Moss Strewn

Be Bold

2012-01-13T21:24:00.000-05:00

Spent yesterday in Buffalo museum hopping with one of my best friends Cathy Reda-Cheplowitz. We toured the Albright-Knox and then the Burchfield Penney Art Center. One of the things that I love about seeing master works in person is that you can actually see how the artists painted, printed or sculpted the work. Recently I'd been to the Albight-Knox with Jim and when we visited, rediscovering its collection was amazing. Among the works are classics from Picasso, Van Gogh, Marin, Burchfield, Steiglitz, Matisse and more. Poignant at the museum is an exhibition that is "series of Kodachrome photographs pulled from the Library of Congress' Farm Security Administration collection that document the ravages of the Great Depression." (http://www.buffalonews.com/entertainment/gusto/art/art-previews/article557765.ece) The museum is a gem.

I had never been to the Burchfield Penney. Directly across the street from the Albright-Knox, its collection and curatorial style is a wonderful complement. Less focused on big manes, this museum seems to focus on high quality at both past and present. Currently it has an exhibit "Art in Craft Media 2011," with a range of thought provoking pieces in metals, glass, and wood.

However I was particularly excited about visiting the Burchfield Penney because it houses the work of one of my current favorite watercolorists Charles Burchfield (1893-1967). Burchfield was an artist who painted in the Buffalo region and in his time was one of the best known American painters. I've been drawn to his work because he renders nature, atmosphere, and townscapes infusing the work with a profound passion of place.

Driving back from the galleries, the grey sky and the dark silhouetted trees had a new beauty. Were the trees always like that? Or did Cathy and I see trees with Burchfield's eyes? Perhaps that is what art allows us—new vision and understanding.

Back in the studio today was a rougher start than I had imagined. I could not find this and that and then I could not find the feather I was using as a model. I tore apart the studio, searching through every bag and box, pulling up the floor tarp and going through the garbage. Finally I decided it was a lost cause. One of the dogs must have stolen it. And then I painted.

Charles Burchfield wrote "You are dead—devoid of any emotional attitude toward nature—wake up—be bold, make bold caricatures & conventionalizations."

So "The Wind Resounds—Leaving Addison" is now complete.

Gleaning

"Winnowing fear,
restless, feral winds 
surge in my mind,
shifting directions,
gathering force.
I mistake it all  for chaff —
husks of failure
and deprecation.

But this wind resounds
from the ancient world
and release has always
been gleaned
from grains of doubt."
—Nancy Compton Williams

Winnowing

2012-01-11T21:43:00.000-05:00

Painting is a bit like playing chess. The opponent however is not another person but the vision the painter is striving to express. When a student I was taught to back away from my work and even turn the painting upside down or or on its side to see clearly the composition and color relations. With my home studio, I am able to return to the canvas at any time to adjust or simply just to observe and think. Like the chess player I can determine my next move.

Seeing from another angle.

With this blog—the combination of the camera, computer, and writing has been a digital stepping away from the canvas. It is another way of seeing with fresh eyes. I can see what needs improving but also the past and what I've lost and must recover.

With my studio in Rochester, I am not able to return at any time to reflect on my canvas yet until complete the painting never leaves my mind. I am pondering my next move. Lately I've been extending the camera and computer. In the evening, away from the studio, I play with color, light and form on a photo of the day's work in Photoshop .

Blurring the lines: applying new values and hues in Photoshop.

Photoshop has many tools and filters that can quickly transform an image. Layers and Control Z give multiple options. However Photoshop is about pixels and back light and pre-engineered options. In the case of my oil paintings I use it only for quickly visualizing options. Oil paint is its own medium—pigment and pixels reflect light differently. An oil brush transfers color but also texture, consistency, and structure. As well paint can be wiped away, scratched into, spattered, and poured. It has a physicality.

When I returned to the studio this morning I had a clearer vision of my next moves. But the challenge of uncovering the painting's essence—beyond my original references and the Photoshop "sketches"—remained. Much needed to be winnowed. Other elements needed strengthening or definition.

At a particular moment this morning, I saw gold needed turquoise to be gold and clouds needed to be foreboding in order in order for joy to come alive. And I realized that the first thing to confront as a painter is fear, let go the easy or commonplace. Push beyond timidity and reach. Queen must take rook.

Detail

Feather painted over, sketched in, yet to be completed.

Almost there, but not yet.

Shifting Directions, Gathering Force

2012-01-10T21:51:00.000-05:00

Day two the painting begins to come into its own. I spent much of my commute examining the clouds, noticing how their form is defined, how they layer up and reveal, obscuring and merging with the sky and the earth.

What I'm seeking to express is a moment, a breath, the suspension of time juxtaposed against the continual motion of our lives.

Gleaning

2012-01-09T11:07:00.002-05:00

Back in Rochester, back to my studio. Seven hours of travel brings me back to my painting studio. It is a gift of my sabbatical—a new home, a new place to create.

Compared to my home or office it is completely different as if belonging to another person. No luxuries, sparse, concentrated, no large monitors, or ringing phones, a space for one.

Looking out one of my studio windows.

From Rochester's prime days—they just don't design backs of buildings the way the used to.

My favorite view.

It is located far from my beloved forest and mountains in the heart of a mid-western city not quite to its Rennaissance. Sitting above an art gallery and lying in the shadow of an old cathedral, it should not be surprising that it is where my heart soars and my soul becomes paint. Here my deepest spirit rises above my daily concerns and sings "home".

The completed painting from my last visit. I need 4 more small canvases for the next in this series.

The painting I'm working on today is not what I was planning. I was about to start a new "pixelated" tree portrait only to discover I'd left many of my small canvasses in Rochester. Off to the art supply store I must go but time is precious.

Other images dance in my head—the beauty of my drives to and fro. Last night driving in and then again this morning, the light of the setting and rising sun, the moon, and of Jupiter were magical. The sky had an unnatural cast of cerulean blue and the earth ablaze in gold. This morning a gift on the gritty side walk—a single feather and in my bag, this poem:

This morning's gift.
Gleaning

"Winnowing fear, 
restless, feral winds 
surge in my mind,
shifting directions, 
gathering force. 
I mistake it all  for chaff —
husks of failure
and deprecation.

But this wind resounds 
from the ancient world
and release has always
been gleaned
from grains of doubt."

—Nancy Compton Williams

New start "The Wind Resounds—Leaving Addison".

Like a spring garden, the under-painting always brings me joy.

Cosmic Dance

2011-12-21T12:51:00.001-05:00

Finally I am back in the studio. Life got the best of me and obligations of the day to day took power over the brush.

Today could have gone the same except Jim promised me a cup of Dunkin Donuts latte if I got in my car and drove into the studio. It was this tiny reward that made me realize I could carve out a morning to paint. The bigger reward of course was painting itself.

Prepping this painting took longer this morning than the actual laying down of paint so far. It is another of my paintings composed of multiple canvases. In this case 12 12"x12" canvases. I like the format of multiple canvases, to me it is a reflection of our pixelated lives—lives bound by multiple lenses, the fracturing and re-blending of ourselves and our concept of community and the larger world.

This painting is inspired by my very many walks in the Vermont forest. The forest has many stories. Their is a story in each tree, in each stump, in each pile of rocks and earth. I think their story reflects our own. How often do we stop to see and embrace our stories?

Lastly I'd like to share this reflection from Thomas Merton that has been embracing my soul the last few weeks as my parents and I are working to bring together the support they need at this time in their lives. We all need support for our different stages—whether becoming a new parent, learning to drive, entering adulthood or mid-life or any change of our health. Knowing when and where to turn and what to enjoy at each stage is where the heart is discovered.

The Cosmic Dance

—Thomas Merton

When we are alone on a starlit night, when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn descending on a grove of junipers to rest and eat; when we see children in a moment when they are really children, when we know love in our own hearts; or when, like the Japanese poet, Basho, we hear an old frog land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash--at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values, the 'newness,' the emptiness and the purity of vision that make themselves evident, all these provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance.

Butterflies and Other Things in a Grateful Heart

2011-11-29T22:47:00.001-05:00

This past week in Rochester has gone very quickly—astonishingly so! A week I guess is shorter still when you add in a holiday.

What gave in my planning was time to paint. I had it all lined up in my mind. Imagery solid, supplies all ready to go. However there was the matter of a feast and family and then presentations and interruptions from work. Still I played and thought and imagined what I will create next—visualizing and problem-solving in my mind.

That is one misnomer about the word Sabbatical. Many think it means vacation but instead it really means concentrating on important work that one was unable to concentrate on before. This week it included on the "official" side of the fence:

the upcoming NEASC panel (my intro presentation is now on SlideShare!),
this week's brainstorming at the Emergent Media Center on creating a "Makers' space",
a PACE board call—an IEEE Computer Society endeavor to collaborate across communities to share efforts with the aims of advocating for young people to enter computer careers.

Family was more poignant and far more lovely. I spent a full Thanksgiving with many of my siblings and their wonderful children, a visual feast of a day at the Albright Knox Museum in Buffalo (an artist's must see) and viewing the wondrously magical Hugo with Jim, a marvelous two days with my daughter Tegan, to include a girls' half day with her and my niece Margo, and precious time with my parents battling resources for long-term care and simply enjoying just being.

But in the realm of play, perhaps what linked my work and my life was a few days with my brother Dave, his wife Patti and their lovely flutterbies! They returned me to my youth and through them I once again was a child of exploration and creativity. Together we flew between time and space.

For all of this I am deeply grateful.

In Between

2011-11-21T20:21:00.001-05:00

A rainbow greeted me the first day I returned to Vermont.

Since July I've been traveling back and forth between two very different world views. At first it was quite unsettling. For twenty plus years point A has been Vermont, a rural state of some 600,000. My life here is about students, technology, media, and art. It has been a driven life with much work to be done. My breathing space has always been the outdoors.

Starksboro, Vermont

Point B is Rochester, NY, a city of some 600,000. It's the place I grew up within; a city that until the 1990's was a booming technology hub much like California is now. Today Rochester is itself in between. Where once there was segregation, now there is diversity. Where once there was corporate growth, I now am witnessing decay and a rebirth. Borne of the 30 somethings and younger, entrepreneurial spirit is slowly taking apart and building back—renovating and creating Rochester anew in their image.

East Avenue, Rochester - down the block from my studio.

In Rochester I have a studio smack in the center of the metropolis, above the Rochester Contemporary gallery, down the street from the Little Theatre, quite close to the Museum of Play, the Eastman School of Music, the Memorial Art Gallery (where I fell in love with painting as a child), and surrounded by all sorts of coffee shops. There amidst the city life, I have an uncluttered studio where my focus can remain unbroken. When I leave the studio, I enter the world of city streets, freeways, and then the tumbled suburban neighborhood of my childhood. There my questions focus on my parents and our changing life vantage points.

