MY GAMMA WAVES

DEAR JACK :: Things are about to change around here

2011-12-22T10:22:00.004-06:00

In response to The events as they have happened so far

Dear Jack,

I hope that you are enjoying the month of December and able to experience the calmness of the curious ending and the excitement of our days changing. I tend to stay close to home and if I were to divulge a pattern it would be that I burrow inwards like a hopeful animal. Today's letter is quite abstract due to my flurry of personal activity to turn things over and reach for something glorious.

Lewis Carroll's original sketch of Alice

From here on out, I will stop leaving the impression that I am a rabbit looking at my watch. I do guard myself from the external forces that contain us. A more truthful explanation is that I admire our friendship and enjoy being courteous. I would never want you to worry that I was detained, or at a loss for words.

Clouds out my window

Our correspondence is very much like the olden days when letters took a long journey to reach the eyes of those waiting for news of life elsewhere. I do prefer the mystery rather then being on a schedule... except the schedule that I have been easing into over the last few months! I am preparing to jump some hurdles next year and it will take all of my reserves to do it.

Partly, I am returning to how I was in my 20s. My work ethic was focused obsessively toward a goal that I could not name, but that I deeply felt. The point was not so much the art, the painting, or the series, but the act of making. I created a strong escarpment on which to build. I accumulated material evidence about my internal guessing, while solidifying the terms of my art practice. In time, I became a confident young being, one in pursuit of refining a process of discovery and of naming my own convictions.

Next followed a period of probing every thought and cradling surges of imagination regardless of their rational. I was a vital being and a very keen connector of things.

It was a time to honor the idea and take notes. I worked without imagining an outcome. Sometimes, I lost trust in my ability to translate such vaporous things. Though it turns out that all my notes are in use today, keeping me busy pulling it all together.

My art became more complex, mostly due to the variety of pieces and the scale of the idea. Often I elected to put down my brush in order to create a different type of art, which concerned some and perplexed others. (Someday I will share my views about painting.) I proceeded bravely, coaxed by blaring music as jumped, twirled, and danced around my studio making art that had no attachment to anything, but the fact that I was making it.

One evening at dinner I tried to explain, somewhat insouciantly, what was coming into existence. A friend and an art critic (very astute in outsider and public art) said, pointing his hands in the air, "this is a Gesamkunstwerk." I didn't know what it meant, but I received a gift that night, clarity to see that all I had instigated fit together despite myself. Excitement is an understatement. I renewed my determination and acceptance of my drawn out process.

A step forward: sacred cloth held in a sacred box

Now 12 years in the making, I estimate that I have about two years left to complete the installation. It was not my original goal, so I sometimes am panicked over my obligation and the timing of it. Some of the most beautiful parts of this endeavor are derived from limitations and boundaries; accepting what is rather than wishing what it should be. Just as with the objects, all prefabricated ideas of who I was or who I was to be had to be surrendered. And now I must evolve further by reshuffling, shifting into a new gear, and re-prioritizing. Even I get dizzy hanging around me.

Folder holding a collection of many great trees of our earth

My Gesamkunstwerk is a full room installation. It is a story about an artist that spans 1000's of years. There are relics and mementos that are all very precious and rare. I am thrilled you brought up your library. I have one too. Mine focuses on format and the sensations found in three contexts; individually, in a group, and then as part of the bigger installation. I have tablets, scrolls, manuscripts, and prayer books to name a few. They all fit into a huge cargo trunk filled with shelves and custom compartments that hold each type of "book." Once closed and locked, the outside is adorned with stickers that I have designed. Everything is crated, as you know, and stored for the future.

Today, I am again working feverishly and obsessively with a keen direction and self-imposed assignments. The difference is that I do see the outcome, not in full detail, but I can feel the immensity and power of my goals. I repeat the tasks in my head, the list is my mantra. I probably have more planned than I can actually accomplish, but, it is good to pile it on. I have this sense that we live in urgent times, and, too often, I feel like I am not working hard enough.

2012 must be fruitful, so I have put blinders on. I need to place myself in quarantine and limit distractions. Because my output is of paramount importance I will guard what I take in. I mustn't react. I must only do. At the core of my motivation resides a delicate longing for humankind that I cherish. I wish for us all and must nurture the wishing by emptying myself.

Retablo #3: Brat, oil on metal

This is a big step for me in my development as a woman. I feel that I am reaching that final retablo where the woman sits silently still, yet looming brightly. I am stretching out to enter this stage for the first time, brushing up against her. As I approach, I summon every facet of myself. I use my full imagination like a saint, swearing an oath to get things right. I will work like a horse and make the mysterious art heroically. I will call upon the brat to help get things done; she who is often a bad ass, bold and defiant, demanding and ornery, convincing and effective, but never mean.

Just wish me well through it all! Our correspondence through 2012 will be held dear.

Warmth, xxlee

See all nine Retablos; stages of womanhood

See some of the books that are part of the library in progress

FOUND:: Book No. 124 - The Long Pause

2011-11-18T10:10:00.003-06:00

I find myself staring out the window for long stretches of time each day. It is sensational how we don't know what to expect from our environment, the surprises emphasize that earth is not what we knew.
Once again, though, we worship her, as if begging to be excused for the stupidity of our species. We seriously understand the miracle of such a planet that is indeed a paradise. The united efforts of The People's Assembly give us hope. We feel secure because there is intelligent leadership. All actions are thoughtful during this period that many call "The Long Pause." Much of the populace is reminiscing about our days here, resulting in a firestorm of historic literature and a resurrection of contemplation and discussion. The walls at our local meeting hall are covered with quotes from books. We can go and visit for hours with others, as the earth churns outside.

It is very hard to imagine that a lake can flip; a body of water forced to fold in upon itself and whole communities wiped out in one instant. I didn’t know about the Lake Nyos disaster of 1986 until people started referring to it. Known locations, where methane is escaping after millions of years of being tightly stored beneath the earth’s crust, are increasing. Nyos was considered a freak event back then, but now we have learned that there are several incidences around the globe.

Affected areas include, melting permafrost and warming bodies of water. Slanting houses, falling telephone poles, and sinking railroad tracks, roads, and cemeteries are stories going around. Sink holes are commonplace. In the south, cracking earth due to drought is the culprit.

Bodies of water are effected when the warming of the surface changes the water pressure and weakens the icy sediment below. This enables the centuries old gas to leak out. In most cases, the methane releases in millions of tiny bubbles that create a powerful fizz or a giant, dangerous burst. Scientists have made maps of the most effected areas and those that are at high risk for an explosion. I have seen photos of the unique donut shaped ocean rocks that were formed while acting as vents for powerful methane streams.

I have also seen photos of methane bubbles that were once trapped in the frozen lakes of the northern hemisphere. Nature has its beauty in all of this, and, it is remarkable how the planet is responding like a breathing organism. Many of us are calm, having surrendered our fear and accepted our unpredictable days. We are grateful that we haven't experienced some of the worst disasters. Each hour is a treasure and we are more aware of what happiness is.

A very small portion of the living seems to continue on, if awkwardly. We have active methane release areas in both the east and west coast waters of America that have become a bit of a tourist attraction. Expensive packages include boat accommodations and helicopter rides "for a bird’s eye view."

Increased fighting over the collection of gases for commercial energy is predicted. There are a few, they are referred to as "leftovers," that are moving quickly and carelessly with their imagined plans to capture the potential profit. They have no regard for what the people wish or even for common sense laws.

A new phenomenon that was never expected is episodes of radiant heat coming from the earth. Though uncomfortable, people survive and the damage is manageable. Some people treat them like a sauna, thinking they give a full body cleansing. Scientists know where they will surface, so it is part of the weather forecast; we now get above and below "weather" reports.

This oozing vapor mainly occurs in the evening when the sun sets and the temperature drops. In the distance we witness beautiful colors in the sky, rainbows, and slow rolling cloud formations caused by the moist heat. It is strange to look out across the city to see glorious, abandoned honeycombs. It is as if the earth has the flu and we are experiencing the fever dreams.

The written passage is an account taken from damaged journals and sketchbooks that were "found."

FOUND is an art installation that depicts a time in our future and a changing world.

View an early 21st century painting series "The year the permafrost softened"

Methane photos by Ned Rozell, Tom Levitt, and Rick Bowner

DEAR JACK: Are we there yet?

2011-11-09T09:15:00.012-06:00

In response to: Do you know

Dear Jack,

I have been away for a few weeks, as you know. I returned home shy, private, and introspective.

Traveling shook things up enough that I become someone unfamiliar. It takes time, not to find myself again, but to invent new parts to latch onto for a start fresh. While away, I enjoyed being unplugged from things. I even considered staying unplugged. This silent trend continues and my comeback is slow. I take on the Internet with caution, weighing the use and importance of every motion. No matter how serious my new goals are, I have a keen demand for enjoyment and fun.

This journey, which was the third one this year, stirred the melancholy that resides in me. This melancholy is not good or bad. In fact, as I note below, there can be an upside, if I navigate quietly through it. It is like touching everything you own, which I did physically when we moved last year. Now, I was given an opportunity to touch all that I own inside of me. It is a monotone undertaking, not up or down. It just is. I am glad that Joel likes driving, because I sat on the passenger side watching things pass by. My watching becomes a form of emptiness that is a cleansing, like a sour milk jug in need of a rinse.

I took in much and I let much go. My travel pattern seemed to be city-woods-city-woods with lots of water added, such as oceans, lakes, and streams that flow of over big rocks. At one point I was on an 18-hour train ride. I love the train and it reminded me of the summer that I had a European Rail Pass, hopping on trains from here to there without much thought.

I wrote many letters to you, but each one I tore up and tossed. I couldn't quite capture any moment because there was nothing in tune with time. Each occurrence seemed watered down, blurry, and fleeting. While in New York City I tried to write to you while sitting in a rooftop garden in Soho, a small loft building still clinging to the days when artist's ruled the area. There was one part of a letter that I did I save. I tore off the top and the bottom of the yellow lined sheet.

Here are the words in between: I went to use my cell phone, which only has about sixteen phone numbers in it, and found a dead tick flattened on the knitted protective case. The size of it was quite alarming and I am thrilled that it didn't attach itself to me. I flicked it off and it landed on the sidewalk under the table of the outdoor cafe. I stared at it trying to figure out if somehow “Tick in the City” could be the title of this letter.

Wound 45"x45" oil on canvas

I am drawn to this passage because I continue not to find one single metaphor in it. It is a very rare sensation for me, to be void of meaning. On the trip, my wagons came unhitched. Like a balloon releasing air quickly, I flopped onto the landscape, coming to rest without a big view.

When on the coast of Maine we surveyed some family land on top of a large hill that we call a mountain. It has lots of acres without anything built on it. There is a beautiful view which includes water down below. There are evergreens, yellow birch trees, and brilliant maples. In the ground brush there are zillions of ticks, so we needed to check ourselves many times after departing. Even while being extra careful, it happened that one morning after a stroll, as I was brushing my just washed hair, a live tick fell on my lap. Joel killed it. Another concern in high remote places is keeping an eye out for big birds that can swoop down and take little pet dogs. It happens.

Story of the universe No. 12, 70"x80" charcoal, conti, chalk, college and gesso

There is talk of blasting a hole in rocky top of the mountain that would become a tidy basement and a place to park things. I get excited listening to my brother's plans. My main concern was finding the spot that was to be my grave. Everyone laughed, even though I was quite serious. Mind you, I am very happy. I love my life. I just don't find the topic of death emotionally draining. I confront it head on, because it feels good. It is our destiny, so I do not deny its place in my future. I want to be involved in my death, just as I am involved in my life. I plan to travel well and on time.

I am gratefully that you put up the diagram of "Everywhere" in describing The Institute, your Institute. You know that my studio becomes a fane for me, devotion without distraction.

I have grown up saying "I am almost there." Not like a child's "Are we almost there?" "There" was in the distance, but within reach. Over time, I was taught that "There" was "Here." I accepted this notion of presence for a long time. Yet, as I grew older, it occurred to me that "There", once you became aware of it, was no longer "here" because it passed by and became then. Needless to say, living in the moment didn't work for me any longer; it felt too still, like a burnt out house. Now, I am reverting back to my original thought. (For the record, I am discovering that many of my first thoughts were suitable and perhaps I was smarter as a child before the world wiped its hands on my heart.) Once again "I am almost there." Seizing the moment becomes a great effort of diligent activity focused on a sky shimmering with expectation. I cannot be a spectator of this moment. I must be someone that activates the present as it is nearing.

So here I am, alive and home again, busy on many things and pursuing many goals. I can't wait to report to you as I move closer to "It."

Tears in the city

Much of my current mood is attached to a few happenings. One may be retrieving the bronze tears from the Buzzards Bay. These 100 tears have humanity disturbing traits carved into them. The tears came out of the ocean aged with patina and quite beautiful. The horrible words are no longer legible. Nature took them away. Since they are gone and we are nature, I can only surmise that, if human's put their minds and hearts to it, we can erase the things in the world that cause harm and sadness. This is my thesis.

Bronze tears after spending five years in the tides of salty ocean water

I am feeling the weight and heaviness of this, the second part of three, beginning to subside. For six long years I have been dabbling in the darkness, and now 100 Tears: Part 2 is almost complete! Passing through the shadows had its downside, but now 100 Tears: Part 3 awaits me. These are tears of joy, hope, an otherworldly beauty comprised of everything that is there (almost.)

I look forward to hearing more from you,
Warmth, xxlee

DEAR JACK :: Trying to be a saint is a human right

2011-10-06T09:00:00.002-05:00

In Response to: Hey come here I want to tell you something

Dear Jack,

Once again it is wonderful to hear from you and find that you have unearthed some good points to ponder.

My statement "We see the world in the way that we are" means every individual sees the world differently. We each see the world out a lens shaped by the experiences seared in our brains, both tacit and vivid. And, we cannot ignore the coping mechanisms that make things bearable. We all have filters that can delay or coat what is seen. Within our mix of individual capabilities, many can enjoy seeing eye to eye, an understanding or admiration of sorts. A growing trend I hope!

Tower of Babel by Brueghel

This time in history is a fascinating one. Much of it is due to technology, the speed of communication, and the amount of information. Civilization has traveled a full circle since the Tower of Babel.

