The art of nature

I stumbled on a gem of a botanic garden where professional artists and students from local schools are encouraged to create art out of/in nature. The experience is like walking a trail through the woods and discovering unexpected marvels along the way.

This masked being with antlers looks like a  powerful shaman. Although he's magically awesome to behold, he's really made of old planter pots.

This captivated me, made me want to step into a tale. A table, chair, and meal growing moss. What does it mean? Everything returns to nature, dust-to-dust? Or the remains of a shipwrecked or fairy-stolen soul? What do you think?

Playful splash of color that almost seems musical.

Um. I have no idea, but it's deeply strange. Like a bog creature.

A wildly colorful yarn tipi thing with a wheel and arrow stick.

A fortified fairy abode. There were a bunch of tiny twig and bark houses tucked in corners of one part of the garden.

This is a big leaf magnolia, one of about 2,000 different native and exotic plants suited to the Pacific Northwest, growing in the Kruckeberg Botanic Garden in Shoreline, Washington.

At an on-site nursery, volunteers propagate many of the trees, shrubs, herbs, and flowers so that people can buy them to grow in their own yards. Workshops for adults and exploration programs for children continue the mission of the garden as educational as well as enjoyable.

I know I'll be going back.

Out of darkness, light

Human beings have known since the beginning of time that survival depends on Spring bringing rebirth. Light after darkness. Renewal. Hope. It is fitting, and probably not coincidental, that Easter (life after death) and Passover (freedom after slavery) are celebrated around the time of the vernal equinox. We all feel the change in the air. We are creatures of nature, of this world.

I have nothing profound to say about a basic human need we all understand; I'm just going to share my joy in the season with pictures of flowers, like the calla lily above, and some silly shots I made by putting artworks outside in our garden to let them live the moment.

This brass bunny is about the size of a walnut and came from Czechoslovakia more than 65 years ago. I set him on a bed of baby tears.

Iceland poppies. They make me smile, bobbing in the breeze like tiny kites. So fragile and yet enduring.

Dancing young bear I found in a shop in Canada. There is something so winsome in his expression. He was carved by Markoosie Papigatuk of Cape Dorset.

Backlit pansies, because I love the sun's illumination through petals, that reminder that light changes the way we see things.

A gift from a friend long ago--vintage glazed ceramic rabbit. I always thought she was beautiful, but taking her off the black enamel cabinet and out into the garden puts her in a new light. Vulnerable, aware, alive.

Ranunculas. Every garden in spring needs them. Such joyous color.

Dancing walrus! Oh, how I love this guy. Purchased him in Canada. Created by Ed Kabluitok Panikotuapik of Rankin Inlet.

Everybody dance, please, 'tis the season.

Holy Serendipity

If there ever is a reason to flaunt the word serendipity this is it. Thursday I went to my critique group and read a scene from my dark fairy tale that takes place within a labyrinth. The maze I described was complex, and my partners asked if I could draw it. “Yikes,” was my first thought.
Friday dawned clear and warm. I headed out for a long beach walk, musing on how I was going to tackle a maze drawing not being a) an artist, b) a puzzle-maker, c) a farmer with a corn field.
As I walked under the pier, I noticed a young woman ahead making a large drawing in the damp sand. Beyond her, a young man was doing the same. There were more than a dozen people busy making circular designs. They were drawing labyrinths!
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Spooky music? Celestial horns? Drum roll? I mean, this is pretty serendipitous, is it not?


So I approached the girl and asked if they were in a club or something that likes to draw mazes. I mean, there are clubs for everything, right?

But, no, they’re students in an architecture class being taught by Ben Nicholson of the Art Institute of Chicago.

And Mr. Nicholson is so nice he invited me to hang around with them. We even all held hands in a big circle—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

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First thing I learned was to begin a labyrinth with a cross. (see illustration)

Then you put L-shapes and dots in each quadrant. After that it gets tricky. Lines are drawn from an end of the cross or L or dot to a point in another quadrant, thus creating the pathways. I practiced a lot. Sand is forgiving, but I won’t be earning a degree in labyrinth making any time soon.

