Une Vie d'Artiste

A Wing And A Prayer

2012-01-25T14:09:00.005-05:00

A woman embraces her child tightly and protectively against a stormy sea and sky as an immense wave towers over them. The expressions of the two figures are both anxious and excited. Within the wave, along with flotsam and jetsam is ample treasure and navigational instruments.

Could it be that one may find one’s way beautifully even in the face of that which is threatening and possibly destructive?

In 1889 Camille Claudel shared her admiration for Japanese printmaker Hokusai with her friend, composer Claude Debussy. In response to Hokusai’s print, “The Wave”, Claudel sculpted The Wave using mixed the materials of pale green onyx, marble and bronze. Debussy, also impressed by Hokusai, wrote his famous “La Mer”.

Like Claudel's sculpture, my Wave also uses mixed media, in this case acrylic paint on paper, with the addition of macaw feathers, pearls, glass beads, paua shell fragments and mica. In the end the Wave resembles a huge bird’s wing that also contains the word “Hope” at its base.

About 40.5 X 48 cm. (16 X 19”)

John's Story

2012-01-14T18:35:00.013-05:00

Given today's news about the Italian shipwreck, I thought it might be an appropriate time to tell the tale of my great-grandfather's 1878 shipwreck on a tiny remote island in the Philippines, Maragat Island. Today this island is for sale with an eye to developing a pleasant resort, but the news reminds us that not so long ago one ran a certain risk in reaching remote, lonely and beautiful parts of the world by sea.

I imagined this tale after receiving the historical notes from the maritime museum in Liverpool. It is one possible scenario. Another possibility is a coal fire in the hold from the rocking of the ship, or simply running aground as has happened off the Italian coast. Unless I pursue this in more detail we may never know. Seafaring has always been hazardous.
.............................................................

His name was John. He must have been a strong young man. Handsome. Vigorous. At 22 he was already an Able Seaman, having been on ships from around 12 or 13. He knew the sails. The rigging. He knew how the canvas swelled in fair winds and in foul.

He hailed from a city where ships’ bells could be heard through the rainy mist at night, and where ships’ masts towered above the shops that lined the streets near the docks, rocking slightly back and forth at their moorings.

He was out of all that now. The sea and sky before him was blue. The coastline bright white. John could see palms swaying now in the warm breeze along those beaches. He had been on this ship, with her lofty name and loftier yardarms, since December of the year before, his Master trading for coal at ports throughout the warm seas – Calcutta, New South Wales and so many exotic places . The wet chill of his home town worked its way into a man’s bones, into his very hammock. But all that was behind him now. Here he could work his muscles, shirtless, his arms bronzed by the sun. It was June now, and downright hot. Except for the steady breeze. The ship had been built on the Clyde, in Scotland, by the famous Robert Steele, and her sisters had won races. She was fast, lithe, and lovely. As pretty as she was, though, the “Lord of the Isles” was not afraid of hard work.

Their heading now was for the Philippines. Manila. John had seen the charts. Seen the San Bernardino Strait, through which they would begin their approach to the capital city. It was known for its fast currents, its sudden gales and the narrowness of its rocky walls. But he had full confidence in his Master. And he had seen gales before.

Here was the volcano, as he had seen from the maps. He’d seen volcanos, live and dead and those merely sleeping. This was a perfectly conical volcano – Bulusan Volcano – alive and breathing, and it puffed gently on the horizon, growing larger as they rocked their way toward the mouth of the Strait.

They reached the Strait at night and something had changed. The seas had grown blacker and seemingly bottomless, hungry, and skies roiled with clouds.

Typhoon! It was the season. Or perhaps only a bad gale. In any case, he was too busy to think about what the monster was. He heard only the orders snapped out by his Master, as he reached for the yards of heavy, wet canvas. One hand for the ship! One for yourself! He didn’t look down, didn’t think about the empty chasm between his body and the deck of the ship, now so awash with the waves that it was impossible to tell it from the sea itself. He worked. Worked the lines. The sails. Did what he was told. He was nothing more than an extension of his Master’s will.

Then it came. The grinding, sickening sound of heavy oak against the sand and shells. The deadly end of movement. The sails were down but the waves pounded unceasingly against the body of the ship – move! move! But no movement was possible.

The waves beat against her sides, broke her body at the waterline. Finally her belly broke open and she began spilling her load of coal into the waves. All hands below, they desperately fought against the water rushing in, the cargo spilling out.

The ghostly white sliver of the beach was before the men who lowered the lifeboats and somehow made their way to shore. Exhausted.

Morning revealed a battered hulk listing in the sands the cruel waves more quiet now. It was a sorry sight. Her timbers were broken. It was like the death of a lover.

They were on a deserted beach. The palms rustled overhead, the skies were still taupe with storm. But it was over and now there was work to be done. To save themselves. To save the cargo – whatever could be saved.

The men set about removing the coal and other valuables, lifeboat by lifeboat, hand over hand. Then they noticed a small brown man standing on the beach, looking at them. He was a fisherman. A native of the mainland, come to the island for the good fishing in those waters. He had a peculiar type of boat. A dugout canoe with a gracefully arching outrigger. A banca boat.

Hands again, this time speaking, communicating. But the man didn’t need too much of an explanation. It was clear what the men needed. The Master sent two of his most trusted men – his first mate and a companion, along with the fisherman. They would make their way along the coast to Manila, find the British offices, send telegrams to Hong Kong, get help.

The men settled in for the wait. They made shelters for themselves. They stretched out in the sun, ate fish and coconuts and the ship’s stores. A few natives came to see them, bring them provisions. One day a young girl accompanied her father. Her hands, her eyes were lively, so dark and smooth. She gazed at the sailors curiously, not coming close, not smiling. Only carefully setting fruits and yams out of the banca.

Then one day, John saw a puff of steam on the horizon. At first he thought it was the volcano, but it moved steadily across the horizon and then it became a steamship, chugging toward them.

He made his way back to his home. It took a long time and he worked again. But he was used to work. He told his tale in pubs and to family members. He received extra pay from the owners of the ship, Williamson and Milligan, because he was good and his Master had given him special marks.

John married. His new wife was a dark eyed, dark-haired beauty, like the woman on the island.

But she smiled at him.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

……………………………………………………………………..

Dear Erica,

Thanks for your e mail.

This has proved quite a challenge, as there are several ships with this name, two of which were trading in the same part of the world.

Ship's No. 51051

Name of Vessel : Lord of the Isles

Master: J F Piper

Year Built: 1864

Built, By & Where: Steele & Co. Greenock.

Length. 175.5

Brdth. 28.7

Dpth. 18.0

In 1877 she was trading between Calcutta, India and New South Wales, Australia and Manilla. Returning to London in October and leaving for Wellington in mid December. Arriving in New Zealand in the Spring of 1878.Through the Summer she traded in this area. On 15th July, a telegram arrived in Liverpool at 2.35pm stating that the Lord of the Isles was a total loss at the South end of the island of Luzon:captain and crew saved.(Left Newcastle,N.S.W.., 20th May for Manilla.)
On the same date as this report it was reported from Hong Kong that she was "totally lost on the island of San Andres, Samar; crew saved. " These two reports appeared in the Lloyd's List 16th July 1878.
In the August 27th edition a report appears from Manilla:12th July. - On the morning of 1 sty July the Lord of the Isles(ship) from Newcastle, N.S.W. to this port, drifted ashore on the northern coast of the island of San Andres, one of the Naranjo group, to the west of the island of Samar. The mate and one of the crew arrived here yesterday in a coasting vessel and a steamer was despatched to the scene of the wreck, where the master and the rest of the crew had remained to save what they could. the last report of this incident appears in the 4th November 1878: Manila, 18th Sept.The Lady of the Isle (ship) from Newcastle, N.S.W., to this port has been floated and sufficiently repaired to enable her to be towed up here, where she arrived on the 7th Sept. bringing 700tons coal more than half her original cargo.

Williamson & Milligan, Liverpool.
1879 sold to J.A.Smith, Liverpool.
1880 Converted to Barque rigging. Liverpool Registration amended.
1882 re-sold to W.P. Coleborn & Co. Liverpool.
1890 Re-sold to A. Liebaut & Co., Nantes, France Code K.N.P.M. re-named PAUL ALBERT .
1898 re-sold to Madam A. Mace, Marseilles, France.

1905 broken up at Havre, France.

I am unable to trace any images of this vessel.

Regards

Graham

Graham Hodson
Assistant Curator
NML
Tel: 0151 478 4424
Fax: 0151 478 4527

www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk

God's Crazy Logic

2012-01-10T13:25:00.006-05:00

His left Eye exploded open, scattering galaxies and light across time and space. His closed Eye gave birth to Angels, which broke away from the void behind His brow and fell, tumbling beautifully and slowly forever. At His lips breathed two small, warm creatures. As life flowered between them, they began to ask how to navigate.

Acrylic on paper and cotton with polymer clay, stone and glass beads, 4 of Hearts playing card and 23K gold leaf. Approximately 26.6 X 34.2 cm (10.5 X 13.5”)

Me Near The Sea

2012-01-03T20:30:00.003-05:00

Sweet Madonna

2011-12-31T15:56:00.004-05:00

A sweet and sticky Madonna and Child done in gratitude for a friend's homemade jams and her sense of generosity in giving them away at the Salons. The halos were made from the flowered cloth jam jar lid covers and the painting framed and presented as a gift. The jams were much appreciated by everyone. Tomato and pepper jam, mmm - who would have thought?

Acrylic on paper, silk, cotton and linen with glass and shell beads, gold mica and 23K gold leaf. 25.4 X 33 cm. (10 X 13 ")

Seaman

2011-12-16T09:36:00.005-05:00

The Seaman charts his passage across the world, while tiny fishes swim toward a compass floating in a rainbow-colored sea.

