RORSCHACH AUTUMN

A Rorschach autumn by the water, taken during a walk last week.

Widewater on C&O Canal
Potomac, Maryland

(An old friend, who is in psychiatry, immediately asked, "So, what do you see???"  Of course, I've learned not to tell psychiatrist friends what I really think. One shouldn't bring up ailments with doctor friends either.)

I was taking a break from "heavy reading" in my nook last night and picked up one of Neil Gaiman's book/graphic novels, the kind that appeals to youth and adults simultaneously.  Gaiman weaves wonderful tales that seem to be suspended in time. This one is called, "The Truth is a Cave in the Black Mountains."

One paragraph struck me.

"I am old now, or at least, I am no longer young, and everything I see reminds me of something else I've seen, such that I see nothing for the first time... It is the curse of age, that all things are reflections of other things."

So, I paused and reflected.  It is true.  As time passes, the more we see the present mirror the past.  And I thought of how our identities are entwined in our memories - whether joyful events or incidents laced with pain.  We are what we remember to have done and experienced. Without the power to reflect, that inkblot view by the water is blurred by wind and waves.

Just a few days ago, I stumbled upon an article in Smithsonian Magazine on American Genius.  A duo of scientists had implanted a false memory in a mouse.  Whoa!  The science is certainly brilliant.  And there are many neurological applications for this type of breakthrough.  But some directions brought visions of "Total Recall" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" into view.  If we can't trust what we remember, can we know who we really are?  What then defines the "I" in Descartes' "I think, therefore I am"?  There are many who would support keeping painful recollections intact (rather than erasing them or making them falsely palatable) because there is value in what we learn through suffering.  Like many things, I sense this boils down to personal choice - just as some people opt for cosmetic surgery while others prefer to tell their story through the cumulative lines on their faces.

Autumn in the back woods, seen from our East Coast kitchen.
This is a new kind of view for us.

Memories are beautiful and necessary.  But the moment memories overtake active living, well, perhaps it's time to make new ones.  I admire artists - in any field - who break away from their successes in order to explore something different.  Beethoven, after criticism of his Wellington Symphony, charged back, "What I sh*t is better than anything you have ever thought." This was supported recently by two scholars. They put forward a novel view that Beethoven's creative development through the Wellington eventually led to some of the genius of the Ninth Symphony.

Change is rejuvenating, as our move from the West to the East Coast has been.  Last month's VelocityDC Dance Festival showcased the trajectory of dance from deep roots in classical ballet, modern dance, folk, Lindy hop, street dance and (human) percussion.  It was difficult to categorize what types of dance these energetic hybrids were.  Whatever they were, they were amazing!  Art forms would be dead if new creations weren't continually spawned from it.  Though one might love original stagings, we gain novel pleasure and enhanced insight from viewing a modern re-cast of a Shakespeare play or a Verdi opera.  Or take it further.  We've seen gifted writers fuse disparate genres into their own forms for which literary boxes haven't been constructed yet.

As I've participated in events in the DC metro area, I've noted an evolving engagement of young men & women in the cultural arts compared to what I remember from youth.  This milky (haired) canvas is now blended with espresso, russet and gold - perhaps a few blues, greens and purples too, but DC is still more conservative than London or New York.  Seasoned generations carry charm, grace and sprightliness.  And who else can we ply with questions about the past?  But the presence of the next generation adds the unexpected into the mix.  This constant swirl seems so vital in painting our future especially as our own color fades into milk.

So my musings end in colors of the past and colors of the future ... and as the paint swirls vanish, the Rorschach image I began with sharpens back into focus, saturated with autumn colors.

What do you see?

**********

I hadn't intended to write an essay here.  In fact, this was meant to be a brief photo sharing that glorious fall day by the water with its glassy reflection.  But, just as Miss Bates could not be constrained to saying only three dull things to Emma, I have my difficulties keeping a page blank!  I hope you are all having a lovely autumn.  

THE ART BARN

It might seem like cyber-hibernation.  But it hasn't been.  Mea culpa.  It's been a bee's life, not a bear's.

And so, it was a delight to slow down today during a visit to an artist's studio in the mountains.  If the drive through redwoods wasn't meditative enough, the mountain perch of the barn-studio was enough to soothe our souls …  except that the artwork was charged with contemporary energy!  So we happily swapped serenity for stimulation.

