11 October 2021 – This Thanksgiving Day, I walk down the street in breezy sunlight and, as I approach a corner, memory suddenly tugs. Am I right? Is this the corner with that poem about birds spray-painted on the S/E building wall? And even if I’m right, spray-paint comes & goes. Will the poem still […]Thankful — WALKING WOMAN
A lyrical portrait of an excommunicated Amish woodworker struggling with spirituality, poverty, and life as an outcast from his strict, insular community.Video: The Seeker — Vox Populi
There is something about setting a goal, giving yourself a challenge – and then telling everyone around about it. It obligates – sometimes in a good way. My declared & announced goal for the past two weeks, has been to produce a series of ten small still life paintings. «So Long, See You Tomorrow», (20 […]Art is like beginning a sentence before you know its ending — sub rosa
mingling molecules and attitudes sinews and desires platitudes and functions nervous circuits and circadian rhythms pure crap and masterful conceptionsMichael Gregory: This is your mind as green slime mold — Vox Populi
…art that honors the art and artist as well as its content, and apprehends it as more than its socio-political reality. Art is hard to do and not everybody can do it. It is not merely a pretext for theory.Doug Anderson: Negative Capability — Vox Populi
There is nothing that is not Spring when Spring arises.
There is always a reflective dialing down, a fuzziness whenever we talk about it, more so when we make up a religion about it.
If we wake up, what are we waking up to? If you wake up, what?
I won’t worry about my grown children,
or think about why I ache when I think of them.
Today I bake.
Inhale the frothy smell of yeast rising like magic.
Throw the dough on to the board, flour filling the air with clouds.
Wipe my hands on my apron then
put my shoulder into it,
Kneading. Kneading. Kneading.
My mother would kiss the dough and tell me as she formed it into buns, “Like babies’ bums”.
When I close my eyes I’m in her kitchen.
The smell of baking filling the house.
And then the timer chimes and I wait like a child,
impatient for the bread to cool:
My own mother now,
my own child.
I promise I will only say this once, holding on to anger we can’t see our way and nothing can change. Engaging in conflict is never pro-active.
- open acknowledgement of all beings,
- exerting oneself towards understanding,
- sustained commitment to the ending of all suffering
These things don’t get the blood boiling, don’t get the clicks or reactions on public media but nothing else matters. It is that simple. But in truth I say it everyday.
THE THREE GREAT JEWELS
This is Buddha
This is Dharma
This is Sangha
This is an excerpt from a post on my blog “Quilting is My Addiction”.
Without getting too boring or pedantic, I want to say that what I love about quilts is thinking about the anonymity of all those who have thread their lives, industry, and economy into their art. I love imagining the stories they shared, heads bowed over needle, the hopes and secrets, surviving in the fibers, if we can only listen.
No quilt can be reproduced, not really, because it has time sewn into it.
There is an obsession with permanence and naming things that comes with Empires, stamping coins and art and contracts, (all with men’s names, never with the names of women or slaves which sometimes women were by law). But we never run out of the proof that there was always art that was made to gladden the heart, to ease the pain, to connect with hopeful birth and to commemorate loss.
And in a way these proofs that artists were there survive better than the art that is dependant on Dynasties or Holy Empires, because they borrow from each generation, each carefully cherished item and thread a different history, one that includes women and slaves and reaches out to a future undaunted by circumstance, for joy.
Because Empires fall and art becomes fatuous.
But quilts become stories.
Just went to a launch for this charming book written by Peter Reynolds. First off, Quilts! Secondly, thirdly and well, I lost count — Time travel, an only child with siblings, and a tale of family and traditions!
A magical story, nicely illustrated and told with wit and compassion.