Acrylic on Arches paper, world map and silk with glass and ceramic beads, scrimshaw ladies, mica and 23K gold leaf. 35.5 X 55.8 cm. (14 X 22 ")

Land Ho!

2011-12-16T09:31:00.002-05:00

She's a land ho, accepting any roving explorer or seaman who comes her way.

Acrylic on paper, silk and linen, with glass and ceramic beads and 23 K gold leaf. 19 X 33 cm. (7.5 X 13")

Mysterious Paper Sculptures

2011-12-07T10:55:00.003-05:00

These have been left in literary spots all over Edinburgh. They are exquisite!

http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/_Mysterious-paper-sculptures/blog/4991767/126249.html

Merlin's First Sword Fight!

2011-12-07T10:05:00.000-05:00

I Saw Three Ships (complete)

2011-12-02T14:23:00.004-05:00

Here is the second Angel who carries Two Ships. Now I really can see Three Ships. I can also see a nice pair of Angels for the holidays.

The Pair, picking out Ships...

Acrylic on canvas, cotton and linen, silk, with glass beads and 23K gold leaf. 9 X 12" each (22.8 X 30.4 cm.)

"I Saw Three Ships..."

2011-11-30T14:01:00.002-05:00

... but painted only one. A brand new Angel with a Ship, a small (9 X 12") painting (22.8 X 30.4 cm. for my European friends) acrylic on canvas, linen/cotton and silk fabric with tiny glass beads and plenty of 22K gold leaf. To be raffled off to benefit the Detroit Women's Council Navy League of the United States on Thursday, December 8 at the Holiday Dinner.

Going Round And Round And Getting Nowhere

2011-11-03T16:39:00.000-04:00

Some relationships are like that.
Acrylic on Arches paper and cotton fabric with glass bead, buttons, mica and 22K gold leaf. 27 X 38 cm (11 X 15")

Down Here On Earth

2011-10-30T16:09:00.002-04:00

Acrylic on Arches Cover, cotton and polyester with carved mother-of-pearl and 22K gold leaf.

The Captain

2011-10-30T12:54:00.001-04:00

Acrylic paint on Arches Cover, cotton and polyester with tiger's eye, glass beads and Navy button.

The Hunters In The Wallpaper

2011-10-26T18:38:00.002-04:00

Shades of cave paintings...

Acrylic on Arches Cover and cotton Toile de Jouy upholstery fabric with bone and glass beads.

Off The Top Of My Head

2011-10-25T15:14:00.005-04:00

The holidays are coming and I want a small stock of easily produced and sold works. It's the perfect opportunity to use the stash of fabric scraps I bought from Arts and Scraps on Harper in Detroit and make one or two paintings a day for a while.

"A House Divided"

"The Wheel of the Earth Turns To The Sun"

"Eye Eye, Captain!"

"The Fates"

"Byzantium"

"The Mermaid"

"Two Women"

"Prey" (The tank rumbling across the horizon doesn't show very well in this photo, but it's there.)

All paintings on Arches paper in acrylic, fabric and beads.

Jester

2011-10-23T09:33:00.002-04:00

“The artist is still a little like the old court jester. He's supposed to speak his vicious paradoxes with some sense in them, but he isn't part of whatever the fabric is that makes a nation.”

-William Faulkner

Wild Thing...

2011-09-23T09:31:00.000-04:00

... you make my heart sing.

First Time on Ebay

2011-09-22T09:59:00.003-04:00

I have decided to try a few pieces on Ebay. I may eventually sign up for Etsy as well but for now you can take a peek at my wares here...

http://www.ebay.com/sch/erica_erotica/m.html?_nkw=&_armrs=1&_from=&_ipg=25&_trksid=p3686

The Aurochs Jumped Over The Moon

2011-09-14T12:59:00.005-04:00

I've had this cow's skull for years and never did anything with it. Rediscovered it when cleaning out the garage and finally made something of it. I was inspired by Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" and pictures from Lascaux. My aurochs (a very fierce ancestor of the domestic cow) is jumping over a Horned Moon. We should remember our wilder selves.

Acrylic on cow skull. After I varnish it, I may add a tiny rhinestone close to the Moon. It will be a star or planet, as one may see in the sky, and it will also be a little bit "cowboy".

Sad Sweetheart

2011-07-19T13:09:00.001-04:00

My second scrimshaw. Not quite finished but getting there. A little less than two inches long (5 cm.) India ink on bone.

My First Scrimshaw

2011-07-13T15:22:00.003-04:00

Inspired by all those marvelous old artworks I saw in all those seaports. This is a rough old bone bead recycled from an old necklace. I seem to have lost my drypoint needle so used a book binding needle which does not really suffice. But I love the technique. I have located polished tagua nut slices and those are far more sustainable. Will order those for future scrimshaw projects and incorporate them into my collages.

This bead is a little less than 2 inches long.

Cast of Characters

2011-07-13T10:46:00.003-04:00

Appearing now on my front lawn.

Celestial Navigation

2011-06-29T17:36:00.003-04:00

We steer by the stars when dreaming..

Acrylic on paper, silk and cotton, with sequins and glass beads. 10 x 13" or 25.4 x 33 cm.

How To Catch A Sailor

2011-06-24T07:39:00.002-04:00

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

- William Butler Yeats

Acrylic on canvas, wool, silk, cotton, linen and polyester, with garnets, pearls, mother-of-pearl, carved bone, Chinese ceramic, Chinese turquoise, tiger's-eye, glass, lapis, amethyst, peridot, citrine and mica. 18 x 24" or 45 x60 cm.

Widow's Walk

2011-05-31T21:08:00.003-04:00

Acrylic on paper, silk and linen with mica. 10 x 13" or 25.4 x 33 cm.

Three Jacks

2011-05-25T10:57:00.004-04:00

Acrylic on paper, silk, cotton, linen, wool and leather with cowrie shells, mica and sequins. 19.5 x 22 " (uneven) or 49.5 x 55.8 cm.

The Compass

2011-05-21T09:27:00.004-04:00

She scans a horizon of nearly two centuries, trying in vain to imagine his face. The best she can do is paint in tones of Brown and follow the faint traces he has left, like the phosphorescent trail left behind in the wake of a ship, seen only on moonless nights.

Acrylic on paper with silk, cotton and linen, and garnet, amethyst, pearl quartz, bone, lapis, tiger's-eye, glass, shell and Chinese ceramic beads. 10 x 13" or 25 x 33 cm.

Lovely To See You Again

2011-04-25T17:21:00.002-04:00

New painting for the garden. "Lovely to see you again, my friend." 36 x 80" or 91.4 x 203 cm. Acrylic on wood.

The Monster

2011-04-19T18:47:00.003-04:00

This is the Monster. I was completely awestruck by the sight of the dark wave, thorny with broken pilings and debris, moving across the Japanese landscape. This painting is very small, only 12 x 12 inches, but it is the face of the Monster I saw in the wave.

Acrylic on canvas and cotton, with glass beads. 30 x 30 cm.

Meanderings

2011-04-19T18:42:00.004-04:00

Meanderings. What is happening all around us, mostly unnoticed. Inspired by Rick Lieder's BugDreams.com

Acrylic on canvas, silk and cotton with glass beads. 20 x 25 cm. each

The Explorer

2011-03-23T11:20:00.014-04:00

The brigantine skimmed the shoreline of the new country. The yardarms turned, squared the sails, revealed the ghostly line of the beach beyond the breakers like a woman lifting a veil.

The Explorer stood upon the deck of the ship. Across the waters the whinnying of the wild horse herd carried like a song. Scruffy, with unkempt coat and mane and unshod hooves, the stallion called to his mares, gathered them together. Their foals – his children- pranced alongside their mothers, their little necks arched, ears tipped fully forward. The young ones did not feel the nervousness of the stallion - his alert mistrust of the large white bird hovering just off the beach. He had never before heard the creaks and groans of such a bird, nor the flapping of the dark red flags at the tips of the tall masts. The Explorer could just make out the herd as they galloped across the sands, could feel the anxiety of the stallion.

A detailed map dangled from the Explorer’s fingertips. The holds of the ship carried much treasure and many fine navigational instruments. Other ships had carried the bodies of men. The Explorer knew such traders and could have made a fortune in this way. Packed tightly together, the buying and selling of men and women was very profitable, but the ship was ruined forever afterwards – the stink of such trade was too great and there was disease, and infection of the soul as well. The Explorer had wanted nothing to do with treasure of that kind.

The Explorer’s ship was a sweet vessel, and true, and her bowsprit had pointed the way to many discoveries, as surely as the needle on a compass pointed to the North. The discoveries had led to treasure and a lifetime of wealth. Now the Explorer stood watching these wild things, smelling their alarm, even at this distance. Back home, such creatures would have been hitched to fancy carriages, beautifully groomed with perfectly polished and trimmed hooves and necks held tightly in leather harnesses with shiny brass collar ornaments. A fashionable and showy set of animals made a fine impression on one’s colleagues and fellow society members.

The creatures on the beach had escaped from ships wrecked in storm, or their ancestors had.

Desperately they had kicked their way out of the ships’ stalls, broken the ropes that had imprisoned their heads and feet, had plunged into the sea, and, although they had never done it before, they had known how to swim and in what direction. Reaching the shore through the rough and whitened surf, they had shaken off the salty water and located island grasses. Found pools of fresh water. Their bellies became round with the salt that permeated all the vegetation on these barrier islands. In the summer they were tormented by biting flies and they learned to plunge into the ocean to drive them off. But come spring there were sweet fresh shoots to nibble and new grass to eat, and winters were not too long nor too hard. And they thrived, became a family, many families. The stallions fought and won, or lost, made new herds, and the island became their home for generations.

