The Best of Wiman

First I read Christian Wiman's "Love Bade Me Welcome," (reprinted from American Scholar in Best American Spiritual Essays), wherein Wiman (poet as well as editor of the preeminent journal Poetry) discovers, on the heels of finding true love and a subsequent journey to faith, that he has incurable cancer in his blood. It was perhaps this crisis that informed the next essay I read which appears in the 20th Anniversary Issue of Image Journal. It's one of those pieces of writing which causes you to pause and take stock of what you are doing, to evaluate your motives and expectations, particularly if you are an artist. I suggest you buy the journal and read the entire essay which alone is worth the price of admission (although the entire journal is packed with great stuff including perennial personal faves: Scott Cairns, Robert Cording and Franz Wright.) These are excerpts that made their way into my journal:


"All ambition has the reek of disease about it, the relentless smell of the self....
So long as your ambition is to stamp your existence upon existence, your nature on nature, then your ambition is corrupt and you are pursuing a ghost.

Still, there is something that any artist is in pursuit of, and is answerable to, some nexus of one's being, one's material, and Being itself. The work that emerges from this crisis of consciousness may be judged a failure or a success by the world, and that judgement will still sting or flatter your vanity. But it cannot speak to this crisis in which, for which, and of which the work was made. For any artist alert to his own soul, this crisis is the only call that matters. I know no other name for it besides God, but people have other names, or no names.
....
An artist who loses this internal arbiter is an artist who can no longer hear the call that first came to him. Better to be silent then. Better to go into the world and do good work, rather than to lick and cosset a canker of resentment or bask your vanity in hollow acclaim.
....
We come closer to the truth of the artist's relation to divinity if we think not of being made subject to God but of being subjected to God -- our individual subjectivity being lost and rediscovered within the reality of God. Human imagination is not simply our means of reaching out to God but God's means of manifesting himself to us. It follows that any notion of God that is static is not simply sterile but, since it asserts singular knowledge of God and seeks to limit his being to that knowledge, blasphemous."

Hot dogs and mad cats

My daughter found this. Although perhaps only slightly less staged than professional wrestling, I dare you not to laugh.

-3 Tonight

which should really keep me in the right frame of mind (and a thick sweater) as I continue reading Barry Lopez's Arctic Dreams. It dawns on me now that far above the tree line, the tundra of the Artic Circle is the inversion of my beloved desert, the frigid version of vast, vacant and severely inhospitable terrain. Would you rather fend off heatstroke or frostbite? Rattle snakes or polar bears? Thirst or canyons of ice? Intense sunlight or no sunlight?

Lopez's vivid descriptions of the Arctic expanse with its "lamellation of snow," and its "irenic northern summers," is giving my avocabulary a workout as well as providing instruction in biology, ecology, history, anthropology, geography and the persuasive reminder that, "the world is oddly hinged."

Lopez questions what, today, provides us a sense of wealth:
"Is it to retain a capacity for awe and astonishment in our lives, to continue to hunger after what is genuine and worthy? Is it to live at moral peace with the universe?
It is impossible to know, clearly, the answer to this question; but by coming to know a place where the common elements of life are understood differently one has the advantage of an altered perspective. With that shift, it is possible to imagine afresh the way to a lasting security of the soul and heart, and toward an accommodation in the flow of time we call history, ours and the world's."

When even a few days of temperatures so low hitting zero seems luxurious, when fierce winds threaten to rattle the shingles from the roof and we are reminded of how small and vulnerable we really are, when we're forced to bundle up against the common elements of life, the behavior of which cannot be taken for granted, fresh perspective can blow in alongside blinding lamellations of snow.

"The Closest to Love We Ever Get"

My British Santa was good to me again this Christmas, filling my stocking with the several of the "Best American Series 2008." (Do they have a Best British series?) One of the gems of this year's Best Spiritual Writing is Heather King's short essay "The Closest to Love We Ever Get." After reading her piece, I googled her name and found from her bio that we both spent the 80's in Boston, but on opposite sides of the barstool. My loss. I'd like to get my eyes on some more of her work (she is also a commentator for NPR's All Things Considered.) On why she who loves quiet and solitude has lived in crowded, noisy Koreatown for 11 years King writes:

"Wending my way home with my books, my vision temporarily transformed, I'm not seeing the refrigerators abandoned on the sidewalk, the triple-parked ice cream trucks, the overflowing trash cans. I'm seeing flashes of colorful Mexican tile, the 98-cent-store mural of waltzing Ajax cans and jitterbugging mops, my favorite flowers: the heliotrope on Ardmore, the wisteria near Harvard the lemon on Mariposa. Or maybe it's not that I'm seeing one group of things instead of another but, for one fleeting moment, all simultaneously: the opposites held in balance a paradigm for the terrible tension and ambiguity of the human condition; the dreadful reality that we can never quite be sure which things we have done and which things we have failed to do, the difference between how we long for the world to be and how it must be a kind of crucifixion in the darkest, most excruciating depths of which we discover--the rear windows of the parked cars I'm walking by now covered with jacaranda blossoms--it's not that there's not enough beauty; it's that there's so much it can hardly be borne."

