restingmotion

Listening

Bard Music Festival.  Is it 1999? or 2004?  Are we listening to Shostakovich or Schoenberg?  I don't remember.  I simply remember being asked "but can you hum it?".  Whatever it was that we had been listening to on that particular afternoon, the answer was "probably not".  I wanted to respond that "you can't really hum Beethoven's 5th Symphony either" or at least I can't, at least not large parts of it.  But I worried that perhaps that was just me.  Perhaps I still worry, worry about whether I am forgetting, or if I truly never paid attention.    

 

This memory comes to mind because my friend Patti asked me a question over dinner, before we attended a recital featuring Paul Barnes at Roosevelt University, a recital featuring the music of Philip Glass, including the new (2018) Piano Quintet.  Patti asked me if I could describe the quintet, and I am embarrassed to say I could not.  I could not describe the Beethoven either although I know it intimately, almost as if it resides in my bones.  I knew I wrote about the Piano Quintet last April, and although I may have described the work, at least partially, I probably mostly referred to its emotional weight and resonance simply because this is what draws me into music.  I am more interested in the way listening to music feels, the way the experience of listening shapes and alters space and perception and the emotional resonance of the conversation between musician and artist.  And because it seems to me that each experience is unique, I am reluctant to read that blog post before writing this post as I fear it will alter my memory and understanding of what I heard.  

 

Nonetheless, I was startled by my simple inability to describe the music itself.  I felt I had fallen short, and I wondered why I bother writing about music at all, if I cannot remember it, or describe it, or hum it.  I wondered if my memory has become so flawed, or if it was always thus.  I wonder if it matters.  I admit I've intentionally been trying to let go of the critical aspects of memory, the critically-comparative way of "so and so played x in a particular way, and since you do not you are not good enough" side of listening with my head instead of my heart.  I wonder then, if I've lost something, and if so, if I have gained something else in return?

 

 

Then, later that same evening, with the opening notes of the quintet, memory came flooding in and I remembered the entire piece, as if I had just stepped into a deeply familiar well.  All my memories descended and filled me up.  I could hear the entire piece swirling around me, before it was played on stage and as it was played on stage, like a familiar old friend.  And the music, this music, this performance, pulled me into its own space, the same sense of being enveloped in a space that was both simultaneously inclusive and expansive, the same feeling I had during those first two performances.  Of course even as my head acknowledged that the music was the same, the conversation was different.  Nothing, certainly not performance, is ever the same twice, and this performance, in this hall, with a different group of musicians, was not the same as my first experience of the piece.  Yet it was equally satisfying.  I heard the music and felt lifted and engulfed in open arms.  And yet, in this hall, which was smaller than the Lied Center, the work took on a more brooding and meditative feel, similar to the feelings evoked listening to the rehearsal before the concert in Nebraska, and yet somehow more rounded, more comfortable with its own edges.  The strings of the Chiara Quartet had sounded lighter and brighter to me, more airy, as if I was being lifted on wings, whereas in this performance the music felt closer.  Once again I felt enveloped and carried upward, wrapped in cashmere and released into the light rather than carried on wings of air.

 

Barnes' playing was at once familiar and new, as it should be in a different setting, and I was once again entranced. All these things were running through my mind and my heart, but my thoughts were also at least partially shaded by a painting I had seen earlier in the afternoon, a painting by Jay DeFeo, a painting titled "The Annunciation" just as Glass's Piano Quintet is titled "Annunciation".  During the brief intermission, I sat in the concert hall, reveling in the memory of the music, and thinking how wonderful it was that here I was in a concert hall on the first night of Passover, on Good Friday, the opposite end of the Christian calendar from the event called the Annunciation, and yet experiencing this confluence of art and music.  I am sure that my reaction to the painting influenced my reaction to the music, just as I am sure that the way the first notes of the quintet resurrected my memory, wrapping me in its own cloud-like layer, also influenced my reaction to music I was hearing. I am not sure we can separate these things out of our experiences, nor that we should even try, every performance is a complexly layered conversation between artist and listener, of art, impulse, understanding, and experience, and it is this very layering that makes music, well, art. 

 

So I suppose I no longer feel bad about not being able to describe the music.  My ability to describe things may be poor. But my interest seems to remain solidly in the realm of feelings evoked, rather than the details of the thing itself, and apparently my head has limited capacity for things.  Until I started writing this piece the music that most came to mind was the song of the birds when I stepped outside my door this morning.  That Friday in Chicago, the music that filled my soul before the visit to the concert hall, before the museum, was the lilting sounds of high school students in the hotel restaurant and the sound of the street: wind and cars, tenor and bass, whispering altos, and the ringing high call of the wind.  It is enough.  I continue to be more interested in the conversation with the music, the bubble of space-time that music creates, than in the actual notes themselves.  Ah yes, you may say, I am obviously not a musician.

 

The rest of the concert was wonderful as well.  I had not heard any of the other pieces before, or at least if I had I did not remember them. But I think I had not.  This has always been a struggle, describing something I have only heard once, and this time is no different.  Through repetition my initial reactions are revealed and I become more invested in the music. In that sense, listening is like writing. I don't really know what I think until I write it down.  I don't really understand what I heard until I hear it again, until I find a pattern in which to organize my own understanding.  

 

Even though I thoroughly enjoyed the entire concert, the only other part of the concert about which I can really say anything was a piece from 2008, Four Movements for Two Pianos, the last piece. Perhaps I recall it as much because I was fascinated by the musicians, the intstruments, and the way these three aspects -- music, artists, instrument -- combined in distinct ways to produce something that seemed satisfyingly whole and beautiful.  As for the music itself, once again I can't describe exactly what I heard, only that the music felt very introspective and personal to me, not so much music inspired by an idea, as in the Annunciation Quintet, but as music simply for its own sake.  The two pianists, Winston Choi and Paul Barnes were completely different in the method, style, and temperament of their playing, and simply watching them play was fascinating.  The instruments also were quite different:  The piano played by Barnes was bright, sharp and clear,  and he made the piano sing with a dancing lyricism. The other piano had a softer timbre, a more rounded and rolling sound to its tones and Choi elevated its sound into an alternating dance of harmony and melody with Barnes.  It seemed like music of opposites, of contrast merging into one single voice.  Old and new, soft and sharp, round and jagged.  Harmony.

