Little Bang Theories

Heat, Heart, and Art

2012-01-30T22:01:00.000-05:00


Spring Bursts Through ©Ivia Sky Yavelow, 2012

Today's post is about the combination of the words, "heat", "heart" and "art", or shall I write it as he[a(r)t] ? That's a real nesting doll of words!

Heat was on my mind today because the house lost heat last night due to a broken power line connection up at the street and it was COLD waking up this morning. The ferocious winds have calmed down though, and all is well again in the house thanks to people who make their living in useful trades. I am extra-appreciative of the warmth inside now and of their work. Heart was also on my mind today because I was going to post this follow-up with images of the completed hearts that my daughter and I painted for the Trenton fundraiser I wrote about in my last post.

The letter "r" makes "heat" into "heart" and while "heat" contains the word "eat", "heart" contains the word "art". This takes on additional meaning in the current context of my life, because my daughter is about to commit herself to an art major in college and we have been discussing the merits (and demerits) of paths chosen. The appeal of being able to eat vs. being able to follow a passion, art. Do you see? This covers the nesting word HE[A(R)T].

Below is my heart, Love That River! ©Joy Kreves, 2012

I'm not finished deeply appreciating people who have down-to-earth useful, put-the-food-on-the-table skills, but we do still have to hand it to artists for taking life beyond purely comfortable existence and into other realms such as the realm of passion or the realm of the sublime, or even the realm of psychic discomfort. The arts light our hearts so we don't just exist with enough heat, but we are warmed with the exciting fire of acute awareness of these other realms.

"Hear", also nested in that clump, might be a call to attention. Economic woes are befalling Americans at an alarming rate and the arts are being cut all over the country, but I'm going to try to hear, to listen for what tidbits arise to increase my understanding of the richly complex relationship between desire and need, between passion and necessity. It's a lot to sort out!

H[ea(r)t]. What do these nesting words mean to you?

Raggedy Ann's Heart

2012-01-06T18:21:00.000-05:00

HE(ART) in progress, watercolor on unfinished wood. Photo ©JoyKreves

Raggedy Ann was thrust into my crib by my older sister, as she exclaimed, "JOY wants that Raggedy Ann doll!" That doll had just been given to her, and she wanted nothing to do with it. From my point of view, (perhaps a few years later), Raggedy couldn't help her bright red-colored, cotton yarn hair, her ugly red and white striped tights (I've never been fond of stripes), or her bright red triangle of a nose. She looked pleasant and peppy, and I did my best to love Raggedy Ann in spite of her clownish appearance. We had a sort of contract, due to her wearing a heart proclaiming her love for me on her chest.

Classic Raggedy Andy & Raggedy Ann dolls

Do children ever really choose such a doll for themselves or did Ann and her brother doll Andy, become "classics" because grandparents, enamored by the doll's cheery looks and positive message, kept giving them as gifts? I don't know if this is still the case, but at that time each Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy stuffed cloth doll had a red heart shape embroidered right onto their chest, hidden beneath their clothing, along with the words, "I Love You". (In Raggedy lore this is often described as an actual candy heart.) I don't know if my sister had investigated the doll enough to find the heart, but if she had she might have felt an obligation to return the feeling, like I eventually did. As the younger sister, I was to be the handy recipient of many hand-me-downs over the following years. Of course this meant I watched her gifts and clothing purchases carefully to see what I might be ending up with. I still hate to see things thrown away and have a hard time weeding out closets. Somewhere, sometime that doll was discarded though and I don't remember the circumstances of her dismissal.

I think one has to be invested in material things to be an art-maker. Many artists feel that a material has a sort of "soul" waiting to be released. I know I've read that the famous woodworker George Nakashima felt that way, as did many renowned stone sculptors. Many painters start a new work by putting a loose wash on the canvas and then picking out some forms to elaborate on. There is a nice give and take in this way of working, between the artist's intentions and the material's personality. That give and take flow is very satisfying. From the array of possible expressions, there seems to be one most aligned with that canvas, that piece of wood, that stone.

Raggedy Ann's heart was all give. Give, though, cries out for it's opposite, take. In an ideal world the flow of give and take would be as equal and symmetrical as the form of that embroidered heart. The first time I saw a photograph of a real human heart I was very confused! The purplish, tubey thing did not resemble the graphic heart symbol at all! I have disliked that boringly symmetrical and grotesquely oversimplified heart symbol ever since. Encrusted with diamonds, printed on silk, or cast in porcelain, the heart symbol has held no interest for me. Which is exactly why I jumped at the chance to make something sale-able out of a wood heart cutout.

Bag full of new art supplies.

My daughter and I were checking out with our pile of art supply goodies at the new Jerry's Artarama on Route 1 in Lawrenceville, New Jersey, last week when the clerk showed us the heart he was painting in bold colors for a fundraiser for Trenton's "Hearts & Stars Annual Silent Auction". He then invited us to participate by taking wooden hearts to turn into art. This was a seemingly simple request, but for me it represented a chance to investigate the complexity of my attitudes and perhaps overcome the hurdle that the graphic heart shape has been for me. "Know thine enemies" whether in the form of person or symbol!

Actually, the classic heart symbol shape does exist in nature. Shortly before my mother died I found a large "heart rock" near her house, and then a much smaller one as well. I did show them to her and we both silently acknowledged their significance. When I left her for the last time I carried those stones home on the plane and placed the large one in my backyard where I can see it from my kitchen window. I gave the smaller one to my daughter, who was pretty young at the time. My heart rock is a symbol of my mother's presence, seemingly radiating "love" to me from under the tree.

My "mother's" heart rock.

I've discovered that there are lots of people who collect "heart rocks" and it's easy to find examples of those collections on the internet. Most of the collectors seem thrilled to have found examples of the symbolic shape appearing in nature. Because of the circumstances surrounding my first heart rock, it was distressing to me when I found another one last week in our back yard. I laid it near the fence, not hidden but not on display, either. From Raggedy Ann and Andy's embroidered red hearts to heart-shaped rocks, one agrees to hold meaning in symbols and objects. I haven't agreed to a meaning for the new rock. Thus fraught with complicated feelings I begin my journey with the unfinished wood heart. Love. Here's to a successful fundraiser!

Unfinished wood heart with fundraiser instructions.

Water, Not Pure or Simple

2011-11-28T18:42:00.001-05:00

The northeastern USA is anything but a cultural or ecological desert. There are so many choices of things to attend: concerts, lectures, exhibitions or actions! Because I was attending a splendid performance by The American Ballet Theater up at Bard College in beautiful, lush New York state, I missed author Coleman Barks' reading from his latest translation, RUMI: THE BIG RED BOOK, at the D & R Greenway Land Trust in Princeton, New Jersey in early November. I did manage to get my hands on a copy of this beautiful book though, and in fact got a surprise signed copy because of the thoughtfulness of friends there. And what a signature it is! That gesture contains the attitude of the book! Now that the Thanksgiving festivities are over and my life is settling back into a routine (I'm being hopeful here), I have finally begun to read this book that has sat invitingly on the coffee table since early November.

The introduction of RUMI: THE BIG RED BOOK has already filled me with inspiration. You who read my blog know that I am always interested in consciousness and matters of the brain, and also water, both as metaphor and physical substance. In trying to describe what it is like to "be inside a Rumi poem" Barks quotes Plotinus' metaphor for the predicament of human consciousness: a net thrown into the sea.

"We are the net. Soul is the ocean we are in, but we cannot hold on to it. We cannot own any part of what we swim within, the mystery we love so. Yet the longing we feel is there because of soul. To some degree we are what we are longing for. Some part of the ocean swims inside the fish."

Just think about how true this is. A few years ago I attended the traveling exhibition, "Bodies", when it was in Philadelphia. This extensive display of systems of the human body (skeletal, muscular, nervous, respiratory, digestive, urinary, reproductive, endocrine, and circulatory) showed how fluid living humans are. Our bodies are composed of structures to hold, regulate, or ferry fluids around. We are the water we consume, the water we bathe and swim in.

THE FALLS, ©Joy Kreves '11, ceramic & wood.

Our veins and arteries are simply other versions of our earth's creeks and rivers. This is why I rejoiced with so many other people last Monday, when a vote on whether to allow more fracking of the Delaware River Basin was postponed. There is no way someone from a gas drilling company is going to convince me that pouring extremely toxic chemicals into the ground to extract natural gas beneath the rocks is a "safe" procedure, no matter how many pro-fracking ads they run on TV, as they are doing now. People can consume all sorts of unhealthy substances for awhile, but inevitably those toxic substances will contribute to a state of disease or death. They will infiltrate tissues and veins and organs that haven't evolved to tolerate them. The earth's body has limit's too. What goes around comes around; you are what you eat; what goes in must come out...etc.

Those are just common sense sayings if one stops to notice that humans are actually part of the environment and not just existing on or off of it. If one mistakenly thinks that God planted humans on the earth to take and take and take, then one would just think of the earth's water as another thing to use up or make a profit from instead of something whose purity and availability needs to be protected. Those who see profits from gas drilling operations do not worry that fracking chemicals have and will inevitably continue to cause pollution of our water supplies. Mistakes happen, leaks happen, and there is no correction for the damage. We are the water. In fact, The Associated Press already reported on March 11, 2008, that our already treated drinking water is FULL of pharmaceutical drugs. Our water is not pure. But it is there, for most of us in the northeast.

Perhaps you haven't heard that the earth has a water shortage now. The more than 7 billion people now living on the earth are using up the finite supply. Vast areas of the earth including parts of the USA are turning into deserts - - over decades, not over millenia. Industries of varying kinds need water to create some product so they build plants near lakes, rivers and streams. Because they "create jobs", nobody makes them clean up after themselves. The body of water gets polluted, and the people who rely on that water for drinking and washing get sick from the pollutants. Some die. This is why people who care about having water are fighting fracking in our Delaware River basin. Landowners with lakes on their property may be presented with offers for that water by corporations in much the same way that gas companies are buying (or taking) the mineral rights from landowners who now live in areas where they want to frack.

Who owns the earth? Who owns the water? "Some part of the ocean swims inside the fish." Who owns the ocean that swims inside the fish? Well, guess what? Corporations own that ocean! It is a fact that corporations like Nestle, Coca-Cola, The World Bank and American water companies are buying up water rights around the the country and the world now, because they see the earth's water crisis as a money-making opportunity. The time has already come for some populations that they only have the water they can afford to buy back from the corporation. Until someone saw this business opportunity, water was considered a free natural resource that everyone had a right to, not just those who could afford it.

This is why last year's exhibit of "Festival of Trees" at the Morven Museum in Princeton, New Jersey upset me. The museum was filled with many Christmas trees, each decorated by some local organization. Christmas is another PR opportunity for the corporations who know that water on and in our earth is already disappearing at an unsustainable rate. The D & R Greenway Land Trust's tree celebrated untamed acres saved from development and the multitude of wildlife that lives on those acres. The American Water Company had a tree there also. The American Water Company's Christmas tree was simply a propaganda tree done to create positive feelings about a corporations that actually buy up municipal water systems and sell it back to the cities at a higher price after "treatment". According to Judy Keen in a USA Today 4/21/2010 article,

"American Water, which operates in 35 states, is discussing deals with 75 municipalities and other entities -- the most in at least four years, CEO Don Correll says." "Selling or leasing water systems isn't always a good deal, says Wenonah Hauter of Food & Water, a non-profit group. Some cities that do so are 'mortgaging their future' by ceding control of a vital asset, she says, and rates often climb."

I grew up not far from Pekin, Illinois, whose water system was sold to Illinois American, part of American Water, in 1982. The city manager at that time since said "Selling a water system to a private company is 'a terrible, terrible mistake'".

The American Water Company Christmas tree was decorated with their logo on plastic water bottles! How lovely! How environmentally friendly! How infuriating! An advertisement for this year's Christmas tree exhibit at The Morven brought back those feelings, especially since I had just watched a video of Maude Barlow, Chair of the Council of Canadians and of Food and Water Watch, who will speak at The Institute For Advanced Study in Princeton this Wednesday, Nov. 30th on "The Global Water Crisis and the Coming Battle for the Right to Water. As for the Morven's exhibit? There are so many exhibits a fine museum could have, even around the Christmas theme. Why allow it to become a PR event for corporations? Oh, ...perhaps the water company donates money to The Morven! I forgot! Art museums and entire exhibitions are bought up, too.

I think I'll go dive back into the inspirational waters of Rumi now to wash these toxic dealings out of my mind by reading verses of love. Merry Christmas, Everyone!

Overcoming The Autumn of Distractions

2011-11-13T22:43:00.000-05:00

"Autumn" is a smooth word that conjures up images of postcard trees and cool days, a season that slides into the cold, snowy calm of winter. The other name for this season, "Fall", is sometimes more fitting. In "Fall", the environment is closing down and shedding all non-essentials. In "Fall" the earth is busy cleaning house. Those leaves that were needed for spring and summer are discarded by wind and fierce rain. Of course, just like when one begins to clean out a closet, the result is piles and more piles. I'm not even talking about raked leaf piles; the leaves in my neighborhood are shed in such gargantuan quantities that they pile themselves all over the ground in a thick, messy carpet. I crackle loudly as I try to slip quietly out to the mailbox without my dog noticing. I develop an intense craving for clarity and order.

Whirlwind, ©JoyKreves

Every year September finds me inspired for innumerable house, social, and art projects. I am reading at least 10 books at a time, daydreaming of happy gatherings, holidays and family celebrations to come. Then, by early November, I start to feel as if turning all those daydreams into real plans would be a burdensome project I might not be up to. As the leaves mount and get dragged into the house with every entrance by person or dog, I begin to feel that I've lost my handle on things. Fall is just too messy, too full. The flurry of dry leaves is actually a perfect metaphor for my state of mind. I am convinced that one's mind, one's body, and one's environment are integrally related.

Homesick Brain, ©JoyKreves'11

Scattered around outside are leaves and fallen branches, but scattered in the dining room are notes with possible Thanksgiving recipes to make, birthdays to remember to acknowledge (GOD, I know a lot of Scorpios), and postcards for events to attend. There are phone numbers for friends to visit post-surgeries, and in the bedroom, piles of out of season clothes to put away. There are two piles being assembled for donation, and another for holiday gifts. In my studio are new artworks that haven't found exhibits or homes yet, and pieces of others that need finishing. There are plants that had to be brought in from the colder nights but which I really have no room for. Around November I realize that I have accomplished very little of my plans. Sometimes, I just feel distracted!

