storm

last night, a storm rode in from the alps

distant thunder rumbled, hungry and threatening.

the sky blackened and lightning ripped the dark.

the winds came.  like invisible giants shouldering the trees out of their  way.

short lived, anger spent. tempers cooled by rain.

wish it had lasted longer.

Meow.

Spring.  Everything new, fresh, filled with possibilities and potential.

I was looking forward to this Spring even more than I usually do, since I'd decided to take the plunge and rent myself a studio space as of April 1st.  The room I'd been using in our flat was too small and I have so far, two upcoming shows to get ready for - one next month, and a big one next Spring.

It's a pleasant half-hour bike ride to get into town to the studio.  The route passes a pond with ducks, geese, and a pair of swans before becoming truly urban.

Unfortunately by the end of April, I'd handed in my (three months') notice.  (It's a partially shared space and there are "irreconcilable differences" between me and my studio mate, whom I'm subletting from.)

Like every cat I've ever lived with, when things are up in the air regarding my living or working space, I tend to want to hide under the sofa until things settle down.  I've been doing the creative equivalent of that lately.  My great plans for a new series for my June show have amounted - so far - only to one small finished painting, two almost finished large ones, and four incomplete smaller ones.

Small, finished painting.  80 x 80 cm.  Oil on canvas.

This was my second attempt at renting a studio here in Munich.  (There aren't many available, and rents are insane.)  At what point do you start to think...um...maybe it's me? 

What I must make a point of doing when nothing productive is coming out of my studio time - rather than sitting there with a knot in my chest, wondering whether at 42 it's not too late to take up accounting or taxi driving - is to get out into nature.  I know this, but don't do it nearly as often as I should.

The other day, however, I took heed and climbed a hill in the forest just south of here.  The air was fairly clear and The Alps were just visible on the horizon.

Horizon.  Perspective.  Two smack-you-upside-the-head lessons from nature right there.

I returned home from that outing with some queen anne's lace, forget-me-nots, and buttercups.  Some of my favourite flowers.

Something beautiful to look at, to think about.  A pinch of nature.  Tossed into the brew.

poemcards

These are the results of the postcards I mentioned two posts back.  (Only two posts, but many, many weeks I'm afraid.  Been a bit preoccupied lately.)  There was one for Valerianna, for Donna, for Jan, and for Velma.   Thanks for taking me up on this fun project.  

I wasn't sure what exactly I was going to make at first, but thinking about what I know of these four creative women from their blogs, and thinking of what I sorts of things I like to create, I decided on poemcards.  

Four cards.  Four poems.  To be read separately or all together as a larger poem-story.  

once upon a dream

in a city of lapis and amber

snaked narrow passages 

dusted with gold

there lived an old woman

with eyes of coral

who spun mysteries

with the silk of her song

in the sweet pit of night

she sang dreams

carried on the warm 

breath of ravens

after a lifetime of singing

dreams for others

she knew it was time to sing

a silken dream of her own

Blue.

The skies were grey for far too long, yet somehow in this change, there's a certain sweet melancholy.

My youngest made a nest for me from pussy willow.

Spring.  Nests.  Home.  Beginnings.
These thoughts are making their way into my paintings.
I feel as though I'm at a precipice of new possibilities.  A fundamental turning.
 

One I look forward to exploring; in my painting and writing.    

letter writing

In the long and lazy past; in those almost unfathomable pre internet-and-e-mail days, I used to get great pleasure from writing and receiving letters.

It started when I was quite young, perhaps grade two, when my best friend Zeenat moved away from Toronto, to Nairobi.  I used to love receiving her whisper-thin, crinkly blue, self-sealing air-mail letters.  On the front were stamps showing animals I'd only ever seen in books or on nature programmes.  I'd tear the edges open, and on the inside would be stories about her life in a land half-way around the world.  We did this for a few years until the letters petered out and we eventually lost touch.

Since then, I've had letter exchanges with a few friends, but in the past few years - and I do blame e-mail for this as much as my own confounded laziness - it's dwindled.

I love the physical act of writing on paper.  I love being able to tuck photos, drawings, other miscellany into an envelope and post it to a friend.  But I haven't been doing that lately.  It is so much quicker to fire off an e-mail.  (I rarely use the phone - I have an almost pathological dislike of talking on the phone.)

Recently I was reading a post on Alisa Golden's blog.  Alisa is an artist, writer, and maker of beautiful books.  Her post  "Save The Paper Mail" was an answer to recent concern about the trend away from letter writing.  I was so gung-ho that I posted a comment, and as I was one of the first three to do so, was lucky enough to receive a lovely hand made postcard.  Did I mention she's also a fabulous calligraphist.

In my comment, I mentioned that my dear friend, Kristin, who lives in Vernon, British Columbia (a world away it seems), knows a woman who's started a once a month letter writing club there in the Gallery Vertigo.  Cards made by local artists as well as stamps are available to purchase; there are tables and chairs; and most importantly, an environment to encourage the art of letter writing.  Groups like it exist in many places as people are drawn, more and more, to putting pen to paper and stamp to envelope.

So, last week I bought a pad of paper and a packet of envelopes.  It's good to get back at it.  I just hope I can stick to it.

I would also like to offer, in the spirit of Alisa's post, to send off hand made postcards to anyone who might be interested.  Just let me know in a comment (e-mail me your address) and I'd be happy to do so.

The wonderful Winterson once again.

(new work in oil, gold leaf and cold wax on wood panel 50cm x 50cm)

This is not the first time I've quoted writer Jeanette Winterson on my blog.  She manages to express thoughts in such a beautifully clear, succinct, and often brutally honest way.

This past Friday, she participated in a one hour live webchat with the Books section of the Guardian online.  The conversation can be found here.

One of Winterson's comments particularly struck me:


"Life has an inside as well as an outside.  Consumer culture directs all resources and attention to life on the outside.  What happens to the inner life?  Art is never a luxury because it stimulates and responds to the inner life.  We are badly out of balance.  I don't think of art / creativity as a substitute for anything else.  I see it as a powerful expression of our humanity - and on the side of humanity under threat.  If we say art is a luxury, we might as well say that being human is a luxury."


Wish I could have put it so well when I've met people who think of art / creativity as a frivolous, indulgent pursuit.

the organ grinder

The other day, sitting at my desk, I heard unfamiliar strains of music coming from the yard.  
At the far end of the lane stood a black-cloaked and top-hatted organ grinder.
A mother holding a child danced to his tune.

He would play one or two, then move on a few yards and play some more, looking up as windows opened and people smiled down, tossing coins wrapped in a paper serviettes and coloured envelopes.  It used to be they'd wrap them in cloth handkerchiefs.

The sound from his organ was both haunting and joyful as it carried through the winter air.

He graciously allowed me to take his photo from my window.

He completed his circuit of our yard and left, leaving many of us with spirits uplifted.  A lovely gift on a grey Winter's day.