Our warm and gracious host was the prolific Bay Area artist, Sal Pecoraro.  A student of Richard Diebenkorn's in the 1950s, he made his own name with innovative public and private commissions all over the Bay.   When he showed us photographs of his works, we were all surprised by how often we'd seen them around.

Here he is with one of his Sky paintings,  a series he painted in the 1970s.  In the spirit of the Contemporary, we took a few selfies in front of it too, pretending to be outdoors.

Sal's site specific sculptures are house-sized versions of this piece on his table top.  He combines the geometric with the organic effortlessly in this Archaeo-Tectonic series from the '90s.

We took a short walk to the barn, where Arabian horses from its pre-studio days had chewed off the stable walls in boredom.  (I never knew that tidbit about horses, but the phrase "chomping at the bit" now makes sense.)  Many of Sal's vertical sculptures line the path.

The white stone/marble sculptures below reach out to me in an anthropomorphic way.  I almost want to pat them on the head, if you can call those heads.  (And I love the crumbling machinery, possibly still quite functional, all over the barn!)

You can sense the scale of his indoor pieces here versus the outdoor ones.   That one right outside the barn is small compared to his other sculptures in public and corporate buildings.

So, you all thought Angelina Jolie had the most famous lips?  For art students in Italy, David's (the one by Michelangelo) are more familiar!  That cast, apparently, is sold everywhere.  "Lips" is Sal's humorous take on it, down to painting it over in Van Gogh brush strokes.  I suppose David's ear would have been even funnier.

The stacks of art on the the barn floor reminded me of my friend's house.  Virginia, my dear friend (whom I now wonder might have been in the same Berkeley/Oakland art circles as Sal), still has her gallery full of art in every space conceivable, including floor stacks like this.  The thrill of the treasure hunt resurfaces every time we carefully riffle through the layers.  In Sal's stacks, you can see the diversity of inspirations that result in a piece of art - from holy icons to mundane keys.

But my favorite treasure-hunting thrill whenever I visit an artist's studio is the one of discovering forgotten corners.

Like stumbling on this Lilliputian collection of vintage vehicles, nearly swept under the rugs.

Or noticing the wall of pigments from years of wiping off the paintbrush.

And what about the views sprung by chance (or were they carefully orchestrated?).

And finally, there are the human touches of domesticity, like Sal's love of succulents and cacti, that frame our understanding of the artist beyond his works.

But clearly, this artist is most in his element when surrounded by his works and people who appreciate them.  We were enthralled by all his stories and life's wisdom, and many young artists in our group left inspired.

Our heartfelt thanks to Sal and his lovely wife for opening their home, studio and art to us!

This post is in memory of a friend in Art, who lost a brief but fierce battle with cancer today.  She had arranged this gathering at Sal's studio, fully expecting to be with us.  Alas, she could not, but her spirit and warmth were strongly present.  None of us expected it would be her last day.  When I heard, all I could think of was "out, out, brief candle."  I was blessed to have felt her warmth and light for the few years I came close to her flame.

LIQUID MEMORY

Are your happy thoughts awash in water as mine seem to be?

Family, work, and the Arts seem to ebb and flow in my life, each surging in turn.  But once in a while, they come together in a joyful splash.

Just this weekend, visiting nieces from Denver drew us to the coast, underscoring natural differences between the Rockies and the Bay Area.  I love the mountains -- but what about the afternoon sun on the waves?  Sparkling water makes children of us all!

Happiness on the beach
Natural Bridges, Santa Cruz
From this weekend

Last weekend, we caught the last day of the exhibit, "Impressionists on the Water," at the Legion of Honor.  Just as my memories are flecked with dappled sunlight on water, so were the Impressionists' scenes from the banks of the Seine.  Sails pierced the nautical blues of San Francisco Bay  -- right outside the Museum -- and Monterey Bay, as if in accidental salute.  (The gods of Serendipity must be enjoying this since I am also immersed in an art history project stressing the Impressionists.)

Sailboats out on Monterey Bay this weekend
in synch with the Impressionist sailing scenes

The seafaring displays swept me back to my summer holidays, when my sister, cousins and I navigated coral reefs and turquoise seas.