I'm So Distracted Today, ©JoyKreves

Several art shows are the core around which all the other stuff swirls:

Currently, I have work at the ArtTimesTwo Gallery, in a four-person exhibit curated by artist Madelaine Shellaby, "Interior Design: The Brain and Spine in Art", now on view by appointment (http://www.arttimestwo.com) through March 2012. The gallery is at The Princeton Brain and Spine Care Institute, 731 Alexander Rd, suite 200, Princeton, NJ.

My sculpture "Beautiful Life" is in an exhibit at the picturesque Hunterdon Museum of Art, 7 Lower Center St., Clinton, NJ, through January 7, 2012.

The Beautiful Life, ©JoyKreves'10

In December I will have a number of pieces at The D&R Greenway Land Trust gallery's "Textures & Trails" exhibit curated by Diana Moore, including some of my jewelry.

Essence of Bluejay, ©JoyKreves '08

I am especially excited about the opportunity to exhibit "Transported" there, my new mixed media piece there that incorporates some of the paper I made in the workshop with Judy Toby this past summer.

Transported, ©JoyKreves'11

In JANUARY I'll be delivering three pieces to The George Segal Gallery at Montclair State University, 1 Normal Ave., Montclair, New Jersey, for the juried "Art Connections 8" show.
I'm also excited about completing a new three dimensional waterfall painting, out of acrylic and watercolor on ceramic and wood. I have too many other ideas cooking to keep track of.

You just cannot stop the onslaught of swirling leaves, and you cannot stop the myriad of exquisite activities and concerts beckoning your attention. You must not stop your creative flow, either, even as you turn off those outside faucets for the winter. You've got to keep creating, or at least refining, as the trees poke their newly bare twigs into the uncluttered air of late autumn. You've got to get a handle on the coming winter.

Today I visited a friend with a great tale of mind/body connectedness. A poet, she hadn't been able to write for a long time, due to her muse being blocked by pain. She needed surgery, which she had a couple of days ago. Well she wrote not one, but five poems while in the hospital! Uncorked by the diminished pain, her muse flew back into action in spite of the less than inspiring hospital environment. It was a wonderful thing for me to see her whole being rejoicing in the return of the creative spirit which is her core. Now mid-November, my muse seems to be just starting to settle into sharper focus, where I hope she'll stay through the winter holidays and breaks, to give me a handle on the coming winter. I'm reaching for her fingers in the clearing air of late autumn.

After Art Grows Up and Leaves Home

2011-10-10T10:26:00.000-04:00

Yogis and physicists talk about a deep level of reality that underlies everything we know consciously and unconsciously. Our experiences, thoughts and actions exist only in the top skim of things, like the rings of rippling water after we skip a stone across its surface. The process of making art sometimes brings artists nearer to that deeper realm. I hope the process of viewing the art can bring the onlooker there also.

My poem "Lyrics for Electron Playground" is about existing in these levels of reality . The poem is incorporated into an artwork, "Electron Playground". That artwork is now in Rider University's Permanent Collection, and is hanging in a new building on campus, North Hall. Last week I went to see it there. It is beautifully installed in a plexiglass wallbox at the end of a hallway:

ELECTRON PLAYGROUND, ©JoyKREVES, 2010

LYRICS FOR

ELECTRON PLAYGROUND

Heart beats
Dog barks
Turtle dies

Tides pull
Leaves turn
Lightnings spark

Dreams are born where
electrons dance and
baby is the oldest brain alive

Time is now here
Time is nowhere
Time is now here

Heat rises
Cat awakens
Baby cries

Moons rise
Nudes descend
Poppies bud

Dreams thrive where
electrons bounce and
youth are the prophets of night

Time is nowhere
Time is now here
Time is nowhere

Hearts stop
Sirens wail
Oceans expire

Forests grieve
Rains drown
Air sours

Dreams collide where
electrons play and
sages gaze beneath the finish line

Time is now here
Time is nowhere
Time is now here

-Joy Kreves ‘10

I've been prejudiced in believing that artists and people involved with the humanities have a headstart on leading meaningful lives. Apple's Steve Jobs' life was proof that, in fact, it is the ability to think creatively in any field that enables one to leave behind a trail of significant achievements. Being able to think creatively is the key, because it gives one a better chance of finding an access to the deepest plane of reality, that plane beyond conscious reach. I am convinced that this is where real meaning resides and those who taste it are deeply enriched by the experience.

As I was looking at my ELECTRON PLAYGROUND piece in the hallway, a friend who teaches philosophy at Rider came by. He was excited because his office is in this new building, just down the hall from my piece, and he wanted to show me that he had hung my DOUBLE-HEADED SPIRAL over his office desk. He purchased that piece and another from the series several years ago, and they both hung in his home for awhile. He then proceeded to tell me a story in which he was

DOUBLE-HEADED SPIRAL, ©JoyKREVES, private collection

the classic absent-minded professor. A prankster friend had stayed at his house and re-hung every piece of his artwork upside down. My professor friend never noticed until he brought DOUBLE-HEADED SPIRAL to the college, that the friend had also turned my spiral upside down! Even then, it was the gallery director who helped him hang it, who noticed my upside down signature. It's in a metal shadowbox frame, and the friend had actually unscrewed the hanging wire to reverse the piece. My friend, lost in the world inside of his head, never noticed that DOUBLE-HEADED SPIRAL was now DOUBLE-FOOTED SPIRAL! I console myself by remembering that any good artwork can "work" in any direction. Or so they claim. Actually, the space depicted in the spirals is not tied to a horizon; it is a broader more universal "deep space" that includes notions of time and timelessness, as does ELECTRON PLAYGROUND, and I admit that I have also lost track of what was right-side-up for several of the pieces at certain points in time.

Yesterday I attended the reception for the ABSTRACT SHOW at The Coryell Gallery in Lambertville where several of my friends are showing. Once again I came away being very confused as to what really constitutes "abstract" art. For me, there has never been a meaningful division between abstraction and realism. It seems a work is considered "abstract" as soon as it departs from the depiction of "things" and ventures into a depiction of "space", but as we learn that space is jammed full and not empty at all, and as we are able to see this stuff quite tangibly with increasingly high powered technology, the term "abstraction" loses meaning. Hopefully, through technology or meditation, many of us can dive down to that deep plane of omniscient awareness that seems to be the basis that unites everything as well as everynonthing, every potential thing. In a utopian scenario of the future most of us would get in deeper touch with our creative selves and thus leave behind a truly significant trail in our wake. Pondering a work of art, whether upside or down, can sometimes open the door to a world so much larger than ourselves. Time may not exist in the most abstract reality, but in our manifested everyday reality, the time is now. Art grows up and moves away, but once comprehended, it's effect is never erased. Whether we turn it upside down or sideways, whether it is "abstract" or "realistic", it aids us in leading meaningful lives. Awesome.

Can Dogs Appreciate Art?

2011-09-23T15:54:00.000-04:00

Relatives of mine have had dogs who "sang" along with them, or their piano playing. The dogs may have just had the instinct to join into a stand-in for a canine chorus. My brother's German shepherd, however, would get started with help, but went onto more solo singing than I'd expect from pure instinctual behavior.

Last night my dog reacted to a photograph, making me wonder if dogs can make sense of two dimensional images. If dogs can make sense of pictures, it follows that they might be able to appreciate art in some way. Perhaps they are even capable of having an aesthetic experience.

I had sat down on the old white sofa to look at a magazine. Because it's the only piece of furniture my dog is allowed to come up on, he happily made his arthritic effort to join me there. I leafed through page after page of creative advertisements as he relaxed beside me, but when I came to the double spread for Bulgari in which a bare model embraces a fragrance bottle while cuddling up to a lion, he lifted his head and strained his nose towards the magazine, sniffing intently. My dog continued his investigation until he satisfied himself that there was no living creature there wearing that fur. Although the ad shows a fragrance bottle, there is no sample of it in the page, so he was not reacting to a smell. He must have reacted to the image of fur or perhaps the lion's features. I tested the theory by continuing to turn pages of photographs and watching him ignore me. I stuck some other pages under his nose, which he simply ignored, but when I stuck the spread with the lion in his face again he sniffed it again, for a shorter time and with less interest than the first time before relaxing again with a sigh, as if saying, "Oh yeah, that's that same nothing I checked out before."

In an article in Cerebrum, from the Dana Foundation, "your gateway to information about the brain and brain research", authors Gisela Kaplan, Ph.D. and Lesley J. Rogers, D. Phil., D.Sc. say,
"Creation and appreciation of art are aspects of consciousness that we have tradition-ally viewed as purely human activities, ones that express our highest cognitive abilities. If animals share at least some aspects of this ability, we will have to look upon them with more respect and perhaps change the ways we treat them."
The authors go on to say that "some researchers have dared to suggest that animals may play because they ﬁnd it pleasurable to do so. Doing something for pleasure, rather than for survival, is part of how we deﬁne the act of creating art." They warn against forming any conclusions too soon, but I'll peak around that corner to see what may lie there. Perhaps my dog has not only the ability to appreciate art, but the ability to create it!

I've been amazed to watch my dog play creative games. He has trained me to throw treats out the window. Usually he runs right to it, settles down on a plush patch of grass, and begins to devour it. Several times, though, although I'd thrown the treat with pretty good aim, landing it near him and certainly within his sight and smell range, I've seen him pretend not to see it. This dog who has smelled a stale oreo cookie 15 ft. away, pretended that he just could not see or smell that fresh treat right under his nose! After a few minutes of exhaustive "searching", he finally "discovered" it, joyfully tossing it in the air. This was pure pretending, pure playing. To create art it is necessary to engage in lots of pretending in order to create illusions of form and space. Having the ability to pretend implies an ability to appreciate creative pretending, does it not?

The magazine lion incident reminded me of a Halloween some years ago. When my daughter was a toddler (before we had our dog) she had a lion costume. We later gave it to a friend who had two adorable little girls, and one Halloween they came trick-or-treating to our house, one wearing that costume and the other in a similar one. Our dog did not know what to make of them. He kept his distance and looked quizzicaly up to me, then barked a very questioning alert and looked back at me with the most confused expression ever. The funny and adorable scene left such an impression on me that I spent several hours searching for the photograph before realizing that the image was only committed to my memory.

More funny incidents occur around Christmastime, when we walk our dog around the neighborhood. Several people display sculptures of reindeer in their yards. Our dog has slowed down to suspiciously eye those white cutout wooden deer, and he has actually charged at the willow branch ones. This is slightly embarrassing to both of us. You would hope your dog could tell the difference between reality and decoration!

I have not practiced showing my dog two-dimensional images so he could perhaps appreciate portraiture. If he could "read" a photograph of fur or a lion's face to recognize it as resembling a real animal; if he could "read" a sculpture of a deer as the actual animal, perhaps he would enjoy a little portrait gallery at his own eye level. Hmmm....

Red Horses & Blue Dough

2011-08-24T21:42:00.000-04:00

TAKING FLIGHT SCULPTURE Detail ©JKreves

It's a good thing I'm not a '50's American housewife, because I detest ironing more than any other household chore. Lucky for me, we rarely can't not get away with un-ironed clothing in this day and age. I'd rather clean a bathroom than iron, which makes my activity today quite ironic:


TAKING FLIGHT SCULPTURE from WETLANDS ©Joy Kreves'10

I spent the afternooon in the garage ironing bamboo leaves. I made a mini ironing board by cushioning a strip of cardboard with layers of cloth and used dryer sheets. This was needed because I am getting a sculpture ready to show again (Verde Gallery's "Spaces" Exhibition) after it spent several months in storage. When I took it out yesterday, I thought perhaps the myriad of dry bamboo leaves had curled a bit more than when the sculpture was initially exhibited. I wasn't sure if I could even iron them permanently flat, but I made the mini ironing board, took the iron into the garage and went to town on the sculpture. As I ironed my bamboo leaves, it occurred to me that this is not a normal thing to do. Your typical American does not spend afternoons ironing bamboo leaves.

Baking blue dough.

Coming upstairs for a break, I came upon my daughter and her friend in the kitchen, staring at a big blue blob in the toaster oven. My daughter explained that they had put food coloring into homemade dough, and were baking it. This is when I realized that my family is not exactly "normal", either. Things in our house are just a bit "off" from how other people live and spend their time. When I raised my eyebrows, my daughter defended her creation by saying, "Well, you drew a red horse, so I can make blue dough!"

RED HORSE ©Joy Kreves

She is entirely correct, of course. She grew up hearing my story about the red horse:

I was a child sitting on the floor, drawing alongside my older sister. I was finding great pleasure in applying the RED crayon very heavily to create a solidly red horse. My sister objected to my color choice, saying, "You can't make a red horse; horses aren't red!" In that moment I suddenly understood that art was this great freedom in which you could depart from reality in whatever manner you could think of. Of course I could make a red horse; I already had.

Art is what lets me and my daughter depart from the real world to dive into the rich world of the imagination. Creating art can give one a feeling of great power. Art can lead one to draw red horses, and bake blue dough. Art is freedom pure and simple. Oddly it can also bring one full circle into doing what one most dislikes...but this time I'm ironing ironically.

Papermaking Perfection

2011-08-18T00:11:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow's rain date won't be needed for Judy Tobie's papermaking workshop. Today was as perfect a day as you could want for such a venture: sunshine, and not too sticky hot. My daughter and I showed up with several other people to literally dip our hands into this intriguing medium.

Judy Tobie, workshop teacher

Judy had set up long tables on the lawn with blotter cloths on them for each workshop participant to work at, and other tables over a gravel area. On them were big plastic tubs, each filled with a pigmented paper pulp dispersed in water.

Drying paper (l.) & pulp still inside deckle (r.) on cloths

She showed us how to hold the deckle frame and framed screen together to dip in the pulp. Then we drained some of the water off, carried it to our table, lifted the deckle off and applied the screen to a piece of sheet (a "felt") layered over the chamois. After lifting the screen and blotting the paper with a sponge, the paper was ready to either dry or to apply interesting items to and sandwich them under more paper layers.


Some workshop participants blotting their paper.

As we got the hang of this it was hard to stop for the break when Judy brought out a beautiful and delicious summer lunch to enjoy beneath the shade of a tall bamboo stand.
Our afternoon lesson was on making a simple shaped bowl form, much the same way you'd make a draped form with clay.

Shaping a bowl from paper pulp.

