love letters to ignatz

2010-06-15T07:00:00.000-05:00

Delighted to announce a new website which consolidates my art, healing for animals and a new blog.
Besitos and many thanks to Lori, Wendy, Antonio, Dale and my other readers for all your support.
Hope to see you all again at my new cyberspace place.
xox
MaryK

orca DUH

2010-02-28T12:30:00.041-05:00

Leave it to a critter to bring me out of blog semi-retirement.

Too many hours spent longing to live in a mansion overrun by wild ones
just like Elly Mae Clampett
no doubt did this to me,
but so it goes.

I don't dare walk near my semi-feral Bear-boy with so much as the tie to my robe hanging loose. No ribbon-dangling for my Boy: no sirree; he immediately goes extreme, from play to prey before i can move away. After hand-raising him from orphanhood, before he was eating solid food, i had great hopes for him becoming the kontented hauskitty of my dreams.

Dream on. Wild roots run deep and it is arrogance or lapse in judgment that denies their existence.
A trifling ignore-ance of .1% is bowing to nature for only 99.9; not enuf in Coconino County where animals rule, or anywhere outside of Disneyland.

Ask any cat owner how it goes. In less than an instant, eyes turn to
saucers and ears pin back like he's facing a half-pipe booter.
Energy of the game shifts and i'm not in charge any more, and this ain't
Kansas. Fun turns to teeth sinking deep into calf muscle real fast.

Admittedly, the Bear-man is like other cats and also not. Extremely instinctual, independent and very easily bored, constantly inventing games to entertain himself. He appears, disappears and reappears as a bridge from the wild to the domesticated and back again about a hundred times a day.

In the case of Tilikum and trainer Dawn, it went in a heartbeat from life to death.
Cat = 17 pounds, whale = 12,000.
The yin and yang, totally tragic.

Watching the swooshing ponytail was extremely distracting to my amygdala,
like a kid swinging their legs as hard as they can in my classroom, as if to launch themselves backwards or even into outerspace if possible.
It made me want to reach out and grab hold.
The reptilian part of my brain doesn't know whether it wants to grab the annoyance in order to shut it down or to join the party. Now that's a frightening instinctual dilemma.

Is redemption of the death possible? Absolutely, if it turns toward the light by making us look hard at the practice of capturing for captivity. Didn't we stop that with the slave trade?

While vibrating at lower levels of consciousness back in the day, i visited Seaworld to be awestruck by the beauty and majesty of the orcas.
Disgusted as far back as i can remember by animals trained to perform tricks, the show sure felt condescending to the performers. The argument is of course, the whales are "happy and eager" to perform.

If i were confined to a series of at best, interconnecting jacuzzis (several analogies of "bathtub" have been cited; i'm giving Seaworld the benefit of the doubt) for most of my life, I sure would jump high if someone came by and threw me a bar of 70% Dagoba chocolate.

Too bad animals continue to lose.
Are purposes of "education" worth what is taken away from these highly attuned powerhouses.
Just watch a video of them really performing in their own space at sea.
The contrast of real vs. fake existence makes me embarrassed to be human.

Keeping them in tubs doesn't seem to make us understand them any better; quite the contrary, even without considering that some of what we see is no doubt aberrant behavior due to captivity.

The impatience with and frustration of not completely comprehending the fourfoots i live with were surrendered to the universe some years ago when I heard someone really brilliant say:
"They exist at a different level of consciousness than we do, that's all."
Higher or lower, no matter; those words don't include the multi-dimensionality of possibilities, anyway. Perceptual differences and energy are what art and culture are all about.

All i know is once i opened my mind to this new reality, i began to see some things as they do. I felt the alignment of all of us with each other and my own internal alignment to my self. I became aware of the gift of allowing nature's consciousness to permeate my truth, and it has been life-alteringly priceless.

Tilikum gives notice: as diverse as the sea that birthed him, he's no one trick pony.

As I write the last sentence, Bear-boy enters the room with great stealth as usual. For the first time in his life, he crosses the room to jump up on the couch and lies down next to me. We are 1/2 inch apart. He maintains stillness, staying for several minutes; a new world's record. Then he jumps down, runs off like a flash to flee to freedom through his cat door, as if it were all a ruse.

For me, it is a miracle to witness the wildness subside even temporarily, and to watch as he slides back into his bigger world of rhythm and instinct as quickly as he chose contact with mine.

Thanks, boy. Duh.

away

2010-01-24T19:26:00.009-05:00

with waning blogging energy,
i have reached the inevitable and
painful crossroads
of taking an indefinite hiatus from
love letters to ignatz.

i am so grateful to those who have
followed my writing and pics for
the past 4 years under 2 consecutive
blog sites.

with no definite return date in sight,
i leave with a link to the latest show i am in,
The Sketchbook Project.
organized by Art House Co-op out of Atlanta,
soon to be located in Brooklyn, it is a huge undertaking,
with 3,000+ artists from all over the place participating.

this exhibit features sketchbooks which are checked out, library-style,
to provide a tactile and personal experience for the viewer.
the topic “How to Save the World” was randomly assigned me,
then i had to work like mad to fill a Moleskine sketchbook
in the approx 3 1/2 weeks i had to complete it
by the time i found out about the show, entered, and paced at the mailbox daily
for the blank book to arrive.

the eventual goal of the project is to house the sketchbooks in a permanent collection library
in Brooklyn in 2010. the show opens in Atlanta and travels to Brooklyn, Los Angeles, Saint Louis and Chicago.

a little gallery of images from my sketchbook submission are posted
online, as well as a portfolio of about 60 of my works.

blessings to you all. and to all the chupacabras, seers, visionaries, imaginers and dreammakers out there,
i know you're real.

blues

2009-12-27T20:41:00.004-05:00

thanks to Iryna on etsy for including my moon in man painting in her gorgeous blue treasury; it will be active till late on Tuesday, the 29th.
merci!

happy

2009-12-26T10:32:00.005-05:00

happy holidays

11 11 + 2009 = 11

2009-11-11T18:14:00.003-05:00

salem:
perhaps best put by a thoughtful visitor
2 'weens ago.
"Touristy, tacky, sophisticated, historic, beautiful, shabby quaint."

'nuf said,
ditto for me.
but being there
in the afterthroes of the ween,
on Nov 1st which happens to be
mi cumpleaños
was still a thrill.

despite the
colorful real witches,
little costumed
dogs in the streets,
and flores at
the witch memorial,

Día de Muertos
'twas not.
unfair to
compare:
undoubtedly.

repelled
as if by unseen
force at the entrance
to the psychic fair
in the downtown mall,
i couldn't book a reading
if my life depended on it.
the rank air of
commercialism had
curdled all enthusiasm.

so i began a meander,
taking
wrongturns
feeling lost
until i found
the perfect sinner's
café selling slices of
7-layer chocolate cake so
decadent,
it took 3 days to eat.

the majikal scent
of torte must
have reawakened
canid instinct
b/c i made a beeline
to the burying place w/out knowing how.

feeling at home
finally
seeing the tacky blue
flashing neon
ferris-type-wheel
foiling graves
in grim foreground
to its
frivolity
with no apology

particularly given
the puritanical bent of the 'yard,
i wished hard
these stones could
pulse warmth
on this cold cold day
spared for a moment
from majorculture
judgment.

blessed bea.

life in the moment

2009-10-27T16:54:00.014-05:00

shout it out

2009-10-05T19:37:00.038-05:00

when things began to darken,
sudden recall of the invisible army standing in support did wonders
to bring the light back,
just like this double rainbow perfectly bridging the pond which my two adjunct rainbows walked beside.

in the midst of fantasy 1,023: "Surrounded by the Buffalo Stampede" my attention was drawn upward, to the real 180 deal.

a man partially shrouded by his hoodie passed so i asked maybe a bit too energetically, "Did you see it?" He kept saying "Yeah, it's ridiculous" and walked away shaking his head.

a woman ran along the upper path some time later.
i had moved below, transfixed like it was summer and i was watching the great Karl and the other Flying Walendas on the trapeze at The Enchanted Forest again.
another inspiring, gravity-defying act that would be over soon too.
the suspense was killing me.

opening my mouth to shout "Look!" at the lady, the emerging sound came to a sudden halt. faint white lines snaking from her T-shirt up to her ears became clear.

when rainbows leave, where do they go?

its spirit was palpable long after the demise.
in the final moments, most of the arc gone, a sharp blade of spectrum thrust behind trees focused on their own passage remained.

the wooden tomahawk bought with saved allowance take away 45 years (or was it a few Sundays ago) at the Indian Village of the New York State Fair, in the booth next to the dancers' Turtle Mound, sits on top of books piled on the dresser.
always keep it close during sleep.

two blades: in shiatsu "setsu-shin", the cutting through of hands like knives to essence.

one life: same play; another act bridges back to the starting line. curtain rises
curtain falls. tomorrow we open again after taking it on the road.
it's been a hell of a run.

with shout-outs of gratitude today and über-saturated bouquets to members of my
invisible army; make that tribe.

among the many, to:

Denise for rescuing American Eskimo Dogs and for bringing the effervescent Mahriah to me and Bea.

and to Lori and Antonio, devoted followers of my blog...thank you both!!!

Check out one of Antonio's paintings, the wood series is among my faves:

all the connections
simply gorgeous.

healing touch

2009-09-15T16:04:00.020-05:00

Back from Philadelphia, and into the whirlwind of an elementary school art room, yowza...
and most happy to have completed Level I training in Healing Touch for Animals as a result of the jaunt.

Blessings and gratitude to Carol Komitor, founder of HTA and my initial teacher; to Mary Beth, workshop coordinator par excellence and HTA practitioner; and to Kim, horsewoman with a way with equines without compare. Also to Carol, Dave, Eric, Taline, Sniffer and Sparkle for babysitting Bea for a couple of overnights and putting up with her "i can beat up my dog bed and i ain't even in the circus, yet, antics" and to Aunt Teresa/Aunt Tree, madcap cartoonist and songstress, who cared for the effervescent at times katz.

The result of HTA experiences, which include the small animal component completed last spring, has been among many things a deepening of relationship to the four-leggeds with whom i co-habitate. It has taken months to even mention it; its force has taken me beyond words.

warp speed ahead...... the show must go on
back in the art room, in full fall splendor and bloom with an energetic kick-off: game on.
As we closed last year, we were told to "take anything personal" off the premises, due to massive remodeling of the building over the summer.

