Oct 5
I recently made it to Day 21 of Hannah Klaus Hunter's Mindful Studio Practice e-workshop-- woo hoo!
Check out my Blessings Artist Trading Cards (ATCs) from Week 3:
The last few days of the adventure I was a little iffy about if I would get time to focus on making art and the day's prompt because I was traveling, but I remembered to bring Hannah's instructions and my Ziploc bags of 6 Degrees of Creativity 2 paper stash swap stuff with me.
Sep 30
Normally when we get to this time of the year, I’m thrilled. September is the month of my birth, a time when I feel most comfortable in my skin. The leaves are beginning to yellow and the brilliant light of the Central Valley is edged with a hint of shadows to come.
While the weather lived up to it’s reputation, September brought a greater than normal share of challenges. I’m pleased to say that while I did my share of “pre-whining,” (a phrase my sister coined for crossing “troubled waters” before you reach them) I met each one fairly and squarely, but with little time for the studio.
Artist’s Tour Book, 2 page spread, 8″ x 13,” Kraft paper, glue, images
Little time, that is, until a barking good case of bronchitis laid me up for a week. While I was there, I decided to explore Gretchen Miller’s workshop, Gluebook Goodness, a part of 6 Degrees of Creativity 2. (I figured I could work on it in bed!)
I loved watching Gretchen’s hands at work in her video, adding images, words and smudged ink around the edges. I was particularly touched by her encouragement to “dedicate” our gluebooks to particular topics. In her hands, I watched ordinary effluvia such as receipts, tickets and tokens become the diaries of days filled with meaning.
But to what would I dedicate myself and my book? I hunted out receipts and notes around the house, but aside from one that my husband left saying: “Hallie’s had hers / Dishwasher mostly emptied” I didn’t find any special meanings.
My answer arrived in the form of a Sunday New York Times that my mom dropped off at my house. It just so happened that this was the issue in which the NY Times Arts section listed all the upcoming exhibits for 2013. I turned to a page filled with Arabic script and saw the words “Crossing Borders: Manuscripts from the Bodleian Libraries.”
Islamic Decorative Motifs from “Crossing Borders,” The Jewish Museum, NY
Eureka! My book would be a tour of all of the exhibits around the country that I want to visit next year. I don’t know if I’ll get to all of them, but here’s a partial list with bonus images:
Crossing Borders: Manuscripts From the Bodleian Libraries at the Jewish Museum, NY, NY (Check out the link above for some fabulous photographs.)
Jasper Johns: Seeing With the Mind’s Eye: San Francisco Museum of Modern Art
Between the Clock and the Bed, 1989, © Jasper Johns / Licensed by VAGA, New York
Girl With A Pearl Earring: Dutch Paintings from Mauritshuis: DeYoung Museum, San Francisco
Johannes Vermeer, Girl with a Pearl Earring (detail), c.1665. Oil on canvas, 44.5 x 39 cm
Gravity and Grace: Monumental works by El Anatsui, Brooklyn Museum, NY
El Anatsui (Ghanaian, born 1944). Earth’s Skin, 2009. Aluminum and copper wire, 177 x 394 in. (449.6 x 1000.8 cm). Courtesy of the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery, New York. Photo by Joe Levack, Courtesy of the Akron Art Museum
I’m curious–what exhibits are on your “must see” list this art season?
Sep 25
I just finished Day 14 of my artist trading card adventure with Hannah Klaus Hunter's Mindful Studio Practice. I thought I would continue to share the art and my reflections from this journey with you here. This past week presented a lot of emotional expression, truthful perceptions, and challenges for me as I created each ATC inspired by Hannah's prompts and beautiful quotes.
Jun 27
I’ve been away from my studio recently, visiting friends and relatives back in the Midwest.
Whenever I go, I always come back with a fresh outlook, a new way of seeing things. Iowa City is especially stimulating, being home to storied and innovative writing programs and a virtual beehive of activity during the summer months, when people from all over the world come to hone their craft.
Each summer my old friend Carol Spindel makes the journey there to teach. Carol and I met at the University of Iowa as undergraduates in the art department and although she went on to the art of writing, we like to meet whenever we can and see how our two worlds of text and image pair up.
Hannah and Carol
One morning, she arrived for breakfast with a bag of chocolates, leftovers from one of her writing class exercises. She described the exercise to me.
