Speaking of Art....

Maira Kalman, The Illustrated Woman | Video on TED.com

2011-06-26T13:34:00.001+02:00

The way I view my childhood has been a prominent factor in the way I live as an adult. People who know me know that I have a fascination with my earliest, most formative years; sweetness and light. My most vivid memories are attached to my childhood friend Paul. We lived across the street from one another in a suburban Long Island town and days when not in school were filled with bike rides, and creating a Humane Society with stuffed animals, writing our own comic with colorful characters, and collecting bugs and shed cicada shells. We were children growing up in the 70's when it was still safe to wander around our town unsupervised, before cellphones and video games and computer. The world was ours to explore, and we sure did explore it. We were creative and imaginative by default, products of our generation. When I wasn't with Paul, I spent the bulk of my summer weeks in an all girls camp in Sag Harbor, Long Island diving off the wooden pier swimming like a fish for hours on end, and singing folk tunes like Blowin' In The Wind, If I Had a Hammer, Big Yellow Taxi and Little Boxes to the strumming of our hippie nun counselor's guitar around campfires at night. I think the only thing that saved me as an adult, was in fact my whimsical, freedom to be a child and enjoy all that childhood brings. This is where I was able to explore, think and wonder. It is what I hold on to and the reason, despite my abusive marriage, periods of financial insatiability and the struggles and passions of living abroad, I have continued to stay sane. Somewhat.

Though I received my undergraduate degree in English Literature and had dreams of becoming a professor at a swanky university, fate led me to change from my English Master's to pursue my graduate studies in Elementary Education. There, something unexpected happened. I realized that being a teacher might give me the opportunity to be with little people living the ages I loved most. I realized I could help them to consciously enjoy being a child and learning about the world. I also fell in love with children's literature again. After four years of reading Rousseau, Shakespeare, Sartre and Whitman, I realized I had a love for language, creativity and the aesthetic. There are some children's authors that I return to year after year to help illustrate my love of language and the qualities that made my childhood so fulfilling. The natural disposition of a child is to be totally open to all possibilities and explore them with a passion that is often lost with age. To some, staying trapped in the mind of a child is seen as immaturity, and in some cases, this is true. In other cases, this can be considered to be the embodiment of the artistic soul. Maira Kalman is one author who uses her child-like sense of whimsy to create writing and art that goes beyond the label of children's author.

I first came across a Kalman book called Ooh La La Max In Love about a dog named Max Stravinsky who goes off to Paris, living like a Parisian. He goes to clubs, eats in restaurants, and in the City of lights and Love, he falls in love with a minx of a Dalmatian named, what else, Crepes Suzette. It appealed to me first for the subtle jokes referencing famous French artists with the likes of the surrealist painter Rene Magritte,the songstress Josephine Baker, and author of The Hunchback of Notre Dame Victor Hugo. This book was too funny for children to get it, I thought at first glance. However, upon a second read, I realized the word play and rhymes would appeal to children, and of course I am failing to mention the stunning illustrations Kalman paints having a very French feel to them. I took it for a whirl for the first time in my second grade classroom when I was working in The Bronx, NY and the kids were screaming with laughter. Of course they would connect to the illustrations, characters and plot. Fantastic.

In recent yeas I rediscovered Kalman through The New Yorker Magazine which she has been a regular contributor to for several years. One particular cover illustration of a map of New York City created with Rick Meyerowitz know to most as New Yorkistan, is one that will stay in the minds of readers for a long time. I recently rediscovered Kalman again through TED. This particular talk by Kalman reignited my connection to childhood, and the importance for my need to express myself artistically. It speaks to me as a woman, though gender does not need to be a factor here. As an artist, Kalman is deeply rooted in her childhood, her culture and her artistic spirit.

Enjoy this clip, and listen close. If you feel any connection at all to what she says, perhaps it is time to reexamine your artistic self and reconnect with the fascination of a child.

Maira Kalman, the illustrated woman | Video on TED.com

It's My Blog And I'll Write If I Want To...The Portraits Series Begins

2011-06-21T18:46:00.002+02:00

So for a while now, I've had this idea to write portraits of the amazing people who have touched my life. I wrote one, Portrait of a Friendship, about my dearest and longest sustaining friendship with my dear Dawn. Kindered spirits are we, soul sisters to be sure. She came into my life briefly, then stayed through it all. Despite moves, loves and losses we have always maintained the closest of friendships, the tightest of bonds. There have been other significant women in my life, women whom I admired, there have been those who taught me about my profession as an educator, my world, myself. I am truly grateful for having had them in my life even if ever so briefly. Coincidentally, these people happen to be women. A good friend, also a woman, recently said to me, "Maria, you attract some amazing people into your life, but you also attract some really bad ones." Indeed. It got me thinking, that the good ones have been women or gay men, and the bad... well, you guessed it, all the men that have passed through my heart. Or at least my sheets.

HELEN

I should begin at the beginning of my rebirth.

Image via Wikipedia

Five months before meeting Helen, I left my husband. He was punching me. I was bleeding. I was thrown onto concrete... confused, a bit dazed. Minutes later I was standing outside a gas station, barefoot, and looking down there was a a halo. A sparkling rainbow around my bare feet in glorious tones of azure, crimson and gold. I was standing in a puddle of oil with no shoes on my feet, no home to live in, and only the clothes on my back. Danny and Theresa, my husband's cousin and his wife, in the car next to me telling me to follow them upstate to their home. Of course I got in the car and did as they said. Robotic movements.
When I got upstate I had nothing. No clothing to unpack, no shoes to politely offer to take off when I entered their home, just me. They quickly made up a bed for me and told me to get some rest, that we would talk in the morning. Somewhere in the house a dog barked. Confused.
And talk we did. It was a family pow-wow. Aunt Margie came up from the Bronx to assess the situation. I would stay until I could get myself a place of my own, stay as long as I needed to. Get myself together.
So it was that I was placed in a First Grade classroom with a sharp Bronx born Puerto Rican, Helen. I kept my private life private and so did she. She was smart and patient and knew her profession well. She had a classroom assistant, Evelinda, who helped her with planning, copying, and organizing the students. We met every day at lunch to discuss teaching plans, and Helen taught me the ways of the school, and how to meet the needs of the students. She knew her kids well, and planned individualized instruction for a tough inner city group of kids that needed so much more than reading and writing. She came off as tough and serious with high expectations for the kids and they knew it. She was also creative and caring with the students, but never let them take advantage of her good nature. During those lunches, we would meet with the other teachers who were also good, strong teachers, and tough as nails Bronx born women. They cursed like sailors and told dirty jokes, and gossiped about the teachers on the second floor. It was the time for the girls to be girls and blow off some steam. And that's when Helen first called me Ma. I knew what she meant right away. Having grown up in a Spanish home myself, I was and still am, called mamita by my mother. In hispanic culture it is common for women to call their daughters mamita, a term of endearment and affection. Helen threw her own twist on it, and called everyone "Ma" for short. Years later I would tell new groups of friends about Helen and how much she meant to me personally and professionally, and others began calling me Ma too.
Then one day, she asked what I was doing Friday night, and if I wanted to go to her place to "hanggou". Her Boricua accent came out when she said hang out. Like it was one word.
Friday night came and I followed her home after work. We entered the bottom floor of the house to be greeted by a steep flight of green shag carpeted stairs, and Helen pointed up saying, "That's my house, that door. Go up!" She turned to close the door and I looked up the stairs... the smells of Pernil, a Puerto Rican stove top pork dish, beans and rice wafted down the stairs. As I got closer to the door I heard voices, Sandy, her mother's dog, barking and the sounds of Univision 41 Nueva York, New York's Spanish speaking news channel. Helen was at the top of the stairs with me now, and she put her key in the door. She opened it and all at once the two little girls, Megan and Genesi, and Sandi the sand colored dog all ran toward her at once. "Mommy mommy!" they screamed, and she gave them both big hugs and kisses. "Ma? Mammie? Where you at? I need a fucking drink! Come on McCabe, follow me." Teacher was gone, the mother was home, and Helen was Helen in full force. Out came the tequilla. I knew I was in trouble. This was another world, and I was so glad to be in it.
Her mother, Ada came out from the sala, or living room, with a tall boy can of Budweiser in her hand. Helen walked right up to her, gave her a kiss, took a swig from the beer can and handed it back to her mother. "get your own damn beer.... " Then looking at me, "Oh hi, hello, I'm Helen's mom, Eda." he was an adorable blond with glasses and a button nose. she had a bright smile and an infectious laugh. She welcomed me to their home, and made me feel like part of the family.
After that night Helen and I began what would be a very meaningful friendship for me. She took me to the Copacabana where we danced all night long. We continued to work together and party after work, and though it was clear I had no rhythm for dancing, and a low tolerance for drinking, we talked and laughed and cried. I told her my story, and Helen said, "Baby, when you met me, you met God. Don't you worry about a thing". I was stunned, but did indeed find some comfort in her words.
On one of those nights at her house, when the girls had gone t sleep and the house was quiet, Helen began to share her concerns for her brother. He was married at the time to a woman Helen thought was not good for him. She spoke mostly about him as a person and how good he was. She pulled out some of his drawings and shared them with me. I was stunned by how good they were. They were mostly of Superheroes in various action poses, pencil or black ink sketches. She was sad he had altogether stopped drawing since being with her. I remember developing a crush on him, sight unseen based on what she shared with me about him.
When the towers fell, we were at work together. Passing by the parent/faculty room, I could not believe what I was seeing; clouds of smoke billowing where two of the tallest building in Manhattan once stood. Flames, confusion... I really did not comprehend what I was seeing. Parents began picking up there children from school and of course we could not leave until every child was safely escorted by a parent or neighbor. When it was time for us to finally leave, we heard that police were closing bridges and tunnels and doing checkpoints on all highways leading out of Manhattan. Helen insisted I come home with her, that the drive up to my cottage in Brewster was too far. Cell phone service was in and out, and Helen was frantically trying get in touch with her husband, brother, aunt and mother. Ada worked on Pearl street, just blocks from the Trade Center. We would find out later that she was stuck in the confusion with others. She told us later it was the quietest subway ride home she ever experienced. She had been covered in ash, like thousands of others that day, but when she finally arrived home we were all so happy to see her. All of us stood stunned in front of the T.V. as we watched the clips over and over, the reports on the news giving bits of information, and then finally Mayor Rudolph Giuliani came on to update the people on what officials knew at that point and what was being done. The news was grim, and difficult to hear. We were frozen. I don't remember what or how much, but I am sure we drank some that night. I slept there that night, glad for having people I loved close to me.
About a year after that Helen and her husband decided to pack it up and move to Florida. Life in New York was too expensive and stressful, and they wanted more for their children. When Helen broke the news to us, it was sad, but we were all so happy for the possibilities for her and her family. She was so excited about moving and living near the beach. Soon her best friend and sister in law Gracie moved her family down to Florida. And, about a year or two after that I found the strength to move to Italy.
Helen and I don't talk every day, but we are in touch through the internet and I always wish her well. I knew how important she was to me at the time, and will never forget the impact she had on me. A few weeks before she left, she told me she wanted me to stay in touch with her brother. She was worried about him because he was going though a divorce, and since I had been through the same, thought I could talk to him if he needed support. We did, and now he is a special friend of mine too.
Seeing pictures of Helen looking so happy, watching her family grow and change, has made me so happy for her, and I will always think of her as an angel who held me and guided me exactly when I needed it.
So Helen, you see, good things really do happen to good people. Love you girl.