(Imagining) i was fleeing (diva deportation fantasy #316) and could take only a few important pictures from the hundreds (actually probably way more than that) of visuals stored in my files,
herewith the collection i grabbed the last day, fearing destruction of them all otherwise:

Funny, what you touch
and vice versa.

color suite

2009-08-28T07:52:00.017-05:00

like standing in front of the candy counter
while my neighborhood gang(sters) robbed
the owner blind of pixie stix
as i paid for mine,
just can't get enough of
that sweet color.

Photoshop i have,
i never get to it b/c
iPhoto is enough to
fry my circuits. i can
play for hours like this
even w/o my pixie stix.

and sometimes,
the real thing is
just enough.

gotta have it....burning man

2009-08-23T12:13:00.014-05:00

The vicarious view from here is admittedly comfortable, albeit humid and stormy in the Northeast.

It's not just me; seems everyone wants in on the act: even etsy is running a Burning Man Packing List featuring essential fashion and gear and most, well some, of this stuff is to die for, inspiring me to mark many more "favorites".
Trouble is, most of it is either for the 'man, clubs, or major faerie festivals, not quite apropos for the public school classroom. *sigh*

No matter; i'll figure a way to work it into the wardrobe...no one will notice.
Feast your eyes on the goodies, and by the way, one of my faves and previously mentioned, Lana Guerra, is part of the etsy spread. She has published her work recently in a book of this fruity-licious fashion. ya gotta love the spirit; raise it!

hanging

2009-08-17T16:00:00.002-05:00

the glories of summer,
hanging,
creating,
refilling water buckets for
the furkids 22 times a day;
they like it cold.

it all drove me to make
poetic hangers,
a working girl's answer to
magnetic poetry, for which
you need time.

everytime you move your clothes,
you compose.
voilá.

sea-deep dusk
night snow

sea
deep dusk night
snow

(Click the pic to see this one on etsy.)

pearl bird
moon blue
traveler

pearl
bird
moon blue traveler

making marks

2009-08-10T12:08:00.013-05:00

"Dear Dan,
I'm not sure if
you know me
but I love you."

Like lines of Nazca, marks continued to appear overnight
on a U. Albany campus walkway, next to the newly dredged
pond teeming with wildlife.

Recently spotted: calculus equations, love&hate notes
between couples, wannabe couples and messages by shy yet
obviously continental types partial to making their marks in
German.

Could this mark the beginnings of a new texting technology,
virtually free, save the cost of chalk?
One hitch: involuntary deletion due to: acts of nature,
scuffling pedestrians and golfcarts encircling Giants camp
like covered wagons containing natives.

After an initial abundance, there is suddenly a dearth of words
on the path. Maybe the markers will return again soon.
I've learned to stop and look long at these embellishments on the
way to the water each day, just to feel
the weight they carry.

OMG OMO

2009-08-07T08:14:00.003-05:00

i thought i'd died and gone to heaven on earth after watching
this vid, sent to me by Dale.

it's all about the dogs

2009-08-02T09:00:00.003-05:00

after attending a canine adoption clinic yesterday with my friend Sheila,
i returned begging the question again,
"what is it about a dog?"

the more time i spend with these guys, after spending a life doing so, the less i know. some day no doubt the answer will be found in some DNA-resonant-crossover-chemically-based-genome-vibrational-distant-cousin-to-a-neuron-recombinant-bark-cell.
but even then, based in another body, i won't buy it.
when you go eyeball to eyeball, even from a distance an opening occurs that is
transcendent, ineffable.

rusty, american foxhound mix, standing elegantly still on the curb as if awaiting the lord of the mansion's next command, has been eyeballing me as i rush by, i suddenly realize. and so i glance back, there is gentleness in those eyes but i am afraid to look too long. "prey drive" are the words occupying my mind, with two cats at home. rusty, more trusting than i; maybe the drive was mixed out of him.

flashback to The Visit to a hybrid wolf farm long ago in Pennsylvania, its founder and operator since departed. The Visit is an Experience never forgotten and always immediately accessible to me like it was yesterday. no eyeball to eyeballs there; you imagine they must at least glance at you as you turn away from the raised pens and walk to see the next, but you will never know. primate that you are, it is unfathomable that no eye contact is essential.

the suspended meat hooks as you make the long drive from the gate through the multiply-fenced property up to the fenced compound should give a clue as to the serious nature of the creatures within. but it still doesn't totally hit till you are standing a few feet apart from a wolf behind bars. there are many, and they are all pacing.

my friend Mindy is a foster mom at the time to hybrid pups bred here. flash forward to sitting in Mindy's farmhouse, watching her feed an armful of voracious part-wolf pups. they are furballs: adorable, feisty, tumbling over each other to be first. i want to take one or all with me. but what if someday they begin to shrink from a glance, pull back into true nature, go the way of the wildest part of themselves.

primate that i am,
i pass on living
with a predator
for the time.

bee's knees

2009-07-31T09:06:00.016-05:00

to think that one slim year ago,
Bea the boxer referee
couldn't run, had major trouble walking.
check out her knees and mood now,
on one recent rare sunshiny day
in the recently unflooded back yard.

who's to credit for Bea's new right
knee?
Dr. Faulkner Besancon of Upstate Veterinary Specialties
in Latham NY, who performed TPLO surgery on the little
bea. He and the wonderful staff there, simply rock.

Bea is a living miracle, she proves to me again and again
the essence of life is to never give up and to love through the most difficult
times.

Dr. Melanie Mineo, opthamologist par excellence at the same locale, also rocks for saving Bea's eyesight just over a year ago.

Who makes repeated saves: cuts out tumors, heals Lyme, brings my cat back from the threshold and obliterates cat scratch fever from both my felines and not the kind on your iPod....
well, that's Dr. Laurie Coger of Bloomingrove Veterinary Hospital, who also writes an awesome blog, Pets and Vets.

These doctors are real people and yet they are blessed healers.
All three are the bees knees to me.

real life sans botox

same bee, different flower
he simply won't leave the stage

hail mary hail

2009-07-18T09:30:00.007-05:00

holy hailstones, batgirl!
herewith the storm of the week,
grand prizewinner
of several top contenders, as viewed
from the humility of the back yard

Amen.

transparent

2009-07-16T10:26:00.029-05:00

Strength of legacy depends
on degree of transparency
in truth.
-quote found in my journal
attributed to mk weeks

which leads right to the recycle of an upcycle,
last seen popped over the edge of the LaFuma in the back yard.

which begs the question: "Is it okay to play dress-up with a lawn chair?"

which reminds of continued thanks to Terry Rusinow for the introduction to the chair at her wonderful Everett Street Guesthouse in Portland.
(to peruse more trip images, click here for two previous photo-rich entries: portland and portland dos.....ah, the memories.)

herewith the long-lost twin, posing on the left in front of Everett Street's new jewel of a guest cottage:

a little plainer than her sister, she is J Crew to
the little Betsey Johnson who began this entry.

i wonder if la Betsey ever dons a polo
and visits the Crew icognita...
nahhhhh!!! ¡imposible!
the thought of it begins to
turn my stomach. let's move on,

it all becomes clear..... have been working with substantial transparency
lately, including a series of macro-shot pieces called Trans.

Enjoy the view through.

Trans II

Trans I

Trans V

backyard

2009-07-14T16:31:00.024-05:00

Four corners

frame heaven for

über-zealous zinnias

headed para sol

while other ascensions

like no such thing as too much blue

viewed from behind the sezme door

aclimatically enshrined

budgies caged in open space

with no floor

or the bottom of a dress

seem content.

in absentia

2009-07-05T17:47:00.027-05:00

away away
hadn't planned
such a vaca,
but stuff kept happening
(like Bea manifesting Lyme and
then me)
and i just couldn't get
myself to sit and write.
wow,
that did not feel good after
consistent blogging, between here and
@ .mac for four years

but never fear,
i am back.

newbie works include...

more numbers, like "Seis"; just can't get away from the counting of it all.

these are tempera paintings done in front of 20+ kids, begun as demonstrations.
i apparently write down what i am saying (how odd, i have no recall of this habit) like, "make purple" in answer to a kid's question. bring them home (not the kids!) and enhance them. voilá, it's as good as it gets b'tween September-June.

the bird thing, just won't leave the nest either.
this is "Wonder of Birds" inspired by the song by The Innocence Mission.

This painting is currently available at my gallery shop, AtelierMaryK on Etsy.

hope you've been eggsellent.

how it moves

2009-05-10T08:25:00.000-05:00

from my mother
it begins,

to Fulton Street Gallery
in a town called Troy

where the Celestial Child

rooted by the ancestors

of the Tree of Miracles

sustains me

how it all begins

2009-05-05T04:49:00.017-05:00

morning breaks
walking with Bea

if it weren't for her
i would only see half
of what i do,
she is my eyes

my mother was an egg artist

i was surrounded in fantasy
like chicks steering boats
in trees

how it begins
the drive to
create rises
up

from a trickle
we thrust to the
sea

spring bursts

with no thought

simply divine

2009-04-27T05:03:00.010-05:00

Holy April,
many thanks to Asante George of Divine Revolution Magazine
for featuring several of my works and many mentions of my online gallery, Atelier Maryk at Etsy, in its new Spring edition.
It is an honor to accompany the beautiful written works by talented and enlightened wordsmiths as well.

So many miracles brings Spring.

Namaste.

coming 'round again

2009-04-06T16:08:00.016-05:00

okay, two more things for spring
and then i'm done...

the kids in my room believe
the blossoms say:
"Don't even THINK about being mean to a flower!"
and, they mean it!

and simply, simon

ode to suspense

2009-04-05T16:50:00.011-05:00

ah Sprrrring in the great Northeast...
after driving through snow, fog and freezing rain
yesterday to get to a performance at MassMOCA,
i return to these visual reminders that
the suspense will soon be over and
it will arrive.
it will arrive.

circle game

2009-03-21T15:44:00.019-05:00

Everything the Power of the World does is done in a circle... so it is in everything where power moves. -Black Elk

the above paintings were created by first graders.
(purest painters on the planet)

circle painting, try it.
it's a global art movement, it's fun and it's cool.
conceived, birthed, shared and spread by Hiep Nguyen (Nguyen Cao Hiep).
it's contagious.
check out the website, especially
the "Photos" gallery.
my students love it.
especially the fact that you're only
allowed to say, "wow" while you paint.
very meditative for the one teaching.

spring frocks

2009-03-15T20:37:00.029-05:00

Fashion week NYC may be over,
but i adore the fashion i find
almost every day on Etsy.
it's loaded with innovative
designers from all corners of the
country and the entire planet.
here, just a few ideas to get
your sap flowing:

a heavenly number called, appropriately, "A Dream Lighter Than a Cloud" ; the frock artist identifies her location as "never land".

for the goth in all of us, it's
gotta be J-alvo's take on a sun (moon?) dress. it makes me wanna howl.

for quick trips to the grocery,
or a spin around the block on your stingray,
bundle up, courtesy dark fusion boutique

with it, wear this Giddy Up Girl necklace by miss ruby sue;
ya gotta have pink tulle and neon violet pom-poms around
your neck this year, DON'T YOU READ VOGUE?

balance is essential to reach your fashion potential, so add some frilliness from AmoursansAnguish

this elven little number, also from AmoursansAnguish would make maypoling ever so much more festive than usual

Why am i sighing so
wistfully over these
early spring signs
of style as if they
were robins?

