WOOD LOGIC

Dearest Readers,
Trees are on my mind. There’s a creative convergence going on that began last week in my own condo courtyard. Sadly, or happily, a big, dying box elder was removed by our tree service as approved by the condo board. I’m a member this year, and this was my project. Here she is, naked and sorrowful before the cut. Our arborist, Mike Kenton, pronounced the tree to be fungus and insect infested, dropping limbs and bark, with rotting roots and a long vertical split up the trunk foreboding imminent collapse.


The tree was the feeding body for “box elder bugs”– hoards of slow-moving beetle-ish creatures that manage to enter the condos through sunny windows and cracks in the warm brick. Every day this winter my kitchen has been the playground for about 10 of these insects. They live only three days, but reinforcements arrive daily. With the tree gone, this should gradually come to an end. That’s the happy part. The sad part is that the old tree had guts and gumption. It probably could have hung on for a few more years bravely pushing out a wide canopy of leaves that shaded the courtyard.



This is a picture of the elder tree in better days from the spring of 2010. I’ve outlined her former self in red hidden behind the bushes.

The tree cutting process was a methodical dismemberment that whacked and sawed on from 9 am to 6pm with a crew of six brave, strong tree climbers, cutters, chippers and haulers. It was dangerous yet thrilling to watch, ending in a lump of woodchips over the cavity where this gnarly dowager had called home–too close to our homes.






I’ve noticed a number of creative tree-themed happenings around Atlanta this week. Tree thinking is in the airwaves.


The Swan Coach House Gallery in Buckhead announced the opening reception this Thursday evening of “Trees”, featuring the work of nine Southern artists who interpret trees though the mediums of painting, photography, and printmaking. The painterly promotional image used on their website and invitation is by Lillian Garcia Roig. http://www.swancoachhouse.com/art_gallery/current_exhibition/trees_2012.aspx



The Lorax movie is now out in theaters around town. Remember the Lorax? The protector of trees? It’s an adaptation of the Dr. Seuss classic tale of a grumpy forest creature who tries in vain to save the mop-topped Truffula trees from corporate destruction. The animated adventure turns the original story into a suburban love themed journey of hope. The movie artists brightened and rounded out the scruffy old Lorax. He’s fatter and cuter than the Seuss version. You can check out the 2-1/2 minute trailer. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_PZr1rqOR0


I prefer the book. I’ve got a copy at home to read to my grandkids. It’s a grittier and more honest plot with Dr. Seuss’ weirdly unique illustrations. Life in the Lorax book is bubblegum cheerful, and ecologically diverse until the opening of the Thneed factory that makes knitted sweater-thingies from the silky haired Truffula treetops. Relentlessly the corporate monster machines chop down all the trees despite the Lorax’s attempts to convince the greedy, reclusive Once-ler character to stop. When the last Truffula falls under the ax, the factory is abandoned and the corporate goons skip town, leaving behind a bleak, gray, stinky wasteland of tree stumps and bare ground where forest and woodland creatures had once thrived. Even the tree-keeper Lorax “lifts” himself outta there. Dr. Seuss ends with one drop of hope–The reclusive Once-ler tosses the last remaining Truffula tree seed from his boarded up window to a visiting boy below. We are never sure if the kid was able to regenerate the trees.



I keep a boxed set of The Lord of the Rings trilogy on the same shelf as the kids’ books. Yesterday I re-read the chapter on Threadbeard and the forest of Ents in the third and final book, The Two Towers. Ents are a race of giant woody beings in J. R.R. Tolkien’s world of Middle Earth who closely resemble trees. They are ancient shepherds of the forest and allies of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth during the War of the Ring. They are a dying race that has lost the female Entwives. They are without hope for regeneration. The old remaining Ents move and speak slowly, finally agreeing to carry two hobbits, Merry and Pippin to Isengard to help attack the evil, life-destroying, tree-chopping dark lord, Saruman. It is implied in the novel that all the Ents eventually settle down in one place, grow roots and leaves, and essentially become trees, ceasing conscious thought. There is talk that the director of the movie versions, Peter Jackson will be making them again in 3D. The Ents will be walking right out of the forest and into our laps!