 

 

Who Am I? Writer? Artist?...Maybe. Does it even Matter?

A few months back someone referred to me as an artist.  I paused, perhaps a little surprised.  But I did not object.  It was, in fact, an idea I had been toying with for quite some time.  But as is typical for me, nothing is ever simple.  Increasingly I think and dream about creating daily.  Increasingly I think about art, about craft, about living, and about the way, the act of living itself can be about art, can be art itself.  

 

But, me? An artist?  

I am not asking for affirmation, or denial here.  I am simply exploring an idea.  We all have a say in how we define ourselves, and at least partially in how the wold defines us.  I love math but I am not a mathematician.  I do not think like a scientist.  I never have and I never will.  I have been a businessperson, and I have strong organization and managerial skills, but they are only a small part of how I define myself. I struggled with this when I was younger, but not so much anymore.  I suppose I could say I am a writer.  At one point I did, but the idea didn't mesh well in my mind.  I do write, although I've never published a book, in fact I've never had the desire. But there are tons of writers of all stripes. And yet, I have been blogging consistently for 14 years.  I've published nearly 2300 blog posts, and although I've never tried to build an audience, to stick to a theme, or even particularly cared about how many people read what I write, those assorted mutterings have garnered over a million page views.  Tiny.  Really tiny.  But still there, a statistic, in a world that is obsessed with measurements and statistics.  But I write because it is a part of how I see the world, it is part, but only a part of the act of creation.

When I was in California a few weeks ago, one of the places the group went was the Sonoma Valley Museum of Art.  I was entranced with this small space, particularly taken with the work of a couple of the artists but one of the things that has really remained in my head, and my dreams, was the art produced by local schoolchildren.  There were truly amazing things there, and I don't believe I was the only one who felt this way.  But what particularly struck me is that I think that art, the need to create, the need to compress and express something about life that is intangible in a tangible way is part of human nature.  Art.  Music.  Creation.  The yearning for meaning.  These are the things that make us human.  They are a part of all of us, although that is not to say we are all musicians, artists, philosophers, etc.  But perhaps also, we don't allow ourselves to flourish.

Mark Rothko said "A painting is not a picture of an experience.  It is an experience."  I love this statement because it gets right at the heart of something elemental and essential.  It also reminds me that although we classify and judge, it is the experience itself, the experience felt, that makes art important.  We can judge.  But experience itself is true. An artist translates something ephemeral into something tangible.  We humans are complex beings, and we all express and experience and feel in different ways.  Each and every experience is true.  Just because something speaks to you, and speaks deeply, does not mean that it will speak to me.  We like to judge things, even art.  And I am not saying there are not geniuses, people who create things that speak to millions and generations.  Rothko was one of those geniuses.  But art isn't about being Mark Rothko, or even about selling or publishing or whatever.  It is a way of looking at the world, of experiencing it, and a compulsion to start that conversation and share that experience

But back to my own question.  The person who called me an artist was one of the contractors I am working with.  This person has never seen anything I have made, at least not knowingly.  I've worn clothing I've made but more about that later.  My initial assumption was that I was being called an artist because I am creating a "studio" or a glorified sewing room, although I intend to do far more than sew, knit, and weave in that space.  But I think it was more than that.  I think that person sees my choices in redoing the house as something creative. And I am of the mind that life itself can be art, that the act of living can be a kind of creative dialog with time and space and the people we choose to share that time and space with.  Can one be a artist of one's space? Of one's life?  I don't know.

Artist.  If I tell people I am an artist they assume I paint.  Well, I actually dream about painting, although I have no training and no skill.  Occasionally I modify that by saying I am a fiber artist.  Which may be partially true, but to me it feels the same way saying I am a writer feels.  It describes something I do but not who I am.   I may be an artist who works with fiber.  I may also simply be a craftsperson.  I struggle with the lines between things.  I always have.  Lines are so arbitrary and I always want to merge them, to cross over and outside, to look at things differently.

On this subject, this quote, from Jean-Claude Ellena's The Diary of a Nose, resonates particularly strongly with my own thoughts:

Craftsman, artist: I have never managed to settle for one or other of these definitions for myself. I feel like a craftsman when I am completely wrapped up in making a perfume; I feel like an artist when I imagine the perfume I need to make. In fact, I constantly juggle with the two standpoints. If perfume is first and foremost a creation of the mind, it cannot actually be created without the mastery of true skill.

I feel like an artist when I imagine:  I feel like an artist when I imagine making something, imagine creating an experience, a space to be experienced.  I feel like an artist when I see that the way what we see as known or fixed really isn't fixed at all, it is just the framework we have designated for ourselves.  I feel like an artist because I want to translate that feeling into an experience. I feel like a craftsman when I am making something.  For a long time, most of my sewing or knitting was purely about need or want, about copying something I wanted and making it.  It was mildly creative, perhaps.  It was craft. Increasingly what I make starts with an idea in my head, or a material, or something I see on the street, and that somehow gets translated into something else, something I want to create:  a taste, a garment, an embroidery, a picture.  It is never about the thing itself but about the experience the thing helps create.  But all of that also requires skill, and skill is craft.  All artists are craftsmen.  They have to be in order to become good at their art, to to create that dialogue that translates an idea into something that can be experienced by others.   The trick is in being able to create the bridge from imagination to experience. One needs vision plus craft.  Perhaps I am just an artist-in-training, an apprentice who has yet to learn what might suit me.  