Seen in Albany NY this week:

okay two more self-ports

2009-03-03T05:20:00.026-05:00

and then i'm done.
no more on-line dating whining,
promise.
no más.

two more portraits for the road,
for my imagined True & Real profile:

o the drama of it all,
oops i've fainted again.
and...

be afraid, be very afraid.

no, i don't have furry arms,
even partially.
that's a 3/4-length sleeve Nine West czarina coat bought new at the Goodwill.
kindly focus upon Skull Girl and not the iguana skin courtesy, the
great Northeast.
Thanks to Lemon Drop and the other San Diego Derby Dolls

(There's Lemon on the right.)
for stocking me with
infinite stick-on tats of their dangerous logo,
cuz Danger's
my middle name.

new works

2009-02-22T10:39:00.015-05:00

hot off the new Etsy listings press,
in the midst of snow falling out my window,
here are some new paintings to enjoy.

now the rest of the story...eHarmony

2009-02-20T09:37:00.003-05:00

dear martin, chuck, william, robert, jonathan, thomas, james, david, gary, john, john and john,
it wasn't about you,
honest.

it was i.
as i alluded (okay, stated outright) in a past entry,
some of us are just too delicate
for the cyber scene.

it began with those valentine's weekend
ads (aimed at desperate folk, not i); they sucked me in.
despite having read opinions, forums,
etc, etc, which cursed the whole gig,
and having
started and stopped creating my "profile" (sounds so criminal)
months ago,
i succumbed.

within two days
i was sent about three
dozen matches.
most every one of them sounded like a nice guy
who described themselves as "RATIONAL".

now, did i lie on the 2 million question survey i had to answer to get on this service?
did my doppelganger overtake my amygdala and wipe out any trace of my true homicidal tendencies?

"RATIONAL" is not even in my supplemental vocabulary
and certainly not part of my surface psyche.

i only recall lying consciously ONCE on the interminable questonnaire.
now i forget the lie.
oh, yeah....and an alias, so what,
everyone lies in cyberspace.

btw, this blog is unadulterated nonfiction,
i am so proud this is the one place
i don't lie and feel as though i actually
am in my body 100%.

my virtual journey: pure purgatory.
when i received some "icebreaker" communiques
i froze like a gazelle
in the headlights.

didn't know the rules;
they appeared overbearingly linear
and too RATIONAL for me
to fathom.
didn't have the foggiest
notion what to click or
how to smash ice back.

so i kept running away
from my inbox.

repeatedly i said:
"i gotta get out"
instead of my customary
iamthelotusblossom mantra,
but like the family business or Satan,
they kept pulling me back in.

until the straw
that broke it all.

monday a.m.:
around 10:00 EST
i find more matches have been sent
that morning around 3:00 EST.

addicted to click,
i did and
recoiled
in horror:

CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED

six of the new guys
had ended our
relationship
before it ever
began.

the shame.
the rejection,

the urge to voodoo
whoever was responsible
for the empty promise of love
without membership fees
made forty time a day
the preceding week on channel 10.

looking back,
i can say it was not
a total loss.
i learned some things:

1) i am a name-bigot: exotic-with-questionable-phonetics first names sans photos gave me great cause for pause, despite my own numerous exotic aliases used over a lifetime of faux-incognito existence. (and i, a foreign language major, the shame....)

2) a "love of nature" in a man on a dating site does not always mean "i don't care if you sleep with your dog, that's just great." the men i was sent mainly kept hunting dogs somewhere on the property. and (sorry to be so tautological {feb 19})
guns.

3) unlike my chloe, who appeared magically on the monitor one morning as soon as i clicked on "senior cats" at the local shelter, it might not be so slick and simple this time. she came home to stay right away. (i knew she was The One in a heartbeat, you could see it in the pixels of her eyes. we are feline or is that felonious soulmates.)

4) stick with smaller, cheaper, less rational sites that appear to attract your own peeps: making pet play dates and discussing the virtues of the new open acrylic line might be more up my alley.
then again, maybe that will prove too much for me as well, but it's a good thought for others.

5) post the real you. as i said to friend/big brother/mentor/guy with a lot of roles for a lot of people, Dale,
i'm not couching it anymore; going to show the real deal: bumps, style missteps and all. in his wisdom, he suggested to just direct prospects to this blog - cut to the chase.
so here i am, guys:

A dissident Chinese blogger stabbed

2009-02-19T09:21:00.003-05:00

A dissident Chinese blogger stabbed

Posted using ShareThis

thanks

2009-02-17T09:30:00.017-05:00

i am so grateful to my subscribers,
and get so excited when a new person
signs up,
i have just added a "follow this blog"
section, please
add your pic,
if of course you so desire.

am on school vaca this week,
it is so liberating to wake up
when my body,
bea, chloee or bear-boy
decides it's time.

would like to write more today,
but was just traumatized by eHarmony.
more on that later, promise. just can't keep that one in
but recovery is desperately
needed...i have broken out
in a cold shaky sweat from it.

antidote: more of my famous
brown-rice-flour-agave-nectar-
organic-peanut-butter cookies
(okay, with huge chunks of ghirardelli
dark melted in).
damn, that'll just make me
cry, i thought i had just found
the perfect gluten-free guy.

moral of the story:
some psyches are just too delicate
for scientific and/or
digital attraction.
hmmmm, see three entries ago
for more....
what was i thinkin.

will instead
return to my fave
read of the break,
Wacky Chicks by the one
and only Simon Doonan.
it's so damn affirming.

THANK YOU for all your support
!!!
xoxoxoxoxox
MaryK

THANK YOU!!!

la marr

2009-02-15T17:48:00.009-05:00

The actress slumbers next to my bed. Safe inside a makeup case no doubt once carried on a train by an elegant traveler. The scent of the open luggage puts me on the express track back somewhere, buried in the archives of mind.

After attempts to scrub its surface, remove the age spots, i have given up. The photo in the battered frame with no glass likewise has seen it all or at least, much. Hedy breaking down with age glances over her shoulder with the inimitable come-hither gaze. She is my guardian angel, la Magdalena, mi virgen de Guadalupe, Her Majesty of the Boudoir.

Don't know how she got there, in the case. Apparently showed up one day for the job and stayed. Hedy looks, how i feel. The inner actress walks out on stage with no understudy into a new scene which dawns each day while
Hedy stays home.

Improv is so unsafe till you hear that sound
so you stand applauded and take the bow.
You go home and tell her how it was and
she gives you the look.

how lucky

2009-02-14T07:36:00.010-05:00

wow, how lucky can a girl get, inclusion in not just ONE but also a SECOND Treasury on V Day.

fine-art artists on Etsy are charged up and advocating for each other;
these treasuries will expire within a couple of brief days.

like exotica, they bloom ecstatically and then are gone,
please give them a view.

on shortcutting soul

2009-01-31T19:16:00.006-05:00

Masterpiece

Foreshortening

Detail

Vandals

Witnesses

Sometimes at the end of the day, i admit stumbling into the local Price Chopper and purchasing the plastic box labeled "Sweet Cornbread," in desperation to chomp into something other than the pen gritted between my teeth during the last meeting.
You can eat a lot of "Sweet Cornbread" b/c it's: sweet, greasy and kind of tasty. But if the machine that mixed the batter missed some spots, you experience the merciless bite of baking soda.
Even worse, some batches have random kernels inside, which are usually clustered all in one spot in the pan. Faulty composition.

But hey, i can throw paint on a wall willy-nilly too.

Which brings me to recent email from friend Dale, in which he writes about doppelgangers...the split, the reality, maybe the sincerity, the struggle (that's my interpretation of what he said, anyway) of creating digital vs. "real" art. He's feeling the pressure of bumped-up dates of gallery shows, for which new "real-deal" work is needed, and he's been playing on his mac.
Will the real artist please stand up?

Pillow Talk

Resist and Relax

He's not alone: perhaps it's the guilt for being able to make images so fast, so fun, so software. Forget the ever-popular "it's just another tool" mantra: it is, and it isn't.
It ain't a paintbrush nor a pastel (even though it can feign smudging like one) and the hand sure is not involved in the same way, and the body doesn't feel engaged like it does after you've "really" created.

And besides, we of a certain, "experience level" on this planet were trained in the opposite direction and belief system.
It fries your circuits to think it and by intimate association you, could be deemed wrong. or obsolete.

Flesh and blood creators are scandalous, irreverent, just as the organic-brown-rice-flour-blue-cornbread thieves were above. Computers are not.

Suddenly a machine to intervene; there's something spookily 3rd-person about it in a way printing presses are not.
My guess is that vibratory properties of the work shift, the more electrical connection occurs at creation. And therefore the different feel, feeling, resonance of the work compared to standing in the presence of thick paint on canvas.

A voyeur who didn't go to art school and has no ability to actually finesse his/her way out of a design crisis with the miracle of creative cunning, heshe stands at the ready to make whatever changes you wish.
This apprentice needs no hand strength nor motor skills, forgive the bad joke, to erase, blot, scrape, or blend. With a seductive lack of kinesthetic effort, all is possible, fixable, reproducible and impermanent, just click.
Instant death, instant birth.
Instant karma.

Menestra

Like making crudité your sustenance, there's no heat. Unlike menestra de verduras, made a jillion ways, upon which i survived for a couple of months while studying in Spain, its ultimate alchemy based upon variation and length of heat. Old world, new world; can't we be roomies, cohabitate sans combat.

It looks beautiful

Hurry, get it done.
You shower too long.
Get the shot, Werner, for godssakes.
Can you imagine.

Who will we be when all the Cézannes are gone.

