Artist, Designer, Traveler, Writer, Photographer

POETRY

I DREAMED OF THE RED MOON

With this Post I re-visit an event which took place decades ago. It was a time when I was inhabiting a very powerful dream life, one that influenced and inspired much of my art. It was a time of earnest searching for understanding not only of the amazing events of my dream landscape but for information that exists beyond our physical time and space parameters-the metaphysical.

From sleep came this poem. It seemed to be coming from someone else, a source unknown consciously. It seemed to be “dictated” to me, and so I did my best to write what was told. The original text came on the 24th of August, 1981. I considered it finished with some minor revisions on the 14th of September, 1981. Much later, in 1992, I made a small accordion book and transcribed the poem into it and added some original art as well.

As we now witness frightening events in our world I remembered the book and its contents and have been considering the powerful words in the poem. Could this poem have relevance to the state of the world today? Have we come to the place foretold in this poem?

I DREAMED OF THE RED MOON

 The burnt moon that hung blood red

In fragments descended

On the broad horizon

And loomed on the brink of certain fortuitous events

Nestled unborn within.

All that came before was unknown

And all after foretold by me

As prophet,

Pointing to a page,

Circling the natal date,

The Second Coming.

 

The blind can only see in dreams

What lies before scaly eyes by day.

I am Christa.

You know who I am by the stench of birth,

By the sway of pillars falling,

Crashing glass.

 

Man, helpless before his own inventions,

Stands now, naked in the perfumed rain,

Face to face with the Being he has created,

Not against his will,

But in fulfillment of the Time he has chosen.

From the ashes and the cinders,

Deep from the blackened skies,

Comes a necessary miracle,

Old and new, springing alive

As it has always been,

Free of itself,

Unclothed in timeworn vestments

So long held dear.

The miracle looks inward upon itself

Who are you and all who breathe.

Though we have lied to ourselves for long,

And covered frightened eyes with denial,

The moment of truth is with us,

Now, as always.

Sleep no more by day,

But remember yourself in the night,

For we are our own salvation.

 -8/24/81 and 9/14/81  Norfolk, Virginia

I find it strange that, unexpectedly, I again live in the same city as when the poem was written so long ago. Am I watching the events of the poem unfold?

I DREAMED THE RED MOON

I DREAMED OF THE RED MOON

 

 

 

 

 


WORD AND IMAGE

As I am in the midst of a fallow period of making art, it seems a good time to pursue in earnest a book project that I have been thinking about for some time. It is very tentatively titled “WORD AND IMAGE”. In this book I will look at how writing or text, language, books, and book forms, intersect with my other methods of making art. I have decided to approach the book by organizing my thoughts in a series of blog posts.

As I look over years of work, I am surprised at how often the visual art and the written word are connected. And as I begin to analyze and choose the pieces to include in the book questions arise. What was the impetus for each piece? Does the work relate not only to aspects of my personal life but to the culture of the time? There is a kind of timeline which follows my life as an artist, but also, unexpectedly, as a writer as well. The book gives me the opportunity to see the larger picture of the journey as both visual artist and writer.

Some of the works I have decided to include in the book have appeared on this blog in the past, beginning with what I believe is the one of the first combining text and image, “The Male Audience”, 1980. (see “Works On Paper: A Feminist Aspect”).

The Male Audience 1980 colored pencil, collage on paper 8.5 x 11.5 inches

The Male Audience 1980 colored pencil, collage on paper 8.5 x 11.5 inches

THE MALE AUDIENCE 1980   Colored pencil, collage on Xerox text   8.5 x 11 inches

This piece reflects time and place in society at large and in my own personal life. I was in the midst of my last year of returning to school as a “mature” student to finish my undergraduate degree. It had to be in teaching. No studio specialty existed. It was a time of ferment, especially among female students. We were influenced and mentored by great faculty who brought to our small-town school people like Miriam Schapiro, exhibits from New York by people like the Conceptual artist Arakawa, a show of watercolors by “the” Turner, and more. It was a fortuitous gathering and an exciting environment in which we were encouraged to break out of old thinking and explore ideas that were happening in the faraway realm of “real art” in places like New York.

That year had a profound influence on my future as an artist and this influence is reflected in “The Male Audience”, created a few years later in 1980.

The text is from spirited feminist writing published in a 1975 journal about the value of women and women’s work in the arts in contemporary time as well as in history. The collaged figure is from a page in a Playboy magazine, commonly found in the Seventies and Eighties. Figures from this magazine provided me with collage and template material for figurative drawings and works on paper that expressed my feminist interests as I struggled to find my way as an artist.

The text in “The Male Audience” is meant to be read. The image of the woman calls up the male point of view, one that seems not to have changed much since the naked female picnicked among fully-clothed male artists in the famous Nineteenth-Century painting by Manet, “Dejeuner Sur L’Herbe”.

As mentioned in the earlier post on this piece, using a collaged image taken from a realistic photograph printed in Playboy serves the work better than if I had used one of my own figurative drawings. Knowing the source as a magazine that objectified the female body supports more succinctly my intention for this piece.

“MAGIC WRITING”

THREEFOLD

THREEFOLD 1980   colored pencil on folded paper 14 x 12 5/8 inches

A drawing which remains in my own collection is titled “Threefold”. It was done in 1980 as part of a series of folded paper pieces with impressions made by marking heavily on a separate sheet of paper on top of the intended drawing and then rubbing with soft pencil to make the lines emerge. I don’t remember the motivation to begin the series of drawings of which “Threefold” was one or why I decided to abandon figurative work. But I do remember that in childhood I was fascinated by discovering I could make “magic writing” appear by rubbing a pencil over the impression left on a sheet of paper beneath one upon which a message had been written. So perhaps that childhood experience, lodged deep in memory, forgotten even as it emerged in the art, was the inspiration for the method used in “Threefold”.