In the studio.

When I return to Vermont, the forest calls me back. It is stick season of sorts—the time between fall's brilliance and the cold, white clarity of winter. The dogs run freely and so does my mind. Here I'm looking forward to skiing at Bolton, snowshoeing out my door and catching-up with friends.

Out my door in Jericho, Vermont.

It is getting so that I like the split personality of my life right now. It is a gift given to me by my sabbatical and one that could only be available in this age of travel. My concerns stretch between the digital, the painterly, and the familiar. My mind seems to be stretching. I realize I have no answers, only frayed threads of ideas. Our collective and individual destiny has become my reflection point. I'm seeing life as a universe bounded and yet unbounded by time. I am no longer one age but many, I am no longer one place but many. From my peculiar vantage point it appears that family and community are our purpose. We are but individuals who come and go but family and humanity are the living being much like mycelium* is the living body of which mushrooms are a temporary flower. I am learning that it is our connection to each other, to time and to place that profoundly determine who we are and how we will be next.

Off the bike path north of Greece, NY.

* According to Paul Stamets in his 2005 book "Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save The World" the oldest mycelium is said to be 2200 years old and 1,665 football fields in size.

The Soul's Eye

2011-09-30T10:41:00.006-04:00

It is funny how the mind and eye work. I set out to create a painting about leaves on moss. And late last night I hated it. The colors were too Christmasy. The leaves flat and lifeless (perhaps because they were on the ground dead!).

So I scraped all of the moss away and woke up the leaves, veering from their true form to what I imagined they would be in air. I then layer in some white tones and went to sleep.

This morning I went at it again and now I have leaves as I saw them truly on my walk yesterday—floating down from the trees. The paint is thick and gooey. I seem to be moving between thick, luscious paint application to calmer, more thinly applied paint and I never seem to know which the painting will turn out to be.

Looking at the painting now, I see that it was just trying to be (and has become) what the theme in my mind is about these days. Flying.

It started with Maine and the birds there, transitioned to the painting "Learning to Fly" I am working on in Rochester. It took a side trip to explore the concept of tree of life through the small painting of the oak leaves. And now this small gem. I believe small paintings need to be gems, precious, complete. So you have it my soul told my eye what to create, damn the logical brain!

Riot of Choice and Color

2011-09-29T20:02:00.009-04:00

It rained most of the day today. The sky layered in grays. So I spent most of my day sequestered inside following up on correspondence, reading, and even starting a deviantART page (http://anndemarle.deviantart.com/). But I find the process slow and so only posted three Maine pieces. devaintART has an interesting feature that I didn't realize—the option to sell reproductions of your work. The price is pre-set with no leeway that I've figured out yet. Of course 75% of the funds go to the site, shipping, reproduction costs, with a minimal to the artist. An artist definitely won't make a living this way. All the artist's time and production costs are not covered. Interesting though as reproduction is only a few clicks.

Most of my work is now on Flickr ( http://flic.kr/s/aHsjvRU8PX ). Flickr has a sale function too—through stock sales agreement with Getty Images ( http://www.gettyimages.com/Creative/Frontdoor/FlickrPhotos ). This is more applicable to photography. I haven't read through all of the agreements so for now I haven't registered for that option. However I quite like Flickr for imagery. Etsy is another I may post some work to but there is so much management of all the differing options to stay relevant.

One of the reasons I'm exploring all of these options is to try and understand what is the best way for an artist to showcase work online. Social network sites allow greater audience potential. Custom designed sites allow for finer creative and fiscal control—in essence one's own gallery.

However what I really wanted to do today was paint and get outside. I've been walking through the woods almost daily. A favorite walk of mine is about 2.5 miles through damp woods, across to Barber Farm, through a mystical pine forest, down into deep marshes, along a stream and then arriving at a tall, proud beech forest high above. So about 2:00 the dogs and I headed out.

What is beautiful about rainy days like today is the power of the light and the damp to pull out and intensify colors. Moss is greener, tree trunks blacker, and fallen leaves a riot of brilliant vermillion, cadmium red, lemon yellows, and gold. And today it was if all the leaves decided to drop. Looking up the trees were covered in green, but the floor of the forest was like an impressionist's painting. Almost disorienting. Each area was covered in differing blankets: the scarlet of the sugar maples, the gold of the beech, and the lemon of the birches.

I've brought some of the leaves home and am painting again. But first I completed yesterday's painting.

Wisdom of the Oak

2011-09-28T20:31:00.013-04:00

Sometimes the most difficult part of creating is not developing the idea but creating the reality. As a modern consumer it is so easy to go on the "hunt" whether online or on foot, to observe randomly and then to purchase. Ideas are often the same. It is incredibly easy to buy or in this connected world to put other concepts together—to "mash-up".

But what makes a true visionary or a time spanning artist is the ability to profoundly create. The reason I most deeply admire Picasso is his ability to take what was around him—all his influences—personal, cultural, rival artists—and then apply his considerable drafting ability to create new expressions that went beyond the relevance of his times into ours. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones I would offer are the same.

Masters.

A degree alone does not offer this: mentors, time, struggle and doing do. Today I met with Laura Dagan for lunch. She is a master. Learning, compiling, creating in a world not of art but of business. Business with heart, a business that builds people.

So sometimes the most difficult part of creating is the doing, the starting and continuing. In my mind, many thoughts are stirring about, creating an internal ruckus. The painting I've started waits for me in Rochester now weighs on me. How will I return to a dry unfinished canvas? Can I complete it? The concept of flying and the tree of life. My discovery, through my constant walking forests and suburban lanes, is that in form the iconic tree of life is the venerable oak—the tree of Merlin, the symbol of magic, of triumph, and of wisdom.

Today I purchased—oil & watercolor paints. Then finally summing up my courage, I painted. The oak began to come to life.

A Different Pace

2011-09-26T10:17:00.009-04:00

As the light turns from summer to fall, it seems time to catch-up on turning points I've been experiencing. It is hard to sum up all that I've been doing in the last month and even more difficult to explore all the thoughts pondered. The pace has been different and even my travel mode changes—cars, bikes, and even the train across New York State—all opportunities for new vantage points. Sabbatical has been extremely freeing for my eyes to see, my mind to wander, and for exploration to take on frightening speeds. If I attempt to pin down my thoughts, they continuously circle around the question of the value and the balance points of emotional, spiritual, physical and virtual experience in culture and for the individual self.

Prompting and informing this question has been four meaningful events/activities:

My mother's 80th birthday and the opportunity I've had to spend lots of time with her and my dad at this shifting point in their lives. She happens to be the woman I most admire in the world for both her intelligence and her heart. Her reflections on what has been meaningful in her life have profoundly influenced how I am now considering the next 25 years of mine. My question for myself especially in this sabbatical year is "Am I still on the right course and if not where is the correction?".

Images and Voices of Hope: the opportunity to explore media and life purpose with an extraordinary group of media influencers. The summit only fine-tuned the question above as speakers shared their work from the thought-provoking research of Sherry Turkle ( here's her latest thinking on technology and self) to the emotionally rich, risk-taking photography of Kael Alford (Iraq Unembedded) to the reflective practice of poet Mark Nepo (The Book of Awakening and his poetry). Michelle Hunt created this a wonderful recollection of the weekend. This quote from her blog sums up for me the experience as well:
"These beautiful people are committed to shinning the light on people and events so we can see the whole of life - not just the violence and destruction. They are not people who wear rose-colored glasses; they have a clear grasp of current reality. Many of them have witnessed and reported the unimaginable devastation caused by of war, conflict and natural disasters. However, in the face of horror and heartbreak they also found the courage to discover and spotlight the beauty and resilience of people around the world. These voices and images of hope inspired me."
Signing the contract on my Rochester, NY studio, moving in, and beginning to paint. An unfinished painting is waiting for me there. It is roughly about all of this and as well about my friends Liz Coyne and Jack Renaud. Tentatively it is entitled "Learning to Fly". The question being in a studio poses for me is why, who, and what. Why in this era of the virtual, return to pigment? Who cares about the output or is it purely for me and the process. And finally what is the purpose of painting? My starting point, there are many painters with beautiful results but to me painting is a deeper art—an art of posing questions and multiple answers.

Walking, walking, walking. Recording, recording, recording. I've given myself a goal of 10,000 steps a day this last month which has forced me out and about in surprising places - from Vermont hills to Rochester suburbs and cityscapes to the unknown forest of the Catskills. What this has meant for me is a visual feast and an ever present camera. Because of this and because of the changes in my social media thinking, I've opened up a Flickr account to share and I am now pondering how reflective action inspires creative thought. The bigger question to me is where and how do we balance "Maya" with "Mash-ups", our earthly existence with our eventual dissappearance?

More to come.

Into the Dark

2011-08-30T14:35:00.006-04:00

Before the storm, I had begun a painting exploring the edge of what we can see and what we cannot. It was inspired by the forest edge. The forest I love so much to walk and yet from it calls not only the glorious owls but also the pack of coyotes. It gives me joy and yet it has taken from me a dear cat. When I walk it with my dogs, I am always on the alert.

I was fairly excited about both the concept and the painting but a call on Jim and my anniversary upended the entire flow and I was off on what became four weeks of travel. To Boston twice, to Rochester once, to Vancouver, and then to Maine. The travel brought me even closer to what was stirring in my heart and mind, how life is never what we have envisioned, and life is never a straight line. It is a line of dark and light interludes, weaving in and out and connecting us to the unexpected.

My trip to Maine, visiting with Liz, loosened up my painters hand and clarified my painter's eye. Upon my return, I spent a day painting with another painter friend, Chris Neuhardt. In a day I was able to return. Below are photos from that day. Since then, I completed the painting above and another beyond what is shown here.

The final painting, not published here, I completed before, during, and after Hurricane Irene...without power or running water. Somehow the concept behind the series seems more poignant in Irene's aftermath.

August Paintings

2011-08-23T18:26:00.005-04:00

Though I've been from Boston to Rochester to Vancouver and then to Maine this month, it has been a surprisingly productive painting month. My head has been buzzing with thoughts. Travel and being with my daughter, my parents, family and my friends have me thinking about some of the bigger life questions.

Home by the pond

I've completed two small canvases. Another larger painting is in the works. And I completed a bunch of small oil "sketches" while in Maine. My head is brimming with ideas for both canvases and an interactive concept. Some of these will need to wait until the cooler indoors months.

The outdoor "studio"

Reading - especially Kathleen Norris's "Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and A Writer's Life" and listening repeatedly to Springstein's "The Rising" have been part of my inner dialogue with the events of this month.