The Explorer knew these creatures would never accept the bridle and bit, would never wear fine leather and brass ornaments, would never be ridden. Would never even accept a caress. They were where they wanted to be, away from ownership, away from the reins.

The spirit of the horses leapt on board, infected the ship and the soul, and the Explorer never wanted to see the fancy carriage horses again. The white sails swelled like the belly of a pregnant mare and the ship of the Explorer headed away from the shore and out into the rising storm.

Acrylic on canvas with leather, silk, velvet, polyester microfiber, cotton, sequins, glass, carved bone, lapis lazuli, quartz, amber, garnets, pearls. 91 x 152 cm (36 x 60 inches)

The Impossibility of Blue Roses

2011-02-25T11:16:00.005-05:00

A woman studies her charts, making ready to set sail once again. She will search the world for impossible blue roses. Her ship embarks from the compass of her heart. The winds are favorable...

After a journey of many days? weeks? months? years? she sights a sliver of land on the horizon. An island! Perhaps the elusive roses grow there. But the winds strengthen into a hurricane, as perfectly spiraled as a nautilus...

... and she is blown off course, all her beautiful navigational instruments and the treasures she has gathered lost to the roiling sea.

Meanwhile, the roses gently nod and sway their full, heavy heads on her garden island, spreading their fragrance far and wide.

Gel-Filled Molds - Yummy!

2011-02-22T16:16:00.006-05:00

I found this replica brass sextant in the gift shop at the Mariners Museum in Newport News and right away could see its potential in regard to new paintings. I shall draw from it and make gel-medium-filled molds which I will apply to my artwork.
This sextant actually does function in a crude way. It would need a lot of adjustments- I could not get the lamp I was focusing on to quite sweep my "horizon" (the window sill.) But I have finally understood how it works, which is already something.

Here is the mold I made from the sextant. It is rough, but I want that fragmentary look.

These are gel medium filled molds of various objects. Once made the molds last for years and I can use them over and over again. They look a little like cookies on a baking sheet, but they don't taste nearly as good.

Now, you can wait for the results!

The Wave

2011-02-07T09:14:00.003-05:00

A sailor in dress blue uniform steps forward with a sharp salute. The song in his heart is on the lips of the woman who breathes it into a silver microphone. Above her on the wall is a map of Newfoundland and Labrador, where the first transatlantic Marconi station was located.

A radio tower beams the song across the world and a Hokusai wave washes over the bow. In another country a woman turns to listen to something coming over the breeze.

Why do I hear "Moonlight Serenade" in my head?

Acrylic on canvas with silk, cotton, leather, wool and rhinestones. 30 x 40 inches and 76 x 101 cm.

Circumnavigation

2011-01-21T18:17:00.005-05:00

Perhaps one needs to travel a great distance to discover the treasure lying in the tangle of seaweed and other flotsam. We're all squared away on that by now?

Acrylic on paper, silk, cotton and linen with garnets, lapis lazuli, peridot, amber, tiger's-eye, amethyst, quartz, citrine, labradorite, hematite, onyx, glass, Chinese ceramic, African trade bead, carved bone, mica, fishing net and 22K gold leaf. 31 x 33 cm.

The Origin of Gems

2011-01-13T14:43:00.003-05:00

White hot and red flames still licked the slowly blackening ground after the eruption. Soon, the cool rains would come and wash traces of minerals into the spaces where gases had bubbled and escaped. Other minerals had come up from the depths of the Cauldron along with the lava. Gold. Copper. Iron. Nickel. Manganese. These ran in rivers along the black banks, solidifying into seams and underground lakes, frozen in their tracks. The air was hot, poisonous, and the sky was as red as the flames.

The weight of the mantle as it rolled over the new land pressed these traces into garnets, diamonds. In other Rooms quartz, peridot, topaz, chalcedony, carnelian, amethyst, hematite, pyrite, grew into giant crystals. They lay, attached to the walls of their original Womb, until the rains and the violent movements of the Earth cracked and freed them. They rolled into the Sea while lightning snapped, twisted and sizzled endlessly overhead, sometimes striking the tormented waters. Unseen, something very small combined and formed, combined and formed under the Oceans, and then it began to twitch, pulse and move.

Acrylic on paper and silk with glass, gold, quartz, garnets, peridots, amethysts and topaz 16.5 x 25 cm.

No Photos Involved

2010-12-20T19:43:00.002-05:00

People, please understand that my paintings are NOT photographs. There is never any photography involved in my paintings. These are all actual paintings on paper. I paint on silk and other materials and glue on gems and beads of various kinds, but the images you see are hand-painted paintings.

I hope we've cleared that up at last.

The Figurehead

2010-12-13T15:43:00.003-05:00

She listed in the dock, fractured and peeling. Her ship was due to be broken up in this harbor. They had sailed the world together, trading in foreign lands. The Master’s hand was steady, firm, seasoned. She trusted his every move and every order, through storm and calm, past treacherous reefs and through the shallows. But now the wood was full of rot and anyway, those days were long past.

She had been carved as an Angel, in the traditional manner, and fastened snugly to the bowsprit. Her eyes, lips, hands and her full, naked breasts embodied the soul of her ship, went forth before all else, parted the seas before the ship and protected the crew. She was its spirit, but the ship was her body; its sails her true wings, caressed always by the strong and callused hands of the crew. Although she was beautifully painted, her Master took pride in her as if she were a wife and adorned her whenever possible. On occasion, in some new port, when the trading had been especially profitable and the Master was well pleased, he would purchase a special, commemorative embellishment for her. In Tahiti he had bought pearls for her neck and had the ship’s carpenter lay them in. After their first exploration of the coastline of Brazil he had had her wings painted in the image of colorful macaw feathers after the astonishing birds they had seen there. And always she was kept in perfect repair, her hands and lovely face always smooth. Never was the sea, or the salt-laden winds, allowed to be harsh to her. And always, the holds were filled with rich goods and the coins, jewels, and beautiful things of the world.

Now she waited, memories of those years flowing over her. She was separated from her ship, destined for a maritime museum. Even in her sorry state she was still of value. She was repaired again – though not as her Master would have done - and set up within sight of the harbor. But her ship - her very Heart, and her true wings, were nothing more than a faded, nearly undecipherable series of entries in a browned and curling Captain’s log, so fragile it could rarely be touched. As she gazed out over the harbor, surrounded by polite museum- goers, in her mind they still flew together over the waves, the Angel and her Ship, with the Master at the helm.

Acrylic on paper, silk and polyester with Moroccan gold-stamped leather, fishing net, carved Tahiti smoky pearl, colored pearls, Chinese hand-painted ceramic pieces, paua shell, glass bead, macaw feathers, garnet, amethyst quartz, peridot, and yellow topaz. 50 x 68 cm (with feather span.)

Side by Side

2010-11-30T10:23:00.002-05:00

My latest sculpture and the Model.

The Woman Warrior

2010-11-29T14:15:00.003-05:00

She started out as Persephone, gathering flowers by the sea, only to be swept up into the arms of Hades on his chariot pulled by four coal-black horses and dragged underground.

But have you ever really looked at coal? Its iridescence? The oily layers of rainbow color under the shiny black? It is never a dull, monochromatic rock, merely, and elementarily, sedimentary. Under certain light it rivals the flowers for color. Its combustibility matched her nature far more closely than the flowers. In truth, she longed to take the reins of the chariot herself and drive those coal-black horses through the mines and tunnels, tearing through Hell like an underground fire that can never be extinguished.

Her face was obliterated by the golden mask that she donned willingly, and she became a Warrior.

Acrylic on paper with glass beads, feather, and Kuba cloth. 38 x 72 cm.

Treasure Dreams

2010-11-04T20:51:00.004-04:00

A woman sleeps and dreams of an underwater treasure. Small tropical fish dart in and out among the anemones she conjures up out of her own depths.

A long-dead Sailor also sleeps still grasping treasure of his own. Jewels and gold are scattered along the floor of the ocean, awaiting the Dreamer. How will they find each other?

Acrylic on paper with glass, pearls, lapis, garnets, amber, bone and 22K gold. 28 x 38 cm.

Honorable Bruce U. Morrow

2010-11-02T10:16:00.002-04:00

This is the Judge who ruled in favor of my outdoor paintings. He is up for reelection today. Needless to say, he has my vote!

Flights of Fancy

2010-10-27T12:53:00.003-04:00

An earthy angel with colorful wings gazes across the sea. In a parlor filled with globes and paintings, easels, and inventions, a hand is sketching out new ideas with a quill pen. A flying machine floats in a brilliant light bulb. Soon the two - artist and angel - will meet in a flight of imagination.

“There is a space between man's imagination and man's attainment that may only be traversed by his longing” - Kahlil Gibran

Acrylic on paper, silk and polyurethane, butterfly and moth wings, and macaw feathers. Approximately 32 x 60 cm.

The Shaman

2010-10-25T10:24:00.004-04:00

"They wished to flower, and flowering is being beautiful: but we wish to ripen, and that means being dark and taking pains." - Rainer Maria Rilke

Acrylic paint on paper, cotton and silk, with glass, green jasper, paua shell and macaw feathers. About 35 x 35 cm. Private collection.

Terra Incognita

2010-10-15T11:21:00.004-04:00

Acrylic on paper. 55 x 38 cm. Private collection

In vino veritas

2010-10-14T15:54:00.003-04:00

"I cook with wine; sometimes I even add it to the food." --- W. C. Fields

(painted wine corks with coffee beans and one bone bead for "other features")

Feather Touch

2010-10-12T21:26:00.002-04:00

My cousin gave me this huge bunch of stunning, multi-colored macaw feathers after he saw my strange collages which use every conceivable thing one can glue to paper.

