process and decay are implicit

The work of Andy Goldsworthy is worthy of acclamation as well as envy.

His intricate sculptures, unassuming at first glimpse, inspire me to appreciate our world that is often under-exalted.

Generally, leaves are recognized at the time of their death. They have their fifteen minutes of fame as they slide brilliantly through the color wheel and then to the ground. 

Andy Goldsworthy  helps us to see the divinity that exists in the normalcy of nature.  The patience and delicacy that his completed pieces emit hint at the obvious respect for the Earth that he surely fosters within.

He gathers the tiniest of leaves and places each one in a specific position only to allow the wind or the river to carry off his offering of beauty.

His larger works are bold and often seem impossible.  I almost hold my breath so as not to send tumbling down the gravity defying boulders perched upon precarious peaks. His archways, often achieved after various attempts and missteps, seem effortless in their stability. He uses no cement, no glue, to ensure the durability of his pieces yet accepts and welcomes the passage of time and what destruction it may bring to the sculptures.

Andy Goldworthy works with what he finds, wherever he may find himself. I am envious of his vast travels that have not only led to his worldwide fame, but also have opened doors to a large range of different mediums. The snow and ice structures are some of the most obviously fleeting that he creates. As the sun warms or the seasons change, the inevitable dissipation of the water molecules transforms the sculptures into living works. Every moment is transient and the only residue left is that which is captured by the camera.

The fact that Goldworthy allows nature to take its course and reabsorb what it has produced, ultimately destroying the art which he spent time to create, makes his work even more precious.

Andy Goldsworthy:

At its most successful, my "touch" looks into the heart of nature; most days I don't even get close.  These things are all part of a transient process that I cannot understand unless my touch is also transient; only in this way can the cycle remain unbroken and the process be complete.

SALE SALE SALE

Just in time for the holidays!

MOVING TO MEXICO SALE

Check out The Loft if you are looking to add some art to your life or walls.  

Use my special blog coupon code to get half off your entire order! 

01blog10

(coupon valid until I get across the border)

out with the old

Word on the street says there's a new band in town offering a righteous new sound.

Click on zombie Bjork to get a dose of the New Pleasure that everyone's lining up for... 

Juicy Art

For some reason this juice company decided that art is important.  La Fundación Jumex now has more than 2,000 works of art and focuses on sharing its expansive and diverse collection with both the Mexican and international public.  Rightly so, for it is often the masses, turned muses, that inspire the modern masterpiece.

Why Mexico?

When I wake up in the morning 

and this is what I see from my window,

from my roof... 

the question doesn't merit a response.

bs

Bar Soap and I have never exactly seen eye-to-eye.

His feeble bubbles, aided by accomplice Washcloth, never quite seem to work up to the lather commonly pushed on television commercials. 

Even when set up with Sponge, and the bath runneth over with suds, there is one dingy memory from childhood that, for me, stains Bar Soap’s reputation…

As a child I was sent to summer camp on top of Lookout Mountain in Alabama.  The lush rhododendron’s essence clung to the morning mist and dew that hung heavy around us; we sat on soggy fallen trees and peered out across Little River into the fog.  As we awoke with song and reverence to the surrounding beauty, the director told us that there were problems with the plumbing. We would be bathing in the river until further notice.

We were no longer asleep. Yay! Hunger pains were swept away and breakfast was forgotten. Bath time was not to be hassled with fear of spiders nor the hesitation before braving the icy low-pressure trickle from the showerhead. Not today!  The river was to be converted into a natural bathing spot just as it was used by Native Americans long before.  I deeply felt that in doing this we were honoring and communing with the previous peoples of the land. 

Though we all donned bathing gear and our suds could be seen along the bank for days, I felt as pure and connected to the Earth as I ever had before.  But then, an older girl came and asked me if I had any liquid soap she could use. No. I had been borrowing the bars from others or merely using the suds that flowed past me as I swam against the current.  The look of disgust that froze her face and the words that flew viciously out of her mouth seemed to personify irony.  “Bar soap is dirty.” I listened as carefully as I could to her explanation of germs, her knowledge surely distorted from some other older girl, I became horrified by the little solid scum breeder.  Thus began a habit of washing the soap before using it.

