The Content of Experience

It was exactly five weeks ago today that I left my first sculpture class in a snit. I was so upset I wrote about it in a blog post (“What I Intend, And What I Get”) decrying the fact that my teacher wasn’t going to provide me any structure for the class or our projects other than one simple but important question: “What do you want to say with your art?”

For the past five weeks, I’ve worked with that question while learning how to bend wire, shape foam, and saw wood. Today, we turned in our projects and had our final critiques. I thought it was a good time to share the outcome of that process.

After playing around with a number of ideas in my sketchbook, I decided I wanted to create something that would reflect where I see the bend in my life. Having just hit the 50-year-old mark, I can reflect on the forces that have molded my life into the shape it is now, as well as look forward to what I want to do with the next fifty years of my life. If I were fortunate enough to live for 100 years, what would I have to show for the time? In the back of my mind, I remembered a music video of a song by the group Five for Fighting. It had the word “fifteen” in the lyrics and I remembered that it followed the stages of a boy’s life, from the time he’s fifteen, then through the decades of his life. It wasn’t the progression through the years that made me think of it, however, but the image of an enormous oak tree with a spreading canopy I remembered from the video. I vaguely recalled the boy climbing the tree and knew I had the image I wanted. Not the boy. The tree. I looked up the video to make sure I wasn’t misremembering, and there it was: an old oak tree, beautiful in all its gnarled, twisted strength. It was only then that I noticed the name of the song: “100 Years.” Apparently there are no new ideas, just new people who think they’ve thought of them for the first time.

I liked the idea of the tree representing both my past and my future, with roots grounding me to my experiences and branches reaching toward opportunity, but I wanted to illustrate what my life has been grounded in. That idea came quickly as well: books. Although the whole “Book of Knowledge” idea could become cliche, in my case it seemed absolutely accurate. I honestly don’t know what my life would have looked like without the inspiration from books.

Knowing what I wanted to do, and knowing how to do it were two entirely different things, however.

I started with the “book” element. After talking with my teacher, I decided to create it out of plaster and he gave me a quick plastering tutorial. First I carved the shape into a block of purple insulation foam board, which was . . . what is the technical term? . . . fun. The only thing that was more fun was to cover the shape with plaster. Remember when we were in grade school and covered an inflated balloon with strips of newspaper slathered in glue? It was a lot like that, only I loaded my plaster on strips of used dryer sheets. I can’t tell you how excited I was finally to discover a use for those things.

Once it all dried into a somewhat lumpy mess, I  sanded and filed the thick plaster into a more refined “book” shape, I decided to cover the plaster surface with excerpts from books that have been important to me. I didn’t want to rip into my actual books, of course, so I scanned pages from about two dozen books, including work by Wallace Stegner and William Stafford, Madeleine L’Engle and Nathanial Hawthorne. I copied out a soliloquy from Hamlet and a quote by Martha Graham. I had the dictionary pages that listed the definitions of the words “story,” “psychology,” and “art.” I scanned the chart from a book on optimal experience called Finding Flow, which came from a chapter called “The Content of Experience.” When I read that phrase, I knew I had the title for my piece of art. This, then, would represent the content of my own experience, and what had gone in to making me, well, me.

Next, to create the tree. I started with 100 lengths of aluminum wire, one for each year of my potential life. They were mercifully soft and bendy and I could twist them with my fingers. Because aluminum is so soft and bendy, however, I used a length of brass rod as structural support for the wire, which I shaped into a more graceful, natural tree-like form with the aid of two enormous, wrench-like tools that were almost too heavy for me to lift. I felt mighty and competent bending the stubborn rod to my will. After achieving the shape I wanted, I twisted the 100 pieces of wire around the rod, creating a web of roots, a strong trunk, and reaching, supple branches.

Next came the task of putting the two elements together, connecting the roots of the tree to the book, actually piercing the surface of the pages so the roots could dig in. I spent an entire afternoon playing with the branches, creating the canopy of the tree.

Finally, I mounted the whole thing on a board I painted black, providing the “table” the on which the book could rest. Finally, it was done. I figured I had spent a total of about 30 hours on the project. Here’s the finished piece that I took to class today for my critique.

So what did I learn from the project?

• That working in three-dimensions is a revealing experience. All sides of the art piece are important and say different things. It gave me a much different perspective on . . . perspective.
• That sticking your hands into thick, creamy plaster is a delicious experience.
• That you are as powerful as the tools you know how to use.
• That you should never wear black pants on the day you are carving purple insulation foam.