Rather than a god changing languages as punishment, the story is an account of human nature and space. In a highly populated area, a group of residents sets out on an exuberant quest to build the tallest building on record. Experts have declared the tower is the Sumerian ziggurat of Etemenanki, which I accept. No doubt, the mysterious mountainous landscape was an inspiration. It was a huge endeavor that spanned many decades, more time needed tha n any western cathedral or Great Wall. The material used was a type of brick that required maintenance. Apparently, one can't build a tower over 100 years and attend to the repairs simultaneously. We can imagine some arguments and power struggles ensued. An "I don't understand what you are saying" or "I don't get your drift" are just a few examples possibly heard at the construction site. In the meantime, the population grew and took this story with them. They spoke of a large building intended to rise into the blue sky that could not be built due to an unreasonable plan. "It was a bad idea. They got what was coming to them" started the stories of unusual doom. Our distant ancestors began developing their languages using the originating sounds and adding to their vocabulary. We all know how the whisper game changes plots. Then one day a local newspaper, The Bible, decided to print the story without much investigation and said, "as it is written, so let it be." (Something like that.) But, my point is not "How big ideas fail" or "How stories get started."

The world was big then and the world is smaller now due to the number of people on the planet and on the internet. Here we are, 1000's of years later and it's the Tower of Babel in reverse! We are joining up with our different languages and encouraging a new form of communicating that unites us. Our expression is streamlined and direct, while using fewer words and increasingly relying on visuals just as our ancestors did.

I love Yeats not only for his poetry, but also for his and his wife's collaborative final work, The Vision. I am sure that the Yeatses would not mind if I take their illustration of two overlapping gyres and add my own thoughts to simplify and update them. On one side we have a large space with a small amount of human population, on the other end we have limited space with a huge population. There is an end and a beginning which over-lap, meaning, they occur simultaneously. The new beginning starts as the end approaches. The question many ask is what happens at this curious juncture? How does one move from the shrinking to expanding? We live in a time when we are squeezing through the funnel tip. If things become dense, it only makes sense that we must become lighter to make it through. I can only introduce the suggestion that it means dropping some baggage. Getting rid of all those petty human traits would be a good start, since they really do no one any good.

I dropped all of my baggage
The Ragdale Series

Social media is an environment in which to start practicing being light. We can test our own ethics, civic responsibilities, and spirituality day to day in how we treat others and what we elect to contribute. Our thoughts vibrate outward, our words can help reshape the world. Much of human behavior has been somewhat reckless to this point in history, but in a smaller amount of space our behavior must be more thoughtful. Collectively, we have the opportunity to make some changes here, if we act quickly. I am rather excited about the potential available to us to make improvements. It is creativity in the broadest sense. We are in motion holding a fresh chalkboard with the chance to invent a global reality together. My focus tends to lean towards this creating, adapting, and evolving part. I am trying to push forward with whatever tools are at hand.

As far as senses, it might be a chance to return to our senses in every way! We can re-examine our needs and re-establishing our methods for fulfilling them while perhaps re-discovering some dormant senses. Arousing new survival techniques might strengthen our inner senses, while our other five sense make aesthetic adjustments. It is fun to imagine that social media might draw out our 6th, 7th, and 8th sense, senses that don't require much space. It is possible for us to become more conscious citizens rather than excessive material consumers.

I am not presenting this as truth or that I know any more than the next. I present this from my studies of nature and how things work in short and long counts. I am “scanning the literature” so to speak.

The root of my hope is very challenged, as I depart to gather up my 100 Tears: part 2, bronze tears etched with disturbing traits of humanity that I left in the ocean five years ago. I am nervous, because, on my excursions I know that I can't control the actions of nature so I don't know what I will find. I will have some discoveries to report when I am done deciphering things.

This letter is only the tip of the iceberg, I can go on and on for days about all the notions I have and the ones forming. I have more thoughts concerning the senses in relation to the natural elements if you wish to hear them.

Watch What You Take In, 18x24, collage and acrylic on paper

All of us can only take in so much. We have choices and must curate wisely, according to what propels us. As you know well, this can be done without judgment or hurting others. All people are many things and online we experience a part of them, not a whole. Labels are now useless because people can't be summed up. I really don't use the word "friend" much any more. As a noun it seems obsolete because I am encountering more beings at faster rate. I prefer the adjective "friendly", it gives me the stance to welcome anyone at any moment of interaction. If someone reaches out to me, they won't be ignored. I try to give thanks and trust that people know I am grateful to get noticed sometimes.

Tumbleweed on Fence, 60 x 50, oil on canvas

In the end it's one big tumbleweed, a gnarl of stuff that can't be measured adequately because it is a moving beautiful mess. We just need to let it blow along its path so it loosens, softens, and comes undone. (Not caught on a fence like the one in my painting!) At any given time, you can hop online to find an assortment of people with different things to offer. It never stays the same... ever. People come and they go. It is best not to place expectations on anyone in social media, but rather on social media itself.

I followed you, and now circle you, because you make me laugh. A "sense of humor" is one of the additional senses we need to develop because it makes things light. You also present new observations found in everyday existence. I love when the mundane is proven electric! So please, continue on with your elevated view and know you have a big fan that loves your "handouts."

We need gods, saints, and prophets now. It’s a tall order, but some have to rise to the task. Like the Sufi dancer that stands like a teapot, one hand up towards heaven, the head slanted so the lid to the heart is open, and the other hand extended outwards, I recognize some of the online exchanges as "hand outs" such as this. Food from the Gods can be found here. There is no need to build a tower anymore.

I am not a saint, but that won't stop me from trying to be one. It's a human right!
Love to your household,
Warmth, xxlee

Remember, I am traveling. Internet access will be spotty for a bit.
A poem I wrote about sainthood, feeding birds, and art.

Waterfalls of White (part 2 of 2)

2011-09-27T09:38:00.006-05:00

Read part 1

Shan and I were swallowed up in the piles of airy white silk as we slide across the deck of the moving boat. The opportunity to seek more information from my little helper came to a halt.

In one split second a whishing sound came across the deck through the air above us. Shan and I looked over at Jianyu, his eyes opened wide and froze in their sockets, his head drifted downward towards his chest and his mouth opened to expel a gust of air.
“What is it?” I asked as I stood up.

His hand reached upward and I noticed the tip of an arrow protruding from his upper chest. Blood trickled out in several lines down the carved texture of his vest and began to expand through the fibers of his shirt underneath.

Both Shan and I ran to Jainyu. I leaned him into me as Shan wrapped his arms around his waist and began to cry. My hand glided across his back searching for the arrow’s end. A seven inch wooden shaft protruded out of Jainyu's back, just above his shoulder blade. I pried Shan’s arms away to detach him and pushed him back, as the three of us dropped to our knees on the white silk. My face was close to Jainyu’s and I saw the years of hard work and of thought in his eyes.

There was activity all around us and Jun arrived. He shouted for some to slow the boat down and for others to prepare a table and to boil water. The deck grew silent as the children took control. Jun left for a moment to retrieve a special tool to cut the end of the arrow off.

The blood became heavy and traveled quickly across the surface of the deck wicking up through the layers of silk. The rolling sea of white soft mounds soaked up red for an unreasonable distance from where we knelt. Jainyu’s eyes were piercingly deep as he looked beyond me. Suddenly he gasped in my ear, “Throw the cloth in the river!” I heard him, but I assumed it didn’t matter. I couldn’t move. I stared at him wondering. His expression grew desperate. “Throw the cloth in the river. Now!” he yelled hoarsely.

I trembled as I turned to gather up the reddened silk in a haphazard way. It had absorbed the blood and there were only darkening smears left on the dark wood.I went to the edge of the boat again and again, dropping long strands of silk down into the river, tying together ends when I came upon them. All the organizing and measuring was undone. When the silk touched the river his red blood dissipated in the flow. The silk moved gracefully in the tinted water.

Jun cut the wooden shaft and Jainyu cried out in pain. I looked backed to see how Jainyu was doing and our eyes met. "Don’t stop,” he pleaded. “Put the cloth in the river!” he added in a softer voice.
I pushed as much stained fabric overboard as I could find.

Several young men arrived to assist Jun in carrying Jainyu away. I attended to the fabric flowing in the water as the boat finally began slowing down. I sat on the edge of the boat and watched the silk swirl about naturally on the current. It was beautiful and calming. The sun was high in the sky. I was alone but for the giant fish swimming around the cloth inspecting it. The water, minus the dolphins, twinkled. The birds on shore were silently watching. I waited for the right moment when all the white cloth seemed cleansed and I felt ready to haul the bundle up. I rung the water out as I pulled the wet silk back on board.

Jun came on deck to tell me that he had pulled the arrow out of Jainyu, who now slept, and that we could only wait. The edge of his cuffs were now trimmed with blood. Together we laced the silk around the deck, over ropes and rails. The boat was enshrined in hanging white silk, sheer enough to see layers deep. It began to sway slightly in the light breeze as it dried. There was a scent, a natural smell of nature, of river water, which made me grateful to be alive. As I was caressing the silk against my face I was compelled to ask Jun why Jainyu was attacked.
“I am sure we were suspected of having silk worms on board.” He replied
“Worms?” I wondered without stressing the question too much.
“Yes. There is a battle to guard the secret of silk and there is worry that the worms and the methods for making silk have been stolen. We knew the danger.” I wanted to ask more, but a young boy arrived and announced that Jainyu was awake and wanted to see me.
“Me?” I nervously questioned. Down the wooden ladder I went and pushed open Jainyu’s door. I poked my head in just a bit.

“Come in, Dear” he said with a gentle voice. I stood beside him, finding it difficult to look him in the eyes. “Please, have a seat.” My two feet never left the spot, as I twisted awkwardly to land on a bench like chair. Jainyu pushed himself up and begun to talk nonsense that made me very uncomfortable. His words were both puzzling and affirming. “You will return safely to where you belong, Dear. I learned something and you need to listen to me very carefully. You will know what to do, Dear. Don’t ever second guess that.”
The room started to spin. So much was being said in so few words. I placed my hands over my ears and demanded “Stop, please stop. You don’t know what you are saying.”
Jainyu seemed to know who I was, not just at that moment, but, perhaps who I was before being here.
“There now Dear, it is all settled. Jun will care for you and will be by your side. You need not be concerned about this life. Jun loves you and all will be completely well.”

I was now able to look him in the eye. He seemed to embody the feeling of contentment that I had experienced on deck. He then requested that I go to the top drawer of a cupboard were I saw delicate boxes and wrapped bundles.
“Please take that little pouch towards the back and open it.”
I undid the ties that were the handles of a simple colorless bag. Inside there was a small purse, a clutch made of wonderful, assorted brocade fabric and a huge, heavy metal clasp with intricate artwork on it.

“See that man. That’s me.” Jainyu said as nodded his head towards the purse.
He made me smile and for a moment he seemed like a youngster and I was the adult. I peered closely as I ran my finger over the detailed imagery of a man running with a teapot through a forest of trees. I started to unlatch the purse to see the inside and how it worked.
“No, don’t open that yet. There is a gift for you. It is for later. It will help you remember.” Jainyu instructed me, “What you must do is put the bag around you and wear it at all times.” He continued, “You must know that I love you. I love you and will always be with you. In all moments of life I will always be with you.”
I felt as if this love was the answer to life, I drank it in, and wanted it all to be true. His love seemed so wide that it spanned all of time and was for all people.
I draped the bag under my jacket, pressing the contents to my body. My face softened, I could no longer cry or smile. I felt free from the desire to have things make sense.

I sat down by Jainyu's side as he rang a bell, knotted with a faded and worn red ribbon. A young child entered the room and was asked to find Jun, who arrived quickly.
“Jun, as you know, this is your ship. All on it is yours. You know your mission. You will help the children and you will care for Lin.” Jainyu explained.
With a few quick statements and a bow, Jun and I were bound together. Jainyu, with much effort, removed his rings and slipped them one by one onto Jun’s fingers. He then placed one of Jun’s hands under his chin, pressing his head on it in a tight hug.

Jainyu smiled at us as his eyes relaxed and I reached out to touch his face. Jun rested his hand on my back. We didn’t say a word as we all huddled together closely. The moment was charged and I had butterflies inside of me. His energy was leaving him, but it was not loosing power. The life force left his face in an instant. I can’t really say what happened, because I didn’t see a thing, yet the sensation of power seemed to travel up and through the points were the three of our bodies touched. It seemed like forever, but I knew it was only seconds that I felt the marrow in my bones move. When I looked up at Jun, he peered down at me with warmth in his eyes. Jun pulled his hand out from under Jainyu’s chin, strumming his fingers over Jainyu's body like a harp, then reached to cradle my fragile neck. I tilted my head to press my lips into the palm of his hand. We were both united in a way that felt as if we both knew all things without needing to speak a word.
Jun placed his forehead on mine. “I am with you now. I will never leave your side.” I did not have one single worry in the world, not one.

“We must prepare the return of Jainyu’s body to nature immediately.”

Up on deck the sun was setting. The silk was completely dry and I started taking it down, pulling at it so it would fall and flow all over me. As the sun disappeared into a pink glowing sky, all the children gathered on the deck of the boat. I was amazed that we numbered close to a hundred. Into the water we lowered the warrior’s body, rocking the plank so it slid off into the river without a splash. With each breath, I felt the purse close to me, wondering what was inside. Most importantly, the man on the metal clasp was with me.

Photo of silk in water is Johanna Williams via World Rivers Project, stork is a detail of the mural Hospital for Tropical Diseases, London. Silkworm art via Wikipedia.

Waterfalls of White (part 1 or 2)

2011-09-22T09:37:00.003-05:00

One morning I woke up to a creaking noise, a rocking, and a breeze weaving around the curves of my body. Upon opening my eyes, I was surrounded by swaths of white cloth beneath me, wrapped around me, and pouring down on me. I could see where the cloth was suspended, cascading down through a hole above me like a waterfall. The blue sky, with bellowing puffs of clouds passed over me. Light flickered in through a tiny window in the wooden plank wall. I was in a serene place, like heaven. I ran my hands over my body to make sure it was me, over my waist, up across my chest, past my throat and to my face. My young body was as I remembered it to be.