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Mr. Nicholson talked about the perfection of a beach as a drawing surface, how the horizon is wide and can be used to set horizontal lines, how a penny can be dropped in the sand as a radius to the center of the earth. “On the beach you have, natively, the axis to the world,” he said. And, it suddenly felt very momentous standing there in one of my favorite places.
And then he did one of my favorite things, he told an ancient Greek story about shipwrecked sailors who swim to shore and see geometric drawings and conclude that means they’ve found civilization.

Oh, and then there was the hand-holding. We stood in a large circle, arms stretched wide so our hands strained against one another and walked around and around and around, always keeping eye contact with the person directly across the circle. This led to giggles since there was a dizzying strenuousness to it. After our tramping feet had made the widest circle our group could make in the sand, we squished forward into a tight knot and gave it a bulls-eye. “Any group can make the largest circle and the smallest. Where’s the sun’s axis?” Using his own shadow he drew it in.
One of the things I liked most about stumbling into this class were Mr. Nicholson’s prompts for observation. He may be teaching students about architecture but anyone can benefit from being aware of surroundings. Notice how the sun changes its place in the sky by hour and by season, how its light falls differently on familiar objects, how you can ascertain direction if you know where it will be on the horizon.
Not only did I learn useful real world stuff, I got a few ideas for my characters and story from this encounter. Serendipity is a wondrous thing.
Now back to practicing maze-drawing… I've a long way to go.

There's a lot to be said for tradition, as I was reminded at an annual gathering to make Ukrainian Easter eggs or pysanky.

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About fifty people, who are so ingrained in the fabric of my life that they are all family, came to my father-in-law's home in Venice for a day of egg dying, feasting and beach time.

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None of us is Ukrainian, as far as I know. We started doing this years ago when my mother-in-law, who loved art, literature and all things cultural, decided to take a class in the craft, bought the necessary tools and set her vast numbers of friends and family on this annual journey.

She's been gone awhile now, but she would have loved seeing her house filled to the brim with loved ones, having a fantastic time--children skittering around, eyes sparkling, laughing and then settling down to try their small hands at the task.

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Some make the intricate, traditional designs that incorporate geometric patterns and symbolic figures. The symbolism dates from pagan fertility celebrations and later Christian beliefs.

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Many of our group do free-hand design of anything from abstract to pop. One year, Max, who is an artist, made an egg that looked like ancient Greek pottery.

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There's something meditative about the process, which is much more complex than ordinary egg dying. For one thing, the eggs are raw! Yes, that means sometimes there is breakage and tears.

* The dying is batik-method, using non-edible dyes. With a stylus, the person scoops up a tiny bit of beeswax, melts it over an alcohol lamp and draws thin lines of wax to hold color. So if the design calls for white, the first lines are done before any dying. Then the eggs are dipped in each dye (from light to dark colors) for each part of the design to be waxed in that color.

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The person in this photo is locking in yellow with the wax.

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* When the egg is done, it is soaked in solvent to remove the wax. Dona, the Wonder Woman, who has brought all the equipment for the party for decades, takes home the finished eggs, blows the insides out and varnishes them to bring back the next year. She does this for students in classes at her pottery studio, as well.

* If that's not enough, Dona also makes enchiladas for the annual event. John makes chili. I make deviled eggs (for 50 people that's a lot of peeling!). Other people brought pulled pork, salads, tamales, dips, cakes. We ate well. We created well. We loved each other anew.

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Fern, we did you proud.

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I read somewhere that pysanky derives from a word meaning to write. So you write on the eggs. I think a bit of the person's spirit, what makes them unique, extends to their eggs.

* I had a contemplative, sensory-filled, fun and satisfying weekend. Hope you did, too.

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(PS. Still have trouble with Blogger's paragraph spacing, as I know others are, too. So if this is wonky, that's why)

Playing with paper and a winner announced

I am the maker of this particular version of the world (with a little help from cut-up magazines). This week, I went crazy with the craftiness of collage-building. After finding pictures that suited my novel-in-progress, SEA DAUGHTERS, I played around for hours, shuffling images from one spot to another. Sigh.

