straddle the line of discord and rhyme

A little earlier in the week I was contacted by an independent blogger who found my work through Saatchi and wanted to write about it.  Of course I said yes, I spent the week looking at the blog because work was slow and my mind is always hungry.

Anyway the results can be found here:

https://onartandaesthetics.com/2016/10/22/the-complexities-of-interpersonal-relationships/

if you’ve got time, i recommend reading not only mine but some of the other as well,  they’re quite eloquent and well healed in verse.  She shares thoughts on established artists, writers as well as ones I would not know of if it weren’t for the internet.

below is a shot of the studio

studio

after weighing my aesthetic/functional needs with the old pocketbook, i settled on some delightful and durable faux wood.  Next weekend will start the installing followed by an electrician.

i’ve got some groceries, some peanut butter

the essentials

Soon rabbit they’ll be updates on the set up of the studio and the start of new work.  But for now, literally everything has been boxed up and awaiting the sale of one home and purchase of another.  I’m amazed at how much has been accumulated and how much is left out for just the getting by

books

There is part of me that feels like I am Gollum sitting on a high throne of all my precious (shoes, pots, books, art) neatly packed and waiting its new home.  There is another part that feels like a hoarder; because there is the stuff I use, the stuff I sometimes use and then the stuff I might someday want or need or just can’t let go even though it’s been in a box for more years than I care to acknowledge and it will either stay there until I am gone and its someone elses job to deal with or until I act.  There is also the stuff that we’ll no longer need but are taking with us, until we are settled and figure out what goes and what stays, ending in a cathartic purge.

Regardless, all the packing and disseminating reminded me of this poem, which is actually much more despondent and depressive in its subject matter than our move, but none the less

All My Pretty Ones
Father, this year’s jinx rides us apart
where you followed our mother to her cold slumber;
a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,
leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber
you from the residence you could not afford:
a gold key, your half of a woolen mill,
twenty suits from Dunne’s, an English Ford,
the love and legal verbiage of another will,
boxes of pictures of people I do not know.
I touch their cardboard faces. They must go.

But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album,
hold me. I stop here, where a small boy
waits in a ruffled dress for someone to come…
for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy
or for this velvet lady who cannot smile.
Is this your father’s father, this Commodore
in a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile
has made it unimportant who you are looking for.
I’ll never know what these faces are all about.
I lock them into their book and throw them out.

This is the yellow scrapbook that you began
the year I was born; as crackling now and wrinkly
as tobacco leaves: clippings where Hoover outran
the Democrats, wiggling his dry finger at me
and Prohibition; news where the Hindenburg went
down and recent years where you went flush
on war. This year, solvent but sick, you meant
to marry that pretty widow in a one-month rush.
But before you had that second chance, I cried
on your fat shoulder. Three days later you died.

These are the snapshots of marriage, stopped in places.
Side by side at the rail toward Nassau now;
here, with the winner’s cup at the speedboat races,
here, in tails at the Cotillion, you take a bow,

here, by our kennel of dogs with their pink eyes,
running like show-bred pigs in their chain-link pen;
here, at the horseshow where my sister wins a prize;
Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator,
my first lost keeper, to love or look at later.

I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept
for three years, telling all she does not say
of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept,
she writes. My God, father, each Christmas Day
with your blood, will I drink down your glass
of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years
goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass.
Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.
Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you,
bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.
Anne Sexton

And for all the whining about possessions, which ultimately come and go, it was harder to pack away the studio and take a break.   I’m looking forward to having a studio, not just a workspace in the garage and getting back to work.  The songs the songs are a calling.

a little to high

Its been ages since a post and I’ve missed being able to work in clay.  But adulting or whatever the kids my age are calling it these days has kept me away (first their is prepping your and closing up shop for the sale)- well the house sold, and the next logical step of purchasing a new one has been slightly out of reach.  This is part and parcel to the market but also has to do with our requirements (i.e. an actual studio space, not just some space in the garage, and a gaming room for my husband along with all those other things you want in a home at the price you are willing to pay)

And I haven’t not been arting, just no ceramics.  And since its been a while I thought i’d share some sketches from the old book, ideas that were originally meant for plates (and still might happen that way) but are now leaning towards drawings.