FuorBit, Milan

2011-02-15T14:52:00.001+01:00

This weekend marks the first FuoriBit event here in Milan. The theme is Milan In The World And The World In Milan.

Events in Art, food and music from countries all over The World will be happening all over Milan starting Thursday night.... Check out the links for a full schedule of events happening on Thursday Friday Saturday and Register For Free Here!

Hope to see you at some of the events!

Electra's Dictionary: Chapter 3 -- Electra's Comic Book Scene 1: Trent

2011-02-06T21:38:00.000+01:00

Electra's Dictionary: Chapter 3 -- Electra's Comic Book Scene 1: Trent: "Electra’s Comic Book Scene 1 Trent He dreams in comic book font: The bat lady… She came into the room occupying its entire space with he..."

The Hermitage, Amsterdam

2010-09-29T15:30:00.000+02:00

Oofa! This was written months ago, sorry about the late post!
Last summer for my 40th birthday I received what may well have been the best gift I have ever received for my birthday... a gift certificate with a company called ARTTRA that provides custom private tours of museums, galleries and neighborhoods in Amsterdam. The certificate indicated that I could have a group of up to 20 people along to enjoy this private tour. WOW! I did not know when the best time would be to use it, and each time I had visitors, I did not get my act together to send out invites and arrange for things. Procrastinator that I am, fate stepped in and forced me to use it a few weeks before my big move out of Amsterdam. So I gathered up some friends from work, and luckily my recently married dear friends Heather and John flew in from London for the weekend and were able to join in on the fun. They are moving to Singapore this summer, and I back to Italy, so this was an especially nice treat for us to bid farewell to Amsterdam.

In classic form it was a rainy cold day - at the beginning of June this was somewhat unexpected, but not really considering it is, after all, Amsterdam inside the Hermitage which rests along the Amstel River in the heart of the city. I chose the Hermitage because it was the only major museum I had not been too, and I really wanted to see the Matisse exhibit. After checking in coats, umbrellas and bags, we were greeted by our lovely tour guide, Ana, who led us up the stairs to the beginning of the tour.

This was the only picture we were allowed to take in the museum... in the stairwell!

From left to right: Sabrina, Carlo, Andrea, Jen, Tracey, Lisa, Me, John, Heather, Helena, Lisa, Sue.

The London Police

2010-09-29T15:29:00.001+02:00

My second year living in Amsterdam, I discovered a small art gallery called Go Gallery. Run by 2 welcoming partner-proprietors. Around this time, they were featuring the art of a rogue street art group called The London Police. Intrigued by the name, I entered the gallery to check out their work. To say I was blown away is an understatement.
The canvases were playful, yet edgy and very well done. Seriously good lines and unmistakeable skylines of New York, London, and yes, even Amsterdam. However, these were not simply cityskapes. Each one had these playful almost perfectly circular smiley faced characters at the center of each painting, and I couldn't help but smile back! All black and white pieces that depicted happy round faced creatures with landmark city backdrops. With flawless lines and simple statements of joy and invasion all at once. I was immediately taken with their work, and engaged myself in conversation with one of the parters to find out more.
Check out more about the London Police, and their work here.

Things We Put Away

2010-09-29T15:09:00.000+02:00

I started this entry at the beginning of the summer. For what it's worth, here it is...

So, once again, I was sent into my mother's basement to check the state of old books I have in large plastic bins. Did I want anything, or could we give them a toss. Sorry, folks, but I cannot toss a book. Out of curiosity, though, I wanted to see what was down there. The first bin had some basic stuff: A D.H. Lawrence, some Freud, a volume of poetry I think I read during my undergraduate studies. A hodgepodge of books from an earlier time, nothing that caught my interest. The second bin I opened had more pads of my drawing and painting. Memories flooding back again, and sheer shock that I still had these things. I must have recovered them after leaving my ex-husband, but did not remember, and have not opened these boxes since. Strange. The things we put away mentally and physically.

And what of the people we put away?
Along with those books, I can associate people who were in my life at the time. People I confided in, loved, yearned for and considered part of my daily life. There were professors like A.L., teaching the course The Philosophy of Seduction who was possibly the ugliest man alive physically, but when he spoke a light from within illuminated him and he became the focus of my young co-ed daydreams. I am sure he had no idea the effect he had on me, as all my sexual urges were restrained to the space between my ears, but I would leave his class in a state. There was my good friend and writing partner, whose name I can't even remember (Rachel? Rebecca?) who would sit with me between classes to discuss poetry and write. She was younger than me by about 3 or 4 years, which then seemed like much more. I was so close to her, we shared countless hours writing together, and discussing what we had written and why. She was a great writer, and I was awed by how someone "so young" could write with such depth of emotion. She was very important to me, and I thought we would be friends for a very long time. Instead I can't remember much more about her than she wrote with me for a few months. There is a friend who I feel like I just spoke to last week, but who I now realize I have not spoken to in about 12 years. We were also extremely close, right down to our families knowing each other intimately. We use to go for long drives and talk about getting married to perfect men, living in the same town and raising our babies together. Shortly after she married and started her family, we drifted apart and mine fell apart. I am thankful for not having children during that marriage, but sorry that my friend and I faded apart as so many important people in my life faded away. There were lovers, friends and colleagues who were so very important to me, so much a part of my life. It's strange to me how those personalities could just evaporate with time.