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But before I talk more of that, I need to announce the winner, chosen by random draw, of DELTA GIRLS by Gayle Brandeis.

Winner is: Jemi Fraser!

Jemi, please e-mail me your mailing address and I will send the book with haste.

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And now back to playing with paper.

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Here is my protagonist, a teenager who loves to surf and is falling for a guy at school who is aiming for the pro circuit.

They have some good times, but there's something in the water--

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Here is Boyfriend. Do you require more?

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I didn't paste the images down or make collage boards. I scattered these montages after photographing them. It reminds me of sand-painting, a creation made for a moment in time and then erased.

Of course, I hope my story will go on living--someday in a book that draws readers into this world. I think this visual, textile playtime was good for me as a writer. I spent time with my characters in a dimension outside my head. Sort of.

My kingdom for a voice

I seem to have misplaced my voice. You know, it's that unique little POV way of expressing yourself that every writer and that writer's characters need if they don't want to be lost in the crowd.

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Moira Hahn's "Heaven and Hell" precisely illustrates my howling need. This series of paintings explore an afterlife that is a mashup of Eastern and Western beliefs and culture. I adore the work for its visual voice. It sure gets your attention in a stunning way, doesn't it?

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Voice is on my mind for a variety of reasons. I've been wanting to post a comment Neil Gaiman made in The Guardian's article on writing rules. Among his "rules" were these two:

"Laugh at your own jokes." Really, that's brilliant. You should be chuckling if you're composing a funny scene or witty banter. I do and then wonder if it just my own twisted humor. But when I take my scene to my face-to-face crit group and hear them laugh as I read, relief rushes through me. Okay, I managed to find voice and it was funny.

"Write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter." So says Neil, who has one of the world's great voices.

Now, here I'm going to say I am an avid reader of Neil's blog, which he has been writing for almost a decade. Yes, you read that right. He is one of the original blogging authors. But I can always tell when his stand-in guy writes a post. It's not Neil's voice. It's someone telling us about Neil's life, because Neil can't blog at the moment. That throws me off and drives home the point of how important voice really is.

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And that brings me to my voice, which has gone missing in my query drafts. Sigh. I mean, I think I have a voice, but when I try to wrangle the essence of a novel into a few paragraphs, it becomes these overworked, dull-as-dirt sentences. Luckily for me, I won a query critique from Writing Out the Angst and the wonderful Suzy Hayze has lit a torch to help me find my lost voice.

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What about you, have you found your voice? Are you searching for it? Do you have any idea what it looks like?

Whale of a sign

My friend, Donna, has a way with gifts, finding just the right one. She knew I was working on a novel connected to the ocean when she gave me this card with a print by Peggy Oki. I love the power, exuberance and beauty of that painting and had it sitting by my computer as an inspiration for months but didn't realize until I turned it over today and read the back that this was the tail of a sperm whale.

Since I just wrote a scene with a sperm whale, which is the largest toothed whale on the planet, and spent some time considering if I was choosing the right whale for what I wanted from that scene, making this discovery felt serendipitous. Of course, I have proved to you before that I love to find signs from the universe, even if they're a bit of a stretch. So here I go again.

I decided to google Peggy Oki and found more connections. I hadn't realized the artist was the same person as the girl on the Zephyr team in Ocean Park/Venice, California that changed the sport of skateboarding and eventually became one of my favorite documentary films, "Dogtown and Z-Boys." I spent part of my younger years in Venice and still think of that scrappy beachtown as home.

And, hey, Peggy is involved in several campaigns to save whales and other wildlife in peril. Check her out.

A little perspective here

A few years ago I noticed a picture across a contemporary art gallery on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles and was drawn to it.