Since I've done work with clay for years, I was constantly comparing that medium to this as I worked. Both are sufficiently messy that a special type of indoor studio space is warranted if one can't work outside. Both (especially wheelthrowing clay) use a significant amount of water during the process. Both give you options for embedding textures. Although the papermaking set up seems simpler, a serious artist might feel the need for some costly tools like a beater and a drying machine, and of course the ceramic artist needs at least a kiln to fire their finished creations.

Once the drying paper sheet is lying on the felt it can be moved onto a larger flat screen or just onto the grass to dry in the sun.

New paper sheets drying on cloths.

My daughter worked on a circle theme with the intention of making them pages of a book:

I added pieces of bark, dry bamboo leaves, flower petals, twigs, etc. into my paper, experimenting with attaching them but not completely covering them in additional pulp layers. As the day went on I got much more daring in my additions, applying significant pieces of bark and tall grasses to the paper. As is so often the case with workshops, just as I got to feeling like things were really cooking, it was time to clean up.

My papers on felts, drying on the lawn.

Papers finishing drying on a screen on the floor in my studio.

Right before we came home I quickly rounded up the bits of stray pulp we'd pulled off the deckle frames and I rolled them into colorful beads. Paper jewelry! Yet another use for this versatile medium!

Paper beads drying out.

The trickiest part of the day was fitting all of our creations into my car, keeping them flat and not stacking them for the drive home. Now our dining room table and chairs, and my studio floor are covered with them now until they dry enough to lift off the cloths and store. The main thing paper and ceramic artists need? Lots of space!
I'll look forward to a chance to participate in another papermaking workshop. There is so much more to explore!

The Seat of Creativity

2011-07-09T22:02:00.000-04:00

Chaos Disc, ©Joy Kreves

I have a new art studio chair, an ergoErgo "dynamic seating" chair. There is a philosophy for everything these days, even a philosophy of sitting.

ergoErgo "dynamic seating" chair

What is the ideal chair from which to read, write, or create? Well many people say our bodies need to move much more, and sit inactively much less. I spend most of the time in my studio standing, but occasionally when I'm working at something on a table I can sit down.

Orbit Disc, ©Joy Kreves


Ocean Disc, ©Joy Kreves

A few years ago, when I was working on a series of very detailed line drawings at a table, I found myself developing back problems and bought one of those chairs with two seats, the lower one to put some of your weight on your knees and get your back into a better position.

Old, dangerous studio chair.

Unfortunately, I nearly fell flat on my face almost every time I used that chair, and I'm a careful person! The phone would ring, I'd step forward as I got up to answer, catch my foot on the wheel that is unwisely placed just ahead of where your foot is, and really it is a miracle that I never actually did have that accident. I came close, so many times. I put it out on the curb yesterday with a note taped to the seat, "FREE, but BEWARE! The wheels easily trip you up!" Someone took it within 1/2 hour. My conscience is clear, though; I gave fair warning.

Aside from being less likely to seriously maim myself on my new ergoErgo chair, it takes up much less room than the other, and may even have real health benefits! The chair's designer, Alan Heller, got the inspiration for it from watching his wife sit on one of those giant exercise balls. It gives just a bit, the way those do, but has the advantages of taking up much less space and not rolling around the room though still allowing the sitter to shift. Sitting on it is actually fun. I've sat on the chair a few days this week already, while working on paintings, and haven't worried about it tripping me once! It's lightweight enough to carry about, but seems substantial enough to last a long time. It's even weatherproof. Although it comes in an exciting, bright orange, I decided the black would be less distracting in my studio.

I love to read, but this is just another sedentary activity. I just finished reading the exciting 681 page biography of Madame Chiang Kai-Shek, THE LAST EMPRESS, by Hannah Pakula. This was accomplished in the smorgasboard of seating that our recently emptied nest provides. Some of the chapters were devoured while on the bed, the sofa, the other sofa, and...okay, I have a confession. I have one of those really decadent massage chairs that everybody wants to try out at the Brookstone stores in the mall but which are always full of children who won't get up. I finished the book in that chair last night. The massage chair was a big present to mark a big birthday, and I've enjoyed it for a number of years. Because it is in a handy location near my computer, I end up sitting there more than I'd like, though. Most of my blog posts have been written from it. The odd thing about that chair is that when you're not getting massaged in it, you are locked into the most rigid position of all! Partly because it is really sized for a larger person, (my feet don't reach the ground on it) it allows for less freedom of movement than any other chair in the house. This is why I am planning to lobby for another ergoErgo to be kept near that massage chair. That way the massage chair can be mainly for massaging, and I can have more quality "dynamic sitting" time!

Now for my most important question: Will the ergoErgo chair help me channel my creative muse? Is "dynamic sitting" related to "inspired sitting"? I'll bet it is, but if not, at least this studio chair isn't out to kill me!

Popcorn in My Soul

2011-06-17T23:01:00.000-04:00

Last night's rain hitting the skylight sounded exactly like corn popping. Odd, the connections you think of when something is in the forefront of your mind. Popcorn was on my mind, because I'd just been to Metuchen, NJ, to hear artist Sandy Skoglund talk about her work, and she'd shown an image of one of her room sized installations that was a landscape entirely covered with popcorn. Searching for it again just now, I find that amazingly, the work is actually titled, "Raining Popcorn"!

Although I've been an admirer of Skoglund's art since I first came across images of it in NYC in the late 1970's, I was unfamiliar with this piece. I immediately connected with it in a way only a Midwesterner could. Indeed, she said her inspiration for it was the landscape surrounding the University of Iowa where she attended graduate school. Skoglund's "Raining Popcorn" reminded me of a Carl Sandburg story my father used to read me, THE HUCKABUCK FAMILY: AND HOW THEY RAISED POPCORN IN NEBRASKA AND QUIT AND CAME BACK. In this story the popcorn the Huckabucks raised catches fire and explodes, the popping fields eventually filling their barn, and then their house. Their daughter, with the delightful name of Pony Pony, discovers a silver buckle inside of a squash. Somehow this makes the family decide to move. At least that is the way I remember the story.

No toxic microwave packaging for me!

When I was at Illinois State University in Normal, Illinois, the surrounding landscape consisted of cornfield after cornfield after cornfield. Going for a summer bike ride meant riding on miles of roads lined with cornfields on both sides, taller than myself. Having lived on the East Coast for 30+ years now, that landscape seems a surreal memory.

Harold Gregor, painter and now professor emeritus at Illinois State University, was making a name for himself by painting the absurdly monotonous Illinois cornfields in a romanticized photo-realist style. As I heard the story, apartment dwelling New Yorkers found his depictions of big expanses of sky and horizons a sort of novelty.

My first summer job was detasseling corn. The Illinois farmers would hire high school kids to pull off the "tassles" (seed ends). It was disgustingly hot, hard work, for extremely low pay. I think I may have lasted two days. The corn was scratchy and cut up our arms and hands.

My mother, a native Ohioan, infected her children with a taste for popcorn. A schoolteacher, a minister's wife and the church pianist, Mom was exhausted by the end of the weekend. She wisely decided that Sunday dinner ("supper" as it is known in the Midwest) would consist of soup and popcorn, thus giving her a bit of time off from meal planning. We seasoned our popcorn with Spatz, a very special seasoning that she ordered in bulk from an Ohio health food store. I've never liked popcorn seasoned as well any other way. Some months before she died, in 2000, Mom actually gave each of us kids several pounds of Spatz seasoning as a present. It was as good as gold. I kept mine in the freezer for years, unable to bring myself to use it up. Only recently did I get it out, sprinkle it on popcorn, and enjoy that special flavor.

Even our big, white, fluffy cat, Muff, enjoyed popcorn. We'd throw popped kernels to her from across the room. Superior cat that she was, she'd catch them midair with the quickness many dogs but few cats exhibit towards such sport.

As creatures who depend on planet earth for our sustenance, humans are forever intrinsically tied to the landscape. Though corn has been a recurring theme in the landscape of my life, I have yet to have this influence come out in my artwork. I know, though, that popcorn resides in my soul. Pony Pony Huckabuck is me...Ommm...

Celebrating Creativity Through the Eyes of a Bug

2011-06-04T13:11:00.004-04:00

Wrapped Junebug sculpture

My unveiled 2011 Junebug sculpture, ©Joy Kreves'11

Bugs are getting lots of press lately. New Jersey, where I live, has a Brown Marmorated Stinkbug problem that has developed in the past several years. These tough, flying bugs like to come buzzing into our houses. They have a rank, "green" smell when you smash them. Yes, I do smash them when I find them in MY house. I've grown used to that smell. Also, the East Coast is increasingly suddenly suffering with bed bugs. So far I am counting my lucky stars that these pests haven't found my residence. May and June are known for the appearance (outside, at least!) of "June bugs". This bug, though, has become the official mascot of art appreciation in the town of Metuchen, New Jersey, which is having its 4th annual Magical, Mystical Junebug ArtFest on Friday nights in June to celebrate the creativity that brings pleasure and meaning to our lives.

This event is the brainchild of Metuchen's resident ceramist, Linda Vonderschmidt-LaStella. Linda is a creative force in town already with her art studio being a hub for clay students of all ages. I met Linda years ago, when we both belonged to "Cycles", a group of women artists. A couple of years ago we reconnected to have a show she envisioned at Metuchen's Westerhoff Gallery. When Linda asked me if I'd be interested in creating this year's Junebug sculpture to preside over the town for the month, I'd just finished having my solo show at Rider University Art Gallery, and was recalibrating. I'd never made a work of art to stay outside before, and decided to take her up on this challenge.

JUNE LOVE, ©Joy Kreves 2011

The result is a mostly aluminum sculpture that draws from ideas in my series of artworks utilizing lattice motifs to represent our deep interconnectedness with the natural environment. The lattice sculptures are as much permeable membranes as they are concrete objects. They influence as well as alter a particular view or a particular viewpoint. I understand my own outlook as the lattice through which I experience and process whatever life and environment have in store for me. I find this connectedness endlessly intriguing.

JUNE LOVE, wing detail, ©Joy Kreves'11

My “June Love” sculpture on display in Metuchen this month is a natural extension of the lattice idea. I used metal mesh and perforated sheeting for both practical and conceptual reasons. The open “latticed” metal textures make the sculpture lighter and less susceptible to the wind. June bugs eat leaves, often leaving only a lattice of veins. They have abdomens and under-wings that are transparent but for the veins.

I took lots of artistic license with my junebug. Her antennae became more like arm feelers, and I left off her long legs entirely. She is much more glamorous with her swarovsky crystal eyes, than the real thing. Perhaps my June bug will inspire romance; she chewed a heart-shaped hole from her leaf in honor of June brides and true love.

Having grown up on Edward Lear's BOOK OF NONSENSE, I couldn't resist being inspired by my own bug and also came up with several goofy verses on the theme:

There once was a beetle named JUNE

Who would sit on a tree and just croon

As she dined night & day on green leaves she would say,

"Why can't I just sing a nice tune*?"

*June bugs are not known for making a melodious sound.

There was a small town named METUCHEN

Whose residents sang songs in Russian*

They danced through the night to the June bug's delight,

Those wonderful folks of Metuchen.

* I have no idea whether or not Metuchenites actually sing any songs in Russian.

There was a June bug in Metuchen
Who so loved the leaf she was clutchin’,
She nibbled away in a heart-shaped display
That lovely young bug of Metuchen

June Love detail, ©Joy Kreves'11

There is a schedule of events for the ArtFest including presentations by visual artists Sandy Skoglund and Jane Dickson, musicians and filmmakers. For a complete celebration of creativity, come to Metuchen on a Friday evening this month and reflect on what impact the creativity of musicians, filmmakers, chefs, writers, and visual artists has on your own life, and what that's worth. My own answer? Priceless!

Earth Brain

2011-05-16T18:35:00.000-04:00

For two weeks I've been working on a new painting. This one has been a real struggle, the kind that causes one to have frequent thoughts like, "should I just scrap the whole thing and start over?" or even, "Why did I think I was an artist, anyway?"
The painting's subject matter is the relationship between the earth and each one of us. As I've worked I've also been turning ideas around in my mind for this post.

Today, as if to spur me on, I spotted a Pileated Woodpecker drilling on a short tree stump in someone's front yard. Once nearly extinct, these striking birds have made a comeback. I'd never seen one before. I whipped out my handy pocket camera and caught a shot:


Pileated Woodpecker, ©JoyKreves, 2011

What does seeing this bird have to do with my painting? When I searched "Piliated Woodpecker symbolism" I found this delightful website: http://www.birdclan.org/woodpecker.html , which lists the bird's attributes as:

-Connection to the earth - That is just what I'm thinking about; the connection of our physical and psychic beings with the earth!

-Ability to find hidden layers - This is exactly the creative process.

-Understands rhythms, cycles and patterns - Clearly, these are necessary artistic skills.

-Warnings - What more important warning could there be than the warning that our earth home is a danger of irreversible damage? This is a theme that runs through my current work.

-Prophecy - Well, I'm honestly not sure yet how this one pertains...

-Associated with thunder - especially pertinent because there have literally been rumbles throughout the week. The storms now are just unnatural in their fury.

-The Earth's drummer - Doesn't every cause NEED a drummer? What better cause to drum for than our earth?

-Pecks away at deception until the truth is revealed - Well, that is just like the process of creating art. One must simply keep pecking away at the painting or sculpture until its own truth is revealed, and sometimes that turns out to be rather different from what you thought you'd end up with. If it's good, it rings true.

I wanted to write about the intimate connectedness of our human be-ing and our natural world. This is what my artwork is about. I am exploring the question, "What does the natural world have to do with ME?" I believe that our brains are actually so infused with the landscape that when that landscape becomes degraded we experience suffering.

Solastalgia, Waterfall Detail, ©Joy Kreves '10

"Solastalgia" is the word for this painful condition, a word coined by trans-disciplinary philosopher Glenn Albrecht, who experiences it first hand as he witnesses the swiftly developing environmental degradation caused by global warming around his home in Perth, Australia. Naturalist/philosopher, Thomas Berry, was quoted recently in the NJWild blog: "Degraded habitat produces degraded humans." This is the real danger.
What positive conditions might we humans experience that are directly caused by our deep connection to the earth? How about another of Albrecht's words, "eutierria", or a sense of existing as part of and in harmony with the earth?

Painting palette for Brain Landscape

Painting-in-progress, "Brain Landscape", photo ©Joy Kreves, 2011

Did you ever marvel at the way the network of nerves in a human body resembles the branches of a finely-limbed tree? I have. Every level of our physical being seems to have a mirroring aspect in the environment. Our universe is made up of patterns, colors and forms repeated on both microscopic and macroscopic levels. Artists, whose language this is, have long known that beings and their environments have visual sympathies which reflect a deep organic/psychic union.