From the deck of the Maine

I'm entranced by the lovely colors and light of Vermont's verdant summer and I hated disrupting the painting I was doing in July but travel has been good too. SIGGRAPH reminded me about the potential of digital art in the modern world to make meaning. There I was struck by the projected piece "The Garden of Error and Decay" (http://www.gardenoferroranddecay.net/). To read some other highlights look to this brief review of the SIGGRAPH Art Gallery http://us.aving.net/news/view.php?articleId=205637&Branch_ID=us&rssid=naver&mn_name=news Likewise visiting traditional galleries in Maine helped me feel excited about older mediums and their longevity and influence.

Liz Painting in Maine

Two distinctly different artist friends have also inspired me. Spending the week with Liz Coyne in Maine (check out her incredible paintings here http://elizabethcoyne.com/), opened my painting up considerably. We checked out galleries, spoke with people who loved traditional art, and found marvelous books in independent used and new book stores. We began each day drawing and painting.

The late July visit from my dear friend Patrick Fortier, Julie Anne, and his family was brief but also inspiring in a different way. Pat is one of the most insightful and inspiring game designers I know. He shared some cool small games to include this little gem Sissy's Magical Ponycorn Adventure http://www.ponycorns.com/ . Our late night campfire discussion was fuel to my art soul and gave me inspiration that makes me excited for the fall and its potential. Below are my Maine sketches that I wish to take further.

The Maine oil "sketches"

What I forgot to tell you I and II (above)

Divided: Air, Water, Rocks (above)

Morning Stars I and II (above)

Bird Sketches I and II (above)

Returning

2011-08-17T21:03:00.002-04:00

I am here. A place I have not been for three years. A place I called home for 20. Not that I've lived here. Never have. But for 20+ years I would stay for weeks on end with my former husband. It is the end of the world for me. A place where the stars meet the earth. You can look out here to a place where god kisses the planet, the sky and the water become one and there is no division of atoms, form, or time. It continues on regardless of who owns the property. The buildings slowly through one hundred years become one with the ocean breeze and the the muted granite, disappearing into time...families long gone.

A long, long drive to the end of the continent. Trees become stunted and form a hypnotic line. Then the bridge and the ocean pulls me in. Comorants spread their wings like Christ on the cross. They waiting for their time to fly.

Random Observations in a Land I am Not From

2011-08-10T02:53:00.019-04:00

I am as much a child of the city as I am of the country. My home is undefined: a land where I can observe and then recognize patterns, discovering ever new ones, and then finding delight in their progressions . Vancouver is one of those few cities for me...a city that dances with life.

The gift of being an artist is the gift of observation and reflection...of the ability to take in those lives that pass across the vantage point.

Morning: Starbucks, Vancouver. It is as much in British Columbia as it is in New York City, Madrid, or downtown Burlington, Vermont. "One tall latte", "hi", "4-30" "triple venti skinny latte". What makes it different is the flow that ebbs around and through it. The little man hurriedly pulling his small harnessed, decidedly unhurried French bulldog up the alleyway. The sauntering man in red tee avoiding eye contact behind his sunglasses yet taking in all before him. The delicate, dark haired girl in white flowing dress, half hidden behind large '50's era glasses held to earth by her '60's era fisherman's cap trudging up the hill as if on the way to a far off battle. The elegant black suited woman with long white hair intently dragging on a cigarette purposely striding down Burrard. The young, ponytailed mother lullingly swaying her curly peppermint striped child as they wait for her friend's iced skinny latte.

Dinner: 131 Water Social House in Gastown the older section of Vancouver. Across the cobblestone all in shades of violet and weathered black, a young Asian bride-to-be and her groom are being photographed by their very hip equally young female photographer and her grey sweatshirted partner. He maneuvers and directs the round black circle of reflected light. The mother-in-law to be beams her happiness. On the opposite side, an older grimacing waspy mother peers into 131 her longhaired bouncing daughter at her side the appropriately greyed and balding husband bringing up the rear. Pink and red, a blonde Audrey look-alike skips across, hand in hand with her robust, red bearded grizzly.

Ah humanity, ah life. It abounds, weaves across, moves on. Breathe in, breathe out, we are here now. Joy!

Evening: the Sheraton lobby. This urban world seems to be made for the 40 year old. Still lean but no longer 20 year old fit, the cut of fashion made for them...and their wallet. A line at the jowl or across the forehead, an earnestness balanced with caution and cunning. They understand their place in the world yet do not see their momentary place in time. In a tight circle at the hotel bar, they are negotiating future millions to the tune of Brazilian jazz. To the elder business statesman at the table, they raise a glass and exchange a temporary trust.

In the hotel's music fused night, a woman crippled by her overwhelming obesity confidently, faultingly walks by assisted by her rolling walker. In many situations her extreme size would mark her a pariah. Tonight instead daughter and her beau tenderly brush her left, while on her right her husband excitedly sharing his thoughts embraces her waist.

Up by the two musicians, the floor arcs and swings drawn by an 89 year old and his wife of 60 plus years. They glide and spin as only those who have done so for a lifetime can do. At the break, thinking of my own family, I chat. Then with a nod from his wife, I am suddenly dancing, a feather aloft in time.

Closer

2011-07-23T18:10:00.005-04:00

Wondrous day kayaking. Returned to go at it again with paint. The canvas is a mite of a thing 8"x10". Much better results, black needs to be more color but it can rest now. The mystery of the woods, the delicate strength of the garden flowers.

Also in my head, deep love: Van Gogh - Vincent and both Theos (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theo_van_Gogh_(film_director) ), my parents and how each moment is precious.

Put Brush to Paint Today

2011-07-22T17:31:00.006-04:00

but I believe I failed. We shall see if I can try again tomorrow.

Paint can be so difficult and unforgiving. Color in one's mind is harder to achieve when not properly thought out, mixed, and then applied sparingly to start. I broke all those rules and it looks like a bad piece of art from when I was an awkward thirteen.

Ugh. Spoiled by the camera and the ease of digital editing. Paint takes time.

Start of Something New

2011-07-19T18:00:00.018-04:00

I bought my first digital camera after my divorce in 2001. It was a huge step for me as my ex-husband was a professional photographer. We had met in a college photo studio where I was in awe of the magic he created with light, chemistry, and composition. When my daughter was born, I would jokingly say that I took only mommy pictures. After my divorce, I would carry my newly beloved camera through the Starksboro hills like a hunter ready to capture what appeared upon my path.

Once while walking with my good friend Lisa, I spied an abandoned nest in the tall grasses. Golden in the autumn sunlight, it lay delicately suspended between three thin reeds. It became the focus for my camera—and through the years I captured it again and again digitally and in oils.

One might say I've become obsessed with the notion of nests, birds, and eggs. Last summer Jim and I were staying at a summer home in the Finger Lakes. There upon a small wall was a robin's nest, carefully perched by the cottage's owner. I created this small oil of it and then have not painted since.

When I proposed my sabbatical, I desperately wanted to return to painting and to explore whatever concepts were released in interactive form as well. I'm not sure how it will all turn out but the notions of flight, freedom, parenthood, and craftsmanship pull at me.

On my final day working full time, the entire GIV IT staff went out for our traditional end of institute luncheon at Halverson's on Church Street in Burlington. It has an outdoor hidden courtyard ideal for hosting all 25 or so of us. At the end of the meal, as we were saying our goodbye's, I was standing with my good friend the artist Chris Neuhardt. What should I see on the ground but one half of a small bluish eggshell! Certainly a sign of good fortune—or a sign that I've become very attuned to finding such things. Below is the collection in my studio. The eggshell now rests in the upper left nest.

For the past four springs, a phoebe upgrades her nest above a column in the inner corner of our front porch. Just before we leave for GIV IT the first batch of babes leaves the nest and then she sets about to raise a second bunch. Below sitting indignantly is her second group. They flew away in a feathery burst yesterday just after this photo was taken.

For GIV IT, Jim and I are away from home for nine days and nights. This year our friend and neighbor Connor took care of our home and pets. Occasionally Jim or I would hop home briefly to make sure all was well. During one of those visits, I was checking on the gardens and I discovered that a new nest was being built. It was nestled in the crown of a small hydrangea tree we'd planted during a visit from my parents five years ago. Mom had supervised from the porch while Dad, Jim and I planted. Unlike the phoebe's nest of mud, moss, and feathers this was crafted of carefully woven grasses and twigs—identical to the robin's nest I'd painted a year ago exactly.

The tree is only a bit taller than myself and the nest sits at eye level. The mother flies in and out constantly catching bugs and gathering worms from my gardens, leaving two perfect viewing portals. Below are photos of her four babies. At first scrawny, downless, and sleepy, they get stronger every day. I can hear them calling hungrily for food as I work in my gardens.

So starts my sabbatical—beginnings, nests, eggs, first flights. Sitting here I am listening to the flutelike calling of the forest birds and the musical tumbling of the waterfall. Gone is the constant tension headache. Summer breathes in full of the scent of lemon lilies and rugosa roses. What lies ahead? I am not sure. Much like my camera, this is a huge step for me. However even 2000 years ago birds were looked upon for inspiration.

"Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you shall eat or what you shall drink, nor about your body, what you shall put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his span of life? "

—Matthew 6:24

First day of hatch.

Third day after hatching.

Four days old. Eyes starting to open. Connor in the background.

Awaiting mom. Hungry all the time.

Saying goodbye to GIV IT

2011-07-18T09:29:00.012-04:00

Two weeks ago Governor's Institute in Information Technology came to its closure. 2011 was the eleventh year since I founded it under the leadership of former GIV IT director Jean Olsen and former Champlain College President Roger Perry. It marked the final year I would be directing it. Appropriately only motherhood and freelancing as a computer artist were comparative for consecutive length of time in a role for me.

GIV IT 2011 (thanks to Ray McCarthy-Bergeron for all videos)

The beginning two years were really rough—starting from nothing but an idea, energy, and the experience of other GIV directors. The first GIV IT assistant director Kim Purdy was instrumental in setting the ground work for everything that would become key. I think of her every year when we go to miniature golf, the beach, serve late night snacks, or host the Murder Mystery Dinner. She made sure we included fun. The students were key to creating it as well. From early students the Weekbook was borne, then the morning run/walk. This year Zumba was added and lots more music. Some of our early ideas took off and others flopped but along the way we learned what worked well and what created a community.

GIV IT 2010

The RAs are the linchpin of the community. Throughout my time as director I have worked beside incredible young people who have committed time and energy to caring for the GIV IT teens. Along the way, these young people matured from college freshmen to adults. Nikki brought energy and Capture the Flag, Rafi—a new form of Murder Mystery, Bryan—Ninja, Ben pushed all the edges, and Meagan shined warmth and inner reflection. Aaron and Dave matured from campers to outstanding RAs. Alicia, Jamie, Alison, Mike, Emily, Lauren, and Elizabeth (now GIV Arts director) were my right hand—without each of them I would have lost my mind.