Now where are they?
Some of them do remain, but most are ghosts, shadows, memories. I remember thinking at one time my heart would break if I lost a certain friendships. Maybe it did a little, but upon remembrance of things past, there are only one-dimensional. What remains are events, maybe the time. Often, memories are peppered with embellishments; additions to enhance a story, or deletions to remember more sweetly, less sourly. Perhaps this is necessary to retain a sense of personal history.

And back to books.
The night I left my husband, barefoot and leaving all my possessions behind, I could almost hear the cries of the books I left behind in the white armoir I bought to house them all. I could hear Constance Chatterly, Romeo and Juliet, Hume, Kant, Elliot, Anais and Vita calling out for me to return for them. I did, but could only take what could fit in my car, and no more. I am sure those books that meant so much to me - the characters that entered my life and have stayed there since - must be lying at the bottom of the Long Island Sound, phantom passengers on the 1962 Chris Craft that went missing along with my marriage.

O.K., so some things, some people you just don't miss.
Huh.

Takashi Murakami - Meets Louis IVX

2010-09-29T14:48:00.002+02:00

I just read about Japanese artist Takashi Murakami's show at the Chateau de Versailles. I have been a fan of Murakami's for a few years, and love his explosive style and imaginative work, but did not know about plans for this incredible show. Looks amazing... check it out!

START MILANO, September 17-18-19, 2010

2010-09-17T14:51:00.000+02:00

Since 2006, public spaces, non profit art galleries and museums participate in the promotion of contemporary art and artists in this city-wide event.
http://www.startmilano.com/blog/?page_id=222
Click on Gallerie e Programma for a list of galleries and programs (with times) that will be hosting events and expositions this weekend.

For further information, please contact:
info@startmilano.com - info@start-mi.net
or

UFFICIO STAMPA

Chiara Chiapparoli
CH2
Via Savona, 20 - 20144 Milano
tel. +39.328.8967283

cc@ch2.it

The Arts Map

2010-08-02T18:34:00.000+02:00

I am listed on there at my Amsterdam address (will update later) but I wanted any readers of this blog who might be artists to be aware of this fantastic tool. Please register with the Arts Map if you are an artist!
Artists of all kinds are cordially invited to create free listings on The Arts Map, an interactive world-wide map of artists studios, galleries, museums, arts organizations, and more. Listings are free, user-generated, and easy to create. Just go tohttp://TheArtsMap.com/ and click on "create new listing" at the top of the page under the logo. - Robin Colodzin and Jonathan Talbot

What does it mean to be artistically literate in our society? What does it mean to be an artist?

2010-07-13T21:29:00.000+02:00

I began this post about three months ago....
Today I attended a meeting concerning what it means to be scientifically literate. Two very interesting presentations were given showing two different perspectives on the question. Both had valid points, and were not opposed to each other in my opinion, but in fact, seemed to compliment each other.
When speaking of Scientific Literacy, a very important variable for the first speaker was to warn us that the way we learn now has changed; there is an admitted loss of control over how information is obtained by all parties: students, teachers, and parents alike. Cyber collaborations on research, and publication of information have increased at a rapid rate over the last 20 years, and information is obtained within 30 seconds through the mightiest of the mighty search engines, Google. Speaker one posed the point for Scientific Literacy there really are two components: the What? that we should know, (basics facts, concepts, set forth and met by standards and benchmarks) and the How? (skills needed to reflect on scientific knowledge itself). Speaker two reviewed a basic history of scientific theory from two different schools of thought: Rationalism and Empiricism.
The question was then posed to myself and two of my colleagues and myself ...

What does it mean to be artistically literate in our society?

We tossed around several ideas. Well, you would have to have knowledge of several important artists and why they were important. To be artistically literate you should have an understanding of some of the technical aspects of art, like perspective, proportion, composition and value. There should also be a basic understanding or aesthetics, and the ability to observe a piece with some sense of objectivity. Having a knowledge of the canon is also essential for being literate in art; having an understanding of the history, expectations, and current movements in art helps place a piece in its proper perspective, and gives one the ability to compare it to other pieces, contrast it , or be able to say what makes it stand out above and beyond the others positively or negatively, and why. Being artistically literate means also developing a working knowledge of the language of art. In other words, being fluent in art language and theory means one is artistically literate.
Or does it?
Something about this argument did not sit right with me, therefore I was unable to publish until today. Art is about so much more than language, theory and canon. Art is primarily about emotions, a sense of flow, rhythm and capturing the essence of the subject. Good training in technical aspects greatly contributes to one's ability to express their emotions more accurately, of this I firmly believe. But even the least trained artist can be a master if their soul is in their work and process.

I began writing this particular post about two months ago. As it turns out, recent events in my personal life have contributed to clarifying my understanding on this subject. I loosely quote George Berkely the eighteenth century British Empiricist, when I say, there has been a dust raised that prevented me from seeing, but suddenly the dust has settled on this matter and I see it now with clear eyes! A technically accurate but soul-less artist is incapable of producing art (or anything) that means anything to anyone, let alone himself. An artist with soul and depth of emotion is far more able to make a statement bearing weight and a transfer of meaning. To be artistically literate is a separate matter, I will concede. But to be an artist one must posses a soul with feelings and emotions or the work is vapid, empty and touches no one.
I suppose the same could be said about a life. A life with no feelings emotions or soul is vapid, empty and touches no one.
Do you hear me? You know who you are.

As You Like It

2010-07-13T20:47:00.000+02:00

Mid-play the actors tell the story of Rosalind and Orlando...

Another wonderful opportunity as I prepare to leave Amsterdam - I was invited by my friend Shingai to see As You Like It, the Shakespearean comedy of errors, at the Stadsschouwburg Theater on Leidseplein, in Amsterdam. This particular production was especially special (!). It was a production directed by Sam Mendes for the Bridge Project, which is a theater group consisting of a cast made up of half British half American Shakespearean Actors. The American actors hailed from BAM (The Brooklyn Academy of Music) and the Brits, of course, were from the Globe Theater in London and performances began and ended at The Old Vic. They took their show on the road on both sides of the pond starting in New York in the Spring.

The cast takes its curtain call at the end of the play.

After the performance my friends and I decided to get a glass of wine at the open air bar next door to the theater. As we walked away from the bar and were about to part ways, I saw Ms. Rylant, the play's Rosylind walking down the street. She graciously stopped and spoke to us for a while and agreed to smile for a picture with me. Cheers!

Juliet Rylance who played Rosalind/Ganymede, and Me on Leidseplein, Amsterdam, NL

Out of boredom comes discovery

2010-07-13T17:48:00.000+02:00

Being back on Long Island, back in my mother's house has been a strange experience this time. I have not been here in a full year. Everywhere there are reminders of my youth and formative years. Some things happy reminders, some quite painful.
Today I decided, quite impulsively, to go down into the basement and find my old paintings. I was pleased to find they had been as I left them, in two giant clear plastic bags from the art store. As I pulled each one out of the bag, I was flooded with remembrance of emotions past. Most of these paintings were completed after leaving my husband when, like Thoreau I went into the woods. I rented a cottage in Brewster, New York for about three years. After a period of shock and void of emotion, I called my friend Dawn (who is an experienced artist) to ask how I could begin painting. Writing was not working after a certain point, and my life was in turmoil. I remember feeling the need to express what was going on for me in a tangible way. She suggested I start with acrylics, and so off I went to buy the necessaries.
What you see here are things that came completely from my mind. there was no attempt to paint surroundings or anything real. These were all completed between 2000 and 2003. I know these are primitive, and I am not sure if there has been any artistic development in my work since then since I have moved on to black and white sharpie work, however they are extremely representational of what was happening to my heart and head at the time. Each one tells a story that I could sit and tell you with vivid detail. This is so cathartic to me now, because I am faced with similar, albeit stronger emotions in the same vein.
When I began this blog I fully intended to focus on my experiences with art. I wanted to express how I felt when I viewed art or was near it. Seems I have been struggling with trying to produce it for longer than I could recall. So, maybe this is a place to show mine -bare and naked- for what it's worth. Here goes.....

