Making, creating something–whether it is art, food, a poem, an experience for someone, a new project for my classes, this also gets me into the now, the IS. And these are the things that then may kindle the IS in someone else. So not only does it get me into the now, it often gives someone else something to ponder, to consider, to love.

John Dewey has a few things to say about this too:

And we are all artists. Everyone of us creates. We create stories, meals, love, poems, little doodles, and so many other things. We get inspired by common things, chance encounters, random moments. Loving these moments, embracing the IS, often feels in itself a creative act. Embrace your now, your IS. Be creative. Be love. Be you.

Usually that means a nice delicious cake or cookies or other tasty treat bakes in the oven, while I tidy my studio, and words float out there somewhere. Today, the words float out there somewhere, but instead of baking and cleaning, I printed.

I followed in the footsteps of Durer, Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Kahlo, looked into the mirror and reflected back what I saw.

A tiny little self-portrait. I can’t quite decide if I am unhappy or just thoughtful. I am definitely having a winter hair day.

I played around with different backgrounds, prints left over from other projects, or tests. Experimenting with layers, whether planned or by chance delights me. It reminds me of the magic of developing a black and white photo. I won’t quite know how it will appear until it makes it to the other side of the process. Printing on random surfaces provides a similar experience.

As I experimented, I embraced what I could find at PRESS and put paper after paper through the machine. What do you think? Which one do you like?

The most important part of these last hikes is the bridge.

Yep, this bridge. Which is NEW, like in the past month. Those warm winter days certainly inspired someone out there. The old bridge got destroyed in the same violent weather act that inspired this post.  And this isn’t a little whimpy bridge. The base of the bridge are felled trees at least 18 inches in diameter. So now, after like seven months, there is a new bridge. Joy for the snowmobilers and ATV’ers. For me and Doug and our mountain bikes and snowshoes. Whoever created this bridge is also responsible for clearing the trees that fall regularly on this path. It’s gotta be one of my neighbors, because this is not state land, it’s private land. So, number one goal this week is to contact the Town of Cheshire to see if I can find out who owns it, I need to make them a cake.

It coincided with this need to make little red dots of varying shapes and sizes, on various prints, tree rubbings and other found or painted material.

This repetition of paint and pen dots, or thread through holes became my manta, my om, that I repeated, and repeated and repeated.

It’s what I want to do right now, this repetitive action, to calm, to center to find the peace that comes with repetition. But as 2012 begins, I ask myself, what can I do with it next. What is the next step for this work? Do I continue making the collages with layers of images and dots? Or do I go larger, grander, bigger? I want to take yards and yards of the thread into the woods–and thread it through little cracks in trees. Kinda like this:

This is all I can think about right now. Will the weather hold and give me the chance to find the perfect spot in my woods to try out this woodland installation? Can you picture discovering something like this along your walks in the woods?

I share with you a meditation adapted from a book by Peter van Breeman, SJ, As Bread that is Broken. I wrote this in one of my commonplace journals nearly 20 years ago while on a silent retreat in the Arizona desert. I remember Sister Therese as I write this, a woman who inspired me to remember that August will take care of August, and that God is always with me, and reminds me of that and her whenever I see a cardinal.

Would you mind if I take out this little bit? Would mind if I take this worry of yours, this fear, this insistence on your own way? Would you mind if I take this resentment, this bit of self-righteousness? Would you mind if I take this possession, this friend? Would you mind if I take a bit of your health? Or your wealth? would you Mind? 

 

Would you mind if I put something else in your hands? Would you mind if I give you some new vision, a bit more tolerance, more patience, more hope? Would you mind if I make your heart more pliable? Would you mind if I make your yearning for me deeper? Would you mind if I give you a new talent, help you discover a new gift? Would you be open to a new friend in your life? Would you mind if I make your love more consuming, more burning, more total?

This image, a drawing from 2004, created as part of this meditation. Maybe I’ll do this again today…Happy New Year!

The winter solstice. One of my favorite days of the year, the shortest day, the longest night, where I anticipate the return of early sunrises and late sunsets. These dark nights and even darker mornings enhance my already champion-like sleep tendencies, encouraging me to slow down, sleep, rest, recharge and reflect. It asks me to go to those dark places in my soul, with faith that the light will come. The dark challenges me to let go, to trust, to love, to reach out, to release, to anticipate new life, new beginnings.