[This essay is reprinted from Portland Magazine, out of the University of Portland, edited by Brian Doyle. His picks litter the "Best of"s every year and are always among my favorite pieces. The above detail is Georges Rouault.]

My own little Pixie Chick

Here's a link to Hayley's radio debut:
Click the above title then Archive & Podcast/Farm & Fiddle/12-17-08 Pixie Chicks and Fiddlesticks

The end of 08

was not much different than the end of 07 or most other years. The frantic lead up to Christmas in this house begins at Thanksgiving which involves guests or travel, leading into a birthday and bonfire, an anniversary celebration and the mad scramble to secure the right gifts for friends and family as well as making sure Santa is on top of things. There are gingerbread houses to be made, cookies to be sprinkled and winter villages to erect. It's all quite wonderful and quite exhausting. This year we played with our shiny new toys for one day and then left them under the tree, unplugged the colored lights and headed to Texas.

We pulled onto I-70 and joined the thousands of others making their way to or from home, cars loaded with kids or 18 wheelers loaded with who knows what and settled in for a long day of driving. I discovered an app for my iphone which allowed us to tune into any NPR show we wanted. We listened to 3 months worth of Fresh Air on the drive down. Did you know there is a big difference between ultra pasteurized and batch pasteurized milk? That an African Gray parrot can do calculations? That Kit Kittredge, An American Girl was one of the top 10 movies of the year?

I love a good, long ride, this route in particular. We left Missouri in a downpour, traveled through snow, sleet and 28 degrees in Kansas and emerged back into bright sun and 50 degrees in Dallas. Between Emporia (where we religiously exit for JavaCat) and Wichita, we savor the Flint Hills in all their seasonal variations. This time the skies were leaden, the landscape sheathed in ice, the grass frozen sideways. But always the hills radiating their rich hues.

Our time in Texas was Christmas all over again: the Nasher Sculpture Museum, the discovery of the Bishop Arts District in Oak Cliff where we'd driven to find a book restorer (my mother recently unearthed my great 3x grandmother's 1859 family Bible rotting in my grandfather's garage in Florida) and discovered delectable pumpkin pancakes at Cafe Brazil, rendevouz with many of our closest friends, short but sweet time with my parents and brother's family.

We're back home. The tree is petrified, gifts are scattered around the house, my clothes are tighter. I'm reading cards that arrived in our absence, fending off another bout of Christmas card guilt (another year of good intentions and empty mailboxes.) I'm making my way through backed up email, catching up on friends' blogs and making note of who I need to write. Good intentions all around. Happy New Year, everyone.

Open before Christmas

I'm regifting here. Wayne sent me a link to The Moth and you, too, might want to check it out before your Christmas travels. Listen to writers such as Susan Orlean, Frank McCourt, Andrew Solomon and Adam Gopnick read their stories. There are also a number of celebrity writers such as Janeane Garofalo, Ethan Hawke, Moby and Lili Taylor reading I'm not sure what. Remember those most enchanting words from childhood: "Once upon a time" and as you travel this holiday, travel far.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Now we too are ORReos

No offense to the deer, coyote, rabbits and fox that remind us we're not the only living creatures inhabiting the end of our lane but they're not much for sharing a cup of coffee or vapid chitchat. I miss vapid chitchat. I miss the sound and stimulus of human endeavor in all its glorious diversity. Thomas Merton I am not. So as we embark on our third Midwest winter and in anticipation of the area's hunker down hibernation that's provoked acute cabin fever in me for the last two years, we've pulled up stakes and rewired our working selves into the heart of Columbia's emerging art district.

Now the house at the end of the lane is a cozy haven against the elements instead of a fortress of solitary confinement. And I look forward to going to work: unlocking the door, flipping on the lights, turning on the music and the coffee as the morning sun slants in, warming our south side. I hear workmen's hammers and drills outside, renovating the old warehouse across the street into new loft space. We can walk to restaurants and coffee shops, stores and businesses, sticking our heads in to say hello to friends working in the area.

These are photos of our studio. We're set of windows on the end. Come on by, coffee's on.

Big giant large

Little tiny small

See you next year

There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of the birds...There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature--the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter. ~ Rachel Carson

From the Little Big Book of Birds which arrived in the mail this week, a lovely gift from a lovely friend. The seasons come and go, as do the birds, but friendship is constant, in season and out.

Hearing Voices at Orr Street

Today's Vox features the Orr St. reading series. If you haven't yet attended a reading there I hope this persuades you to join us! Click the headline for the whole story.

Who does she think she is? Part 2

Click the headline. :)

Who does she think she is?