Art in Oyster Bay, LI

2010-07-12T16:04:00.000+02:00

Coming back to New York gets more and more difficult. The longer I live overseas, the less connected I feel to American culture; what movies are out, what the latest fads are for kids, who's hot in the celebrity world, and what the big local news is. This time I came home faced with picking up a people magazine, and not knowing the person on the cover. This was a sad first. I anticipated this visit home might be worse than others, so I decided to do something about it. When living abroad as an expat, there are many "groups" you can join to get social. There's MeetUp, MeetIn, and more specific expat groups like the British Social Club (worth going to a few events if you speak English!) and still others which I can't name at the moment. Anyway, at the encouragement of friends, I signed up for scavenger hunts, pasta making and a mass blind date (such a great story... let's just say it involved finding a man in a bar with a banana), all in the city of Amsterdam. Those were just a few of the fun things I did in the attempt to get to know other expats living in Amsterdam. Great fun, but in the end I met expats, not the Dutch which is maybe what I should have tried to do. In any case, we did in fact meet some interesting people, but what stands out is that you actually can have fun with strangers. Huh.
Before discovering these 'meet" groups, I also decided that taking classes would be a cool, cultural enriching way of forgetting I was single, and yes, to improve myself in someway by learning something new. So, I took and oil painting class because I love art so much. I had played with acrylics in the past and felt that if I were to invest in a class with real instruction, I would need to think about investing in oils. I did, and the result was painting a still life of a tea bag. When my instructor came to my easel to see my progress, she had no problem taking the paintbrush out of my hand and reworking the feeble efforts that I had began on my canvas. She reworked it, and put eyes on my tea bag. Eyes and a mouth. I saw the tea bag before me, with no eyes thank you very much, and was enraged on so many levels that she could destroy my crappy painting. I wanted my crappy tea bag to look as crappy as I had made it. Not as crappy as she had made it. This experience did not deter me. No! I went on to take belly dancing, pilates, and yes, even a writing course. Working as hard as I do, it was great for me to get out and mingle with non-teacher types. (Oh, and ladies, is you think taking a class is a great way to meet me, you are wrong. These classes, even in Europe are filled with women looking to meet men. Save for the occasional gay man who could indeed become your new best friend and shopping companion, there are no single men taking art or writing courses as a form of self-improvement.) The truth is, I was searching for a serious course. I could not afford to go to a local university to do this, so I was unlucky in finding exactly what I was looking for. Who would have thought I would find it right in my hometown backyard?
A few weeks before coming to New York I decided to sign up for the MeetUp group here in NYC. Staying at my mom's on Long Island I thought might put me at a slight disadvantage (Manhattanites often refer to anyone not living in Manhattan - commuters - as the bridge and tunnel crowd). Also, it is only excusable that I am staying with my mother because I live in Europe the rest of the year. I made a few trips into The City to MeetUp events and did meet up with some interesting people who have followed up and kept in touch and even made plans to get together outside of the MeetUp realm. But then, continuing on my search for more ways to entertain myself this summer, I found one lonely class in the list that stood out. Figure drawing and Painting in Oyster Bay, LI and Brooklyn. I read more, and signed up. I was hesitant, as Oyster Bay in my pre-Europe days was a quaint little fishing village. Quiet. Sleepy. Salted with summer and oysters fresh from the bay. Home of the world famous Oyster Festival which takes place each fall. But art? I noticed a few years ago a ceramic do-it-yourself craft shop had opened near Main Street, but never thought of Oyster Bay as an artist's haven. My thinking has recently been changed.
On a Wednesday night I dragged my friend Norbert to the MeetUp class we pre-registered for, which took place at the Teaching Studio of Art on Audrey Avenue just across from Town Hall. I was surprised to see it there, and wondered how long it had been there, since Oyster Bay is a town I do go to every chance I can when I am home. This was my first time back in a year, and later Rob would tell me that in fact, the studio had been opened for about that long. When I walked into the studio, I was pleasantly surprised, and immediately breathed in the air of art in progress. There were small stands set up with fruit, vases and various items with spotlights for still life drawing. Each station had a chair; some empty but 2 or three with artists already beginning work on sketch pads. To my left I could see paintings and a stage but kept moving forward to see a lounge area with couches and art on the walls, columns, and pieces of Greek and Roman artifacts. The entire space was fluid and clean, but had distinct areas. Turning back to my left, was the stage again. It was only about a foot off the ground, and small. Enough room there for 3 or 4 people standing close together, with a stool and nothing more on it. Around the stage in semi-circle formation were a dozen to 15 chairs with easels. We were greeted by Rob (Robert Zeller) who told us class would begin in a few minutes. He remembered me from my MeetUp profile, and was very welcoming. When the rest of the students arrived (there were about 10 of us in the class) Rob began with a brief lecture on the four main building blocks that artists consider when sketching anatomy: 1-head 2- ribcage 3- pelvis and 4-legs. The handouts showed how these blocks look and how sketches can begin. Rob talked about this a bit, and then showed us these sections on the model we had the pleasure of sketching for the evening. She must have been between 19 and 21 years old, with a flawless figure, skintone, and face. We sketched her in five poses for five minutes each keeping in mind the four building blocks. This was especially challenging for me. I have been drawing abstract for years in my own strange style because I cannot draw bodies and facial features the way I want to. Rob was very ecouraging to all the students, and used a piece of paper on the side of our easels to show how we could adjust our strokes or lines. He gave each of us some specific constructive advice and remembered everyone's name. As a teacher myself, I especially appreciated that! He found a way to make the class personal and relevant to each of us. We were all on different artistic experience levels but Rob was consistent in focusing us on the technique of making a good sketch using those main building blocks. There were no judgements being made. He simply took what he saw us doing and advised how to make the work more technically correct - not prettier or better - just technically more precise. This is exactly what I had been looking for. Serious focused instruction from a working artist and time to work with a live model. I am looking forward to attending more classes with Rob and The Teaching Studio of Art.

Robert Zeller Figure Drawing and Painting in Oyster Bay, Long Island and Brooklyn takes place on Wednesday and Thursday nights this summer. To learn more about the Teaching Studio of Art, the faculty and classes, visit their website at : www.teachingstudios.com .

Io Sono l'Amore

2010-06-29T03:20:00.001+02:00

... or I Am Love, is the title of an Italian film directed by Luca Guadagnino and starring Tilda Swinton. I fist became intrigued Swinton's performance in the movie Orlando. (Those of you who have read my previous blog entries, know that Orlando the book written by Virginia Woolf, and the main character were based on the life of Vita Sackville-West.) Here is another performance in which Ms. Swinton does not disappoint.

I first read about this movie about a year ago in a magazine, and the article focused on the production that was taking place during that time in Milan, Italy. Of course, having lived there, I was obsessed with wanting to see it, but knew it would not be out in theaters for a long time. So, as I was walking along Columbus Avenue in Manhattan the other day, nearing Lincoln Center, I saw the Lincoln Center Theater Cinema box office, and in efforts to escape the 90+ degree heat, I told myself I would see the next film no matter what it was. As luck would have it, the next film was I Am Love. Almost overlooking it (I was not in the mood for some cheesy romance) I almost looked for the next one, but read that Swinton was the actor, and like a flood, the memory rushed back - MILAN!) I bought my ticket, and entered the theater. I had no idea what I was in for.
I did not remember much about what I had read about the film, other than it takes place in Milan.
Here was a film for me. The connection of food and Italy intertwined with passion .. my understanding of all three, the need for all three to play a prominent role in my life cut to my very core. I think this is why I am drawn back to the city of Milan, and I think that's why I have a special connection to this film. I read one review of this film that ripped it apart for including an uncomfortably long love-making scene between the two primary characters. To me that scene was necessary, especially after the snowy gray slushy opening scenes of the film, depicting the city of Milan, and her life in just the same way. To show the release of this woman's breaking away from her stale cold meticulous life, this spring time love making in the grass was beautifully composed, and not gratuitous in my view. The two lovers intertwined in the grass, bees all around pollinating flowers, the warmth of the sun on their skin; these images become symbols of what is not only natural, but necessary. As I watched, I was reminded of Flaubert's Madame Bovary, and Lawrence's Lady Chatterly all at once. Both novels include a climax that is sexual in nature, a symbolic breaking away from societal expectations, driven by a passion, albeit lust, even they could not understand. In the case of Emma in I Am Love, it is cultural repression that she holds back. In one scene, she explains to her lover how her Italian husband "rescues" her from her Russian life of poverty. I could not help but feel a little door had been opened to understanding her need to escape that much more.
Then film is beautifully shot, and shocking in its twists and turns. I highly recommend it to every woman I know, but also for anyone who wants to understand why women are the way they are, and just how much they are willing to sacrifice for various reasons. I also recommend it for men, so that they may consider their role, and a woman's role, if only to understand the complexity of women that much more. To understand that sex is more that romance for women, it can be a powerful symbolic act that indeed can be passionate, comforting, freeing. It can be the means toward self-realization, while I think for men, it is the end. Powerful.