I've put aside last week's troublesome painting and I have embarked upon a new "Brain Landscape" to more clearly express this idea. The first stage of this work-in-progress is shown in the photo here. My idea begins with the famous photos of our earth as seen from outer space: a luminous, watery blue jewel. I am painting a brain that will have the same luminous water, in rivers and atmosphere.

To artists and naturalists it is no surprise that a being is intrinsically tied to its environment, and yet those people who deny global warming seem to lack a sense of that connection. Those who believe the earth and everything on and in it is here for our human disposal are lacking a fundamental understanding of what it is to be human. Perhaps this is the degradation of humans that Thomas Berry warned about. We cannot drill for gas, pouring toxic chemicals irreversibly into the earth without devastating results to our precious and limited supply of water. And we are that water. Our earth has some land, surrounded by vast oceans. Our bodies contain precious supplies of water throughout. Here is our problem: water is a finite resource. The water that exists is the same water that has existed since the beginning of our earth. This is an awesome fact. If we poison it we will not get any more. In poisoning it we poison ourselves, and our beautiful brain landscapes will be degraded into shriveled, water starved environments incapable of supporting the eutierria that we require as healthy individuals. The rivers and oceans that make our life possible cannot come back from the brink of extinction the way the Pileated Woodpecker has. The earth's landscape can filter out only so many poisons before the toxin load is too great and our ancient water supply is beyond saving. Every human must nourish their beautiful, luminous earth brain. Now.

Poem for the Trees

2011-04-14T13:08:00.002-04:00

All winter I've been driving and walking along Jacob's Creek. Each time, the barren monotony of winter has been broken by the pale notes of Beech leaves. Now, at the cusp of season change, I thought I'd better write this appreciation down, and so...

A POEM FOR THE TREES

Don't even try

to imagine winter woods

without the Beeches

Amidst dull masses

of branch, trunk and thicket

their faded copper dreams hover mid-air

Sustained leaf chords

so delicately ornament the space

between the silent sleep of trunks

Don't even try

to think of spring's new greenery

without these forest belles

Waving frozen showers

of pale woodland lace they lead

winter's landscape to next season

Only winter Beeches

whisper to the future

while still embracing recent past

Don't even try

to imagine winter woods

without the Beeches

All photos on this blog are copyright by Joy Kreves and may not be used or reproduced for any reason without permission.

In Search of a Certain Green

2011-04-01T06:00:00.001-04:00

Here it is, spring 2011. My daffodils refuse to open and the forsythia blossoms look positively cowered. Winter coats that should be getting their end-of-season cleaning are still being worn, with hats and even gloves. It's that time of year when one looks forward to glimpses of the bright, fresh green of new growth. That's the green I've been in search of for my current sculpture project, and it's taken me some sleuth work to find it.

Green stitching detail on metal sculpture

During the winter months I compiled materials for my June bug sculpture that is to be unveiled at Metuchen's Art Fest the first Friday in June.

Location for future sculpture display

Because I've never made an outdoors sculpture before, I had trouble deciding what materials to use to withstand wind and rain, so I proceeded to begin TWO June bugs: one mostly ceramic, one mostly aluminum. I made a heavily perforated ceramic body and wings so the wind could whistle through. Positioning the ceramic wings up and out in flight would be too precarious, though, so if I finish this bug at all, it will have to sit somewhere flat.

Unfinished test of ceramic June bug.

At various hardware stores I had also bought a variety of metal mesh and aluminum flashing and aluminum glue, and an assortment of brightly colored polypropylene twine for the metal bodied bug. I was liking the light, airy effect and texture of the metal meshes.

Assorted mesh sculpture materials including some fruit bags...

Bright, fresh green and metals

I had started to attach those parts by sewing them together with colored twine; specifically, polypropylene GREEN twine. It was one of several colors I'd picked up in the "gathering potential materials" phase of the project. I'm liking the silver aluminum outlined with that bright, fresh green. Well I used up the green twine ball 1/2way through the bug outline and went in search of more. Nobody at the store I thought I'd bought it at recognized it. The manager of the 2nd store said, "No we don't have anything like that". The small local hardware store had never heard of it. Finally, I tried another big chain hardware store that I'd been to recently, and "VOILA", there was the box of twine...in pink, purple, yellow and blue, but no green. An internet search at home finally turned up a store that carried the twine and claimed to have just ONE ball of the green, which the clerk promised to save for me at the customer service desk if I got there that evening. I rushed there just minutes before closing time and sprinted to the customer service desk to request my treasured twine. "No, there isn't anything here"...finally the clerk was found who had forgotten to bring it there but did go get my precious twine.

My June bug is to go on a big leaf shape that I cut out of some sheets of perforated aluminum - a material already suggestive of the bug that munches its way through tree leaves. At some point I thought I'd use some of the other colors of the poly twine to whipstitch the edge of the leaf but no, what I really want is more of that green. I don't know about other artists, but my decisions are influenced by nature's suggestions. It's that time of year when fresh green is the tonic needed to cleanse the winter doldrums away.

Satan's Socks

2011-02-27T20:22:00.000-05:00


Hannah Fink's shoe sculpture, in RAW BEAUTY exhibition, photo©JKreves

Last evening I attended Miriam Mill's directed play, "The Last Days of Judas Iscariot" at Rider University's Yvonne Theater. David Spadora, the talented actor who played Satan, was costumed brilliantly, in a contemporary, collared white shirt, black jacket, black pants, and red socks. (seen at center of photo, in different clothing if you click on the link above) The socks really did it for Satan. I don't think he could have been as convincingly dark without them. The red socks screamed DANGER even when the actor was portraying the "I'm just another ordinary guy" side of Satan's act.

Somewhere is an old photograph of our family with the cousins from my mother's side. Although it seems to be lost, I remember it clearly. We are all gathered on, beneath, and around a metal swingset on a summer day. Everyone is nicely smiling, but as usual my father is goofing. He is wearing bright orange socks, and is lifting his knee and pointing to the socks. As if they might be missed without the special attention! I was in high school then, and appreciated my father's socks as a fashion rebellion. Those attention-grabbing socks were kind of a statement of his unorthodox thinking, and I was pretty sure that most dad's were not wearing anything like them just as most dad's were not thinking anything controversial in those Midwestern summer days. I never could figure out where he GOT the orange socks, since white or black were the only colors that seemed to be sold. In those days my dad was using his pulpit at The DuPage Unitarian Universalist Church to preach humanistic sermons about the environment and peace, sermons against the Vietnam war. Someone upset by those beliefs had written into the local newspaper that it was clear that my father was "the devil", and they could "see it in his eyes" from his picture in the newspaper. I'll bet if they ever saw him wearing those orange socks they'd have been even more sure of the Satan within him. Anytime a bright color seeps through banality it hints of revolution, and it gets your attention.

Recently I was fortunate to have viewed "Raw Beauty", a mixed media sculpture exhibition at the Arts Council of Princeton curated by Rebecca Kelly. The photos in this post are ones I took in that exhibition. One of my favorite sculptures was "Raw Suffering of a Woman", a dress by Lesley Haas incorporating handmade paper flax, shredded strips of New York Times and Women's Wear Daily.

Lesley Haas sculpture, photo ©Jkreves

Although mostly subdued colors, the bits of bright red on the shredded paper skirt suggest that life is still there and the suffering is still going on.

Another remarkable piece in the show was Miriam Schaer's 20 ft.long "No Ornament as Precious as Their Hands", made of Embroidery, beads, gloves and paint. Again, the overall neutral tone of the piece was enlivened by slices of red here and there, and the turquoise beading.

Miriam Schaer sculpture, photo ©Joy Kreves

detail of Miriam Schaer sculpture, photo ©Joy Kreves

Leslie Pontz, "Pregnant", photo © Joy Kreves

As I write this the people of Libya are in a roiling turbulence trying to rid themselves of their oppressive leadership. I hope that, like the Egyptians and Tunisians, they will soon feel the brilliant sparks of freedom burst into full bloom. According to Sheryl Gay Stolberg's reporting in The New York Times, the writings of "a shy intellectual" provided some of the strategy for the Middle East revolutions. Well-written ideas can be those brilliant colors that make instigating political action possible.

This is not a deep insight, that glimpses of brilliance amidst conformity brings vitality to our lives, but it is something worth noticing, remembering, and appreciating whether in fashion, thinking, politics or visual stimuli. Such visual stimuli is not simple. It is based on a gut-level recognition that there is something alive there, stirring or smouldering, something to watch out for, something possibly dangerous. What color socks do you wear?

Becoming the Bug

2011-02-07T17:07:00.000-05:00

On the morning following two days of shoveling a heavy, wet snow, I awoke on my back. I wanted to turn over, but my arms felt little and weak and sore. With some struggle, I managed to turn over but I thought, "That must be the way a beetle feels when it's flipped over..."

New Jersey Winter, photo ©Joy Kreves 2011

I've been thinking about beetles lately, because I have a new sculpture project. I'm making the JUNE BUG sculpture for Metuchen's annual June Bug ArtFest. Although I embraced this project enthusiastically, I ran into problems immediately.

First and most challenging for me is how to create a sculpture that will sit unharmed by weather, in the sun, wind and rain. All of my sculptures have been made for indoor environments. Creating for the outdoors is a whole different ballpark. My previous mixed media works have been constructed with glue guns and other strong glues, using fiber, paper, balsa wood etc. Suddenly, "mixed media" seems limited! I contacted a sculpture supply company about two of their products which sounded promising for outside artworks. I asked if the products would hold up in the weather. The email response I received suggested that I find somewhere warm and dry to create, because these outdoor conditions present challenges for any material that needs to cure! How did I miscommunicate my question? No, I had not intended to create the sculpture outside in this New Jersey winter!

Another problem was the subject matter itself. Beetles had never captured my interest. Knowledge breeds interest, though, and I researched June bugs, hoping they were at least the iridescent green ones I've admired as they lay flipped on their backs on the hot summer road. Unfortunately, June bugs are no beauties. They are just smooth brown beetles, a basic oval shape with a furry chest area and a somewhat gross-looking semi-transparent body. Even their babies are on the disgusting side - those white, curled grubs that eat your plant roots. No cuteness there. They stay underground for three years before making their appearance in May or June as the June Bug we know. We hear their familiar razzing chorus in the summertime which I find quite pleasant.

Okay, time for a big dose of artistic license! MY June bug is going to have some color, some texture, some outsized "eyelashes" (they do have eyelash-like antennae beneath their eyes). I am going to try to reference their natural transparency somehow though, and emphasize the geometry of their shape.

Blue Mtn. Lattice,©JKreves 2005

Landscape Lattice, ©Joy Kreves 2006

The sculpture base is always the hardest part for me to work out. In reviewing my previous work I have realized that I most enjoy creating "relief sculptures" more than truly 3-Dimensional ones "in the round". My entire hanging lattice series fits somewhere between 2 and 3 dimensional work, with some double-sided and some only one-sided pieces, yet they interact with their surrounding space and environment the way all dimensional works do. As it turns out, I have one extra hanging lattice stand that is looking like a good option for my June Bug sculpture. It is certainly stable enough for outside, not too heavy for me to manage, and made of steel which will rust in the rain if left unpainted as it is now, but that patina could be nice.

As for possible materials for the bug itself, I've looked at waxed cardstock, (used milk cartons), which I once created surprisingly durable birdhouses from, fiberglass reinforced plastic drop-cloths, wire screening, pellon, and I've made a small test bug from sculpture clay. A size-able ceramic sculpture would be pretty heavy. Maybe PART of it could be clay, the rest - metal? The search continues, but at this point I think it will be mainly different metals with some ceramic parts. I've already created the outline of a large leaf that my June bug will be clinging to. As the thinking process moves along I am finding more interest in my subject.

Am I empathetic enough to truly understand my subject matter? Like method acting, I wonder if method creating would be a helpful way to get in touch with my inner June Bug and thus lead to a stronger sculpture. I already got a taste of how they feel when my exhausted arms could barely turn myself over in the bed; I've thought about them as I munch my salad leaves; I've spent so much time bundled up in layers and layers to keep warm this winter that I may have come as close as I could to experiencing the compact, inflexible shape the bugs have...perhaps I should reread Kafka's METAMORPHOSIS to really get in touch with my inner bug.

Red, Irresistible Red

2011-01-03T00:20:00.001-05:00

Having just finished the season of Rudolph's nose and holiday bows, I was starting to think about spring bud green and winter river water blue, but red came back for another visit tonight in the form of a female cardinal.

The brightly billed bird was duller than her flashy male counterpart would be, but she suddenly appeared outside at our window ledge, fluttering up against the glass and pacing back and forth at the window. She looked curious and excited. She was a very cute bird, with bright red accents on her beak and hat and wings!

Red. No other color screams for attention like it. Cardinal red, sports car red, fire engine red, lipstick red. Powerful, visceral, siren-like red.
Last month I was at MOMA in NYC, for one of Jennifer Allora and Guillermo Calzadilla's performances, Stop, Repair, Prepare: Variations on Ode to Joy for a Prepared Piano (2008) How visually satisfying the artist's red shirt was against the black piano!

I've indulged in the color red in many of my artworks. An early painting titled, "WONDERFUL RED THINGS", was just a catalog of some of my favorite red things such as pomegranates, antheriums, etc. painted all together in one composition. Done during the pre-digital days, I have only slide records of that painting now, but my fascination with red things remains. Below are a very few of the red-color dominated artworks I have created over the years:


ALINE'S FLOWERS, porcelain, private collection. ©JoyKreves'11

PATRON, Flashe & gold paint on paper ©JoyKreves'11.

Red Chalice, private collection, ©JoyKreves '11

SCHOLAR'S VASE, sculpture, ©JoyKreves '11

TREASURE KEEPER, private collection, ©Joy Kreves '11

The little cardinal was clearly attracted to something and wanted in. She wasn't attacking her reflection, as some male cardinals do. She looked and fluttered but would not turn away. I got my camera out and the flash didn't scare her away. I turned off the lights.

She stayed. For a good 10 minutes she tried and tried to get in. I thought birds slept at night! What was keeping her up so late? I had some plants on a tea cart by that window so I moved them to another room in case she was thinking they looked like an inviting place to spend the night. She stayed. Didn't she have a mate to attend to?

