Joan Brown Posthumous Retrospective ~ Inspiration and Self-Reflection

I’m not any one thing: I’m not just a teacher, I’m not just a mother, I’m not just a painter, I’m all these things plus, and the more areas I can tap, the richer each one of the others will be.

— Joan Brown (1938-1990)

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This past weekend included a trip to the San Jose art museum. I was browsing through the entertainment section of the local online paper and was pulled into the title, "This Kind of Bird Flies Backward." I continued reading about the artist, Joan Brown, a bay area resident and professor at the University of Berkeley, California. She died in 1990 when a falling “concrete turret” crashed down and killed her while installing her art work in a museum in India. 

Joan Brown's self-reflective qualities and strong spirit caught my soul’s attention. Not seeming to want to make bold verbal statements about issues, she maintained her own voice and authenticity by tackling issues of the time in her own space, but without the need to flaunt nor speak of them directly.

As I wound myself through her exhibit, reading the informational placards along the way, I found myself knowing Joan Brown, both admiring her evolution as an artist, and feeling deeply inspired. 

I haven't sketched or attempted to paint a self-portrait in at least 10 to 15 years but seeing her own self-portraits reminded me how much I enjoyed trying to render myself, even though the result was not flattering in my eyes and often very rough but nevertheless— revealing.

 

Joan Brown's early paintings are painted thick. I too enjoy the textures and visceralness that thick paint invites—working thick and loose, free and maybe even sloppy in a non-sloppy way. As she evolves, she loses the thickness and her paintings become large and smooth with vibrant colors.

There is much of  Joan Brown to soak up in this exhibit. One of my favorites is a huge canvas with a fish that takes up practically the whole space. We connected from that great distance, periwinkle blue, other pretty pinks and vibrant Easter type colors sent my mouth slightly agape —like seeing a long lost relation—the painting itself connected with me from a distance—and then I walked up to it—and there she was, amongst happy colors standing in the mouth of the fish—Joan smiling back at us. 

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Part of what brought me to the page this morning was that I attempted to sketch a self-portrait of myself last night. I was in the store and went to the stationery section, and over to the far right crayons and sketch books beckoned me. So this photo is a self-portrait sketch. It began with me, holding the sketch pad up with one hand, pencil in the other, and my own reflection looking back. When I was done, there was a certain familiarity both in self and also in style to past attempts. I then added the puck ears which is also familiar; the moon, butterfly, and other squiggles. 

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San Jose Museum of Art

http://www.sanjosemuseumofart.org/

This Kind of Bird Flies Backward: Paintings by Joan Brown.  Those of you who are interested in exploring her art and learning about the artist, can explore here. You won’t see all of the paintings, but you will get a glimmer.

http://www.sanjosemuseumofart.org/joan-brown/index.html

You can learn a little bit more about the title of the exhibition at the above website. Here is Diane Di Prima’s poem, “The Window” from her collection of poetry, This Kind of Bird Flies Backward, that line also from this poem.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242640

Article that was the reason I was fortunate to know of and see her exhibit. It goes through March 11, 2012, for any of you bay area residents that would like to visit.

http://www.mercurynews.com/museums-galleries/ci_19097389

Rubber Stamps

Over the weekend I was in the mood to go thrift store browsing. We stopped at one that is a quaint cottage style shop. It looks like it used to be a small home. It took me a while to get past the entrance of books stacked to greet visitors. I found two. Then as I edged my way into the store I was plopped right into Halloween: Cobwebs, Halloween jars, a strangely wicked old wooden puppet on a string; purples and silver; orange glimmering. It was a visual whirlwind of razzle-dazzle all around this small cottage.

My eyes darted as though following a maze, viewing all the interesting items. Something caught my eye that was nestled among some Halloween knick-knacks. It was a bag of rubber stamps. I crouched down to take a closer look. They were wooden stamps. Childhood was nearby. I remembered how much I loved rubber stamps as a child and the different ones flooded into my memory bank—Hello Kitty, farm animals, date stamps, smiley face stamps, and other random novelty stamps I’d collected as a child.

I turned the bag over in my hand to see if I could see what was on these stamps. I recognized the company—The Oakland Stamp Company—and how my older brother had a custom stamp made for me as a gift. I loved that stamp. It had my name and address in beautiful script letters. I was too young to pay bills; as I grew old enough to have more reason to use it appropriately, I began stamping the return address on envelopes for bills and letters. So when I saw this bag of stamps, I felt that I wanted it. It was $10.  Not bad, a little more than I wanted to spend. As I turned the bag of stamps over in my hands, trying to peek inside without opening it, I saw that they told a unique story and I wanted them. Some of the stamps I could see were “beef stew,” “ground round,” a cat, “in confidence,” other creatures, and “have a nice life.”