Prelude

2010-06-06T23:37:00.006+02:00

The Prance of the Panther

I’m not a number
My fingerprints belong to me
--my fingertips
what I do is my life
& not for public scrutiny
your opinion does not count
I don’t care
I’m not your number
And time is when we share this planet
But I didn’t create your rules
If I was in some other time
There would be other scorecards
I walk away from chains and uniforms
There’s freedom but not
On your time.
There’s freedom on my mind
But it’s not your kind

Premise:

   I am going to tell you a story about a girl. Let’s call her Electra. She creates a comic strip that tells a story. Within the comic strip is a diary that is known as Electra’s Dictionary. Through this it is possible to tell. There is no need to explain or apologize. There is no type of repercussions for the things that she reveals.
   The density of words allows more to be said as the interpretations of words can always be defended by the subjective tendency to error in understanding, especially on the behalf of the reader. I think that in order to be a good secret agent you really have to be a good spy.
   If this were a trail of clues the blue print would look like splices of a cross-section diagram. You put different colored films over the surface and examine how this influences the way that it looks. Other realities are exposed. Within every one of those realities is an infinite number of interpretations. Which is the right one? This question is irrelevant because all and none would be the answer and I know that is a contradiction in terms. Follow me.
   You take a knife and cut into the cross section. You lay a film of ultra-marine over it and then alizarin crimson. You take away one and view. You put them together in two separate orders. Ultra violet is my favorite color; it contains so many, like the violet dawn.
   I would make a series of mobiles; three-dimensional sculptures to explain that the dimensions actually are more than three-d. Maybe they are like solar systems. Every planet, every moon, every galaxy… contains many mobiles, many cross-sections and infinite dimensions. With so many possible realities the pondering of Truth becomes erroneous.
   I remember being handed my assignment before I was jettisoned to life. I forget my way and exhaust possibilities while spinning in a battle to steady the focus. I get lost.
   I am lost.
   But let’s talk about her. Our heroine. The one who draws a comic strip. Why comic? Is it funny? The tragedy of life is hysterical. I still think the Greeks did it best. So let’s invite their chorus for this comic book opera and this splice may be seen through Freud’s interpretations or the lunatic inside. Either way. Not sure. Which way it goes. Or will go.
   Ready? Let’s go…

Let Go
I am Electra.
  As old as time…..
   I’ve been called so many things, so it doesn’t matter what my name is. Dinosaur or Thesaurus Rex-- wrecks…. the web, the lines get tangled and often overlap. Literary or literal, words never say enough….

Electra…. Who is she? A psychological assessment would give us a clinical, deeper understanding of her. But would it show her in her truest light….? In the absolute sense of truth?
   We consider the Greeks as our birth of thought.

   What do we know of Electra? And here, I do not mean the classical Electra, as in Euripides or Sophocles, nor am I referring to Freud’s Electra. Our Electra, who remains silently locked inside a dark world and uses symbolic suggestions instead of language to keep her barriers up and to politely snub the world. The dictionary, or lexicon is a primer, every line spoken in rhymed code. And yet we do know that her use of the choice of calling her diary Electra’s Dictionary is obviously meant to suggest all classical references to Electra in the ancient and modern sense. A guise, concealed behind what seems like simple self-analysis woven in a diary.
   The question remains, as it always has, how much do we tell or how much do we distort in order to tell everything and remain safe within anonymity? I have written pages, volumes and years of this, at this very task. Those volumes have been destroyed. By me and by someone else who discovered them…. and acted to keep certain secrets safe. Or to just keep them. Some pages sit in legal offices, confiscated by…. one of many enemies
   It took that last lesson to finally learn mother’s rule of “never put anything in writing….” Both my mother and the man who fathered me left no physical evidence or documentation. I know this because I have looked and searched.
   What is a poet to do? Find solace in poetic license. These facts must be revealed in riddles of alliterations and allegory for the purpose of the secret(s) I am and have been bound to, and the need to unburden my soul.
   We must begin somewhere. A starting point?
   Words work for you and against you. My cryptic language is not intended to be mistaken for pretentiousness. The simplicity of words are intentionally dense. Fewer words said the more truth is stated. Look for it. You must accept these rules, as they have been the very rules, which have crippled me. Double meanings. Lines written invisibly or grammatically oblique. You see, I am committed to truth. And why should anyone care? It doesn’t matter if you do or not. Not to me. Just that I tell. This. But I will not spell it out because-- I think it was Cocteau who once said, “the matters I relate are true lies.” The truth lies somewhere between the lines. Sometimes I do not know which is myself. Mother was a good liar. She kept track. I never could.
   What relevance do I have to this selfish greedy world only interested in immediate self-gratification?
Truthfully,
   So-often I despise my species….

Hmmm….
   I think I will entreat you with temptation.
   Come in:
   [in a whisper](As an emotional vampire that feasts on the delicacy of the untainted
   I ask you--
How pure is your soul?)
--Because I don’t want your blood.
Cocteau also said, “The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.”
I am an artist but I am a poet first.
I will use poetry to reveal what I must and to conceal what must be concealed. I must be cautious in what I say. Suggest but never say aloud. Be careful what you miss. If you care or dare, take it or leave it. This is a story that must be told.

With 21st Century’s electronics and the Internet it makes sense to use
   --along with my poetic license
   images….
I am an artist –but, you see, nobody cares about art anymore.
So I will draw in modern cult style.
I always loved Batman and his Gotham city as a kid… and all those dark B
movies in black and white…

Electra’s Dictionary

The very first time that it happened, I had not known that I could do it. It happened by itself spontaneously as sheer pain spliced through my senses. The skin to flesh slaps had stung like fire, like a scorpion’s venom, but the lick of the belt sent me clear over the rainbow. A flash of neurological overload and some blinding red pain. Was I going to die? Was I still afraid to? Because there it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Anymore. I heard thoughts the way a lightning bolt vibrates your spine. I heard, you are safe… I’m watching you… come with me for awhile and lets talk as this chastisement continues… I watched it all happen to me from some other far away place. I was enclosed in a net of magical protection, so familiar that I knew to trust it beyond my life. So I did. Part of me fell asleep. Part of me was healed-- that was the part of me that was eternal and knew of an infinite knowledge I had temporarily forgotten. I was six.
   I watched the small red haired girl get whipped by her dad. I watched the rage and venom pour out of him like a physical energy of spite. The little thing took every blow. She lay there unmoving and unmoved. She was … hollow. They picked her up and brought her out to the living room and lay her on the sofa. Hours passed. Nobody stirred her. She stared senselessly at the ceiling. Her dad was far away. Mother was far away. Her sister was far away. Everything was far, far away. She lay in God’s hand and his fingers kept her safe. Days passed. She saw the fear in the faces that peered over her. Grandmother was there. She looked alarmed. She was shouting at Mother. Loud voices between Mother and her dad. She went away for awhile again, closing her eyes.

   That was the first time it had ever happened. She could slip out of her body. It was a way out. Some force had brought her to safety there and told her to return there any time she was in danger and she would be safe. Not with words, she just knew. It was understood as if from a previous conversation before landing.
   Sometimes it was only in that other place that I existed. So many days passed and they are forever lost to me. Like a sleep walker, I could perform in life as I was somewhere else. Why could I do that? Was I a super hero? This brought a laugh in reply. There is really only one super hero. All others are messengers. This pain was not my penitence. There was some other task more pressing to accomplish or fall from grace.