At first glance it resembled Hokusai's "Great Wave off Kanagawa," but when I got close I saw the sea-foam bunnies and laughed. This scary mountain of water was transformed into "Uprisings," a witty and wonderful digital work by the two artists known as Kozyndan. (this work is copyrighted, see www.kozyndan.com for more info)

I had to own it, and now the framed print hangs on my living room wall where visitors are drawn to it and either giggle like me or gasp and say something about poor bunnies.

Both the artwork and the reactions relate to our personal perspectives.

I have mentioned in previous posts that I adore and need the sea but also fear it. So for me, I think this work turns fear to whimsy and fun. But other people may be disturbed to think the bunnies are being pummeled.

My last post about signs, portents and mysteries elicited a number of interesting comments, including this from Lisa Dez: Perception is truth.

Lisa got me thinking about the link between perspective and perception, something that is integral to human beings and necessary to artists and writers. Perspective certainly is truth at a given moment in each person's eyes. But it can be different in another's eyes or altered by circumstances.

Dictionary descriptions also show shifts in defining perspective: To look through. To see clearly. Relating to. Capacity to view things in relative importance. Sense of proportion, of depth. View of relative distance and position. Overview. Vista. Outlook. Prospect. Viewpoint.

This leads me to ponder that an author's viewpoint will always come through but he/she must be sure that each character has a unique perspective and perception of the world, as well.

Here is a painting that alters perception. When I first saw this work, "Petra," by Katrin Wiese, I was reminded of the portraits by Renaissance painters--not because of her style which is expressionistic and contemporary--but the setting of a girl in front of a landscape is much like those of Bellini or Botticelli or even DaVinci. Remember "Mona Lisa?" She is posed, hands in front of her, landscape behind.

But like "Uprisings," my perspective and perception was jogged by what was in the landscape.

It's dystopic, apocalyptic. This young girl isn't in front of her family home or bucolic meadow. Her backdrop is chaos and destruction, but she has a serenity about her.

Some of you may wonder why I purchased a painting of such dark undertones. Because, once again, I find it thought-provoking and witty--a comment on our times.

This painting also has an entirely different perspective built into it. Wiese continued the artwork on the sides of its wood construction.

So if you view it from an angle, you get this added perspective.

And I can add one more variable: how we illuminate or choose to highlight things. I shot the two photos of this painting on different days in ambient light. One created sepia tones and the other is more brilliant as the original work is.

I have carried on here about our perceptions (which I think is awareness and comprehension based on experience including perspective). Don't know if I've made sense to you but it was interesting to me to explore this a bit.

Addendum: I realize another element that plays with perspective/perception in these artworks is that things are not as we expect them to be; there is surprise, shock. Good to remember as writers, as well.

Laughing at clouds

My day was about pretzel-ing into my sporty but low-slung Miata, extricating myself to pump gas and push a wobbly-wheeled basket through a supermarket. It was all about ho-hum until I took the magical sunset hike.

The sky fairies spun cotton-candy clouds, and I laughed.

Because when I see pink clouds I remember my friend, Kevin, who died too young. After one of his many surgeries he told me that he stood on a wind-whipped cliff and gazed at a pink cloud and laughed in delight. We should always laugh at the gorgeous silliness of our world as if we had bought just one more day.

As I hiked, the sun sunk deeper beyond the horizon and the mountain silhouettes turned slate-gray and then black. Coyotes ripped in high-pitched hysteria from the river bottom. Have you ever noticed how frenzied they sound compared to the haunting howl of wolves?

The sky became so saturated in color that it reminded me of a character I wrote for a story that never got finished. So I'll give him a little spotlight here:

A man appeared with skin the color of rainbows. Around his waist was a belt with hooks that held a clattering skirt of paintbrushes in all sizes and shapes.

"Now that's a sky worthy of Tiepolo or Veronese, although, you know, I taught them how to do it," he said to me.

I was too astonished to ask what he meant.

He dipped a brush into pigment, using himself as a palette. Then he lifted the brush, which grew so long it reached the sky, and he dabbed a swath of coral, hot as the Caribbean across the clouds.

"Where do you get such color?" I asked, finally more curious than awe-struck.