I am accepting gifts of like nature, especially butterfly wings, which are hard to find. Don't destroy any living thing, but if you find them, I'll be interested! (One friend donated a big bag of wine corks, which she claims was hard work. I told her next time she should call for back-up.)

Snake Eyes

2010-09-21T17:46:00.002-04:00

There he is now, cozying up to Miss Snake Eyes. Doesn't it just figure that these two would find each other? Two of a kind. She's as bad as he is. Tiny little black-hearted thing.

I guess we've all got to have somebody.

Acrylic on paper with ample amounts of tobacco, wine corks, cigarette paper, bone button, glass bead and tiger's eye. 33 x 49 cm.

Bad Habits

2010-09-15T13:16:00.002-04:00

Well, well, look what just rolled off the Ship...

He's coarse and he's mean. A thoroughly unsavory character. He's got a lot of very bad habits. He drinks too much. He smokes. And...I think he cheats at cards.

(Sigh) What can one say but,"Alea iacta est."

At least I figured out what to do with all those old wine corks.

Acrylic on paper with a great deal of tobacco, cork, cotton and one glass bead. 25 x 32 cm.

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble...

2010-09-07T12:49:00.002-04:00

I feel the need to fall in love again - with an idea, not with a person. But how to conjure it up? I'm casting about in the only way I know how - by touching and moving fabrics and papers - swirling gel mediums, semi-precious jewels and other elements. Something will emerge from the Cauldron.

I found part of the bottom of a shoe in the street the other day while walking my dog. Perhaps if I ink it and put it through my printing press?

Walk with me awhile.

Copycats? Let's hope so...

2010-09-05T15:59:00.003-04:00

I'd very much like to think I've been an influence in this new project from the DIA (I think I have!):

Museum brings art outdoors in metro Detroit

Eyes of the Storm

2010-08-30T09:43:00.004-04:00

She looms over the horizon, wild-haired, black as night with eyes of gold. Try as you might to predict her next move, she has her own wheel and her own charts, etched into her smile. She knows no helmsman.

The ship finds a bright crack in the dawn and is safe - for now.

Acrylic on paper, silk and cotton, with glass beads and 22K gold leaf. 28 x 38 cm.

Runaway Horses

2010-08-24T13:53:00.003-04:00

A horse snaps its reins and stampedes across a field of bank notes and Colonial coins. Benjamin Franklin is the unwilling and unwitting jockey on this wild ride. Semi-precious stones, mother-of-pearl, and glass beads - anything that can be traded or has been traded - are scattered across the path.

Acrylic on paper and printed cotton with glass, mother-of-pearl, tiger's eye, hematite and 22K gold leaf. 12 x 16 cm.

Weathervane

2010-08-24T13:38:00.002-04:00

The creak of the weathervane can be heard as the wind blows. Old Colonial-era coins fly by in the breeze from a Southerly direction. An oily sky is black with storm.

The body of the weathervane is the scroll decoration of a turn-of-the-century cash register, on the haunches is the howling and appalled face of a denuded coconut. The arched back leg is a dead sea horse.

Acrylic on paper with silk threads and sand. 28 x 38 cm.

Royalty

2010-08-23T11:50:00.003-04:00

A King and Queen, enemies, stare Janus-like in opposite directions. The only thing they have in common - the one thing that binds them - is their royal T.

Acrylic on paper with leather, wool, glass beads and cowrie shells. 19 x 28 cm.

Fun With Fossils

2010-08-19T07:48:00.005-04:00

No matter what people say, I'm really not a demon. Those little horns on my head are actually cup coral fossils from the Devonian period, about 417 - 354 million years ago. The land which is now known as Michigan was once under an ancient ocean and is particularly rich in fossils of this period. This has led to vast limestone deposits which we quarry today. During the Devonian period, the Earth looked quite different and most of the continents were formed in a "pre-Pangea".

From this period, and with a bit of patience, one can find cup coral...

...delicate crinoids...

...hexageneric corals, like starburst fireworks...

...and brachiopods, gastropods and trilobites (not pictured here.)

Good hunting!

Call the Tune

2010-08-18T13:13:00.002-04:00

A country couple dances in an idyllic setting to the music of two itinerant players. Butterfly wings keep the beat. A horned creature looks on. Is He the one who calls the tune?

Acrylic on paper with glass beads and butterfly wings. 14 x 19 cm.

School of Mermaids

2010-08-17T14:20:00.003-04:00

A school of Mermaids swims by in a cobalt blue and purple sea. A three-masted ship rocks on the horizon, partly hidden by a golden fog bank.

Acrylic on paper with silk, polyester and glass beads. 28 x 38 cm.

Crossroads

2010-08-05T12:30:00.004-04:00

A Knight stands in bright sunshine, gloved hands resting on the pommel of his sword. A dark Lady passes by and gazes at him from under her veils. Although they are strangers they admire one another.

When we come to certain crossroads we find we are changed. New blood can literally come into our lives, as it did over the centuries in Europe, and all over the world. Movement across the globe is natural for humans. We have always wandered and we always shall wander. Borders, walls, language and strange customs will not stop us.

Acrylic on paper and polyester, with labradorite from Canada and glass beads from India and China. About 24 x 33 cm.

The Unfathomable Fashionable Mermaid

2010-07-30T14:51:00.004-04:00

The truly fashionable mermaid this year will be wearing her delicate blue-green fish scales all the way up to her throat and let found detritus give full impact to her look. She will don a pair of treasure coin sunglasses, edged in paua shell and grace her ears with various forms of dead sea life which have been mounted with baroque and freshwater pearls. Topping off her outfit will be a hat also made of found objects, in this case a lovely grey and well-weathered length of rope with two simple pieces of matching paua shell, a perfect balance for the glasses.

Acrylic on paper and silk with pearls and paua shell. 14 x 19 cm.

Spill

2010-07-28T17:48:00.003-04:00

A Mermaid has unlocked a treasure box and has taken the only thing she wants - a mirror formed from the letter "O". A ship appears out on the horizon in the lens of a telescope, itself shaped as an "O".

The now discarded treasure box spills its contents into the "O"cean behind her.

Acrylic on paper and silk with cotton, polyester, velveteen, glass beads, rhinestones, lapis lazuli, garnets, peridots, quartz and freshwater pearls. 19 x 28 cm.

Chambermusic

2010-07-26T09:46:00.002-04:00

Honey bees busy themselves in their chambered hive. Lotus bloom in stunning profusion from the chambered pods that bob and float in a quiet back bay on Lake Erie. This is the music of the height of summer. Take your canoe and paddle gently through the flowers - and listen.

All music emerges from rooms and chambers, both large and small, domestic and wild.

Acrylic paint on silk and paper with 22K gold leaf. 19 x 28 cm.

The Perfect Crime...

2010-07-20T10:32:00.005-04:00

...book to take to the beach. I just ordered Robert K. Wittman's memoir, "Priceless: How I Went Undercover To Rescue The World's Stolen Treasures" from Amazon. Hopefully it will arrive in time for my vacation because it promises to be very entertaining and absorbing.

The book tells of Wittman's years as the founder of the FBI's Art Crime Team. I heard an interview with the author on NPR. You can read the article or listen here: NPR Priceless Article

Opening (excerpt from a new story by Vanna Vechian*)

2010-07-03T09:01:00.006-04:00

I am an artist, 49 years of age. My medium was sculpture. I have excelled, become well known and well off. A few months ago, however, I decided I was tired of making sculpture. Partly, I had said whatever I could say. Partly, the medium is bankrupt. We have seen it all before, from classical sculpture to sculpture made of trash and exhibiting one's unmade bed after a night of sex, drink and smoke. Sculpture is over for me.

My medium will hence be myself. I will go down to the very essence and will not hide behind a thing anymore. Before you accuse me, I am not saying this is new per se. Perhaps performance art is bankrupt as well. It is new to me, however, and I have something I want to say. On the human condition. Yes, you might say … Narcissism, mid-life crisis… Maybe. I hope to find out.

The present will bring my first event as a performance artist. I could have done this anywhere I wanted on the back of my reputation. Yet I wanted a modest venue. Ironically that was harder. Evidently their reputations are more fragile. I had to exhaust my extensive network of contacts to be given the opportunity to conduct the performance, when a small gallery in Hoboken, NJ, stuck out their neck and allowed it. They, as I, will run a risk, but they decided the publicity will be worth it, regardless.

The exhibition space is a single big and square room of approximately 10 x 10 sq. m. The ceiling is some 6 m high. A great space. It has been divided in half, one side for me, the other for the audience. What separates the two sides is a glass wall. It can be made into a great one-sided mirror using a second panel, such that the mirror side faces me, who on the other hand can be seen at all times by the audience. The control is on the other side, needless to say. Every 10th visitor will get a code to enable her or him to raise or lower it depending on its current position.

I will be in this space for one month. A long time, as I will not leave my 50 sq. m and there are no windows to the outside world. I have no TV or radio. There will be no books or papers, nothing to read. There will be all manner of writing and drawing materials and paper. Whatever I write or draw during a day will be collected and placed in a folder on the other side, for the audience to see. I cannot live without music, so will have a CD player, with an allowance of two hours per day. The idea - mine! - is to be isolated with my self and thoughts, albeit with an audience. The public can visit me 24 hours a day. For safety, a guard is present at the entrance, outside the exhibition space, and all visitors will leave any luggage there and pass through a metal detector. Both facilities are at my expense.