I moved the candlesticks away, remembering that crows are attracted to shiny things. Maybe their silver called to her. She stayed. My daughter reached her hand out but the bird skittered away to the far edge of the window ledge. Guess she wasn't looking for a human friend. Then I realized that we had a bright red napkin sitting on the dining room table in her sight, the same color as her mate should be, and that I was wearing a bright red sweater. I changed my clothes to black. I removed the red napkin. Finally she turned around and flew away!

It seems it was the red she was attracted to, and which kept her awake in the nighttime when she should have been nestling her head beneath her wing. Who can blame her for staying awake to try and meet all that big, healthy, attractive red that was calling to her from our house? I hope she soon finds it or returns to it in the form of another cardinal though. I'd hate to think my sweater or napkin lured her into loneliness or promiscuity.

Journey Through "BIOGRAPHY OF A MOTH"

2010-12-02T12:53:00.001-05:00

Several posts ago (My Mother, My Shadow and Me) I wrote about repairing my artwork "BIOGRAPHY OF A MOTH" after it fell off the wall and got a damaged corner. This photo accompanied that post, showing the shadow repair.

above: repaired area

Creating this work was personally significant for me and I believe it is also a strong work of art. Below is a photo of the entire mixed media piece as it was exhibited in my show at the Rider University Art Gallery this October. There is also companion floor sculpture, "Top Soil", which has not been shown yet. Every work of art is a journey of creation, but this one took a subject matter path I'd not been on before.

"BIOGRAPHY OF A MOTH", ©Joy Kreves '10, ~60"X40"

"BIOGRAPHY OF A MOTH" began as a piece to go directly on the wall, with the working title of "ELAINE'S GARDEN". Elaine is a friend who has a magical garden surrounding her house. As I worked on the piece with it's quiet yarns and glazes, a photo of my mother (1922-2000) as an 18 yr. old that I have hanging in my studio began to draw towards the art. By this I mean that there was an attraction between the photo and the artwork. Anyone who has hung an art exhibition knows that certain pieces create a synergy when hung in proximity to each other, and other pieces seem to not get along well with each other at all.

Detail, "Biography of a Moth", ©Joy Kreves '10

Perhaps it was simply the sympathetic browns in the photo and the wood and yarns, perhaps it was also because my mother crocheted and was an avid gardener of both vegetables and flowers or the way her jacket is flapping open like a moth wing. In any case, she seemed to want to be part of the piece. So with apologies to Elaine and her wondrous garden, I went with the subject matter shift and let the piece be about my mother. Once that decision was made, her presence infused my work to the extent that on a few occasions I had to work with tear-filled eyes. I am not usually an extremely emotional artist, at least I normally do not work in any particularly strong emotional state, so this was a very strange experience for me. A sense of sadness persisted through the duration of the creation of this piece. It took me by complete surprise, because although we were very close and even best friends in my adult years, I thought I had pretty much finished grieving for her long ago. Art has a way of digging very, very deep though, and here I was re-experiencing my loss.

"Elaine's Garden" (beginnings of "Bio of a Moth"),©Joy Kreves'10

The next really odd thing about my journey through this artwork was the major "DUH" moment that it brought to me. Art is a mirror to both society and the artist. Sometimes we need to rub our eyes and take a better look. Once I planted a copy of my mother's photo and the moth imagery in the piece it acquired the title, "Biography of a Moth", yet it never even occurred to me, until I was putting up the show, that "Moth" is the beginning of "Mother". I had been thinking all about how my mother had tread so lightly on the earth like a butterfly, but because she was so UNflashy and UNdemanding of attention, a moth seemed the better symbol for her. She tended to her plants with quiet though passionate care until the very end of her life.

moth holes detail, "Biography of a Moth", ©Joy Kreves '10

Perhaps the "moth holes" I put in the river photo section of the piece are really symbols of all the little holes her death left in my world. She left not one big, gaping hole, but many small ones that have significantly riddled life as I experience it, like the holes left when pulling stray plants from a garden. Creating this work was a huge gift for me in renewed appreciation for the ways in which a parent's life is carried on and on in their children. Carrying on the word "moth" one gets to "mother". This work is, indeed, "Biography of a MothER".

Re-igniting the Muse

2010-12-01T21:50:00.000-05:00

"DARK WATERFALL", ©Joy Kreves '10, mixed media installation.

After exhibitions, after family crises and celebrations, after visits from long-missed family and friends, after making exciting connections, after the hubbub of holidays, where now, oh where exactly IS my muse, my fire?

This week I got my hands back into clay for the first time since perhaps last May. Ideas were merely mild and circling, cooking but not reaching even a simmer yet. I'm eager for my muse to come flying full force back. I am "ASKING FOR THE FIRE", as ceramist Linda Vonderschmidt-LaStella so brilliantly titled our 2009 ceramic exhibition. I'm not insecure that my muse will awaken. It will, and I am ready for the fire of it.

My work could go in many directions from where I left off. I'd like to make more waterfalls after the two I did for my TRANSLATING NATURE exhibition this October.


Waterfall section from "SOLASTALGIA",©Joy Kreves '10

I'm still excited about finding my own ways to reflect the imagery our earth provides. My recent "Solastalgia" installation was inspired by our endangered rivers, specifically our Delaware river. I'm also starting to work with some ideas about coral. As far as concepts, I want to work with the term "eutierria", another word which, like "solastalgia" and "soliphilia", was recently coined by Prof. Glenn Albrecht as he builds the language with which we can express our relationship with our environment. He defines "eutierria" as "a positive feeling of oneness with the earth and its life forces".

"SPRING EXUBERANCE", ©Joy Kreves '10, porcelain

My "SLICES OF NATURE" and "RIVER" sculpture have many ideas which could be expanded upon like the mixing of a drawing and poetry with ceramic and mixed media elements:

"SLICES OF NATURE", ©Joy Kreves "10

"RIVER", ©Joy Kreves '10, mixed media sculpture w. original poem.

After a fall full of all the life business that could possibly take an artist away from creating, I'm getting my ankles wet again in the big, creative ocean. Ahhhhhh...

Bamboozled by the Storyteller

2010-10-13T19:41:00.000-04:00

I was introduced to the character of Scheherazade, perhaps the most famous storyteller of all time, by way of music. As a preface to her playing of Rimsy-Korsakov's gloriousScheherazademusic on our piano, my mother told me about this woman whose life depended upon her storytelling skills. Scheherazade's motivation for telling stories had the compelling aura of exoticism that seemed lacking in the flat, bland Midwest where I was growing up. Thankfully, I knew little then about mental or physical abuse. I had not yet met anyone deformed by fear and rage. The very real stories of queens beheaded for not producing male heirs felt like fiction to me. Therefore, Scheherazade's king, a character so enraged by one betrayal that as a prevention he ordered the murders of his own virgin brides after the wedding night, was far-fetched fantasy to me then.

Despite King Sharyar's bad record, Scheherazade was confident in her ability to create tales that would literally save her life. She did this in a storytelling marathon of one thousand and one nights before the king pardoned her. It occurs to the adult me, that THIS is the kind of storyteller our human culture needs now - someone who can stop our current destructive behaviors by creating stories compelling enough to stop us in our tracks, re-arrange our priorities, and set us on a sustainable path of respect for each other and our entirely living planet.
below: Springtime In The Bamboo Garden ©Joy Kreves 2005

Origins of words, the storyteller's tools, are often very interesting to me. The word "bamboozled" implies the comedic attitude of slapstick, but it apparently derives from the word "bamboo", because one can get so lost, so disoriented in a bamboo forest. I have tasted the terror of being lost in the maze at Cawdor Castle in Scotland at about 15 minutes before the 5pm grounds closing time, so the idea of finding oneself lost in a bamboo forest, or a midwestern cornfield, for that matter, holds no humor for me. You can innocently wander into such a maze and a few steps later find yourself completely disoriented, lost, and trapped. Scheherazade's husband had his plot all drawn out and she was written in to be just another victim in his story. If it weren't for her supreme achievement of bamboozling him she wouldn't be a famous character today. Neither she nor her story would have been projected into her future. Her future, which is now our present, is where she and her tale exist. Humans all over the earth have been bamboozled by the stories of our society's military-industrial complex, of our corporations, and of our religions. We have been consciously and cleverly told that we our very purpose as humans is to dominate the landscape and be a voracious consumer! The Story of Stuff couldn't put it more clearly. We've been bamboozled.

The tale that tramples all life on earth includes a new chapter in which the United States Supreme Court concluded that a corporation has equal rights to an individual. That is but one example of a tale that must be rewritten to recognize the difference between life forms and manmade economic structures. Our new story will have the following premise: we are living beings existing on a living planet and we cannot exist on a non-living structure. Now my father was always telling us as we grew up, "You make your bed, then you must lie in it". Now I can ask, "Why? Why must we lie in the wrong bed once we realize a mistake has been made?" I have to believe we can change our circumstances when we find ourselves in need of something better.

Last week, I was privileged to have the opportunity to hear Miriam MacGillis, the founder of Genesis Farm in Blairstown, NJ. speak to some students. Miriam, a former artist, a Dominican nun and farmer, spoke of our desperate need for a new cultural story about our human place in the earth's life. She urges us all to work hard to create a story that embraces scientific knowledge to achieve a shift of power between life forms, and thus save our lives. Our old and current Judeo-Christian story, that humans are a God-favored, superior life form to all others on the earth has gotten us onto a path of gross destruction. Let us plant our new deciduous forests with clear landmarks along paths of life-sustaining stories. Let us recycle those old bamboo forests in order to disorient the old storytellers and their enraptured audiences while we gain time for our new, life-sustaining stories to take hold.

On a cultural level humans have stories to situate ourselves on planet earth. For centuries now we have been enthralled by the story that we are God's favorite creation, and all other life forms were made for our disposal. In our current story the environment exists to be exploited by us, for our pleasure. It has been a well supplied department store. Increasingly now those store shelves are showing empty spaces. Like a raging spouse, our habitual beating up of our environment has left scars which cannot be "fixed" by an apology. Once we have driven the SUV over the metaphoric flowers neither an individual's nor a corporation's crocodile tears and promises will do the job. Healing (if it is still possible) requires an entirely new and sustainable mindset with an understanding of what the consequences of our actions really are. Life is fragile.
below: Fragile Life ©Joy Kreves 2006

We humans have disrupted weather patterns. Our activities are melting glaciers. Our mining of resources has stripped huge areas of beautiful ecosystems, leaving nothing but bare, dead swathes of earth where nothing can live. These are the facts. I am part of this culture, and I don't know what to do. I am an artist, and I have to fit my art into this backstory or fit this backstory into my artwork because it is so relevant. Being an artist is a responsibility and I'd like my art to do more than add more material stuff to our already overstuffed planet. So far the only way I can figure out how to be a constructive part of the new story is by letting myself be a filter for all of these ideas and trusting that something worthwhile will come out in my work.

We all need tools to work with. It is interesting to learn that the English language is sadly lacking in the very vocabulary with which to describe our human relationships with our environmental home. How can a storyteller create without the language? Trans-disciplinary philosopher Glenn Albrecht has been working to correct that lack by creating words that are quickly catching on. One of them, "Solastalgia", inspired my new art installation about my relationship with the endangered Delaware River.
below: Solastalgia, ©Joy Kreves 2010

I am a firm believer in the concept of micro/macro. As things go on a micro level of existence, so do they go when looked at through a macro lens, and all the levels in between. The Arabian Nights is a success story, not only because it was supremely entertaining but because it saved Scheherazade's life. As resources disappear and climate changes create havoc, many people are beginning to realize that our earth's life is severely endangered, and that it will take a new story about our human position on earth to literally save our own necks. Who will be a powerful enough storyteller to create a new story- one that enough humans will embrace as enthusiastically as Sheherazade's King Shahryar, thus saving the lives of us all?
Events not even a week old can be expertly shaded and re-rendered by a talented storyteller in a way that transforms them into an entirely new version of history. The storyteller can even achieve a complete reversal of power between the various characters. I have witnessed firsthand the power of an accomplished storyteller to bamboozle someone else into believing that they were the cause of a spectacularly destructive rage. In this kind of story all of King Shahryar's virgins were at fault for their very potential to deceive. I have seen BP executives move their lips in apology over that disastrous (and preventable) environmental assault. I have witnessed it in today's politicians who speak the spin that serves their own purposes at the expense of all the rest of us. Therefore, I believe it is possible that some person(s) with positive intentions to help us all could harness their most powerful storytelling skills and spin all humans towards a sustainable future. The earth is already spinning. Our story has to spin in the truth of that harmony. What we humans on earth need NOW, is a new, more truth-embracing and life-sustaining story of ourselves, because our current story is an express train to oblivion. Our living earth stage cannot sustain us as the characters we have been playing since the Judeo-Christian story took hold. As my new wise friend Miriam MacGillis says, "we have to try, for we have no choice." So - will our new Scheherazade please stand up? For us all?

Burning to Make Boxes

2010-09-13T22:13:00.000-04:00

If I had to choose one art tool I couldn't live without I would have to pick my hot glue gun. This is the case, even though every time I use it I burn myself. Waiting for other glues to dry is just agony once you've gotten used to the fast-drying hot glue. I have to transport my work to the Rider University Art Gallery soon, and my work is mostly fragile, unframed, and three-dimensional. I don't think I could have made the oversized packaging I've made this week without that glue gun.
There are very few glues that work on styrofoam, and work quickly. I needed to build cushions into the boxes with styrofoam pieces. Most glues will melt the styrofoam. A touch of hot glue will work. It even glues the bubblewrap to the styrofoam.

Figuring out how to make packages for my work to protect, add rigidity, stabilize various elements during transport AND be lightweight was a real challenge. I custom built 4 boxes recently.

The hanging paper scrolls were a problem. In order to make the big box a little smaller, I brought the bottom of the twin scrolls up by securing the
endknobs with wire poked right through the box bottom. Then I "rolled" the scroll up over a paper towel holder that I first covered with glassine paper for it's neutral ph. Two cardboard fingers can be lifted up to release the scroll from it's packaging.

The bamboo at the top of the scrolls is tied into the box with wires also, and the porcelain end caps are cushioned with form fitted styrofoam.

Pieces like the porcelain LANDSCAPE LATTICE have boxes like that, and have so far survived a number of moves. They are stored in the stacked boxes in my storage room.