Most importantly, however, I practiced working a little bit ahead of myself, throwing an idea out in front of me, and trusting that the information, tools and materials I needed would somehow show up for the job. It took one hissy-fit, a fair amount of trust and patience, and about 30 hours of messing around to figure out my first sculpture. I’m happy for now.

At least until next week, when we start our next project. I’m not making any promises.

A Still Life of a Still Life

I’m so excited about the assignment in my painting class this week. We are supposed to paint a still life of objects that somehow represent our lives. There weren’t many “rules” other than that there needed to be three or more items, one of which was some sort of photograph of ourselves.

I’ve always liked and admired still life paintings. In college, while on an overseas study abroad program in England and The Nederlands, I visited world-class museums for the first time–the National Gallery and the Tate in London, the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. I was overwhelmed and in awe as I wandered in front of art by all the masters, but I developed a special place in my heart for still life paintings. I still have, hanging on my living room wall, the framed print of a Dutch still life I carted home in my suitcase thirty years ago. The artist was not well-known, and I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know his name. I do, however, see his still life almost every day of my life. I included a photograph of it at the start of this post, so now you’ve seen it too.

Traditionally, a still life, as you probably know, was an artistic depiction of commonplace items, either natural—such as flowers, fruit, shells, food, stones—or crafted—such as books, musical instruments, jewelry, vases, pipes or dishes.  Many of the items carried symbolic meaning and and the paintings themselves often served as a source of enrichment or focus of meditation. One particular subset of still lifes, called vanitas, included items that focused the viewer on the transitoriness of life. Images of human skulls, overripe fruit, wilting flowers, insects, hourglasses, and candles (sometimes with their flames extinguished) would serve as a meditation on the fact that, well, life is short.

There are many wonderful examples of still life paintings.. Here are a few:

One by Paul Cezanne. He called it Black Marble Clock, but I also see a coffee cup and the remains of a meal.

 

 

 

 

 

This one an example of a vanitas still life by Pieter Claesz. Notice the skull and timepiece.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another one by Picasso. I see a violin, a journal and some fruit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I set out to create a still life for my own painting, I went to my journal to think about what I wanted to create. In doing so, I had my answer.

Most mornings, I crawl out of bed in the dark. I stumble downstairs and nearly blind myself with the kitchen light so I can see to start the coffee maker. While it brews, I feed our dog, Abby, and take her for a brief walk down the street. She is almost as bleary-eyed as I am. By the time I return, my coffee is ready and I head for my favorite chair in the living room, a comfy wingback by the fireplace with an ottoman and everything. I light the fireplace, light a candle, and drop into my chair. I sip my coffee and pull out my black Moleskine journal and my favorite Waterman fountain pen. For the next half hour to 40 minutes, I write or sketch in my journal. Sometimes I’ll meditate, and sometimes, I’ll just sit quietly and listen to the whirr of the furnace, notice the smell of my coffee, or watch as the world outside my window lights up with pink sun. I am still. This is my still life.

It seems like such a little thing, really, a short time spent quieting my mind and my pace long enough to listen for the voice that tells me where I should go, what I should do. But this still life of mine is crucial for my sanity, my sense of contentment, and my confidence. Plus, I think my family notices that I’m less crabby after I’ve taken this time to breathe.

It was, therefore, a no-brainer to decide to paint a still life of my still life. I pulled together the necessary elements: coffee in a cup, a candle, my journal and fountain pen. I grabbed a couple of other objects that are also meaningful to me (see my blog post “The Symbols We Live”). I also included the picture of myself as my instructor requested. I draped a couple of table cloths over a box on my kitchen table and set up my little tableau. Doug was gracious enough to use his photographic skills to take a picture of my collection. Here is the result.

I love how this turned out and am excited to paint it. One of the most enjoyable parts of the whole project, however, was assembling the objects. A still life provides so much room for symbolism and metaphor, which makes it a perfect exercise for art journaling. Creating a personal still life and taking a photograph of it, even with a simple camera like the one in most cell phones, is an illuminating art journaling exercise. It’s creative, playful, and usually requires items that you already have around your house.

Try it for yourself. Make a still life of any aspect of your life. Maybe it’s how you like to cook, or your passion for golf or  water polo, or your role as a parent. Or, like me, you can do something to represent your own “still life.” Take a picture and print it out if you can. Paste it in your journal. You can spend a few minutes writing about the objects that appear in your arrangement. How do these objects speak to you? What are they saying?

Listen.

Bartering for Loveliness

There’s an advantage to being forthright about your passions: people find opportunities to feed them. This week, my daughter Sarah, while doing an English assignment, came across a poem by Sara Teasdale she thought I might enjoy. Not that she cared at all about the poem, of course. She just thought I would like it.