Like doing el Camino de Santiago in a golf cart,

or praying in a pew instead
of on the road,

somehow it doesn't translate.

we must remain focused

2009-01-19T05:49:00.000-05:00

"know your destiny
exert your energy and know who surrounds you...

aztec bull god

many things will attempt to block your spirit
i am looking for the ghost of a buffalo gone long ago
i was a ghost looking for a buffalo who had been killed long ago
now his horns grow from my shoulders
a wise chief once said question what you see not that you see it

we must remain focused while waiting for thunder
integrity and truth
ideas grow like a tree from his head"

make it up as you go

so begins the book we must remain focused when waiting for thunder by
jesse reno.
man, i love this work - when i opened the book, the feeling of it blasted me back to a wondrous Jean-Paul Riopelle exhibit i stumbled upon once upon a time at the Fine Arts Museum in Montréal.
The Riopelle show was overpowering: shamanic, totemic, like walking inside an energetic path of the artist's head; the way marked by symbol after symbol, witnessed by the acute physicality of the marks.

no wonder i had a flashback, considering a recent statement about the work:
"In the latest series of paintings by Jesse Reno, shamanic beings struggle to find their place in a world simultaneously on the verge of expanding and collapsing.
Totem animals and Native American figures reverberate memories of people who once lived as one with nature."

The book and many more works of art are available through the artist's website as well as through Lana Guerra's Etsy site.
Happy hunting for truth to us all and
Happy MLK Day.

more etsy, less arrogance

2009-01-13T06:04:00.025-05:00

Nay i say.

Many thanks to Valerie at mistflowerstudio

and LittleBayClay

for including my work recently in their Treasuries.

my Party Dresses

Both Treasuries were beautifully composed and unique; temporary, ephemeral like exotic flowers.
I was honored that Atelier MaryK was chosen to appear with such other soulful works of art.
How much luckier can a girl get!

What the world needs now is love, etsy-love.
Etsy = the arrogance antidote.

arrogance

2009-01-11T11:33:00.000-05:00

"Arrogance diminishes wisdom." - Arab proverb

"The etymology of 'arrogance', 'arrogantia', gives us not simply 'pride' but together with pride, a presumptuous usurpation, arrogating to itself what properly belongs to another."
- A.D. Nuttall, "The Alternative Trinity - Gnostic Heresy in Marlowe, Milton and Blake".

Here are some of my favorite Etsians who are NOT purveyors of arrogance. How do we tell?
Judging by their work, they are merely minding their own beeswax and baring their beautifully creative souls in the world. By doing so, they don't have time to claim anyone else's land or stuff.

{This all brings me back to Colorforms. Given all our differing shapes and colors, why can't we all just make beautiful pictures together?}

CrudeThings creates circus- and fashion-inspired wiggery and original couture. How could you possibly be mean-spirited or arrogant while creating (or wearing) the Cotton Candy Cobweb Coat:

and Lana's latest, Enid...

Jenn aka Stiletto Heights offers luscious collages, prints, chic cards, and even a book so you can have a collection of her work for your coffee or tea table. Herewith her
"Ghosts of Manderly II".

Harry Stooshinoff walks in nature near Lake Ontario daily to gain inspiration for his paintings. His Paintbox landscapes, such as "Blue Summer" will feather any nest with beauty.

Hope you had a great Epiphany and danced under the incredibly full moon this week.
Kuan Yin and Bear-boy sure did - see first photo.
Admitting to these things BTW is not arrogant but it is human or at least nature-all.

the unseen, revealed

2009-01-01T07:46:00.013-05:00

Happy New Year!

felices

2008-12-26T07:47:00.011-05:00

escenas de la vida
some scenes from inside my life...from my inside life...from my life, inside...Happy Holidays!

the ice man

2008-12-17T08:33:00.014-05:00

Whoa.
he has a way of slowing life waaaay down. way.

la vuelta

2008-12-11T19:21:00.006-05:00

the return
the decline and fall from ripeness of autumn.

Trees trapped by lamposts cast lines of gleaming orange paillettes over walkways.
I take the bait every time. Hungry for image, folding myself into strange public positions, I am determined to capture a perfect angle.

The ducks and geese are back on the pond. The beaver who has appeared for three seasons and is rumored to have been transported and dumped in the city-locked waters still builds and rebuilds his lodge as if for family. At dusk he skims the waters like a fat little submarine.

In silence the dark-haired boy looks up while his teacher explains this is his last art class. Wordlessly I stare into infinite pools of deepest brown while he scans my face, ever-vigilant for the slightest shift. I hear the teacher say that she and her staff just found out themselves- in two days he goes back to Oaxaca.

The boy is deaf; lip-reads Spanish. Like many Hispanic deaf children, he leaves us wondering: how much can truly be heard; which language is most comprehensible; which abstract system of word is uttered or pictured inside to make sense of the outside world.
Perhaps none... perhaps neither is needed on the inside when you have a direct line to truth of experience.

Some of the children are mute. They do not speak, but do hear.
Once upon a time a little girl and I communicated over the course of years by my talking and her eye expressions and acting. Once in a while she would whisper, barely audibly, a few phrases in the language of her family. But this was quite rare and was quickly carried away like the breeze.
One day she left as well, pulled out as if by root. The hope is that she is a sturdy bulb who will bloom again in Spring.

In my mind's eye I see the boy crossing the main plaza in Oaxaca, el zócalo, with his mamá. Scene of human gatherings and drama for over 500 years, it is said to be one of the most beautiful public spaces anywhere and ever. His father will stay here, en el norte, to work and send money back home. Mamá has become homesick for family; the story, cliché by its repetitive warp and weft through so many lives.

I try to imagine him in school in Oaxaca. Could there possibly be an equivalent level of special services for children there to that which he has received here?
He is in first grade. For two years he has come to art class, the first in a group of six children in preparation for the transition into a full first grade class of children who hear. He has done so well.

Googling yields a report from the past spring describing the occupation of the school for special needs children during a protest that echoed back to the Oaxaca of 2006, when extreme unrest and violence held the city hostage for months. This latest event must have terrified the children.

And he is dark, not fair. Another strike against him there. Or three.

Music blares, ground fireworks suddenly shoot off three feet away. I feel the spirit of the plaza raise me up while marchers performing Posadas and carrying Guadalupes on litters made of heavy posts sway past the crowd. Around and around the stone square worn smooth by thousands of footsteps a day, they circle. This is Christmas Eve spent with strangers and it occurs to me I've never felt more at home.

The first woman I chatted with brings her friends over and introduces me. The women are either old or old before their time. They explain how far they've come from their villages, some very far, just to be here for this night. They wear their best black dresses.
They ask me about my life, well, about part of it, the most important: "Where is your man? Where is your husband?" Incredulous that I am here alone, they ask how I got here.
"By plane."
"But how did you afford the ticket?"
"I work- I teach, I bought it."
"Is it one-way?"
"No, señoras, de ida y vuelta.....going and returning, round-trip."
The circle of women around me gasp as they repeat to each other, "de ida y vuelta, ¡dos boletos!"
"Yes, two tickets, both ways."

As if rehearsed, the women start to pray for me, actually they pray for a husband to be sent. I take this as my cue to take leave- I have become conscious of other people starting to watch the healing the women are attempting to impose, and it all has become too much. I say goodbye, they bestow serial blessings as a send-off. Walking away, grateful to sink again into the anonymity of the crowd, I can still hear them praying.

new work

2008-11-27T08:11:00.016-05:00

Wishing you the happiest of holidays!

If you love gifting art as much as i do, see the NEW 5" x 7" digital repros now available at my etsy shop, ateliermaryk.
Here is a sneak peek, with more to be offered at my shop daily:

Oooops, and almost forgot: Etsy Madness is happening, with sellers slashing prices and offering discounts all over the place, so to join in the merriment, I am offering:
* * * CYBERSPACE SPECIAL * * * Now through Tuesday, December 2, take 15% off everything in my shop, PLUS free shipping and handling.

green eye mandala

the view was her own

kewl, dude

2008-11-23T19:00:00.002-05:00

Witness! a signboard spotted recently in a nearby elementary school...

the following week, a new message appeared:

BTW,
being smart is in.

speaking of smarties, Krazy Kat has had a loyal and devoted fan following of famously smart, geeky, kule dudes and dudettes:

Pablo Picasso, Charlie Chaplin, Gertrude Stein, Walt Disney, F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Kristen Hersh (of the band "Throwing Music", whose song "The Key" was inspired by the strip), H. L. Mencken, Umberto Eco, Frank Capra, Jack Kerouac, e.e. cummings, Charles Schulz, Richard Diebenkorn, and Wayne Thibaud.

{this was but a partial list, courtesy krazy.com by Peter Campbell.}

so fear not, if you have ever felt the need to quell the escape of multi-syllabic or intentionally mutated words from your lips; if you routinely listen more than you speak; and if you demonstrate maniacally obsessive behavior toward reaching the stars or throwing bricks with precision like our boy Ignatz,

REJOICE! BC UR KEWL.

etsy Treasury and Showcase

2008-11-19T19:38:00.001-05:00

Hurry, this Treasury by darling OhFaro will expire promptly at 8:58 p.m., Thursday, November 20th.

It is so great to be pictured with other Etsians from all over the place! Make sure you click on the Maya Angelou soundtrack as your browse the Treasury. Thanks, OhFaro.

And also on November 20th, my text ties will be featured in the etsy Accessories Showcase. Here's a little preview, enjoy!

new url

2008-11-12T18:34:00.020-05:00

Coconino County argot: "Eureka! New url is borned in the oith, li'l ainjil, we'll be rich, rich, richie rich from this black fountain of yute."

Translation back to anglais: ¡Atención! "love letters to ignatz" debuts here at its new address:
http://loveletterstoignatz.blogspot.com
Fresh and slightly tweaked look; continuation of the blog "love letters to the universe" and its customary perspective.

Back to Coconino County:
For those of you unfamiliar with Ignatz, the Kat and the Pupp, the following tutorial is proffered (Keep in mind, tomes have been written in profundity analyzing the characters, antics and landscapes described in cursory form herewith.)

Krazy Kat is the legendary comic strip/ brainchild of George Herriman, who gave public birth to Krazy in 1913. The strip ran in U.S. newspapers between 1913-1944.