GIV IT 2009

But what has been elemental to success is the longstanding, dedicated, talented faculty. Each of whom is an excellent teacher. I should know having watched them multiple times in their classrooms and working with the teens on the final challenge. Bob Cartelli reminds me "its summer camp"—keep it fun, Frank Canovatchel makes sure accidents don't happen ensuring play is safe, Ken Howell shares his true teacher's heart and has touched many, Chris Neuhardt brings her artist's spirit into the classroom through the digital world and back into the physical world, Joe Manley entertains and teaches us in and out of costume, Jim Reda is Mr. Math Wizard—the teacher you wished you had, and Ray McCarthy-Bergeron is the digital genius who inspires the students with his energy and broad knowledge base. In the last few years, Champlain College alumni have become faculty. This year Alex Schwartz and Becky Schmidt stepped into their roles exceptionally well teaching 3D and video. And this year Coby Brownell came on as director-in-training. He'll take charge next year. As a whole this faculty is a family.

GIV IT 2007

So what do I do? Plan, procure supplies, track students and schedules, and try to add the framing questions around which technology and art are being built. I ask the community how will our world look tomorrow when they step into it as adults and how do they want to influence it? I learn as much from their reflections as I do from any other experience.

GIV IT is truly a unique form of education. Education that is engaging, fun, energizing, exhausting, caring, and influential. It is a once in a lifetime event for the students—often changing their perspectives on what they can do and whom they can be. Through them, I've gotten to be younger every year.

GIV IT 2011 Girls in Technology

So why did I leave? Not because I didn't enjoy it anymore but because I could not devote the proper amount of planning time to it anymore. Too many jobs and not enough time. As I stood on the stage the final Sunday, I was overwhelmed with emotion. So many young people! I've been fortunate to share a bit of time in the lives of over 450 exceptional teens and 70 or so wonderful college students/RAs. They have each deeply touched and changed my life. I will miss my Shangri-la and our GIV IT family!

If you had 365 days?

2011-04-25T20:26:00.011-04:00

If you had 365 days to pause, reflect, gather your breathe, investigate, rejuvenate, work on positively impacting the world, playing, being here now — what would you do? That is now my question.

But first a look at the last 4380 days. Since 1999, I have been teaching, directing, creating, exploring, collaborating, learning at Champlain College. The college has grown and changed and so have I. When I first began there it was known locally for professionally focused 2 year business degrees, today the college is known nationally even internationally, for its career bound baccalaureate degrees in creative media.

In those 4000+ days I have been fortunate to be able to work with wonderful colleagues and create and direct the following:

First the Multimedia and Graphic Design (MMG) program with 15 students that grew to over 300 (now Graphic Design & Digital Media, Digital Filmmaking but perhaps more fully the BFA in Creative Media),
Followed by the game programs—game art & animation, game design, game programming— which followed a similar trajectory,
GIV IT came directly after MMG and to date I've been fortunate that over 500 teens have spent an art-techie's dream of Shangri-La at the end of June on Champlain's campus with its faculty and students,
EMC began with an endowed chair and the idea of learning while doing ensconced in a community of students, staff, faculty and stakeholders,
our premiere project BREAKAWAY with the United Nations to address violence against women completed the launch of 5 chapters in 3 years and is now being played in over 135 countries,
And now the MFA in Emergent Media—a degree for innovators, artists, technologists, world changers.

Also since 1999, my life has experienced a lot of change as well. I went from a young, uncertain married mother with a vibrant freelance computer graphic business working with multi-nationals to an adult standing firmly on the other side of motherhood and life.

In 4000+ days, I've experienced incredible moments and the darkest of days. Among them I've:

raised an incredible daughter to a wonderful young woman
left an impossible marriage
released a freelance business for education
fell in love with Springer Spaniels, birds, and cats
learned to date in my 40s
made wonderful new friends
threw a lot of parties
married an incredible man
sold a house, built a house
planted LOTS of gardens
visited some of the poorest places in the world and some of the most sophisticated
grew to love scores of students
vacationed yearly with all my siblings and their families
and experienced an awful lot of loss: a dream, a marriage, precious pets, dear family, inspiring friends.

But all of that is what I DID do. What comes next? As of July 1, 2011 I have been granted a year long sabbatical! What I wish to do after a long, sun-filled nap is to re-energize, reorganize, re-envigorate, and reconfigure my life. On my wish list, is to:

reconnect with my family, my friends, myself
create—paint, draw, create interactive art, play with game engines, write more, share
reflect perhaps more blogging, perhaps a book
spread BREAKAWAY
be outdoors more, play with my Springers
travel—particularly to Europe, Africa, the US.
volunteer, connect—I would love to commit more time to the cause to end violence against women, I would love to influence education more deeply and in new ways, I will be on the Board of Trustees for the Vermont Council on the Arts.
make a new home and spend more time with Jim in Rochester.

So that's the grand list. Now to see what I can do! 365 days is both frightening and inspiring! So send me your thoughts, ideas, times to visit...

On Eagle's Wings

2011-04-05T22:41:00.009-04:00

As many of you know who've been following my artistic journey, I've been intrigued, no perhaps inspired, or perhaps, obsessed with birds, nest, parenthood, the continual drama of life changing. Well in the way only life can supersede and inspire art, there is a real life drama being recorded and played out on the internet that aligns with my compulsion.

It is rapidly flying through social and mass media. A group called the Raptor Resource Project has two live web cams in a bald eagle nest site and they are streaming it over the web. Their mission statement says:

Established in 1988, the non-profit Raptor Resource Project specializes in the preservation of falcons, eagles, ospreys, hawks, and owls. We establish and strengthen breeding populations of these raptors by creating, improving, and maintaining nests and nest sites. In addition to directly managing over twenty-three falcon, eagle, and owl nest sites, we provide training in nest site creation and management across the United States, reach more than 85,000 people each year through lectures, education programs, and our website, and develop innovations in nest site management and viewing that bring people closer to the world around them.

There are so many intriguing pieces/questions to this project to me:

why now? As I understand it this group has been video broadcasting birds for a bit, why now has this gained such popularity? Is it because of the tenuousness of present day global circumstances? Are we looking for a positive life force?
the advertising—for a non-profit organization this is life support. However it is implemented poorly on this site, the advertisement placements are disruptive. Do they damage the project's objectives? How will that drama play out over time?
the editing—as an avid watcher of well-produced nature documentaries—to include pieces on eagles—how will the narrative play out with social media as the interpreter?
the reality of the wild—how will the audience take it for instance if the sibling eaglets kill each other as they often do in nature? Will we personify the eagle's timeless rearing and our understanding of family impact our observation and reaction? Already the actions of the female as she settles herself in the nest are being given new terms.
connectivity. Always my question to modern society is how far away have we traveled from ourselves as creatures on a tentative timeline. How will this project impact our view of ourselves in relation to our planet and its purposes?

This same nest was the subject of a particularly powerful documentary on PBS http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/american-eagle/video-full-episode/4349/ from 2008. In its narrative the ver same male was featured, his female partner was blind in one eye. The filmmakers made the viewer aware of how the eagles changed their behavior to co-raise the young. Normally eagles will compete for food and are singular animals built to be predators—sharp beaks, long talons. However while nestling the birds co-depended on each other to feed and raise the young and they carefully navigated their nestlings—curling claws, guarding beaks so as not to harm the delicate babies. It was quite amazing. This newer documentary of this family will play out differently.

My ultimate questions: as creatures who are we and how do we change our natures to raise young. Why do eagles, why do we? What is their destiny and what is ours?

Follow the live drama at http://www.ustream.tv/decoraheagles I will! Here's a recorded clip.

Traveling a universe

2011-03-22T23:37:00.017-04:00

I'm still trying to make sense of all of this but it has been a new year of tumult and loss.

Upheaval. Destruction. Fear.War. Death.

Death. Has graced me personally these past 2 months.

Lost a young colleague who gave her all and gave joy to all in her radius;

Lost a creative, artistic, joy-full cousin who shared my birth year and my name—Annie;

and confounding the insanity for me,

Lost a very, very dear friend—so dear and inspiring that he's my daughter's godfather.

With the shock and unfairness what immediately remains is the pain...left behind...students without a guide...a family without a light...a love without presence—a friend torn from she who completed him.

Years ago, at another time of great loss in my life I put my pain into words. Tonight I share it thinking of my friends.

Shot Past Venus

My soul has traveled a universe since you reclaimed me,
Torn from the autumn infused warmth of earth, thrown through the icy ozone.
shot past Venus, blistered itself on the sun.
My soul stormed out of this galaxy, pelted by meteorites, caught up in radio frequencies,
felt the pull of other galaxies,
then drifted far beyond into the brilliance of God's vision.

And in that majestic stillness I raged and shouted, pleaded and promised, groveled and
screamed out "WHY?" and then "WHY?!"
But God did not answer.
Instead held my bleeding, beating soul in Her hands;
a Mother cradling her hungry, angry, howling infant.

There anger spent, pain unbundled, I cried...tears knowing no time.
Washed over in a painful brine of paralyzing fears...
regrets...confusions...desires knowing no hope...
Choked within a ragged breath, snatched between sobs,
I remembered.

You have always been His gift to me.
My saint.
In a silent, whispered reply I heard "You have likewise been my gift to him."

A dawn, a violence,
my soul consumed in a burning, radiant awe...
The magnitude of the gift! The pure luck! The joy! The gratitude!
In the ensuing brilliance, simple clarity, two thoughts illuminate the star-dusted path back.
I have been loved.
I can only ever love.

Inside and Outside

2011-03-07T11:53:00.005-05:00

It is a HUGE storm in Vermont today! A major event that we have been planning for was just canceled. It is very hard to believe this winter will ever end. It is one of those years that will go down in my memory books for snow accumulation.

But what it has me contemplating is the differences between inside and outside. As a painter this topic has always been one of my favorites to explore. My entire MFA thesis revolved around it. Where are the boundaries and what is the truth? Existentialism has always provoked my thinking and now modern day thought in physics such as M-theory seems to blur edges further.

Today's storm provides a perfect visual for my home's internal and external life and a perfect metaphor for myself.

Wonder and Compassion

2011-03-01T08:14:00.009-05:00

Art begins with a deep sense of curiosity, of searching.

Experiencing wonder and awe open my heart and propel me to create—sometimes through text, other times through rendering or color or photography, sometimes by simply breaking into song. It is a physical sensation for me that builds and builds, a pressure on the heart until finally I can release it like a bird into the air.

This morning I read Seth Godin's blog and I'd like to share a section here. He wrote simply on Wonder and anger:
Great innovations, powerful interactions and real art are often produced by someone in a state of wonder. Looking around with stars in your eyes and amazement at the tools that are available to you can inspire generosity and creativity and connection.
In a related universe, I had just viewed Krista Tippett's TED talk on compassion. Compassion and generosity are not very far removed. Tippet provides a rich emotional definition for the word compassion. Looking through the lens of creating art, it struck me as the cord of creation. Key points, compassion:

is seeing beauty in other
brings us into mystery
changes what we think is doable
seeks physicality
is not a solution but is unleashed in wider circles by signs & stories
carried by the power of stories.