Our rustic outrigger heading out

for snorkeling adventures

Languid mornings over mangoes and coffee frequently gave way to the excitement of planning the day's excursions.

Breakfast seascape

Snorkeling or scuba diving?  1, 2 or 3 coral reefs?  I want to see spectacular marine life!  I want to be Jacques Cousteau!

We hopped on to smaller, yellow canoes -- mid-sea! -- from our larger outrigger
in order to navigate shallow coral reefs

In fact, we spent so much time submerged, swaying in the hammock appeared way too airborne.

The unused hammock on the shore

So many activities, so many islands, so much water.  But wait a moment.  Nostalgia and water now swirl in an eddy of memories ...

Puddles of childhood in tropical rain ... afternoon torrents paired with naps ... typhoons teamed with a book in a nook ...

Afternoon rain in my childhood home,
from the dining room window

Even music and movement are claimed by the vortex.   Flickering lights in raindrop tempo ... rooftop staccato plip-plop-plop... fluid ballet steps swell to the deluge ...  tap-tap dancing to thunder claps ...

Oh my.  J.K. Rowling was on to something when she conceived her Pensieve.  Wizards and we can be gripped by an uncontrollable flow of thoughts and memories.

Some might prefer drifting with Proust's remembrances rather than Potter's.  Either way, when the current takes us, we are lost in time, shipwrecked in recollections.

Late afternoon mooring
after a day spent in the water

Eventually, the whorls and ripples diminish.  We moor our memories and seek stable shores.  And once more, we are left to reflect, safely, on dancing drops of sunlight.

What are your radiant reflections attached to?

DALI'S MUSTACHE

Mustache makeover, anyone?

Dali lathed his in wax. Groucho Marx' matched his brows.  Chaplin was fine with half.

What a menu ...  I think I'll try Dali's.

Tiered tulle skirt: charity shop treasure haul!

Whoops.  I guess not.  Even the book is laughing at me!

It's easy to adopt Surrealist habits when one spends a lot of time with them.  Or even if not.  This gem of an art book - a collaboration between Salvador Dalí and LIFE photographer, Philippe Halsman - takes only 10 minutes of your life and adds back more.  Life Surreal is hilarious.  

In case you're wondering why Dalí popped up here, I was in a meeting when colleagues noted I was dressed like Audrey Hepburn, ponytail and all (which you see here).  "Dali's Mustache" was published in 1954, around the height of Hepburn's popularity.  Dalí and his mustache were celebrities as well.  Alright, it makes no sense but perhaps that is Dalî's paranoiac critical method at work.

I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE ...

... the Capital's crown

The US Capitol Dome
sandwiched by gritty overpasses

...  starlight in a capsule

Leo Villareal's "Multiverse"
moving light sculpture at the
Concourse tunnel, National Gallery of Art

...  a sky aquarium

Alexander Calder's mobile, "Untitled",
in the National Gallery of Art's East Building Atrium

... shapes nestled in shapes

Ellsworth Kelly's colored paper images
leading to more Alexander Calder works
at the National Gallery of Art

... a rainbow menagerie 

Alexander Calder rooms in the
National Gallery of Art

... YELLOW! and red

Clyfford Still canvas
National Gallery of Art

... yellow and red underground

Washington, DC's futuristic Metro stations

... brown, baby ducks above ground

Mama and baby ducks by the
Reflecting Pool in Washington Mall

... a gated community with a view

The ducks' perspective of
the Washington Monument

... a monumental task

Scaffolding on the Washington Monument
for earthquake repairs

... and most importantly, monumental acts.

The Lincoln Memorial,
my favorite for its profound significance.
The Gettysburg Address is inscribed along the walls.

These photos were way overdue from my Washington, DC trip.  But since when did I care about chronology in this blog?

Wishing you all wonderful summers.

I'VE GOT THE BLUES

Cobalt.

Element number 27.  Symbol Co.  Derived from the ancient miners' nickname:  kobold, or "goblin ore."

Goblin ore?  Apparently, the sub-terranean Germans encountered noxious gases while smelting the cobalt.  Blame the pixies.

Summer necessities: iced lemonade and cold cantaloupe
I just noticed the moth-like reflection of the striped canopy
on the cobalt dishes.