Suddenly, a young man poked his head through the hole. “Are you getting up sleepy head?” he asked with a laugh. He disappeared quickly and reappeared, without knocking, into my quarters with a tray in his hands. He set it on the surface where I rested. It held a heavy bowl of steaming water with what seemed to be a cube of tea at the bottom, a shallow plate filled with something like "cream of wheat," and a peach which I recognized immediately. “We must be quick, there is so much to do,” he exclaimed, as he reached out his hand to help me sit up and then handed me the tea to drink.

My hair fell forward and I saw that the strands were long and black. “You slept very well, very still.” He was Chinese, barefoot, and wearing loose oversized clothing that tied at the waist. He seemed so familiar to me. I watched him as he went about the room tiding up. Another kid yelled down, “Hurry up Jun.” Jun turned to me. “I will see you on deck, Lin,” and darted off.

I realized that I was no longer in my time and place. Feeling a little uneasy, I prepared myself to start the quest for hints. It had been years since I had thought about the tunnel in my grandmother’s basement and meeting Jeremy, the young boy who worked at a tavern in Providence. I had convinced myself it was all a dream. I was ten or eleven years old now, soldiering on through my childhood, accepting the situations handed me. Yet, to have a second journey occur changed all that. And, it was different. I didn’t seem to be enclosed in a vaporous mist, hidden and secure.

With a few quick slurps the creamy cereal was consumed. I finished the peach and tea quickly as well, cleaning my hands on a moist cloth on the tray. There was a little jacket hanging on a post and I put it on over my boxy sleeveless garment. All the clothing was soft and lightweight in muted reddish purple, like a raspberry color. The jacket had three square-shaped knots that latched shut. There were two pockets, each stitched with flower designs of red thread. I found no shoes, so I made my way barefoot out the door and up a set of steep stairs. All the wood was shiny and smooth. We were on a boat.

Once on deck, I saw that the boat was different than most I knew. Low rails at one end grew tall as the ship sloped upward. Square, ornate sails dropped from two masts like open fans that had lost their ends. Flags and tassels blew in the wind that carried us through the water at a nice speed.

Giant river sturgeon

The river was beautiful and enclosed by rolling hills with steep sides, some rock and some covered with green. I saw enormous fish swimming below and along side the boat. There were large clusters of dolphins following us and singing with joy as they leaped in and out of our wake. I couldn't take my eyes off the natural beauty surrounding me and stood by the rail for some time. I felt at peace, wondering if this was home. Perhaps, what I had left was not my true life. I saw a watchtower and some sort of waterwheel that carried water out of the river. Birds stood on the shore, well fed and content.

The ship’s deck was loaded with children, some working with the white material, others sailing the boat or attending to maintenance. Jun was there and motioned me over. “We need to finish measuring the silk in this compartment today.”

He handed me a string he used for measuring and introduced to me a young boy, Shan, who was going to assist me. Jun went about his business as a leader and gave me a squeeze on the arm before attending to the other children once again. Shan and I began to measure white silk, which appeared as if it could easily add up to thousands of miles.

Soon an adult arrived, a strong looking man with long hair, a long mustache, and wearing items that were layered and textured. He wore a stiff leather vest with a flowing white shirt under it with collar and cuffs that matched. His shoes were tough boots that road tall on his legs. He had rings, a necklace, and a knife holder that added to his air of authority. This man looked right at me chillingly. I felt as if he could read my mind. He came close as if to say something and then continued walking to the side of the boat. I was drawn to his mysterious and all knowing presence. He inspected the waters, the hills, and the sky. “Jun, we must go faster. Put up another sail,” he commanded.

Court ladies preparing newly woven silk

More children flooded the deck of the boat and since there was commotion over the sails I pushed closer to my little helper to try to learn more of this situation. “How come there are so many kids,” I asked.
“Jianyu gets us from the orphanages up and down the river. He saves us. The silk helps take care of us. We help make the silk and deliver it to the crafters.”

This young boy had no problem with explaining things and he seemed to know a great deal. “Why does he do this?” I asked.

“He is trying to stop all the kids from crying.”
“Stop the children from crying?” I was confused.

“Yes. His wife died and now she is trapped here, below the sun and just above the earth. The only way out is for the children to be saved and cease crying. Jianyu works to help free us so she can return home.”

I felt dizzy. I had heard this before, a story about a woman trapped and connected to the tears of children. The wind picked up and my long hair flew about as the silk puffed up to take in breathes of air.

“Do you know her name?” I asked.
“Guanshiyin,” Shan replied.
“Do you meaning Kwan Yin?”
“No. her name is Guanshiyin.”
I could say no more.

The world was enormous at that instant. Time felt continuous and connected. I remembered all the porcelain statues that my grandmother collected. I remembered the story of Kwan Yin. She, (though in some cultures is a man,) has compassion for humanity and wishes that pain be taken away from life. She is called many things that are spelled differently yet all sound very closely related. Another of her names is Quan Yin. I froze as I stood so close to her beginnings. The woman named Guanshiyin is real and not just a statue.

The boat picked up speed as we move through a deep passage. I lean towards Shan to ask one more important question. The boat tilts to one side and we are separated as we slide about in the white flowing silk over the smooth wood of the deck.

Read part 2
Chinese Junk and scroll detail of silk work via wikipedia, traditional painting of Sturgeon via The Guardian.

DEAR JACK :: We see the world in the way we are

2011-09-16T09:37:00.006-05:00

In response to: If Jack did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him

Dear Jack,

Hello, it is so good to hear again from you.

What is up 70"x80" oil on cavas

I am glad that I can write to you in good spirits. You see, last week it was as if I were on a ladder when all the rungs broke and I went crashing to the ground. Not all is lost, however, because the lower I go, the more valuable my potential becomes.

The Party always begins when I go to asleep 26"x35" acrylic on paper

I must share something that originates from my childhood. In the evenings when I grew tired and was in need of sleep, my vision would break up into tiny moving pieces. It was not blurry, but rather a very crisp picture of tiny specks showering about in all directions like dust in sunlight. No one really understood what I was trying to describe and thought that perhaps I was just making things up.

As I grew a bit older, I learned how to adjust my eyes and induce this way of seeing at any time of day. All objects ceased being solid shapes to become masses of millions of pinpoint-sized sparkles.

After I had spoken of it enough, my mother took me to the eye doctor, who said that I didn't need glasses, which was a real disappointment since I had already selected a style I loved. He told me that I had perfect vision, "but I doubt that you can see an atom."

I thought he said "Adam" and I grew very confused.

My episodes continued, so we headed to the eye clinic in Boston. It was a wonderful drive because it sits right on the Charles River just past the Boston Pop's Bandshell, a huge prehistoric beach shell which I could easily imagine washing to shore.

The doctors found nothing wrong, yet mentioned to my mother that at first they thought I was seeing white blood cells on the surface of my eyes, something people notice when staring up at a blue sky. But, since I experienced this sensation day and night, they thought perhaps I was seeing "floaters" or "swimmers" stuck on the filmy layer of my eyeballs. The diagnose boiled down to me having microscopic debris on my eyes. "Dirty Eyes" lets say.

One doctor said, "You might want to study science because what you describe is a proven theory." He went on to explain that all things are made up of moving matter that the naked eye can't see, that what we think we see is not really there and that what is really there we might not see. "You might enjoy looking into a microscope,” he said.

I think, if not for a few turns of events, I would have certainly been a scientist of sorts. I appreciate that these professionals gave of themselves to inspire me.

How rumors are started

Anyway, my mother amazed me as we went through my childhood with a mix of laughter and seriousness. On the way home she said, "You see things differently, that is all.” She continued, "Do you remember when you asked me what Daniel was doing in the lion's den with a bunch of bananas?" Of course I did and we fell into a serenade of giggles. All I saw were bananas in the artwork instead of angel wings. This might be one impression that stirred me to be an artist. I wanted to go into the world and draw things in ways that could be seen and understood clearly.

Animal eyes at night 35"x56", 108 4"x4" oil on panel mounted in wooden alter with closing doors

There were numerous times when I thought something went wrong at birth and I got animal eyes. I knew, thanks to Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, that some creatures experience their world broken down in prismatic colors, flattened depths of field, or energy sequences. I would ponder aloud, with my mother in earshot, if somehow I had lion vision, or owl vision, allowing me to see the minute airborne pieces.

My father's reaction to my vision problem was very different. As an optical physicist working at MIT (Lincoln labs) and Itek, both laboratories in the woods outside of Boston, and exploring lenses and films, he was reserved about topics involving his work.

He was quite somber when I told him that the doctors said I could have had a "corona effect." My mother said, "No dear, I am sure they said a cornea effect."

We never knew exactly what my father did, but it came out years later that many of the labs worked on top secret projects, one happened to have a code name of Corona, designing reconnaissance satellites. My father was very intense and didn't encourage my "fanciful ideas", especially talk of seeing the commotion caused by the movement of molecules.

"High-temperature radiation produced by The Big Bang" Cern Scientists

Soon after, I began to worry about my hearing because, and even still today, words get mangled in my head. I don't wear prescription eyewear or a hearing aid. I have learned to find wonderment in my misplaced words because so often the words I think I read, say, or write end up being far deeper than the "proper" one.

I know you enjoy researching as much I do. It is delightful to confirm that many ideas go back eons and are nothing new. I love how fields and schools of thought can collide to make new contemporary connections. In studying there is never a need to come up with a final answer. Not imagining a final outcome keeps me grounded in the giant world of possibility.

I love books, yet have become proficient in maneuvering myself around the internet and waltzing by aliens, giving a nod to Jesus, saying Hi to a god, combing through conspiracies, bypassing Satan, and galloping over doomsday tales. In respect to ideas, I only wish that more people would understand the origins of some of our widely held assumptions. I have enjoyed learning about the notions of an etheric presence, electrical frequencies, and lines of emanations. Tesla mentions a "cosmic force," a type of naturally occurring radiant energy occupying everything everywhere, just as ancient cultures allude to philosophical ideas about liberating oneself from worldliness, a release from material concerns.

Today my miniature way of seeing arrives freely and can remain for a nice duration. The world becomes a vaporous mass of zillions of random particles in a blizzard from every direction. I can see the surface of my eye, make the distance clear, and bring the whole horizon into focus. These sessions are thoughtful, like daydreaming or what some call mediation, I suppose. They should not be confused with seeing auras, because that seems to be connected to emotion. Nor are they like my optical migraines, those painless light shows. These are My Gamma Waves.

The way things are hidden 48"x36" oil on canvas

A rare occurrence is when I become distracted and am forced to break my focus, meaning pulled off course and drawn into worldly thinking. I stumble and fall just as I did a few days ago, but now seems ages. This letter represents a climb back up, mainly evoked because I am able to describe and share these thoughts with you. Like the rungs of a ladder, I reach up past the familiar and climb further to where the view is grand and I use my time searching for things that are hidden.

The element of ether 12"x12" etched mirror framed in metal
(Shot facing a blue sky)

Here is an artwork that I made for an upcoming group show on the five elements which will be hung like the periodic table. Of course, I chose the classic fifth element, ether. Originally thought of as a layer of ozone, I defined it by embracing some of the ancient texts that offer "steps" to quiet the mind, act without attachment, and see how small things are absorbed into one.

What interests me are what humans exude and add to the space around them by way of actions, words, and thoughts. I used the mirror to show that what is added to the space is a combination of all of us.

Whether anything is true or not I find it comforting to imagine that each individual has creativity and the ability to contribute to the picture. It is easy to understand why some call the fifth element "Love," though that seems only half of the story.

It is very hard to say if people are ready to hear more interpretations, however old or silent or new. I think it depends more on how things are delivered, how things are told.

I want to express things in a language that eludes and can be felt. I think this is why I decided to call myself an artist and to set about joining bunches of things that add up.

Have a wonderful time Jack!
Warmth, xxxlee

DEAR JACK :: They mow lawns don't they?

2011-08-31T09:10:00.003-05:00

In response to The palpable obscure

Dear Jack,

You might find this very interesting.

Passing by 49" x 35" oil on canvas

Joel and I were invited to a friend's home for dinner. On the way there we took an entrance ramp to the highway. A City worker was on a huge motorized grass cutter cutting grass. Another worker had a motor on his back and a large tube that was blowing the grass shavings onto the entrance ramp. My window was open and I could smell the freshly cut grass. As we passed the man with the blower I thought to myself, "when I inhale, clippings will force themselves into my lungs and I will choke." So, I held my breath as we made it down the ramp to join the fast moving traffic.

Once we'd arrived, a dinner guest praised me for my latest artwork, mainly my conceptual writing. "You are so clever to have invented Jack." I responded quickly, "Jack is real!" She took a gulp of wine and said, "We are 100% certain that you are Jack, Lee." I started describing you and your sense of humor and had everyone laughing. But they were not fully convinced. Finally I said "Yeah, yeah, yeah" smiling and waving both arms in the air like a brown pelican trying to land on a narrow pylon.

The next day your letter arrived and it was all about lawns, mowing machines, and experiments with grass. I went to Joel and asked, "Is Jack a fragment of my imagination?" He asked, "Do you mean figment?" but confirmed that you were not a fragment.
You have surely seen times when coincidences line up to add up? The day after that I awoke to that calm I enjoy when I sense an understanding of all the cycles of life and how things are repeated, come in twos as opposites, or overlap for some people.
Jack, I hope you can get the idea. My week was like riding a mower.
I still don't know how to remedy this for my friends, but perhaps it just doesn't matter. I am not the type to request and display a birth certificate and find that to meddle that way lacks manners.

The White House "lawn" of 1912

Frankly, and you do know this, I am not one for lawns, as status symbols, or beauty, or whatever. And things that are powered by oil are so archaic. I am a lover of rocks, moss, and native plants, clean energy and muscle work. You might want to look to England for the root cause of all of this lawn business, the short uniformly green look (grass) originated there, and, they invented the lawn mower in1827 for it. Prior to that, humans were fine with assorted ground covers and grazing rabbits, horses or sheep to keep the growth under control. Grass started as a variety of weeds and then a mix of seeds were isolated and cultivated.