Tippet goes on to speak of storytelling. She says that stories allow us to survive, flourish & change. Her description of tikkun olam is lovely. Though I'm not borne of this religious tradition, having never heard this story before, it somehow strikes in me a universal cord that resonates as a long held personal truth. This story alone excites my sense of wonder, of the visual, of the possible.

Here's the full Krista Tippett TEDTalk:

Festival of color

2011-02-10T23:23:00.012-05:00

Raised in a US centric, Christian environment, I did not grow up knowing much about Indian culture or religions. So it may not be surprising that it is only in the last few years that I have become aware of the religious celebration of Holi. I first learned of it listening to NPR (National Public Radio). In that broadcast a commentator living in California spoke of his yearning for the celebration of his homeland and of his discovery of its celebration in California. You can hear it a year later here.

But as a painter, I've been struck by the idea ever since and tonight I found myself wishing I could participate. I love color. It is so interesting from many angles. Worldwide we respond to color differently. For instance in the US brides dress in white where it represents purity but in Japan a bride would not do so as white symbolizes death.

Likewise Disney got into trouble when they first created Disneyland Paris . In the Disney parks in the US purple is a dominate, branding color. Here in the US, it represents creativity and ties into Disney's innovation and ability to create and explore fantasy worlds. However in Europe, the Catholic-centric thinking sees purple as the color of repentance and death. Disney had to redo all of its signage in Paris.

A more universal color is blue. In almost all cultures it is associated with wisdom and spirituality. The association comes from the sky above us. Even our water bodies reflect the skies' heavenly blueness. The qualities we give blue express our longing for spaces we can not dwell only view or visit, yet where we must be unfettered from our physical weight and world realities.

Another color close to universality in translation is red. We associate it with two seemingly opposite things: passion and danger. But when you dig deeper and realize that to our earliest primitive societies red was the blood of dying and the blood of females it makes more sense. Blood red: the beginning and violent end of life. I can just imagine how our ancient ancestors that dwelled in trees and caves viewed red—danger and passion—death and procreation—mystery and desire—end and survival. Still today we hold these associations long past our memories of red's actual living source. Instead red we use for fire engines, stop lights, Santa Claus, devils, and Valentine hearts.

Holi, holy—color and all its meanings. This is the month of color's holy day/holiday. Here is a description from wikipedia—lovely really:

"...Lord Krishna is believed to have popularized the festival by playing pranks on the gopis here. Krishna is believed to have complained to his mother about the contrast between his dark skin complexion and Radha's (Shakti or energy that drives the world) fair skin complexion. Krishna's mother decided to apply colour to Radha's face. The celebrations officially usher in spring, the celebrated season of love."

Apropos for our western celebration of Valentine's Day. Though separated by distance and interpretation, this is our season for celebrating the color of love. I can only imagine how it must be to be covered in color—in life and all its meanings. Perhaps someday I can be where color and all its mixed meanings is celebrated so outwardly!

Shangri la?

2011-01-30T19:31:00.013-05:00

Last weekend a group of my students, Lauren, and myself returned to Peace Village in the Catskill Mountains of New York to work with the Brahma Kumaris. We were there to brainstorm ideas for creating a game that could encourage youth to reflect and grow the values outlined by the UN to celebrate the Year of Youth: peace, non-violence, tolerance, and human rights.

We drove down through Vermont and New York and once off the highway followed a twisting-turning route alongside a gorge cut by the mountain's streams. Peace Village is on top of a mountain. The walk from the car to the entrance was windswept and cold surrounded on all sides by two or so feet of snow. But what struck me was not the cold but the brilliant light. Someone explained to me that it was because it was on top of a mountain that the light was so beautiful. I think how it reflected off of the snow and how the building allowed the light to enter also had a lot to do with it.

Friday evening youth from the Brahma Kumaris hosted an "Om Cafe" for us. It is an event that has gained popularity with their youth around the world. It is a welcoming, reflective gathering that utilizes a process of "exploring, expressing, and engaging" values. That evening we reflected on the value that worldwide BK youth have deemed the most important—love. At first I thought this was rather cliched but as the evening unfolded the group brought the concept beyond the cliche in surprising ways. Our group expression based on the engage exercise is below. I really got into drawing. Tied to the paintings I've been doing—it seemed to summarize the concept that love is fierce and begets love, that it is nurturance that gives us our freedom and ability to create peace. Thus I discovered a key to my own creative practice....and now I desire to get into the studio to explore further.

Saturday and Sunday morning the group began with meditation. Now I am not one prone to meditation. I have so much energy that I embrace walking and reflection. So my mind could get antsy as we did this. Afterward we would start our day. On Saturday after breakfast prepared and served by the BKs, we went first into game information sessions 1) what are games by myself, 2) serious games by Rene, a sound editor from EA Montreal, and 3) the process of game development behind BREAKAWAY a panel led by Lauren, with our student team. This we followed with a demonstration of various games.

After lunch we began the brainstorming sessions that continued through to Sunday at noon that I facilitated. We discovered a lot of good ideas and all of us learned things we didn't expect.

When I returned Monday to my frantic work life, a funny thing happened. And I'm not sure why exactly, but I am much calmer and at peace in an unusual way for myself. Likewise I have an unbounded energy —I got an amazing amount of work accomplished this week. I am thinking that perhaps I need to travel to mountaintops, surround myself with creative people, and meditate more often.

Art, Intent, and Form

2010-11-01T23:01:00.025-04:00

This semester as part of our MFA in Emergent Media, I am "hosting" the course entitled The Emergent Landscape Series. Amazingly, though this is a new program and away from a major metropolis, some major thought leaders have shared their thoughts with our students, in fact three of the speakers are TED speakers! Essentially this is a speaker series but in reality so much deeper. It is set in the meeting room at the EMC. Seating is flexible and informal. Before each class, students are required to do a lot of reading/media consumption about both the speaker and the ideas that the speaker brings forward. The result is that each class is more of a presentation/discussion. Each session has lasted more than 2 hours in length!

I'm posting here because the last few speakers: Frank Lantz and Randy Smith have brought home the question of culture and art in regards to games. Randy's talk tonight brought up the point that "every art form has qualities that make it distinct". He then gave an excellent example of the progression of film from pure documentary film (look a train!) to theater (staged actors with a one point camera) to finding its own uniqueness determined in part because of the tools and form: time, editing, special effects, camera angle, etc. This played out with Hitchcock's recognizing that the camera affords the ability for the audience to "know" things in the story that the characters did not yet know and vice versa!

(Side note: our art is tightly tied to the technology that defines the era it was born in: technology—craft—expression—art. Which comes first the art or the tech?)

But Randy used film to illustrate where games are: as a method to pinpoint the unique quality of games, what has been achieved, and the possibilities for future game design. He examined interactivity and the concept of emergent gameplay—abdication of authorship and the existence of the possibility space as unique characteristics that define the artisitc expressive power of games.

Interactivity is key but so is the uniquely personal aspect of experience—or I would say the "story" that the player leaves with. To an individual playing a game, a game feels as if it has occurred in their lives—achievements belong to the player and not to an abstract or separate character or even its artist/creator. The amount of energy a player puts into extracting a game's essence is more involved than viewing sculpture, painting, theater, film, etc. In a game experience, unlike the media above or even literature (which demands the ability to read) the audience's end-state is not pre-determined. In a game, one cannot take in the whole at once as in a painting or jump to/read the last few pages first as in a score, script, or book.

This left me wondering what uniquely defines other areas of art. So now I am thinking aloud about form with no real conclusion—any feedback is appreciated.

Art is a forcing factor that brings us out of the mundane and into contemplation and examination of ideas. General forms can include storytelling, reproduction, symbolism, cultural commentary, or pure form for form's sake. Painting and other two dimensional forms seem uniquely about elemental visual power and suspension of time—almost a mantra moment. Sculpture's strength seems to come from mass and physicality. Music is the power of sound and voice. Literature brings forward voice, character, and time. Film deconstructs time and reframes the relationship of audience to character. Games offer wider space exploration and give the audience power in relationship to end events, game objects, and even characters.

I think what Randy offered about art in regards to games is true for any art form. He suggest that there is always a person, an artist or designer behind the form...and with that form, the artist delivers a message. Speaking of the possibility space of games, he stated, "interacting reveals the space. No matter what you do in that space—there is always a message."

Frank Lantz has spoken of art having intent. And I have written of this as well. Today's talk delineated to me further the responsibility of the artist to direct the art's intention, but also to identify, respect, and build upon the form's unique powers to express.

No painting - but ahhh painting!

2010-10-21T20:17:00.018-04:00

Above recent self-portrait

So painting has been playing in my head, yet frustratingly I've had no time to be in the studio!! Yes school has begun and with it lots of travel and the launch of our new MFA program in Emergent Media. So wonderful this new group of Champlain students! Below is my NYC observation from two weeks ago, tied perfectly to the questions we've been examining in the MFA course I'm teaching "The Emergent Landscape" on the nature of media, art, and technologies. Books are becoming antiques. I saw a similarly themed shop window this week in CA; book jackets torn off the books.

Besides the ability to find cultural commonalities, travel has another benefit for the artist and that is the ability to see outstanding art. Whenever I travel, if there is time, I visit whatever museum is in the city I've traveled to. Two weeks ago I was in NYC and I had a whole afternoon and early evening before my flight!

(Below the corner next to my hotel by the UN.)

I chose MOMA and there I spent over 6 hours! I ended the day "walking with Matisse". I was enthralled. So luscious and intoxicating is his paint, so expressive of the place and moment it describes, yet universal in expressing the nature of water, plant, reflection, light...

Of course the subject of water and reflectivity and lilies I've recently been photographing and painting and there in MOMA painted by its master! I felt why should I even attempt to paint anymore?

To my rescue came my cell phone! With it I could take Matisse home and examine his paint in a new way—in many ways far superior to the art books sold at MOMA. Printed reproductions can not come close to the phone's quality at representing the beauty of his paint. I held the phone at a certain level and photographed every step of the way. I walked with Matisse and as I did so I felt as if I was walking by his pond and waterlilies.

Posted here are my results from walking one of his two paintings in MOMA—note is is about 16 feet long! Too bad a blog is vertical instead of horizontal—still gorgeous—then perhaps this is the modern day form. Regardless of how transmitted, painting from the Masters—unlike book jackets—seem ever new and revealing.