I have no qualms, though, with sharing a toothbrush.

oil in Florida

all see in faith

It must have been the storm that woke me, but until I kicked off my flip flops and the wet sand gave way beneath my feet I didn't know it had even rained.

Even before dawn, the thought was waiting for me as I arose from a dream.  I was cocooned warm beneath the blankets of my mother's bed. Only after I had changed and ridden my bicycle across town, only as I descended the stairs and looked upon eternity did I realize I was awake.  

I had heard whisperings in town about the immense ships scouring the surface of the Gulf in the night. Be sure not to tell the tourists. And there, at the thirteenth hour, were two barges in a suspicious rendezvous, their orange, electric light the only indicator of the horizon. Their fabricated watts were notably less ethereal than the clouds which slowly boiled over one another in a tumultuous purple-black. It was impossible, aside from the vessels, to distinguish the ocean from the heavens and the desire to both duck and leap battled in my being. I gave in to each alternately, to be fair.

As the sun rose, the tops of the clouds appeared as tip of icebergs foretelling the magnificence that would grow downward into the shadows of the darkest cerulean sky. My skin glowed a white gray and, as I dropped my head backwards to take it all in, I held my breath knowing I must be under water. I kept spinning around and around as I tried to keep it all in my eyes. I tried to be completely present, consciously present, and then chastised myself for not being able to see the entire sky at once.
The light of the morning appeared over the rooftops formed into beams and rays aiming high as if the sun were hidden behind stage props, so blinding that the clouds as performers seemed to radiate their own spark instead of reflecting that of the source.
As the clandestine ships sailed away from one another trying to appear nonchalant, I could hardly make out their glow in the haze of the milky colors that early morning brings. 

Less alive, I awoke for the day.

lost edges

Things are not always black and white.

More often than not I lose myself in the impossibly different shades of gray.

I've been going to a figure drawing class at Studio b. in Alys Beach, Florida and this week our guest instructor was Joan Vienot. She is an amazing artist and we had the opportunity to get some guidance from her and benefit from her skill.  Joan helped me to see that though unseen, the implications of existence are sometime all that matters. 

Suggest the details and engage people. They aren't as dumb as we think.

i don't know why

I don't grasp being envious of someone who is miserable despite being surrounded by friends and family. Who just doesn't know why she is depressed in her home. Who can't explain why she can't just get a job to pay the bills.  Someone who talks about being blessed and excited to see a new place, learn a new language and live a life that so many dream about... because she does realize, she does... but who breaks down in front of her fellow passengers when boarding for the first leg of the trip because it hurts so bad to leave the people that she loves and that love her despite truly knowing her. 
It isn't something I choose, really, this life that happens to me. I would choose, probably, to not work for minimum wage and 30 hours a week. I would opt not to spend money on plane tickets and oil paints. And I would probably get a government job that would pay me to go to the places and do the things I want to do. They would pay me to learn all the languages on my list. It would be much easier that way. And I'd probably have health insurance. And a company car. And a house. No debt. (I know you know what I'm talking about.) 
But I can't just do that.

statement

I find painting to be constant discovery, the combination of knowledge and muscle-memory upon canvas.  From the beginning, my parents enveloped me in opportunity and I benefited from countless art classes and museum visits before receiving a minor in Fine Arts from Western Kentucky University in 2007. My major was Spanish and through my travels I have been exposed to infinitely amazing sources of inspiration.

     The beauty is in the details, the small moments that cause double takes and pauses. In life, it may be a glimpse of the moon while driving down the interstate. In painting, it could be a swath of mint-green paint across a forehead. I enjoy preparing my colors and sometimes spend hours hovered over my mixing board before beginning a new painting. Discovering that there is gold beneath the chin of your best friend is as exciting as finding forgotten money in a coat pocket.

