Showing posts with label "Creative Process". Show all posts
Showing posts with label "Creative Process". Show all posts

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Roots



Strolling down an avenue, encountering the billowing roots of aging trees, I think of rooting, embedding myself somewhere, settle, become familiar enough with a locale to burgeon, evolve and become rooted. Yet as I see these roots spill over paths, forced into confined quarters barricaded by sidewalk and curb, I think that the contortion is descriptive of how I would feel. But perhaps I need this squishing to produce new work. Limitations often provide an environment where production is prolific.

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Some things that influence me during my formative years...

Formative Years

Birth – Born 5 August after 6 extra weeks gestation, with umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, by Cesarean section; bottle fed with Carnation evaporated milk.

Age 1– Father, aged 32, decapitated when exiting vehicle in a snowstorm at a railway crossing, when confronted by an oncoming train; played in playpen made from wood planks, large enough for an adult to recline in.

Age 2– Daycare provided by grandparents, Icelandic settlers to the Interlake that did not speak English; became bilingual, learned to write with pen and ink – first letter: T.

Age 3 – Companion to my grandfather while planting the garden with potato pieces, sharpening tools in barn, drinking with buddies – was the camouflage to prevent discourse/reprimand on evils of drink by grandmother, singer of sagas; mother remarried.

Age 4 – Moved to small village of 600 people into a white, rented house; played in coal bin – fuel for house. Sister born prematurely; we started being cared for by a Polish nanny. Went to kindergarten, learnt about and delighted in using hands in flour paste to make art. Friends with first love, Ernie.

Age 5 – Moved to newly built house on river in same village; boated in container for mixing plaster on flooded fields. Saw Rodin at Winnipeg Art Gallery, and escorted from premises when found stroking statue’s penis; started making forts in river willows. Fed my sister black chalk, to see what would happen, and waited.

Age 6 – Witnessed step-father, planner, (vodka) and grandfather, builder, (rum) reciting poetry while playing chess, each intoxicated; observer of project development and completion: landscaping, breezeway, interior waterfall, plant conservatory. Saw first movie – ‘Swiss Family Robinson’, with mother - cost: 25 cents; started piano lessons. Constantly ill with 'childhood diseases - mumps, measles, rubella, whooping cough; read Nancy Drew books and learned to love to colour with Crayola crayons.

Age 7 – Spent school year with teacher that was cruel; spent many hours at principal’s office after being ‘strapped’. Grandparents were care givers during holidays when parents went on exotic holidays; given loose change to placate spirit. Learned to skate, and participated in winter carnivals with hair coiffed with rags into ringlets – got first ‘Barbie’, a clone – Oleg Cassini doll. Witnessed mother’s desolation after after death of 4th child, a brother who died hours after birth – saved from immediate death by breathing device designed and employed by step-father.

Age 8 – Was tortured in school with yardstick smacks, writing ‘lines’ and holding encyclopedias with arms outstretched - always had name in ‘black book’; “Strapping” was abolished; watched grandfather save house during brush fire. Played in mountain of sand dropped on neighbour’s yard. Watched mother ‘Roto-till’ and plant garden, feed it fertilizer; watched kingfishers and sandpipers on the riverbed flats; crossed footbridge over river. Drew murals of the Amazon.

Age 9 – Grandfather died of tetanus after amputating toe in lawnmower (he laughed walking to the hospital across the lawn for treatment) – nurse did not administer tetanus shot; grandmother sold house and moved to apartment above a store; started organ and ballet lessons; saved from step-father’s belt beatings at home by dog, an overweight golden lab named Bunsy; started to be administered Dial soap after swearing at parents.

Aged 10 – Learned to love science. Wanted to be a nuclear physicist; bought taxidermy animals from teacher. Won public speaking prize; won 4-H photography demonstration prize. Learned to volunteer through mother’s activities – Women’s Hospital Auxiliary, School Board trustee. Caught on fire while burning garbage in the incinerator – rolled to stifle fire. Began to cut grass for 3 hours a day every summer on a Toro sit-down mower.