This is the day of the opening. I am in my apartment preparing. I say preparing - there is little to do. I have to choose what to wear at the opening and what CDs to take. Here I am - the famous artist, with more money than I'd ever need - and I am frightful and nervous. I knew I would be when I planned this event and that the nervosity in fact would be the whole point: I wanted to meet my naked core, be thrown back to myself and show the result to the public. The audience is necessary to place me on my toes. Still, to know why does not fully ease my nerves. I think of my actor friends who will suffer this all the time, no matter what their experience.

The CDs are easy. My wardrobe now is more difficult. Should I select one of my power suits? Or rather my most seductive wear? Or things I wear when I lounge around at home? Or those I wear when visiting a friend? Or the rags I wear when sculpting? I narrow down the selection to the power suit - for pleading with the audience to give me this life - or the work clothes - I, the ex-sculptor to be. I will settle for a combination. Work clothes, my dusty rags, over the refined chemise, glittery pantyhose and my best set of underwear. The combination makes sense to me. I dress slowly, as if choreographed, and am ready.

My first opening... I remember it well. I had been out of Art College for four years. I had graduated quite well, but had gone underground soon after. I felt I needed the time to reinvent myself and determine what I needed to create and why. Some of my peers, many less talented, had already made a mark of sorts and were being talked about. It was the faith of that gallery owner who had admired my graduation work, had said that he was ready for me when I was ready myself, that gave me my start. I will not say this first exhibition contained my best work ever, but on the whole it was good and some pieces are still counted among my best, over two decades later. The question I now ponder - was I more nervous then than I am now? The answer is no. Then I was not nervous at all. Not cocky, but simply confident. My work was good. I knew that.

This time, however, there is no work. Just me. Arguably past my prime. I draw confidence from being fit and on weight. Indeed, it is not my nudity per se that makes me nervous. It is not my body alone that is on display; there is my person and reputation. True, but it is the artistic side that worries me the most.

My nerves leave me when I enter the gallery. It is my turf. It is three hours before the opening. I am at ease when I speak to the proprietor and an assistant. They are clearly in awe of me and my fame, in spite of what I have decided to involve them with. They know full well what I will do. I cannot help a smile when this phrase crosses my mind: I will exhibit the empress' new clothes.

After going through the organizational details once more, I go and check upon the spaces again. All the finishing touches will have been made. It is an awesome creation, if I say so myself. The half for the audience consists of three arrangements of settee, two easy chairs and a coffee table. At the far end there is a little coffee bar, to be open day and night. The rest is open space, good for, I guess, a crowd of some 50 people. Its walls and ceiling are matte black. The large glass partition leaves no door to my half. I look at that half from the that of the audience. I will live there. I WILL LIVE THERE! It is so bare! The walls on my side are made entirely of mirrors, all the 6 m up to the ceiling, all 10 m, respectively 5 m along. And so is the ceiling itself, and the floor. When there, I get the feeling of floating in mid-air and also to be super-exposed. There is little furniture. A desk with a chair, a table with a chair for my meals, an armchair and a side-table with the CD player. The tables and desk are made of Plexiglas. Pens, pencils, crayons, paper, a pair of scissors are on a shelf below the sidetable’s top surface. There is a kitchenette in one corner. The refrigerator can be stocked from the outside - the gallery's office. There is a shower enclosed in a glass partition. I have a single bed, again enclosed by a glass partition complete with door. This I thought necessary, as I did not allow myself bed covers, therefore needed a somewhat higher temperature here. Also because I realized I am sensitive to draughts. The toilet finally is made of glass and again needed its own partition, of glass of course, because of the inevitable smells. Should I have omitted this partition? I might have, but here we are. I can be well seen, whatever I do. Finally, I have found it necessary to include a sculpture of mine (quite appropriately my tribute to Marcel Duchamp, La Mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires. I am célibataire here, made nude by herself!) I am not renouncing what I created. I am proud of what I made and it provides good decoration. It defines my past and I merely discontinued making more. There are three fixed video cameras that register my performance - one from the back of the audience's side, near the ceiling pointing down, one from the same position at my side, pointing down sharply, and one from one of the side of the room at chest level. All have a semi-wide angle. Then there is a fourth camera in a corner near the partition that follows me, directed by the heat of my body. To register is mandatory in performance art, I have considered, so I have called for these cameras. Whether I will produce a film of my performance and issue the inevitable DVD remains to be seen.

The invited guests enter. Many I know. There are many friends or familiar figures of the art world, fellow-artists, critics, collectors... They do not know what is in store. They only know - Vanna Vechian - The opening, from --- to --- (1 month.) By implication, 'the Opening' is the title of the exhibition. I do not let on. 'You'll find out soon,' I smile, 'It is new for me too.' We have a drink of champagne or two and chatter away nicely. I have a good time and forget myself. Finally, the owner taps his glass for attention. We all turn to him, myself included, still part of the crowd.

'How do you like the display you see on the other side of the glass screen? What you see, I think, is a beautiful, meaningful commentary on how easily the essence, the structure of how we live is overlooked if we are not careful. You see life's bare bones, transparent, almost absent, of course if we except Vanna's beautiful sculpture, the most real item there. Sadly, that Vanna is no more. The sculpture is a reminder of her past. Unrenounced, but passed. Vanna Vechian will no longer speak through her artifacts. She will now speak through herself. Time for the essence. The essence, not of the world that surrounds us, but of what a human being is, the human being called Vanna Vechian. No words will she speak but you will understand nonetheless. Do listen.'

He pauses. We all look at him. But with the seconds, a minute ticking by, people start turning my way. I merely smile.

Until he calls me forward. 'Vanna, it is time.' And, 'Friends, do make some space.' I go forward and stand next to him. He creates a circle of two arm lengths around us.

'Vanna, may I ask you...'

I look around and see all in the eyes. I do not speak. They are at rapt attention, with one or two skeptics among their number, of course, of course... I then leave gently push through the crowd – I know most, mind you – and leave this half of the space. In the office the assistant awaits me. He unlocks the door to my space and ushers me in. I am in. For one month.

I hear the door being locked behind me. I am in this insane space, with mirrors and mirrors and my multiple self. The window in front of me – they have dimmed the lights and it is so dark on the other side. I see vague figures - the ones that stand up front. I move to the centre of the space. There, slowly, I strike a number of poses and turn around full circle as I go along. I cannot help being a touch embarrassed. Not an actress.

Then I stand still for a minute or two, until with deliberate movements I start taking off my clothes. One shoe down, and another, and I step out of the baggy combat trousers I used to wear when I worked - the glittery pantyhose with embroidered calves is revealed. My sweatshirt goes over my head - a tight-fitting silk top is revealed, square cleavage, cap sleeves, bare arms. I neatly fold up both. The same choreography of poses whilst turning is executed. I am embarrassed still.

I sit down and take off the left leg of the hose – can this be done more elegantly? -, next the right and fold the set on top of the work clothes. The top follows. As do my bra and panties. Picking up the pile of clothes I proceed to the door. I knock and it opens. I pass the clothes over and the door closes again. I go to the centre of the room and assume what is known as the display position: legs apart, arms high and hands behind my neck. Embarrassed! What am I doing here? So narcissistic! Yes, get a grip, woman! You have to go on. I concentrate on controlling my breath.

Here is a 49-year-old woman, famous, wealthy and nude. She has a good body for her age, but she is clearly a day or two older than the average wench on display. She is being judged. Even if many of the audience are sympathetic, she will still be judged. There are two or three past lovers in the audience, going back 15, 20 years, who saw her unadorned then. They may be the more ruthless judges. Or even embarrassed themselves.

I now turn around in steps - by one quarter circle every minute or so until I have rotated twice. Then I stand still for five more minutes until the audience starts to appear restless. Time for the final action until the long, long month starts.

As agreed, the owner lowers the panel. The great mirror makes me truly alone. I stare at the nude form in front of me. I am obscenely nude. There. Nude. My essence? Who knows? Hogwash, perhaps! And why do I say ‘obscenely’? Why do play judge myself and what’s more with moral implication? Be breath, no more.

I sigh, then shrug my shoulders and walk up to the desk to fetch the scissors. Razor-sharp barber's scissors they are. I look at my head of hair. Go on, forthwith! The scissors go snap, snap as I cut and cut and cut strands of my hair away with decisive gestures. The back of my head is hard to do, but I manage. I have play-practiced. No prizes at stake. In mere minutes my shoulder length, well groomed hair looks like a tramp's, or, dare I say it, that of a victim of cancer. (The human condition, but not mine…) My pubic hair is trimmed already. I fetch an electric trimmer and complete the look of both my head and my pubic hair. Vanna Vechian, mark II - brand spanking new! - is finished.

To be continued...

(*Read more stories by Vanna Vechian)

His Daydream

2010-04-26T16:37:00.000-04:00

I wouldn't mind turning into a vermillion goldfish.

- Henri Matisse

In my daydream he is a vermillion goldfish in a koi pond in my garden in my new home in Hawaii. With luxurious flowers surrounding us both.

Persistence

2010-03-29T09:12:00.002-04:00

“If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise."

- William Blake

I'm still here. Just in between studios and not working from my own computer. I have no access to my photos or other programs, so cannot load any new work.

Not that there is much new work. I have been very distracted by the improvements I have been making in my home in order to be able to move my studio back there. In the long run it will be well worth it, but it does take time.

So bear with me, if you are a follower of this blog. Summer will find me in a bright new space.

A Good In-Vest-ment?

2010-02-02T14:28:00.003-05:00

When I cleaned out my studio just prior to the holidays, I rediscovered a stash of leather and suede men's vests which I had purchased years ago intending to decorate them.

Rather than donate the vests to the Salvation Army, I decided to paint at least a few. I have done five of them in a Renaissance Faire theme, with Knights and Ladies and Dragons and Kings. I have twenty vests in all, and will slowly paint them in between other projects.