   The last entry of the diary was gone. Incomplete now, like someone erased I got lost inside my reflection knowing someone had got in. The reflection stared. Who’s in there? “the face in the mirror won’t drop…” was it so important that I know who she is? I am not my body. It is the soul that is eternal, why should the rest matter? It is the uniform. If I wear my French maid uniform then that is the part I play. Does this provide insights or hints? Humility. But why? Why a French maid? You’re not a French maid, you are a female. A female person-thing. No, I am a bastard, not a French maid, almost the same thing. How so? Because that role is enslavement, there is no freedom there. Freedom… what is that? A stupid lie they tell.
   Who is she? My face looks like nobody from my family, really. It used to bother me. It used to anger mother when I asked her about it. It was something I was not supposed to be suspicious of. Maybe I was adopted? All kids think that at times. Why the cover up? I knew Trisha was born a bastard, I figured that out when I was fourteen, years after her death from a drug overdose. She was a hippie. She was my idol, my role model, My goddess. My life was empty after she died. And then we moved far, far away from everybody we knew. We moved overseas. Dad was an ad man.
   If ever there could be my most poignant antithesis it would be a commercial materialist. So my dad and I were destined to be natural enemies. He once told me I was the bane of his existence. When he said that, I remember how it had hurt. Looking back, though… now—I’m proud of it. All the terror of my childhood can be forgiven if I believe that what he called me was really true; The Bane of his Existence. I caused him pain. How did I do that? All I wanted was to be daddy’s little girl and to know a father’s love. He never loved me. My first heartbreak was his rejection. Then hers.
   I think that moving to Europe helped me, but not for the reasons most Americans go to Europe for. I was eleven when we moved there and deep in a depressive state as grandmother and Trish’s deaths were only months past. I had become obsessed with dreaming up methods of suicide.
   It was Europe that saved me that time. My vines took root in the romance of the landscape and architecture that I got exposed to everyday - The school field trips to famous art museums that housed the most splendid of masterpieces. The meaning of life went beyond this one me, this one self, and being awakened to that woke me up. I flourished. I became some tuning fork for the gods of the muses and became visited by inspiration like a re-occurring fever. For the first time ever, I felt alive but only when engrossed in one of the arts. Visual arts, literature, classical music took me to a better place and that was the only place that I chose to ever exist.
   I know that is where the key is buried.
   There I am not lost.
   But there is where I am. There is Electra. There before the grace of God go I….

One Week of Art

2010-06-06T09:33:00.000+02:00

I just found this video on YouTube. I am really impressed with it as a film, but even more so with the featured artists and their work. The music is a great compliment to the work as process pieces that are shown here. Street art at its best. Check it out!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtzdxseO-gs

My Recently Completed Drawings.....

2010-06-05T20:19:00.000+02:00

The Way I Feel Today.....

2010-06-01T11:01:00.001+02:00

Georgia O'Keefe found beauty in dead things.

I stared and looked and could not even distinguish this as a bird that once had wings;
Took flight,
soared overhead,
saw the world objectively,
finding places to nest and pass through.
Now,
there is no repair for this bird.

I look in the mirror and see
a headless corpse,
broken wings,
twisted legs,
a hole where a heart was.
The remnants of nesting, resting and
objectivity;

There is no beauty in dead things.
there is no repair for this bird.
- m

Electra - First Installment by request

2010-05-26T22:10:00.001+02:00

Not knowing how to begin, the beginning begins for me.

After my post referencing her for the first time, Electra contacted me to present her primary art form to the world. As I have said, I don't really understand my role in all this. Why me, why now? these are questions that plague me, but I think I know by now not to question too much, but to just act and reflect upon it later.

I felt an instant connection with Electra that 15 long years ago, but something inside me questioned even that at the time. I suppose she must have seen something in me which I still do not see, but there is something that happens when someone trusts you unconditionally. In love relations I have played the fool too many times. When it comes to art - in this case the written word - I know there is no right or wrong. Only opinions. In my opinion Electra is a force to be reckoned with. Her words are powerful to me for reasons that go beyond my limited vocabulary. I feel something, connect to something else, and the obsession with wanting to know overwhelms.

With her permission, here is something to share. Let your mind wander and absorb. I will gladly accept any comments on her work, and do my best to consult and find answers to your questions should you have any. I don't know when the next contact with her will be, but I know she will pass this way again to keep the fires burning.

And now, Electra....

The Prance of the Panther

I’m not a number

My fingerprints belong to me

--my fingertips

what I do is my life

& not for public scrutiny

your opinion does not count

I don’t care

I’m not your number

And time is when we share this planet

But I didn’t create your rules

If I was in some other time

There would be other scorecards

I walk away from chains and uniforms

There’s freedom but not

On your time.

There’s freedom on my mind

But it’s not your kind

Premise:

I am going to tell you a story about a girl. Let’s call her Electra. She creates a comic strip that tells a story. Within the comic strip is a diary that is known as Electra’s Dictionary. Through this it is possible to tell. There is no need to explain or apologize. There is no type of repercussions for the things that she reveals.

The density of words allows more to be said as the interpretations of words can always be defended by the subjective tendency to error in understanding, especially on the behalf of the reader. I think that in order to be a good secret agent you really have to be a good spy.

If this were a trail of clues the blue print would look like splices of a cross-section diagram. You put different colored films over the surface and examine how this influences the way that it looks. Other realities are exposed. Within every one of those realities is an infinite number of interpretations. Which is the right one? This question is irrelevant because all and none would be the answer and I know that is a contradiction in terms. Follow me.

You take a knife and cut into the cross section. You lay a film of ultra-marine over it and then alizarin crimson. You take away one and view. You put them together in two separate orders. Ultra violet is my favorite color; it contains so many, like the violet dawn.

I would make a series of mobiles; three-dimensional sculptures to explain that the dimensions actually are more than three-d. Maybe they are like solar systems. Every planet, every moon, every galaxy… contains many mobiles, many cross-sections and infinite dimensions. With so many possible realities the pondering of Truth becomes erroneous.

I remember being handed my assignment before I was jettisoned to life. I forget my way and exhaust possibilities while spinning in a battle to steady the focus. I get lost.

I am lost.

But let’s talk about her. Our heroine. The one who draws a comic strip. Why comic? Is it funny? The tragedy of life is hysterical. I still think the Greeks did it best. So let’s invite their chorus for this comic book opera and this splice may be seen through Freud’s interpretations or the lunatic inside. Either way. Not sure. Which way it goes. Or will go.