I am tempted to digress down the etymological path of Germanic sprites, but, better get back on point.  The point being that cobalt blue is the perfect foil for summer.

Cobalt has been our table jewelry for years.  (Someone assure me that advances in metallurgy have done away with the toxic fumes.)  They are regal at Christmastime and refreshing at summertime.   This jumble of cobalt is part of a recent treasure hoard from a neighbor's estate sale.  We carted off the plates and glasses for a few dollars.  As surprising as goblin ore, eh?  So now, this is part of our summer outdoor wares.  At that price, I don't even mind if my husband breaks a few glasses.

OK, I can't seem to shake off the goblin and his kobold.  Who's to say fairies and sprites aren't involved in these summer blues?

This bright blue butterfly, though more cornflower than cobalt, came into the living room recently.  I was deep in thought, wading through art history books.  In flew this gossamer distraction which decided to sit by me.  A cousin declared afterwards that it was a "visitation."  (We must not be so different from those ancient Germans.)  If pixies wear many forms, a lepidopteran outfit must be at the top of their list for what-to-wear-today.

Polyommatinae (blue) sub-family of Lycaenidae butterflies
This one flew in, seen here on the floor near me

True to form, this mischievous imp sought to derail me from my work.  Gone were thoughts of the humanities and in came a search for species, habitat and behavior.  Fascinated, I discovered that many of these blue lycaenidae are rare in California.  Some also have a unique symbiotic relationship with ants -- protecting the cocoon in their host flower, a wildflower which happens to be in our back yard.

I don't know how this got lost in our house, but -- no kidding -- it kept trying to land on my floral pants!    Perhaps the kobold goblins lured it inside.

**************

Hope you are all having a terrific summer.  I will be gone for a month but hope to check blogs intermittently.

If you have lost your Google reader, you can continue to follow on Bloglovin.

SEE NO EVIL

Do you sometimes wonder what century you live in?

I've just been on vacation in the East Coast, and hit the ground working upon my return West.  While East in Washington, DC and Virginia, I was immersed in the Age of Enlightenment, absorbed in the modern ideals of the Founding Fathers.  But returning West, my time travel simply overshot the clock face dials.  Somehow, I'd left the Age of Reason only to be ejected into the Dark Ages.  Information is still feared in some places.

I am fortunate to be entrusted with shaping minds, young and old, in my roles within non-profit organizations here.  But once in a while, the cautious nature of institutions gets in the way of encouraging critical thought.  So I ask you, my blog sphere friends whom I know are sophisticated and independent thinkers:


Is it improper to show teenagers Michelangelo's "David", Botticelli's "Birth of Venus", Manet's "Luncheon on the Grass", and other seminal works of art, simply because their subjects are unclad?  (The underlying discussion was meant to show developments in art accompanying shifts in philosophy, politics, society, etc.)

Edouard Manet's "Le déjeuner sur l'herbe",  Musée d'Orsay
edited by The Foolish Aesthete

"Controversial" is not a typical adjective I would assign myself.  But my little effort in sharing mankind's cultural heritage, or explaining shifts in art history, was met with resistance.  It's surprising to be a radical in this corner of the world, in this day and age.  Suddenly, I have a deeper sense for what intellectuals in China or the Middle East experience.

Manet would be scratching his head to see the cause célèbre of the 1863 Salon des Refusés suffering the same notoriety today -- for much the same reasons!

Ah me, the tortuous course of human history.  Our march forward remains fraught with detours in reverse.

*****

Curious to see what you all think!  I hope you are all well and I'll be dropping by soon ...

SPRING OUT

Spring has sprung ...

...  and shadows now sprout flowers ...

De Young Sculpture Garden, San Francisco

...  and all that's left of Fall are memories of fallen apples.

As Time marches on, I seem to be dragging in the opposite direction.  I'm still in a state of forced indolence, mentally and physically.  So contrary to my usual hustling pace.  Too much triggers a relapse of symptoms.  Can you imagine having to cut back on reading, even thinking, bustling about and, saddest of all, ballet?  (I had to cede my roles for our ballet show.)  

Treetop blooms seen from our living room window

In this reduced state, I'm still fortunate to be able to enjoy the outdoors.  Even if it means I have begun to empathize with humble vegetables -- noble but immobile.  