The glue gun is not without hazard. Almost every time I use it for a project I burn myself. I had been lucky for several days, but today I was almost finished with one of the huge boxes, when I burned not just one finger, but some fingers, on both hands! As soon as I felt a finger burning on one hand, my other hand burned, and then a fingernail. I must have gotten a flying hot glue drip. It's like having hot candle wax stuck on your hand. After finishing the cardboard strip, the first thing I found to "ice" with was a package of old white chocolate chips in the freezer downstairs. Then I also found a little cold pack. Well something about the (cellophane?) packaging on the chocolate chips makes that NOT effective for soothing burns. I tried to hold one cold thing on my fingernail of my left hand while holding another cold pack on two fingers of my right hand. And I am impatient. When I should have sat and waited, I wanted to check and answer emails. Hard to type with hands like that! An hour or so of an on and off approach, and the pain was calmed down enough to return to my packaging project. What oh what would I do without my trusty glue gun?

My Mother, My Shadow and Me

2010-09-01T23:24:00.000-04:00

One of the hardest parts of creating art is deciding when to stop working on a piece. When is it finished? The question also comes up when a piece is damaged. Do you throw it away, do you try to perform heroics to restore it, or do you compromise and take the hint - see where the solving of that crisis takes the piece? A professional art restorer is going to disguise the damage and try to get the piece back into it's original "finished" form. An artist, however, has to consider all the options when it comes to damage on their own work.
If only I could get better at "seeing" what life literally puts in front of my eyes! A couple of days after one of my artworks fell off the wall, I visited Dia Beacon in New York, and was very interested to see Andy Warhol's HUGE installation of paintings of a shadow, in 102 variations.
http://www.diaart.org/exhibitions/introduction/98 I didn't even realize until just now, writing this, that seeing Warhol's shadow was a timely lesson for me: there are hundreds of ways to recreate a shadow. I only needed to decide on one - the bottom corner of my piece was smashed in the area where I had shadows from a white cloth. I did not consciously realize this connection when I viewed the Warhol shadows, though; the lesson was absorbed completely subconsciously if at all!

(left: the undamaged bottom corner)
My large collage, "Biography of a Moth", had hung securely for months, waiting for it's exhibition in my show at the end of this month. My trusty E6000 glue, that has never failed me before, gave way, and the piece came down on a section of shadows. I hadn't even heard it fall off the wall, and discovered it the next time I went downstairs into my studio. It was impossible for me to ignore that the destruction occurred around the time of a particularly vehement argument with my daughter, and that the artwork has something to do with my own relationship with MY mother. I know this in a way that is beyond reason. I know this in my gut. Oh oh, this is the kind of "knowing" that gets people into all kinds of trouble! One person "knows" that their truth is THE truth even when it conflicts with someone else's truth, and they both "know it in their gut". Therefore, I allow myself to indulge in my "gut feeling" about this artwork while simultaneously letting my big skeptic balance on my shoulder.

Another aspect of something meaningful being in my face without me even seeing it was the title of the piece. I had titled it "Biography of a Moth" a long, long time before I realized that that title is also short for "Biography of a Mother". Am I going blind? Really! How much more obvious does my own creation have to be, for me to "get it"? Duh!

(left: same corner, "repaired".)
I felt confident from the beginning of my damage survey that this smashed corner was something I could deal with, and that the artwork was no lost cause. My decision was whether to entirely disguise the event or to embrace it in the repair. I decided to add a visible rectangular layer of mat board to the front surface, but to restore with colored pencils the shadow images that had been there originally as a photograph. I guess it was a sort of compromise. The surface is changed where the repair is, but I retained the content of the area. In fact, when seen in the entire piece, I like the addition of that subtle geometry to the surface there. I also added more support to the backside of the same corner. Probably MOST importantly, I (bravely) drilled and screwed right through the front of the artwork, to attach a more secure wood strip to the back for a better hanging solution, and then concealed the screws on the face of the artwork.

A sideview portion of "Biography of a Moth" can be seen on the right side of the announcement card for my show, "Translating Nature". The show will be at the Rider University Art Gallery, on the 2nd floor of the Bart Luedeke Center, Westminster College of the Arts at Rider University, 2083 Lawrenceville Rd., Lawrenceville, New Jersey, and it opens September 30th, 5-7pm. There is an artist's talk scheduled for October 7th, 7pm. The exhibition runs through October 30th. My mother, my shadow and myself will all be in some form of attendance.

"It's Cooler In The Mornings" and Other Annoying Advice

2010-07-24T17:41:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting in my comfortably air-conditioned house writing my blog about my life as an artist instead of working in the uncomfortably hot studio on this sweltering day in July. In fact, it's been a month of sweltering days. I know this in a way I wouldn't have known it other summers, had they been this hot, because THIS month I rented a friend's non-air-conditioned studio (top photo) while she is away. I needed some extra space to work on some large projects, and it seemed like a good idea. It was a good idea in that I did get some crucial things accomplished. I was able to set up and photograph several pieces against the big, white wall. I was also able to build several sculpture bases.

My home studio has daylight fluorescent bulbs, which give off a great light, as you can see in the photo above. It also has a baseboard heater running the length of the longest wall, and wood trimmed baseboards on the others. The baseboards became a big issue when I tried to get clean photographs of the art. Also, my home studio only has a 7' dropped ceiling, which also detracts from the taller work. Some of my new pieces are so tall I couldn't avoid getting those ceiling tiles in the photos. Ugh. At this point, I do not have Photoshop and have been editing everything with iPhoto. I was able to use my vacationing friend's excellent selection of power tools to cut plywood, and use her tabletop sawhorses to glue and nail the sculpture pedestals together. I didn't have to worry about the screaming saw terrifying my noise-sensitive dog into sitting on my feet, either. It is very difficult to accomplish tasks if a dog is trying to sit on your feet. Any fantasies I'd had about bringing him to that studio were quickly quelled when I realized how miserable we'd both be there together.

I hate it when people say, which they did, "it's cooler in the mornings, so if you get up and go in early you'll be better off". Of COURSE it's cooler in the mornings, but I stay up late, often past midnight, doing the computer work and writing part of being an artist, and I'm not like my Uncle Ray, who only needed 3 hours of sleep per night thus living the equivalent of two normal people's lives. I have a family to be part of and we try to approximate our schedules so we see something of each other. So. I'd get up at around 8:00, shower because I must, though it makes no sense when I'm going into a steam bath, check my emails to make sure there were no time-sensitive issues to deal with, eat breakfast so I wouldn't have to stop working and take a break until a little snack lunch I'd bring, perhaps put a load of laundry in, pack the car with that day's project materials, and inevitably finish the 1/2 hour drive to the studio around 10 or 11am. Then I'd park my car in the glaring sun and proceed to drag my supplies to the studio building, through another artist's studio, and into mine. Back to the car, and a repeat or two.

By the time I set up the fans and got to work I'd be dripping. One day I realized I should have sweatbands for my head because I was literally dripping onto my work. If I didn't have deadlines I wouldn't have been able to get myself to go in there and do the projects. Even so, I wasn't able to get myself in there many times for two days in a row. I seem to need an entire day to recover from such heat immersion. Luckily, there were things I needed to do in my home studio, too, so I could remain productive with an excuse. My home studio isn't directly air conditioned, but some of the house a/c sinks downstairs.

Other people suggested that I go in the evenings, "when it cools down". Unfortunately, I am not an evening person when it comes to physical work. Working at night would also put me into the visiting times for the nocturnal creatures who clearly visit. Not that the mice didn't visit during the day, but I know they are even more lively at night. After the landlord sprayed some rodent deterrent into the ceiling, the daytime screeching from raccoons or rats or squirrels partying up there temporarily stopped.

I know there are lots of people who have to work outside in searing weather: road construction crews, farmers (okay, I know they DO get up early), and roofers, to mention a few. I've thought about the slaves who had to pick cotton in the mean sun for hours every day, with no fans. I realize that I am soft. I've had it easy. I haven't suffered from the heat like this since I was a child. Then, my father used to hang wet sheets in front of the windows, and blow a fan through them, claiming he could feel a difference. I never thought it helped. In fact, it seems that would have only added to the humidity, thus making the air even muggier! There are no effective home remedies for being overheated except, perhaps, wrapping oneself with iced towels. I didn't try that since it would have added to the dripping that was already going on.

These days anyone who reads or listens to the news at all hears lots of talk about climate change and global warming. Yet it is mostly all talk and no action. My oasis of cool air may soon be only a memory as we run out of natural resources that power it. This is happening quickly. This summer I have some choice on whether to be inside where it is comfortable or inside where it is hellish. According to some scientists who study all of this, this choice may disappear in my lifetime. Humans are poisoning and over-fishing, over-farming, over-drilling, over-building, and over-populating our planet, and we may be bringing forth our own demise. Arriving to work in the mornings or in the evenings when it is cooler, will not solve that.

My month-long studio rental is almost over, and what I've accomplished there in addition to the few projects I already mentioned is a renewed appreciation for the comforts I have at home. I'm not taking my a/c, my food, my water, or my air for-granted. I'm not taking our earth for-granted. And, certainly, I'm not taking my being able to make art in the midst of serious environmental collapse for-granted. Making art is a luxury that I hope to enjoy for many years yet. I can do it if I'm comfortable enough.

Lackluster Smoking

2010-06-30T23:35:00.000-04:00

The last post I wrote was about my participation in "smoking" unglazed ceramic pieces to gain tonal variations without color. When I arrived at the ceramics studio to pick up my smoked tile some of the pieces by other people had already been collected. Here is a photograph of the small collection that was left for me to see:

I was rather disappointed in the results. The smoke color did not play up the textures on the clay or in any way enhance the forms. Everything looked pretty much just dirty. Previously, I had painted some high fired tiles with watercolor, and the watercolor sank nicely into the recesses and rolled off the relief surfaces, enhancing what I had built. This was not the way the smoke acted. It indiscriminately singed across the piece in a muddy wash. Truly, I did not spend a long time making my tile. I had to get something done in time to be ready for the smoke fire, and it's probably not my best work. I had hoped for a more dramatic effect, however.
I have seen smoked sculptures that were beautiful. I'm sure there are a few tricks to getting this kind of finish to work for the form, but I don't think anybody was very impressed with our first attempt at this process. I'd pick the watercolor effect any day.

above left: watercolor on porcelain.
below: smoke fired porcelain

Benefits of Smoking

2010-06-15T21:49:00.000-04:00

My parents were militantly against smoking, and one of the most stressful times in our family was after I reported to them my discovery of my older, teen brother's stash of smoking supplies in a thicket in the back field.

Although I never smoked myself, I breathed in vast quantities of second hand smoke as a waitress in NYC before its restaurant smoking ban. I am currently wondering how my non-smoking daughter will deal with roommates or friends smoking at college should that be an issue during her freshman year. Now, having lived away from city air for a couple of decades, I am full of gratitude for the air that smells of honeysuckle or freshly rained on earth. The less one is exposed to smoke, the less tolerance one has for it. Hence my current intolerance for smoke even in forms like incense. We changed our wood-burning fireplace to gas because the little bit of smoke it produced aggravated my otherwise mild asthma. Nothing thrills me now like sweet, clean air.

None of this was on my mind when a ceramist colleague invited a bunch of us over to her rural house to do a "smoke firing" last Monday. I've seen the beautiful, delicate, atmospheric patterns that smoke firings can leave on ceramic pots, and was eager to see how it was done.

A pit for the firing was already in place: a 2 ft. X 4 ft. X maybe 2 ft. deep, dug out dirt hole lined with piled up bricks. We each draped our previously bisque-fired (low-kiln-fired) but unglazed ceramic works in banana peels, copper wire, bamboo leaves, or whatever we could think of that might leave some organic deposit of hue or pattern on the white clay. Then we wrapped each collage in newspaper and set it on a bed of sawdust that had been sprinkled into the bottom of the pit.

All the pieces were "loaded" into the pit, and completely buried in sawdust. Then we laid metal grates across the top of the pit. It was damp that evening, so the newspaper torches didn't want to light. It took quite a few starter nuggets planted into the sawdust to finally catch fire.

Once it looked like the fire would continue, we placed ceramic tiles over grates to make a roof, so the pit would only smoulder, and not blaze. Then we went in to have dinner.

About 45 minutes later we went out to check on our smoking pit, and sure enough, a good stream of smoke was rising up into the treetops, and no flames were leaping out. All looked as it should. However, I had to keep away from the direction of the breezes, because I then realized that, "DUH, a smoke firing was going to make smoke that I wouldn't like to breathe"! As exciting as this was, I wasn't ever going to want to do it myself, since that would entail being in the midst of the smoke at least when getting the pit started.

In a couple of days we will all get our smoke-fired pieces back from the pit, and everyone is looking forward to seeing what happened in there. Did any of the organic matter affect the results? I only had one tile to contribute, but am really curious about how it will look.

I am glad I wasn't the one doing the most attempted lightings, and I hope the benefits of the smoking will be worth it to whoever breathed in the most smoke during the process.

Space, Time and Being Here

2010-05-15T21:44:00.000-04:00

One can certainly look at space and time in a cosmic sense, which is always endlessly fascinating. Catherine Weser, an artist/philosopher friend of mine recently proposed this quote on the topic:

"When we identify ourselves in time, we create more separation. The place of 'oneness' is timeless. It seems the intellect can fathom an existence without spatial dimension much more readily than without temporal dimension."

I kind of "get" that. I read Ram Dass' book, REMEMBER BE HERE NOW years ago. (Book) I set myself to think about this more, and then got derailed into practical interpretations of "space and time" instead. Once again, space and time became decidedly UNcosmic! In the spirit of "going with the flow", I decided to write this post about space and time in the personal, mundane sense that I know so well in my art studio. I can't insert images of my working space here, because it is so full of works for my upcoming show which haven't been exhibited or published yet. I am adding some vignettes of supplies though.

above: a studio supply cabinet

My studio is a reasonable size and working space, even huge compared to some studios of friends, but a staircase that chops it in half leaves it functioning like two rooms instead of the one open space I dream of. Nevertheless, one of my installations for a new piece needs a long, long wall. My longest studio wall has visual interruptions of an ugly baseboard heater, a 7.5' ceiling, and a large worktable. I can't take a complete photo of the piece, let alone do a complete set up of it. I've tried draping the wall, floor, and heater in gray felt for previous photo shoots of other floor standing sculptures, with less than stunning results. Now, with a couple of newly created floor sculptures, I've created an obstacle course to and from the adjoining garage. It's hazardous walking, to put it mildly.

