tornado warnings,
paper clips,
book sightings,
picnics,
muddy shoes,
push pins,
postcards,
ideas,
bottle caps,
seed pods,
paper cranes,
rusty things,
broken bikes (that can never be fixed),
blooming narcissus,
narcissism,
damp,
strong coffee,
notes wildly scribbled in secret notebooks,
like proust i am an old teahead of time,
pieces of string holding up my collections,
i collect experiences and phone calls, and human pains,
while waiting for the mail.
Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about
spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?
Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.
Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky--as though
all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined their strong, thick wings.
~Mary Oliver
*the first page I opened it up to this morning.
**for my girls
***I heard a great interview with the poet laureate Ted Kooser on npr this week, about why poetry is important. you can find it here.
****don't cha love asterisks? I do.
a recent wallet design for poketo, (available soon).
Every day now I spend an hour or so in a local cafe doing some writing. Working at home it becomes necessary to go out into the world and see other humans, lest you forget that there is actually a world out there, full of people moving their bodies about, doing various things, interacting. I have become increasingly superstitious about my cafe choice. It has come down to 'where I have come up with the most ideas in the past', where I have felt the writing flow out of me in consistent waves. Currently I feel like I can only work at Mishka's, having something to do with the energy of the place. It is a serious 'working' cafe, full of people focused on their school work, typing away furiously on laptops, each in their own little portable worlds. I didn't like it at first. it felt cold, lacking intimacy. But for some reason that focused energy is fueling me, like a collective consciousness of sorts, everyone's thoughts feeding each other, little neurons firing and sparking and infecting the one next to it. Sometimes I sit, just waiting for a idea to hit. When it does I am hurled into the throes of creative possession. There is a wonderful excitment that comes with it, of feeling like you are invincible, that you have captured that illusive "idea", and all those people who are in their own little worlds, drinking their tepid coffee, have no idea what you have just done. Though they might be able to see it by the spark in your eye, and the shift of your posture.
An empty cup rimmed with cappuccino scum sits on the table in front of me. time to switch to a green tea,
time for watching the words flow out of that magic pen.
time for to sit and listen to other people's conversations for a moment.
time for a reward of that cookie i was eyeing earlier.
The problem: Trying to write a post that is intelligent and enlightening, when I all I really want to do is tell you about how yesterday I felt the earth beneath my feet, carried sticks home on my hat, ripped a hole in my beige cordoroy pants with my bike chain, and wrote in my journal about how I have been craving the woods lately.
"The biggest hinderance to understanding a work of art is wanting to understand." ~Bruno Munari
So many things on my plate right now. Things I am excited about. Book submissions in the mail (which I'm very proud of), radio interviews, postcards at the printer, illustration projects, talks of gallery shows, a writing assignment for a design magazine, and ideas that seem to come in by the hour. Ironically I am not tired, I am energized.
Last night I realized that I have reached a new place with life/work, (the two are inseparable for me). I wrote to someone this morning: I am fascinated by things that shift our perception (maybe without our knowing it.) By the idea that it is not necessary to make huge changes in our lives, but only to look at our current surroundings a little differently. Force ourselves out of our comfort zones. To me that is the role of the artist. I know some of this may sound a little obvious, it is not groundbreaking in concept. But for the first time in my life I have started to understand more about what it is I want to say, what my voice is. It is not so much about the ego, but more about the idea. This is why guerilla art has become so huge for me. It's the ultimate in non ego, letting go, putting stuff out into the world, working for fun, and releasing attachment to outcome.
The ulitmate presentation of this shift in perception is a project that works on many levels, so that it could be understood and enjoyed by both an eight year old and a eighty year old. That is the goal anyway, what I strive for now.
The truth is I know less about the direction that i am heading in than ever before but more about what I am drawn to.
This life is just one big experiment. and right now I'm just having a lot of fun.
I feel like I want to write more but I must eat lunch and ride my bike to the post office. The winds have just picked up and it looks like a storm is on the way.
I just completed this postcard for a friend's gallery, distill, which is having it's third year anniversary in Toronto on March 3rd, 4th, & 5th. It is by far my favourite gallery in the city, located in the European-like Distillery district. Everything is made by hand by some of the most amazing Canadian artists. Alli has always been the kind of person who has an incredible knack for putting things together, (whether it's clothes, or a room, or a garden), her home has always been a work of art in itself. So much so that you want to spend time just looking at everything. Her approach seems to be about simplicity, little details, with the element of surprise thrown in. perfect.
A recent article in the UK edition of Country Living had me falling in love with a victorian stone cottage in Scotland. Sparsely decorated with things found in nature, it gave me the idea to string up all of my seed pod collection and display it in a mobile form. I am so happy with it I want to string up everything! The best part is that the owners of the cottage have an online store called Papa Stour, which sells everything found in their home, items handcrafted by Scottish artisans. My favourites are the cans of twine, the handmade journals, the porcelain bowls, the egg cosies, and the circle paintings by Catherine Chalmers.