     The intriguing and, some may say, inconsequential happenings in life are why I paint. I am inspired not only by the complete and finished masterpiece but in the creation, as well. The muse that inspired the first stroke, and that carries the artist through the angles and shadows of the process, is crucial; just as the experience that the artist has gathered with each undertaking gives structure and wisdom to the final mark. You must first know and understand the rules before being able to manipulate them into being the perfect catalyst for the images in your head.

downtown

So maybe there is a little leap between reality and Miss Petula's lyrics when considering downtown Columbia, Tennessee.

Not many lights that are brighter there, not many movie shows to make you forget your cares... but something is waiting there behind the For Rent signs.

The energy among the musty historic walls, though only in it's potential stage, is exciting and lacks only that first push to earn the kinetic title and move forward into a bustling and rich spot in the city.

The character is not lackluster but is in need of a little spit-shine and a loving hand to bring it back into the lime light.

There are a few businesses that keep on truckin'... somehow...

A few changes need to be made in order to go from musty store fronts to some little places to go where they never close... but I'm confident it can be done.

The old Helm's building is being used as an art gallery that has created quite a stir among the seekers of wine and snacks on the last Friday of every month.  The more events that are held downtown may open the community's eyes to the opportunities that are in the heart of the city.

skeletons

I do not understand how to overcome the intense sense of sadness and guilt.

How anyone, when cleaning out closets that are chock full of memories past, can justly decide to toss or tether the notes that once skipped across rows of desks behind the teachers back. How to eliminate or illuminate the trigger to that one memory that floods in at first sight, but mostly just sits back and patiently waits in the filing room til the next spring cleaning frenzy.

Do I disregard the names that do not conjure up a countenance or, in the name of posterity, should I tuck them away for a later date when, by chance, that wrinkle in my brain decides to share it's secrets?

The recognition of a person's essence is immediate upon glancing at the handwriting on an envelope; the bittersweet scenes of times past are often too heartbreakingly sweet that I leave the cards in their covers.

Next time, maybe, when I have more to add and more to forget.

my best friend the zombie

This Friday 

in the old Helm's building 

on the corner of 

Columbia, Tennessee's 

historic downtown

(cue drumroll)

Local artists will 

be displaying their works!

(applause)

From 5:00 - 9:00 pm

please join us for a 

casual exhibition and

wine and snacks!

Help us prove that Columbia

does not die at sundown.

flashbacks

Like depicted in movies and on television, tunnel vision and hearing loss set in without warning as I fleetingly relive a moment from my childhood.   I relish these trips down memory lane that are most often triggered by the olfactory glands.
One of the most distinct and frequent memories that I recall is of taking baths at my grandparents' house in Oklahoma.  The undercurrent of well water is lacking, but every time I use Noxema face wash I revert back to that mini-me with my cheeks and chin lathered up just right; Papa's Colgate shaving cream and his old, razor-less Bic poised for action.
There are two perfumes that have the power to spike my senses and send me sniffing around like the best of hounds.  To be honest, though, I have no idea which specific scents they are; I only know my history with the women who wore them.
There are moments when I am back in the house from my McDowell Elementary School days.  The perfume my mom would don before going to a show in Nashville with dad or before her Thursday bunko nights was a spicy floral and I am almost certain it came in a delicate bottle with a tiny golden lid.  The closest I have come to finding a similar scent, that doesn't come in a ninety-nine cent aerosol bottle with a name resembling that of a romance novel, is one from Tokyo Milk.  Of course I don't recall the name of that flavor, either.
Sometimes I stop and look around to make sure my babysitter from preschool days isn't standing next to me. Naturally, she isn't, but once I accidentally smelled a woman onto the next aisle because I wanted to have Miss Tammy around just a little bit longer. Iced, sprinkled, strawberry Pop Tarts and Full House jump into my mind when I smell her perfume.  I think of teddy bears and my first roommate in college, too.
I believe that our lives flash before our very eyes daily.  More often, if we are lucky.  I know my eyes remain open and my motor skills haven't failed me, yet.  When it happens in the car, I keep driving but I confess what I see is not the scene I am passing. What I see is being projected onto that part just behind my eyebrows and forehead. That part of the skull seems to be where I look, as if staring at a movie screen.  Don't judge, everyone has been driving along and then suddenly wondered how they arrived at their destination.
Memory is the trickiest of characters.  I lose my keys within moments of entering the house but, when a waft from back in time drifts up my nose and into my memory files, I am suddenly eleven years and singing, word for word, Juliana Hatfield's Spin the Bottle while wearing my best friend's Flapdoodles.