I suppose that nostalgia go a hold of me. I  hold on not  with a tight grip, rather with a loose string connected to a past that slips by, not a straight string, but one that has offshoots that go in all directions. I want to have a little something so simple to sit there beside the other advancements that inevitably replace that which is deemed no longer relevant.

Open palms

Open palms
White wings brush against my cheek
Free at last...joined with the Kingdom of God.

Because Art is on My Mind

Photo of Rebb's Little Notebook

How is it that we can possibly remember without a word, an image—some small gesture to seal the experience into our inner selves?

I was taken aback by the variety of artistic expression that I saw in the Portland Art Museum. I saw a wide variety of different styles techniques and inspiration that the artists expressed. I saw the texture of a diamond in one of the paintings—an artist that worked in a jewelry store. I saw it. It was fascinating to recognize it and then have it confirmed in learning about the artist. There was another painting where the artist was inspired by the Portland landscape and the way he captured it from an aerial view was very appealing and I could see it that way from the airplane ride. It was unmistakably Portland.

When I saw one of Monet's Water Lilies paintings, it didn't dazzle me the way it has in books. I was disappointed in being disappointed. There were many cases where I wondered how much of a role the art frame played in the experience of the whole piece of art. Also in the back of my mind was the question of who decides—what, when, where, how does an artist receive his or her acclaim? It is truly a subjective experience and some never live to see their acceptance.

I saw many pieces that I did not connect with and naturally a part of me would want to judge and that’s alright. How do we know if we don’t somehow judge for ourselves— either with a positive or negative reaction? I also thought about how there are artists with great technical abilities and others with a keen eye for color and shape.

There is a spot for all artists, whether in museums or sealed into books—or whatever artistic form the passion manifests. Some will be able to sustain themselves monetarily on their passion and others may not see that day. I enjoy the arts very much; I enjoy the act of being touched by another and it helps to know something about the artist in order to meet them in their world—to sort of cross over into their psyche—into their inner landscape.

Some artists are more relatable as a whole, while others impact people on an individual level, and what makes that so, I wonder? The question, I suppose, is a subjective one—a wonderfully subjective question with endless answers that can be engaged at different points in life when we meet the artist and ourselves again and again.

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Photo is of Rebb’s little notebook, one of a few that went with her last year for a short jaunt to Portland. She is still processing the experience and decided to share what was on her mind at that time when she visited the museum. She added a few thoughts that cropped in presently.

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Have a nice weekend and may your creativity soar!

Small Remembrance for Steve Jobs

I feel sad to hear of the passing of Steve Jobs and as I continue reading more in the news from people that had the opportunity to work close with him, I feel more saddened. But as he himself was quoted as saying, “…death is the destination we all share...” I will add his memory to my memory box of October remembrances. I will celebrate quietly that I was able to open myself to the Apple phenomenon. I feel changed, more fulfilled, connected to a small part of my past.

I have not been an Apple fan from the beginning. I was slow to join, but now I know. And even if just a little bit, I feel lucky to have a little piece of Steve Jobs through my little iPod Touch. Every time I turn it on, I will know that I hold a token of his brilliance in my pouch.

I may not have known you, Steve, but I feel greatly touched by you and I wish you well on the other side; and I wish your family and loved ones peace and love.

This photo was taken at a small international festival where they had many different types of food to try. This was one of the decorations out front of the booth of the Philippines. I was immediately drawn to it, and I offer it here as a source of radiating light.

Dear October,

I wrote to you this morning while I was on the brink of waking. I felt calm as I was writing to you especially after having an unsound sleep, getting over something—the food I ate? The change of weather? The usual. What I noticed—and I remember this feeling from childhood is of not being able to be still in my thoughts. I was feverish and also had chills, off and on, my head ached horribly—all I could do was sleep—and thoughts and images would not leave me be. They seemed to be going at a rate that made me feel things were moving quickly. I would try to watch them fly by and then I would also think of things that bring me calm. Trees. Breathing. Ocean. They helped, but feeling as though I was in a mad whirlwind of worry made me realize that it’s part of  you, dear, October, more than any month.

Dear October,

You bring life and death—new beginnings. You are a dark cloth with vents that allow the air and light to shine in. You are a month that contains many intersections for me—a month to remember—a month that is both heavy and light.

I look to you October with a hesitation and at the same time I look to you with all my might. I stand at your outer edges and I jump high, leap, open my arms and move forward into love.

That’s all that I can muster for now, October. I know there will be more.

Photo of Shadow for Keiko

This is Shadow and the first time I met her was during a camping trip on this past Labor Day weekend. She's my significant other's cousin's dog. This first photo is a little blurry because she moved.

 This is the cousin's girlfriend's dog. Her name is Bambi. There were other dogs on the campsite. Shadow was very protective and growled when a dog came over, so they had to keep a good eye on her. She is a sweetie though.I took her for a walk around the water and she was happy sniffing everything. You could tell she was trying to get a sense of where she was. Bambi slept a lot. I don't know much about Shadow's history.