Sod for sale 60" x60" oil on panel

At the start of WWI, the U.S. Department of Agriculture was collaborating with the U.S. Golf Association to find the "perfect grass” based on location and climate. Then when the Dust Bowl hit (1930s) DuPont, Dow and others went into action (they had their fingers in textile, military, and plastics already,) inventing chemical pesticides, herbicides, and fertilizers to "protect" this new "agricultural" seed product. As you know, the midwest is where John Deer and Monsanto have set up headquarters. I hope you are able to learn more about the schemes being hatched. Today lawn care is a 17 billion dollar business, which is very odd, yet another point you should consider.

Agit Prop in progress

Also, one can't forgive the invention of the garden hose. I have been wrestling with one for a bit now in this Agit Prop piece. I am not quite done but thought you would appreciate the direction.

And as far as authorities, secret or otherwise, seeking information about you, I think I will resort to mentioning that you are a fragment of my imagination. I would smile as I say it and see it as true, on a philosophical level. Who cares if they wish to lock me up. We both know it wouldn't be the first time. I always get free. Oh, and if you get any calls about me, just tell them you corresponded with me sometime in the early part of 21st century and send them my way.

The ancient Library of Alexandria via Wikipedia

I am glad that you have The Institute and are documenting your research. I am thrilled that many are working on such projects in a variety of locations. It is good that work is dispersed like that and not housed together like all the information held in the vulnerable Ancient Library of Alexandria. I often try to imagine all of the earth's geological history and the record of alien life manifestations that were destroyed. Our only hope is that more copies were made and hidden, awaiting discovery.

Grace Hopper 1952 via Computer History Museum

We are so lucky that we have computers now and that the pony express is history. I am quite relieved that figuring out how to tie my memoirs to a bird's leg isn't something I need to do either. Telepathy records nothing, as you know. But that might be the key to attaining bliss.

I know this note might seem odd and it certainly isn't a typical letter. I apologize. I'd much rather fill you with news of the progress of the art projects, those burdensome beasts that I must complete soon for unknown reasons connected to mysterious impulses.

Thank you for writing again. It is of great comfort that we have stumbled into each other, same country, same era.

Warmth, xxlee

When adults cry (part 2 of 2)

2011-08-24T09:37:00.005-05:00

Emerging Storm painting of Narraganset Bay, Marin Johnson Heade

visit part 1

I was born as a captive to a world in confusion. The feeling is awkward because you don't know what questions to ask. Like a storm that yanks leaves from the trees, all the answers are out of reach. You want to trust the adults and all that they say, but something inside warns that their thoughts are distracted and some of their decisions can blindly drive entire groups off course.

My grandpa Henry was a joy. He made me giggle by giving me raspberry kisses around my neck and sometimes on my stomach. Henry always sat in his chair in the living room. The chair was covered in a golden yellow and muted green, wide stripped fabric with black shiny painted arms and legs. He would say things that I didn't quite understand and I would giggle because of the attention he gave me. The newspaper would go up around him and then come down as he peered out above his reading glasses. "Don't let anyone tell you how to be!" He said on an evening when he was asked to leave a private club for not wearing a tie. After finishing the paper he would have a drink, gin with a drop of vermouth, and puff on a pipe. I had ginger ale and we ate salted peanuts from a little golden bowl with a lid that had a permanent place on the coffee table. The table was really a tray on a stand that had gold on it and I was told to be very careful and neat. Sometimes we were able to play the piano. Henry and my Grandmother would prompt us to work together to create a song. They seemed to be in tune with the wonderment in children.

Nation's first water power textile mill, Rhode Island, 1793

Henry looked like a lovable hound with a long face, sloping nose, and drooping eyes. His skin was tan and he had a smart and humble air about him, yet, a private solitude. My mother's youngest sister would say that he was Humphrey Bogart, which I gathered was someone handsome and admirable. Henry's background was in the coast guard and boating, with a continued family involvement in textile mills that produced cotton yarn. There were photos in the back staircase, along a wall painted a deep cobalt blue, of Henry in his boat wearing a skipper's hat. He had his own modest bathroom on the second floor that had a stand up shower and deodorant soaps. Grandpa Henry and my Grandmother made a striking pair; each needing the other.

Henry drove the popular VW Beetle, so, when we went out, we would all crowd into Grandma's Jaguar. It had slipper cushions and shiny wood inside. In the backseat there were two wooden trays, each folding down from the back of the front seat; perfect for playing games and for eating a treat. A secret compartment, locked with a key, was between the two trays and we would beg to have it opened. When the door flipped down it exposed bottles of liquid and glasses that easily became a pretend kitchen for a child.

We would drive along the Narragansett Bay to Henry's parents' home in Bristol. They lived along the ocean behind a high stone wall that had a gate and two concrete lion heads at the entrance. There was a garage, once a carriage house, with more than enough doors and a pool, with cushioned furniture around it, as you followed the side path to the main house. Out the back, there was a stone terrace that overlooked a maze of bedded gardens of high, colorful flowers and a tennis court. There was talk of a very old cemetery that had about 25 people buried in it among the grouping of trees, but I never saw it. Bristol had the country's oldest 4th of July parade (started in 1785) and it was the only time that kids were lifted up to sit on the tall stone wall. It was the best view, since the wall overlooked a boulevard at the point where another street merged into it. The parade came up one street, and then made a sharp turn to go down the other. It was a magical fortress that kept a whole world out.

US National Register of Historic Places- Brattlebora Retreat and Danvers State Mental Asylum

We would also drive to the yacht club to see Henry's boat. It wasn't a sailboat or a yacht. Rather, it was a type of motorboat with a good size cabin that took him out to sea. The adults would have cocktails on the deck while it rocked at the dock. Henry was eight years younger than my grandmother, though not many knew this. His first wife was committed to a mental institution, leaving him to raise their young daughter, Stevie. Stevie's mother needed help coping with everyday life. I didn't know exactly where she was, but she was well cared for in a private place, more like a retreat, with pleasant scenery and cultural activities like music and art. At the time, state mental asylums were getting attention, like the one north of Boston in Denvers, due to the complex history of over-crowding and a diverse array of patients. The asylums were huge and scary. Stevie's mother was not in one of those. She was in a place that allowed her to lead her life in a pleasant manner. Granted, it was a life without seeing or knowing her own daughter. No one spoke much about it. The information seemed filed away in a vault. You could feel Stevie's fragility and nervousness about it, though. My grandmother become Stevie's mother and my father became her stepbrother, many years before I was born.

One year, Stevie got her first car, a new Porsche. It wasn't long before she had a fender bender. I know this because I was in the car with her. Somehow the brake loosened and we rolled down a hill into another vehicle. Stevie told me not to tell anyone and I agreed, but the moment we got home, Henry asked, "How did everything go?" There was no hesitation in telling him that we were in an accident, that Stevie hit a car, and that the Porsche was smashed. He acted sensibly. There was a bit of a reprimand, but the car was fixed quickly and Stevie went on to have her big "coming-out party."

One day things got more confusing. My grandmother and Stevie flew very far away to the other side of the world for a vacation in China. Upon their return, Henry was gone. All of his clothes had disappeared from his dresser and closet. The shelves in his bathroom looked bare. Apparently, the divorce was a quick one and there was chatter that he left for Reno to live for a few weeks to get it all done. Henry left my life as swiftly as I had entered his. But the girls of our family fortify their resilience by ignoring horrible things and imagining that everything will work out. They forgive easily, insert themselves vocally, but in the end they accept endings and allow things to be as they must. My grandmother's social station did not allow her to renounce it. Her role in the world breathed life into her, making her strong and wise. Henry was very comfortable, free enough from the workings of society to go his own way.

Stevie went on to college and met a nice man named "Charlie" and they married. At the wedding we saw Henry again and even visited his boat like we did in earlier times. This time his boat was out of the ocean and up on stilts. We climb the wooden staircase and the adults had cocktails on the deck, high in the air and in a very still boat while gazing out at the moving water in the background. He didn't remarry for at least another ten years.

Years later Stevie had bouts with depression, which is understandable considering the adventurous mix of adults surrounding her. The adults wrestle, not with one another but with themselves, and long for relief. I know I was young, but I longed to become an adult who was not similarly tortured. I was getting a pretty good idea that happiness dodges people more often than it lands in their laps. I learned that I didn't want to rely on promoted cures or be captured by conforming ideas.

When adults cry (Part 1 of 2)

2011-08-09T08:30:00.003-05:00

The very first time you see it, the very first time you hear it, it glides through you with the smoothness of a razor sharp blade to let loose a tornado the scrapes the walls of your heart. You are so young and you see a big person cry. You think, "This is not right." All that was suppose to be strong for you, care for you, and protect you seems to break.

Eye I 100" x 90" collage and ink on paper

When I was very young my mother started crying. It was late at night and she sat in the den with the lights off. She sat there on the couch, legs curled up, crying. Every so often I would go downstairs. "Mommy, are you going to bed?" I never asked what was wrong, because I didn't want to know. Or maybe I knew, but didn't want it confirmed. I never asked if she was alright, I knew that she wasn't. She would answer after a deep breath that helped her voice return to normal "Yes, I will be right up. Go back to bed now."

We were in a new house, newly built and I no longer had my own big bedroom. I shared a room with my older sister. We had a driveway that started out as one and then split to lead to two homes. Our neighbors were a large family, six girls in the middle and a boy on each end. I played with Patty, the youngest girl. One day we were out in the driveway playing D-O-N-K-E-Y, tossing the ball above the garages and letting it drop to pass through our legs. If we missed we got a letter, the first one to spell out "DONKEY" lost.

Water towers 50" x 40" oil on canvas

In the middle of our game, a light blue straight edge car drove up in front of Patty's house. Two men dressed in uniforms got out. Immediately Patty's mother darted out of the front door and threw herself on the ground. She got up screaming "No, no, no" and threw herself again on the front lawn. It looked as if she was in great pain as she flung her body about on the ground. The men moved closer to her. Patty's mother got up and ran towards them. She thrashed her arms about and beat one of the men on the chest, again wailing at the top of her lungs "No, no, no." Patty and I stood frozen in the driveway that we shared.

My mother opened one of our garage doors and with a pale face said, "Patty, you must go home now because your mother needs you." I picked up the ball and scooted backwards into the garage, watching Patty walk home as my mother shut the over-head door. The men were holding up Patty's drained mother as they all walked inside the house.

"What Happened" I asked.
"Frankie (the eldest son) died at work,” my mother said.
"How?" I asked
"A piece of machinery fell on him" my mother replied.

The image in my head was that Frankie was a car mechanic and a car high on a pole, so that he could work on the engine, fell on him. I had no concept of war. Our neighbors home was quiet for many months. Things had changed. Patty knew about war and what war was. We continued to be very good friends, despite the sadness in Patty and her life in a family that was broken.

While visiting my grandmother in Providence during these young years, she too burst into tears. Leave it to a grandmother to be direct. "Do you know why I am crying?" she asked. I stayed still wondering what to say. I think that I knew but I didn't want to hear what was true. I didn't have to answer or wait long. My grandmother was going to tell me what the problem was no matter what. She was preparing herself to look me straight in the eye and tell me what was wrong.

What tears can do 8ft metal and gold leaf

There I sat listening to my grandmother sobbing about her only son, my father. She told me there was a serious problem and it had everyone worried. My father had the crazy idea to join a religion. He was giving his money to them. He sold our house to be closer to them and now, she told me, he wants to quit his job.

I started crying. "I know!" There. She said it. She brought her tears to a whimper. She grabbed my arm and whispered, "Do you believe any of that stuff that he is believing?"

"NO! Whatever makes a woman cry is wrong!"

FOUND No. 92 - I didn't tell many

2011-08-04T09:04:00.003-05:00

When he called, I wasn't puzzled at all. It came as a relief to learn that someone was storing contemporary art and I somehow made it on a list. I suspect that I owed my inclusion to one particular patron who had incredible foresight and also a unique admiration for what I had been working on. The call was brief. I said yes instantly. I was to gather up selected art in the next few weeks and have it ready for pickup. There was really not much for me to do, since I had started preparing my art for transport many years ago. Crates and boxes had all been made and loaded. I could now stop wondering if this day would ever come.

Organizing notes

A truck would arrive within 21 days, he said. My artwork was going to be driven somewhere north, I suspect Northern Canada, to a huge underground storage facility. I was surrendering my art. Joel approved because he shared my sense that moving my art would improve the chances of it having a future audience.

The gentleman mentioned that he had followed my work online for years. I knew that a small group appreciated following my story and I was thrilled to learn that this caretaker understood the complexity of it. He knew about all the crates that held the extensive and elaborate installation, the books, the props, the settings, and the projects... the story. He knew that a few items were missing, because I ended up selling them. I weighed those sales carefully, and since materials had sky rocketed and the dollar value crashed, I had no choice but to sell some of the components. Each buyer was fully aware that they had acquired an item that belonged to a larger work and might be needed in the future.

Keeping records

Wherever my work was headed, I still sensed the potential for complete global collapse when all would be lost. The changed weather patterns were producing regular storms and each day the winds intensified, we risked having our windows blown out like so many others. The warning sirens blow and now we take cover in the brick stairwell due to the death toll in the city from flying glass shards. The mob activity is unpredictable as well, but we are lucky to live in an area not marked by those going hungry and desperate. They target areas of wealth. Of course, everything is changing so slowly many still don't even notice. They cling to the older ways and think we are in recovery mode.

It turns out several artists in the US were selected to offer work to this archive. The focus was on work very much like mine, art that illuminates these times. A few thought I was crazy to give my art away. For me, it became the outcome that I had tacitly prepared for. Long ago I saw haunting images of my artwork being destroyed by flood or fire, or by being buried. In a split second my remaining work became nothing. I would see people stepping on it, not knowing what it was. My original art became a burden to protect. This idea of storage suited me perfectly.

Weeks later, the truck arrived. Many on the street peered out to watch the cargo truck maneuver into place. There was one driver and three others. They came into the studio and inspected everything from packaging to inventory. The organization of it was very thoughtful. I offered the men some of the hard cider we had made a month earlier from fallen apples collected from our land. People again drink cider that has been fermented, a type of return to colonial days inspired by the need for safe drink.