The action in the strip focuses around three main characters mired in a "love" triangle amidst the shifting landscape of Coconino County.
The characters are: a cat, Krazy; the cat's antagonist, Ignatz Mouse; and the protective police dog, Officer Pupp. Krazy nurses an unrequited love for the mouse, while Ignatz despises Krazy and constantly schemes to throw a brick at Krazy's head, which Krazy takes as a sign of affection. Officer Pupp, as Coconino County's administrator of law and order, makes it his mission to toss Ignatz in the county jail for his brick-tossing schemes.
(This excerpt was distilled from Wikipedia's detailed and informative entry on Krazy Kat.)

Dialogue takes the form of alliterative and stylized argot, a mixture of French, English, Spanish, Yiddish and Herriman's New Orleans dialect, Yat.
To my great chagrin while pondering the direction of today's post, the sudden reality that the language unintelligible to the rest of the family and still spoken between my sister and me derives largely from early exposure to the Kat.

How did I not connect these dots before, after a lifetime of Krazy exposure and existence? BOINK! It hit me like a brick in the noggin.
Thank you, li'l dahlink readers, for the opportunity for this most egregious epiphany.

a year in the life

2008-11-03T20:15:00.025-05:00

the reds are at it again
another fall blooms

summer
a dim memory
already

the time
of decline
upon us
the holy of holies
so we can't forget:
Días de Muertos

or is it the 'Ween...
watch the little movie below and decide.

Véase también mis otras entradas sobre esta celebración tan bonita.

See also my other entries about this celebration.

51

2008-11-02T18:31:00.022-05:00

hard to fathom: one Fall day i'm touring kindergarten classes with my band, The Ladybugs; said to be the first karaoke-all-girl-band-on-the-planet (the year: 1964, the Brits have landed).
the next, i'm discovering remarkable similarities between Kurt Cobain's and my birthcharts.
(so what's forty-five-ish years between these two events: a mere micro-drip in the scheming of the cosmos)
nothing can make me happier, except another tour.

proof: you can take the girl out of the rocker, but never the rocker out of the....

so thanks, Paul, for playing at my place Nov 1,

and thank you,
madcap lads from liverpool and all you rockers before and since, for the continued celebration and inspiration.

la bea

2008-10-28T18:46:00.020-05:00

Well I had intended to write about the horrific weather and wind storm we are currently experiencing in the Great Northeast.
Bear-boy Cat is running around in the pitch dark of the storm at this very moment and i am worried semi-sick about him. He bounded outside just as i cracked the door to let my la Bea inside. He is ever vigilant of any chance to escape paradise to be in the ravages of any storm- the colder, the crazier, the more intense, the better.

Instead, i distract myself with a much sunnier clime: Brazil.
Page 22 of this past Sunday's NYTimes caught my eye with its surging circles of vibrant painter-color, and so i was introduced to the painter Beatriz Milhazes.
Her work is hot, hot, hot.
I just adore it, here is a little feast of it, with links:

Now pretend you are strolling through the gallery, up-close and personal with the art and the show is narrated in Portuguese, it doesn't get much better than this- pure heaven!

Hungry for more work and a biography of Beatriz? Check out this blog entry at Colourlovers.com

Stay warm.

I swear it's true,

2008-10-06T16:13:00.008-05:00

this tale about the glue.

kid in art room
and my true-life responses,
as recorded in my sketchbook:

"Where's the glue?"

"Look."

"Where's the glue?"

"Look."

"Where's the glue?"

"Look with your eyes, LOOK!"

"Where's the glue?"

"LOOK!!!" I say in sign-language,
despite the fact
the child is hearing.
My circuits are fried.

"Where is it?"

"Look!!"

"Oh."

saving grace

2008-09-21T14:24:00.002-05:00

why we return

Two full weeks of school, down.
From the front lines, herewith an attempt to explain the reason we return
like penguins, salmon, monarchs, lemmings; mindlessly ritualistic and
apparently without the will
to do otherwise.
It's gotta be instinct.

7:46 a.m.
Darn it, running a smidge away from late; what's new.
One of the closest livers to school,
it is the same way every day
despite the best geography.

Lugging three Mexican
market bags, a priceless vintage bag,
a backpack, sweaty-cold
water bottles and assorted lunch ingredients threatening
to break out from too-thin plastic bags,
shuffling past mini-vans
spilling children to the sidewalk,
forever schlepping,
trusty pack mule
navigating the slippery slopes
of education another day.

The day ahead bodes not
much differently:
hauling drippy brushes, glue bowls,
greasy pastels, (ultra-soft
for small hands)
reams of paper,
folders, boxes, baskets, Tupperware
and a universe of semi- and fully-
finished art projects.

Someday i vow to look like the
über-woman in the Coach-
make that Vuitton, ad.
A sleek bag will balance
ever so effortlessly
from the forearm.
That One Bag will hold it all
and not bear the logo
of Price-Chopper.

From a sliding car door emerges
G, a first grader who is,
to be trite,
larger than life.

Sprightly,
incredibly bright
and perceptive, she joins
me in my now accelerated pace,
a quickstep to avoid being
mowed down by the crowd descending
on the two open entrance doors.
Keeping pace and chatting gingerly,
as if we were bgf's who never hung
up,

"Good morning, Ms. Weeks."
"Good morning, G."

Her eyes move from my toes up
to my head, down, then up again,
repeating the surveillance several
times.

"Wow, you look like it's
Whacky Wednesday."

"That's right, G, just like
Whacky Wednesday."

"Gee, with you, Ms. Weeks,
it's like it's:
Whacky Monday, Whacky Tuesday, Whacky Wednesday,
Whacky Thursday, AND Whacky Friday!"

"That's right, G,
every day is whacky."

"Yeah, every day is
whacky."

G proceeds to heft open one of the closed
main doors, holding it open for me with all her
might while i have already scooted through
the open door beside it.

She continues to hold it wide open, as if i were
going to pass through.

"Why, thank you, G, how kind of you."

"You're welcome, Ms. Weeks."

She then swings open yet another door
in the next bank,
believing i will certainly pass through.
But i am already inside the building.

"Thank you, G, you are sooooo polite."

"You're welcome, Ms. Weeks."

"Have a wonderful day, G."

"You too, Ms. Weeks, bye!"

"Bye, G."

The power of belief.

She proceeds on her merry way to the first grade wing
while i turn into the office,
saying a silent prayer of thanks for G.

Cézanne by committee

2008-09-08T20:04:00.026-05:00

or: the seemingly random intersecting influences in my life

Watch Three Colours Cézanne online, it's about an hour long; a beautiful documentary of how not to live by committee.
(Netflix also has it.)

Just before school started, we received a reminding email that a curriculum committee made up of colleagues had decided last year that we were not to reference "real" political candidates' names in discussions/instruction/teachable moments nor at any time with the elementary children in our classes during the upcoming election process.
Brilliant.

Instead, we were told to use "mascot" names, as in: dancing animals running for office instead of peeing on trees like in Real Life.
Interpreted this means: fake, fraudulent, deceitful, bogus, cartoony-looney abstractions of ultimate Truth and of Nature; yet again assuming, embracing and reinforcing those two age-old mantras of public education: "Kids are stupid." And: "Teachers are stupider; they'll follow this like lemmings: 'What me, think?'"
I repeat, this policy was developed by fellow educators.

And ultimately, smacks of Disney.
The gauntlet thrown, off we go to a gentler, (?!) more truthful time, to Coconino County.

Herewith, a humble sampling of ensuing campaign posters from the sketchbook:

If you'll excuse me, me and Ignatz have to go throw some bricks.

new work

2008-08-26T20:29:00.024-05:00

in the garden with gustav

2008-08-23T13:22:00.003-05:00

the more things change...

a painter
in a garden
with a cat or two
or more
wearing a flowing
robe
every day.

Paradise.

Two books i use in the classroom:

Silver, Gold, and Precious Stones, "Adventures in Art" series

Klimt and His Cat, Berenice Capatti and Shannon White, with lush artwork by Octavia Monaco

Other gorgeous resources for mature audiences, i should probably note, are:
the beautiful Flash site, iklimt.com and in my library: Gustav Klimt, 22 Masterworks by Jane Kallir.

If you have never stood before a real Klimt before, you must.

Homage to Klimt
from the art room,
kid-visions of "cat parties."
Vielen Dank, Gustav.

summer stock

2008-08-21T09:17:00.026-05:00

the sweet sound of the absence
of an alarm
for two blessed months

can hardly be
described.
hours are marked instead by

uncaged glory

guarding cornbread

cultivating perfect squash

taking note of small vignettes

not looked at closely
for a long time

fishing for fake lobster

wondering
which comes first, art or life

pondering
yellow gangs,

the beauty of a lost bloom.

odyssey

2008-08-14T14:04:00.012-05:00

od·ys·sey (d-s)
n. pl. od·ys·seys
1. An extended adventurous voyage or trip.
2. An intellectual or spiritual quest

These fashion dreams, they never end.
In sleep, my collections fill huge showrooms.
When you walk in, you can hardly see, for the
blinding flash of glitz
on the outfits.

When i was little, the dream went like so:
opening my closet door, i enter and can't choose an
ensemble to save my life; i lose my breath at
the sight of an endless rack of fabulous looks,
the next more exotically beautiful
than the one before,
they just go
on and on,
till infinity, all contained within that
little closet.

I awaken, go back to the beginning:
transform trash into art-handbags and totes.
Re-cycle, re-dream, recreate.
To the trashion, born.

"Every seed is awakened, and all animal life."
-Sitting Bull

a preview, entre nous:

in absentia

2008-07-27T07:53:00.013-05:00

end of the school year; always blows me away.
knocks me down, knocks me out.

does anyone else sit like a zombie
for days on end
after it's all said and done?

my friend Deb who is an incredibly fine
hs art teacher- the real deal-
says she does it too.

this year it has taken a month to find a rhythm again.

...rolled directly from the final day, Thursday, into
Monday teaching Godzilla camp to 14
-count 'em- fourteen highly charged-up ten year-old boys, most of whom
i did not know before.

what i did know was:
i was sunk when my first words, which i could barely
utter as i scanned the crew that first day
while the completely foreign feeling of trepidation in my own room
crept up my spine, holding my vocal chords hostage
were:

"Looks like i'm the only girl."

to which they all broke out in
screams of banshees,
pumping fists
in the air,
cheering and jeering with glee at the thought
that a mutiny had already occurred without a shot.
and this just the beginning.

the monster in them remained intensely present for the remainder
of the week as i came to accept my fate:
i was living in a frat house
for the duration.

it was one of the most fun weeks teaching enrichment, ever.

there was not one social "situation", "friend fight", or other relationship
issue requiring my attention nor intervention. this, in stark contrast to the way i spend most normal teaching days: de-escalating conflict, mediating, counseling,
facilitating resolution between parties.

it was the scaly Big Guy himself who fostered peace in the room-
bonds of brotherhood were forged by mutual love of
the King of all monsters.
world peace should be so easy...

my fondest memory of these lost and found boys is in the final few seconds
of camp, as mothers literally pried them from the t.v. screen,
(some hugging the freeze-framed headshot-with-mouth-open-in-a-roar of their hero for dear life)
their fists pumping, yelling "GOJIRA!" over and over at that indelible image,
in their most convincing Japanese pronunciation, no less.
these boys made me proud.

and then they were gone.