kate web update1

is it getting better or do you feel the same

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 a little brian eno too dark shark with a hint of feminism

a little brian eno too dark shark with a hint of feminism

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I have not been a total wash out in the ceramics arena – I had work accepted into the Third Coast National at K space contemporary gallery in corpus.  I’m glad these are seeing some love and attention from the art world.  I’d been playing with the idea of these for a while, i knew the song, i knew the exact words, but the actual pieces kept failing me.  i  tried a couple of unsuccessful attempts, put them on the shelf, put my sketches on the back burner and worked on other pieces, then came back and tried- lengthening and softening up the overall form, not just the centered area (Skipped the platinum lustre, glad that phase is over) and continued the softness with sandblasting a more circular shape.

 http://kspacecontemporary.org

dont you prefer a bitter taste to a bitter site

don’t you prefer a bitter taste to a bitter site

 

 

 

 

 

 

rebel rebel

Not long ago David Bowie died, folks took it to hear and then just a little bit farther.

fb was flooded with those saddened and in stunned disbelief, my feed was a parade of videos, images and stories.  There were memorials, tributes, bowie specific art shows and the town i live in (which has no real ties to the man) someone took down a street sign and replaced it with ‘david bowie avenue’ there was even talk about trying to effect this tribute as a permanent change.  for me the display of public mourning seemed production like and maudlin, in fact the continued force of it rubbed me the wrong way.  its always sad when someone you know or appreciate dies.  but this was not a close friend, relative or even some tragic lived fast die young.  this was a person with his own family and life, who happened to be a celebrity and for all case and purposes someone who was blessed with living a long life.

don’t get me wrong, i am not lacking in empathy;  its just his death didn’t make me want to talk about how he influenced me or how he influenced the world around, rather it reminded i am getting older and mortality is always present.

for me Bowie and other celebrities that have been around my entire life (formative years and beyond) have reached the status of familiar. the memory traces i   posses are a culmination of the times and styles we experienced because we have had the good fortune of crossing the same celestial paths at the same time.

drawing between the light and dark

drawing between the light and dark

after graduate school i got a a visiting artist professor position; between teaching and learning the ropes; i kept experimenting and making work, pushing the ideas i had started and focusing on what i wanted my work to convey.  these pieces were the only successful pieces i had to show from that time and in fact findingthe title required almost as much  i settled upon dinosaur jr.s version of quicksand, which to me was ever so slightly less depressing end of your rope than bowie’s  version.  these not only were my first personal success (direction wise)  but they also  really started my art life and career, they were accepted into several shows; including making the catalog cover of Silent Conversations, Craft Alliance, March 16 – May 6, 2007, St. Louis, Missouri

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

san angelo 21

this past spring i had work accepted into the san angelo 21st national ceramic competition, a biennial i’ve had the good fortune of being included in many years in the past. its driving distance from home the selection of work is always superb so  i would be lying to say its not one of my favorite shows, this year it became even more so as i received a merit award.  so while not able to attend the reception, we made the trek a few weeks later to check it out, as well as the chicken farm and ft. concho, because if you are going to site see, you must see all the sites.

me and my work on display

me and my work on display

some of the other works, in particular ones i liked

DSCF3139[1] DSCF3129[1] DSCF3144[1]

DSCF3136[1] DSCF3138[1] DSCF3152[1]

and of course a little gilhooly from the permanent collection

DSCF3167[1]

still don’t know what i was waiting for and my time was running wild

actually, i know all to well what i was waiting for. the web page to fix itself or better yet a backup of the day before it died to show up in my inbox like i requested and was instructed, but i digress. it was broke, it is now fixed.

so i managed without the internet coverage, i got into two shows, received a honorable mention at the 21st annual San Angelo National Ceramic Competition,  i wrote in my little sketchbook future blog posts which once i finish adding back all that was lost i shall begin to post, but since i am starting fresh, i’ll be starting fresh my way.

so while i work my back to complete broken image links on my blogs and posting posts from the journal, here is a shot from the show in San Angelo

cropped-cropped-cropped-13009661_10209363548830448_1034801609_o.jpg

take my compassion push it as far as it goes

a walk in the park

a friend sent me this article today and it resonated in so many ways.  i’ve applied the old addage, “a journey of a thousand steps begins with the first”  since about age 9 and quite enjoy the pleasure of putting my feet to the pavement (ground, sand, et al) and just going – regardless of destination. there is something cathartic about movement.

first i patted myself on the back for once again being in the company of genius, because some days you just need that boost.  then i got to thinking deeper on the subject:  walking equates itself to control and unlike a car, boat, train, airplane, etc… you have some control of this mode of transport; it is after all a basic vehicle to get you from point a to b, but it allows so much more the freedom to take yourself out of situations (or get into them) you can sightsee, blow off steam, take the long way home, smell the roses, when all other modes fail as long as your feet can carry you can walk.  you practice the art of putting one foot in front of the other, moving forward, aware of your surroundings your brain it frees itself up to ponder, focus and think.