Before the truck left, the driver took me aside and gave me a note and a medium size cardboard box. The note read, "Do not tell anyone but your husband. We would be honored if you abide by our wishes." The driver left. I held the medium size cardboard box that was average in appearance, but contained a mystery. I shouted for Joel.

Inside was a black cube, a 12"x12" block that had a soft flexible texture, pebbled in rubber nibs that were malleable. Below the protective nibs was a soft grayish layer, like putty. I could stick my finger in it and it would move, remove my finger and the surface would bounce back into shape. It was wrapped in bands of metal that had tiny clips on all sides. Included with the box was another card, which stated that this gadget held and delivered energy. The energy is continuous and regenerating and can run computers, phones, and appliances by simply pushing the plugs into the box. A little diagram showed how the clips secure the cords.

The note went on to assure me that the earth provided in many unexpected ways, fortifying the hope that someday all humans would have access to a naturally occurring energy. I had always imagined that abundant clean energy existed, energy that would be treated as an essential right. I couldn't wait to try it out and we ran to the nearest light. The plug went into the box and was held snuggly. The light went on.

The written passage is an account taken from damaged journals and sketchbooks that were "found."
FOUND is an art installation that depicts a time in our future and a changing world.

Dear Jack :: Fog Pass

2011-07-27T09:15:00.003-05:00

In response to "I saw the light" and "I was not convinced but tried to not let it show"

Dear Jack,

I believe you, and understand your letter. I mentioned before that somehow we overlap on a few aspects within our art forms, like parallel universes. I think we see the world the same way and in our art we process it differently. We take tragedy, you present it with cynicism, I present it naively. Your tragedy is ironic in view, mine is sincere. The approaches are somewhat complimentary; both interesting and intriguing. I guess it is why we became friends so easily. I could go on, but I will start and end there. Pause.

I saw the light a few weeks ago

I kept writing letters to you and destroying them. Writing, destroying, writing, destroying and on and on it went. I wasted paper. Each letter to you was a different struggle to explain all that was in my head, the impossible task of describing possibility. Times like this occur throughout the year; times when I go silent and every thought, feeling, and observation are allowed to evaporate into oblivion.

When this happens, the time is somber and I notice things that I wish I didn't, like all the plastic bags caught in trees. Not in a painful way, but in a "just is" way. And the sadness inside of me becomes a bit keener. Not in an "oh me" way, but rather in a "the world is weary" way. And I wish it were not.

When I was growing up on the coast of Maine we would go to the drive-in at the beginning of dusk. Part way through the movie the fog would start drifting inland, causing the movie picture to loose brightness. In the car we would discuss how all was fine and that the picture wasn't too badly obscured. Cars would begin to leave. We would stay to the bitter end, with about 10 vehicles left in the lot and perfect sound blaring through. We would drive home part way through the movie with a "fog pass." The pass allowed us to return the next night free of charge to watch the movie again. In writing this letter perhaps you should consider it a personal fog pass with the added bonus that you do not need to read all my false starts.

They noticed their dependency and navigated to break free, 50.5" x 39.5", oil on drywall

Art. I think our views are very similar on this subject. I love making things. As of late, (and I am referring to the last several years,) I am not that involved in the "art world." It was a slow move, not like fog that is ignored, rather like flour and water that is carefully and slowly kneaded to make something fresh. I don't mean to criticize it for others, my thoughts are about how I feel and my conscious decision. I had a longing to be working in my quietude instead, where I could hear myself think. It is the most amazing world that rescues me from a feeling of fettering time.

I pulled away from that man-made arena, peddled backwards, because I want to live a true life where I can attempt to make my art in the purest of conditions without illusions. This purity is perhaps an unattainable condition, but one can at least long for it and attempt it. I tried many things. I closed an era, one with texture and reason and worth to it. Now is a different time, and I am well prepared for it. It all makes perfect sense and I am impressed that I recognized, heeded, and adapted with what I sense is in the air. A little over 10 years ago (the exact turn of the century) I invented long term projects, they are like surfing waves joyfully into the future. It took skill to create distinct yet loose ideas, like an armature, and keep them unplanned with room for exploration, 90 degree turns, and additions. Instead of a charted road the projects are like walks through the wilderness, forcing me to survive in nature (human nature in the mind that is available to us now, since the nature that all the poets wrote about is gone.) I now keep my needs to a minimum, as if on a camping trip.

A box filled with my brain scan lightboxes

Now, Joel builds beautiful crates, boxes, and assorted chests. I decorate them and many are designed with handles, wheels, and molding, each customized to hold assorted artworks, series, and artifacts. I see it all as props, my "traveling show" housed in a moveable and fun way. Once completed, an installation could easily be the storage of my art! There are instructions and diagrams for setting up and a story that will pull it all together. The story is My Gamma Waves and you are a part of it now. Isn't that something? Perhaps there are commissioned actors that will break out in song and revelry! Of course, I would have to write the song, and this is something I wouldn't put past me! Perhaps I should include "do not open until paradise on earth is realized." Maybe folks will see soon enough that they have the power to create it.

My handmade books go in custom containment and then in a bigger box filled with compartments.

At any rate, I am having great fun working out all the details, a summary of life, including my life on earth. My mission is to encapsulate. It keeps me busy on the main lines in my studio and it keeps me sheltered from the art world that focuses on selling. So many of these things cannot be sold because they are part of the overall work.

Some times I have flashes where I see a flood or fire sweeping away the artwork still in my hands. Gone. It is not quite clear what is taking place or when. It appears like a warning rather than a type of premonition. The message is don't hold on to things too tightly, especially art. Though I make it for myself, in the end, if it survives, it will be because of another's hands. I suppose this is how I live so peacefully without getting caught up in some sort of ghost net of popularity or demand.

Painting is another story and very different from the things I pack away.

It is my world and I love it! And I think you understand.
You have your world too. Entertaining and wise.
I am thrilled that we are friends.

Warmth,
xxlee

Dear Jack :: Dig your own ditch

2011-06-17T10:14:00.004-05:00

In response to "To Understand you know too soon"

Dear Jack,

It appears that you work hard daily, a creative life that has much to do with living. I like this and respect it. I embrace this way more and more as I grow older. In my early days, I only operated with art on my mind. I had the highest physical energy for art making. I think young artists should create as much as they can and respond to impulse, which I did. I think it is how we stumble upon our unique way. But it cannot go on like that forever. Realizations take hold in one's being. For me, I began to question how all the pieces fit together. Our recent move, a milestone after 23 years in one spot, forced me to look at all that I had made in 20 years of activity. It is good time to assess, settle down and narrow my focus. In a sense, I am about to make my real art and in my mind I hear a voice that tells me this is it. The work will be my best art. Quite amusing how it takes years of effort to get to this point!

Now I have learned to integrate my life with my art. I found that it is rewarding to identify the daily rituals, everyday things that are extraordinary. Nothing is mundane. Very much like your trench digging becomes a discovery, an experience that massages the imagination. Everything becomes the binding force of creativity. There are times to make the art and there are times to experience. I can fill and empty my well, pause, replenish, and decide how to attract the right content. I did learn that a life that is lived offers much more texture than a life that is instigated.

Like your time in the armed forces, this is a real experience that must have created fissures of emotion that most likely are deeply influencing your expression.

So, again, I respect your work ethic and admire the multiple expressions that come from it. Artists that work diligently are greatly needed today. The overall attention that many people give to vacations, entertainment, and leisure is a bit worrisome. These fabricated activities don't feel natural to me and are not enjoyable. If I travel, my destination is always to stimulate more insight into my work.

You asked if I had ever dug a ditch before, and the answer is, "Why, yes, I have." Like you, I started with tools, but ended up using my hands. I loved how the cold dirt felt, how the different colors between dry dirt and moist change before my eyes under the heat of the sun. Sitting in the dirt and burrowing into the earth makes me feel like I am going somewhere.

A few years back, I buried 100 tears. These were 100 glass tears, each filled with something that made me cry in the last century. My work is as much a science project as it is art. I try to learn things through nature; in this case I was curious about memory and time, and the potentials of altering glass, understanding the emotion of burying and unearthing. The project is in 3 parts, three different types of human tears: sadness, empathy, and joy. This year I will complete Part 2 and am so excited to be entering Part 3 after all these years.

In 100 Tears, Part 1 I wanted to see if I could alter a fragile wound. Though the tears originate from my experience, they represent the wounds of many. There is something that enables a wound to become part of the fiber. I want to know more about this. This fieldwork is filled with pockets of not knowing and exquisite moments of clarity. This is not therapeutic art, but an expression that takes the complexity of one's experience and makes it linear. A gnarled ball of yarn is somehow untangled, perhaps one can even see the ends.

Recently, I dug my tears up after they sat in the earth for 4-5 years. Some of the tears were missing! Some of the tears were swept away by a flash flood and we had to search for them! Ironically, I didn't want to loose any. Some were broken, others were in pieces, scattered about. All the words were gone. For a holder I have found some very old animal troughs made from hollowed out teak logs and worn with use.

Photo via The Center for Land Use Interpretation

The location of this part of the project was New Mexico, where the big dishes point to the starry sky in search of intelligent communication. One can't help but have that on your mind when burying things and digging things up in the dry mountains of this region. One can sense the big divide between intelligent and stupid, meaningful things and nonsense.

The Great Spirit gave me my humor to help me pass over ditches

I guess it has to do with understanding the two, that which is lowly and that which is high. I think they work together for each of us, and is a certain phase of life which, hopefully, strengthens dignity. There is no success like failure.

I loved that you found pieces of history on your land. Broken vessels that cannot speak. What a mystery! Thank you for the Dylan song reference.

Warmth, xxlee

Mandrake update: We are still experience rain showers peppered with days of sun.
From the 100s of Mandrake I found only 5-7 May Apples are growing. The reason could be one or many of these points:
- The flowers were not pollinated due to missing bees
- The Mandrake dropped the tiny apples due to illness
- The rainy weather disrupted the natural course of development
- Someone ate them at an early stage
Each point has different degrees of disappointment.
Next year, I will pollinate them myself. They do this in parts of China for fruit trees. Workers use something that looks like a feather duster. So, next spring my plan is to have a feather, a fence, and netting! I am determined to harvest and create a Mandrake jelly once in my life!

Acrylic on paper series : Posterous

There is a Lady in My Locket (Part 3 of 3)

2011-06-14T09:57:00.003-05:00

View of Roger William's Providence from Fort Adams

I opened my eyes after closing them tightly for some time and praying silently that everything would return to the way it was when I first entered the basement. When I prayed, I prayed to a God that was mine, a gentle being, easily found, but often busy. Patience was necessary. When I looked out through the wicker chairs, the tunnel was now closed. My heart raced with joy that my praying worked. Now that returning to my time seemed easy, I thought perhaps more praying could take me back, bypassing the mysterious thing that triggered my visit to the past in the first place.

I leaped up and ran to the sealed tunnel with an open hand, placing it and my cheek against the chilly wall. I thought of Jeremy, locked on the other side. He might even be dead. I walked to the main room and it was clear of all the bedding and baggage. The room was now empty but for the windows and assorted lawn furniture. I raced up the stairs and entered the kitchen I remembered. Things were orderly and quiet. Outside, I saw no apple orchards, only a tall brick wall that separated us from the neighbor, the wooden fence on another side, and the wrought iron gate. The brick patio was there with its outside fireplace. A crow cawed in the distance.

I ran upstairs to my room and sat on the chaise near the window. In the palm of my hand the gold locket, with the soft string that Jeremy added to it, sparkled in the light. Finally, I opened the locket that belonged to Mrs. Beckwith. She was inside under layers of glass. I angled the locket to find the right position to get a good look. It is amazing that I had seen her, that I know her. Then I noticed, on the other side, a staunch man.

When I closed the locket, they spent hours staring into each other's eyes. I sensed that this couple was deeply in love. I slipped the locket under my pillows and layers of bedding for safekeeping.

My grandmother returned and we went about our day as usual. We played checkers and one of her friends came for a cocktail. After dinner, I bathed and prepared for sleep. Under the weight of the covers I went through the details of the day. My grandmother came into my bedroom to say goodnight. As she walked to the doorway for the evening, I blurted out "Who is Mrs. Beckwith?"

My grandmother returned to my bedside with an approving look for my curiosity. "Well, she is the original owner of this house. Her husband, Mr. Beckwith, built it for her. There is a duplicate house down the hill built by Mr. Beckwith's brother for his wife." She continued "At that time, the whole hill was filled with apple trees."

"What about the odd looking wall in the basement that looks like a tunnel?" I asked.

She moved closer to the bedside to answer. "That was a tunnel down to the canal. Mrs. Beckwith helped to free slaves. They would travel from the South and come up the tunnel to rest here before continuing to Nova Scotia. It was called the Underground Railroad." She tucked me in again and moved her eyes about my face as she looked into my eyes. "Tomorrow, I will show you some of her clothes that are packed away on the third floor."

After My Grandmother left the room, I pushed my hand under my pillow in order to hold the locket. I thought about the power of love, the effort to build a house, and to plan and dig a tunnel. This women in love was useful in helping others and I wondered if this is the way love worked. I knew that I had to know love. I needed to find my love.

Click here for Part 1
Click here for Part 2

Dear Jack :: Mandrake on my Mind

2011-06-01T09:00:00.038-05:00

Dear Jack, (A letter in response to The Institute)

Pour 11 x14, charcoal and gesso @2004

Rain rain go away, come again some other day. I can't believe all the rain we are getting. Buckets worth. The plants are enjoying it and it is good for pulling weeds without effort (though I have yet to pull one myself.)

The single Mandrake flower

I am nervously awaiting the mandrake to produce its apple. There are about 100-200 of them in the woods [at Joesemane] and I am worried that my timing will be off concerning the picking. Anxiety looms because a creature might know the exact moment of ripeness and will beat me to them. The mandrake grows low to the ground and could easily attract the casual eater. I am so determined to harvest the May Apples that I might have to cast a net over them and drive stakes into the ground to secure them. This is an action that I am emotionally preparing for, in part by telling you. My hope is to make a very unique and exotic jelly. Did you know that all parts of the plant are toxic accept for the apple? This may sound morbid, but I find it a great relief to know where mandrake root can be found, just in case a circumstance arises that is unbearable. An example would be if the sun burnt out and no longer lit up the earth. I don't think I could take that. To imagine our world without light is sort of scary. You can't grow food with a flashlight.