Half had never known who Godzilla was on that first day;
their mothers had just signed them up. Almost none knew why the
actors mouths did not quite sync with the audio.
Four days of cultural immersion later, so to speak, Gojira rules.

peace ties

2008-06-21T12:57:00.012-05:00

continuing to create ties with messages of peace and justice;
the universe keeps sending people my way who love these.
so these are part of the third intensive batch made in the studio
since January...

can't wait for summer break so i can pick up the threads of
my creative path and knit them together,
in long blocks of time,
again.

"Flowers grow out of dark moments." -Corita Kent

"You must be the change you want to see in the world." -Mahatma Gandhi

"...my country is the whole world." -Virginia Woolf

drawing resistance

2008-06-05T05:08:00.009-05:00

some of my thirteen pieces
in the show:

sunday in the park

2008-06-02T17:00:00.000-05:00

thinking ourselves
alone,
pilgrims appeared,
measuring the earth
with their bodies

divas scoffed

at the senseless bowing

others reached out

threw confetti

tried to
stop them
at the block party

undeterred,
the supplicants
continued

we watched
them go

and headed
back to the
party girls.

dedicated to birthday party girl Patsy/Payutsy/Pat C/Daley, my friend who I have known for almost my whole life (since FOUR YEARS OLD) whose birthday is today. Happy Birthday Patricia June Daley Noll!

unveiled

2008-05-13T17:05:00.000-05:00

witnesses

make ceremony

within the circle

we are one

celestial child

with beauty before us

beauty behind us

beauty beneath us

beauty above us

it is finished

process

2008-04-22T16:43:00.001-05:00

Like spring buds on the little magnolia, our piece going to
the cradle project continues to unfold
on its own time and pace.

Even Bea is tired of living this way.
Take the dining room, for instance:

Fear not, Bea.
Something is happening.

rock it

2008-04-19T10:50:00.003-05:00

The Cradle Project

Kudos to organizer Naomi Natale and her devoted crew for assembling a massive exhibit in Albuquerque to benefit the children of sub-Saharan Africa. The Cradle Project seeks to collect 1,000 art cradles created from mainly recycled materials from around the country. Donations for the benefit of the children are coming in from sponsors of the cradles and an eventual auction of the pieces will raise even more money.

Here is a glimpse of the beginning of my process while participating in the project. I was so glad to get the call from Barbara, saying the deadline by which the cradle must reach Albuquerque was recently extended to May 1st (Phew!).
Am working like a mad dog to finish, more pics soon.

It all began deep in an art closet at school.
Kindergarten cutie Mrs. Dorine Phelan had donated lots of BIG styrofoam after Christmas the year before last and I stashed it away for a sunny day. Way in the back and scattered on assorted shelves, sure enough, the guts of the cradle emerged.

In the midst of winter, a prototype styrofoam sculpture was assembled in the backyard and submitted for consideration in Albany for a local show. (No apparent relationship with cradle project) Rejected. The hundreds of rejections during the first two decades of my work brought me down to the ground. But no más. It just doesn't matter when you love what you do.

After the "no, thank you" I disassembled the piece and laid part of it under a tree for the birds' enjoyment. Silver snow tulips. These soon led to...

the initial thrust of cradle design. My dining room became cradle central. As I look at this picture, it is painfully obvious my ideas just aren't vibing together. That blue paint is too gender-biased. Going for the girl and/or boy look, need a gender-neutral scheme. Back to the painting board and to Benjamin Moore sample rack.

Playing with the inside, I really don't know what I'm doing, just know it will lead to something better. What's important is the playing, then walking away, sleeping on it, having coffee, playing some more, etc. That is the way it works for me.

Spring has sprung. Pale greyed periwinkle wins out for color, called Celestia Blue. heavenly. Nothing I love better than sitting at a paint counter, watching it all go together, an ecstatic experience.
The front parts I temporarily attached earlier had to go; they were just not working. Almost like starting from scratch, again. Not really but that's the feeling. Gotta work through it. Bear-boy doesn't care, he's just enjoying the day and the sunshine and so shall I.

Wish me luck.

witness

2008-04-13T07:16:00.022-05:00

what I get to see in process
everyday...
Happy Spring

little kid art

prayers for tibet

2008-04-02T05:59:00.009-05:00

in the trenches parte dos

2008-03-23T20:22:00.000-05:00

Anathema

ready to rock, i march
to school
and climb into my little
trench
it all seems
sometimes
pointless when
you are but one
in a sea
anathema to your
soul

but then another
hand
parts the
waves
the salt air
becomes lighter
and you breathe
again

knowing there
are others
submerged
who
guard the
eggs
no matter
what.

Happy Easter
with love to my peeps.

back in the trenches parte uno

2008-03-11T06:40:00.000-05:00

"how i get to school in the morning."

first, i hit myself with a shot of La Marseillaise, cranked all the way.

my neighbors must wonder what the hell is going on from 5 to 6 a.m.

follow it with a chaser of Patti, the one and only.

sometimes it's Patsy instead.

jacked up, off to teach elementary.
it can be hell out there, kids.
gotta have your tunes when you're underground.

la vida cotidiana

2008-03-06T06:41:00.019-05:00

Pamplona, it ain't.

back to daily life,
to the nest i go.

dedication

2008-02-27T20:05:00.010-05:00

Once upon a time I stopped
long enough
to look over my shoulder
to see the boys
I had taught
who stayed in touch
had become
teachers, artists
and soldiers.

A great big thank you to all the people who supported me in the show, many of whom are pictured/mentioned in my last two entries.
Special thanks to Nancy Hofstadter of the Meeting Center and to John LaRocca of the Rensselaerville Institute who were crucial to the creation of the exhibit.

Finally, a little explanation and a dedication that were posted at the gallery, for those who couldn't make it:

genesis
two years ago, the ties began
with my desire
to use words of great thinkers to
counteract the bombardment of
contemporary rhetoric on the senses.

early summer 2007
masks were shaped
to expand upon themes of character and identity
begun with the ties.

installations
were made, paying homage to
Seven Samurai, incorporating
traditional Japanese materials:
paper, fabric, bamboo.

convergence
late summer 2007
a former student
brought to my attention a blog entry
on MySpace written by a helicopter pilot in Iraq.
The pilot, also my former student,
cited words I had given him some
seventeen years ago
that he remembered
in the desert.

winter 2008
the story continues to evolve
with subsequent correspondence.
threads of this story and
of our lives tie the elements
of this exhibit together.

proof
beneath façade,
time casts an
invisible net of thought,
feeling, presence, truth
that binds us together.

dedicated
to Captain Brian Michael Olmstead USMC
and to all once and future warriors.

oo la la opening! part II

2008-02-22T19:02:00.003-05:00

More Beautiful People
at the opening

illuminated by candlelight

and the light in Laura's eyes
looking at her little guy.

Guest fixated on repast by Gustav across the room...

..on the beautiful basket of pan! The picos and tortas were magníficos,
a perfect accompaniment to the amazing Spanish cheeses.
(p.s. he practices his magic at Honest Weight Food Coöp in Albany NY.)

Detail of main course, by yours truly: hand-painted tie, quotation by Martin Luther King, Jr.: "Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted."
Took many orders for this one! (Sorry, Robert reserved the original long ago.)

John viewing the exhibit and modeling one of my ties from his collection.

Robert, photog nonpareil, tie collector and supportive friend, posing avec moi while Nancy snaps away. Thank you, Nancy and Robert, for capturing the memories for me!

Crasher.

oo la la opening! part I

2008-02-17T20:15:00.001-05:00

This was the seen scene at the Guggenheim Gallery of the Rensselaerville Meeting Center, Rensselaerville NY last weekend, February 10th from 2-4 p.m. for my opening of "Inside Out", mixed-media installation show.

tiki girls

Thank goodness and hallelujah for the Whitemans, they are troupers, but then we knew that from their star power and stage credits.
Extreme thanks to Beth, Robert, Sophie, Ellie, and to Nancy and John LaRocca for all showing up early and staying late to help.

Beth and I:

Nancy arrives.

Gustav's feast, it was to die for, he is puro genio.

one of the boys on the wall...

The Beautiful People, as photo-op'd by Robert...

(Little did the unsuspecting revelers know that the world outside was under siege; a white-out caused several groups of people trying to make it, back down the mountain. Well, we all found out when we departed in Everest-like conditions a couple of hours later, yikes! Glad everyone made it off the mountain safely.)

Thanks to all the Beautiful People
and Beautiful Kids who graced the show.

Party, on.

...to be continued in part II

sneak peek

2008-02-05T19:44:00.002-05:00

just a quick one, of my show.

who are these masked men?

the show must

2008-02-04T06:55:00.002-05:00

...and on it goes.

lo siento, 'my bad...was AWOL due to birthing this baby; making and writing for the show instead of the blog...
the install took six hours yesterday, the quickest set-up of installations i have ever done. with a muchísimas gracias to the inimitable Robert who happened to be there teaching for the weekend, for bringing me food every couple of hours throughout the process.

finishing touches to be added this week, opening this coming weekend:
Sunday February 10th, 2-4 p.m. in the Guggenheim Gallery of the Guggenheim Pavilion at the Rensselaerville Institute/Meeting and Conference Center, Rensselaerville NY.

all are welcome to attend, and you must use the "winter entrance"...the normal short-cut entrance is impassable unless you are driving the town plow and even that would get stuck on the hill.

a group from NYC in fact couldn't get "off the hill" this past weekend at the Center, due to inclement road conditions, but never fear, the forecast is: "mild, breezy, Chinook winds and warming temps into the '80's" for the weekend opening.

SIKE!
only kidding.

more previews coming.

cream cycle

2008-01-25T15:44:00.009-05:00

One day you're
minding your own
beeswax
and voilá,
a wildcat
shows up

you have no choice
but to love him,
savage as he may be.
(pictured on their patio: Cookie and David's bobcat)

It all began
for me
with that picture

painted by Dale
twenty years ago.
Check out the li'l dahlink
peeping over my shoulder.