Age 11 – Suffered loss of hearing from multiple ear infections while learning to swim off docks where boats dumped raw sewage. Wrote poems on top of parents’ roof, at the riverside while sitting on concrete slaps that were dumped to prevent flooding of the river – trees along the embankment had been removed to ‘beautify’ the village. Wrote a poem for the teacher at the end of school – he cried.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Locked

There are few days when I don't feel that I am under-utilizing my potential. I expect that the more I live the less I think that I have done enough. Days are not filled with the best use of time. This realization disturbs me. My 'day job' has only one redeeming factor - I am allowed a window into the intimacy of human frailty. I find this informs my art and I store these experiences in a memory vault, waiting for the release.

I especially have a great respect for the human demise, and I witness this process in a small way every week. I am especially moved by the change in colouration, physique modulations, the temperament alterations. People that face their death with courage or fear and all combinations in between are a source of inspiration. We all have this journey. From my artistic sensibility, I acknowledge that the visualization of these beings can bring universal truths to be experienced.

Many may not have the opportunity to face this presence where I can assimilate and relate these journeys for others. I am grateful... I believe a studio is near at hand to finally materialize the art that will result from these insights.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Backward to face front

10 years of re-directing my energy, taking a hiatus from my work has allowed me the insight and power to re-initiate my professional goals. Yes. I no longer look at the mirrored imaginings. I can face myself.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Restitution

Simplify.
Envision.
Deliver.

Find material.
Form the idea.
Make it visible.
Make it alive.

Restore the notion, the creation, the discovery of sculpture.
Give back the embedded knowledge.

Give it back to the universe.

Saturday, September 11, 2004

Time

Wandering between present and future allows me to evaluate the past. Funny how the timeline in one's life seems saturated with one of those three segregations. Past/ present... Present/ future. Past/ Future... and all the degrees between. Or just past, present and future. Strange.

Sometimes, just living doesn't necessarily have a desgination, until after the moment, the afternoon, or day... week - month - year... decade and suddenly, in retrospect, time becomes that period of wonderful achievement, the day where I became aware... the year when I struggled, those happy occasions, my querulous youth, my disconcerting thirties...

Future imaginings can be just as indubitable and clear as any memory, sometimes more distinct than the present. Preceding, previous, current, prospective, erst-while, foregoing, forthwith, now... define time. Instantly, momentarily, sometime... Ever! Shedding these segregation of experience seems important to progress, learn, yet the need to define time is satisfying, to ignore the delineations, disruptive. I need the comparison to thrive.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

Al-u-min-ee-ummm

Yes, the 7 - 10 foot expanded mesh aluminium tetrahedrons created as a visual description of the segregation of the insular west coast has now been remembered in song. The Winks (thewinks.net) have just sent me a secret sample of the new song. I must say, the imortalization has been a little disconcerting, as they say I WAS a sculptor. A lesson in artistic life is in order, I believe.

Creation has a life that can endure without physically acting on a thought. It inhabits every encounter and action of daily life. Sometimes years pass without adding to the oeuvre. This dormancy can be misconstrued. There are many artists of note that the hiatus was considered abandonment. Perhaps sometimes this is true. However, miraculously as sunshine after a winter of inclement weather, the muse embodies the artist, and drives a renewed spirit to make something meaningful. One does not make for the sake of making. Art must be about something. And more. It must situate itself in the world for all to see, experience. The strength of the work reflects that disturbing, unspeakable, genuine notion that everyone is sensing, but cannot describe. Sometimes these intangibles take the guise of sculpture. Vancouver is notorious for being a photographic haven, a place where photographic and now digital input thrives. Three dimensional insight, configuration and delivery of precious intricacies of life possible to create only in sculpture do not belong in this part of the world. I doubt I will ever work as a sculptor here again. That doesn't mean I am no longer a sculptor. I just need to move elsewhere. Meanwhile, I gather.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Spinning

Tops, the toys painted with horizontal colours of red, ochre and green whir with speed to blur the edges of colours to form new ones. Pumping the top takes some skill because the top needs to remain straight to spin effectively. It needs to land straight, or the top will topple.