One day during this rainy spell, swarms of broken clouds, sheer patches of atmosphere, rushed by our windows. It was very odd since we are not that high off the ground (an old warehouse rather than a high-rise.) Our home takes up a corner of the building and is lined with windows that allow us to partially see in all directions. Due to the train tracks next to our building, we have long uninterrupted views and I think this is why I was able to see the clouds moving through in a vaporous layer.

Last fall I was reclining on the couch reading a book called Eaarth. I was on the first chapter of the book reading about weather. "Global weirding" is the term used and it said that "freak storms" would most likely become a part of our lives. As I was reading, I noticed out of the corner of my eye what I thought were birds flying in circles outside. After awhile I had to get up and see what the birds were doing. It was trash! Yes, trash was whirling about the sky several stories up. Then I saw the clouds, thick and purplish gray, moving in a swirl that looked like whipped butter. Soon there was a micro-burst. Down the street a roof deck in progress was torn off.

And now with this season of extra rain, tornadoes, and flooding, the author Bill Mckibben's message rings true. It is a sad book and I won't dwell on it here. I am drawn to reading books like this and someday I will share with you why this is so. Are you experiencing any record-breaking climate conditions in your area?

Real photo of a true situation

Rain, fog, and fall are some of my favorite times but I do love that I see the sky now and that I am attentive to how the earth moves about the sun. In our previous place, I lived with north light for 23 years and a good portion of that time was spent at ground level. It was like living as a mole. Now I am above the streets and can see the big, sometimes blue, sky. I am not quite a bird, but a creature of heights. Perhaps, I am more like a possum now.

A fake photo of a real situation

This week there was also a coyote on the tracks one morning, running at a fast trot. Seeing coyotes in the city is a great excitement. I love the feeling of nature coming back, nature fighting back and requiring us to acknowledge the untamed. It certainly is a reminder of the way things were when Chicago was woodland and the river flowed in its direction of choice.

We do have a program that monitors the city coyotes, which take care of the city's rat population. The set up is a nice balance that provides food and protection for the wild ones and a service for the public. Often the coyotes are seen at the lakefront too, wandering in and out of the stacked rocks. There are about 60 coyotes fitted with GPS. I root for the coyotes to have peaceful lives as they roam this land and increase in numbers.

I know that we both have recently moved, so relating to the process of packing and unpacking is understood clearly. We would be kidding ourselves to say it was easy. Honestly, I am just now feeling settled since our move a year ago. I hate thinking back, because I can't fathom doing it again, not even in a thought. I went through two decades of remaining art, moving it to a new location only to continue sorting through it. Everything must be highly organized and just so in order for me to make my art. I love having stations, some clean and some not, so that I don't have to put things away. Stations allow me to move around from one task to another, one series to another, and one medium to another.

Agit-Prop in progress, @2011

Thanks for sharing so many photos of your new "Institute of Varying Circumstances." Prior to your move, your studio was called the Laboratory; I take full note that it is now the Institute and think the premise is good.

I call my studio "The Fane" as I prepare for the day when I stop working in it and make it a full room installation. Right now, as I work on the Agit-Prop of 50 works, it helps to work in The Fane. It keeps me working without faltering, keeping the notion that the work will be useful beyond myself once it's completed. I would like that to be true.

Warmth, xxlee

There is a Lady in My Locket (Part 2 of 3)

2011-05-26T11:16:00.003-05:00

Click here for Part 1

I don't know how much time I spent crouched behind the stack of wicker chairs in the basement, wondering how to make everything return to the way it was. The tunnel was still open and there were people in the other room resting, mulling about, and quietly carrying on conversations. A few times I closed my eyes tightly, thinking that if I opened them quickly I would be back to where I started. It was as if there was a switch or code. I could not remember what tiny detail could have caused my grandmother's house to transport itself back to the early days with me in it.

Audubon - Passenger Pigeon

Finally I decided to go look in the tunnel. The walls were stone and the ground sloped down. The floor was partially cemented and then turned to dirt. The incline had thin wooden poles pressed into the dirt every so often, creating long stretches of stairs. I could see the tunnel turn and narrow. It was dark with slight lighting from where the people had come. I was struck with sudden braveness as I began to walk down the tunnel clutching the locket in my hand. The air was moist and the smell was earthy. Each step became easier as I sensed a chance to find some answers.

I came to a closed alley. The walls and floor were smoother stone and mortar and there were stacked crates and rows of barrels lining the walkway. At a distance, and through an iron gate, I could see and hear water sloshing about. I walked closer, pushed my nose through the gateway, and saw old boats rocking back and forth and could hear the old wood creaking all along a dock. The air was salty and moist while the sun hid behind a thick layer of even clouds.

Passenger Pigeon hunt

Suddenly a young boy appeared and asked, "What are you doing here?"
His appearance was a comfort to me. "I came from there,” I announced as I motioned with my chin up the ally towards the tunnel opening.
He was silent as he edged closer to look outside at the boats with me. "I don't know much about the tunnel and really can't talk about it."
It is all I wanted to talk about and he must have felt my desperation and fear.
He continued, "You needn't be scared here. Are you hungry?"

"I must collect some of the suppers now" he said as he backtracked to a selection of barrels with the lids off. His hand went inside and pulled out dead birds to place them on a metal tray. The lifeless birds, wet and drippy, dropped with a thud. He loaded the tray with a thick layer of featherless bodies.
"What are those?" I asked. He chuckled loudly. "You must be joking. It is the passenger pigeon we are all sick of! They only cost pennies and it is what everyone is fed."
I must have looked baffled.
"You've never had one? I guess I should ask more about you! I will be back."
I laughed too and for quite a few minutes it didn't matter that I was lost in time. I watched as he left the room, balancing a heavy tray in his hands. He seemed smart and strong and I imagined him coming home with me. I imagined without much detail how fun it would be to show him the future and how different things were.

Etching of Brown University's start (1771), Providence, RI.

I looked around the room as the sea wind came in and blew strands of my hair about. There were strips of meat hanging and piles of something that appeared to be bacon. Baskets lined in straw held root vegetables, green peas and apples. There were shelves filled with jars of jellies and two long tables with edges that held what appeared to be a thin layer of salt, as I looked closer I could see shapes of the fish bodies that were cut, fanned open, and without heads. All the while I held the locket tightly, opening my hand once for a glimpse to somehow remind myself of all that had happened up to this point.

He returned briefly with another tray, this time filling it with fish. "It is cod. Have you had a cod before?" he asked with a slight smirk. "Yes!" I said but added "But, not served like that!" while making a fake face of horror. "Your family must be part of the University then!"

The Penny Magazine, Published in United Kingdom and New England 1832-1845

Off he went. He was referring to Brown University, which takes up many acres on top of the seven hills that Providence is built upon. I knew this because my grandmother consistently mentions it and wants me to recite the names of the hills to her. I then noticed a table and chair. On the desk there was a newspaper, like a large pamphlet, called The Penny Magazine. Underneath the title it read The Society of the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, with Published Every Saturday, added. The date on the paper was October 7, 1837, my mind could not even take in this faraway time. Up above the table was a shelf with more magazines. As I reached to flip the cover page, I heard the footsteps coming down the stairs.

Spruce gum box and spruce gum

When he returned to the cellar he rattled a little wooden box. The box had a "J" carved into the side panel. He slid the top off and asked me to hold out my hand so that a few misshapen, light green colored ovals rolled into it. "What is it?" I asked as I examined the odd lump. "Gum." he replied. I popped it into my mouth and chewed. The aroma and taste was like a pine tree and like no gum that I have ever had. The texture of spruce gum seems more for eating than chewing, and that is what I did. After a short time I swallowed the hard waxy shape with a giggle and the pointing of my tongue. I liked the moment that we were sharing and we finally exchanged names. His name was Jeremy. Just like the little girl, he could see me and it occurred to me that perhaps children saw more than adults.

"I want to show you something!" I said with excitement as I felt now that I had a friend. I held open my palm and there the gold locket rested for both of us to see. "I want to give it to you!" I exclaimed as I thought it best that I keep it in this time and closer to the owner. Somehow Jeremy could find Mrs. Beckwith and return the locket to her. Jeremy touched my hand and closed all my fingers around the locket. He explained, "I can't take that. I would never be able to say where I got it. I could get in lots of trouble."

We stood, his hand on mine. It felt natural and in some way I felt older at that moment. It was quite apparent it was my first tingles of being smitten by a young man. I wanted to cry, move into his arms, and tell him that I am from a time in the future. I wanted him to tell me how to get back home.

"The locket is yours, but you need something to hang it on." He grabbed a thin strap from his work apron, ripped it off, and gently strung it through the locket's loop. I held it in front of me as he tied a knot behind my head. I held the locket in place and pressed it into my chest.

"I must go back upstairs. You can stay if you would like." My heart sank knowing he had work to do. I knew this was all to end and it was time for me to return to my grandmother's house. I turned and we naturally embraced our good-bye. "We'll meet again someday. I will always look for you,” he whispered in my ear.

Down the passageway to the tunnel I walked, as Jeremy watched. I waved as the turn to ascend upward appeared. I ran up the dark tunnel, the locket swaying around my neck. I saw light. I ran up and up and into the room that was now so familiar. The stack of wicker chairs was a comfort to see. I caressed the woven rims as I slid behind them, resting my forehead against the protective weaving. I closed my eyes tightly. I rested.

Dear Jack :: I am not who I was

2011-05-10T09:30:00.009-05:00

A response to Jack's letter: There are people who don't like presents and cake

Dear Jack,

Your letter was thoughtful reading as it arrived when I was on the west coast. I went there to be by the ocean to complete a video for my project 100 Tears, Part 2.

100 Tears: part 2, heavy bronze tears

I have been working on this project for about 10 years, a favorite approach of mine. I don't like to be ruled or rushed by time, instead I move slowly and use time to learn from it. I have been working on three long-term projects with many components since the turn of the century. 100 Tears is in three parts; tears originating from pain, empathy, and joy. For the past five years I have been engaged in part 2, the things in the world that stir empathy and also the reasons why these things exist, calling them "The 100 Disturbing Traits of Humanity." I have spent time researching and acknowledging these traits, lingering in the depths, quietly feeling the drag. The energy of these words has effected me in many ways both emotionally and physically. Words, after all, have a material property; once said, you have put it into the world. Finally, I am relieved to begin the purging process. It's as if I am chasing a huge black slippery eel around my intestines, following it and pressing it to move forward and up. I anticipate this darkness reaching my stomach and chasing it to my throat where I will have to force it from me. I am scared, but the time is here. Quite dramatic I know.

While away, each morning I wrote the 100 disturbing traits over and over with chalk on black rocks. I placed them by the Pacific Ocean and let the waves wash them clean, and in many cases the tide swallowed the rocks up too. I wrote greed, I wrote corruption, I wrote materialism, I wrote other words 8, 9, 10 times. Over and over I lived through these words again and again. I cried and cried, which is appropriate for a project about crying. As I wrote, I worked in a blur, but for my determination to see it through. I had always felt as if a mass memo had gone out that I had missed. "Subject: Ignore all the bad in the world, turn a blind eye and they will be ineffective." I know it can wear nerves thin, or make some feel uncomfortable with their choices, but honestly, I can't imagine why people want to draw out such cruelties rather than quickly swat them away. I guess I see it as that simple. I am sure people see me as naive. This portion of the project, using different mediums, assists me to shout out these traits.

A friend viewed the words one morning when I finished writing them. She said, "I am checking to see if any of these are inside of me." My hope is that everyone asks this question. It is a difficult question and one not answered so easily. The truth is that they are inside us as seeds that can be germinated, yet also destroyed. We are told that these traits are human nature, but we must address the fact that they are man-made, so perhaps not our true nature. "Animalistic," they say, when in reality animals are social, nurturing creatures with less cognitive awareness of the ego or their own death. It is quite possible that the animals are the higher being and we have regressed backwards. I think that fighting these traits would begin to advance all humans. Who wouldn't want to be a part of that, or witness it?

When I arrived at the house on the beach I was prepared, as much as possible, for something that I had yet to experience. Before using rocks I decided to use bread. Bread is safe for sea life, natural, and an attainable material. Conceptually bread is humble and references "the bread of life." I chose unleavened pita bread, toasted it so it was firm enough to write on with marker. First I used shapes, then strips, and then shapes again. I made five sets of the 100 disturbing traits in my first few days on the coast. Out on the shore I tested the bread on rocks, beside rocks, on their edge, and pushed into the sand on angles. One evening I departed with my desired location in mind, a bunch of beautiful rocks scattered about. The next day the site was completely altered. The waves moved so much sand at once that all rocks were buried under. Other aspects to consider were wind, gulls, and dogs that interfered. One afternoon a dog ate three disturbing truths in one sitting! I had to think seriously about my direction. While at the house, I noticed all the smooth black rocks lining the moss beds and felt that they were the answer. I love when solutions are presented naturally and with ease. That evening I ran out to find chalk and the next morning I wrote the 100 words again.

Switching to rocks was perfect, but still there were unexpected occurrences. Once a sudden wave came in like a giant hand that swept all the rocks off to one side in one sweep! My mouth hung open, surprised at how much I didn't know. The waves were so unpredictable, not in timing, but in length and force. It took an hour for the water to come that close a second time. I loved sitting there staring out to sea. The waves would come in and some of the rocks, those lighter in weight, would move. Those heavier would begin to sink. It was really quite fascinating to watch and embrace it on film. I didn't mind the many pelicans diving, black crows racing, and piping plovers in flight, as they added to the mood of change.

Retablo 8: Workhorse; oil on metal. View all nine

At one point I became quite perplexed and confused. I started thinking about speech vs. written words. Mostly, I thought about silence and how I am silent with the written word, yet it is noise in my head. I thought about action and doing and the stages we potentially pass through. The easy way to explain this is to refer to my retablos, the artworks that trace 9 stages of my becoming a woman. (I use the voice of each stage in the chapters of this blog.) Some days I sense I am in the "workhorse" stage, but hovering around the edges of the "woman" stage, which is a silent stage. I have much work to do if I am to move away from the Workhorse phase and this is what is on my mind now. I am becoming more aware that the only language I speak well is in art, so I must push myself further into it.