A friend of mine sent me a link to what sounds like a great film you'll enjoy if you are an artist or a woman and especially if you're both: Who does she think she is? It feels particularly pertinent as this past weekend my older daughter made her stage debut in Pace Production's "The Giver" at the newly renovated Missouri Theater and my younger daughter made her stage debut in her girlband "The Pixie Chicks" at the grand opening of the Columbia Art League's new space which just happens to adjoin the Missouri Theater. In really cool synchronicity, the girls were playing simultaneously on Sunday, a stone's throw away from each other (if you could throw a stone through a wall).

Byrning Down the House

Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens. Talking Heads

A whirlwind weekend of conspicuous cultural consumption. Yum. The only downside to the assorted adventures was the fact my camera is at the doctor's so all I had with me was my iphone camera which is almost useless in low light. So although I'm lacking the photos which would add the thousand words I'm leaving out, I highly recommend any and all of the following:

The Citizen Jane Film Fest, Stephens College's inaugural film festival devoted to showcasing women film makers. Friday night's opening feature was "Trouble the Water," a documentary that utilized the home footage of 9th ward aspiring rap artist, Kim Roberts, who was trapped with her husband in the floodwaters of Katrina. She films until, stuck in the attic with water rising, her battery dies, in the belief the footage might be all that survives her. It's a powerful exposure of shameful race issues still embedded in America.

A blue skied, warm sunned Autumn roadtrip through the gold and green hills of Missouri

A weekend in St. Louis's Central West end which included:

The park view from the Historical Landmark Chase Park Plaza Hotel

Dinner at Niche

A show at the historic Fox Theater which happened to be hosting

David Byrne on his current tour which included songs from his new collaboration with Eno and songs from 30 years ago.

Sunday brunch at Duffs

An armful of books from Left Bank Books including Marilyn Robinson's Home, The Man Who Turned Into Himself by David Ambrose, Here, Bullet by Brian Turner and The Implacable Order of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto.

And the store that sells tiny jeans.

Add good friends and the one you love for a fabulous, (non) heavenly weekend.

ArtRageous Fridays IV

This is the last in the series of posters I designed for Columbia's quarterly artcrawl. The first poster appears here. The second poster appears here.The third here.

6,702,868,300

As of 11:56 am today, that is the number of people sharing the planet with you. 6.7 billion people waking--some to hunger, some to light rain, some to the call of birds, some to sounds of heavy artillery; the ones nearest me to a mild autumn breeze and the hum of a lawn mower. Think of all the people you know, have known, all their big and little dramas. Every minute, 6.7 billion narratives are sending their small rippled through history. For every story we hear told, look at how many we're missing. And now, moments later, 6,702,869,334: one thousand thirty-four more have their tale to tell.

Columbia Festival of the Arts

I'm reading on the Literary Stage in Courthouse Square tomorrow at 1 pm. You locals, come on out! Click the link above for the schedule of events. No tomatoes, please.

With Bees in our Bonnets

I don't know what pioneer women would have thought of the results but they certainly would have sanctioned the impulse:

The quilting bee was an imporant means of socializing for colonial and pioneer women (and man). Through the winter months, the women would piece their quilt tops. Since there was no central heating in these homes, there was usually only one main heated room that was too crowded during the winter months for a quilt frame to be assembled. When the weather became warmer, an invitation was sent to the surrounding neighbors for the quilting bee.

On the day of the quilting bee, the quilters would arrive early and begin marking the quilt top which had been put into the quilt frame by the hostess. The quilters would then being to quilt the top while exchanging conversation. The quilt had to finished before the husbands and beaus showed up in the late afternoon when dinner was served to all, the hostess being given a chance to show off her cooking skills. After dinner, there was very often a square dance or country dance with fiddles accompanying the dancers. The quilting bee was an important part of the social life of these people surpassed only by religious gatherings. (from quilt.com)

On Saturday, a room full of multi-talented women gathered at Orr Street Studios for Lisa Bartlett's "Spare Parts" mixed media bee. We arrived at 10 am and began rifling through acres of fabulous ephemera she'd generously set out for us to ransack. Lisa had us draw numbers to pick from large pieces such as old wooden boxes, clock casings, and such for use as bases for our pieces. I drew #1 and got a plum prize: an old telephone box.

After serving ourselves coffee and snacks Lisa had laid out, we got busy with paint, papers, glues, drills, scissors, screws and wire on long tables arranged in a rectangle so we could all see each other, chat and pass the gel medium. I was surprised at the absence of sustained chatter. As each person immersed deeper into her project she grew quieter with concentration. But we yakked away at the lunch break, over organic salad, fruit and hummus. Because we were at our places working, we did not really see much of what each other had been up to until the end when we laid our stuff out in the gallery area. I was amazed at what emerged from the day, including and especially from those who had never even dabbled in this before. We were all euphoric by this time: high on the atmosphere, the joy of making and messy hands, and the all day proximity to very special friends. Friends and family showed up at 4:30 to view the art, have a glass of wine and pick out their own gems from the still substantial leftovers. The only thing missing was the square dance after.

Shown above is the before and after of my piece. Thanks, Lisa!