Above: studio storage room

To solve at least the photography part of my problem, I'm subletting the studio of a friend who is going to be away for part of the summer. Even if I do nothing more than re-shoot some pieces and build and paint a pedestal or two, it will help me to breathe. The hardest part will be moving everything there, back home, and then again to the gallery (Rider University Art Gallery in Lawrenceville, NJ) several weeks later for the show. I'm already exhausted in anticipation.

I actually like having a studio at home, and it will be a big adjustment working 1/2 hour drive away. I'm in the habit of running downstairs for an hour or two or three here and there...and it's nice that the dog can enjoy the yard while I work at home. There is no commuting time, so I "save" an hour or more a day. That will all change in the month ahead. My home studio has a sink, the most shallow sink ever, but a luxury nonetheless. The floor is covered in outdated but rather neutral vinyl tiles, on the battered side. This is a good thing, because I don't have to worry about messing up the floor and ruining it, but bad in that the pattern is still screamingly there in photos.

Below: studio floor

Because I work in many different media I have lots of different kinds of supplies, from all kinds of paints and canvases to ceramic glazes and clay tools, linoleum sheets and printing inks, lots of papers, etc.

Below: studio brushes

Below: some of the studio pencils

Below: studio toaster oven (with in-progress "wall flowers")

"Why", you might ask, "does she need a studio toaster oven?" Well, there are some thermo-hardening ceramic glazes that I bake in that, usually on top of conventional kiln-fired glazes or stains, to tweak the colors.

All of the art supplies take up space. Lots of space. The finished artworks take up lots of space, too. So space is always on my mind when I'm working. Time, however, sometimes stands nearly still in the studio when things are rolling along beautifully. "...The place of 'oneness' is timeless...." All artists love that sense of '"oneness" like an addiction. Most days I do have to keep my eye on the clock in order to accomplish my non-art duties. It is a very rare treat when I can ignore time galloping along and work seemingly outside of its constraints. My muse is just cooking hot lately though, and every time I plan to clean up my studio a bit, she opens the floodgates and I end up starting another new piece. And every artist knows, when your muse is with you you'd better go along for the ride or else she may just up and disappear. That just wouldn't be worth it in a practical OR cosmic sense! It's as if there is a muse-artist contract that stipulates, "BE...HERE...NOW".

The Fraternal Twins Devastation and Creation

2010-04-19T08:30:00.000-04:00

This year on the East Coast the month of March was not only a lion, but a raging, biting, rabid beast. It was a wet, wet month. Snow that came down in
February and March as a thick, luxurious blanket of beautiful quiet, turned insidiously destructive. Writing about it now, only a month after the worst storm, surrounded by all sorts of trees and bulbs that are perfuming the spring air with their glorious creations, seems surreal.

March's lions strained so many trees, already soggy from a snow saturated ground, that many giants fell right over. Morning's daylight revealed neighborhood devastation. Beautiful, sky high pine trees had fallen right over, shocking people with their shallow, shallow roots exposed.
Within days of each other torrential rains further weakened the grip of tree roots. Across the street one huge tree fell across the neighbor's driveway, just missing the house, and right nextdoor another fell- luckily downhill, away from the house it would have smashed. Power lines were down and roads flooded. It was a fugue of devastation. Even sunny days later as I walked near the woods there was the crash of a tree giving in to gravity's pull. Our curbs are still piled with cut up trunks and branches in front of nearly every home. Some yards are still littered with storm debris. Yesterday, April 16th, the phone rang with an automated message that our town has been officially declared a "disaster area" with instructions on where to go to file for some help.

And yet today the bulbs bloom, the empty window boxes beckon, the dogwood trees are dressed to the hilt, and birds fly busily gathering nesting material. They must be having an easy time finding broken twigs this year! Temperatures have been in the 80's for days in a row. As I pulled piles of loose downy fluff off the panting dog I wondered if any of those birds would choose to line their nests with that soft insulator. It could make a nest as quiet as the big snow that hushed us through the raging white lion. That beast could not even postpone spring's insistence on creating. If there is a lesson to be learned it seems it would be: Creation follows its sibling Devastation, every time.

This is an old theme, but it recurs regularly with variations across the world as it does in my art-making. Like the birds in search of nesting materials, I have loaded my car with a few especially lichen and moss covered branches that have potential to be sculpture materials. I wouldn't be able to create art from them if Devastation hadn't played with them first.

In another variation of the twin's collaborations a work of art often begins auspiciously, then turns problematic. I often find that attempts to cure or "fix" the problems are dead ends. Instead, if I either transform or even highlight them they become an integral, rich part of the piece. There is a Japanese ceramic technique of highlighting cracks in ceramic bowls with gold. The flaws become the beauty, the character, increasing the value of the piece. This is a lesson art can teach everyone who creates. Mother Earth had fraternal twins and named them Devastation and Creation. We must all negotiate with both of them to succeed in life and in art.

The River Reveals Two Words

2010-02-22T10:15:00.000-05:00

As I work on pieces for my next solo show this September '10 at the Rider University Art Gallery in Lawrenceville, NJ, I'm thinking more and more about the river. I've been out photographing the river, painting the river, making ceramic sections of river, and, crocheting the river. I've lived near the Delaware River for decades, but it's really only recently that I've felt it's grip. I've actually been thinking that I couldn't possibly ever move away from this river. I am increasingly under its spell. There is a word I've recently learned, "solastalgia".

Solastalgia is defined as "the pain experienced when there is recognition that the place where one resides and that one loves is under immediate assault...a form of homesickness one gets when one is still at 'home'". In my case, the pain may be from learning about the immediate assault on our river's essential beauty and the utility of its water due to gas drilling operations. An artist friend who creates beautiful nature-inspired sculpture (www.naomiteppich.com) and lives in Northeaster Pa when she's not in Manhattan, started to send me information on the threats to river water from gas drilling. Our beautiful Delaware river is just one of the many national water treasures slated for, or already being ravaged by the hydraulic fracturing, or "fracking" process that entails from gas drilling. A group of "concerned citizens", www.DamascusCitizens.org , is desperately trying to enlighten people about the environmental and health facts of the gas drilling process. Liz Bucar's blog written from an upstate New York perspective, "Breathing is Political", http://lizjbucar.wordpress.com/ is chock full of readable information. As a Pennsylvania homeowner who got involved when gas drilling arrived at his doorstep, Josh Fox has documented the dangers in film, and the Damascus Citizens' website has links to his award-winning work. The imminent loss of our river as the beautiful ecosystem that we know would be devastating in SO MANY ways! The Damascus Citizens are certainly feeling and being motivated by "solastalgia".

pic: site of Washington's Crossing
The historical importance of the area of the river just a few minutes drive from my house resonates loudly every year when dedicated history buffs re-enact it's Christmas morning crossing by General George Washington and his troops, dressed in period costumes. One year when the river was too low to row a boat across they accomplished "the crossing" on motorcycles over the bridge! Now the sad state of the economy is threatening this hugely significant state park. With only three employees to maintain it, the park is really struggling.

At Canal Frame-Crafts Gallery in Washington Crossing, Pa,

www.CanalFrame.com

owner Deborah Crow, C.P.A. (Certified Picture Framer) is

heavily involved in the history of the region. She is
actively trying to save the Pennsylvania side of the park
from closure, and currently has up a benefit show,
"Rally the Troops".

10a.m.-5pm Tues. through Sat. until March 6, '10,

(hurry up!) one can see this exhibit which showcases works

by many local artists that are related to the area's history.

Go to 1093 General Greene Rd., Washington Crossing, Pa.

(Below L: paintingby James Feehan)

(Above: Giclee print by Gail Bracegirdle)

People like Deborah Crow, the Damascus Citizens, and all artists who have been inspired by the Delaware River region understand the second word I recently learned, "solophilia". Solophilia is "the love of and responsibillity for a place, bioregion, planet and the unity of interrelated interests within it. I think I am definitely developing a version of this affliction as I walk beside and cross the river I know best, The Delaware. I hope my work will express the unity of interrelated art media as well as the unity of interrelated interests along The Delaware, as I create and consider the river in my newest work.

Tree-stamped Life

2010-02-13T23:32:00.000-05:00

Dad bought and
added onto
the tiny house
where I grew up.
Front yard was
edged with
maples.
Side yard held
a big, bold
box elder. That
tree had eight
EIGHT trunks!
Bugs came in,
freely covered
our walls
in their frequent season.

Others may have checked
for bedbugs at night; we
checked for box elders
between sheets.
One year Dad
and Mom, perhaps,
had had enough.
Eight glorious trunks,
cut to the ground.

Dad built a house and planted trees
by the door.
After Mother died
he grew weary of them.
"They drop so many leaves",
he complained.
One day the magnificent magnolias
were exterminated
for their messy ways.

Dad moved into a house enhanced
by tall, tall pines. Grandfather pines!
He immediately cut some down,
explaining to distraught neighbors,
"They were too close
to the house, and could fall." Then, "Oh,
I didn't know they were 'protected'". And,
"What's done is done."

Next, Hurricane Katrina's wrath.
Everyone's tall, tall pines came down,
including more of Dad's,
smashing new roof, new railing and garage.
"You wouldn't recognize the neighborhood,"
he said, "the trees are all
just gone".

Dad moved into a house shaded by old oaks.
The house is "up for sale" now, as they say.
The mowing, the leaf-raking, the yard
is too much for him...
"I'm 88 years old now", he repeats, amazed.
"The plan is to move to an apartment",
this gardener, this grim-tree-reaper and steady tree-planter says now.
"Someone else
can take care of the trees."

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly of Water

2010-02-13T20:56:00.000-05:00

My last post was about the rain barrel project I participated in with the New Jersey Department of Environmental Protection. Here is a photo of my finished rainbarrel, which will be auctioned off after touring the state with those by other artists, in a PR blitz sometime this spring:

Since completing that project I have been scheduled for a solo exhibition in September '10, at the Rider University Art Gallery in Lawrenceville, NJ. Because it is the largest space I've ever been able to show in, it is an opportunity for me to expand the scale of my work in spite of difficult studio size limitations. Water seems to be the dominant theme in my mind lately, and I am working on a mixed media wall relief of a river. I say "a river" to be more geographically inclusive, but the only river I really know is the beautiful Delaware. I'm crocheting parts of a river, painting parts, photographing parts, and making ceramic tiles for parts of this watery line that cuts between New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

This week we were on the receiving end of the worst storm the area has seen in many decades, or so our long-time neighbors say. A foot of snow came down on the several inches that were already there, but it was a heavy, heavy snow. The 30 ft. tall bamboo folded down to the ground under it's weight, and then froze there. Snow = water all dressed up in bridal whites.

It was immensely beautiful as twilight settled in.

Then we began to hear noises. "Wasn't that just the bamboo brushing against the house as it lays down, laden with snow? Shhhh! Was that a branch falling on the roof - no, it wasn't that loud...probably more bamboo moving". Soon the power went out. Nothing new there, it does this almost every time there is a rainstorm. It stayed off. I found and lit candles, remnant ghosts from Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners past. I'd never seen anything like this though: in what should have been the darkness of night, long flashes of light illuminated everything brighter than any July dead noon glare. Pink/white/green/purple light outside as if indeed, the whole world WAS a stage. Was that lightning? Was that some arching electric current? Funny how the mind retrieves phrases stuffed away though not understood. I didn't really know what an "arching electric current" was, but in grasping for explanations for what I was seeing, the phrase came to mind. My daughter recalled the phrase, "thunder snow", which I'd never even heard of before, and I grew up near Chicago, Illinois, where people know their snow!

Hours later, the power came back on, feebly at first, and then for real. We went to sleep amidst the silence that only snow can surround you with. The next morning all of that wet snow's destructive powers were evident. For us, a tree hung alongside our driveway, branches lay everywhere, and another tree fell across and smashed a section of fence. Down the street it looked like a tornado had gone through. Branches and trees were down across the road, making it impassable for several hours. One of the giant, tall pines that edge the street at the southern end and make our street so special, uprooted and fell, just the tips of some branches hitting the brick house it had stood in front of. Yet all of this happened with so little noise! In a summer storm we would have heard great loud crashing and thrashing. In this wet snow-wrapped fury we only heard, "...shhh...was that... something_____?"

Today as I was getting dressed I heard the tiniest "drip...drip...drip..." Of course I looked up. "Funny, I don't see anything". Still, that unmistakable "drip...drip...drip". I opened the shade, hoping to see dripping icicles magically throwing their sound inside the house, but the windows were all wet. I took down the curtains and blinds, and water was dripping from the inside of the window mouldings. UGH. Nothing localized, where a bucket could catch it.

Well the past does haunt: two years ago our handyman was up on the roof and said we needed some extension on the flashing, because the roofer hadn't done it right. He added some sheets of aluminum. Later, the neighborhood yard guy (who nobody likes to call because he is so unreliable and overpriced, but who everyone ends up calling in the inevitable pinch,) was on our roof for something I've forgotten. He wrested the metal sheets off, thinking they were a roof job done wrong. Afterwards, he insisted that we didn't need them. Welcome the big bad snow of '10. Those metal bandaides would probably have saved the bedroom wall. Now nothing can be done with the "situation" until all the snow melts. I could be wringing out wet towels for weeks...

Ahhh, water, with your many faces! So good, so bad, and now so ugly!

Cubism and The Ornery Logic Of Water

2010-01-14T09:48:00.000-05:00

Every time there is a natural disaster, water has to be one of the very first needs to be met. With the recent earthquake in Haiti it is once again a most valuable commodity. I was already thinking about precious water this month though, because I am participating in a rain barrel project with the NJ Dept. of Environmental Protection, Division of Water Supply. The idea is that artists will paint recycled barrels (they once held cranberries), turning them into beautiful works of art to be auctioned off, thus encouraging people to save and reuse the valuable rainwater that would otherwise run off the roofs, out of the gutters and into the sewers. While relief agencies are setting up delivery systems for getting bottled water to Haiti, I am in the process of painting a design on my barrel that I hope will inspire someone here to use it to save more of the water we get from rain. The drawing I submitted for approval was basically a combination of two

already completed paintings, adapted to the water theme. It seemed like an easy adaptation. I would paint something similar to "Cedar Moths", but the cedar cuts would be water rings - the kind you get when you throw a pebble into the lake, and the background would be sky, perhaps with butterflies flitting about in a gentle rain... (no matter that as far as I know butterflies are so delicate that even the gentlest rain would likely pummel them, wouldn't it?)