Ready? Let’s go…

Let Go

Portrait of a Friendship

2010-05-24T22:19:00.000+02:00

From one of my earlier blog entries, I mentioned skipping class at community college to go up into the stacks to flip through art books. I continued this habit of grazing the stacks throughout my legitimate undergraduate studies in between classes or work shifts at the campus library. One of the volumes I found was an epic poem called The Land by an author I'd never heard of, Vita Sackville-West. I was struck by the beauty of her phrasing, and being that kind of girl, also very attracted to the physical book itself. I will never forget it; it was a dull English army green cloth bound book, with an inlaid still darker green vase and a laurel crown hanging askew over it. The pages were yellow with age, especially in the corner, and each page had a small ivy leaf curly thing at the top of each page. It smelled of old library. The book smelled like it had not been opened in many years, and here I was, having found it, feeling quite lucky to have a few hours of grazing ahead of me. And so, I read.
The poem was long... the whole book in fact. Not as long as Milton's Paradise Lost, but long enough to be considered an epic poem. I don't recalll what my major was at the time (I switched from Child Psychology to Political Science, and then Philosophy, but finally realizing my love of literature, ended with a degree in English Lit), but I do remember being conscious of the fact that I found the book I needed to read at that very moment. Bliss.
Talk about focused...Vita's writing was so precise, so descriptive, that, from memory, I would compare her love for the land of her birth and breeding - Kent, the rolling green countryside in England - to the passionate sometimes firey poetry of Walt Whitman, or the poetry of The Beats. All wrote love letters to the physical land they inhabit, where ancestors feet walked, fought and loved, but the peoms, the feelings are for more than earth grass trees and flowers... they wrote in metaphors that paint the joys and difficulties of life. I became obsessed with Vita and found myself spending hours of time researching her life and writing.
Then one night, I caught on PBS a BBC production of Portrait of a Marriage. The title was familiar. I watched the whole thing, nearly 4 hours of the story of Vita Sackville-West's marriage. Born to aristocracy, Vita lived a charmed life as the only child of her Father Lord Sackville and her Spanish mother affectionately nicknamed Pepita. Vita was courted and subsequently married Harold Nicholson who was a diplomat and traveled to the middle east on business several times during the war. Their romance was one of the most unique I had read about up to that point. They loved each other enormously. They wrote letters to each other frequently and expressed their deep affection, admiration and love for one another regularly. At one point, Vita ran away with her childhood friend Violet. Vita, disguised as a soldier, escaped with Violet to northern Italy where they holidayed as a young married couple. The two had an obsessive, relationship and became lovers. All the while, Vita refused to break up her marriage from Harold, affectionately nicknamed "Hadji". Hadji also had leanings toward homosexuality and had brief affairs with various gentlemen throughout his marriage to Vita, but the two stayed "loyal" to each other in their intimacy and affection for one another. Eventually Vita's relationship with Violet was cut off by her showing Vita how truly manipulative she was. Vita, realizing how unhealthy Violet was for her, devoted herself to her Harold. Eventually she did have other affairs with men and women, most notably Virginia Woolf, and unfortunately became more widely known for her sexual romps rather than her important role in the literary world. She wrote a definitive biography of Joan of arc, a treatment on her travels to Tehran with her husband, and her quiet novel The Edwardians caused a whirlwind of controversy for its blatant criticism of Edwardian aristocracy, which dominated at the time. Virginia saw Vita as exciting, edgy and someone she wanted to know better. They began a correspondence after having met at a social event, and eventually Vita became an integral part of the group of artists that Wolf and her husband Leonard were befriending and collaborating with. Of course the group became known at the Bloomsbury Group. Virginia and Leonard spearheaded the Hogarth press to publish works by Bloomsbury authors.
At the time I was reading Anais Nin, Vita Sackville West and Virginia Woolf, I was also very interested in the stories of Long Island's Gold Coast; the days of the Grace/Phipps shipping family whose home has been lovingly converted into a The Old Westbury Gardens. Also the Woolworth's the Vanderbilts and other families whose names I no longer recall all made their money in Manhattan but summered in their "country" homes on the Gold Coast of Long Island. Most of these homes were destroyed by fire, or gave way to developments of modern pre-fab communities of the nuveau riche. The campus where I read The Land on that sunny fall day was indeed the former home of C. W. Post, the famed cereal baron who left his fortune to a perpetual endowment and his estate became the administrative building of the C. W. Post Campus of Long Island University.
The incredible thing is that during this time my research on Vita brought me to find her volumes of writing on gardening. During her lifetime, she became well known for the impressive gardens that she and Harold created at their home Sissinghurst Castle. It was in the tower of the castle that Vita did most of her writing. Sequestered in her tower, she wrote surrounded by the history of Sackvilles that came before her, and overlooked the gardens she created, looking out of her window to watch her two children play and grow. Despite her many travels, Vita always returned home to Sissinghurst, and it is still a landmark home that is to this day, visited regularly by gardening enthusiasts and literary admirers alike.
A few years after I graduated with degree in hand and no prospects for a job, I decided I would work in a swanky bookstore in Manhasset, in the famed Americana Mall. Another Gold Coast institution. I was so excited to be working among books. These were the days where people no longer interested me, at least not real people. Only characters from novels and philosophers of days gone by. Rizzoli bookstore was a super exclusive. Not bowing down to the public's obsession with discounts and deals, all their books were full price all the time. Rizzoli was also a publisher of fine art and design books. Large expensive volumes, mostly hardcovers, that were ideal gifts to be mounted on equally classy, expensive coffee tables in only the best homes. Masterpieces of print. I was in heaven.
Within the first few months of working there, I got to know the employees a bit, and looked forward to working with these interesting quirky characters. There was my gay boss David, who later became a great freind and confident. There were the stock guys - and if you have ever worked retail you know that stock guys are a very unique breed, indeed. There were some part-time teens working there who were children of the weathy community we worked in. They had little sense of responsibility and even less appreciation for the stock we carried and sold. But then there was Dawn. She was a full-timer who did take her work seriously because that was who she was. We became friendly with each other immediately.
As the weeks and months rolled by, I looked forward more and more to going to work. Because our store's parent company was Italian (part of the group that owned Italy's two largest newspapers, a soccer team and Fiat Autos), we also carried many Italian books and played almost exclusively Italian and French import CD's. We played this music regularly. Admittedly, some of it was dire...bad Italian and French pop including Celine Dione whose voice still sends shivers (and not good ones) down my spine.
In the back of the store (or front, depending on which side you entered), Rizzoli had a section of the store sectioned off to sell unusual art themed objects. There you could find Michael Graves silver business card holders, Fornesetti scarves and jewlery and t-shirts, and New York City Subway Tolken jewlery, cuff links and key chains, among many other very cool, unique objects. Dawn was in charge of that area. We would spend hours during the lulls that retail experiences, talking and getting to know each other. I remember we connected on how to decorate the windows. She had a gift for that. She shared with me that she was a writer and artist when she was not at work. I also came to learn about her colorful family history and her life and schooling in Amsterdam, a place that seemed very far away.
Our friendship had its roots there, but I don't recall ever being social with her outside of work. We never made plans to have lunch or a drink outside of work hours, but our talks bonded us forever.
When she left Rizzoli, I stayed on and we kept in touch through writing letters to each other. She moved around a lot, and I had my turbulent marriage to deal with. There were periods where we lost touch for weeks, months even, but always found each other somehow, and picked up our friendship where we had left off. With pen in hand I would write to her all my musings, turmoils and joys. She would respond in kind, and share with me ideas for a book she was working on. Eventually our letters were paritally replaced by marathon phone calls. After the birth of her daughter Marissa, and my leaving my ex-husband after one terrifying night of physical abuse, Dawn and I would find time to speak during her daughter's naps.
I was living "upstate" in Brewster, New York, and Dawn was living on Long Island. She came up for a weekend with Marissa. So much time had gone by, but seeing her again only brought us closer. We cooked together, talked all night, and hung out on the porch of the cottage I was renting which was surrounded by trees and not much else. I remember at night Dawn liked to lie on the floor of the wooden deck and look up at the stars. She reminded me of another favorite writer of mine, Anais Nin who would take moon baths at night. Dawn was such a free spirit, seeming to have not a care in the world. Her quirky ways (never sitting on a chair, always sitting on the floor, forgetting to eat and not understanding American pop culture references because she was raised and schooled in Holland), were frustrating for me to understand, but drew us closer, not further apart. Eventually Dawn's marriage also broke up and things in my life had shifted around. Eventually I decided to move in with Dawn and Marissa who was just over 2 years old at the time. By that time I was teaching in New York City and Rizzoli had decreased in size, eventually closing.
Though our time living together was brief, I do remember is how powerful we were together. We gave each other strength and confidence in ways that I think surprised us both. It was during this time that we spent hours working on her book. I was fan and editor all at once. I mailed her manuscript to dozens of publishing houses only to receive form letter rejections, but I never gave up on believing that there was a place for her work in the literary world.
Since that time Dawn found love and remarried again. She moved to the mid-west and I began my life abroad. Lovers came and went, but Dawn and I have remained the closest of friends despite distance, time and very different experiences. Kindred spirits, they say, are those who feel and think alike. Dawn and I have always thought and felt alike though on the surface it seems we are very different. I have always been interested in the workings of relationships. Powerful feelings connections and thoughts can be present in one moment and gone in the next.
So where is the art in this blog entry? The art is in the relationship. One friendship that has sustained time, distance and change. I have always longed for a love that could last forever. Funny, because now I see things clearly. I know that in Dawn I already have that, and have had it all along.

Dans le Jardin du Rodin

2010-05-23T10:01:00.000+02:00

Paris.

City of Lights. City of Le Louvre, Laduree, Galleries Laffayette, Notre Dame, Le Champs d'Elyees. And love. Sweet, sweet love. Paris is the city for lovers: Lovers of love, lovers of cuisine, lovers of petit chiens, but most of all, lovers of art.

The impressive views of Paris are on constant watch by these intimidating gargoyles. Overlooking the streets and trespassors, they seem boastful of their fair city. Protective to a fault. But when you visit Paris, you know that every street is fair game for romps, and freedom of expression.

The museums of Paris are world famous for a reason. No matter how many books I flipped though in the stacks of community college instead of attending classes, nothing compares to the real thing. From street art to the massive never ending hallways of the Louvre to the Musee d'Orsay's platforms of sculpture, Paris is an art lovers paradise. Thus far, I have been to Paris a half dozen times at least, and last summer I entered a space that I can only describe as personally surprising. Walking down the winding 7emme street away from the Musee d'Orsay one comes to the former Hotel Biron, previously the private home to the duchesse de Choiseul who knew Rodin personally. In fact, it was his frequent visits to her home that gave him the idea to house his sculptures there. Of course, getting her to approve was problematic for Rodin.