The gift, the gift of light, of spring, of whatever Persephone decides to bring. This advent season when so many men and women around the world celebrate the coming of Christ, I look for the gift of light from this dark place of the longest day. I look for that place where I can trust and abandon my cares, my worries, my useless anxieties, where I learn whatever tricks I need to make my way to the light, even in the darkest days.

This print:

is a favorite of many, many people. I wonder why this one, compared to all the other prints I’ve made in the past six months. Why are so many people attracted to this print. It’s a small edition, only eight, and only two remain.  (Let me know if you want one of them!)

But this is part of a greater question, what kinds of art do we like? Is it predictable? While at Art Basel this summer, my colleague Jonathan Secor, Director of Special Programs at MCLA could predict by the end of the week work I might like. Now, thanks to some crazily innovative engineers, you might be able to find more of the art that you might like with a click of your mouse, or a tap to your smart phone.

Enter art.sy  http://art.sy/pages/about

I first encountered this at Art Basel this summer, it was featured out and about at the fair, and is now beginning to broaden its marketing as it gets ready to be released to the world. Check it out, get on the invite list. Discover more art!

This Thanksgiving, I spent it with Doug and his family here in the Berkshires. We decided to shake things up in the dessert department, forgoing the traditional tarts and pies and going with a couple of my ridiculous cakes. I made a salted-caramel six-layer chocolate cake and a lemon pistachio crunch cake with a white chocolate ganache icing. Ridiculous.

Here they are, on their lovely cake stands. The cake stand in the foreground is the milk glass stand that my mother gave me a year ago. Sometimes I think the only reason why I make cakes is so I can use the cake stand. The one in the background, with the incredible dome, Doug got me. So now I have two ridiculous stands to adorn with sweetness. But this salted caramel six-layer chocolate cake, it will change your life. It’s decadent and delicious and really should be outlawed. One piece is enough sweetness for days, maybe even months. I can’t wait to make it again!

I thank my mother for parting with the beloved cake stand. I know it was tough for her, but do use it regularly and with delight! I am thankful that she taught me to love baking and cooking and all the home arts, and look forward to having more time to share these arts with family and friends.

Happy Thanksgiving!

We have one every year, our anniversary with life, the day we were born.

But there are  other kinds of anniversaries. Weddings, life milestones, tragic events, deaths of loved ones. Many of these anniversaries are private, unnoticed by those around us. We silently remember our sisters, mothers, fathers, grandparents, babies, brothers, friends who are no longer with us, and we go forward.

Grief paralyzes. It consumes the soul like a snake consuming a tiny creature. It can swallow you whole, into a darkness that seems impenetrable.  I understand why one would observe a year of mourning. The rawness of loss lessens as the year goes by. Today is one of those silent days. Yesterday might become that sort of a day for a friend whose father just passed away. All around us, these silent days. I won’t talk about it, but I acknowledge it. I say hello to it. I remember, and I made it through the hardest part.

Mary Oliver always has words for moments like this. The glimmer of peace that is there, waiting, as I find my way back to the path, out of the forest of sadness.

My dad has the same fascination with numbers as I do.  I’m sure that’s why it gives me joy to watch my odometer turn over, to randomly come across number patterns, and to see the Fibonacci sequence in action.

One of my favorite number stories is my dad’s birthday, 3-10-39. He was born at midnight between 3-9-39 and 3-10-39. His mother (not a number junkie) chose the even number, thinking that was more auspicious. My dad, looks back at this as a missed opportunity for 39-39. But now he has this number story, and we can all marvel and wonder at how one becomes a number junkie. Are you born that way? Does something happen to you during childhood that makes you fascinated with numbers? I’m not particular good with numbers when it comes to adding, subtracting or calculus. But I love spatial puzzles and number games/patterns.

I look at number patterns with great wonder. I never fail to delight over 11:11, or when I glance at the clock and it’s 10:29 (my birthday) or when I see the number seven in some pattern, image, etc. These number patterns give me the same delight that seeing a rainbow does.

This wonder brings surprise and desire to know more together. I want to reread Philip Fisher’s Wonder, the Rainbow and the Aesthetics of Rare Experiences again, to read his examples of how wonder draws together pleasure, thinking, and the aesthetic features of thought.