When I was in California with my museum group these questions of art and conversations and design were floating around, almost as if they were in the air we breathed.  Or maybe that was the wine.  One of the conversations was about the first piece in a room that drew you in, and whether or not that was the piece, if you were going to buy, that you would buy.  For me, that is not the case.  The first thing that captures my attention in a room draws me in yes.  But that first thing is rarely the thing that sticks with me, the thing I am drawn into conversation with.  Donald Hess, of the Hess Collection in Napa, buys art that speaks to him, that keeps him up at night.  That is what has always drawn me....that sense of conversation.  That is what I see as important, things not merely as things, but as a conversation, and meaning.  I can't buy all or even most of the art that haunts my dreams.  The pieces shown in this post are a few of those items though.  All are my photos, from the Napa trip and my favorite museum in San Antonio, the McNay.

 

 

 

Looking at Knoxville Through Visitor’s Eyes

Sometimes it is good to pretend like one is a visitor to one’s own town.  One might note things, previously noticed perhaps, but quickly forgotten.  One might find magic in that which otherwise seems ordinary.

 

I engaged in a little such activity a couple of weekends past, becoming a visitor in my own town during the Big Ears Festival.  

 

Yes I listened to a lot of music.  Although I think that generally I may not have been as adventurous in some of my selections as some years, I also think I heard more performance than at any prior festival. It was the first year I was truly comfortable with the “sampling” mentality, of walking in or out of something that wasn’t grabbing my attention.  It was also the first year that I didn’t worry about what I might be missing, rather just allowing myself to enjoy whatever I was listening to at the time.

And although I walked around town a lot, averaging 7 to 10 miles most days, I also took the new trolley service to some venues, and this proved to be better for my back as well as my stamina.  I think previous years I would walk 14 miles or more a day, if I was able to do so.  An added benefit of the  trolley proved to be the way it allowed me to engage in conversations with other attendees, to meet people, to observe and explore opinions and attitudes other than my own.  

The fact that the trolley was available, as well as other options such as Uber and Joyride Mobile, I was also able to relax more during my walks up and down Gay street and around downtown.  I was able to stop and pay attention.  Hence the collages above, from the three full days I spent at Big Ears.  None of the photos are of anything particularly significant in and of itself, but I am also realizing that is the way I take photos, not necessarily of significant things, but of details that catch my eye.

 

When I left he festival my head was filled with music and a new appreciation for this little city I call home.

 

 

Pulled in Many Directions

 

it seems there never really is a good time for a week of rest, although it is possible that my own inclination toward too-muchness hinders the process somewhat.  I am still sorting it all out --- my reading time, and by extension my writing time, remains somewhat constrained -- and more often than not I feel simultaneously still and yet fragmented and pulled in many directions.  I feel, in short, much the way I imagine the woman in this painting by Pablo Picasso feels.   I saw this painting, Crouching Woman, at the McNay during my last visit to San Antonio, and it came to mind this morning as I try to juggle the things I want to do, the things I need to do, and the realities of negotiating a path through the competing demands on my time and my energy levels.  I am not sure what Picasso actually intended, but I see a brilliant portrayal of the multi-faceted roles and demands placed on women, and the complex angles and folds created by the push-pull of intelligence and emotion, time and space, expectation and desire.

 

Perhaps I am reading too much into this.  But that just tells you where I am coming from on this particular morning.

 

I am reading again, although only in short bursts, and the amount of time in which I can read varies significantly with the light and the size of the type.  How much running around I have been doing also seems to have an effect on my vision.  I never realized that driving itself was so hard on the eyes.  Rain doesn't help, of course. Rather than writing I have focused on tasks that may be less appealing, but more important perhaps.  Tasks which can be divided into short bursts of activity are doable:  taxes, budget revisions, filling out paperwork for an appointment with a new doctor.  Spending time in the kitchen is easier than sewing, or doing any kind of needlework.  I can knit, as my current project is simple, but all too often my eyes are too tired by the time I sit, and I fall asleep. This struggle between energy and exhaustion, visual acuity and blurriness, has also upended my sleep patterns, which is not helping me balance my path through the push-pull of obligations, but I assume it will all sort itself out in time.

 

Despite all of this I have been out and about.  I attended two fabulous concerts which I hope to write about while they remain fresh in my memory.  There was one evening when there were three concerts I wanted to attend, and alas, it was also raining and I attended none of them.  I've had a few lunches with friends. Last night I went off to the Clarence Brown Theater to see King Charles III, which I enjoyed to a point. I think the play itself is brilliant but although all the performances were good, and some were excellent, I felt there was an excess of earnestness and a certain lack of wit that would have elevated the production. There were also more than a few instances where the cadence of the iambic pentameter felt strained and my inner grump threatened to surface.  But overall it was good and an enjoyable evening.

 

It strikes me as interesting that this, the most seriously dramatic performance I have seen at the theater, has been my least favorite production.  It is odd because I have always been more of a fan of serious drama than of lighthearted fun on stage.  Perhaps friends and colleagues who claimed I was too serious for my own good, were right.  Perhaps I just needed to learn to let go.  But this year, it has been the light stuff that has truly appealed to me, which I have most enjoyed.  I saw Candide twice, even though I once despised the work, and loved it.  I laughed so hard throughout The SantaLand Diaries that I could hardly contain myself, and I could have seen A Christmas Carol happily more than once.   The same was true last year, and I still smile at the thought of a couple of contemporary light operas, and Beautiful: The Carole King Musical.. Perhaps it is not so much that I am changing, as I always had this sappy happy inner core, but that I no longer care if my sappy side is good enough and think that my inner grumpy-pants has had more than her share of time in the sun.  

 

But now my eyes hurt and I have spent too much time here while other tasks are calling my name. I shall return when I can.