And I did. I wasn’t that familiar with Teasdale’s work. I knew she was a poet because I’ve come across her name frequently in crossword puzzles. But knowing the spelling of her name is about as close as I’d come to reading anything by her.

The poem was “Barter.” The first line is a stunner:  “Life has loveliness to sell.”

It’s an intriguing idea. We all want lovely, meaningful moments in our lives, but what cost would we pay to get them? Teasdale offers an answer: anything and everything. The last stanza of Teasdale’s poem reads:

Spend all you have for loveliness,

Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the cost of following one’s passion. It’s been a while since I’ve been stretched this thin. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve had a lot on my plate. In addition to spending time in art classes and on art homework, I made a commitment to speak to a group of people about writing life stories, which took a fair amount of time to prepare for. Plus, my application for the art therapy program at Marylhurst was due last Tuesday. It had about 10 different parts to it, including three pieces of writing. And, of course, I wanted to keep up with my weekly blog posts.

In addition, Sarah had swim meets each week for which Doug and I were timers. Then the sump pump in our basement broke when we were having record rains in Oregon. Last week, Sarah hurt her back diving and needed to see the doctor. Then our college student daughter Kate called and said she’d like to come home for the weekend (hurray!)—and that she’d like to bring five friends with her. “Absolutely,” I said, and tracked down air mattresses and towels and stocked up on pizza and chips. Not to be left out, Sarah said she’d like to have two of her friends join the slumber party. Doug and I looked at each other. Two more people wouldn’t make a difference. They were all great kids—all nine of them. I didn’t want to say no, regardless of how busy I was.

And that’s the point. All these demands that threatened to overload my life were things I had invited on purpose because I loved them. Well, that’s not strictly true; I could live without the sump pump repair. But all the rest—art classes, art homework, writing, teaching, parenting—are types of loveliness I would happily spend all of my emotional and physical capital to obtain.

There is a cost, of course. I had to let some things go. Actually, I had to let a lot of things go.  Here’s a partial list:

• Cooking (Not necessarily a bad thing, in my case). We’ve eaten a lot of Costco casseroles.
• Cleaning my house (Poor Doug. He’s been vacuuming like a wild thing.)
• Reading for pleasure. I can’t tell you the last time I got lost in a good mystery or read a magazine. This is quite a departure for me.
• Sleep
• Getting my hair cut. I finally raided Sarah’s stash of elastics and bobby pins just to keep my hair out of my face while I’m painting.
• Shopping for anything—groceries, dish soap, cute shoes.

So, I ask myself, is it worth it? What am I hoping to gain from  my crammed schedule, the barely-keeping-up-with-everything pace, and my shaggy hair? My answer? I’m getting the loveliness life has to sell. There was a moment last weekend when I was sitting in our living room working on a drawing assignment. I was deeply absorbed in my work, but occasionally I’d catch a conversation between Kate and her friends discussing their classes, their friendships, or their futures.  I heard the laughter of Sarah and her friends from the other room. Doug was in the kitchen, mixing another batch of dough to turn into cinnamon rolls or a loaf of ciabatta bread, which I would later eat with too much butter.

These are the moments worth having, for which I will barter quite a lot. The ironing and dusting can wait. We can eat Costco casseroles. I’ll catch up on sleep when I can. I’ve paid for these moments, and I plan to enjoy them.

What I Intend, and What I Get

Two stories.

1.

My sculpture class meets for six hours each Friday. It’s the third of  three art classes I’m taking this term, and the one in which I have the least experience. And by least experience I mean absolutely none. Nothing. Other than the Play-Doh I messed around with as a kid, I have never sculpted anything. I signed up for Sculpture-Mixed Media with the expectation that I would learn techniques to work with different materials—clay, wire, wood, paper.  I figured I would be given  specific assignments, as I was in both my drawing and painting classes, that could help me gain skill and feel some measure of success with each type of media.

The teacher for my sculpture class apparently had a completely different idea. Instead of opening the first class by taking attendance and figuring out who was  going to spend the term with him, he instead asked if anybody had seen any good art lately. Or even bad art. He didn’t get around to the class list until well into the third hour of the class. I scanned through the syllabus, frantic to figure out what I would be learning and how it would be taught, only to realize with ever growing panic that there would be two assignments all term, giving us roughly half of the term to work on each one. Aside from a brief research project on the work of a living sculptor, there were no other requirements. No supplies list. No schedule of techniques taught. No guidelines. We were instructed to show up the following week with sketches for our first sculpture and the supplies we wanted to use.