next stop hope

Among other things Spanish, pig feet and words like membrillo not included, I miss the public transportation.  I accomplished so much while being zoomed back and forth on the high-speed trains or while being mushed against strangers in the metro underneath Madrid.  Books were read, scarves were knitted and naps were taken.  I was in good company.

Through the cloud of sleep I loved when I heard Proxima estacion: Esperanza. Next stop: Hope.  What a great name for a metro stop. Mexico and Manu Chao first introduced me to the comforting, prerecorded voice promising hope and peace.

Somehow, while napping on the transfers between point A (usually Atocha) and point B (usually Barajas), I always seemed to wake up just as the doors were opening. I muddled along, becoming one with the river of pushy commuters and confused American tourists to the next train or up to the surface, exiting the underworld of green florescence that did nothing to hide the greasy dark circles under everyone's eyes. Returning to reality, climbing the sticky stairs and being blinded by the rejuvenating sunshine, was usually accompanied by a deep breath of the stale air being propelled upward through the vents of the departing train that had delivered me so safely at the destination promised.
Sometimes, I am not so sure of my own abilities behind the wheel of a car to complete that task and wish that I could have an hour to read my pile of books instead of bobbing and weaving to avoid all of the speed racers on the interstate. And a nap is never counterproductive... especially in Spain.

It's a good thing I don't live in Mario's world

Because if I did, I would have rammed my awesome Volvo wagon, Lori, into someone long ago. 

Namely those someones who speed up West 7th Street 15 miles over the speed limit, switch in and out of lanes without blinking and have ignorant bumper stickers on their cars publicizing their intolerance:

Terrifying. 

It hurts to see intelligent people, or so I once regarded them, refuse to allow another person to be who they were born to be. Life is hard enough as it is, why the attempts to degrade and humiliate another human being who had just as little choice in how they were formed as the next? No one wants to live in fear but that is where the choice lies. 

The refusal to accept and learn about any lifestyle that is distinct from the hater's own stems, I believe, from fear. Fear of the unknown, the forbidden... but I also believe that those people who are so adamant in their stance against different cultures and lifestyles are so because of a deep fear of themselves.  Whether it be sex, marijuana, alcohol, immigrants or homosexuality... the barrier put up is because of a fear instilled in them at a young age by biased institutions that tend to cultivate doubt in the individuals that are born, without choice, into said surroundings.

Allowing men to marry men or women to marry women does not signify that it is mandatory for everyone to do so. It does not mean that same-sex marriages will taint those of heterosexuals.  But the fear of the unknown and the desire to squelch any alternative way of thinking continues to be bred across the world. 

I don't understand.

How futile it seems to try and push love and tolerance on people... how confusing.  Should that not be our prime goal? As fellow human beings? To love and be loved?

When tsunamis and earthquakes hit everyone is moved to do their part... but at a safe distance and through a text message donation. Give someone the opportunity to have a home and a family? No... of course not. Not if they are gay.  How close-minded!

Call me a hypocrite, but I would much rather be intolerant of hate than try to prevent another's happiness.

It's a good think I don't like guns, either...

Don't run the water!

I don't remember when I first saw this episode of Sesame Street, but each and every time I turn on the water to brush my teeth I think of this clip.  I can't find a video of it. I also didn't look too hard... but I can remember that fish's voice and I  have come to believe that he has played a vital role in my desire to reduce, reuse and recycle.