"Being an artist, maybe moreso than making art, gives you a way of thinking where you don't need all the other things that normally people would think necessary. It's a space where the mind and the self is at the center. So in that way you can sustain yourself with very little." ~Rikrit Tiravanija
Sitting in a café in Oakland, I have an hour before I meet up with my husband. I am eating brioche bought at a local bakery, drinking cappuccino and beginning an article that I have been saving for several days. I don’t know what it is today but I seem to be having what author Spalding Gray described as ‘perfect moments’. One after the other. In the last 20 minutes I have been complimented repeatedly by complete strangers, to the point where it has become almost unbelievable, on my collage necklace, on the smell of my handcream (sampled from a store), on how my hair looks in the sunlight. Even the graffiti in a public washroom says “I like you a lot.” It is my first time in Oakland and I find myself falling in love with the place. It is colorful here, full of diversity. Lots of cute little stores, but there is an edge to it. I like that. It feels more real somehow than the cities that try to sell you a kind of perfect package. The downside being that the contrast between the poor and the well off is great. Glaring actually. Understandably, there is a tension.
The article entitled “redefining success”, was sent to me by my dear friend Christine with a note enclosed explaining that she was clearing out her workspace when she came across it and thought of me. The topic turned out to be a theme at our recent retreat, and I find myself in a place where, like the author Pam Houston, I am reinventing my own definition of what it means to be successful. What was once a goal to “prove my worth” in my chosen field, has shifted drastically almost in the opposite direction. The question becomes, “what do you do when you find you have accomplished all of the goals you set for yourself?” “What happens when you become disillusioned with that chosen field?” “What if you find you don’t want to have anything to do with the idea of a "field"?” “So what now?” “What is it that defines me, if it is not my accomplishments?”
In reading the article I found many of my own feelings echoed in Pam’s words. What is shifting is that success is moving away from being defined by ‘things’ or ‘achievements’, and moving more in the direction of really experiencing ‘moments’. Pam writes, “creating a successful life might be as simple as determining which moments are the most valuable, and seeing how many of those I can string together in a line.” So when I look back on my life what will I feel most proud of?
The way that I lived. The fact that I did not shy away from all of the things that scared me about living but jumped right in and made a mess. The fact that I sucked everything I could from every experience, even the dark ugly stuff. Pam writes, “the moments of failure are important too.” Tears come to my eyes.
At the moment I read this a little girl with dark eyes walks past me and looks deep into my eyes as she is pulled along by her mother. For a moment we have an understanding, she sees my insides come to the surface. This is one of those moments Spalding talks about.
What’s different about defining success in this new way is that you can’t plan it. I can’t mold it or shape it or try to control every single outcome like I used to. Because I don’t know exactly what form it will take at any given time. But I am increasingly become more comfortable with the not knowing. So what does that mean in terms of art making?
I guess the simple answer is “this is my art.” All of it.
-a dog in a car strains to keep his head out the window
-a pile of huge pink blossoms (a variety I've never seen before) on the street
-girls in matching rose ponchos doing cartwheels on the green while I sit eating a veggie dog
-i sit in a tshirt, the sun is so warm today, like summer (except it is actually winter). I smell the grass and remember spring in Toronto, beer on patios.
-3:20 the Arboretum, looking for the last of the sun. Moving positions to meet it. Sometimes it is good to be homeless for a day.
-an old man with a bald head sits watching the ducks. I wonder what his story is. Only with age do we have the time to sit and just watch. He pulls out a pen and begins jotting things down on a small notepad, (just as I am doing), pausing for a moment to formulate a thought. a writer? A grey sunhat rests on the bend of his knee, his legs crossed. He rubs his earlobe.
-two small children run up to the ducks and yell "boo!"
-the dampness of the ground seeps into the elbows of my jacket, the sun moves behind the clouds and I feel a temporary chill. I think about what I would like for dinner.
-a nap. I drift off to the distant sounds of walkers and couples conversing, as if in a tunnel. when I wake I am chilly. the sun is setting over the redwood trees. A girl sitting on a blanket talks on the phone and nurses a sucker. She is wearing sunglasses. This is her office, where she does all her business apparently. Time to put on a certain green sweater, the one with the holes in the elbows. I set off in search of tea.
-Morroccan mint. Immersed in a book by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. I wander around the damp streets of Barcelona for a few hours.
-6pm Noodle City, which has the best Kim Chee I've ever had. I slurp mustard greens & chicken noodle soup.
-walking past Chipotle I spot the Lone Ranger & Tonto eating burritos. Their horses (of the hobby variety) are leaned up against the window, resting from a long day of fighting masked mauraders. Their dad sits next to them and notices my attempt to conceal a smile.
-in a dark theatre I sit through too many commercials before the fim starts. Capote. I feel like i already know the characters intimately having just finished the book. All except Truman himself, the missing piece of the story. The film completes the experience.
-I ride home with my super powerful light illuminating the bumps in the road, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands to keep them from freezing. Looking forward to my warm bed and a few more pages of my book.
make a movie with your eyes.
four bloggers I am tagging:
Kim
Katrina
Summer
Christine
This is a reproduction of a piece that hangs in the living room at my friends Steve and Cythia's house (the original reads "THIS IS RIDICULOUS". I altered it and hung it on my living room wall last night when they came for dinner). The artist is Tucker Nichols, and I am now a huge fan of his work.
Steve and Cynthia are also wonderful artists, they have so many great ideas in the works I don't even know where to begin. See for yourself.
Steve is the founder of The Anti-Advertising Agency, as well as one of the contributors to Stay Free Magazine, (yay I am not alone in my anti-advertising sentiments).
disclaimer: The author is not affiliated in any way with any of the aforementioned websites. Nor does she recieve any funding, in the form of cash, free gifts, charity donations, etc. for a recommendation on this site. Unless you count the ice cream they brought for dessert.