Cutting away the dross to get to the heart of the art
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| Night Wings-final, 42" x 36", acrylic on canvas, 2.16.2013 |
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| Night Wings-preliminary final, 42" x 36", acrylic on canvas, 2.3.2013 |
Dearest Readers,
My method for art making has been a sculptural whacking away
at layers of text, or flowers, or paint. In the case of the painting above
entitled “Night Wings”, the final as you see it on top, once looked like the
painting below it. If you remember, I covered the poor thing in a layer of bright
pink, then turquoise, then black again, then white (see the third image below)
and then returned to the black wing-force shape and the green-blue night sky.
Even though I added layers, I was actually circling back again and again to a
bolder, richer place than the original “final”. It was a circuitous way to
return to a place of minimal color, but hopefully greater depth and fullness.
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| Night Wings-middle step, 42" x 36", acrylic on canvas, 2.7.2013 |
This week’s Ikebana began with two arrangements I did for
the Shambhala Meditation Center in Decatur. Unfortunately, I did not analyse
the shrine room first, and created two pieces that seem too tall and "leggy" for the
already busy altar. Too much is going on here decoratively, and I did not
follow my rule to “Whack Away”. I did have fun creating them, so perhaps I am
being too self-critical.
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| Ikebana arrangements for Diamond Shrine Room_Shambhala Meditation Center of Atlanta |
Yesterday I made two Ikebana arrangements for my home, which
soothed my brain and satisfied my need to clip away at superfluous elements. I
also broke down and purchased some flowers. What a treat!
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| Ikebana-Iris, evergreen and unknown lavender flower 2.26.2013 |
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| Ikebana-found azalea, evergreen and unknown lavender flower 2.16.201 |
You can follow me on Twitter @ceceliakane if you like
haiku-ish poetry. I try to do one a day. I love Twitter’s way of forcing me to
cut the crap, and get to the bone of the poem...perfect for my liberty-taking,
thin-as-a-wisp haiku. Here’s one from this week:
A forsythia bush is undecided.
Greenish-brown stems try out small yellow ideas.
-2-15-2013
I’ll end this Whack-Whack wackiness with the complete
current draft of “The Interstice”, the
story I've serialized in past blogs of the old woman who tries out death, but realizes she is not ready.
I’ve hacked away about 45% of the verbiage and put it into
prose format. It’s still a bumpy ride, but mostly good. I’ll return to her when
some time and distance gives me fresh eyes and ears.Thanks for going through the process with me. Any input?
The Interstice
The old woman slipped out her back door and stood silently
on the concrete stoop. Overhead, a circuit board of constellations and passing
planes flickered in the depths of the moonlit sky. She leaned over the metal
pipe railing and grabbed the end of a sparkling black string that dangled from
a star. She reached for another, tied them together in a square knot, and
gingerly sat down on the swing she had created. She gripped the strings firmly,
bent her knees, and took some cautious leaps like a baby in a Jolly Jumper. The contraption began to rise through a swaying sea
of star strings that tickled her face and stroked her body.
The old woman was both frightened and elated as the city
spread out below her dangling legs. Illuminated pools circled streetlamps and
defined the paths of silent cars. She rose higher.
It was cold, but manageable if she breathed deeply, and
relaxed her eyes and mouth. This maneuver stopped the shivering, and allowed
her the courage to glance from side to side and below her feet. Her city was
gone, swallowed by infinite depths of navy blue. All around her, space was awash in bobbing, babbling string
riders gliding in a weightless cosmic sound garden, spitting alphabets of moods
that clogged the heavens with three-dimensional feelings. HAPPY, BORED, CALM,
MOROSE, RELAXED, NERVOUS, WISTFUL, SAD, PLEASANT. The emotions had spin,
attraction and an internal drive that shot the letters like broken teeth out
into the universe, clumping together in nimbus globs of granular grunts or
resounding glee. She was bumped and jostled by the bobbers and their mood
projectiles, yet the people on the strings did not themselves embody these
sentiments. No frowns or smiles or nods of recognition greeted the old woman.
She was trapped in dead air, constantly colliding with the deadpan dead in a
cosmic landscape of straight-faced feelings and zero joy. It was time to find
another way.
The old woman pumped her legs and flapped her elbows like a
heavenly hen frantically treading the atmosphere. She pedaled and pumped in
stationary circles and arcs, losing energy with each failed attempt at escape.
Cold and crying, she gave up hope, and released her grip on the strings. She
fell backwards, eyes closed, with her arms stretched wide, surrendering to the
night. Her body drifted from her swing and away from the dispassionate string
riders.
Inhaling deeply, exhaling rhythmically, the old woman
floated for a while, then caught a sudden downdraft. She twirled within a
funnel-shaped breeze, descending centripetally into warmth and bluer sky. She
rolled and relaxed with the swirling wind, arms still open, but righting
herself, feet together now like a mortal divining rod anticipating earth.
The city twinkled below, emerging into dawn. Moving lights
inched along with linear purpose. Her heart leapt. Street lamps and rooftops
grew larger until at last the old woman landed gently, feet first on her
concrete stoop. The moon still shone. A few stars blinked. The world twittered
with the insistent note of an early bird. The woman sighed, opened her back
door and stepped joyfully into the light, and solidity of her lovely
kitchen.