Two decades
and two understudies
later...
the first two couldn't keep their lines
straight...
the third
arrived demanding
star treatment.

I spend inordinate amounts of time
writing cat menus in my sketchbook.
I make it easy, just check yes oder no:

_____oui _____non

preceding each entreé,
appetizer or beverage on the list.

pages fill quickly with non after non
checks.

I dream of opening
the first kateteria,
"Guesssss Who's Coming to Dinner"
in New York

and of making the cover
of Biznessweek with its
and my brilliance.
Katomat.

Everyone
will pounce on
the chance
for kitty
to dine in such fine
design.

Catering to
hoity-toities of
utmost taste and
comportment,
no gangstas
allowed.
which would keep
mine off the premises;
glad i own the place.

Cuisine
guaranteed to
please
the best cons
on the planet,
meaning mine,
who will
open
a grand total of
two
katomat doors
to obsession,
either:

1.light cream, only one kind
is acceptable...no cheapo
will do. and,

2.solid white albacore,
NOT the skanky store kind,
brand name only
because it costs the most.

It's all very bad business, I know.

What comes 'round again is such mystery, ain't it.

sistahs

2008-01-06T18:36:00.000-05:00

"Truth is eternal, knowledge is changeable. It is disastrous to confuse them."
-Madeleine L'Engle

Herewith a confidential glimpse of the letter i imagine sending through USPS.
But since i won't, maybe i'll email it to my peeps this week like this:

"hey sis,
just wanted to let you in on what i want to say but am too chicken to send to another sis. thanks for listening.
party on & xox,
mk

'Dear Hillary,
Once upon a time, I waited in line for you to sign a copy of your book.
I still have it here in the studio, but like many things,
what seemed so important to have back then doesn't stand so powerful for me now.

Don't get me wrong- I admire the strides you've made fighting the good fight in the public sector. Your strength, conviction and moxy have served to create a potent persona and figurehead for thousands, maybe millions of sistahs.

But Hill, your hardest fight is finally playing out.
This is the one you bet the farm on.

Putting up with terminal bad-boying and societal embarrassment from your man....makes people still wonder why you didn't stand up and walk straight out that door to the big rock candy mountain of self-re-invention.
It would have been a hard, maybe impossible climb back up, but it woulda been
your climb.

Despite the perhaps inevitable political suicide, you could've been alive in so many other ways.
Many have climbed that Everest before you. It is a terrifying, death-defying trip and some slip off the edge. But many more make it back with miraculous tales to tell and a rebirth in the making.
And with the determination to: enable no more, no way, no one;
to stay raw and no longer rise above intellect
at a cost to instinct.

Too bad we weren't your role-models; we were waiting in the wings.

This fight is about lessons learned and lessons ignored and lessons that come around again if you didn't get it the first or second or hundredth time. and about false gain.
We fight it but we know it
deep in the gut while the mind plays broker.

Just wish you hadn't bet the farm on him.

Yeah, shoulda, coulda, woulda; easy to say.
Well, if you need a sister's shoulder to finally cry it out, Hill,
we're here for ya, day or night.

Yours Truly,
a fan who would bet on you
if you were free and clear ' "

fuente, full of tuna

2007-12-26T21:33:00.000-05:00

It takes a village...

Lope de Vega
got the picture back in 1600's Spain: the glory, the darkness, the gory, the triumph. What else is there.
Having written between 1,500 to 2,200 plays during his life,
Fuente Ovejuna, based on a real story, tells a tale of the power of
the people united.

Early exposure to this drama in its language of genesis, bless Spanish teachers again, melded with that of Coconino County, surely influenced the newest version of the play: Fuente Full of Tuna

Demon kat crossed with li'l angel, Lope's back:

Lying in a work titled Portable Confessional, which Li'l Lope would soon destroy in a fit of creative fervor right after this photo was taken, one can only think that he was dissatisfied with its syntax. so was I.
A keyring of the pope, blessed by his holiness no less, hung from its middle.
Exhibited in several shows, perhaps destined to be a masterwork.
Now a cat bed.

Time to march on and give up the cross seems to be Li'l Lope's
familiar message and so it goes.

Back to senior: poet, soldier, scholar, priest, lover, sailor, prisoner, writer, rich man, poor man, Lope did it all. Always found the escape hatch of reinvention just as he was about to be trapped.
Lived nine lives in the course of one.

As fate would have it, Li'l Lope jumped the fence for the first time today.
Hard to keep 'em down on the farm, now they've heard the chickadee.
True to form as his namesake, the more you try to contain him, the crazier he gets. Could it bea those café anthems piped in on streaming mimi chanteurs.org all day long. Wailing about freedom from love, freedom to love, freedom from the Germans, freedom from it all.

Which is all the fuente ovejuna-ers wanted. Free to be.

And they make it so:
pardoned for the crime of self-defense against a tyrant
by those in plein aire control, the village is released, united,
to breathe the intoxicating air of liberation at last.

so the power-brokers can achieve the ultimate goal of mano a mano warfare,
using the villagers against Muslims.
Defeat of the infidel is assured in the face of a village
united.

maybe the next cat will come back as Joe Campbell Junior and help 'splain some things.

morning after

2007-12-08T19:24:00.000-05:00

the day before i left town,
what should appear but giant cookie-cutters
on the street,
and people shoveling
gray grit madly into place.

the next morning, it was back on the bus again.
just before we left, i got this shot of birdfeet.
but what it would be
remained an utter mystery.

until now.
thanks to darling fridamorelia for staying in town
to witness and share the finale:

">

fuente/origen

2007-12-05T18:09:00.000-05:00

historia de una vida en diez imágenes
a life story in ten pictures

la familia

buen can

buen pan

color vivo

raíces enredados

montón de flores

mucha moda

muerta con corazón

(por ophelia en cafépress)

santos colgados

mujer del diablo

(por jesús lucas lorenzo, pintor)

translation:

source/origin

the family
good dog
good bread
bright color
tangled roots
tons of flowers
lots of fashion
dead girl with heart
hung saints
devil's bride

como México, no hay dos

2007-11-25T17:20:00.000-05:00

speech, less

"there is but one México."
literally: like México, there aren't two.

what is it with twoness.
am i being too literal?

seems to be another level, always

the way México is lived

and how it is visited

by twins within

seeking sun in shadow

and water.

one went,

two came back.

or maybe it's
the other way around.

hasta pronto, love,
mk

y entonces, me voy

2007-10-27T21:03:00.000-05:00

and so, I go

No los olvidemos, todos vamos para allá.

Let's not forget, we all go there.

Till I return from México, cuídense bien.

more fruits

2007-10-23T19:51:00.000-05:00

show news

2007-10-14T09:08:00.000-05:00

good news:
this figure is going to show via the Life Studio traveling show; one work per artist. Four locations, four nights.

the two above her were others i submitted.

life drawing fueled by my professor Dale yelling, "LOOK AT THE ASS!" together with the book:The Nude, A New Perspective by Gill Saunders, published in 1989, helped launch me on a hunt which has lasted 20 years.

from my perspective:

enter the space
again
to face the nature
of the body
is the softest
and the hardest
thing.

claim your space
practice done
weapon in hand
prey ahead
senses open
game on
your move.

thrust
parry
jab
falling
with little
grace
you thrash
pray not to
crash.

held by
the scent of
pursuit
you can't stop
tick tick tick
pose over
hit the brakes
clutch the ground
look if you dare
put it aside

next pose please.

fruits of summer

2007-10-08T18:35:00.000-05:00

o the waning
light
makes me
take stock
of the harvest...

"i think it's done now"
with thanks to the
English and Spanish
teachers and
their endless demands
to edit edit edit
till you go stark raving mad and can do
no more.
here is my zen garden,

fini:

and on to more fruits...
that was one mad crazy shoot
starring the glamorous
Danielle
lots of people and dogs
stared at us in the park.
the images are on
my etsy site.
thanks, D.

i had tomatoes on the brain...
(is that where the shapes come from
or is that sangría)

ever since my friend Nancy delivered these beauties in
a Prada bag.
trug, schmug.
thanks Martha: i'll make do with
the demon bag instead.
paper is so chic.

guardians

2007-09-20T20:03:00.001-05:00

sunspot lynx

watches fallen warriors

rise from green shade

to birth new blue

a tenting we will go

2007-09-10T18:26:00.000-05:00

in the beginning

she watches

two bees

before take-off

to no avail
exit blocked

resigned to repose

in the shadow of painting

and states of grace

the reality

hits home

like Bacon at dinner.

home again

2007-08-30T14:04:00.001-05:00

to the land of lakes

gray waters

duck of one foot

silver elder

skywater

green rounds

floating prophet

portland dos

2007-08-26T13:27:00.000-05:00

the hood
portland is like one big giant rockin 'hood made up of tons of little 'hoods.
There's stuff going on every minute in every hood and the mantra, "keep it small, keep it local" rules everywhere.

One of the best hoods was my hood, at Everett Street Guesthouse. Hostess with the mostest Terry Rusinow is a real woman, a profiled-on-NPR risk-taker who changed her life to create this veritable oasis for the weary and/or overly-caffeinated traveler, whichever you may be.

Terry's fountain

Terry's hammock

Right down the street is a public school, da Vinci Arts Middle School. Imagine entering a school whose front lawn is lined with carefully tended rose beds. Check out the Water Garden also on site.

Down the street around the corner, at NE 28th and Glisan is this facade housing Pambiche, a fab cuban restaurant.
You can take the girl out of the barrio but........qué rica era la comida!
Reminds me of the exterior color scheme I surprised an ex with when he returned from a long weekend. Wonder why he went away in the first place...

Down the street and around the corner toward NE Burnside is Mecca.

Pardon me, I meant, Alma Chocolate.

If you've ever tried to pretend you're aztec, search no further for help.
The taste of dark chocolate with cinnamon and chile stayed on my palate for one hour after savoring a single piece, remarkable. The real-gold painted chocolate buddhas and madonnas in the trastero make me have faith that paradise is indeed here on earth at 140 NE 28th Ave.

A highlight: my friend Dale with his art, featured just inside the beautiful fountain entrance at Lawrence Gallery, in the Pearl.

Another Witherow at the gallery:

Then there was the wish tree at the Japanese Garden. It took my breath away, full of messages in many languages and hands, with racks full of hundreds more messages previously removed in respect to the tree.