..that Startles the Dark

2010-07-29T23:02:00.013-04:00

"..Fight the darkness. Bright
is the loving heart
pierced by the sword of light,
thrusting the darkness back.
Let night not rise.
Fight the darkness. Start
the fear-filled fight.
Love is the one surprise
that startles the dark..."
—Madeleine L'Engle excerpt from Rachel: Birthing Benjamin

Hard to say where the birds have gone and why water now captures my brush. Water and light and reflections. Perhaps it is my night dreams of creatures that lay beneath the surface that call out to be painted. Perhaps it is the kayaking we have been doing this summer.

One thing I do know is that both the birds and the water symbolize for me the act of giving birth to creativity, to progeny, to self. They seem to represent life's flow; seeming uncertainty, and continuity amidst constant change.

So it goes. I do not know how or precisely why the paintings come into existence. I only know they do. And when they do I stand back and say to Jim "Look at that, isn't that something?" The images that are released much like L'Engle's "love...that startles the darkness" startle and surprise me for it is as if the paintings gave birth to themselves and I had nothing to do with it but be the conduit, the facilitator of their birth.

A quick postscript, the poem above and in the last post is only a small fragment of "Rachel: Birthing Benjamin" by Madeleine L'Engle. Some of you may remember her from your childhood or from reading to children. She is the author of the classic "A Wrinkle in Time". I discovered her book of poetry "The Ordering of Love" quite by accident yet I highly recommend it if you are interested in beautiful writing about maternity, love, and faith.

Push the Shadows Back

2010-07-28T22:17:00.007-04:00

"Fight the darkenss. Fight.

Let the night not rise.

Push back the shadows

with tearless eyes."

—Madeleine L'Engle, excerpt from "Rachel: Birthing Benjamin"

Finally I'm back painting! It is difficult when in one's mind there are paintings waiting to be borne yet life (even though deeply satisfying) pushes back and leaves no time. Finally they must become. In this case there were two more waiting after the completion of the last. All in the same square format. All inspired by birthing, by maternity, by the birth of flowers, and of Jim and my experiencing water in an entire new way through kayaking. Through the flow of Champlain and the Winooski and other Vermont water bodies, I understand Siddhartha at a deeper, physical level. Water—the giver of life.

Today I bought 7 more canvases. In two other formats. Already they are taking shape in my mind's eye.

The start of a painting can be so mystical. The fluidity and ease.

Though needing a greater depth and richness, in many ways the painting calls out "stop, leave me, I am perfect as I am".

Such is life as well "stop, we are perfect as we are. Perfect in our imperfection, in our trying to become, in our innocent becomingness."

I WANT TO PAINT!!!

2010-07-27T22:07:00.001-04:00

It's here on my fingertips. I can smell the paint. Yet not tonight or last night or the night before. Commitments call. Tomorrow. Don't let it get away!

It's all in the eyes

2010-07-17T20:49:00.018-04:00

So after posting the "final" painting, and re-looking at it on line and in person, I made minute changes to the eye of the bird. The look wasn't quite right. The real canary was watching me the entire time, her eyes getting sleepier and sleepier. There was a certain trust and acceptance, a certain wisdom that I wanted to catch versus the fierce determination of the "final" version.

That is kind of the immediacy I like about painting, photographing, and posting. In reflecting back what the brush has rendered, I see it with new eyes of my own, a new perspective. It is almost as if I'm applying a digital process to a very old medium. An edit-copy-paste way of creating art.

Additionally there is an exchange that is occurring by blogging and presenting the work online. It is a 2010 method of critique.

In the studio, as a young painter or artist, feedback comes in the form of a critique in which master and students review the individual's work and provide their thoughts about the success or failure of the piece—all with the intent of strengthening the artist's work.

After school, critique for a professional artist, most often comes directly from a client, a gallery owner, in a review, or by the simple act of a work being purchased.

But in using social media to post my work, some of the reactions to my work come through Facebook responses, some from in-person responses about the posted work, and some critique is my own reflection on the work and discovery of meaning and method through the act of posting. Now so many more eyes can "participate" in the art even as it is being created!

This morning I retook photos of the painting. I wasn't pleased with how the color in the photos taken in the evening reflected the actual work. This morning I took two sets of photos both with daylight versus lamps. One was with the canvas turned away from the window shown in this shot directly below. The other set, which I prefer (all the other shots in this posting), is with the light shining on the painting. In these the blues and violets seem to translate better, though some of the color and detail in the yellows and golds get lost.

Of course all three images, those shot at night under lamps and those in the daylight, are correct. Again it is all in the eyes, and how they translate reality.

So let me know what you think about the work itself, the color difference due to how and when it was photographed, and what you think about how we see and perceive. Likewise do you prefer the "new" black background for this blog or the former white background? For me it is a mixed bag. I like how the black frames and isolates the images—the main point of this blog after all. However for reading I prefer the white background.

And then the painting is done

2010-07-15T22:40:00.008-04:00

On the chin, on its edge,

under the chin many a kiss...

The golden boat trembles

on the surface of closed eyes.

Hair, rowlocks, clavicles,

fuzzy skin, lilies, reeds...

Every particle of me knows

what has happened, what is bound to be.

And I proffer my face, my shoulders,

to the miracle as to the wind.

Come and row. a child again,

I will sleep curled on the stern.

—Vera Pavlova, "If There Is Something to Desire,/There Will Be Something to Regret..."

In the studio, the fan of the air conditioner nosily rotates, strands of Laurie Andersen deliver an inconsistent beat.

It is hot and strangely quiet.

The dogs and cats sleep.

The birds, perfectly posed tucked themselves to sleep.

And I paint.

to the pure pigment I add some oil.

The paint flows from the rounds and the fans like water in a slow river.

Liquid, quiet, strong.

And then the painting is done.

Where Love's Light

2010-07-14T00:18:00.024-04:00

Rachel: At Joseph's Birth

First

before babe's birth

is death

death to safety

to the womb's wondrous warmth

death to dear darkness

danger

terror of tidal wave

a cruelty of light

an agony of air

a push of breath invading

listless lungs

Cry, sweet son, rage

at the indignity of birth

at death to safety

(and death of your mother's shame).

Be born, child,

into this brilliant, dangerous world

where love's piercing light

perfects darkness

where love's light

through all our deaths

shines us into birth.

—Madeleine L'Engle "The Ordering of Love"

Humor me, no seriously HUMOR me.

Looking through thousands of images tonight for painting sources, it rushed at me and surprisingly overtook me like a freshly minted driver on a twisting country road. I am in mourning, deep can't be changed, mourning—the awful type, a constant dull throb, without time for contemplation or tears—at least until tonight when I saw the photos of what I have lost and then exhaled.

Beyond the mundane realities, such as sagging jaw lines or working more than I play, humor me, here is my mourning list.

This week, the reality that Ray McCarthy-Bergeron, the EMC project manager, my colleague, my EMC right hand, my student, my mentee is leaving for real.
This month, the EMC lost Brendan Holt to his PhD Program (congrats to him, whoa to us). He was a true miracle to our art students on the UN project.
As a faculty member, every semester students move out of the EMC and into their lives. At the end of this summer, we will lose another key bunch of students on our game project to end violence against women as they fledge the nest and move into their lives. Students whom become my daily life and whom I care deeply for and may never see again!
Last month, my daughter followed suit, in a wonderfully painful accomplishment, graduating and then successfully beginning her adult employed (yeah!)life...however not here (boo!).
Every other week for the last 5 years, I lose my newly wed husband as he or myself departs—alone—for business.
In the last two weeks, my dear beloved 6 year old Mo, the cat who appeared on my doorstep (a wee 6 week old kitten traveling through miles of forest) like Moses in the reeds arriving in my darkest hours, has disappeared. Most probably fodder for fisher cats.
This year, my sweetest cat 15 year old Marlin, cried in the night—without my recognition, to die the next morning of diabetes.
This Spring, my wonderful, idealistic, dedicated, training for a marathon, talented architect, 40-something, mother to two teens sister-in-law had a paralyzing stroke.
After living for 20 years in the same supportive community, I moved, there is no longer the quick ability to be with lifelong friends.
And lastly every hour my parents get painfully older and I am not near them.

What I've come to acknowledge is that, in this point of my life, I am constantly losing those I love through death, through change, through life.

So is this a "death" stage that will shine me "into birth"? Is mourning the true proof for loving? A proof of the permanently changing nature of being alive?

What would be worse, never feeling the pain of loss or never having love to lose?

As a young painter, it disturbed me that I was, well, not disturbed. So many of my artist friends came from families of dysfunction but not myself. It fed and fortified their work. I wondered if I had anything truly to say as an artist. Now, having deeply loved and desperately lost, I realize that the important story to share, to give to the world, is not of the pain, but of the beauty, of the potential.

As an artist, the most dangerous thing to do is to fall in love with the individual elements of the beginning work. Digital photography has been my life saver. Now I can record and keep instances, the shimmering, momentary beauty. But as important as keeping is letting go, of taking the turpentine rag and wiping the canvas clean, of releasing the bright bits that held back the whole. It is far more important that the whole is one pure intent.

Tonight that's how I began, by r e l e a s i n g...

b r e a t h i n g

Away went the mother canary on her nest hidden in the safety of the weeds.

Tonight she is her true self, protectress upon her nest. The nest an open flower precariously afloat on a pond, a stream, a lake, a river...

The mother...

cognizant of the dangers,

aware that she may be sacrificed,

with total focus on the birthing, the safety, the future of her yet-to-fly progeny.

Is that not all our destiny? Is that not what love and loss prepares us for? The final release?

Be born, child,

into this brilliant, dangerous world

where love's piercing light

perfects darkness...

Always returning, never the same

2010-07-12T22:25:00.006-04:00

Life like the pull of the tide flows forward and out, always returning, never the same.

The birds I bought to paint have nested. A soft fur lined home holds three tiny blue speckled eggs. After repeated attempts, they have yet to hatch.

My night dreams have been rich in color and touch. Filled with deep ocean blue; mysterious creatures swim, float and crawl, invoking fear and wonder. By day, brilliantly painted volcanic skies and the movements and life cycles of the forest's wild creatures and the garden's time-warp life of plants hold me.

I am inspired by the birthing of summer. This painting, I know not where it goes, only what brings it forth.

100

Only she who has breast-fed

knows how beautiful the ear is.

Only they who have been breast-fed

know the beauty of the clavicle.

Only to humans, through clavicles

slightly resembling birds,

entwined in caresses fly

at night to the place where,

rocking the cradle of cradles,

the babe is wailing,

where on a pillow of air

the stars nestle like toys.

And some of them speak.

—Vera Pavlov (from "If there is something to desire/There will be something to regret...")

Wing

2010-05-21T00:12:00.009-04:00

So in the way the world continually wraps around itself and illustrates that we don't know anything, I was floored by both Italy and Peter Reda's graduation.