There were two kinds of chocolate in the bag. She asked students to taste both kinds of chocolate and then, without resorting to metaphor, describe the tastes of each. It turns out to be very difficult, but it is a wonderful (and tasty) exercise for sharpening one’s descriptive skills.
Love of writing runs in my family. As a writer and a teacher of writing, my dad was responsible for starting the the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa. Now in retirement, he’s written a number of books and helps to edit a series of books on the essay for University of Iowa Press.
My dad, Carl Hanna Klaus
When I visit, he always shows me what he’s up to. Pulling me over to the old Chippendale sofa that’s ruled the roost since childhood, he flipped open his Macbook. (At 80, he’s far more of a Mac savant than I). He told me that he’s writing a book on the subject of voice in writing, an area that he feels deserves much attention and receives little. I picked up the computer and read the title of his book: Your Self and How To Make It.
As he fixed lunch for us, chicken salad with home grown arugula, he urged me to read the first three pages. My dad is like the proverbial Jewish mother–and in addition to saying “Eat, Eat,” he also urges me to “Read, Read.”
His introduction talks about how when we read the words of a writer, we often feel like we know the person, and if we were to be introduced, they would already be familiar to us. In contrast, he maintains that the voice of a writer is more like the role of an actor, an actor who can be extremely creative and versatile in creating a character.
That all got me to thinking about the class I’m about to teach, 6 Degrees of Creativity 2. The class, Still Point in a Changing World, Creating a Mindful Studio Practice, is geared toward helping students get over the hump of thinking that studio practice is only for people who have the skill of Rodin or Picasso, or have the luxury of not working a day job. I’m interested in helping them to employ art as a means of mental, physical and spiritual balance. And in the activities which ensue, I hope that they’ll find their voice.
Maybe you can’t see what is somebody else’s to see. But maybe, just maybe, you can see what is yours to see. So what is yours to see? This is a great question to ponder, to make your own, to let live inside your bones and your pores, and to guide your life.–Jon Kabat-Zinn
Iowa City is a town which loves writers and honors its luminaries with lamppost banners and sidewalk stones. Here I’ve just discovered my father’s lamppost.
Mar 3
Quince on Saturday, Hannah Hunter, 5″ x 7,” watercolor
Since I’ve been studying watercolor, I wanted to find a way to create a practice. In the same way as one would create a meditation practice, I wanted a painting practice. No judgement, just watching drops of color as they arise, disperse and flow together.
‘My Year of Watercolor’ started February 14, this meant that I would paint one watercolor each day for the next 364 days. That was the only parameter I set for my practice, just the dailiness of it. There was no specific amount of time, no size of paper, color scheme, no decision to go black and white. But then I started asking myself those very same questions about which I had not wanted to set parameters!
Friday Quince, Hannah Hunter, 5″ x 7,” watercolor
What size should the paper be?
What kind of paper should I use? Should it all be the same kind of paper?
How long should I paint?
What if I need to sketch first and don’t have time to watercolor?
Alstromeria in February, Hannah Hunter, 5″ x 7,” watercolor
If you notice that the operative word in these questions is should, you’re not alone. I noticed it too.
Then, impatient to begin, I started painting on watercolor paper I had in my studio and set about to ordering more and quit my fussing. In short, I jumped into painting mode. On my walks I had to resist the temptation to slip into neighboring yards to clip blossom-bedecked twigs.
The daily routine has become a refuge in my overly-crowded days, an excuse to meditate.
Dec 30
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| My Dad’s book |
The last couple weeks have been filled with holidays; the brilliant candles of Hanukkah and the pungent sell of the spruce Christmas tree; the combined sensory experiences of an interfaith household. But, as Dickens noted in The Tale of Two Cities, “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Sometime between the eight nights of Hanukkah and Christmas Eve, my father was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and began chemotherapy two days later.
A hale 78 year old writer, survivor of a triple by pass, my dad had just had his latest book, The Made-Up Self published in last October. Following its publication, it was reviewed in the New York Times and my father was thrilled. I got to thinking about voice and wrote this post which I never published, but came back to since his diagnosis. I offer it here as a tribute to my dad and his love of voice.
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| Birds 3, Sara Post ©2009 |
Voice. The singular thing that beckons us into and sustains us in a piece of writing. Voice tells the story, plays on our emotions, evokes our sympathies. What does this in a piece of visual art?
I struck out one night with my sister Amelia to visit the opening of a show at our local cooperative gallery, The Artery, and find out. I was a bit overexposed from a week of presentations at the hospital, so I didn’t expect to be seeing clearly.