"I am not afraid of dying." From The The Ragdale Series

I agree with you that to be belief-less is most likely bumping into the stage of death. I guess each one of us needs to decide what death is. I am quite content with this powerful thought "Being afraid of death is like being afraid of birth." I can't seem to figure out if death follows the silent stage, or if it is part of it. I think of Emily Dickinson writing, "I could not stop for death, so he kindly stopped for me." I think some are able to prepare for this transformation.

photo from my seat

Flying through the clouds I can't help but think of all these things taking place over 1000s upon 1000s of years. The history of our planet, the history of life.

See, it seems that I received some clarity and clear insight despite still having sand in my head.

I like writing to you because I imagine that you get it. Thank you.

xxlee

PS: How is the building of your new studio progressing?

There Is a Lady In My Locket (Part 1 of 3)

2011-04-28T09:31:00.016-05:00

I didn't quite grasp the meaning of the poem when my grandmother read it to me. She retrieved an old book from a wooden chest that sat at the end of four-poster bed; once the lid was shut we sat on top of it. It was a sunny morning and my grandmother read the poem to me and followed by explaining a few things.

My Grandmother's house today via Google maps

The poem was "My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894 Scotland) starting with the line "I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me." It was clear that poem was about the sun but there was more. She mentioned that I didn't have to follow her around the house as much as I did. She urged me to be independent and roam about by myself. I had mixed emotions about this discussion. I felt as if I was being reprimanded or cast off, and, more favorably, she was giving me permission to snoop around. It seems, even at age eight or nine, I tended to cling to others. Though it stung, my grandmother never held back in her attempts to teach me bluntly. She informed me that she was to deliver a flower arrangement to a church and that I was going to stay at home on my own. Moments like this turned into adventures where I could go through drawers, not disturbing things, but looking at the contents. After a few times alone wandering the house and getting to know all the corners, I asked her about the basement. I had never been down there before and wanted to check it out. She looked at me with a prideful smirk and said that I was welcome to look at the basement, even though it was empty.

Oldest Baptist Church in Providence

The basement had about seven rooms, of varying sizes, off of a larger center room. All the rooms were very clean, swept concrete with only a few items being stored; windows and garden furniture were all that could be seen. A few of the rooms on one side of the house had tiny narrow windows placed high, letting in only a little of the outside light. In one of the smaller rooms under the kitchen there was depression in the wall. It was larger than a doorway and sunk in about one foot. It looked like a sealed entrance or a blocked off tunnel.

I stood before it several times, always returning to the spot out of curiosity. As I turned to leave the concrete surface moved, becoming soft like handled play-dough, and the area looked cloudy like a lens that had been smudged. I backed up and crouched behind a stack of wicker chairs. It was an astonishing moment trying to grasp that the wall was changing. Soon the covering disappeared and people come through one by one and some arm in arm. I pushed back further to the wall in an amazement that kept my fear at bay. The people were black and mostly adult men and women. There were a few youth, perhaps older than me. Their clothes were somewhat worn and wrinkled, yet so many of them had glowing smiles, though serious. They were very quite. Each carried bundles and bags of things. They traveled past me. I watched the procession through the woven wicker of the chair, moving my eyes about to take in as much as I could.

I grew concerned that perhaps I had caused them to come here and that they were filling the house before my grandmother returned to wonder where everyone had come from. I would have to try and explain, but maybe my grandmother already knew. Suddenly, a young girl saw me and came close. She approached the stack of chairs and looked down at me and into my eyes. "Who are you?” she asked. I stood, my legs were weak and I used the wall for balance. "My grandmother lives here." I said. "Oh, thank you. This is where we are staying tonight." she respond, adding "Come on!"

We walked into the main room and the floor was covered with cots, blankets, and bundles of cushions. The people were settling in. She put her bag down on a mattress and motioned to the stairs with her hand. "I am suppose to help with eating,” she said. I followed her, and others, up the winding stairs and to the kitchen. The kitchen was not how I had left it; rather it was bustling with busyness. There were people using the big iron stove with all the burners, others were tossing flour onto tables and preparing bread loaves. No one seemed to see me other than this young girl. She smiled broadly as she took a station to cut vegetables.

Providence, Rhode Island by John Ruben Smith 1775-1849

I ventured to the back door and walked down the stairs into the most spacious of yards. There were no longer houses, walls, or fences on all sides, but big lush apple trees. There were men on ladders picking apples. Others were doing laundry and hanging clothing on a line, or doing dishes in a bin with hot water boiled on a small fire pit. People were gloriously joyful. It is the only way to describe such a gathering.

The sun was shining and I heard birds, assorted chattering came from the apple trees and the rooftop of the brick house. There were two dogs running about playfully. The bright light from the sun revealed a vaporous cloud that I was enclosed in. It moved with me and I could not break the seal to move outside of it.

A beautiful woman came through the kitchen door and down the stairs onto the grass where others met her with grace and honor. She was dressed in a dark tailored dress with a lace collar and tied ribbons adorning her layered skirt. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and she wore bands of material around her head with curls pulled back and loosely dropping from it. Around her neck was a long gold chain that reached far below her waist. At the end of the chain was a locket, big enough to fill the palm of a hand, like a pocket watch.

I couldn't take my eyes off her lovely smile as she gently glided about. Everyone adored her. She leaned over to inspect several bushels of apples, I moved closer to her. Someone called out to her. Mrs. Beckwith was her name. As she turned, her locket flew away from her body, rose in the air, entering my realm of mist. Without thought, I reached out to touch it. The locket stuck firmly in my hand causing the chain to break.

I panicked. There was no way I could return the locket to her; Mrs. Beckwith didn't even know that I was there. The locket stuck firmly in my hand as if it belonged there. She looked frantically on the ground beneath her dress and all around. I stood there wishing to reverse time to cause this moment never to exist. How silly of me to ever desire to touch her locket. The wind started to kick up and the sun went behind the clouds. There was a chill in the air. She hollered for the others to begin collecting things and gave one last look behind her for the beloved locket. Her face was drawn and worried. I stood watching, feeling uncomfortable. Where was I? I wanted to go home. The awkward thing was that I was at the house that I wanted to return to. It now began to feel less familiar, less fun. It was dawning on me that I might have done something very wrong. I held my fear back and my tears in.

Off I darted up the back stairs and through the kitchen weaving in and out of the others' busy activity. Their voices became more muffled as I ran down to the basement to find the place where I had started, back to the little room and the stack of wicker chairs. I knelt to the floor and brought my hands to my chest. The locket was still firmly tucked into the palm of my hand.

Click here for Part 2

Dear Jack :: Preparedness

2011-04-19T11:04:00.002-05:00

In response to Jack's Letter: Waiting for the deconstruction

Dear Jack,

I understand all of your points and enjoy how you reason. To answer your question, I sense that beliefs are passed down, spoon-fed from generation to generation. Some of the beliefs become stronger and more engrained. These persistent beliefs are the glue that keeps us in line, evolving slowly, perhaps even backwards to the primitive.

The deconstruction of beliefs that I refer to in my art has less to do with disasters and more about being open to changing our minds. The experience is more of internal, rather than external, turbulence, and of accepting the possibility of the unthinkable. I suspect that there is more to the story of humanity and our planet's history than is made available.

Some travel to great lands, like the Amazonian jungle or the American southwest. They partake of herbs, like ayahuasca or peyote, aiming to have fantastic visions that transform their perception. They induce these trips of the mind to deconstruct their beliefs, a type of personal truth serum. Unfortunately, it is easy to return to daily life and have one's beliefs form again, very much like a weed that is cut away, yet the root stays to re-sprout.

My beliefs were deconstructed in the fall of 1998. The incident occurred without encouragement from a substance. All that I thought to be true was not. I was not prepared for such realization, so I broke down, (although the Jungian and Shaman that I saw briefly referred to it as breaking through.)

Now I am prepared. I am attuned to notice when worlds collide and I won't go into shock. The oddest things are now fathomable to me. In my art, I try to tell others to prepare even if they can't fully. Yet, if they can imagine that there are moments like this, then they are more prepared by being open to them.

Medusa executed by Perseus painted by Peter Paul Rubens

Mind-blowing experiences makes one more aware of thought patterns. I imagine my mind is like a ball of messed up yarn. Sort of like the Medusa look, but not with snakes. I try to isolate a thought as I would a strand of string, trying to figure out where it originated. So many of the strands I pull out, I have to snip off with scissors and discard, because they are not my thoughts. The pile of messed up yarn is mostly imposed ideas that serve to keep me confined. Imagine if all the persuasive teachings were pulled from our heads and discarded! A job similar to the Goddesses of Fates that handle thread, inspect it, and cut it.

My hope one day is to become belief-less. I love notions because they are loose and fluid. Notions are like potions. They slosh about mixing, churning, and changing. Notions allow me to be silent. That is my goal.

Speaking of oddities that are intriguing-What about this man named Prahlad Jani? Have you heard of him? He doesn't seem to drink or eat? It is said that he is like a plant and feeds off of the sun. It makes sense to me on many levels, especially scientifically and spiritually. This man is a holy man that apparently has internalized a way of life that has evolved him. It doesn't seem like beliefs or opinions play a role in his life. (I attached a news reel)

You mentioned the unkindness in the world. It could be that those worldly traits, beliefs and opinions, cause much trouble by instigating pettiness and mud slinging. The mud is what the lotus rises out of as is seeks the sun, so there is purpose to it. What I wish to convey here is that a lotus grows in mud, so it makes sense that at some level we grow from a form of agitation, and that could possibly be relationships, brief and long.

This is why I understand the "it doesn't matter" philosophy that you embrace. On one huge level, it is true. It would be nice if we all learned to process things lightly. The expression "let it roll off your back" (and back into the mud) could be a remark about not imposing high standards on others, but only on ourselves.

My evacuation suitcase

You wrote of tsunamis in your area. As far as natural disasters and manmade accidents, I am prepared to the best of my ability. It is difficult to prepare for all scenarios, but we can prepare for a few narrowed down specifics. I am prepared for two things, and two things only. I am prepared to leave and I am prepared to stay. As far as a quick departure, I have my evacuation suitcase packed. If there is a quarantine, my pantry is packed and I can stay in for 3 months (without visitors). If you want, I would be happy to share the contents with you so you are better prepared to depart or barricade in. In my preparedness planing I learned that our area is fine location to dwell. We are near fresh water, lack potential for a tsunami, are at the end of a fault-line as opposed to the middle of it, and, if or when Yellowstone blows up, the fiery brim-stones shouldn't reach us (though ash falling from the sky would.) But, I am not all that certain about any of it.

I am certain that your new studio is going to be wonderful once it is fully constructed! I am glad that all your ideas matter and that many are swirling about your head as you prepare. Life is grand. :)

Warmth, xxxlee

What should we have to drink?

2011-04-14T10:20:00.010-05:00

I jumped out of bed thinking, " I hope I didn't toss it."

As a child my mother read a book to me that was filled with early English poems. A majority of the writings never made sense, many are even absurd. But tonight, as I opened the book to a certain page, one with my scribbling on it from a younger age, I am able to explicate one of the rhymes with clarity. The poem carries a message, a warming from the past about our future.

If all the world were apple pie, And all the sea were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have to drink?

I read the poem again. My heart started pounding. I thought “Nooo” to myself as I stood from the floor and moved closer to the window to read by the light from outside.

If all the world were apple pie, And all the sea were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have to drink?

Apple pie is a packaged illusion filled with simplistic aphorisms and thought stopping ploys. The ink is the thirst for oil and printed money. Bread and cheese represent ancient staples, the minimum resources’ that keep one alive. The question "What should we have to drink?" is one that should have been answered far sooner than now.

Throughout the earth there are great punctures inflicted by man to extract the oil that flows and lubricates the plates of our planet. The oil is ancient sunlight captured in trees and plants that have broken down over millennium.

California's first offshore oil wells at Summerland before 1906 via Wikipedia

Men are careless in their pursuit of this fool's gold. They have no common sense desires, but only a goal to acquire more money. In their pursuit of unprecedented wealth they ruin essential resources and leave human lives hardened in their wake. Fresh water is polluted, land destroyed, and the air is changed in order to manufactured cheap goods that do not last. This way of life is marketed to us. We consume items that quickly become trash.

There is far more damage than realized and further damage that is not disclosed. The sustaining cycle of life, our food chain, agriculture, oceans and rivers, and atmosphere, is now riddled with synthetic particles that counteract the systems of nature. The smallest creatures to the largest mammals have become effected, including humankind.

The oceans, though vast and wrongly thought to be large enough to absorb abuse, are now harmed. The greatest body of water in the entire universe has become a dumping ground for hazardous human garbage and is now depleted of the abundance of once healthy life. There are two holes in the ozone, one in each hemisphere. The polar caps are melting and shifting the weight of the seawater resting on the underground plates floating on the earth’s molten core. The shifting of the water weight away from the poles causes natural activity such as storms and quakes.

The main concern of these men that reap through destruction is to keep their cunning ways hidden. Emphasis is placed on deceit and distraction rather than implementing safe and reasonable practices. Their exploitive gains are criminal acts.

OIL (Furry Fish Series) 70" x 80" faux fur and oil on canvas 1998

I can’t believe that I am experiencing a time when corporations have full rein to plunder. They break, alter, and influence our laws. Such is the case with the Gulf of Mexico where BP rewards itself, and those protecting their interest, while punishing the residents. Each spring, evidence makes it more apparent that fish populations are vanishing and not recovering. Those of us watching closely see people becoming ill, lifeless carcasses washed ashore, sea life unable to reproduce, and genetic damage (lesions, enlarged organs, bacterial infections, and compromised immune systems) that are unsettling for our future. Multinational enterprises muddle the headlines, hold up research, and fabricate data, while moving without care. This corporate neglect resonates outward to endanger global life.

I cried as I recited the poem over and over to give me time to identify the position of the pendulum swinging in my heart. Surrender or persist. Resist or fight? If these men in control are not restricted we will surely disappear.