Brought to my knees by artists already exploring what I am exploring with my recent paintings. Yes angels and flying and birds through out the Milanese art. But then at the graduation, Patti Smith singing this song:

Wing http://www.lyricsdepot.com/patti-smith/wing.html

I was a wing in heaven blue
soared over the ocean
soared over Spain
and I was free
needed nobody
it was beautiful
it was beautifulI was a pawn
didn't have a move
didn't have nowhere
that I could go
but I was free
I needed nobody
it was beautiful
it was beautifuland if there's one thing
could do for you
you'd be a wing
in heaven blue I was a vision
in another eye and they saw nothing
no future at all
yet I was free
I needed nobody
it was beautiful
it was beautiful
and if there's one thing
could do for you
you'd be a wing in heaven blue

and if there's one thing
could do for you
you'd be a wing
in heaven blue

Tryptic

2010-05-15T11:08:00.013-04:00

Here I am in Milan and art surrounds and engulfs. Step in a door of an old church and one is amazed by the genius of the spaces. Here though it isn't just the antiquities, but also the modern—the Roman arches from BCE and Romanesque churches next to graffiti and billboards and doumos from 400AD next to LED billboards with images updating by the minute.

Then narrow streets where designer clothes sit next to knock-offs next to exquisite art supplies next to beautiful art galleries. If I have time this week between flights or after work I hope to post more of those photos—or at least on Facebook. Artistic point and counterpoint all in everyday scale. My only question what do we pass forward 400, 1000, 2000 years from now?

To end I humbly wish to follow in an old tradition and post the tryptic—the three paintings I completed as a set. Actually they are 3by3by3 or 27. As individual panels, or as sets they seem to stand on their own. How about virtually in a column?

Fini.

Why of the Storm.

2010-05-09T17:56:00.010-04:00

Worked all day on this painting pulling it into line, piece by piece, getting lost and then found again. Part of the problem was that I had begun to look at it as precious parts. I was relying too much on photos and concepts. I lost the whole. To make it work I had to release the spirit from the photos. The painting needed its own sky, set within its own landscape.

But it was tricky integrating so many fine linear elements on top of the larger, darker, stormy background. I had to let it all go and destroy what I had. Literally I took a pencil and drew on top of the paint and then with a palette knife scraped back through the layers to the canvas. In sections, turpentine and a rag wiped through to clean canvas—getting rid of some brush work and color I liked. But it had to happen in order to make the painting whole.

Sometimes that is what happens in life as well. Sometimes things can't be fixed.

Sometimes we imprison ourselves. Sometimes we do it for love.

The cage seems surer but do we see the storm?

Is that why it's called the eye of the storm precisely because we can not see?

And perhaps better this storm, this cage, then the road ahead, the uncertainty.

I think we are in a time of cultural, fiscal, and environmental uncertainty. Politically we are tying our hands and refuse to move on either side. Better the storm we're in now then the one we seem to be creating ahead.

Will the pine stand the storm? Will the last elm fall? Does the caged bird sing or is it its last song?

"Why these mountains? Why this sky? This long road? This empty room?

Why these mountains? Why this sky? This long road. This empty room. "

"And everyone used to hang around him."

"And I know why."

"They said: There but for the grace of the angels go I."

—Laurie Andersen

The Higher You Fly...

2010-05-08T22:26:00.007-04:00

"Last night I woke up. Saw this angel. He flew in my window.

And he said: Girl, pretty proud of yourself, huh?

And I looked around and said: Who me?"

—All lyrics below from Laurie Andersen, Gravity's Rainbow

So truthfully I'm pretty tired. It was a big week and a big weekend so far. Getting ready to go to Milano to videotape Samuel Eto'o. Short staffed and crunching to solidify plans across multiple countries and multiple organizations, refine scripts, review storyboards, advise student teams, prepare packages for partnerships, settle plans for once we get there, oh and there is the beta launch as well, and the MFA student selection, and the trustee dinner last night, and Champlain's graduation today. Graduation such a mix of celebration, and sadness at saying goodbye...

"Why these mountains? Why this sky? This long road. This ugly train.

"Well he was an ugly guy. With an ugly face.

An also ran in the human race.

And even God got sad just looking at him.

And at his funeral all his friends stood around looking sad.

But they were really thinking of all the ham and cheese sandwiches in the next room.

And everybody used to hang around him.

And I know why.

They said: There but for the grace of the angels go I."

I should have stopped painting about an hour ago. It was good then—in fact I felt very good about it. Cleaned my brushes and everything. The clouds and the parts of the trees needed to be more feathery and cloud like. Light needed to travel further across the canvas. A dry round brush and it was all good. With finer brushes I went back into the bird. Still good. Feeling fine.

So I took on the barbed wire. Jim and I went into the woods today and removed it from two huge old maples that had grown around it. The shape is wonderful.

I painted one wire, then another, and another. Still looking good. Should have stopped there. But it wasn't cage enough I thought. So I added more bars. That's where I lost it.

And he said: The higher you fly, the faster you fall.

He said: Send it up. Watch it rise. See it fall. Gravity's rainbow."

——Laurie Andersen, Gravity's Rainbow

There is no Control Z in painting. Let's hope I can reclaim it tomorrow after a good night's sleep.

When Darkness Falls

2010-05-06T00:57:00.023-04:00

A winter's day in a deep and dark December;

I am alone,

Gazing from my window to the streets below

On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.

I am a rock, I am an island.

I've built walls,

A fortress deep and mighty,

That none may penetrate.

I have no need of friendship;

friendship causes pain.

It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.

I am a rock, I am an island.

Don't talk of love,

But I've heard the words before;

It's sleeping in my memory.

I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.

If I never loved I never would have cried.

I am a rock, I am an island.

I have my books,

And my poetry to protect me;

I am shielded in my armor,

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.

I touch no one and no one touches me.

I am a rock, I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;

And an island never cries.

—Simon and Garfield.

Tonight this is what plays at this late hour—music from my very first album purchase. A musical icon of individuality from the 1960's. Yet they followed up with the opposing mantra "A Bridge Over Troubled Water".

Like my sister Mary, I enjoy music that has poetry behind it. Unlike Mary and my husband Jim, I enjoy working to it. The words and musical compositions unsettle the unspoken words of Mary, the writer, the to be figured mathematical compositions of Jim, the engineer.

As I paint or create art, a deep river of rich inputs flow through my mind. Perhaps it is the nature of the paint brush or of creating imagery. The brush does not detail words or code, but reflects back color, light, emotion. True I do chose music that supports my current project in some ways....

I just can't always describe beforehand what that may be.

Debbie, a dear painter friend whom I truly respect wrote on Facebook "your painting and writing show your sensitivity and style, but the hours you keep prove that you're the real deal!!". First—thanks Deb for the compliment! But I may just be crazy, the hours are a bit of a struggle. When I am painting I tend to only get 4 or so hours of sleep and then head off to an intense day of work. But there is no choice and I do not know if I would chose differently. Well maybe, like most of us, add hours to the day.

I am not an island. My day job propels and informs my sleepless, yet dreams-made-real night.

We are working on an intense project at the moment with the students at the EMC—one that I believe can reach into the deepest, darkest private worlds of domestic violence and create a global shift. No more women cowering in corners afraid of their partners, no more 9 year old girls sold or kidnapped as sex slaves to die young from AIDS ...can YOU imagine 9 year olds! And no more believing that violence is the way to make it to the top—is that pile worth being the top of?????

I have my story but this project has bound me to seemingly opposite lives: the creativity of my students and colleagues, the passion of those who work on this issue daily such as the fine group at PMC and the United Nations, to poor, under-educated children around the world, and to the girls and women whose lives are not valued from the day they are conceived. Those who are subject to atrocities, far more horrendous to be detailed—their stories haunt my dreams.

And this is in my head as I paint...and I have never felt less like a rock—or more connected to the river of thought and creativity—or more able to give and receive.

"cut him till he cried out in his anger and his pain....lie, la, lie, lie, lie,lie, lie, lie..."

Why these mountains? Why this sky?

2010-05-05T01:17:00.009-04:00

The image of a canary, barbed wire, and containment have been bouncing about in my head for the last few but I haven't been able to see the composition.

I've been thinking about visual depth depicted on a flat surface and found myself admiring some paintings from the Prado, in particular Claude Lorrain's The Embarkation of Saint Paula Romana at the Port of Ostia c. 1639-1640. I also have been looking at Scenes of American Life: Treasures from the Smithsonian American Art Museum. The paintings in that book document American life in the first half of the Twentieth Century—from the boom times of the Roaring Twenties through to the chaos of Great Depression and World War II. I'm fascinated by the way artists rendered a time that seems to parallel our own—from the crazy economic frenzy of the 1970's and 1980's to the current convoluted recession and twisted up wars in the Middle East.

Alexandre Hogue's Dust Bowl especially caught my eye for a number of reasons. Though created 300 years after Lorraine's and set horizontally instead of vertically, it still shares a similar compositional space. A light-emanating sun is pinned between strong triangular elements and placed central to the canvas. I'm also drawn to it because it contains one of the iconic images I have in my head for this new painting—the rusting barred wire I've found strangling the trees in the forest.

This morning the sky in Jericho was cerulean beautiful. This afternoon in Winooski there was a sudden, sky-blackening hail storm. This evening driving I-89 home pointed towards Camel's Hump, Lorrain and Hogue's composition came to life! The rain soaked road stretched towards the mountains and the cobalt blue and alizarin storm clouds were struck by an opening in their mass that let loose the low setting sun. It graced their edges with gold and lit the new-green trees with silver. And there before me was presented the final pieces of my composition.

"...And he said: The higher you fly, the faster you fall. He said: Send it up. Watch it rise. See it fall. Gravity's rainbow. Send it up. Watch it rise. See it fall. Gravity's angel. Why these mountains? Why this sky? This long road. This ugly train...."

—Laurie Andersen, Gravity's Angel

This Storm is Called Progress

2010-05-01T11:41:00.013-04:00

Now complete, and in completeness, it is yours to finish. It has become a question. Is the bird a blue jay raiding the nest, a bluebird abandoning it or perhaps returning to home? Where did that palette come from? It seems to leap through the ages and off the canvases of Fra Angelico! What is the nature of blue, of red, of gold, and of violet?

This painting has been calling out to be born since 2001. In that year a twenty year marriage ended, a family changed. Afterward romances replayed the drama—cycling through the joy, the pain. Now a new marriage has begun. A daughter has become an adult. A world full of systemic abuse uncovered. A means to create a world of hope enabled.

My friend Lisa and I were on one of our daily walks through the fields and hills of Starksboro when below us we discovered an empty nest perfectly balanced between three slender branches. They seemed to symbolize the supports that hold us up in life—those we hold dear, our work, our spiritual and creative self. What happens when a support collapses or worse yet was never true?

He says: I've wasted my life on our stupid legend

When my one and only love

was the wicked witch."