You know how it is when you’ve been teaching and lecturing too much and not writing enough? That’s how it was. Fatigue doesn’t seem to matter for Amelia. Put her in a gallery and she is immediately absorbed by color and form. I flit from one piece to the next searching for something that calls to me–could it be a”voice” I’m looking for?
Since voice must be embodied to be heard, which piece will speak to me? How will I know when I see it–what will it look like? Will it be clothed in quiet tones of umber, terracotta or ochre? Or, sparkling with brilliant patterns in red, black and gold? I’m on a blind date arranged by the gallery but I think somehow I’ll recognize it when I see it.
And I do. The piece is located in a corner of the gallery and is made out of clay. Clay that is rolled thin like cookie dough and cut into irregular tile forms mounted on a birchwood panel and connected with thin lines of grout. On the tiles, in dark indigo, so dark that its almost black, are intertwining mandalas, circles with interconnecting lines that form the stamens and pistils of plants and reach towards crows who’ve alighted on these “circles” of plants.
Here is my friend. I stand for a long time, reading the artist’s description and wondering how I can scrape together enough money to take my friend home so we can keep talking? Provocative isn’t it?
Dec 11
I walked up to the playroom door yesterday morning only to find it locked and empty. Unusual, but so was my being there first thing in the morning. After opening up, I set to work, laying out materials for an ad hoc art group; metallic watercolors, paintbrushes, lots of white paper. Soon enough several patients found their way there too. Andrea, a tall, lovely 14 year old with an endearing smile, announced that she loved winter. She told us it was the bare trees that charmed her. “I think you’re channeling the East Coast, Andrea. Many of the trees here still have their leaves,” I told her. “Yes,” she agreed, “that’s what I’m channeling.” As I later thought about it, however, as she had checked in for her last in-house chemo, perhaps she was reflecting on the nascent possibility that she could be cancer free. Her body had stored up all the infusions over the last year or so and now having lost her own “leaves,” she was there waiting for that inevitable spring.
In an odd way she was exactly right: this is what winter does-strips us of our leaves, our illusions and leaves us with the bare outlines of our inner and outer landscape. We have a chance to reflect on the structure of our lives. Do we want to prune them, encourage growth in a new direction? (Which one of us doesn’t want to do that with the alternative being stagnation?)
That means it’s time for an accounting, a consideration of the past year; what I’ve been able to achieve and what was left wanting. And where, after all this looking, do I want to go in my life? Usually, I start this process with a list, but after combing through my iphoto file this morning, I thought it might be fun to select some of my favorite 2010 pieces and share them in a slideshow.
Nov 18
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| What You Bring Forth, ©1999, H. Hunter, Mixed Media |
“Honey, why is it that your memory is so good about unpleasant topics?” my husband asked me this morning. He was speaking about our upcoming biweekly housecleaning, but I think that my habit could be an occupational hazard, the cost of doing business so to speak.
This week however, began with a very pleasant ending, the last meeting of our 8 week Young Adult Bereavement Art Group. I’ve come to love the kids in the group. Although I stop short of wanting to adopt them all, in the process of following their stories I came to care for them immensely.
My co-facilitator and I sat at the table with group members as they worked on their last project; a memory box. He had inherited a file cabinet filled with wooden boxes similar to a cigar box and they seemed to suggest the perfect container for memories. I was thinking of the traditional art therapy “inside/outside box” where you can put the feelings you share with others on the outside of the box and the feelings you hold close to yourself on the inside. I also thought the boxes could become altars, or, simply a decorated box in which they could place objects reminding them of their loved ones.
Of course the kids surprised me with their own ideas-blew me out of the water in fact. As I sat there observing them, an idea occurred to me: I could take my i-phone and shoot process pictures. I had all their consent forms and if I shot below their faces I could capture some of the magic that was taking place in front of me.
I made my rounds about the table and and saw a confluence of images that I could not have anticipated. One young woman had written “wash away 2010″ Another had a found a picture of a heart formed by the thumbs and forefingers of two hands coming together (try that yourself!). Yet another person had glued the traditional “corners” used to hold photographs in an album, back in the days when you would glue these tiny corners in an album and hope that you’d done it right so you could easily slip in the photograph.
I wondered whether this young man would be adding any of his photographs that he’d found of his mother. This would be progress indeed because several weeks before he told us he had them in a box, but could not look at them.