I have grown to enjoy my near daily lunch walks and today having read the article, i reminsced a little; i was reminded of graduate school (i had the best garage apartment not far from school and i walked to campus most days) after getting a bike i had declared that i was going to spend the week biking everywhere (it was a small enough town that one could)  i remember being met with guffaws by one of the fellow graduate students and it frustrated me.  She couldn’t understand giving up ones car in favor of other transport and i couldn’t understand hers.  For me biking was twofold it was a physical challenge and something to try in order to jump start getting into shape, i could also add: lessening my carbon footprint, the shear fun of an experiment and to see how others who may not have the luxury of a car lived.  I did it and discovered biking is not quite my thing; if i have to i can do it, but nothing takes the place of zoning out, untethered for a walk

 

098the slow death of purposeful walking

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft agley”

a little anxious with the studio plans on hold, i easily got over it with the past couple of monsoon weekends where in we discovered: that the contractors who dug up the yard did not put all the dirt back (no, instead of packing it down they tossed what did not fit under the deck causing a sinkhole) and the back door & frame has sprung a leak.   neither of these are problems worthy of much complaint, we are happy and grateful to have dealable things to take care of.  besides there is something to be said from having a break to really get your mind around what you want to do.

updating my book list i discoverd this year is a near neck and neck tie of elmore leonard and david sedaris, although now on the docket is alex ross’ the rest is noise, listening to the 20twentieth century.  its appropo since i began the rough draft and research for ‘talking bout pop music’

this morning i made somebutternut squash chips, our final installment of the local farm delivery goods gifted us with what is quite possibly the worlds largest butternut squash ( we’ve managed 3 three meals out of this)

 

DSC_1697[1]

the summer work

well here you go again you say you want your freedom

well here you go again you say you want your freedom

between throwing and firing wedding pots and a dry salt firing of functional ware, which was more an experiment to see what residual salt would get me (the results were not too bad, and i admit the nice orange of reduction is growing on me) there wasn’t  as much time this summer to get work made, but i did manage to get a few sculptures finished, sandblasting was quick and a return to the old norm of having premeditated ideas and sketches to work from.  the next to goal is to start writing more, ive been gathering my thoughts and notes on pop music and am about ready to start working them out on paper with the writing being the next focus of time.

 

this pair was a redux from the end of semester/start of summer.  i had returned to listening to more of the classics, a moniker that has different meaning depending on ones age, for me this meant returning to the late 70seventies and early eighties. i had wanted to capture the declarative and empowering start in dreams.  and it was a redux      because the first set, where a little to thin (think enveloped) so i got out the sketchbook and returned, liked what i got out and then changed up the sandblasting for more angled edge to further the piercing.

my my my we are treating each other just like strangers

my my my we are treating each other just like strangers

music musings

one of my fb friends posed the question ‘ if you were stuck on a desert island and could only listen to one band for the rest of your days what would it be’ while it was interesting to read the choices of others,  i myself chose talking heads, which then caused me to put them back in heavy rotation in the various devices.

I’ve hit replay more than a few times since on, houses in motion,  and have narrowed down a couple lines that i find most intriguing for what i want, then its been playing with punctuation, line breaks as well as the lyrical movement. not quite a haiku or tanka but close.

never get to say much

never get to talk

tell us a little bit but not too much.

Get out of the way!                                                                                                                                       no time to begin.
This isn’t the time,                                                                                                                                            so nothing was done.

  the next step is to figure out what to do with them, i’ve been sketching but so far nothing has clicked, i’ve also got a trifecta in the studio that has been staring at me for a while waiting. waiting and it might just be that some sandblasting can make that happen, its the pesky middle piece where i want to not only focus but tie the other two together and apart at the same time.
besides talking heads, i’ve been playing with some fleetwood mac and trying to work out a little something referencing dreams

and in the respite of dry, humid weather we’ve been having i managed to get some work sandblasted and shot.

well here i go again you've heard it all before

well here i go again you’ve heard it all before