I was not only panicked, I was angry. How was I supposed to learn anything if the teacher didn’t seem to want to teach me. At the end of the six-hour class, during which I had learned nothing more than what tools were available in the wood shop, I approached him, asking if he could give me any further guidance. I explained that I was a rank beginner, and until I learned what types of materials were commonly used and how to use them, it was hard to know how to create anything. His response?

“What do you want to say with your art?”

Really? That’s all he had for me? How do I know what to say if I don’t know how to say it! I was seriously peeved and huffed my way home where I proceeded to vent for about an hour to Doug and Sarah and just about anyone else who would listen. After I calmed down, I decided that I would just have to figure it out for myself. As upset as I was, I was convinced that my teacher was a caring person who wanted to help me if I could formulate a question, but that it would be up to me to decide what I needed to know. I made a trip to the art supply store, wandered through the sculpture aisle and bought some wire and some clay.

But I also thought about his other question. What did I want to say? Since I plan to work with art in a therapeutic context, I wanted my sculpture to say something about my decision to go back to school, to combine art therapy with writing and teaching. I wanted to say something about what I’ve learned in my fifty years about where your life leads you, even if you are surprised along the way.

2.

This morning, I woke up early and checked my computer. My daughter Sarah had posted something to my Facebook page the night before. It was a quote from Douglas Adams, the author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,  an influential voice especially for my children’s generation. This quote was from his book The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul:

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.

How could she know that that was the message I needed today. Well, to be fair, it wouldn’t hurt me to be reminded of it most days. Where did I intend to go? When I was in grade school, I wanted to be an author/illustrator. I was an avid reader and a bit of a loner and found comfort in books. I  was captured by the notion that I could feel so connected, so understood by an author of a story, even one I’d never met. That’s what I wanted, to write something that would touch another person in that way. Over the years, I refined what I wanted in a career and in  life: that connection through meaningful work and meaningful relationships.

For the most part, I’ve been successful in achieving both. I’ve been able to work as a writer, a teacher and a counselor, all of which is meaningful to me. I have many relationships that enrich my life—my husband and kids, parents and sisters and in-laws and friends, the baristas at our coffee shop, my ex-husband’s family, my husband’s ex-wife. However, the path to achieving those things has been anything but smooth.  And I must say, I expected them to be smooth. I’d always imagined  I would marry and have children. I planned to have an interesting, challenging career that paid well and allowed me to wear nice clothes to work. I’ve had lots of intentions and five-year plans and ten-year plans, and for the most part, they worked. They got me moving and pointed me in the direction that I wanted to go. Without intentionality, I run the risk of wandering around in the dark, depending on chance to light my way. I’m a big fan of planning where I want to go.

The problem with my five- and ten-year plans, however, was that they didn’t allow for the times when my life didn’t turn out the way I’d planned. I hadn’t counted on being a divorced, single mother. When I remarried a wonderful man with two kids of his own, and later had another child, I hadn’t realized that the most interesting, challenging job I could ever encounter was being the parent in a blended family of four kids with three different parental structures. Two of our children spent the school year living out-of-state with their mom. I hadn’t foreseen that the only time we had together as a  family would be in hotel rooms in another state, or during summer vacations in our home. We needed one parent to be flexible and free enough to manage our non-traditional family structure.  I was working as a college counselor, a job that paid reasonably well and allowed me to wear nice clothes to work. Still, we reasoned that since Doug worked for his own business, which was harder to quit than my job at the college, I would trade in my briefcase for a diaper bag. Beyond the rationale, I knew in my heart that I should be the one to manage the home front.

And so I stepped away from the career I’d imagined—17 years ago. In the meantime I’ve cobbled together different work experiences, none of them as structured or as well-paid as the one I left. I worked part-time for Doug’s company,  volunteered at the kids’ schools, and started my own company helping people write their own stories. None of it looked the way I imagined it when I was a shy ten-year-old hiding out in the school library, imaging a connection with a distant, unknown reader. I couldn’t have predicted any of it. It’s an odd mess of experiences and lessons I’ve accumulated, filled with plane flights and parent-teacher conferences, conversations with old soldiers and young moms. I never could have planned it, but it is, after all, absolutely what I needed to do.

3.

My painting and drawing classes are full of intention. In each, I have a syllabus which lists the weekly assignments and a teacher who guides me through it week by week. I have supplies I am taught how to use and I see examples of how my work ought to look when I’m finished. I like this way of working and I’m comfortable with it.

My sculpture class is another way of working. I am learning to throw off the guidelines, toss out my expectations, and get down to the most basic question: What do I want say with my most basic form of art—my life? What materials,  experiences and techniques will  help me to say it?