Kevin's Asemic Writing

Another childhood experience, this by my four-year old son, could also be designated as having some influence in the creation of the series of “magic writing” pieces. Kevin was in the university library with me in 1974 as I studied. I gave him a notebook page and pencil so he could “write” as well.

The child’s imitative marks try to capture the act of writing but of course cannot convey a meaning. Years after making it I am amazed at how similar the marks in “Threefold” of 1980 are to the child’s “writing”.  In “Threefold” the marks are intentionally meaningless. The “writing” is seen as object instead of understandable text.

Recently have I learned that “writing” or marks such as those in “Threefold” may be described as “Asemic writing”, or one with no semantic meaning. Asemic writing can span the practices of both visual art and writing. It can be done by children, as in my son’s “pretend writing”, as calligraphy, as code, or decorative marks. Perhaps we can assign the name to work by painters such as Cy Twombly or Jackson Pollack and others whose work is reminiscent of handwriting or captures the gestures of the hand in writing.

I remember also my interest in texts written in a language of which I have no understanding. To observe a Persian love poem or a lovely Chinese scroll or ancient clay tablets inscribed with a long-lost language remains mysterious and beautiful to me. A book page written in an incomprehensible language removes the words from literature to something else entirely. With no reference to meaning, what is found is simply pattern, or perhaps the illusion of secret messages. The viewer can only bring association to such images in much the same way that one would with abstract art of any kind.

As I always have considered myself a visual artist it was a great surprise to find myself beginning to write poems in the mid-Seventies. This was begun quite spontaneously and without forethought. I took that opportunity and continued to write. The writing continued for more than twenty years, up to about the time when a new challenge presented itself, what became “The Threads Project”.

A poem written in the Eighties seems now to provide some insight and a link from the writing to the visual images I was making, beginning in the late Seventies, into the Eighties. It was then that I became immersed in dreams and the metaphysical. This poem seemed to transport me to a place out of time.

“Messages”

 I remember airless rooms

Where letters grow

From falling sand

As sturdy as the Pyramids.

I touch dry pages

And from ancient blood

Spring the sounds

Of sheaves long-stacked

In perpetuity.

There, on smoke-etched walls,

I see the dance,

The scripture of desire.

On faintest silk I recall

A blossom’s clear repose,

The unadorned and lucid word.

What delight is found in warm red wax,

Inviting the memory of lovers lost,

Their sweet despair.

 

The scent, heavy now,

And long-distilled,

Gathers in this dark-

The ashen breath of branded oaks,

The perfume of the sky.

How chaste the message of the sea.

Foamy fingers clutch at sand forever smooth.

Remember most wise scratches of the child.

They are the Myth of Innocence retold.

 -1982

 

 


WHEN TIME IS FULL

We begin again,

When time is full,

Turning away

To a New Silence,

Leaving behind the old,

As the spirit slips away

From the flesh,

Having had enough of moonrise

And sunset,

Parting gracefully

From the beautiful chaos of life.

The title of this poem is “When Time Is Full”. I wrote it in 1999, about five years after the death of a dear friend. Her passing was a shock to me. Hers was the first death of someone close to me and stunned me into my first glimpse of mortality of a person my own age.

The cause of death was no surprise really. Kay was a long-time smoker and lung cancer was the result.

Sometime after her death I felt compelled to create some kind of art to express the deep emotions that I felt at her untimely passing. I was really only drawing in those days and decided to experiment with oil pastel.This piece remains as the single effort in that medium.

DEPARTURE 1994 oil pastel on paper 32.5 x 52.5 inches

DEPARTURE 1994 oil pastel on paper 32.5 x 52.5 inches

The little house is meant to symbolize the earthly aspect each person has in a lifetime. At death we depart our earthly dwelling of flesh for another form of existence.

Decades have passed since the loss of my friend. Time indeed has become full for others in my life. Other dear friends have ended the journey, along with my Mother. But it is most wrenching to think about the loss of my partner Scott, my love for nearly nine years, whose “departure” came only three months ago.

It was not unexpected but it was still a great loss. Those of us left behind find a huge emptiness created by the absence of his “force of nature” personality.

I consider how to express in a work of art what his departure means and how to capture the complexities of such a complicated human being.

For now, another poem from the same year says something about the preciousness of life:

THESE BONES

Lying in some long-forgotten,

Unseen burial place,

These bones,

Fragments of some striding man

Or woman,

Now crumbled into dust

Remnants of some long-ago beauty,

Of warm flesh,

Once agile,

Inhabited by spirit,

Animated by desire-

These bones speak,

Cry out over vanished time,

Speak of a lover’s touch,

Of arms entwined in sleep

Beneath the ancient new moon.

These bones speak

Of sweet joys and bitter sorrows

And private memories,

Invisible now-

Of words once spoken

And dreams once dreamed.

These bones speak-

And we listen.


“THE DREAMER’S EYES”

I’m pleased to announce the publication of my new book, The Dreamer\’s Eyes. It is a book of poetry and original drawings from 1976-2002. I decided to share some of the writing that has been another facet of my creative life along with original drawings which I feel reflect the tone of many of these.