Sometimes 'life' has been compared to a spinning top. Right now, I feel I am whirring in one place, going nowhere. I seem to be mixing my sensibilities and cannot differentiate any segments of my understanding. I experience vertigo while I remain in the same space, spinning. The point? The point is to spin.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Dichotomy

I live in disparate worlds.

The working tangent entails thinking, functioning, operating in an organized, precise world, structuring other lives while attended to by physicians. I organize patients' and doctor's documents. I am the swinging door where private concerns get maximum follow-up through referrals and lab tests. I temporarily enter an office where I must adapt immediately to the office culture and function methodically, directly and efficiently. Stress makes mess. When the order exists, calm prevails. When the doctors' expectations are not explicit, disaster ensues. I seldom know where or when I work next. I like the opportunity to meet new challenges. I miss the continuity of my own organization. I don't need to stay in one place. I think I would be too bored, fast.

My creative world, currently on hiatus, is a gaping vortex of time waiting to be bridged. Still and quiet, my attention towards creation of sculpture, although not waning, is not waxing. As the space between action and inaction widens, I will eventually fall into the act of creating or be drowned by my own inattentiveness.

Creating demands content. Content demands new experiences. My work world brings me to the diversity of lives without emotional participation in their intricacies. I love the opportunity of being involved yet separate, solemnizing and respecting, while segregating my psyche from these other lives.

Am I able to completely divide myself? Can I disassociate myself from the immediacy of pain and suffering of these people? Can I create while I disunite myself from these healing rituals? Will propitious omens soon wake me into understanding how these world will draw me into art creation. I am still wondering where the sculpture is.

BIFURCATION; I am divided. I am being divided.

Sunday, July 18, 2004

Minatures are not me...

Wearily, I put away the plastic clay.

Deliberating over the form I produced in a few minutes, I came to the conclusion, which is a conclusion that I have had previously, but was reconsidering, that I must work large. I need to define space, not model. I need to confront space, conflict with it, restructure the environment, redress the landscape. This will be the way I will work and can work without producing trite and formal nick-knacks. I must sustain my patience, believe that I will again utilize material to sculpt the ideas that are waiting to manifest.

Meanwhile, I blog.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Twist my arm

I saw an 'employment facilitator' today. Now, people are hired to ease one into an employable state, including resume review, interview technique critique, assessment of dress etc. According to Greg, my facilitator, my resume did not reveal my nature.

Somehow, I doubt that my employability in my chosen niche would be possible if I was truly honest about my strengths. I am attempting to be a chameleon. Obviously, my persona does not match my resume. The job counselor repeatedly asked me what I wanted. He urged me to ask for what I want, to divulge my wants; my successes must be revealed in my resume. This 'sales pitch' is supposed to reap an interview, cultivate a match between employer and me. I have doubts.

I am supposed to type. I can type, except when I have carpal tension. I type what others say; perhaps this is the reason for my growing resistance to this 'skill'. This is indeed a dilemma.


For some reason, I am becoming nostalgic.

I remember writing on top of my parents roof. I would climb the television tower erected to the east side of the house. The country village where I grew up was not within the appropriate range for a signal to allow multiple channels without this construction. I remember the excitement of climbing the metal ladder up the tower level to the middle of the roof peak. I held my notebook and pen in my mouth as I endured vertigo. I had to swing to the roof leaving one foot on the ladder, reach to the gritty shingles, and push off from the ascent with the tip of my toes of my left foot while reaching the edge of the precipice with my left, corduroyed knee. A forced roll into the hot ,sticky surface, scrunching my 'scribbler' completed this deft acrobatic technique. I loved writing from this perch, which gave me an expansive view of our acres.

I also have a vivid memory of writing on the river's edge I 'discovered' a short walk from our home.