"It's all around! Purples from amethyst, teal from amazonite, emerald-green from diopside. For blues, there is lapis lazuli or azurite. Malachite gives deep green. Did you know I can make superb storm clouds from blue apatite and forests from the green?"

I shook my head, watching his paintbrush gild the edge of a cloud.

"You don't see skies like this too often any more. Mostly, they've faded," he said, his brush hand dropping to his side.

"How can that be? You are painting this one."

"I was drawn by your desire to see the setting sun. There was a time when people honored sunrise and sunset. They held ceremonies. Their shamans chanted. They burned sweet herbs and played music. There was the miracle of a new day and of its close. But now, people barely notice. It's as though they've lost their connection to the cycle of days, to the wonder of it. Nobody cares anymore, and so it is fading."

Okay, that's the snippet. I've got no more. So what do you think--have we lost our sense of wonder? Or are we the ones to keep it alive.

Clicking my ruby slippers

adrift

anchor-less

cast-off

I wander city streets after dark

and stare in windows of houses

where light is golden and

families gather

tables set for dinner

but I have no home

where I can burst in the door

pull up a chair

for love

Home. A word that is as individual to each of us as our fingerprints.

Charles Dickens wrote in MARTIN CHUZZZLEWIT: Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.

This painting, "No Place Like Home," by Darlene Campbell is a wry commentary on the subject of home. Her oil-and-gold-leaf-on-wood paintings look like religious icons and evoke Renaissance art with their glowing light and heavenly skies. But her images are contemporary, depicting landscapes rapidly altered by development of cookie-cutter neighborhoods and trophy houses. (Note: I shot this photo by placing the painting against wood and didn't get as tight as I should have--the painting ends with the gold leaf.)

The philosopher Gaston Bachelard said, If I were asked to name the chief benefit of the house, I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.

I like the notion of a place that protects the dreamer, the writer, the artist--a place that is more than simple shelter or flashy showcase. I'm not sure if I ever really found the home I was searching for, but I believe I have a peaceful place to dream. What about you? How do you define home? It's very late and I'm not sure what I've rambled on about. Here's hoping it makes sense.

Let the rumpus begin

Wander into the children's section of any bookstore these days and you will find Maurice Sendak's WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE in giant stacks and prominent displays.

It's still a most beloved book even forty-five years after winning the Caldecott Medal. The reason for the current abundance, though, is to sell more books now that a movie is to be released Oct. 16. Director Spike Jonze certainly had to take liberties in order to make a feature-length film out of the simple storyline of a rambunctious boy named Max, who is sent to bed without supper and imagines a world where he becomes king of the wild things.

My favorite line may be: he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are. Oh, and then they roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth. And Max sends them to bed without supper.

Such magic deserves replay, or, in this case, re-read. I hope anybody with children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, neighborhood kids or any other available small fry acquires a copy of the book and reads it again or for the first time--before going to the movie.

Any fans of the story and illustrations should check out Cory Godbey's amazing online display of paintings by more than 100 artists inspired by WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE. The works are scenes from the story reinterpreted by the artists in a variety of styles, everything from whimsical and atmospheric to abstract. This homage is humbling and awesome.

Did you or your kids love this book? I still do.

Finding hope in the dark

This painting on a small wood plate is called "Night" and was created by Katrin Wiese, the same artist who painted "The Three Fates" of a previous post. I photographed it up close to get the detail.

What drew me to this? I feel like I could be that little girl, venturing into the unknown night, protecting the goose's eggs, at ease with a bear at her side. Bears have often barged into my dreams. In one of the most memorable dreams I asked for and got permission to borrow a baby bear. So while I wouldn't try that in the real world, it was magical in dreamland.

One more alluring thing about this painting, that alert horse and goose look just like bronze animals my father brought home long ago from what was then Czechoslovakia. I loved to play with them, imaging worlds that were mine alone to visit and explore.