On this particular vest, a brave Knight leads a captured, but still fierce Dragon by a chain leash. The Dragon's collar declares him "Owned" and he holds a crystal ball with the Knight's castle seen through a mystical mist.

Men's size Medium, acrylic paint on deep teal green suede. $50.-

Oh, The Irony Of It All...!

2010-01-24T09:20:00.004-05:00

"First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win".

(attributed to Mahatma Gandhi)

My New Song

2009-12-30T13:56:00.016-05:00

This is what I got as a Happy New Year's present from Poetry Man, Gary Brumley! He wrote a new song just for me. Here it is...

The lyrics:

shes a leather jacket
hunny
and funny
and takes the cake
fears no mistakes
and swingin that broom of colors
across the wall, yeah
shes got her self a good man
a son in a marching mans land
raising her hand of banter
in the courts and the halls
she does things quite ok
playing her hand just for the play
a hand for keeping it right
when it all goes down
trekking around the world like a lone wolf dog
pirate ships and river canoes
and a knack for loving the blues
playing her hand of stars
and the dance of the rigadoon
shes quite allright in the toss
in the world of the win and the loss
with a lone wolf dog and a knack
for finding a crew
A leather jacket hunny
on the shores of the witty and the funny
a lone wolf dog knows the knack
for painting the blues
and swingin that broom of colors
across the the wall yea yea
shes a lone dog wolf
with a knack for painting the blues

Black, White and Blues (story by Vanna Vechian)

2009-12-11T09:46:00.007-05:00

The city: Paris

The time: Circa 1930s

Please enjoy this erotic tale by my long-time partner-in-crime, Vanna Vechian.

.................................................................................................

It still feels like a forbidden act. Jean-Pierre, the man I live with, is out and I know he is not coming back tonight. He has his secrets and is open about it. I was once a good Catholic girl and still feel guilty when I steal away from our empty apartment, empty of him, and come here. As if it were the only thing I do that a Catholic girl would not! The little club in this side street of a wet and dreary alley is warm, full and filled with chatter. Delightful! And smoke, of every substance one can light, burn and inhale. The piano desperately plays 'Wolverine Blues'. After the dozen or so visits I have made here, I am greeted and cheered by crowds of men and women alike who are not terribly discriminate. I love them!

I have done well in dolling myself up. Not like the lady I should be, nor like the whore I am not. Imagine something in between. Purple stockings, garter belt and brassière - the best, the finest from Mme. Fauxprince in a positively naughty colour! Heavenly blue chemise, and hard blue silky dress and ankle boots. Pearl necklace and earrings. Lush purple flower in my hair and I am done. No, I practically submerge myself into my perfume, enough to make a rock fall for me.

I find a seat at the front of the stage. Ah, they know my credit and I have to only to wink. On comes a bottle of cheap and cheerful champagne and a smoking pipe with the haze of opium. A bit of both and I hardly notice the charming no-good with the look of a god in decline that sits beside me. He holds my hand. I ignore him.

"Someday he'll come along, the man I love!" Oh, that voice is so seductive! It is so strong and tender, and so relentlessly softly draws me in. Drawn into the world of love, of loves past, present and future. My man! I am oblivious when I press my hand into my lap, crushing the dress, and close my thighs. Yet it is a woman that sings. She is the subject of my desire. Back home they would despise her, that black thing like chocolate. All I know is that she is one woman, with the voice of a sweet world-wise angel.

I have sat with her before, after her performance. She spoke French with an accent, slowly, languidly and, anyway, she said little in that wondrous low and high woman's voice. The other times she just lazily smiled at me, before being taken away by other admirers. Tonight she will sit with me again, if my stars are right, and I shall surely help them.

For the moment her singing and the understated, but theatrical style of delivery spellbind me. Her dress is simple, silver and skin-tight, following, accentuating her detailed movements. Ah! Glitter, song and feminine appeal, all in the haze of champagne and opium.

When silence falls after the closing notes from the piano, I hardly notice when she descends from the stage, stands there for a moment and decides to approach my table. She waves the punk next to me away and sits down in his place.

"Bonsoir, ma belle." Without asking she takes my bottle of champagne and pours her mouth full, not caring about the inevitable spill. I should compliment her on her ravishing performance, but it seems inappropriate. Instead I offer her my pipe. She inhales deeply. "Merci." It is she that now takes my hand. "Let's not talk, shall we? Let's just sit for now." And we sit. Alone together, but for her warm hand, a lifeline.

Another bottle and another pipe.

Then she whispers, "choisissez un homme." I hear, but do not understand. "Pick a man, pick one you like. We'll need one." We'll need a man. Yes. One. Of course. We would need one, wouldn't we? Now, which one? The punk who held my hand? No, sir. There are limits. Not many are alone, whether in the company of wives or hookers. The fat, sad man over there? He is well dressed, but too fat and old for my taste. Then I look at her and say, 'The pianist. Let’s have him.' If she is surprised, she does not show it. She laughs. 'My, can't you see he is busy? Not only that, but I have him every night. He is my husband. But I am not mean. Let’s have him. He is very good with his hands! A little more patience, though. Two or three more tunes and he will be done." We wait at the table and watch him play. I don't know why I picked him. Nor why she picked him, when she did. The reason may be the same. He is as pale as she is dark, his face is a mask, as expressionless as hers is expressive. Tragedy and comedy, these two. His hands are expressive, yes, cavorting along the keys like young animals. The music they make is spirited, so the man himself will have a spirit. Let the masked man surprise me. The finale he plays is understated, subtle and then he makes to get up. My accomplice hisses, "Go on then, why don't you arrest him before he finds other company."

---------------

We make our way out of the bar, into the fresh air outside. Fresh alright, but spoilt city air in quality. Sobering in two ways, if not for the strength of our affliction. We walk hand in hand, she in the middle. What will he be thinking? Is he, are they used to this? And what is 'this'? Am I used to it? Of course. We all are. These are the times and this is us.

Their habitat is just a few turns away in another alley. A slum outside, she ushers us into some version of heaven. He, the pianist, holds my hand now. The room is warm. She lights a few candles and releases the exotic palette of their abode. An opulent blue dominates, but there are blood reds, sandy yellows, airy silvers reflecting the flames and more. Before we know it, he and I are seated on the edge of the bed under its canopy. She rummages around for a moment and then joins us, the man with the fingers in the middle now, and hands me a pipe.

One breath and I taste the most potent dope my experienced lips have ever drawn in. Dear me! My way with dope is not to part with consciousness, but in a way that is exactly what happens. I remain conscious, sober almost, but my consciousness is remote and passive and my body independent.

My trance fixes on a set of three masks on the wall opposite us, three of a kind. They are like African masks, but not traditional, rather according to the current modernist style. Yellow and blue, blue and red, silver and blue. I register that my body, on impulse, gets up and takes the red for her and the yellow for him, returning for the silver for myself. They have put them on and I follow suit. As if needed, the masks are the catalysts for our play.

Mr.Yellow serves this game adeptly. He unveils his dark angel first, as I look on, that is: my detached consciousness does. I have not been with a dark woman before. She appears otherworldly strong and statuesque, with her almost glossy dark skin and toned muscles, yet extremely feminine, with narrow waist and taut, yet full, breasts. Her strange, impassive mask makes her living body all the more vibrant.

Then he undresses me. My blissful state renders the word 'shame' meaningless. And his touch is feather light. It is titillating, in spite of the fog between my mind and my body. My body swarms, while he undresses me and follows all my curves in passing, lightly, without emphasis. My eyes look at him and my mind takes it all in. When he is done he guides me towards his warm mistress, who embraces me. Whether he undresses I do not know. My consciousness narrows. All I am is a sensory instrument to the skin along all of her moving body and to the touch of their hands - there are too many of those to just be hers. We do not kiss, but do I sense her lips here on my body, or there, and there? Or are they his? Do I feel male lips and rough cheeks? My mask is on, or is it? - I have my eyes closed. Do sense my own lips kiss her smooth resilient skin, her nipples, her upper and nether lips? And his male skin, quite soft for a man, with patches of fine hair here and there? I must be in pure ecstasy, a worshipper in the original religion, that, where all words fail, where the sword is mightier than the pen, where wars have started, which has forced others to become hermits, not able to handle it - oh, I am the worshipper, but also the altar, the deity, the holy spirit, the devil and the virgin all in one. I remember my climax, or climaxes - I have no way to tell, I recollect no details. I think I remember convulsions of hers. I have seen and tasted her most intimate areas and juices, and his.

---------------

I remember waking up in the early morning to the sound of his playing Debussy on the old upright piano squashed into their humble space, she next to me in the bed, both of us naked still. She smiles at my opening eyes and hands me a mug of coffee. I am drowsy still and a little embarrassed. Hers is such a strong presence. I sit and drink the coffee curved in on myself, before I regain my confidence.

I then dress and prepare to leave. I cannot stay. Not now. I want to remain in that unfathomable night. We have not spoken and I will not. She understands, I sense. I kiss her on the lips and blow him one. Before I leave, she silently hands me my mask and points at the other two that are back on the wall.

I know what she means.

.................................................................................................
Acrylic on paper, silk and velvet with 22k gold leaf. 33 x 50 cm. Click on painting to enlarge.

Pink and Blue

2009-11-19T17:01:00.004-05:00

Two new paintings, both rather small and the subject matter light...

The first is The Key To My Heart, that is to say, sweet words and poetry. They put a girl's head in the clouds. She has keys where her ears should be. The world is pink cotton and heart candies.
Acrylic on paper and silk with 22k gold leaf. 25 x 32 cm.

Not so the Blues, which is jangly chords and piano keys and sheet music, not sweet music. Smoky blues and stained glass.

Acrylic on paper, silk and velvet, with ceramic tiles, cowrie shells and glass beads. 22 x 25 cm.