So, I’m sorry old box elder tree for assisting in your demise. The condo association will use your chipped mulch and sigh for your sheltering arms when summer arrives. A cherry tree will take your place. We won’t miss the hoards of dim-witted elder bugs or the potential for harm that your presence posed. Please give me compassion points, oh pagan gods of the ancient forest, and The Tree of Life. (Also the title of a 2011 Brad Pitt movie out now on DVD).

CALMLY DRIFTING

Dearest Readers,
Leap Day is coming...slip-sliding into our lives on Wednesday February 29th. It’s a gentle fabrication poked into our schedules every four years to let the world and calendar makers get square with earth’s 365 and ¼ day annual circuit around the sun. Some might call it a day of cosmic drift or a 24-hour free ride in deep space. Slippage corrected.

My friend Ruth Schowalter will be in the art show, “Correcting for Drift” with the opening on, you guessed it, this Wednesday, Leap Day at Georgia Perimeter College in Clarkston. http://www.facebook.com/groups/76015195632/doc/10150568020720633/



Ruth’s eponymous piece, “Correcting for Drift”, reveals a threshold into a dreamy oceanic world of biological and mythical beings. I thank her for tickling my imagination about this cosmic day.

Earth and I will be calm on Wednesday. Relaxed. I expect we’ll glide smoothly through the day–Me with some meditation, dog walking and the glacially slow, balanced moves of Tai Chi, and Earth with the precise mathematics of matter, velocity, and gravitational pull. Happy Free Falling Day!

PRESIDENTS’ DAY BOREDOM

Dearest Readers,
It’s a pretty dull day when I turn to contemplations of boredom, but over my past twenty-one years of art making, boredom has become a useful friend. On this pre-packaged, two-for-one presidential shopping sale holiday, I thought I’d share some artwork steeped in boredom or its process. Last week I pulled out another of my 89 daily bathroom mirror portraits of feelings. This photo was Day#1–Bored, and with it the embroidered hankie version. Not much life in these two, but a valid lack-of-emotion worthy of depiction. Last week I painted an oil stick portrait of my boring face–a winning trifecta of feeling dull.

When inspiration escapes me, I’ll often use the method of boredom to break through to wild mind. Here’s how it works. 1.Pin up a dozen or more sheets of paper on the wall.
2.Spread out a variety of drawing and painting media at easy reach. 3.Determine a subject to draw and stick to it. 4.Set a timer for a few minutes...maybe 5 or 10, and hit the start button. 5.When the alarm rings, I must move to the second sheet of blank paper, reset the alarm, start a new drawing, and so on until I am thoroughly bored, and frustrated with the short time-frame, and the repetitive subject. What invariably happens is I begin by drawing familiar images, or sometimes small, controlled and logical images. As I am forced to leave each piece when the bell goes off, I grab different media and gradually begin to try new approaches and more daring colors. Usually by the last sheet, I’ve moved out of the area of boring to a bigger field of creativity by just surrendering, and letting it rip. I did not invent this. Someone explained it to me in the early 90’s. I am indebted to their boring brilliance.

Here are eight drawings of holes or tunnels that I drew last summer using my breakthrough boring method. I’ve numbered them 1-8 so you can see the progression of loosening up. It works better than a glass of wine. My question to myself is, do I like the first one, last one or someplace in the middle?

Number one:


Number two:


Number three:


Number four:


Number five:


Number six:


Number seven:


Number eight:

DEAR HEART

Dearest Readers,
I missed Valentine’s Day for this post, but it's never too late to honor a day devoted to matters of the heart–a symbol that keeps erupting in my artwork. Let’s hear it for love, courage, life, sympathy, compassion, sincerity, strength, hearty, heartfelt, and even heartsick–all straight from the heart.



I’m staying away these days from the Catholic Sacred Heart–symbol of suffering, self-sacrifice, and sadness. Let me not knock on that door today. It resides within, but buried deep inside.


Last week I finished an oil stick self-portrait on paper entitled Loved. It’s me as a heart loved by my family and friends.



This portrait began in 2010 as a photo I shot in my bathroom mirror entitled Day #80, from 89 days of examining my feeling of the moment, and writing it in lipstick on my forehead. Another way of asking...Who Am I?





Later I printed the mirrored-mirror image of my reflected face on one of my vintage hankies that I wore as a kid in the little breast pocket of my Catholic school uniform jumper.