 

Reflections At The End Of A Journey

I  wrote this post last night when it was late and I was tired. I did read it this morning, and fix glaring errors but avoided reading too closely.  I got in late.  I slept late.  I need to wrestle Moisés into a carrier for his annual trip to the vet, and bring Tikka home from boarding. I decided somewhere along the line it is better to just post.

It is late in Atlanta's Hartfield-Jackson Airport and I am waiting for my plane.  It is well past my bedtime, and I was supposed to have been home hours ago.  I am sure that my face looks as punch-drunk-tired as I feel.  But mine is but one exhausted face in a crowded gate filled with exhausted faces, all waiting hopefully and patiently for any news that we may indeed be flying soon. This is not the first time I've been stuck in this airport, or on this airline, (Delta) but I am continually grateful for the airline staff that go the extra mile to keep us updated on what is going on (and what is not), cheering us onward, and making sure that there are snacks and plenty of water at the gate. I have just learned that we are being moved to another gate and another plane, a plane that was originally scheduled to go to a different city.  We will get home tonight. I hope the people who were scheduled on the flight we usurped make it home tonight as well, although at the moment that seems iffy, as ice conditions in their city has reduced traffic to a trickle..  

But exhaustion aside, I had a lovely weekend visiting may aunt in San Antonio.  It was cold in San Antonio and I did not walk along the river as much as is my wont, walking as necessary exercise rather than indulging in lazy strolls. I used  the hotel gym on one particularly windy and sleety morning.  I stayed in a new place for me, a place that felt like a home away from home, which had a lovely library where I spent one morning drinking coffee, journaling and browsing through an interesting selection of art books.

I had great visits with my aunt. I did walk along the river walk when the weather warmed slightly and the biting wind calmed.  I wandered the farmer's market. I ate at a restaurant I have been wanting to try for a few years.  I even managed to spend extra time in one of my favorite museums, and how can that not be a boon?

 

In fact, it seems to me that every time I go to the McNay I see something different.  It feels simultaneously familiar and yet new.  Sometimes I wonder even if I love the place itself as much as the art.  I'm not always sure I can tell the difference.

I enjoyed being at the museum but I can't say that anything leapt out at me, at least not art specifically.  On this morning I was somehow struck by the way the gray heaviness of the light outside the windows reflected into my vision of the art in the museum. I was almost more entranced by the light and the placement of the art, the way one picture played off other works in the room, the rather dark day and the stead gray light through the windows. I had wandered through half the museum, not quite aimlessly, but in a foggy bubble, noticing the space, the play of light, the artful placement of create a sense of conversation between art and space, before I saw this painting by Robert Rauschenberg, Black Mail.  I suppose it too is rather dreary, but it really captured my attention.  After I sat down to look at it further I noticed that the mirror was actually a mirror.  That it is both a painting and a collage and I that tickled me even further, that little bit of reflection, of peering inward and outward simultaneously in the middle of this painting.  

But then I noticed the floor, and the way the muted colors of the floor complimented the colors of the painting, and I was once again fascinated by the intersection of art and space and light.  I sat on the bench thinking about floor and painting and the window in the corner, a window with a sculpture in front of it, thinking about all of this together and how it made something more than any one piece. I kept staring at the corner, at the floor, and the painting. I took a picture of the floor.  I took a picture of the window.  That was not meant as insult to Rauschenberg, but somehow everything came together in a way that made me very happy, as if something was shifting in my perspective.  The Rauschenberg lightened as if in conversation with its setting.  Walking back out through the museum it was, once again, like seeing something old become new again.

 

 

Further Explorations

Yesterday morning I was out walking Tikka early, well before the sky was starting to brighten with the impending dawn, and I was struck by the scent of the air.  It was something hard to describe, not a floral perfume, not exactly the scent of fresh dirt, but of something I could only call hope or growth.  It was a warm, woodsy, green but also slightly sparkly scent, not floral, not fruity, a scent of brightness, a hint of promise.  I thought to myself, "Ah! Spring!".  It may be early yet, there may be setbacks, but spring has announced itself, not just in the hellebores and the leaves of bulbs and buds on trees, those can always be false starts, but something in the scent of the air and soil and the leaves themselves.  There are always setbacks but the cycle moves forward.

The house is moving forward as well.  Every day I see something new, although at the moment the most dramatic visible transformation is occurring with the garage and studio. Windows went in last week, although they were not completed when these photos were taken.

This wall of windows faces north and north light was one of the most important criteria for my studio.  Yes there are windows on all sides of the studio, and good lighting is being added as well, but north facing windows were one of my most important demands for this space.  North light is the light I love. I love seeing the sunrise, I love watching the sunset.  But if I could only have one window for the rest of my life I would want it to face north.

Here is the view looking out from the very unfinished studio.  There is a courtyard below, between the house and the garage, the same courtyard that attracted me to this house in the first place, and a view of the street, where I can, should I choose, watch the neighbors passing by walking their dogs.  Of course this also means that if I am working at night, and if I am in the middle of a project the hours tend to disappear, anyone on the street can see me in the studio.  I am not sure I that I am uncomfortable with that.  I am perhaps more uncomfortable that everyone who can see me can see the mess that often occurs in the sewing room, the mess that indicates that something is being created.  It can be limited, but it can't be completely contained.  

 

My entire life is not as organized as my refrigerator.  In fact much of my life has been a struggle between these too sides of myself, the organized spreadsheet-loving person who likes things sorted and lined up in pretty little rows, and the more creative impulsive part of me.  In my youth these aspects of my character were mostly at war, but now I am finding a sense of balance and peace, Or at least I am trying to find a sense of balance, trying to find a sense of peace.  I do not always succeed.  There are days when one side or the other is winning.  There are days when I have to remind myself it is not a battle.  There are days when I need to pull myself out of the fog of melancholy.  