As our time together ended, we went around the table, each sharing a word that expressed our feeling of the moment. I heard words like “blessed”, “understood” and “comforted”–and when they left, they asked us about the reunion in the spring. Unthinkable that two years ago at this time, we were putting together figures and ideas, hoping to get a grant. Today, I am immensely grateful for these young people who have shared their lives with us and for the support of our hospital and hospice, the UC Davis Children’s Hospital and the UC Davis Hospice.
Oct 29
Writing a blog can be a paradoxical experience. On the one hand, you feel a bit like someone’s watching you dress in front of a mirror, and on the other hand, you are by yourself (in your studio, office, cafe, fill in the blank…) and no none, even if they are sitting at the table next to you, can see what you’re writing.
I’ve decided instead to create a piece for an imaginary grandchild, someone yet unborn, someone who in fact may never be born. (I told this to my daughter Lizzie last night and she wrinkled up her face as if to say, “Are you kidding Mom? That’s just weird.”) Weird or not, I’m pursuing it.
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| A Young Hannah, Age 1 |
I’ve been collecting fabrics; my daughter’s old organdy curtain flecked with sequins, some pink polka dot pajama pants (passed on to me when Lizzie got bored with them), and pieces of cloth that are shimmery, and remind me of Lizzie, who’s a dancer. Why not my son’s castoffs? Honestly, he and I would both agree that polo shirts and wind jackets (he’s a golfer) don’t make for great quilt material.
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| Jill Ault, Remember Where We Moored the Boats |
I began working with the fabrics I’d selected, putting up the organdy curtain on my studio wall, sewing quilted squares, and tacking them on, only to discover when I stepped back, that I’d left my own tastes out of the equation. I thought of an Aikido class I’d taken many years ago from Wendy Palmer, who helps people examine their lives from a variety of different perspectives using Aikido. She says that Aikido, a martial art, “is the perfect structure in which to learn how build powerful connections…and live life with an open heart.” She also spoke frequently about the moment when you grasp your opponent’s hand and how that moment becomes a blending of energies–”feel the blend and move from that point” she would say.
“Feel the blend.” These words spoke to me. How could I blend my energy, the energies of my children and someone imaginary? I discovered an answer when I found the work of artist, Jill Ault. Ethereal and otherworldly, her work seemed to suggest the presence of something beyond what we can see with our eyes. It reminded me of the obvious: to trust the art making process, to return to my own intuitive way of cutting, painting, pasting and connecting all the pieces. To create connections between myself and others beyond what I can see on the surface, the invisible openings of the hearts and minds. Stay posted.
Oct 21
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| Mask for a Young Person, ©2005, H. Hunter |
I was determined to try and make this week’s post about something other than the bereavement group but I underestimated the power of the group to affect me. I thought I’d learned how to leave the group behind me when it was over for the evening, ready to absorb myself in whatever awaited me next. We’re such forgetful creatures, we humans.
Forgetful perhaps, but I think something else is at work here. The longer one does this work, the more one tunes in. You learn when to speak, when to wait in silence, when to make eye contact, and when to lay down your tools and acknowledge the force of the wave crashing over you.
This week we made clay grief masks. I love introducing this process. We pound the clay, tear it to bits, reassemble it and poke holes in it. By this time, I’m sure you’ve guessed we’re not following the orthodox method of kneading clay to remove the air bubbles. No matter. People love it. Permission to pound the clay to bits has had tables absolutely vibrating.
Watching their faces last night as they worked affected me deeply; eye sockets became deeper, eyebrows arched higher and tears were etched into the clay.
The next day I had a headache of monster proportions. “What’s up with this?” I wondered, checking off my mental “self care” list: eating–check, sleeping–check, exercising–yeah. Nevertheless, cracking a smile seemed like just that. An impossibility.
Halfway into the day, I felt tears stinging my eyes. I sought the refuge of my office and called my husband, wondering between snuffles what was wrong with me. After some probing, oh yeah, the group. That little thing about being gentle, going easy with myself. Permission to cry was what I needed and what I received.
But that was only half of the equation. Today in art group, I found the other half. As we sketched large ghosts on white paper with oil pastels, we drew small things inside the ghosts that move us or scare us. Besides bright purple pigtails, my own ghost had a broken heart and dragged a long set of chains. As heavy as the chains appeared, their acknowledgment lightened my load considerably. Putting the burden of that grief that I was carrying onto paper, gave me comfort in a way I often espouse though perhaps too rarely allow myself to experience.
Theme: Linen by The Theme Foundry