The Tease

2009-11-16T16:46:00.004-05:00

This tiny tidbit is a very small part of a larger painting done to inspire my friend, Vanna Vechian, to write another bedtime story for us. You may remember that she wrote the very erotic Coffee Bar after a couple of my coffee paintings had been arranged in a collage.

This time the setting is quite different, but no less intriguing. We will be transported back in time to another era. But you will have to be patient and allow Ms. Vechian to weave her spell. This tidbit is just to whet your appetite for things to come.

Looking Good For Michigan Artists!

2009-11-12T08:38:00.003-05:00

An nice article by Christina Hall about the end of our fight with the City of Grosse Pointe Park:

Grosse Pointe Park Drops Fight Over Yard Art

The article appeared right next to another article about my fellow artist Ed Stross, who has been in a fight with the City Of Roseville for seven long years for painting the word, "Love" on his outside studio wall. He has won another victory in the Michigan Court of Appeals, which has ordered a new trial:

Roseville Muralist Avoids Jail

Things are looking up for Michigan artists today. Let's hope, for the sake of this great State, that it stays that way.

The Flower and the Fire

2009-11-11T08:35:00.003-05:00

She's a complicated woman.

Acrylic on paper and silk with amber, 22k gold leaf, lavender and tobacco. 25 x 34 cm.

Men of Letters

2009-11-06T12:43:00.006-05:00

It would seem ironic that the small objects that can free minds and bodies and promote justice are at their best when bound tightly, chained together in rows in a galley and forced to pull together.

Galley:

Nautical.
a seagoing vessel propelled mainly by oars, used in ancient and medieval times, sometimes with the aid of sails.

Or: (formerly, in the U.S. Navy) a shoal-draft vessel, variously rigged, relying mainly on its sails but able to be rowed by sweeps.

Printing.
a long, narrow tray, usually of metal, for holding type that has been set.

A pair of hands types on an old-fashioned keyboard. An inkwell is open and papers with love poems lie strewn on a tabletop. The inventor of the Cherokee alphabet, Sequoyah, points to his letters –writing was referred to by the Indians as “talking leaves” - on a sheet of paper which billows away from the typist like a sail on a ship. A Naval report from the 18th century is printed in the newspaper of the day. Rowers bend to their task as they traverse a world map and rough seas. And an invisible Printer pulls at the handle of his press as the rowers pull at their oars.

These are the Men of Letters.

Acrylic on paper and silk with coffee, lead letterpress type, decals, glass beads and yellow metal. 37.5 x 41 cm.

A Ghost of Myself

2009-11-04T20:04:00.003-05:00

After voting yesterday my son and I paid a visit to the Detroit Science Center to see the “Accidental Mummies of Guanajuato” exhibition. Detroit is the first of seven cities on the tour of the mummies. Because of certain soils and certain dry conditions, mummies occurred naturally in Guanajuato and have been a tourist attraction for years. They are on view in this exhibit.

It was a very gentle show of very quiet, long-dead people. The overriding impression was of a dull brown, the color of a worn-out paper lunch bag. Everything had become a shade of that color, from the parchment-like skin stretched over fragile bones to the ribbons and bows and buckles and stockings left clinging to the remarkably tiny, mostly very Indian bodies.

Years ago one of my professors brought to class the mummified body of a cat that had squeezed under the crawl space of his house and died. It was beautiful in death in a pose of agony that was nothing more tragic than the slackening of muscles and jaw. It had taken on the exact same brown color as the human bodies in the exhibit. It was almost weightless and there was no odor at all, except the soft odor of dust and earth. We spent hours drawing the twisted form, understanding the form and the process.

At the exhibit I came face to face with the figure of a woman who had been very old when she died. She was fully dressed in a formerly colorful skirt and shawl, with a full head of white hair and, as tiny as she was, gave the impression of a woman who was secure in a certain level of power and intelligence. I knew at once she had been a witch before even reading the copy. And that she had been loved.

She greeted me with her hollowed-out eyes as if she knew me, and seemed to invite me to come over to the other side for a visit. So I painted this portrait of myself as a ghost, faded and brown and haunting empty rooms with chains rattling and my jaw hanging loose, too. The map in the painting tells us where we have been and where we might be going.

Acrylic on paper and silk with feather border. 32 x 40 cm.

New Marching Orders

2009-11-04T08:20:00.005-05:00

My next legal challenge has arrived! My 18-year-old son, voter registration card and picture ID in hand, was not allowed to vote in Tuesday’s elections because Michigan has a law that one must register 30 days or more before the election at hand. Supposedly this is to give the city clerk time to send the voter registration. But he had the voter registration! And when he went to the Secretary of State in order to get his license, he had to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was an American citizen and a Michigan resident by providing all the relevant documents.

He has lived in this very house all his life and we can prove that handily. So why shouldn’t he be allowed to vote?

The other little known fact is that IF he had registered to vote 6 months before his 18th birthday, he would have been allowed to vote in this election. But how many people know about that exception to the 30 day rule? Very few, I’ll wager.

So we are writing a letter to State Representative, Tim Bledsoe, who seemed very interested by the issue at last night's party. Hopefully we can get that law modified to reflect an individual voter’s reality.

It’s always something, isn’t it?

Case Dismissed!

2009-10-31T11:06:00.004-04:00

The fight is over; the city of Grosse Pointe Park has thrown in the towel. The case has been officially withdrawn by the city in the Michigan Court of Appeals.

Now the work begins to craft a new ordinance. Meanwhile, I will indulge myself by yelling, "Haaallleeellluuujjjaaah!"

(Photo of fight between Shane Mosley and Antonio Margarito courtesy of Lori Shepler and the Los Angeles Times, January 24, 2009)

What?!

2009-10-15T08:09:00.000-04:00

My son is 18 tomorrow! He... he's not old enough to be 18!

Pitch

2009-10-13T17:02:00.010-04:00

Pitch:

In Music: the highness or lowness of a note in relation to other notes.

In a Nautical sense: to plunge with alternate fall and rise of bow and stern, as a ship.

Or, as a noun: turpentine, paint, resins and tars carried aboard wooden ships for maintenance tasks such as waterproofing.

In this tiny painting, a ship's hold is full of treasure. The vessel glides past the female figurehead of another ship which heads toward a suggested vision of tropical islands. Small, fragments of shells play notes from a hymn from the 19th century - one that is no longer sung. But was once sung in 4/4 time.

The entire piece is held together by thick black lines which suggest the pitch used to caulk wooden ships.

Acrylic on paper, silk and leather, with sand, broken paua shells, garnets, glass beads, pearls, lapis and silver. 32 x 19.5 cm.

The Pool

2009-10-07T08:34:00.004-04:00

A Woman enters a pool on a moonlit evening and cradles a Fish in her hands. The fish releases roe ( in the form of tiny garnets) into the water. An image of a Hunter appears on its side.

Above the Woman's head there plays music across the skies and this same music is echoed in the V of her loins in the cool waters.

In Celtic culture to eat a certain fish, usually a salmon, is to gain esoteric knowledge. In many other cultures as well, eating a fish is associated with a deity, or with fertility.

Acrylic and coffee on paper and silk, with glass beads, garnets, paua shells, pearls and peacock feathers. I will measure this painting and update later today.

They're Baaaack!

2009-09-17T13:49:00.003-04:00

BREAKING NEWS! I returned from the studio to find an email from my attorney informing me that the City of Grosse Pointe Park has appealed the decision of Wayne County Circuit Court Judge Bruce U. Morrow. Now the case will proceed to the Michigan Court of Appeals, just two steps away from the United States Supreme Court.

What can one say, but, "Bring it on!"? The First Amendment will ultimately prevail.

Mishipeshu Made Me Do It

2009-09-14T09:37:00.011-04:00

I'm clinging to a granite cliff, which bellies out toward a wild, unpredictable and deep blue inland sea.

I have a very narrow foothold on a ledge that slopes sharply toward the ice-cold water, and it is as slippery as a freshly waxed dance floor.

There is no guardrail. The deep lugs of my hiking boots are caked with earth and pine needles and, as sturdy as they are on the trail offer no grip at all on this surface. Above my head writhe fantastic creatures from out of shamans' dreams. The largest has a spiny back, long horns of gleaming copper, and a long tail that lashes the waves and overturns canoes.

It wasn't as though I hadn't been warned.

But the temptation to view ancient pictographs was not to be resisted. Not by a painter.

The pictographs are delicate, easily missed if you cast your gaze much higher than a man can reach.

Painted in red ochre and sturgeon oil for thousands of years, up until just prior to living memory, they were hidden from the world - their exact location known only to a few Natives and fisherman, and mentioned in Longfellow's "Song of Hiawatha" - until 1958. Winter ice storms and powerful waves have stolen many over the centuries, but some, mostly from the 17th and 18th century, are still visible to us as we pick our way cautiously along the shelf of rock in Agawa Bay, Lake Superior Provincial Park, Ontario.

The most famous painting here is a depiction of the animal manitou, Mishipeshu, the Great Lynx, or Underwater Panther. Although he is always depicted as feline, he possesses reptilian characteristics, such as a spiny, stegosaurus-like back. I think he is very like a dragon. He has horns of copper because he is the guardian of the metal, found in the Lake Superior area. He can be evil, stirring up sudden, violent storms, waves and whirlpools with his tail, cracking ice and upsetting canoes. Many lives have been lost to Mishipeshu. It is best to make an offering of tobacco to him before setting out on a canoe trip of any significant length. The beautiful and fearsome painting of Mishipeshu at Agawa Rock is thought to have been painted by Shingwaukonce, the Ojibwa chief who told his stories to ethnologist Henry Schoolcraft in the early 19th century. It was painted to commemorate a war party after Shingwaukonce fasted and dreamed for four days at the rock.