The stonework paths and fences made me swoon, let alone a wish tree.

pure perfection.

thanks, Portland.

portland

2007-08-10T20:23:00.000-05:00

The trip to Portland was divine.
Thank you to all the wonderful porteños who welcomed me.
Nobody honks at you there.
Maybe the pictures tell why.
Enjoy.

ridiculous hydrangeas...

buddhas of compassion

foo dogs

cupcake bakeries

jazzy murals

zen gardens

art cars

more ridiculous hydrangeas

witnessed at Linas' house.

showcase

2007-08-07T06:32:00.001-05:00

Featured in Etsy Showcase today, here's a peek at some of the art:

thanks for sharing the vision.

final voyage of the HMS

2007-08-02T18:21:00.000-05:00

(we continue our voyage, told in three parts.)

Hermitage by Paul Klee, 1918

Year three. Here we go again, venturing out to see on the Good Ship Colorforms.

Weeks came and went, but still no words came from the Honorable MS.

We sat in close visual proximity but not next to each other like year two.
One day the kids informed me that he indeed could speak; he just didn't speak to me.

I gave up.

No, I couldn't.
Still determined to engage him, once more I walked past and made a comment on his beautiful art. He answered.
Running to my chair, I clutched its arms, pulling myself into the seat before I hit ground. Everyone looked up in joyful anticipation of a faint.

Fainting spells, though fake, were the one booty guaranteed to sway the crew of this ship, even the most surly of sailors. Having been overplied with sweets, toys, chits and stars, what they craved most was drama, and plenty of it.

I had ended promises to faint after realizing I had become a freak in a sideshow of my own design. Resigned to stop the madness, my ears now rung with the chants of children begging me to hit dirt. It's one way to make a living and besides, falling to the floor is an art in itself. This is one of a million techniques you don't learn in methods class.

Finally they figured I was not taking the dive and asked what happened.
"MS talked to me."
From that day on, we exchanged brief sentences and even had quasi-conversations now and again. This was progress.

Death and Fire by Paul Klee, 1940

Late in the year, all hands on deck, we were almost finished reading a biography of Paul Klee. Although a kid-version bio, this book thankfully does not avoid truth, including a couple of works Klee completed just prior to his death in 1940.

Kids don't need language to get life through art. They read symbols depicting depression, oppression, sickness, war and death like nobody's business. An intense, kid-propelled discussion began on the Nazis: their impact on history, artists, Jews, and all other thinking, feeling people.

Despite their behavior on schoolbuses, there is nothing that incenses children more than meanness and injustice when viewed from a third-party perspective. This fact gives me hope for the world. They see no logic in round green colorforms beating up on square red ones. Can't they all just make beautiful pictures together?

Class was almost done. We clustered around the book. MS raised his hand and waited patiently to speak. The rowdy crew became silent. He embarked in lengthy detail on a graduate-level description of Hitler's effect on the world and the implications of the holocaust.

My mouth fell open as I stared at the new commander of the ship
and realized mutiny is moot in the face of truth.

Finally I managed, "How do you know all that?"

He said, "Those are the books I like to read."

second voyage of the HMS

2007-07-20T22:22:00.000-05:00

...we now continue our tale of adventure on the high seas of an elementary art room (see maiden voyage of the HMS).

Year two

B. grabbed the helm as usual: chitter-chattered at MS all year like he's stunted or deaf, kind of like people do to me on the job. He just smiled and looked down at what he was creating.

"Tell her Hi. Say Hi. Tell her Hi," she said a thousand times if she said it once; like telling the best in show to shake. He ignored her, smiled, kept his eyes averted. While he listened I would say, "B., the kid just won't talk to me."

This made him smile ear to ear; the sweetest mutiny on earth.
Occasionally he appeased her or us: "Hi." Two letters said so gently, I always mistook them for the breeze.
Hearing them would make her say, "GOOOOOD!!!, MS, GOOOOOOD!!!"

The pattern was to repeat every week for a year.
He did not cry; this was progress.

Next: how year three came to be.

ateliermaryk

2007-07-16T22:02:00.000-05:00

Check out the art in my shop at etsy.com, it will be featured in the Showcase on Tuesday, July 17, and on August 7th as well. yay! I'm so excited....

maiden voyage of the HMS

2007-07-15T22:11:00.000-05:00

Little MS arrived three years ago, in first grade, climbing aboard well into the year. Not a word did he speak. Most often he put his head in his arms on the table, trying to make himself disappear, and sobbed. Rarely began a lesson, let alone finished one.

Small, slight, a baby bird not ready to leave the nest. Obviously frightened to death. Classmates tried to help; no response. He just looked down and cried. Upon investigating the situation upon the roiling seas beyond my good ship, it became clear I had to navigate this one myself. In desperation I moved a kid, A., next to him. Although not sharing the same verbal language, maybe A. could give this kid a ray of hope. A. had also been signed on for duty at the school the same year, without a word of English either. Maybe they could speak the language of heart.

A. and I hit it off from the beginning without English, using our eyes mainly and his ability to translate my Spanish into his native tongue somewhat. We formed a raw language of color, shape and materials, threw in some crazy body language and demonstrations, or the other way around, so he could fathom directions.
He taught me in his language what I said to him in Spanish. I repeated the words and he laughed wildly at my pronunciation.

We practiced till I got it right; the kid would not let me quit. Still a perfectionist with enough charisma to light up a ballroom, destined to be a painter and knows it. Says so all the time. It is life fact for him, as it should be. Here is the self-portrait A. created that year, in 1st grade:

Aboard ship, A. buoyed MS's spirits. They became friends and MS struggled a little less. But still did not speak.

The next year, grade two, A. shipped out to another assignment in a different class. MS was on his own again.

I seated him next to me and across from a girl, B., who was a pip of a personality. Inches translated into lightyears. The prospect of watching this kid float on his island another year was too much for this salty old seadog. My hands wanted to pull him back aboard ship or at least row him to another shore. I knew I was already overboard. Inside I had reached beyond the plank too far and lost my balance. Now I was in the water with him, flailing. And at that point, you can't really help.

this tale to be continued....
meanwhile, smooth sailing on your own good ship.

on the good ship colorforms

2007-07-06T18:36:00.000-05:00

On the totem of art jobs, the lowest possible spot is teaching little kids. Just ask a secondary art teacher; their position considered the brass ring grabbed while being spun till you can't see straight on the carousel of elementary art. It's the out-of-control babyride you can't get off of unless you jump for your life. What you seem to be good for most days is "loaning" people paper or paint. In most of their minds, that is your job focus. The same people speak to you like you're illiterate. Keep in mind, without the bottom of the totem, everything else would fall down.

(true title: "The Trojan Horse.")

The ebb and flow of the elementary art room can best be explained by the fact you are at the helm of a pirate ship. You hold fast to the wheel, trying to steady your vessel as wave after wave of unleashed primal energy buffets the ship all day long, making you swear a lot (inside) and pray for calm seas at night. Mostly you get knocked down by the shear force of the water. As waves wash up and over your boat, you are sprayed with flotsam and left clinging to the deck for dear life.
Hurry up and find your sealegs; they're not finished with you yet.

(Sorry, but the sea was rough that day.)

Each squall serves to rev up the crew, who is ready and waiting to mutiny with every turn of the tide. or your head. You spend much of the day giving commands to the mates and yelling at them to swab the deck. To maintain anything resembling your course requires every Wile E. Coyote move learned so far away, sitting like a zombie in front of Saturday a.m. cartoons. and they say they aren't educational. Ahoy, you are the commander of the good ship colorforms.

Forget the moon and stars; the natural law of colorforms as applied to your ship: you get a set of shapes, too many, different sizes and kinds. They come in different colors; some match and some don't. Your job is to figure out how to combine them into a totality, making a harmonious composition work together so your ship doesn't sink.

Some stick better to the deck than others; some fall overboard. If you crawl out on the plank too far so they can grab onto you, you lose your balance and then yourself in the drink. A seasoned captain knows from experience how far is too far. You learn to throw them something so they can kick back to ship themselves, Neptune willing.

Some are better left alone with a little space around them and others are better together. How do you know? Trial and error, luck, gut, experience, and maybe your training will help too, but don't count on it.
The sea is vast and too mysterious for anyone to know it all.

and because it ain't about Shirley no more.

miss cookie's kitchen

2007-07-01T12:56:00.002-05:00

what is it about colorforms.
shape, color simply combined
to make bodacious arrangements.
maybe it's all the time spent
with little ones.

or maybe it's because it's
where i started from.
from the original set, to
miss cookie's kitchen
to the museum of modern art's edition
in the early '80's
now sold on ebay for a king's ransom
back to the reissued original set

miss cookie looks amazingly like me,
as does her kitchen, her dog and her cat.
i am miss cookie
warped in time
'50's girl

obsessing over
chandeliers.

i fall asleep with
this book on my face
just like with Cakewalk:
Chandeliers.
so dreamy, it's sick.

miss cookie's kitchen

2007-07-01T12:56:00.001-05:00

what is it about colorforms.
shape, color simply combined
to make bodaciously dazzling arrangements.maybe it's all the time spent
with little ones.

or maybe it's because it's
where i started from.
with the original set
the real deal,
to miss cookie's kitchen
to the museum of modern art's edition
in the early '80's
now sold on ebay for a king's ransom
back to the reissued good old original set.

omg, miss cookie looks amazingly like me,
as does her kitchen, her dog and her cat.
i am miss cookie
warped in time '50's girl

in a state of eternal pretend tea
wearing aprons and pearls
with no intention to cook,
setting tables full of
zany plates and cups
that only the dog and cat see,
that nobody washes,
again proving
the indelible power of myth
endlessly reflected within
the prisms of the
human brain.

i fall asleep with
this book on my face
just like with Cakewalk.

so dreamy, it's sick.

my dining room:

palacio real, madrid:

abc carpet&home this spring i had the otherworldly and dizzying experience of walking in the door and didn't know where to look, up down or all around. chandeliers of every hue are suspended over the entire first floor, schmoozing with floaty fabrics in plié from the ceiling in reverance to savvily-placed fans. divine, decadent and definitely do-able for this girl, at least in her colorformed mind.

thus i present my own chandelier gallery:

kid-created chandelier:

and the ultimate condensation-proof
what-to-do-with-leftover-negative-space
template
after you punch out your colorform shapes-
iced tea glass
perfect for summer guests
on the veranda.

come closer,
try it.
love,
miss cookie