I’m making a tree out of wire, one strand for each of the 100 years I hope to live. Its roots are planted in a worn, well-read book , it’s branches stretched from a twisted trunk, reaching upward, outward. I’m not exactly sure how I’ll do it.

4.

I want to go back and talk to the little girl I was and tell her that I am, after all, writing, reaching out to connect to distant, unknown readers. Every Friday.

The Things That Matter

Neawanaka is a fictional town on the Oregon coast, and the setting of Brian Doyle’s novel, Mink River. Doyle is a local Oregon writer and his book has been getting a lot of attention around town lately, including being assigned  to my daughter’s high school English class. However, the book deserves notice from anyone, even those living outside of Oregon’s borders. Doyle’s prose is . . . . luscious. Earthy and evocative, layered and lyrical. Plus, much to the surprise and consternation of my daughter and her high school English class, Doyle breaks all sorts of rules of writing. He makes up words. He plays fast and loose with punctuation and traditional sentence structure.  And he makes it work brilliantly.

One of the best sections of the whole book is a passage at the beginning of Chapter 30, in which “the man with six days to live” talks with a young boy, Daniel.  They are sitting on the porch at night and he tells Daniel,

These things matter to me, son. The way hawks huddle their shoulders angrily against hissing snow. Wrens whirring in the bare bones of bushes in winter. The way swallows and swifts veer and whirl and swim and slice and carve and curve and swerve. The way that frozen dew outlines every blade of grass. Salmonberries thimbleberries cloudberries snowberries elderberries salalberries gooseberries. My children learning to read. My wife’s voice velvet in my ear at night in the dark under the covers.

The passage goes on for over a page, just one long paragraph. It is delicious to read and to savor, bringing with it tactile, spicy memories of things we all know and love, but often overlook: folding laundry warm from the dryer, fresh mown lawns, or the sound of ice shaken in drinks. I could happily copy out the whole section for you but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the joy of searching it out and reading it for yourself. Heck, read the whole book.

What I will do is encourage you to spend a few quiet moments and start your own list. What are the things that matter to you? Of course, when pressed, we will all quite accurately mention that our families are important, as are our friends, good health and peaceful nations. No arguments here. But what specific things make a difference to you. What small moments jolt you to joy. These are treasures. These are worth recording.

I decided to write a list for myself, a la Doyle. I’m sure, given time,  I will be able to refine it, or add to it. There are so many things that matter. However, here’s my first attempt, brushed down in about an hour.

 These things matter to me.

The way a single maple leaf transfers its russet imprint on wet concrete. The thick ink of my fountain pen rolled over the page of my Moleskine journal. The flutter of a chickadee darting at the feeder, it’s black cap and puffed out white chest. Being stunned by a poem. Wood smoke. A great blue heron stilted on a dock, so still I don’t see it until I row past. Creamy thick oil paint brushed on white canvas. My mother’s potato soup on the day of the first snow of my childhood winters. Starfish. The curve of a warm coffee cup in my hand. Kissing the salty foreheads of my children  when they were small. Kissing their foreheads now. The poetic names of flowers–plumeria, delphinium, gardenia, clematis, wisteria. Leaning over to tuck my daughter Kate into bed when she was a toddler, and the way she would gently roll strands of hair at the nape of my neck between her small fingers. The way it would keep me an extra twenty minutes, the stalling successful. Hedgehogs. The way the fingers of my husband Doug interlace mine. Floating on my back, held up by a warm ocean. Pearls. Quail running from brush to wood pile, their crests bobbing.  My sisters’ faces, mirroring my own. Sea turtle ballet in green water. The pleasure of towels folded properly. My son Sam, age 8, hugging me like he won’t ever let go. Sam, taller than I am now, hugging me the same way still. Rain on a tin roof. The laughter of women. The barn smell of horses and leather. The smell of chlorine on Doug’s skin when he hugs me after swimming. Candles. The pop and crack of a wood fire on a cold day. Pugs. Driving my daughter Katherine to ballet in high school, a half hour each way in traffic, listening to pop songs, listening to her think out loud. The quiet of snow. The way September sunlight angles and burnishes autumn trees.  Sliding into clean sheets. The way my daughter Sarah used to say “callapitter” for caterpillar, and “nay-naise” for mayonnaise, which was so adorable I never corrected her. The way Kate taught her to say it properly. The soulfulness of dogs’ eyes. The bittersweet taste of dark chocolate on my tongue. The birthstones of my children–sapphire, amethyst, ruby, sapphire–set in platinum, circling my finger. The curve of Doug’s shoulders. The silver starfish hung on a chain around my neck. The sound of the word grace when I say it softly, whispered as a prayer, floating past my teeth. Grace.

What are the things that matter to you?

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