"Lo! how all things fade and perish!
From the memory of the old men
Pass away the great traditions,
The achievements of the warriors,
The adventures of the hunters,
All the wisdom of the Medas,
All the craft of the Wabenos,
All the marvellous dreams and visions
Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets!"

-from "Song of Hiawatha" Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1855

Dreams of Flight

2009-09-10T16:43:00.004-04:00

Along the shore of Lake Superior one can find the battered wings of monarch butterflies. The seemingly fragile insect migrates to Michigan from Mexico every spring, but those that make it as far as the southern shore of Superior may truly find the powerful lake storms too much for them. But migration is the natural way of life for these creatures, and one can witness the gathering of huge flocks of these butterflies on sandy beaches all over Michigan and Canada, as they await the perfect time to rise up as one and fly away for the winter. The trees, and then the skies become alive with color and movement during their passage.

I collected a few butterfly wings, and a few delicately patterned blue and white Blue Jay feathers. I added a molded impression in gel medium of a paper wasp's nest, and one of my coffee paintings of an Indian woman, done after an Edward Curtis photograph. The Woman dreams of flight, which is the natural way of life for all the creatures which surround her.

Acrylic on paper with coffee, deerhide, glass beads, garnets, pipestone, pearls, paua shells, amber, feathers and butterfly wings. 28 x 38 cm.

Mona Lisa Smile

2009-09-07T14:45:00.002-04:00

I present to you the very sensible opinion of Judge Bruce U. Morrow, who apparently knows how to keep things short and sweet:

Mona Lisa Smile

The Art of Victory

2009-09-06T17:48:00.002-04:00

We were having lunch on a remote lakeshore, listening to the sounds of loons. My cell phone suddenly rang with a message from my attorney that we won our four-year-long court case over the display of my paintings in our yard. Judge Bruce Morrow sensibly ruled that the sign ordinance under which my husband had been charged was unconstitutionally vague, and he reversed the guilty verdict of Grosse Pointe Park's Municipal Judge Jarboe. The Municipal Court was ordered to dismiss the charges and to rewrite the sign code to read as clearly constitutional.

Since we have only just this evening rolled into town from the wilds of Canada (even further from the reaches of any cell phone service) I have little energy to report further on this or anything else and look forward only to a glass of wine and a movie. But you can read the first announcement in the Metro Times... here:

The Art of Victory

Mine

2009-08-24T13:21:00.008-04:00

Now, this one is definitely mine. I picked up the Wildman himself at the airport just last night and he was able to identify himself as captured photographically by one of the training staff while patrolling through some very lush and wet woods. He and his fellow traveller were tired, having gotten very little sleep all week, but well satisfied with their training. It appears the action was realistically grimy and noisy with blanks fired from M-16s and fake grenades. Much of it happened at night, deep in the woods, complete with furious attacks by a group known only as "Reaper". This nefarious group had a habit of attacking from treetops, booby-trapping campsites, and leaving laminated Grim Reaper cards in one's very own sleeping bag (after climbing in with muddy boots to teach one a lesson about leaving one's camp and equipment unguarded.) And of course they were all bitten from head to toe by the voracious mosquitoes, in spite of ample bug repellant. Much fun and coolness was thus had by everyone.

We're off again, this time on a camping jaunt to places not yet planned for. Where the wild things are... See everyone in about two weeks.

Passages

2009-08-19T21:54:00.003-04:00

When I lie in bed at night, or early in the morning, and my window is open, I can hear the ships' horns from the river and lake. They speak to each other in their own language, which every mariner knows. The sound carries so well across the water that they could be gliding past my room, especially if there is fog.

My parents were immigrants and I married an immigrant. There are passages in journeys as well as in art and music. The ship horn announces the commencement of the passage and if you listen you can hear the words.

Acrylic paint, silk, found scrimshaw ornament*, and 22K gold leaf on paper. 56 x 38 cm.

*Scrimshaw ornament is a reproduction by Suzanne Storen Carlson of a painting of the "Sea Witch". The original painting hangs in the ballroom of the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. I found the ornament in a local second-hand shop.

Ship Horn Symphony

Hedge Fun

2009-08-18T16:39:00.003-04:00

There's something about that shrubbery which looks veeery familiar... but I really have no idea if we are looking at the Boy or not. I snatched this photo from the page of progress photos from his latest training. I guess they jumped right into the camouflage, and it appears they have already gotten real down and dirty by crawling through a mud field with rifles and engaging in some hand combat training as well.

Looks like just the kind of thing he wanted to try on. Now, excuse me while I fetch my hedge clippers.

"...from coast to coast to roam..."*

2009-08-15T19:03:00.002-04:00

The Boy has flown away on his first solo airplane trip, sans adult escort, to attend another training. I heard from him as he relaxed in a USO lounge, awaiting other cadets before being whisked away to a more remote area. At that location he will practice marksmanship, and navigation through a wilderness setting. He will also learn rappelling and the art of camouflage.

Let's hope he remembers his bug spray.

(photo courtesy of "Anchors Aweigh", 1945, MGM Studios)

*“How happy is the sailor's life, from coast to coast to roam; in every port he finds a wife, in every land a home.” - Isaac Bickerstaffe

The Fragrance of the Night

2009-08-10T08:00:00.004-04:00

“A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.”*

Perhaps I can lay the blame on the flowered skirts I’ve been wearing to the studio. Sumptuous skirts of recycled sari silk that, at the slightest breeze through the open windows of my battered red pick-up truck flutter up to orange alert levels as I drive through neighborhoods that are modest in the extreme.

“They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.”*

Perhaps it is simply the warm, sultry weather, and the hydrangea that blooms profusely at the side of the studio steps. Or the fact that the Boy has been away, training on a watery border with a distinctly masculine retinue, equipped with body armor and weapons. (His re-training will include an insistence that every colorful description need not begin with the letter “F”.)

Suffice to say that my painting mood has turned to ancient texts and perennial themes...

The woman in the garden and the men in the night occupy two separate worlds, yet the walls are breached by the flight of tiny, fragile moths.

For the WWI soldiers, searchlights and biplane, I used several period illustrations and sculptures as reference, combining them in a montage.

Acrylic paint with silk and 22K gold leaf on Arches paper. 28 x 38 cm.

* Song of Solomon, King James version

Music of the Spheres

2009-08-09T18:47:00.003-04:00

Acrylic paint with silk, leather, snakeskin, beads, seeds, cotton, brass, rubber, enamel, silver, white metal, paua shells, and 22 K gold leaf on Arches paper. 38 x 48 cm.

Doppelgänger

2009-08-06T10:48:00.003-04:00

I had my eye exam early this morning, so I am a useless artist until the dilation wears off. But last night I snapped a picture of my nearly-completed sculpture, along with the model, who seems quite pleased with herself.

It's housework for me today. I'll see you all tomorrow (far more clearly) with two new paintings.

Toodles!

The Song My Paddle Sings

2009-08-02T13:37:00.003-04:00

West wind, blow from your prairie nest
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

Emily Pauline Johnson, aka Tekahionwake, Canadian/Mohawk poet

Photo: Laurent Chappuis

Battle Plan

2009-07-19T14:58:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow the history buffs are off to the Adirondacks and Fort Ticonderoga, significant in the French and Indian War (that would be the Seven Years War for my European friends.)The French and Indian War was really the first global conflict, although most people are not really familiar with it. For a really good series, see; "The War That Made America: PBS".

The above image is courtesy of the Library of Congress:

"This 1759 manuscript map dating from the era of the French and Indian War, shows a battle plan proposed by the British for their encounter with French troops near Fort Ticonderoga, New York. Drawn by William Brasier, this map is from the collection of William Faden, one of the most prominent British publishers of American Revolutionary battle maps. His collection includes many beautifully colored manuscript maps that later were incorporated into engraved maps of the period and were printed and sold by Faden in London."

The hiking boots are packed. See you next week!

Detroit Wildlife

2009-07-17T18:52:00.003-04:00

A beautiful new film by Parisian filmmaker, Florent Tillon. Who admits that in many ways Detroit is more pleasant than Paris, which I have been saying for years. Monsieur Tillon is still in Detroit, and I think he should buy that home he said he was considering in his interview on WDET.

Detroit Wildlife

Out On The Spar

2009-07-16T13:06:00.003-04:00

Erie, PA, Fourth of July, 2009

Send Me

2009-07-13T21:57:00.002-04:00

Send Me. Send me letters. Send me Love. Send me out to sea. Send me music that will send me over the Moon. Send me away or take me out to the ball game. Send me cigarettes. I don't smoke, but send me Faros, Faros away. Send me up in smoke. Send me horses - my Queendom for a horse! You send me.

Acrylic, postage stamps, photo, cigarettes and coffee on paper. 28 x 38 cm.

I Can Give Him A Ship...

2009-06-29T10:29:00.012-04:00

...but he'll have to find his own star to steer her by.*

The Boy doesn't know it yet, but for the weekend of his graduation from medical training I have arranged for a day sail on the historic Brig Niagara . Oliver Hazard Perry, during the War of 1812, at the age of twenty seven, took over command of the Brig Niagara and won the battle of Lake Erie on September 10, 1813. She is either a reconstruction of the original, or a replica, depending on your definition of either: Brig Niagara/Museum Ship/Wiki

Regardless, it should be one helluva Fourth of July for a certain young history buff. Participants are part of the crew and assist in hoisting sails and any other chores they are able. Day sails and longer two or three week trainings are available. I may sign him up for one of the longer trainings next summer, depending on his schedule, and if he likes what he sees on Saturday. This will give him a taste of the life as it was way back then.

Photo is courtesy of tallshipcelebration.com.

*Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

John Masefield