At that instant, I had the sensation of having experienced this before. I pulled the book closer to my face to read my early words, yet they just became blurrier. I could not see through my tears and would have to look later to see what I had written as a little girl learning to write.

I closed the book to look at the cover. There wasn't a cover. I took air in deeply. “The cover.... Where is the cover?” I wondered, while fleeting images slipped through my mind. I vaguely sensed that I had been in a conversation about this poem and other writings. A gathering that was heated; a discussion quite serious. I quickly flipped back to the page, "ah yes, the mouths are drawn in where there were none.” I caressed the page with my hand as though to take in all it’s history.

I thought: Do I wake Joel up now or wait until morning to tell him what came to me in the night?

It is reasonable to state that this particular rhyme may have originated from Witts Recreations published in 1640, and started with "If all the world was paper." This would most likely lead me to think of logging.

Dear Jack :: The Burning Leaves

2011-04-05T12:31:00.004-05:00

A response to Jack's letter : From the top of my mountain:

Dear Jack,

Thank you for your patience with my replies; I will try to stay up on my duties! It is my way to run a very tight ship, but my habit leads me to take on much. There is great satisfaction from accomplishing tasks, even in a whirlwind manner. It feels very pure that way. I believe the term "flying by the seat of your pants" applies here. Yet, letters are the perfect opportunity for reflection, aside from daily thoughts of where we wish to go.

Your remark about the National Geographic describes perfectly how best to live a life; approach living as a National Geographic Adventure. It does conjure up images of the earlier days on earth, a time when there was still so much land to explore. There are still things to discover in the land above the sea, but I do think what is undiscovered in our oceans would blow our minds if brought to the surface. I wish for scientists to make great advances in this area.

Prepare for the experience that will deconstruct your beliefs

I have not been to a leaf burning in quite awhile. Are burning leaves against the law in some places? When I was growing up outside of Boston we had a yard. Some of the trees would get infested with these big caterpillar nests. My father would hammer out a huge T shaped spear at his workbench in the garage and then get an old rag. He would then soak the rag with flammable liquid, gas or kerosene. He would torch the spear and go set the nests on fire. Like your burning leaves, there were noises, (and the potential of setting the trees ablaze.) Honestly, I hated it. There were burnt bodies falling from the trees, the ground looked like crumbled chocolate cake when he was done. I am sure that my father was protecting the trees somehow.

Caterpillar nest courtesy netlands.typepad.com

I don't know much about cherry trees and I have opinions about lying. First, I don't think George ever cut down a cherry tree. Cherry trees are big and I can't imagine George making a big enough dent in the trunk to cause a tree to topple over. Secondly, George lied. I don't think there is a single human being (including saints, masters, and spiritual leaders) on earth that hasn't. It is my belief that lies don't come in sizes or colors, characteristics only invented so that one could excuse their own behavior. A lie is a lie is a lie. I think there is a purpose to experiencing the telling of a lie so that the uncomfortable feelings ignite a form of understanding. I have lied. It didn't feel good and it was not the wise thing to do. Life is so pleasant telling the truth or keeping thoughts silent.

The Burning Leaves, 44" x48", oil on canvas

You mentioned: "You have to start with an idea, but it should be a vague idea." I agree with you here. Vague is good and allows for us to shape things as a process and not be beholden to a technique. I do have a few projects where the ideas are a bit more than vague, creating some turbulence in my life, especially when I don't see the clear way through. Some ideas are exciting, but they don't quite make sense in the scheme of things. These ideas are not totally mine. They are bigger than me, so I do honor them as some sort of assignment. Sometimes I curse them, thinking they pull me off course. But then, after I move forward a bit, I learn that they are propelling me by forcing me to see things at a different angle. Does that make sense to you?

I painted "The Burning Leaves" with the vague idea of this fall ritual, but it came out more as a celebration of when a hurt has ended; of when the burning leaves. The painting responds to heart breaking situations in life that we must learn to live with. Burning leaves is about this transformation, not just to accept things, but also to draw upon them fully for making art. What an adventure, to take a literal idea and travel to the ephemeral, an outcome expressive of a human feeling truly felt. I love traveling into the creative unknown to sort through the dustings of tiny specs of truth.

Hugs to the whole family, including the gift-bearing cat!
Warmth,
xxlee
Bonfire and friends, fall 2010

See brain scan lightbox series, Negative to Positive, here.

Dear Jack :: The Bo Tree

2011-03-22T12:50:00.004-05:00

Dear Jack,
I am so sorry about the delay in my response, but I know that you understand.

I wanted to write sooner about my trip, but, upon returning, the earthquake in Japan has taken much emotion and all of my concern. I have a young friend in Tokyo and we are emailing back and forth. In each email, I suggested that she listen to her parents and depart south to Osaka to be with them in their home. She is in Osaka now, so I am more relieved for her. It is all very sad and hard to have constantly in my mind.

My trip south was unique, in part because I was forced to slow down. I wanted to share with you information that I am sorting out. You knew I was searching for leaves belonging to the Banyan family. Florida has Banyans so I set out to find one. There were Banyan trees at the art museum, but, as I wandered through the grounds, I noticed that leaves were not the "heart" shaped ones that I needed, but more oval. I looked up ahead and there was a single tree with a plaque that read "Bo Tree." Sure enough, along the ground were the heart shaped leaves that I needed.

I didn't think it was right to pick live leaves from the tree; I would surely hear them scream. So, I knelt on the ground and carefully selected ones that had fallen. I managed to gather about 25 leaves when my mother asked me to stop. She said that people walked by and said, "She is not suppose to do that." My mother doesn't like to make a scene, and, not wanting to cause her anxiety, I stopped. I did add, "Really, one can't pick up leaves?" Really, Jack! Are we not free to pick up leaves anywhere on the planet? It just sounds absurd. At any rate, I am greatly appreciative for what I did get. The dry brittle condition doesn't even bother me. They are exactly what I was searching for and I am lucky that I am not sitting here with a bunch of oval leaves that are the wrong type!

Apparently, several families of “sacred figs” originate from the Banyan species that is native to India and surrounding countries, including the Bo tree. The Bo Tree takes thousands of years to grow and the trunk is thick and wavy, yet not so heavily fused with roots like the Banyan. My quest originated because Siddhartha Gautama was sitting under a “sacred fig” when enlightenment was given, thus, it is referred to as the “Bodhi Tree.” I now understand that the Bodhi Tree is a Bo Tree.

I am very pleased that things occurred as they did, seemly by happenstance. I was lead to the tree with the heart shaped leaves and I can easily imagine that it was propagated from the original Bodhi that the Buddha gazed at.

See the dragonfly?

I have gently packed the leaves away and will be using them soon. In working on this project, which is made up of many smaller ones, I create situations that are true adventures. Yet, there is this level of frustration because, the journey twists and pulls me from the goal and it feels like I have to wrangle the outcome into place. But, this "out-of-control" place is the point.

With these leaves I will be illustrating what happened at that moment of enlightenment (Nirvana), and not only to Buddha, there have been many others that have seen this too.

Must stop now. Annie just wrote in her post "How do leaves dry?" I am a bit stunned and must read it! Take very good care. I can’t wait to get an update from you. I read of your slightly varying circumstances.

xxlee
Ps: @studio6or7 sends another big hello.

SIFT THROUGH

2011-03-03T12:30:00.000-06:00

In 1998 the invention of Google, the first internet search engine, influenced my life, and the future direction of it. I loved electronics from an early age and dove into the newly opened world when it was unveiled. What began as fun quickly turned into daily hours of searching, researching, reading, bookmarking, copying and pasting. I was quite aware that every possible idea was in the caverns of the Internet. I took up surfing and was able to burrow into deep areas, the seed pockets of a pomegranate. This new world felt like a run through a library packed with people lining the aisles to share their books and experiences, opinions and questions, connecting globally with ease for the first time. A quest quickly took hold. I wanted answers to questions that had needled me since childhood. I found others that had experiences similar to things I had witnessed. I was going to double-check my memory. I was going to meet others and see how their lives turned out. My activity turned into a fevered mission, one with critical importance.

I know that I am being mysterious. But, I have tried many times to tell the story called My Gamma Waves, and after years of false starts, the beginning has begun. In time it will be less like a puzzle undone.

We rushed to rush in the middle of a storm - from The Ragdale Series

The days leading up to early December 1998, when "we rushed to rushed," were precipitated partly by what I had tapped into on the Internet. Rush is a hospital, and, ironically, since our move last year, I happen to stare out at the building where I stayed. Each morning, each night, I am reminded of the events in my life and how, for a moment, everything became clear, including the importance of sharing this story.

It is a sand storm of bits
with a risk of bruising skin
rawness from speed, a rash that could bleed
Yet, the most fascinating view ever seen

The drifting dunes
fall from tall to flat
Each morning a new mountain, new tracks
Each night a plan to forage forth and double back

I searched for you
Those of you like me
muffled words, a language lost at sea
our brush with an original mythology

You spill into rooms, like pearls off a string
In groups, pebbles flung from your hearts
sobs tightened beating drums,
pounding so loud, no one can bond

I was overcome by your suffering
And how my passage was secure
how you lost your oar of empathy
how you were captured by fear

I wished to step forward
a vow welded on my wrists
it took years to map my course
battle with the undertow and sink my feet in place

The Ragdale series
Negative to Positive:: brain scan art installation

There will always be pieces missing

2011-02-22T11:04:00.005-06:00

While collecting teacups to use in an evolving idea for an art installation, my mother asked if I could use a broken one. She explained that a teacup shattered years ago and she had been saving the pieces. The broken teacup belonged to her father's mother. I was curious to see it and told her that I would try to mend it. This is what I am doing now.

The teacup is delicate with a floral pattern and is at least 100 years old. I laid out an array of china shards and ran my fingers over all of the pieces to learn how they fit together. I love touching an item that my great grandmother once held. As I examined each piece, I think of how she used her time, perhaps pouring her tea as she poured over her thoughts. It was a different time, when the pace was slower and space was vast; a time when family stayed close in proximity and most things were cherished because they were made to last. As I prepare to begin the repairs, I gather recollections of my paternal grandmother mending china.

On family visits to my grandmother's, my father's mother, we congregated in the back kitchen, a large kitchen with four points of entry. Meals were made, plans were discussed, and children played in this great room. The floor was covered with colored square tiles that provided hours of gaming for us kids. There was a heavy iron stove from the old days that still produced heat, mainly when the adults burned paper garbage in it. There was also a box on the wall that was attached to buttons throughout the house. When a button was pushed, it would buzz in the kitchen and an arrow in the box would flip to a room number. The house was built in the early 1800s and the buzzers were for the domestic assistants that once lived on the third floor. In the dining room, there were two buttons under the table beneath the rug so that those sitting in the head chairs could use their foot to call for help during dinner. We were told not to play with the buttons, but, we would ring the buzzers and run, blaming others or the dog.

In the back kitchen there was a combination washer and dryer. How something could be used for both wetness and dryness still causes me to wonder. On top of that machine, my grandmother placed her china mending projects. She would make calls about the progress of the repair and her words mostly were “exquisite” and "gorgeous." In most cases she did this for friends, those passionate about history, because it is hard to see old things tossed out. My grandmother would work slowly, making sure each piece fit.

Today I am handling a teacup that stirs thoughts of my ancestors - a gift that is not material, but a chance to wonder. Two women, who are a part of me, yet had never met, cross paths now. One grandmother is reaching me with a broken teacup, the other with a memory of mending. A meeting of relatives, a concentration of femininity, instigated by my mother.

I can sense, ever so slightly and hopefully, that this situation is part of a bigger plan - that my grandmothers have made an appearance in order to insert themselves into the dialogue of my art. I feel excitement from this teacup that has been set free from its original form. I know I cannot perfectly create another. In the end, the "new" teacup may be more beautiful than when it was whole, partly due to what my grandmother would call the "tender care" given to it.

My great grandmother's teacup is now mended. In the moment that I finished, gazing upon it's jagged texture, I was filled with love for the way things turned out, whole despite being misshaped, together despite the cracks, and contained despite the gaps. Beauty can be found in the broken remnants. There will always be pieces missing.

FOUND:: Book No. 62

2011-02-09T13:30:00.004-06:00

Animal 12"x19" acrylic on paper

Page 4
Its been hard to write. Several weeks have passed since the last wild polar bear died. It pains my hands to write this, my eyes to see the words. The muscles of my chin twist on the bone when I cry. With my hands I must press my jaw tightly to hold the skin in place to stop the aching. Tears have fallen daily, not just over the loss of the wild bears, but also for the history that got us here. There is such a long trail of denial and excuses. Contaminated diets, cold water, confusion are just a few of the singular causes put forth to hush the outcries. The list goes on and on.
Though so much of what humans have [...]
It seems to be a necessary road to travel. [...]
My words lack weight, and, much that I wrote seems to be undone. A way of life certainly has faded, broken glass swept aside. At this point, I do not know if anything will be remembered. It will be like the other worlds once here. Without records they never existed. I'm so sorry. Sorry for you, those that are younger than me. I am so sorry that you must be perplexed by [...]
I'll do my best to continue the story even though it must be [...]
To this task, I will give my best attention.

Page 11
I'm so surprised over these debates. The zoos are closed to the public and completely locked down. A few are taking appointments for a ticket to see something "wild." They are over-whelmed with requests to view the polar bears, each tries to decide whether to cater to the young or the old. Honestly, I don't care [...]

Page 16
Due to my age I was given notice of my opportunity, perhaps a last chance, to see a polar bear. Documentation of the visit is prohibited, and my Cent standing must be up-to-date as a result of the changes in issuing certificates. To be a Cent you must be born prior to 1991. The days of shouting "look at my gray hair" are over. No longer is being born between 1992-99 permitted. It makes sense due to the precise documentation of experiences being sought for the "The Last Days Retrieval Project." It became apparent that those born after '91 have little concrete information to offer. Their recollections were increasingly crowded with more and more fantasy, influenced by all the changes. It's upsetting, but efficient, and I do think it important.

[...] = words, lines, or pages missing
italic = assumed

The written passages are accounts taken from damaged journals and sketchbooks that were "found." FOUND is an art installation that depicts a time in our future and a changing world.