The little boy leaves the Water running while

he brushes his teeth and 

little does he know

the Pond that supplies his pump with water 

That is the poor fish's home!

I think at one point, I really did think it was that simple... and maybe that simple is how people need to think or explain in order for anyone to listen.  Besides, if we start now with the little ones, they won't think twice about tossing plastic in a different basket than paper and glass. Like iPhones... but simpler.

I once either got a fortune cookie or a bag of Yogi Tea that said the genius of one generation is the common sense of the next.

so i sometimes make art

some old stuff,

some new stuff

some sold stuff,

some other stuff.

LOOK!

Creamy Polenta

If you love to put food from Italy in your mouth, 

then you'll want to have this Creamy Polenta on your wall.

to see more check out my etsy.com store

Penelope

I remember the first time I had to say that name out loud.

I was in my 6th grade literature class near the front row.  Somehow I could always sense when my time had come and my name, the most familiar words in my vocabulary next to sit up straight and don't drag your feet, slipped from between the teacher's lips to light my face on fire.
If I had a nickel for every time I was told that my face and hair were the same color...

Penelope.
Odysseus' wife.

I pronounced it: pen uh lope

This child wasn't left behind. Nope. I was embarrassed into learning, humiliated into remembering, laughed into an obsession with avoiding mispronouncing oddly spelled words in public.
I had trouble with chaos for a while there, too. I last remember struggling with it in Big Lots.  An off brand, over-stocked, discounted beverage can was the perfect teaching aid.

I also happen to be infatuated with this Penelope.

She stars in Volver.  An Almodovar film set in the region where I lived in Spain.  Known for its stinky cheese and Don Quixote, Penelope sums up my inexplicable love for the region despite the pig feet and oily eggs: El viento manchego trae la locura.

So I was going to go to Guatemala

I didn't realize how excited I was about the trip until it was cancelled.  I suppose I have been willing hopes not to get too lofty while trying to get a plan in order for my life.

Our destination was Patzún.  

Because the women generally use wood to heat their homes and to prepare their meals, they spend much time searching for wood.  The land is described as barren.  Clean water is scarce and we had hoped to construct a purification system as well as educate the people how to best utilize and conserve their liquid gold.  The women and children were going to be the primary ones learning about their new technology and I was very much looking forward to being around the kids. 

The maternal language in Patzún is not Spanish, but Kaqchikel.  There are 53 living languages within Guatemala and where we were going Spanish is usually the second language of the people. 

There are many different organizations whose primary goal is to aid promote clean water and education. As one of the members of our derailed group pointed out You can't board an airplane heading to Guatemala without seeing those intrusive, matching neon shirts up and down the isles.  I don't know if they have a dress code, but Living Waters for the World is an organization that works world wide to provide clean water to those without.  

I find that, aside from the original objective of each individual group, the interaction between people during the project is as important as the purified water or new building.  Despite language differences, a connection can be made and friendships can be forged.  Through mutual second languages and impromptu games of charades more can be understood than just the words that tumble off of foreign tongues.  For what is the point of speaking if the words fall upon restrictive ears? By living for a time in the same circumstances as the people receiving the aid, it is possible to learn from them.  Their fears, their humor, their desires; just because they don't speak our language doesn't make them uncouth.  We appear just as unlearned as they do when trying to mime Where is the bathroom?

Unfortunately, this trip didn't work out.  The poor economy affects us all but the opportunities are endless and help is never misplaced when well planned.  If you are interested in volunteering, which many are thinking about now due to the earthquake in Haiti, reflect on that which matters most to you.  Then research the aid group that most achieves your goal.  They have said over and over on the news not to go alone, without being part of an organization that is well learned in their aid and rescue missions.  Despite the best of intentions, someone without a defined purpose in a state of emergency can be in the way and do more harm than good.

The evil that is in the world almost always comes 

of ignorance, and good intentions may do as much 

harm as malevolence if they lack understanding.

- Albert Camus

technology is trash

heard on NPR

i felt moved to tell the world

those who read will know

You Renew

And we went walking: