Inspiration: Sharing Faces

First Painting: Aboriginal Spirit 1999


I have been inspired by Vincent and Keiko's response to "Marigold," as well as Vincent's mention of the artist, David Hockney. After first browsing the web, I felt that I needed to see more, learn more. I liked what I was seeing. The following day, I checked the library system, found a good selection, and went to check out, Hockney's Pictrues: The Definitive Retrospective: Compiled with Commentary by David Hockney. As I read Hockney’s introduction entitled, "Introduction: Loving the world with new eyes," I felt excited.

As I flip through the pages of his body of work reading the short insightful bursts of commentary , I feel as though I am seeing for the first time. I’m looking closer at how he achieves what I see on the page, and realize that everyday is an opportunity to view the world this way, to look and search for a different angle, a different twist. And depicted either through word or picture images, the one influences the other.

The way Hockney experimented with many different mediums, and his study of space, water, and movement amaze me. Also, I appreciate how he brings cubism to a different level with his paintings and his photo collages. It provides a new lens for me. His use of color makes me want to jump into many of his paintings and stay there awhile. Interestingly, I am enjoying his still life and abstract paintings much more than his work portraying people. Usually a piece of art or photo can be more interesting when there is a person involved, but I don't particularly care for his people. I find that odd because for example, I love Van Gogh's people. He is one of my most favorite artists. However, I am a little over half-way through the images. I wanted to take a pause to reflect, so I may go back and have a different experience.

Viewing Hockney's images, especially the ones filled with color, bring to the forefront a few of the faces that I painted many years ago. The colors feel in symmetry with his in some ways. I am also feeling ready to start experimenting again with the different mediums. Oh, how I love finding inspiration everywhere! Here, there, nowhere, right now…

**

This first painting above was born in 1999. It was done from my mind. I remember the ironing board was setup between the kitchen and the living room. I had my new paints laid out and my little canvas placed atop some newspapers. I started with the background color and then without sketching, took paint straight to canvas and just began my face. There was a time that I was interested in faces and even self-portraits; again, Van Gogh’s work being a great inspiration in the use of color and texture. It didn’t have a title until I decided to share it about a year ago when it received its name: First Painting: Aboriginal Spirit 1999.

A few more faces...

1999


2000?


July 2000


In Mourning ~ November 2001


July 2000


This last painting is one of my favorites because when I look at it, it makes me happy. I remember that I was lost in the painting, again no set direction. Jazz fusion music was playing in the background and I was sitting on the floor with this one. I don’t usually use an easel to paint. When I first shared this on another blog in September of 2009, looking again at the painting inspired this poem and so he got his name:

Jeremiah Clancey Jones

Where did he come from? A name dropped into
consciousness upon reflection of that
blue canvas, welcome eyes: Jeremiah Clancey Jones.
Out of somewhere he came.

Contemplating the painting,
Finished, yet unfinished like the rest,
inspired
hovered above
the canvas
on the floor, brush in hand,
listening to fusion jazz .
Sporadic,
energetic,
high intensity,
rat-tat-tat to the canvas,
a friendly face appears,
and until today he had no name.

**

After reposting these images, I realize that they tell a history that even I cannot fully grasp. They were done at a time when I was who I am today, yet I was also still evolving, am still evolving until death do us part; and I hope that doesn’t come across inflated in anyway. It’s just such an indescribable feeling to be able to view oneself in retrospect and to know that you were what you were then, and you are what you are now, and that life continues to bounce, to flourish, in ways that come more to life with the sharing. Thank you to all of you for your continued inspiration through your blogs and sharing of your lives, your oceans!

River of Peace

Two swords cross
through the center of
a lotus blossom
Four cranes, paper pinwheels
Moon in Libra
Soft green light flows
the color of peacock feathers
mixed with white, fading up
into soft yellow sunshine

Two angels suspended from the edges
of the sword’s handles.
Two smaller swords,
one at top, one at bottom,
both pointing upward. At the tip
of the top, the moon sits—a sliver.
At bottom, the scales of Libra,
a perfect union. Peace.

**

Inspired from today’s Tarot card: 2 Swords: Peace. I looked deeply at the image, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, opened my eyes, and described how I visually see the card.

Marigold

Here I stand upon the ship,
in shorts, a blue and white summer top.

White canvas shoes dig into the platform,
hold me up, as my hands hoist down the long
cotton rope with its many knots. I then lower it,
lower it into the deep marigold abyss. The rope snaps,
I topple over in slow motion,
feel the wind wrap around me as I fall. A scream
tries to surface, but only silence.

My body reaches the heaviness of the water, a hard slap
on my whole being, as I plunge down…down.
I fight it. I’m sinking. I panic and then…and then,
just when I feel as though I’ve died, I stop fighting,
give into to the weightlessness and there I stay.

Book: The Geography of Bliss

Last year’s Book Lover’s page-a-day calendar wasn’t too exciting, but this year’s seems to have a lot of intriguing titles. I’ve begun to amass not only piles of physical books to be read, but now I have a pile of calendar pages scattered about. Some may never see themselves into my hands.

One that I recently finished was The Geography of Bliss: One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World by Eric Weiner (2008). I must admit that when I first began the book, the introduction had me, but once I got to chapter one: “The Netherlands: Happiness Is a Number,” I almost stopped reading. Was it out of boredom, was I not relating? I’m not sure. After setting the book aside for a few days, I decided to come back to it again, give it another go. I’m glad I did. Weiner’s style had me laughing through the book and I found that he held my attention and had interesting observations.

The countries he visited and reported on were The Netherlands, Switzerland, Bhutan, Qatar, Iceland, Moldova, Thailand, Great Britain, India, and America. The subtitles to each chapter alone gave me a laugh or a smile. You can purchase or search inside the book at Amazon.

Book: The Geography of Bliss

The chapter that resonated with me most was the one on Iceland where “Happiness is Failure.” It made an impression on me for several reasons:

-The relationship Icelanders have with their language and the joy they get from it;

-Everyone seems to be an artist of some kind;

-Weiner observed that there did not seem to be much envy in Iceland.

-On Failure. In a conversation with an interesting Icelander, Larus had this to say: “Failure doesn’t carry a stigma in Iceland. In fact, in a way, we admire failures” (pg. 163). Of course, Weiner’s reaction was such that anyone would share. What!? And to answer his confusion, Larus, replied, “Let me put it this way. We like people who fail if they fail with the best intentions. Maybe they failed because they weren’t ruthless enough, for instance” (pg. 163). This alone is a great bit of wisdom to reflect upon, for how many times do we find ourselves afraid to do something because of our fear to fail? It’s so valuable to be able to see how other people from different cultures deal with common issues, with being human.

The Geography of Bliss left me with a lot to contemplate, other views to consider. It was insightful and fun to go along for the ride with Weiner on his quest to explore his nagging question.

Endnote:

It’s ironic that I wasn’t in the right “place” when I first started the book and all it took was coming back with a new day’s mindset, finding myself loving the “place(s)” that I then found myself traveling into.

Song/Movie

When I’m driving along and bounce from radio station to radio station, I love it when a song makes me start tapping my foot and swaying my body. This song, “Hey, Soul Sister” by Train is that song.

song

**

I just saw the movie, City Island, a couple weeks ago. I haven’t laughed this much in a long time. I really like Andy Garcia, and he did an outstanding job, as did the whole cast. Rife with family dysfunction, it isn’t always pretty, but it’s sure to make you laugh, maybe even cry a little.

Ode to Teachers: The Traditional, non-traditional, and everyone in between

When did I learn to fly?

They say that, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I know that’s not true. These words ring in my ears. The words sting, bur into the soul, seep the life out of you. Yes, the words hurt. However, the words can also be turned into kindling, spark a light—to say in turn, “Your words are not true!” No, I am not stupid, Mrs. H. Just because I’m quiet, just because my classmate whom I’m partnered with also doesn’t understand this grammar crap, does not mean we are stupid. Shame on you, Mrs. H, to look me in the eyes, and with the coldest tone ask, “What…are you stupid?” But of course, this is high school—what seems now eons ago. I had other concerns, inner turmoil, and was too timid to stick up for myself.

It didn’t get much better. It was a long slow process. My first junior college course was a disaster. I remember you well, Mrs. M. When we met to discuss my paper during class and you said with a nonchalant air, “I don’t know…This essay—It sounds like you were on something.” I look at you in shock. Am I hearing you right? True that I didn’t follow the assignment exactly. I was exploring myself. I was writing about my experience, my feelings, inspired by my explorations of the Eastern traditions. “Ah…,”you say, “now I understand. My sister’s into that and I can never understand her letters to me. But this is really off topic, and it’s all over the place. It’s a “D” but I gave you a “C.” I suggest you drop the class.

Why didn’t I quit? No one really encouraged me. I don’t know exactly, but I didn’t give up. There were more discouraging words at different times, but I kept on. I knew it wasn’t all their fault. I knew I wasn’t up to par. Grammar was still a chore and I wasn’t writing complete or organized thoughts. I kept enrolling in English courses and studying on my own, determined to succeed. And at the same time, I dropped many courses when I couldn’t handle the anxiety of speaking in class. It made the road that much longer. But I have no regrets.

When I first felt like I was flying, it was in Mr. Gustavson’s English writing development course for folks like me who still needed help with writing college level papers. We kept journals. “Write everything, don’t hold back,” he told us. I wrote every bloody thing down, but this time, I wrote about my days, about the mundane. I didn’t hold back. I surprised myself. I remember one day he was standing up in front of the class reading examples anonymously. I was listening intently and then I heard familiar musings. He’s reading my journal. I felt the heat rise on my face. I was startled to hear my words flow out of his mouth and when he finished he said, “Now does it sound like she’s having trouble getting her words out?” I can’t even describe how good it made me feel to hear myself up there through him, to actually hear something positive instead of the usual unconstructive criticism. It was a small moment and one that I cherish. It felt like I was getting there.

And then I continued flying in Mr. Hurley’s Freshman English class. Looking back, He was one of the biggest inspirations on my road—for the love of language, writing, reading. He was a kind teacher, very passionate about teaching itself and passionate about the students. In addition to the comments he made on our papers, he would attach a little grid of the different elements of the essay and he would put a check mark next to where our writing fell in that grid, and if need be, he’d add a few more comments. I loved this. I could really see where I needed to focus my attention. I was still on my way, making the small climb. I got a “C” in his class, but more important, I felt like I was in a constructive and supportive environment. I even had to interview someone for one of my papers, which was very scary for me at the time. During an exercise where Mr. Hurley had us pick a few quotes that really stood out for us to discuss. This is one from Susan Faludi that has remained with me: “My barracuda blurbs belie my timorous demeanor.” The cadence and potency of these words—they have become a sort of mantra for me.

I began improving steadily and could not get enough English courses. One last fond flight is from a journalism course on writing the feature story. The instructor started us out with reading two articles about teaching and then she wanted us to write a comparison/contrast reaction. She posted all of the student’s responses without names and wanted us to comment on what we liked and didn’t like. There were a few students who left comments under my paper that said, “I’d like to write like this.” I was in utter amazement and felt such joy. I do remember being absorbed in the assignment, being passionate, letting go, and finally editing and cleaning it up best I could. Even though this wasn’t graded and was just a warm up, I still wanted to do my best in my way, and that’s probably what the students reacted to. However, little did we know this was an exercise in how not to write a feature. After all the students had reacted to our essays, the instructor chimed in and said that while most of these essays were fine in their own right, they were not acceptable for feature writing and she proceeded to tell us why. And so the class began. It was a valuable course, and at times I felt like quitting because it was a different style of writing for me, but I relished in the challenge.

There are so many more positive experiences I’ve had since Mrs. H and Mrs. M. that put the hurtful ones into perspective. And quite honestly, if I didn’t have the negative experiences, I don’t know if I would be here today: Appreciative; both humbled and lifted; passionate about language and expressing myself in a way that is sometimes messy and sometimes neat, but always with passion.

No, I did not forget, but I forgive the hurtful words. I’m still flying, though, still trying to figure out exactly why God put me here. I’m still trying to find new ways to come out of my comfort zone, while respecting my introverted nature. I dream of one day inspiring and encouraging on a large scale, which in my world, will be a small scale. I’d like to provide a safe place, to provide a nurturing and supportive environment that allows for self-exploration, builds self-esteem and helps people find the confidence within themselves to keep turning the sometimes hurtful outer and inner words into gold.

The Sound of Wings

A weary beginning to the day. Not a too sound night. Asleep with a low lamp on. Woken by the sound of a clickity-buzz and then a soft landing right next to my ear. I quickly sit up, look to find a cricket that managed to miss my head by millimeters. He flew into the pillow beside me and was nestled inside, right at the edge. In swift fashion, I get up to grab my glass and small book. Scoot—in he goes. I set the glass covered with the book on top on the kitchen counter until morning to release him.

I’ve grown accustomed to the sound the spider makes when he sometimes jumps down upon the chest of drawers or some other hard surface. And I’ve grown accustomed to look for him in the crevices he likes to wedge himself into and sometimes when I wake in the night, I look to make sure he’s not above me. I prefer when he’s not above me, prefer when he’s in his corner. This one in particular, is too hard to capture because he stays up high, and when he comes down the wall, he’s quick. Always, if I can, I take spiders outside. One day recently though, he or she was much too large for me to handle and I had to do what I didn’t want to do. I wrote about the experience in my notebook. I still feel traumatized by the whole thing and I suppose it is still filtering out of my system.

I much prefer the sound of a million wings flying through the sky…