 

I am beginning to understand how these things are related in my soul: clutter, order, inspiration, melancholy.  I wonder sometimes if art, if meaning, if transformation, actually exists in the interstices between order and chaos, between our need for security and our need for change.  Perhaps this is exactly where I need to be, where I see magic, see creativity, as happening, in the fog between passion and reserve.  Passion, discipline, love, mysticism, melancholy, even perhaps moments of despair.  Each can be overwhelming, can indeed destroy us, but somewhere in the tension between them lies meaning, is that thing that I think art, life even, is trying to capture. That thing that we yearn to discover.

 

Order in and of itself can become an obsession, and I try to nip that impulse in the bud.  Order can help with life but it can also stifle creativity, at least my creativity.  I am all about balance and happy accidents, the ways things just happen to fall.  But I am also all about pretty things lined up in pretty ways.  I cannot say that I would choose form without consideration for function, but I would never chose function without consideration for form.  And I have come to accept that this is one of the reasons that I want my studio to be a separate place from my house.  The house needs to work for me to be content there.  I like little jars lined up in the refrigerator and I learned long ago, that if I wash the lettuce, dry it and put it in a container, it will last longer, but I will also be more likely to use it before it spoils.  If I cut the bell peppers into strips and put them in a pretty container, I will see them and use them.  If a whole bell peppers rolls around in the back of a crisper drawer, God help it, because I will likely forget its existence.  I hate food waste.  I like pretty little things lined up in rows. Spending time prepping and putting away saves me time in the long run, and brings me peace.  It gives me more time in the studio, where I and pull things out of drawers and pile things up and let them speak to each other, where serendipity plays a role.

I can't really explain why some clutter makes me crazy and other clutter fills me with joy.  All I can do is go with it, and learn to respect my own strengths and failings.  Also learn to accept that anything I see as a strength may indeed be something someone else sees as a failing.  But who cares.  The joy in existence is that each and every being is different.  For me, having food prepped in anonymous little containers encourages use and play, and helps me find things.  I won't rustle through plastic bags, but I will look at little jewel boxes of color, and use ingredients before they spoil.  That is how I ended up with roasted chicken thighs and a simple sauté of bell pepper and baby box choy for dinner one night.  I saw the vegetables, saw that I needed to eat them before going away, thought they looked pretty together and so they were, delicious also, simply tossed in the pan drippings from the chicken.

 

But where am I in all this?  I don't know.  Someone said to me in a conversation about something, some choice for something, "but you are an artist".  I was taken aback.  I don't really think of myself as an artist.  I don't actually think of myself as much of anything, just myself, just a complex mix thoughts and ideas and activities.  I don't produce anything, not necessarily anything that anyone wants.  But I do think life is art.  I care about the details of how life is lived. Can being an artist be a way of looking at the world?  I don't know.  

Where am I in all of this? It is worth repeating.  Evolving.  Aren't we all, always evolving?  Or at least that is the hope.  Here I am sitting with my grand-dog, Dash.  Dash is growing to big to be a lap dog, but he is still a puppy and he wants desperately to be a lap dog, so he tries.  I feel that way sometimes, like I am trying to shove too much into my time and space wanting to be -- something -- l am not sure what, but also content to just be what I am inconsistencies and big floppy messes and all.  

 

 

 

A Museum Discovery And A Concert Review

I was looking at this painting, Soup, by Miquel Barceló the other day and was reminded that I had not yet written about last Friday's concert by the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra. 

 

Somehow the idea of soup seemed relevant to me at the time, referencing the idea of art as a soup, as an essential form of nourishment but one that is a melding of all the interests and influences that go into the pot, yielding something that is shaped by and yet not necessarily completely defined by its parts.  Friday's concert, titled "Schumann's Circle of Friends" was in its own way a different soup, each work created by an individual, but also existing within a relationship of creative ideas and influences bubbling through the lives of a group of friends, music of a time and a place and a milieu, and yet, at least for some of that music, something that also transcended the limitations of that very culture which shaped its creation, in short, soup.

 

The concert opened with Felix Mendelssohn's Overture to a Midsummer Night's Dream, written when the composer was 17. It was followed by Clara Schumann's Piano Concerto in A Minor, Op 7, completed when she was 14.   The piano concerto was beautifully played by Gabriela Martinez.  Clara Schumann was a virtuoso pianist and the piece was written to show off her talents; Martinez seemed to capture this spirit of youthful exuberance beautifully, and the piece was elegantly and harmoniously played, especially in the solo cello passages played by Andy Bryenton.  

 

But I felt the first half of the program was the weaker half.  The Clara Schumann work was lovely, extraordinary really for a 14 year old girl, but although it seemed to capture  and coalesce all the themes of the moment, it struck me as just that, a perfect pulling together but ultimately without anything new to say.  The Mendelssohn overture was also lovely, well-known and beloved by the audience, but the performance felt out of sync at times, and, at least as heard on Friday night, I felt the Mendelssohn did not hold up to the works that followed the intermission.

 

The second half of the program opened with Fanny Mendelssohn-Hensel's Notturno in G minor.  Originally written for solo piano, this arrangement was for flute and strings.  I felt the music was truly gorgeous; lyrical, tender at times, but also lush with a great balance of emotion and restraint.  I don't know enough about the music of Fanny Mendelssohn, but this concert led me to wonder what might have been had she lived in a different time, with more opportunities for women, led me to wonder if perhaps she was the more talented composer.  

 

Certainly the Notturno held up against Robert Shumann's Third Symphony, "The Rhenish", a work that could be both grand and solemn, yet also lightly lush and lyrical.  I was impressed with the performance of a beloved piece that I have admittedly not listened to in a very long time.  The guest conductor, Eric Jacobsen, appeared to be adept at balancing this work, which can sometimes feel heavy with conflicting themes, in balance with the mood of the evening.  I felt like I was listening with fresh ears, carried away by the music, a feeling only magnified in the final piece, Brahms' Hungarian Dance #1.  In fact I think the entire audience, or at least a significant portion, was dancing in their hearts and heads by the time the music ended, and the audience rose up in one swell of joyous applause.  Most admirably was how these three pieces, so very different from each other, also were pulled together to create a sense of their own space, of something greater than any single one.  

