room, these works affected my reaction to the Matisse seen at the top of this post,  as shortly after this we left the second floor and rose to the third.  Next time I walk into the gallery and see the Matisse, will my reaction be different?  How does the conversation between art and viewer evolve over time?   Echoes of previous encounters remain a part of us, but time shifts, our emotions and understandings change, and yet art to continues to pierce through our defenses.

 

 

The Good, The Bad, and the Merely Meh....

It is possible I am coming down with a cold.  It is also possible that I merely have a sore throat due to sinus drainage from allergies.  I am hoping for the later, but am not yet convinced.  I have had more colds this winter-into-spring-that an any time since the first winter I moved to Knoxville and started spending more time with a certain 5-year old, un-accustomed as I was to school-yard germs.  I am ready to be home, and in my mind that alone, the fact that I am not home, is the source of all these niggly little upsets.  Perhaps not, but please don't burst my bubble.  The thought of home is a good reward.

Despite my scratchy throat, today is a good day. Despite my tendency toward petulant self-pity, I cannot help but smile. The sun is shining.  I went for a walk.  I've scanned, shredded, and carted away several boxes of old paperwork that I refuse to move one more time. I had a bowl of red curry soup for lunch and the spice of the curry cleared my sinus while the creaminess of the coconut milk base soothed my scratchy throat.

I read quite a few good books in April although not perhaps books that led me into deep thought.  Sometimes thinking is overrated.  One needs simply to be allowed to enjoy.  I had not read anything by Kate Morton or Belinda Bauer before, but I shall seek out their other novels.   I thought that Ta-Nehisi Coates managed the almost impossible in The Beautiful Struggle.  There is one point where he seemed to encapsulate perfectly in poetic prose that moment of self-realization and actualization, when a child begins to come into him- (or her-) self, when a person stands on the cusp of knowing who they are in the world.  He does this, and he reminded this reader of her own childhood and the childhood of her friends, touching on the universality of humanity, while also laying bare the fragility of childhood and the fragility of experience.  Coates childhood was not my childhood, could never be, and yet in one moment he simultaneously tied us all together and shredded all my myths.  By making me feel what we had in common, he also made me feel the shattering differences of our experiences and what we can never share. A book worth reading again.

 

But not all the book were keepers. I took a couple of bags of books I don't think I will want to look at again to the second-hand book store, including a few items from my April reading list. Included were  the Dan Brown, which was entertaining enough (meh), the Mary Higgins Clark, which I found to be the weakest of the Under Suspicion series.  But then I am really not a Mary Higgins Clark fan to begin with, so I am probably also not a good judge.  I also sold Master and Margarita, which was good, and may well be one of the great books of the 20th century, but which didn't really resonate with me.  I won't read it again, unlike the other "great" satiric 20th century novel The Tin Drum, which I adored and will read again and again.  Also on the "meh" list is  The Beautiful Edible Garden.  It is one of three books I have been reading as I think about my garden and my dreams for its evolution, and it has pretty pictures, and great bones if one doesn't know much about garden design, but it doesn't really offer enough substance to be useful, nor does it offer any options or information for readers in areas other than the author's California planting zone.  

Otherwise construction and planning and packing continue apace.  The first Saturday Market Square Farmer's market was last weekend.  I tried to go early but only partially succeeded.  It was already crowded when I arrived at 9:15, but I still enjoyed walking around and shopping.   

I didn't buy the bread, although I ran into a friend, who did.  We chatted and shopped and decided to go to brunch.  I intended to return to that first stand to purchase some of those wonderful white Japanese turnips you see in the top picture but instead we dawdled and chatted and by the time I got back, all the Japanese turnips were gone.  Alas.  I tried some small red turnips instead, which I had never had before. They were delicious, a mild turnip with an almost buttery roundness to their flavor..

Here is my small haul.  The red turnips are on the right with the beautiful greens.  I also bought rainbow radishes, which I am still eating.  The radish greens got a little wilted while we chatted and brunched, but it didn't really matter as I prefer them cooked anyway. The beef knuckle bone went into a pot of stock, which simmered away in the slow cooker most of yesterday.  In fact, a ladle of fresh stock, the remainder of the greens, and some left-over steak made for a lovely soup when I finally returned home for a late dinner.  I had worried about over-buying.  Instead I may have not purchased enough as everything is now gone, except a couple of radishes and some eggs. 

One final good thing.  The tile installers finished the tile in the powder room.  The painters  need to return and repaint the trim, which is supposed to be black and not blue.  The schedule calls for black.  But even that cannot dim my enthusiasm.  Trim can be repainted.  The tile and the sink make me very happy. Eventually, the black trim and the wallpaper will make me even happier.