Before it was her home, the structure had a history of being a private home to diplomats, and even had a run as a Lycee. Later it returned to being a private residence for artists who shared the space such as Jean Cocteau, Henri Matisse, the actor de Max and lsadora Duncan who had her dancing school in a building nearby. Claude Monet and other contemporaries of Rodin knew about this desire to create his own museum and supported his efforts. Like most artists, he was creating and show of work that was ahead of its time, yet massively sought after. It's hard to believe that in a city that celebrated Rodin's work was, at the same time, considered too racy and the 'work of the devil'. The battle over where to house his sculptures finally placed his entire body of work into the hands of parliament, moving all of it into the space where he wanted them to be, finally realizing his dream of creating a museum devoted solely to his work. Of course the sad irony is, he died in 1919 just before this favorable decision was made. It was only a few short years later, during the 1920's, that Paris became known as the avante garde hangout for artists, writers and burlesque shows, with speakeasies popping up everywhere. Rodin's work was popular and well know, and as the 20's roared in, became inspiration to another era of artists

Today we still appreciate Rodin for the master sculptor that he was. His perfection in craftsmanship and ability to capture the human form clearly proves his understanding of human anatomy, however he superscedes this skill by including another element. His work has an indescribably human feel to it. One can look at the massive stone carved figure whose flesh looks as real as yours or mine. Facial expressions so compelling, you are transported to a sympathetic understnding of a lovers embrace or the loneliness of a suffering mother, or the strength of a Roman god.
If you are ever in Paris, visit the Musee Rodin. To find out more about visiting hours, the history of Rodin and other practical information, visit the museum's website.

Meeting Electra

2010-05-23T08:29:00.000+02:00

I first met Electra nearly fifteen years ago during a book signing. She is a writer and artist unlike any other I have experienced before or since, for those that do not already know her for her work. I had trouble understanding her when we first met, due to the language barrier, I had the feeling that she was always speaking in verse, or in riddles somehow. She spoke of her "colorful past" which I took to mean her wild artist lifestyle. She spoke of her family, which she described as exclusionary and worldly obsessed. Strange coming from someone with her family's notoriety. I believed she was incapable of being honest about anything due to the stacks of evidence against her. Now I have come to realize she was trying to tell me everything. Every bitter truth. I was too naive to understand it. Her court case completely discredited her, and her whole world thought she was certifiably insane.

Last summer I met with Electra again, in secret. I have not told anyone about this until now. The things that she told me, well, let's just say I have the need to write about them, but I have no idea how to begin. I think I started this blog mostly to work my way up to sorting out my understanding of her and her situation. Let's hope I can do her justice here.

Art Vine's Bella Sera Event

2010-05-22T22:04:00.001+02:00

Art Vine is a unique art space that also specializes in fine wines. The clean lines of the gallery the work of two contemporary artists for tonight's Bella Sera event: Steven Harlan of the United States and Frank van Eck of The Netherlands. At first blush the two styles appear disconnected, but upon further examination they both share a sense of tranquility and the eerie comfort of solitude.

Harlan’s work stands out for its seeming perfection. These digitally created giclées are created by spraying “archival dyes” onto high quality canvas or paper. Harlan’s museum quality creations are similar to lithos or serigraphs, which are then layered with a protective coat of varnish prior to being stretched and mounted onto a wooden frame. Each is numbered and signed by the artist.

Open architectural spaces of hideaway homes, backdropped by water scenes, feature perfection in architectural composition and light. Polished floors and undisturbed waters are set in the light of dusk. Their beauty is flawless; and then the feeling of solitude overwhelms. One is reminded of René

Magritte’s The Empire of Lights.

Infinity (120x90cm) (below) http://www.harlaneditions.com/galleries/albums/watersedge/infinity.jpg

features a seemingly endless hallway which ends with a scene of inviting still blue waters and a layer of clouds above. Looking closely at the cloud mass, there appears a hidden profile of a face blowing toward the water. The play of shadow and light and the reflections of color from the outside world, are reminders that the interior is empty. The viewer is the only one present to witness this striking scene. The temptation to walk down the hallway and breath in the salty sea air is halted only by the reminder that this is a canvas hanging on a gallery wall.

Midnight stands out for its stillness and use of color and shadow. One wonders, who is on the boat? how long has it been there? and where is the viewer? With no sign of wind or wave, could this be the calm before the storm, or simply a momentary representation of the sleepy siren's lull? Interested in Steve Harlan's work? It can be found here.

The second artist featured is Frank van Eck. These select abstract glass paint on board works seem to be, at first, chaotic. A splattering of foreground colors on an almost solid background are reminiscent of Jackson Pollock's frenzied paint tossing - but with an ordered purpose. Van Eck's work includes harmonious blend of contrasting colors and then purposeful swirls emerge. Naamloos #7 (100x70) (or, Untitled) contains a calm sea foam green background to black, red and white glass paint splatters in three distinctive layers. This medium produces a glossy texture on the canvas which is aesthetically pleasing. Van Eck's creative energy emerges as bold and exhilarating. His mixture of line, form and color appear to be manifestations of thought as energy. (Apologies - could not upload a photo of this painting, so please click on the link to view it.) Interested in Frank van Eck's work? It can be found here.

Van Eck and Harlan's canvases at Art Vine are not representative of their entire body of work. However, a connection can be made between those featured. Both artists have used color and light to draw the viewer in. Both invite the viewer to look long and imagine beyond the canvas, and both use a distinctive technique in their choice of mediums.

This fine selection of art, placed in a simple gallery on The Keizersgraacht in Amsterdam were accompanied by a stellar techno-DJ and a lively selection of drinks at the makeshift bar in the back.

For more information about Art Vine, check out their website.

Here are some Interior shots of Art Vine....

Art Blossoms in Amsterdam

2010-05-22T16:47:00.007+02:00

A new group devoted to art, good times and good people has "blossomed" in Amsterdam. This beautiful Amsterdam day marked their kickoff event: Paint by Numbers in Amsterdam's central most Dam Square.
The idea was certainly intriguing to say the least. Paint by numbers to the art world is a very taboo; about as well respected as a painting of dogs playing poker, or images of Elvis painted on black velvet. The very name evokes memories of bad Christmas presents from your weird unmarried aunt circa Christmas 1972. Takes all the creativity and spontaneity out of painting and mutates the craft of the medium. I mean, after all, Picasso would never paint by numbers, would he?! Maybe not. However, for the purposes of promoting art, building community, and revolutionizing a movement, this idea is pure gold; street art with a twist. Genius.
An expat friend on Facebook, Ali Watson, who has been involved with many art projects in and around Amsterdam posted this event on her wall. I knew I had to go check it out. because it just sounded like so much fun.

Wading through the tourists milling about on this sunshiny day, I could not locate the canvas... actually I had no idea what I was looking for. Then finally, as I passed two of those street performers that appear in every major city, (who don't perform by the way, just dress up and stand stone-cold still for hours on end), I saw it... a 2.5×1.8m canvas black buckets all around it, numbered and letter with corresponding paint colors. Where to begin? After asking permission (the teacher in me), I chose the least intimidating section to paint, grabbed a brush and went for it. For me, who is crap at painting (still feeling guilty about painting over the lines today), this was still a great experience. I painted one pink arm as far up as I could reach, and 3 green lines. You don't need to be a serious artist to paint en plein air, have a few laughs and meet cool people. One of the organizers, William P. Woodcole, happily welcomed people to grab a brush and have some fun. Fun indeed.
While I was there, I saw mothers and children, Italian tourists, Dutch teens and random passersby pick up brushes and paint. All of them were happily surprised to find out that there was no cost to participate, and lots of giggling and happy exclamations were pronounced. It made me think that if there were a canvas in every neighborhood we might have less trouble in the world today and more color... but I digress.
Art Blossom's big weekend of events begins next week with gallery tours every hour on the hour starting at noon on Friday Saturday and Sunday (May 28-30th). If you live in this fair city, or if you happen to be in town, check out the events page on the Art Blossom Website here for more information about tickets and venues. Art Blossom is located on Brug9, Singel between 157-161, down the stairs.