My New Song

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)

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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!

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?!

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

Pitch

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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..."*

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

Erie, PA, Fourth of July, 2009

Send Me

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...

...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

News From the Front

Got a letter yesterday - the first from the Boy, who is studying emergency medical care on the 100-year-old Army National Guard base. Old-fashioned mail the only way to communicate with him. No email or cell phones, or even calls on a public phone are permitted until the day we go to pick him up. No leave or liberty, either.

He tells me he has been made Assistant LPO (Lead Petty Officer), which is really good. And that the course and tests are challenging, the (for now) imaginary wounds gruesome and shocking. The students will meet with a real Navy doctor, ride with an EMS team and spend some time in an ER in a hospital.

Good. I'm satisfied.

Shall we sing along? The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B

Fear of Butterflies

What can I say? Sometimes it takes so little to strike fear into the hearts of men.

Acrylic paint, beach glass, glass beads, slag, silver and pearls on marble.

Deer Me!

I was recently pondering the demise of Detroit's industry and the renewal of wildlife within the city. I thought that since we have pheasants, peregrine falcons, raccoons, opossum,foxes, coyotes and now beaver, the only animals missing were whitetail deer and black bear. Oh yes, and wolves.

Last night I was walking the quieter back paths of Belle Isle, in the big meadow area where I like to go with my dog when he suddenly lunged into the thicket. Up from the tall grasses and dense shrubbery leapt a large, perfectly healthy and sleek whitetail deer - a doe. She bounded away directly in front of us and across our path to enter the wooded area near the Blue Heron Lagoon. The dog followed her trajectory in a perfect radius from the taut end of the leash like a pencil tip on a compass. It was all I could do to hold him and to keep my balance.

So astonished was I that I completely forgot the I had my camera with me, as always, but she was much too fast to capture in any case.

I wrote an email to the manager of the Belle Isle Nature Center to inquire about the deer and if they were aware of her presence on the island. This was his answer:

"Thank you, Erica, for bringing this to us. Yes, Whitetail deer sometimes swim down from the neighboring land mass or are let loose on the island. We have had reports and sightings of her throughout the winter. We will continue to monitor."

So there you have it. Wild Canadian deer in downtown Detroit. What's next? Excuse me while I whistle an old song from my childhood...

If you go down in the woods today
You’re sure of a big surprise.
If you go down in the woods today
You’d better go in disguise.

For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because
Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic...

Hurry Up And Wait

The bags were packed the night before.The dog stood watch...

A couple of hours drive and we arrive at our destination: a 100-year-old army camp:

On either side of the straight road into the camp were POW barracks, which housed Italian and German prisoners during WWII:

Hours later, we were finally released to drive home, without the boy.

He's here to train in emergency medical care:

He's No Choir Boy

I went collecting again at Belle Isle and had a revelation of sorts. I found plenty of glass, from Coke bottles, wine bottles, and lots of bits and pieces from Hennessy bottles (a favorite beverage in Detroit.)

I found some wonderful pieces of slag (the by-product of smelting ore to purify metals) from our local steel mills just downriver. The steel mills have been there for around 100 years or more, so this slag could be very old. I thought it would make great hair.

I also found what appeared to be an old outlet plug, from the 1920's, about the same era my own home was built.

I say "appeared", because it was then that I noticed the tiny horns on one end of the outlet plug. I turned the plug around just in time to see a small devil attempting to hide within the plug! His horns and tail were clearly showing as he tried to squeeze himself further into the outlet.

Suddenly, it all made sense! I had seen a serpent that very morning, along the shore. It had slithered away from me when I stole its likeness with my camera.

The fact is that there are actually many tiny Edens, and many tiny moral struggles, all around us, and angels and demons may be found anywhere and everywhere, at any time of the day or night. Therefore, my task was as clear as the glass I had collected (which is actually kind of frosty and nicely weathered...) I must make a mosaic showing the Angel on one shoulder, and the Devil on the other, just as we remember them from our childhood fables.

I pieced together a makeshift angel from tile, glass and beads...

...and positioned him opposite the devil, who is so ashamed of himself he cannot even face us.

I placed both creatures on the shoulders of my Hennessy Man, who wears his addictions even on his necktie.

He can use all the help he can get to resist the temptations that are choking him, because, after all, he's no choir boy.


Acrylic paint, glass, slag, ceramic tile, beads and outlet plug on marble.

Not Baaaad At All!

Extreme Sheepherding Art

3 From the D

My first classical sculpture. Now it needs to dry out slowly, then be fired in the kiln.

The next session will be on just head and hands, life-sized, employing the same model. Should be fun.

“Sculpture is the best comment that a painter can make on painting.”
- Pablo Picasso

Couple

A couple of years ago, when we had our driveway removed, we discovered slabs of pure white marble underneath the concrete. What it was doing there was anyone's guess; it was almost the kind of thing you'd find in a cemetery. In any case, it is proving to be a useful find, as it provides a nice surface on which to do some mosaics. I have three pieces. This is one of them.

Broken bottle glass, beads, garnets and lapis lazuli, Chinese turquoise and acrylic paint on marble. Roughly 30 x 36 cm.