Our street was a gravel road. Walking east to the far end near the bridge to Main Street, I veered to the dirt trail that took me to the railway crossing that transversed the Icelandic River. The village had dumped huge slabs of concrete, discarded sidewalk broken into chunks to fortify the river's edge. Beautifying the waterfront entailed ripping out all the willows that had secured the flow of the river. As a make-shift solution, these masses lined the area that held the trestles supporting the railway. I would sit in this secluded spot, dismayed at the corruption, the dissemination of the beauty that once enlivened the water's edge. Here, I wrote poetry.

Now I write using a word processor. Yet, poetry is best when writing by hand.

Monday, July 05, 2004

Procrastination

Delay. Do something else to intentionally hinder the action from taking place. Yes. I am finding a way to prevent the voluntary commitment to searching (and finding) a job.

The phone rings. The dreaded interview is booked. I am completely surprised by this response to my half-hearted fax the week before. Agencies do read resumes. Who would have believed it? I feel weakened by this event. Will my resolve to continue to defer my job search be thwarted? Money is a powerful enticement. Hope for monetary gain is a temptress to be acknowledged. Yet I fear the job; I am repulsed by my base lure to financial contentment through work.

I am not a lazy person. I wish fulfillment. I am guarded in my presumption to endeavor to become a filer of documents, responder of phone queries, the administrator of physicians' orders. What am I doing?! Procrastination seems much more eventful. I am worried.

Art seems so far away.

Saturday, June 26, 2004

Chapter Two

The clock was not striking. It slid silently between three and four in the afternoon.

The western window's heat began waking her from the medicated nap she took to suffer the pain. A back sprain drove the slumber, and dreams. She saw herself in a mirror, pigtailed, as in her youth, wearing a zipper on her mouth, eyes shut, hands bound by barbed twine. Too many 'B' movies, undoubtedly.

Giotto was displaying his colours in the background. Azure and gold, the shimmer drove the mood of the vision, which became a painting? a sculpture? To be made... future travels.

The door opened and shut. And opened and slammed closed. She strove to rise from the black corduroy, pressing her wrists deep into the foam of the chesterfield (couch, for those unacquainted with Canadianisms). Marooned on the worn object, the door of her perceived beginnings became locked in the presence of muscle analgesia.

The early 14th C. paintings loomed before her; salivating, she tasted the ingenuity of non-representation. And the archways! What a solution to the conundrum. Get rid of the doors, and everything will be accessible!

Sunday, September 07, 2003

Whistle while you .... WORK

Witt and wiles
Wrestle spitefully
Wiggling away to the
Cape of restitution


La de da.

Sunday envelopes the numbness.
The distance holds a journey?
The present is "not found".
Find the ordinary to create a path.
Mundane organization is the ultimate mantra.
Do and keep doing or die.

Saturday, June 07, 2003

June 7th

Good Morning, World.

This post originates from the west coast of Canada. This place is a conundrum to me, and I am marooned here for the time being. As I have something to say, usually, I want to share these thoughts with you.

Today is a sunny scorcher. Hot numbness, as today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I awoke with the memories of the last look, the pale blueness, inarticulate acknowledgement of camaraderie dwelling in a shocked awakening, knowing that I am still hearing what couldn't be said those years ago. I am driven to remember the sweat and stillness of a life fulfilled by loving. A rare gift.

Today is a waxy wane. Facing myself, the nub of my search to rekindle the art in me has brought me to this public revelation. And this act is much more frightening than solo travelling in a country far away, or exhibiting work to the cloister of the art aficionados. Organs are pressed into upright alignment, poised for the keyboard to flow. I walk away (mentally) as I would from a work in progress on the bench, tool in hand, and expecting to know how to proceed.

There is a 'leap of faith' that occurs with the greatest of joy when the muse guides and all is proceeding. Yet writing has been a latent development.

Poetry was the first love, and a discarded love. Prose revived itself from necessity. Art critic became a title, and a means of propelling myself into the nebulous intricacies of other's creative forces. This was mode endured an abrupt conclusion. Recently, writing for others has been the form of need. I want to rekindle the gentle art of self expression.