I painted the barrel with a beautiful blue clouded sky as the first step. It looked great! Right away, the art policeman reared his ugly face though, and I ran into difficulty with this seemingly simple project. I had neglected to thoroughly work out just how I was going to combine an atmospheric background with a flat design, on a round surface. After painting a few dark blue glazes of ovals over my sky for beginnings of the water rings, things weren't looking promising: the art policeman told me that water rings only make sense on the horizontal ground, not up in the sky, and I could see that the round barrel was quarreling with the mixture of flat patterns and illusions of space! Logic is so ornery! Water clearly follows many traffic rules and I was already in a violation.

I decided to proceed with the flatter design route so, I painted out my entire beloved sky, ending up very close to the medium pthalo blue color that the plastic barrel had started off with! Square One. Today I painted water rings, this time as a linear design. Each is at a different perspective, flying every which way over the blue like Larry Poons' ovals. The cedar cuts in my previous painting had worked well that way, I reasoned, and a vertical barrel, after all, is not the ground beneath our feet, so no need to pretend. At this point I became insecure about my water rings, though. Round water ring images do have a way of being more firmly tied to perspective; they are only ever oval because of our viewpoint, and so appear to us in perspective only horizontally. I hope that I won't have to paint them all out again, to redo them as more logical elipses. I hope they will "read" as water rings, no matter their mixed up orientations!

When painting, I often find myself having to make decisions about visual vs. mental logic. i.e., can I get away with this shape here, and then repeat it from the same perspective over there where in the real world it really would be turned? The art police come knocking. You'd think I would have learned to deal with them once and for all as part of my art studies in college, and certainly in graduate school, however they continue to visit me intermittently, making all kinds of threats, and each time I have to learn all over again how to deal with them and their charges.

When Picasso decided to forgo unified perspectives within his "Cubist" paintings, what freedom he must have felt! The nose could suddenly be sideways when the painting asked for the line that shape, not when the "reality" of the face dictated it's frontal symmetry. Why then, don't I take a hint already given? Isn't the key here actually play? If one is playing, one can bend and throw away rules to a joyful result. If one is slaving towards a logical art, (and isn't that an oxymoron anyway!), then one must maintain a unified perspective; one must present water as we know it to be. Logistics. Water. It's a serious job to collect and get water to Haiti, but my project can just celebrate the freedom of art, and be a barrel of fun! It's sort of a Cubist revelation - again.

The Reptile vs. The Lotus

2010-01-07T09:08:00.000-05:00

I've got to start 2010 (HAPPY NEW YEAR!) with a postscript to my last blog post: I found this pertinent little item of information in the New York Times last week: Van Gogh art scholar Martin Baily has discovered that "the artist inflicted injury on his ear after learning that his brother, Theo, was about to get married. Vincent saw the marriage as a threat to his brother's continued emotional and financial support." So we now know the famous ear incident was not an accident, after all. In other words, Vincent van Gogh acted out of that most primitive human instinct, FEAR.

Fear and rage are governed by our oldest and smallest, "primitive" or "reptilian" brain. I first learned about our three brains when I read Robert Bly's woonderful book, LEAPING POETRY, many years ago, and I remain fascinated by this fact: our oldest brain-part is identical to a reptile's entire brain. We have evolved two other, newer brains over this first, innermost one. Why do we have three brains? Evolution! Our more recent brains overlay the primitive one, and take charge of much more sophisticated tasks. The reptilian brain functions from a basic, survival mode. These ideas led me to create my TurtleBaby series.

Basic emotions related to survival, love, hate, fear, etc., all emanate from this first stage of our brain. Yes! I do believe in evolution; even our brains prove to us that it is real. Over millions of years, layers of more sophisticated reasoning have laid structure upon our "primitive" brain, so that we are now capable of complex rational thought (unlike a reptile). Humans have evolved, not only in our brain's physical structure, but in our intellectual capacity. We have incorporated our older brain into our newer brains. When someone is out of control with rage or fear, like Vincent van Gogh was when he cut his ear, they react in non-rational ways because they have ceded their rational thinking in favor of their reptilian brain-based emotions. This is why school children are taught to take some deep breaths and count to 10 when tangling with each other. Sometimes that can turn off the reptilian instinct to fight, and let better and more creative thinking take over. This is what TurtleBaby symbolizes: we are ancient creatures in regards to our primitive tendencies, but we are infants regarding our potential.

I suppose the opposite of reacting from the reptilian brain, the lowest consciousness, would be to express "the sublime", or the brain's most complex workings. This is what Robert Bly referred to as "leaping" in his book. It is that moment when people can experience thought that transcends what is written on the page. It seems to be true that practices like meditation can make the brain more receptive to the sublime by gradually altering its physical structure to have enhanced capability for the experience. Indian art is full of images of the lotus flower as an ancient symbol for the sublime. I've tried it out as an image in my artwork, too, though so far I've found the lowly dandelion to be generally more available and interesting.

Our brains will continue to evolve, if we survive long enough as a species. Perhaps in our far future we will have five brains, the fifth one equipped for functions so complex that...well...it has been found that learning affects the physical state of our brains and like most parents, I am convinced that the younger generation has already evolved a brain more sympathetic to a technology-enhanced lifestyle!

Dandelions are like the reptiles of the plant world. They lack the thrilling fragrance and refinement of other flowers and take over like bullies. Even their leaves resemble the plates on the back of a stegosaurus. People eat those leaves as a cleansing spring tonic, traditionally fighting their bitterness with an addition like salty ham. (Not me, I'm a fish-atarian"). I've done a series of artworks with the UNevolved dandelion plant as my subject. I've tried to see the order in what is a rather disorderly plant. In some pieces I've tried to impose more structure on it.

note: This week I have two pieces on the theme of dandelions in "15 YEARS - ALL TOGETHER NOW", opening Satu. Jan 9th at the Artists' Gallery in Lambertville, New Jersey. The reception is Saturday, January 16th, 6-9pm. http://www.lambertvillearts.com/event_description.php?mo=0&yr=2010

It occurs to me just now, that dandelions are a bit like Van Gogh's sunflowers- wild, sturdy, and a bit unruly, but full of primitive energy!

Is it Necessary? Mud and Van Gogh's Ear

2009-12-07T19:40:00.000-05:00

A friend of my husband's recounted that as a young man he had intended to go to The Art Student's League in NYC, but when he got there everyone was sitting on the floor, and this convinced him it was not the place or the career path for him. He became an engineer instead.

left: Terrible Tragedy, porcelain paperclay

Last week, in making what will be my new batch of porcelain paperclay, I expressed my dislike for sticking my hands into the thick slurry. Another clay artist there offered her own hands, saying how much she loved that feeling, how it brought back the happiness of playing with mud as a child.

Did I never play with mud? All I can remember about mud is how we used it as a balm after bee stings. My sister and I would rush to the hose, blast it into the nakedest soil we could find, and make mud as fast as possible. Then we globbed it onto the sting site, where it seemed to deliver some measure of relief. It was necessary.

below: Celadon Vase, porcelain paperclay.

That didn't work the time a huge bee landed near my eye. I stood like a statue, supressing the inclination to outrun the buzzy beast, while my mother cautioned, "Don't run or it will follow and sting you; stay still and it will leave." I can personally attest to that plan being based on false notions. The bee did leave, but only after stinging. (Was it angry that my blue eye was not a flower after all?) That sting caused my eye to swell shut like a tennis ball in a matter of minutes, just in time for the arrival of our dinner guests, two of whom were children. Their stares told me this evening was going to be seared into their memories, years later coming back up in conversation as, "Remember the time we went to that family's house and their daughter was a monster with a deformed eye?" "Oh yeah, I remember that! That was scary!" Without the mud balm, it took a week for my eye to fully deflate.

But I digress. I was writing not about swollen eyes and social disasters, but about whether an artist needs to get down and dirty or what it means to not do so.

My daughter, a budding artist, gets some measure of glee from getting coated with charcoal. Black streaks smear across her face, hands and arms on a regular basis. It seems her way of proclaiming her artistry to the public. Does physical intimacy with one's medium lead to better, more powerful art? It sounds romantic to answer "yes", but I'm not convinced. My husband has often reported to his colleagues that I could "paint in an evening gown without risking its ruin." It is true that I rarely emerge from my studio covered in whatever I was working with, and were I to move out of my studio tomorrow, future occupants would likely have trouble discerning what the space had recently been used for. The floor is not spattered with paint and there is no odor of lingering turpentine. The main thing I'd leave as evidence is the hundreds of small pushpin and nail holes in the walls, but these are easily filled.

I have been considering the aspect of making art in a state of physical abandonment, but there is also always that sibling state to consider: the state of mental abandonment. Here we arrive at Van Gogh's ear. The big Q: Was it really necessary for him to experience those emotional imbalances in order to make brilliant paintings? An artist/psychologist friend of mine who has extensively researched Van Gogh's creativity thinks not. In fact, he took such offense at my offered birthday game, "Pin the Ear on Van Gogh", that he refused to accept it. He found no kernels of humor in the game and scolded, "He did NOT cut off his ear!" (Evidently and possibly only by accident, he only injured the tip, which produced enough blood to launch the legend.) The "PUBLIC" seems to desire a certain amount of emotional polarity in artists, and after all it is so much more interesting for a bio to read that an artist cut off body parts in a fit of instability than, "he/she led a calm and balanced life". Of course, visiting the emotionally dark places is something we as humans must experience sometime, to some degree, but is it necessary for artistic brilliance? I'm not sure...

If someone who likes to play in the mud is around next time I mix clay, I will again accept their willing hands to do the dirty work. If not,...I'll get clay under my own fingernails, because it's a necessary step, and someone's got to do it.

The Rumbling Thunder of Creativity

2009-11-02T22:00:00.000-05:00

A full storm of creativity is rumbling around the corner. I can feel its gathering energy, its electric, growing thunder; it's a kettle headed towards the rolling boil. It will be an immersion in the loud-ish bath of a sparkling, bubbling spring beneath a steady rain. It will be these things for me.

Meanwhile, I am holdng something in mind, something I first found in a little paperback, SELECTED POEMS, chosen at whim from the bookstore years ago. One poem by Mark Strand remains my all time favorite:

EATING POETRY

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.

Her eyes are sad

and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.

The light is dim.

The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,

their blond legs burn like brush.

The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.

When I get on my knees and lick her hand,

she screams.
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

-Mark Strand

When I am under the spell of this poem I believe that a person can truly exist on the creative realm alone, no further nourishment needed; a person really does not need to keep a stocked refrigerator, laundered clothing or a tidy house. These tasks are just annoying, buzzing flies - distractions from reveling in one's essential being. I do believe I smell ink now...

Reading Tea Leaves & Works of Art

2009-10-25T03:14:00.000-04:00

Every now and then something happens in my life that seems to have been foreshadowed in my artwork. Admittedly this is magical, but it's also very spooky. Perhaps appropriately timed to the re-emerging Halloween mood, this just happened again.

Recently I created a ceramic wall installation, ("Electron Madness") for an exhibition perhaps ominously titled, "Asking For the Fire". This piece's "issues" seemed to mirror "issues" I was having with a friend at the same time. The amount of red I was using in the piece bothered me all along because it looked too violent and angry, and I spent hours gazing at it, imagining ways to keep red's lure without so much of red's in-your-face fierceness. At the same time I found myself tiptoeing on eggshells around my friend's increasingly unstable violatility. Our once entertaining friendship was turning into a mine field already sprinkled with the remains of many of her other acquaintances.

As was probably inevitable, I somehow did crack an eggshell and she blew up and unleashed a mercurial anger unmatched by anything I've personally witnessed outside of a movie. I have led a sheltered life: a polite Midwestern childhood, an intellectually alert family life, and yes, some of that Midwestern emotional flatness that matches the endless stretches of cornfields that are so much of the Illinois landscape. So this in-your-face redness of my artwork and of her anger was something new to me.

I know that artworks try to tell you things, try to tell you their desires, and you just have to listen and learn to hear them. In "Electron Madness" I listened and wrote our "conversation" on the wall as part of the piece. My art was fighting with me over the theme and direction of the work. It was positively crabby. All of this I recorded in pencil, on the wall. I don't thrive in struggle and most of my artwork leans towards calmness, so this process was not my typical creating process. I got the idea to turn the tone of the piece by very consciously adding small touches of spring green to it. The whole thing did seem to calm down just enough. What a relief! Sadly, I can't say the same thing about that friendship. Whereas I succeeded in taming the fires in my artwork, I did not succeed in tamping the fires of a temper gone awry. I decided to give up on attempting to keep up a friendship with someone so high maintenance. There is that spooky feeling, though...The artwork is finished, the friendship is finished, but did I hear EVERYTHING "Electron Madness" was telling me? It's enough to send shivers down my spine...

"Electron Madness" was born while I was thinking about the science movie, "Down the Rabbit Hole", so I was musing about electrons and time and space in quantum terms. Not that I understand quantum theory well at all mind you, but it interests me. The movie brought up the issue of the directional flow of time, and whether the past and present and future can all exist simultaneously. I wonder: if time passing IS only an illusion, and events from all times actually co-exist, could this be why one's art might reflect one's present and even one's future?

(For the complete text copy of the wall installation "Electron Madness" see the next post. It is also on my website: http://www.joykreves.com/large-single-view/Installation%20Artworks/258954-5-21051/Drawing/Pencil/Expressionist.html

Electron Madness Wall Writing

2009-10-25T00:25:00.000-04:00

THE FLOWER REBELLION
“Electrons are the subject of this piece”, I said.
"ELECTRON REVOLT-no- MADNESS... ELECTRON MADNESS."
First they were electrons, moving, crazy, but they all wanted to be red
I gave them a good title: “Electron Madness.” They had their own ideas, though. Before I knew it they were all turning into flowers into pretty little things and soon they were out of control.
I struggled. There was a power grab.
Yes, there was some violence.
They just wanted to manifest manifest manifest.
I tried to discourage them from evolving BUT they had an impulse
To fulfill, a desire, a fate…they were compelled.
“Electrons,” they stated sharply, “are not shy.”
I found them too bold – after all, red is very fierce. (my friend Joan says this)

“Okay,” I said, “but I must maintain control of this piece; I am the artist. So just ONE flower, like an exclamation at the very end. The rest must remain electrons! Well…a second flower snuck itself in and everybody knows you have to have one, three or five, never two or four (unless it’s a very formalist piece) so now there are five… All that red was just disturbing, too. It was all blood and strife
Finally I understood, the flowers taught me this - green always lies beneath red (even symbolically).
When I added bits of lively green
the whole piece breathed relaxed sighed.
The fire of transformation _ GREEN !