All of which brings me to memories. It seems to be what we treasure most. And it made me think of the people who had to evacuate the monster wildfire above Los Angeles. The ravenous beast, 25-miles-wide and 18-miles-deep, has consumed houses, cars, motorcycles, pine trees, sycamores, manzanita, rabbits, squirrels and, may they rest in peace, two firefighters. Terrifying and out-of-control, these wildfires sometimes leave people with little time to grab what they can and flee. It's the memories, the photos and heirlooms, they want to keep.

If a fire or storm or earthquake consumed all the photos of my family members, the china they raised to their lips, the Persian rugs they walked upon until threadworn, the golden rings and silver bracelets they wore, would I drown in tears? Or would I board a little boat on a salty sea and search for wonder in the night?

Perhaps that is the gift writers can give the world--a sense of hope in the dark.

What the fates allow

fate 1: the principle or determining cause or will by which things in general are supposed to come to be as they are or events to happen as they do: destiny 2: whatever is destined or decreed 3: final outcome 4: the three goddesses of classical mythology who determine the course of human life - Webster's Collegiate Dictionary

This painting, "The Three Fates," by contemporary artist Katrin Wiese hangs in my living room. Wiese paints in narrative, often inventing characters and strange worlds. Here, she interpreted mythology. I bought it for its power and the whimsy of Clotho's hair made into a sail and her hands held in the energy flow of yoga mudras as she spins the thread of life. Note the bounty of a bowl of berries at Lachesis' elbow and her hand on the tiller. And the way Atropos, shrinks behind with her shears, prepared to cut the thread of some poor soul. But even so, flowers float on the water and there is a sense of beauty and purpose in the ebb-and-flow of life.

I plan to spotlight artworks on this blog from time-to-time, and at this moment I'm drawn to the Fates. I suddenly remembered a fairytale I started to write sometime ago about a girl who is destined to fall again and again from high places. The princess goes to find the Fates and ask why this is her lot, beginning with a power-hungry uncle who tossed her from the top of a tower. Unfortunately for him, she survived with just a scratch.

She finds the Fates on a mountaintop. They are surrounded by skeins of yarn in every color imaginable. Great tapestries billow in the wind, swirling with images.

"Why is my lot to fall?" The Princess sees no point in mincing words.

Clothos, her hair glittering with sunlight, barely glances from her spinning. "Into every life rain must fall."

"Without rain, no growth." Lachesis measures the lengths of yarn.

"Fine. It must rain, but I don't see why it must be a cyclone or a flood. And what's that got to do with me falling?"

"We came on the day of your birth and foresaw what your uncle would do. It may have been the early end of you, but you burned with such courage and resilience, it seemed to us you should bounce instead of break. And so it is." Atropos squinted out of rheumy eyes and pointed a gnarled finger at the Princess.

"I spend a lot of time falling." The Princess tapped her foot with impatience.

"Every gift has its price."

Smiley here

Time for colorful, wacky, wonderful fun, folks. I just won this month's contest on MG Higgins' blog. If you haven't visited, it is a delightful place to drop in.

The children's writer and artist has done a series of colored-pencil drawings called Veggie Puns. Guess the name of the artwork and you win a laser print. My brain cells were working and I won this one. But I think I shall make you find the answer on her site. Or you can give me your best guess. (P.S. Of course, I can't give away my new print, which hasn't even arrived yet, but if anyone should guess the punful title, I will send a book from several I'd like to pass along. Honor system, since you can't look for the answer already on her site!)

And while we are having fun, check out Talking Potatoes for a belly laugh. This site is especially a hoot for children's writers, parents and kids.

Sometimes silliness is the best medicine.

Won't be just any night

Tonight's a weekly writer critique group, and I can't wait to go. They are a great bunch of talented, imaginative and supportive people, who actually give constructive advice. Plus, there are fabulous stories being told, and I never get enough of those. Just curl me up with a good book. Did I say we have fun, too?

The peep is an Easter gift to me from Nancy O'Connor, whose works-in-progress include a mystery involving a most-resourceful cat. She made peeps for everyone's books. Mine is about a girl harper whose music can move mountains -- really.

The watercolor I painted of the harper girl. I may make an alt-book of art images based on the novel just for the fun of it and to stir the creative pot some more.