Dear heart, I’ve depicted you in drawings and paintings, embroideries, clothing, dolls, wings and portraits. Thank you for persistently beating.


Heartfelt, ©2008
6 1/2” x 6 1/2”
Embroidery floss on vintage linen



Heart Sick, ©2010
7 1/4” x 7 1/4”
Embroidery floss on vintage linen


The Bravery Jacket, ©2007
Life sized
Acrylic on wool twill, aluminum buttons, braiding, yarn, gauze, nails and threads.


A Joyful Heart, ©2003
8" x 13" x 3"
Fabric, acrylic, found objects and polymer clay


Interwoven Hearts, ©2011
18 1/2 " x 22 1/4"
Charcoal and pastel on paper


Pangea Heart Holes, ©2011
11" x 14"
Charcoal, pastel and conté on paper



See Little Cece's heartbeat at

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCg4GBG-bw4&feature=youtu.be

FLYING LESSONS – A TO Z

ARMS BEATING


ANKLES BRACING


COASTING COLLAPSING


DARTING DIVING





ELEVATED EARTHLING


FLYING FALLING


GRACEFUL GROUNDLING


to the HEIGHTS into a HOLE





INSPIRED INVERTED


JUMP HIGH JUMP DEEP


KICK OUT KNOCK DOWN


LAUNCHING LANDING




MAINTAINING MOMENTUM MISSING THE MARK


out of the NEST into the NIGHT


ORBITING OBSTACLES


PASSING a PLANE





QUESTING QUEEZY


RISING RETURNING


SOARING SINKING


TRANSPORTING TUMBLING





UP UNDER


VAULTING VERTIGO


W I D E S P R E A D
W I N G S P A N
W I N D I N G D O W N





X-P-A-N-D X-H-A-L-E


YES YIKES


to the ZENITH from ground ZERO

DEAR MOTHER

Dearest Readers,
This is Jan Selman, an artist and women’s political coach who I met this weekend at a dinner party. She lost her 85 year old mother to cancer last year. Jan spoke at length about having hospice in her home, and how positive that experience was for her family and for her mom. Hospice care provided palliative medical treatment, and a compassionate bridge into death. The scenario, she noted, was better than dying in a hospital.

I squirmed as Jan’s story unfolded, realizing at some point that my mom’s hospice in 1997 in her Decatur Georgia nursing home, Harvest Heights, was far from homey. The setting felt like a hospital with nurses, aides, people in wheelchairs, and sanitized hallways flooded in neon. It was not bad, just not as personal.



I took this picture of Mom two months before she passed away. She had fallen, broken a hip and injured her eye. She was incontinent, and had dementia, but often still recognized me and was always cheerful. In the fall of that year she stopped eating and drinking. I initiated hospice care in her room at the nursing home after she was sent twice to The Atlanta Medical Center (formerly Georgia Baptist Hospital) to give her intravenous fluids, and stabilize her body chemistry. I made this tough decision after a meeting with her doctor and nurses, and in accordance with her living will wish for no extraordinary medical interventions.

Nothing much changed as far as the look of Mom’s nursing home room. It was now called hospice. We offered her food and drink, but did not force it. Mom was in a semi-private room with a curtain separating her from a woman with advanced Alzheimer’s. This woman lay in a fetal position by the window moaning or calling out. Her family, who I only saw once, kept a TV next to her that was turned on all day and probably all night–for comfort, I assume. During my mother’s last days on earth we sat with her while football games, commercials and talk shows played just beyond the curtain. It was disconcerting, but Mom did not seem to mind, and eventually slipped into a coma and died on December 6, 1997. For me the atmosphere in that room still feels surreal.




These are two portraits I drew of Mom based on the photograph. I covered her face in one of them, but I left her large eyes open so she could see through.





I took a final picture of Mom's hands while in hospice, and after her death I did a plan drawing for something I called “Helping Hand Wings for Hazel...Who Was Afraid of Death”. I imagined a zip-on winged contraption to enable her to pass fearlessly through the transition.

Two weeks ago I discovered two pictures of Mom as a teenager probably from 1923, and as a young adult around 1929 that touched me with their sweetness. They were pasted inside an old photo album she had stored in a footlocker in my basement. I include them here.