And so I am back to the idea of soup.   I saw Barceló's painting at a small museum, the Meadows Museum, on the campus of SMU.  I went to see a particular exhibit, which I will write about later, but I was entranced by other pieces in the museum's collection, including this sculpture by Jaume Plensa outside the main entrance.  I was taken by its huge scale, and the way its size and construction play with weight and transparency.  Perhaps this work too, reminds me of how I felt leaving that concert a week ago, thoughts expanding with the music but also with a sense of transparency, of the light of seeing something familiar in a new way.

But let us enter the museum.  Immediately, we proceed up the stairs to the second level, where the main collection and special exhibits are housed. I am as intrigued by the view as I climb, and the glimpse of a twelfth century Spanish painting of The Three Marys, entering the tomb of Jesus.

On the landing are four works, offering a glimpse of the breadth of the museum's holdings.  Opposite that first piece is another twelfth century work, this one of the last supper.  I love the way the art is positioned so that I cannot get a photo of any one piece without partial glimpses of other works, I love the reflections in the mirrored doors.  Alas I was so entranced by the multi-dimensional reflections of he works that I forgot to note anything about the sculpture in the center.  

Representing the 20th Century, and bridging the passageway between the two galleries is this sculpture, titled In Between, by contemporary American artist, James Surls.  I went to the right, where I found 20th century Spanish art, including the painting at the top of this post, and the special exhibit on Dali, which I hope to be able to tell you about soon.

Saturday Morning

The view out my window promises a beautiful Saturday morning.  I however have a sinus headache, and have already been out twice with Tikka and know the humidity is higher than I would prefer.  That doesn't make it a less beautiful day; it simply means I need to modify my expectations.    

 

Moises is settling back in after my return from Texas, settling back into the apartment as well, as I don't think he was fully acclimated before I left.  Hence the sinus headache.  M is very clingy right now, and consistently tried to crawl up under my chin during the night whereas I usually manage to keep him on the lower half of the bed.  I know he needs comfort, but I have learned that I am allergic to cats, only mildly so, as I can have him in the house as long as I vacuum and don't let him cuddle up under my chin, but allergic nonetheless,  Cat-in-the-face was neither good for my ability to breathe or for my sinuses, but we will both recover.   

 

I am planning on a slow day, a day for puttering.  Next week is busy, so a personal day is a necessity.  Even so I may or may not keep up, just as I did not keep up with the blog this week past, and I am beginning to accept that a production schedule doesn't really work because I am not really interested in production, in producing a particular thing.  This is something that has shaped my creative life all along, even with sewing and knitting.  I am interested in making, but with writing, like in knitting or sewing, the end result is a happy bonus that comes out of the process.  I am not interested in the making in order to produce, I am interested in the process itself, and the results are simply a little something extra.

That said, I did actually finish something last week.  I knit a small scarf.  I had a skein of gray Ritratto mohair by Filatura di Crossa, and a few little bits and bobs, yarn samples from a mailing or two, so I knit a narrow scarf,  I'm not sure I ever thought I would want a narrow scarf, but I love this one and look forward to the day when the weather will cool enough that I will wear it.  I suspect that is a few months away.  I've almost finished another sweater, at least the knitting part, but I don't yet have a place to block anything, including the above scarf. I may get that much of my craft room cleared away this weekend, but considering my pounding head, and a general sense of laziness, I make no promises.

 

This last week also ended up busy.  Monday was intentionally quiet:  knitting, practicing embroidery stitches, sketching a few design ideas.  But I knew the week would be filled with meetings and events, and that quiet time was needed for balance, as I suppose it is, again, today.

The house is also progressing nicely.  The walls have been opened up.  The two small bedrooms that will be the new library are now one space, and I can get a wonderful sense of the space and the light.  This photo was pretty early in the morning, an hour and a half or so
after sunrise, but still lovely.

And framing is going in, so I can begin to imagine the new layout, walk through and feel the flow.  That translation from space on paper to something three-dimensional, a reimagined space, is wonderful, and I exciting.  I fell it is going to be as wonderful as I imagined it would be.

Foundations will be going in soon.  There are still meetings and decisions to be made both large and small.  I love the process, but even though I am not doing the work, it is exhausting, and I am a bit behind.  

 

It is also September, and the fall season has started up.  There are plays, concerts, exhibits, events -- my ability to step back and not overload my social calendar has always been somewhat weak.  I have learned to better balance quiet time, creative time, with going out time, experience and fellowship time, but I don't quite know how the demands of the remodel will play into that.  I suspect that once I get through this first couple of weeks, my input into the job will quiet down and things will be easier.

 

In the meantime.  I'm still plowing through ideas.  I did take the time out last week to go to the production of Candide at the Clarence Brown Theater, which was utterly fabulous, one of the best things I have been to in a long long time.  I knew Bernstein's score but had not seen the musical production. I have read the original play, in both French and English, but had not read the libretto.   I love the way everything comes together here, the sharp wit, bitterness and hopefulness, the cynicism and satire in the world view.  That is in fact, something that I think Voltaire does well, that combination of cynicism, with hopefulness.  Of course Bernstein's music plays up the hopefulness.  But I saw the same thing in Grass as well, in The Tin Drum.  Can one be both cynical and naive?  I think that is the essence of human greatness, that we need both.  And that is also, of course, why we need art.