Beyond commiserating with foliage, I've also taken a cue from the Duck Philosophy of Life:

• It's cool to chill in a shady pond 
• Just go with the flow

Ducks happily etching concentric circles
Vasona Lake, Los Gatos

The other day, I was out for a walk (my runs have been curtailed too).  I saw some ducks on the creek bank waiting for just the right moment to hop onto the current.  Then -- plop!  All strapped in, they rode the current like a water theme park ride.  They really meant it when they said go with the flow.


****

Hope you are having a marvelous springtime where ever you are!  And thank you for all the good wishes and messages of concern.

By the way, does anyone have a good way of eliminating spam messages without manually marking and deleting them?

ABSTRACT DISTRACTIONS

The Abstract.  

Mathematicians and Philosophers have long utilized it for elegant argumentation.  After all, discarding details can make ideas much clearer.

The geometry, color, lines of a crisp, winter afternoon.
The holiday bustle of  downtown
Santa Cruz is off frame.

Artists, from the time of the Modernists on, have experimented along this path too.  Reduce Art to its elements, they thought, and extract it's essence.

I was just considering a Mark Rothko today.  With luminous color fields as his subject, he sought to bring forth poetry from the canvas.  Go sit and ponder, preferably in the museum, and let me know if you see it too.

Mark Rothko at the SF MoMA
This image does not do justice to
the colors emanating from the canvas.

Not to be left out, novelists also pen thought-provoking abstract ideas, sometimes with great humor.  One of my favorite books, "Flatland," is by a Victorian mathematician/writer with a gift for social satire.  (Warning: Oncoming geek out.)  Imagine flattening Victorian society onto a two-dimensional plane -- England with no depth.  The inhabitants appear as geometric shapes associated with their status in society.  Triangles line the bottom.  Squares and greater-sided polygons rank higher.  Circles comprise the Elite, for aren't circles just regular polygons with so many sides, they've managed to smooth their kinks out.  Note, all these descriptions apply only to Men.  Women do not even get to be polygons.  They are merely line segments!  

Due to the limitations of two dimensions, identifying each member of Flatland society is done with some difficulty.  Along comes a three-dimensional Sphere - with the ability to see all their shapes.  It doesn't take much to point out how dull, blind and lacking these ridiculous Flatlanders are!  Imagine how much more enlightened a four-dimensional Being would be looking at the world.

Black, white, and red.
The tiles were an installation at the SF MoMA.
50% black, 50% white, 100% randomly laid out.

If I've gotten your head completely whirled with talk of polygons and planes, ignore me (and take an aspirin).  I'm simply distracted and abstracted.  And thinking of all those dimensions I am blind to, so far.

IT'S A WABI-SABI LIFE

Ask George Bailey.  Life doesn't always go according to plan.  In his case, nothing ever did, and he was tired of it.  It took Clarence, his Guardian Angel, Second Class, to open his eyes.  As Clarence explained,

"Strange, isn't it?  Each man's life touches so many other lives.  When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

(For those not up on Americana, this is all in reference to Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life," a sentimental, classic Christmas film.  Clarence saves George, earns his wings and gets promoted to Angel First Class. Of course, the screenplay is plumped up with scenes of compassion versus self-interest.)

A wabi sabi ceramic dish made by my Japanese friend
cradling Christmas ornaments on this grey December day.
Tomorrow it might be serving up something else.

I am reminded of my previous post, which touched on the wabi sabi concept of the Japanese.  There is much beauty in imperfection, in the little accidents of life -- even the passage of time.  We just need to see.  And that chance post on wabi sabi and impromptu gatherings drew lovely comments - on and off blog - from you friends in, shall I call it, the eCloud.  That must make you all a bunch of eAngels? (When I hear the bells, I'll know you've earned your wings.)


Ending scene from Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life"



Here's to the Christmas season, and to how we touch each other in our little virtual world, even though many of us have never met in the real one.

Nature's Timekeeper: the California holly or "Christmas berry"
They're all around the house, neighborhood, town, mountains ...
as if wishing the Bay Area a happy Christmas!
This is what I see from my window every day.
It was much fuller until the deer dined on it.

Now I wonder, what is the real world anyway? ...  Ah, I've been watching too many existentialist films, like "The Truman Show," recently.  Excellent film, by the way.  But that's another post.