 

Truthfully, I had not been a big fan of Bernstein's score, although it is quite possible that this was due to my own lack of imagination.  I had heard it in concert on more than one occasion, and, lushly beautiful as it is, I felt disappointed.  But I also tend to feel that music meant to accompany something else, as a libretto perhaps, is not complete without the words and even then, perhaps not without the visual component. One needs all the pieces to come together.  Do people who love show music love the music itself, regardless of seeing the show, or do they love the music because it also triggers for them memories of the show?  I've never asked.  And again, this may again be a crisis of my own lack of imagination.  I don't think I will ever be able to listen to Bernstein's score again without reliving bits of this production however, and I think that is a good thing, just as I can't listen to West Side Story without seeing West Side Story in my head.  But then, I love operas I've never seen live, or do I?  Or do I imagine the opera in my head while I listen, and do I listen only to the operas I can imagine, whether or not I've heard them performed? Context, it seems, is always important.

 

The production is over the top and highly entertaining, and I love having the symphony present, on the stage, as part of the performance. Candide himself is wonderful.  Everyone is wonderful.  Really, I wish I had bought tickets for more than one performance.  It would be a joy to see again and again. Who knows, perhaps I will.

A First Impression of the Joseph Delaney Exhibit at the KMA

Thursday night I attended a reception for the new Joseph Delaney exhibit at the Knoxville Museum of Art.  Joseph Delaney was a Knoxville native, the younger brother of Beauford Delaney, the better known of the two painters.  He painted in New York at the time of the Harlem Renaissance.

When I walked into the first room of the exhibit, I was immediately struck by this wall of drawings, charcoals, various works on paper, all in blacks and grays.  The works here span the artists lifetime and the sense of presence, characters and vision are strong.   But I didn't really get back to that wall to study anything in greater detail that evening.  There were too many people milling about, too much noise, and although I had a fabulous time, I could really only absorb about two or three pieces.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I can usually only absorb about 3 pieces in any trip to a museum or gallery, no matter the circumstances.

 

I want to write about my initial impressions that night, my first impressions.  the black and white wall (although not really so white) shaped the atmosphere of the room, and most of the works in this gallery were more somber in colors.   There was so much to see, but a couple of pieces really stuck in my head and heart, and those are the pieces I will show here.  I really didn't get beyond them in the exhibit, and I will have to go back.  I also didn't read any of the little plaques describing the pieces, and I know little about the artist himself.  This is typical for me.  I always want to look first, to open my own relationship to the work, then go back, and continue the discussion with whatever curatorial notes I find posted.  I suppose this is my form of disavowal:  these are my impressions, uninformed perhaps, but heartfelt.  Two of these works were discussed at the reception, and I was both gratified that two of my favorite pieces were chosen, but I was also distracted and tuned out part of the talk, possibly to my detriment, as I probably would have learned a lot.

The first work that caught my attention was this piece, and no, I did not take a picture of the plaque and I do not remember what it was called.  What struck me immediately is this powerful sense of combined movement and stasis, as if held in balance.  I liked the way Delaney plays with perspective.  It felt like he was messing with my mind a little; it seemed like there was an obvious sense of distance, but also another layer of perspective that turned it all on its head. What you see, and the perspective of the piece shifts as you move, depending on the angle at which you look at the work.  Near and Far; or is it Far and Near? Or does it even matter?  One gets the sense it is the power of motion itself that matters, as if that combination of motion and place creates its own vitality.  Notice the ship moving out to sea, toward the Statue of Liberty in the harbor.  You can see the island on which she stands, but the colors of the land are echoed in the water, blurring the distinctions.  She is both a statue, and a guiding angel.  The sense of place is palpable, as is the multilayered sense of movement, as if the two cannot be separated, either in space, or, in another sense, in time.

A friend commented on the portraits, and I turned to look.  I admit I am not good at portraits, at describing what I see, for the most part they always seem to subtle, flat even, but not this one.  I was drawn in by this portrait, titled Romaine, struck by the vibrancy of the personality that was captured.  It is full of life, the painting itself seems to shimmer with life, as if the subject could burst through the canvas at any moment.

And then there was this New York scene.  This painting shone like a beacon in the gallery.  It was by far the lightest work in the room, and that sense of bouyancy was palpable.  You get a sense of the grandeur of the city, but also of light and joy. not the almost dark energy of the first painting I posted.  And yet, there is something more than the grand ideas, and the idealized skyline,  The figures in the bottom of the painting seem almost too dark, related more to the other works in the gallery than to the light-filled upper reaches of this painting. It is as if the painting is saying something about ideas and aspirations as contrasted with the realities of life.

Notice these figures in the lower left corner of the painting. There is the lightness of the family pulling their groceries, almost a joyous embrace of the present moment.  Notice how the mother and child are bright, glowing, even, whereas the man is turning away from them and is beginning to fade. There are other people, children and adults of mixed races and backgrounds, some seem fully present, others almost like ghosts and remnants of the cities complex histories.  This seems especially poignant in the image of a jewish man walking toward the viewer, with what appear to me to be ghosts of ghettos past hovering behind him, who seems almost partially faded. Even he seems somewhat tenuous, fully there, and yet linked to some disappearing past.  

Next lets look at the figures in the center, all blurred together in motion, a mix of outline and color as if the present and history are all superimposed upon each other in the sense of a place, in the lives of its residence.  I love Delaney's figures, the way they capture motion and life, and also a sense of historic timelessness.  I also can't let go of the idea that the man directing the traffic, a policeman probably (?) reminds me as much of images of Greek satyrs as he does a man.  

 

I will have to go back to the exhibit and look at all the things I have not absorbed.  I will have to go back and look at these works again, and probably read all the available information, trying to see what I have missed, to further understand what I may or may not have misconstrued.  There is so much I missed that first visit to the galleries, so many fleeting glimpses floating through my thoughts awaiting further exploration.

 

 

International Quilt Study Center 2: Craft....

I've broken this visit to the Quilt Study Center into two sections mostly because it grew long, and I've divided it into sections labeled art and craft, not so much because I believe that one is more or less worthy than the other, or even that dividing lines are all that clear, but because it suited my purposes.  In this post I am covering the parts of the exhibit that were devoted to pieces that were created to be functional.  

Simply put, as much as I love art in and of itself, there is a special place in my heart for those who make things that are beautiful for everyday use.  We have little time or even use for such things in modern life, when everything is available to us without much thought and it is time that feels rare.  But I sometimes wonder if we've missed something truly important.

There was a small, but lovely exhibit of Miao pieces which included the two collars shown above.  These are pieces intended to be worn, and they show signs of wear and use, but the design and workmanship is stunning.  I want to say that they are in fact children's collars, but I neglected to take a photo of the descriptive plaque and cannot remember.  That seems foreign to us in modern life, where we feel our hands are put to better use than on handwork that will be quickly outgrown, but I'm not sure the results of our labors are any less ephemeral.  The act of making shows respect and honor and love, the wearing connects one to the art, to the cycle of life and art combined.  Such things remind me that we humans are creative creatures, that we are compelled to make beauty, and that it is in fact the act of living itself, and celebrating the small, the immediate, and the circle of our individual family and community is from whence our well-being and happiness ultimately arises.

It is not really important if something was made for everyday use or for special occasions.  What attracts me is the making as well as the using, that it is the act of living itself that is worthy of art.  Look at the detail in this Miao women's jacket for example.  It is not fast fashion.  This is something to be worn and cared for, to be treasured.  It is something that is meant to last, not permanently no, but nothing really is permanent, and to be worn with pride.

In some ways, we modern people have lost that.  Would any of us spend the time embroidering a jacket, putting in time to perform intricate work such as in the example above?  We think of our time as too valuable, and yet do the things we do with our time prove to be more lasting?  Do they bring us greater pleasure? I am not trying to denigrate the art quilts, I think they are fabulous.  I think human need to create is something essential to our being, that we are all creative, if anything, we do not honor or desire for creativity enough.

But one of the joys of looking at older, or traditional quilts and bed coverings is not only in admiring the skill of the makers, but also in reminding oneself of the joy in making something that was both necessary and beautiful.  No one has to make beauty, and yet we do. And our desire to express beauty can take many forms. The bedspread above is not quilted, or embroidered but stenciled. It is no less beautiful, no less useful, and the stenciling is artfully done.  Similar stencils are available in Michaels and we might stencil a placemat, a piece of furniture or a wall, and yet this bedspread dates from sometime in the 1820s or 1830s. Would we stencil a bedspread? Are we missing something in not curling up under the warmth of our own handiwork?

Or consider this embroidered blanket, embroidered with wool thread, which the description stated had probably been spun from local wool.  Note the date, 1816, making this blanket over 200 years old.  The workmanship is beautiful.  Can we imagine it today?  Such workmanship takes much practice and skill, and not every budding embroiderer has the patience or talent, but can we even imagine sitting down today and embroidering a blanket?  What have we lost and what have we gained?  

Is this any less art?  Someone meticulously cut out motifs, arranged them, and attached them by hand.

And so we still admire and celebrate that which survives, the patience, the skill, the handiwork:

Today these things are the exceptions, the treasures, and most of them are just that.  Most of what makes it to a museum is the exceptional, the work of the skilled and talented, but many of these objects also came from a time when most people needed to make what they used, and not everyone was equally talented.  The truth is that most quilts were not exceptional.  But we tend to forget about the quality of the average.  We are blinded by our own exposure, our experience, our knowledge.  We forget that we have become critics, and we forget that our vantage point is indeed from a point of exception.  But in many ways the average, the everyday, even the fact that individuals and communities made quilts, that the making was itself both a necessity and a bringing together, is forgotten. 

I think in some ways, that was the beauty of the Ken Burns quilt exhibit, although we admittedly did not spend enough time there.  It is something I regret.  I admit that compared to the work in the other exhibits some of these quilts seemed boring, but we were blinded by our own knowledge, our own skills as seamstresses although I for one am no quilter, and the fact that we had just come from the art exhibits.  But I also blame this on the curation of the exhibit itself,  It could have been so much better.  To that end I am showing two photos from the International Quilt Study Center's website illustrating the exhibit.   The photo above shows an example that I think worked.  The words printed on the wall relate directly to the quilts displayed, and give the viewer some sense of what attracted the collector, but for most of the exhibit this was not the case.

More often we had random words and phrases, yes Burns' words, but disembodied from a conversation and not necessarily relating to the nearby quilts.  Often these words, taken out of context, in a sense disembodied, seemed shallow and often patronizing.  They seemed to lessen the experience of viewing the exhibit rather than enhancing it.  The collection is in fact quite interesting, even though we did comment that the quilts were often boring.  But that is not the point, surrounded in a museum of the exceptional in terms of technique and style, a bit more work was required in order to bring the heart of this exhibit to the viewer.  I don't think it succeeded.

 

After returning home I googled Ken Burns and came up with this article in the New York Times.  I highly recommend the article.  Many of the words used in the exhibit come from this conversation, but here they are warm whereas in the museum they seem cold and detached.  There are also photos of quilts not seen in the exhibit, lovely quilts, but their loveliness is not why I mention them.  Read Burns descriptions of the quilts, what attracted him to them.  This is what was missing from the Burns exhibit, the connection with the collector.  In the end I think this is what we all want.  We want to see art, yes, but we also want to understand, we also want relationship.  We want to know what attracted the collector to the works he collected, what meaning he derives, so that we an then form our own conversations with what we are seeing.  This was lacking.

 

Having read the article, now I'd like to go back and see the exhibit again.  Still I think it could have been better done, it could have offered an opportunity for connection with our past and with the idea that everyday creativity is not mundane or even boring. Instead I am left with regret, regret that despite all the beauty, all the exceptional workmanship, we missed something essential, regret that perhaps we did not see the forest through the trees.

 

The two photos from the Burns exhibit are not my photos but are taken from the website of the International Quilt Study Center.