—from Laurie Andersen, The Dream Before

Love, well placed or not, in transition or ending, simply ain't fun. Yet we are wired for that!

Thomas Lewis, M.D, Fari Amini, M.D. and Richard Lannon, M.D. in their work "A General Theory of Love" wrote:

"The evolution of the limbric brain a hundred million years ago created animals with luminescent powers of emotionality and relatedness, their nervous systems designed to intertwine and support each other like supple strands of a vine. But in life, as on the Greek stage, every attribute confers a matching vulnerability; each heroic strength find its mirror in a tragic flaw. So it is with the neural skills that constitute emotional life. The limbric brain bestows experiential riches denied simpler creatures, but it also opens up mammals to torment and destruction. An alligator never feels the loss, and a rattlesnake never suffers illness or death upon separation from its parents or progeny. Mammals can and do."

So it seems mammals are dependent on emotional pleasure and pain. Does it not stand to reason then that there is an evolutionary purpose for this? Perhaps our biology guides us to find fulfillment, to achieve meaning? Like a child pushed into schooling, we are pushed towards what is beyond our understanding or even desire?

"Your place is empty, empty in the night

When I reach out with hand or foot to touch

Your living flesh, the warmth that offers such

An affirmation, oh, it is not right

The bed is empty, made for two, not one.

The reflex does not die, to touch, to reach,

To find. I think it will never be done,

And I am glad of that. It seems that each

Of us find our own answers in this grief.

I know you have been here. You have been here.

The empty place is full of deep relief

Because it still is yours and still is dear.

But oh! That my dear love were in my bed

And my life flesh to your live flesh still wed.

—from Madeleine L'Engle, Sonnet 1

Since this painting was first envisioned, I've discovered that walking gracefully through adversity, fully aware and inquiring, not running blindly, not hiding, or worse refusing to enter into it, is a gift. To the graceful, true wisdom and the ability to reach beyond ego are discovered by proceeding through to the path's end. And, as I have learned, loss can be the start to receiving an even truer love.

In the midst of deepest pain, life—our capacity to receive, to create, and to give—pulses through like the sap at winter's end. Coursing through barren branches, it gives birth to new buds—and if from the right branch—sweet syrup provides joy for hundreds more.

To Go Back and Fix Things

2010-05-01T00:20:00.005-04:00

We had a very late Spring snowstorm. All the Spring trees, heavy with new leaves, bent their tops to the ground; the new radiant daffodils, the about to open tulips, and the brilliant forsythia—all were buried beneath 12 inches of pure white frozen H2O. Of course, we lost power for the last two nights. All this rather gets in the way of painting at night.

I had felt that the painting was just about done. But after a two night sitting, the paint dried down to a point where I could not work back into the color. I had to, in essence, reapply color to get back to where I was before. I finally worked out the color and composition in the upper left quadrant. The egg, wing, and branches are good but the nest seems too deep to be real.

I am not happy with where it is tonight but I am too tired to work further tonight.

"She said: What is His-tory?

And he said: His-tory is an angel

Being blown backwards into the future

He said: History is a pile of debris

And the angel wants to go back and fix things

To repair the things that have been broken

But there is a storm blowing from paradise.

And the storm keeps blowing the angel

Backwards into the future.

And this storm, this storm

is called

Progress."

—Laurie Andersen, end of The Dream Before

This morning I called my parents to see how everyone is at home and to tell them that unexpectedly, in two weeks, I will be traveling to Milan for work. There has been a lot going on with my family right now and I often wish I was living closer to them. Mom was concerned about Dad. Dad waved it all off. So tonight we called him to cheer him up. However Dad was not there. He was admitted into the hospital this afternoon.

History is a Pile of Debris

2010-04-27T23:23:00.011-04:00

It snowed today covering up the beautiful trillium of the woods, the tulips of the garden about to bloom, the daffodils in the lawn and their shining welcome. One can only wonder what will happen now to the fruit trees about to blossom.

All day I wanted to get back to the painting. Struggling through the questions needing answers, the tasks, the mundane, and the unexpected, work called and with it wonderful opportunities for our project and our students opened before us.

Oil paint needs to cure, to sit, to become once again workable. It may be one of the things I love about oil paints. With a 24 hour wait, paint sets, color soaks in. Layered upon, details can be added, color enriched—or scrubbed away; layers thin and thick, brush strokes delicate or sweeping, so the mind is revealed. I come in with a vision but through time a new, truer wisdom is slowly released—like a bird released from the hand.

"And she says: Hanzel you are really bringing me down
And he says: Gretel, you can really be a bitch
He says: I've wasted my life on our stupid legend
When my one and only love
was the wicked witch."
—from Laurie Andersen, The Dream Before

"The bed is empty, made for two, not one.

The reflex does not die, to touch, to reach,

To find. I think it will never be done,

And I am glad of that. It seems that each

Of us find our own answers in this grief."

—from Madeleine L'Engle, Sonnet 1

When my dog Louie was but a yearling, we were traveling through Vermont's hills. Myself caught up in the thoughts and preoccupations of my life. Louie however had only focus. In one quick reflex, he caught a young grouse and brought it to my hand, untrained. I still remember its gaze. The gaze of baby creatures—large eyed, pure, trusting, fearful. With a stay command Louie sat and I tenderly released it back into the scrub from where it had been retrieved.

History may be "a pile of debris", but for the attentive, from the debris the phoenix does rise.

History is an Angel

2010-04-26T22:53:00.022-04:00

Tonight I dismantled Icarus my mind spinning not with one other painting but an entire series and then one after that. A string forward in time, all mysteriously envisioned and interwoven.

This past weekend I had spent pouring over show catalogs from museums I have visited. I was particularly interested in the Prado paintings and those from Rose Frantzen's Portraits of Maquoketa that I had seen this February at the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery.

What was I looking for? I am not sure. I was looking at technique but I was also thinking about the history of image making—once images were only able to be reproduced by eye and hand, now able to be captured, stolen, manipulated, reconstructed, and shared by and through all sorts of mechanical and digital devices. I am and have been a computer artist for the past 20 odd years. Why now paint?

Again the question of intent and of longevity.

What drives one to paint when one can photograph? Why paint when there is no longer a reason to document and record? Why paint—our lives are surrounded by enough visual turmoil: mass produced images, glossy sales catalogs, real life drama in the form of reality TV... Few seem to be able to cut through the clutter—to stand time still, to pause, to reflect, to add to the art's meaning. Canvases untended remind me of the question "when a tree falls in the forest..."

In Laurie Anderson's Life on a String there is this mournful string segment in the piece Slip Away. Music can capture the elemental, can reach into our hearts and minds, no literal translation required or desired.

Anderson, Frantzen, the masters—they had a way of transporting the viewer into the moment, into an emotion, a time, a way of touching profoundly, of superseding the personal and connecting into the universal.

Hansel and Gretel are alive and well

And they're living in Berlin

She is a cocktail waitress

He had a part in a Fassbinder film

And they sit around at night now

drinking schnapps and gin

—Laurie Anderson The Dream Before

Tonight I took apart Icarus thinking of how many ways it can be reconfigured. Of how it can belong to another to rearrange and create with it what is relevant. Intent. Mine. Yours.

The new painting begins—bringing with it masters before me. Props assembled, pencil lines drawn. A brush is chosen to lay the first wash.

Today as if by the intent of something outside yet connected to the self, upon my return home from excel spreadsheets, strategy planning, student outreach, Jim and I began our foray with the dogs into the woods, and there beneath my feet, a nest lay.

I had been searching for such a nest for the last few weeks for this painting. I find I prefer to paint form from an object versus a photo. When a photo is the reference, sometimes paint can lay flat and new ways of seeing are harder to uncover.

It was not a newly started nest, but one from the previous season. It had not been there the day before. Instead it had fallen from above the night before—history is an angel. The nest, once used, now abandoned.

"Your place is empty, empty in the night

When I reach out with hand or foot to touch

Your living flesh, the warmth that offers such

An affirmation, oh, it is not right..."

—Madeleine L'Engle from"Sonnet 1"

Not Failing as He Fell

2010-04-23T22:01:00.015-04:00

What is it about living that we are never at peace?

It is a continuum of exploration, of discoveries, of triumphs, and of failings. Painting is but a microcosm of that. With each application of paint comes the possibility of destruction. This is especially true of watercolors—another of my favorite mediums. Oils are much more forgiving, more pliable if one has patience and understands timing.

Gardening is my other art. Like painting timing is key—never turn the soil after or during a rain, plant peas in cool weather only, sow tomatoes only in warm. Again, as in painting, intent and reality do not always match up in the end. The garden of one's mind's eye while perusing catalogs in February is never the one that provides beauty and sustenance in September. And yet again the similarities! Art and the garden nourish us.

"...Listened to her

while we ate lunch.

How can they say

the marriage failed?

Like the people who

came back from Provence (when it was Provence)

and said it was pretty but the food was greasy."

The painting is now complete. Air, time, thought, sleep, gold and text brought it to conclusion.

As did the words of my mentor "do those feather express featherness?".

Did you ever notice how a feather of a living bird has the ability to come back together when split? Yet a feather that has long ago left the bird, once frayed splits and will not return easily to a single wind-capturing figure? Is this not like love? Is that the nature of true failure? To never again be whole?

Today as I crossed the bridge into work, the Green Mountain Boys flew 3 of their F-16s low over the EMC in perfect file. As my ear drums burst I could not help but admire their precision, their beauty! Feathers are not part of the reason they are airborne, instead perfectly constructed steel. Looking at them I could not help but marvel at our ability to do what Icarus only dreamt of. Yet, watching them fly over, I paused, conflicted. We've become birds of prey and then, which one will follow Icarus' fall never to return from Afghanistan?

"...I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,

but just coming to the end of his triumph."

— Jack Gilbert end of "Failing and Flying"

On the Other Side of That

2010-04-21T21:21:00.024-04:00

The painting tonight is waiting.

"Each afternoon I watched her coming back

through the hot stony field after swimming,

the sea light behind her and the huge sky

on the other side of that."

-Jack Gilbert

Layers need to dry, I need to sleep.

Decisions need to be made about its completeness or if there is more hidden behind, between, and on the other side of the layers.

One thought I have is gold leaf. Another is of Icarus flying—a solitary silhouette revealing itself as it falls to the earth. Or the scratched through poem. Originally the painting was to hold:

a bird's nest,
a cage and
the wing embracing and flying from them.

I hear in my head my old painting mentor, Fred Meyer, pushing me on to leave behind conventionality and sentimentality instead to uncover and to perfect the line, the thought, the inner-outer space. Now gone, does he appreciate the paint quality? Would he question me on the wingness of the wing? Does he even see this world from death? Would he refute the old questions and their answers? Instead I look to other masters. The wonder of art is that a body remains after all else have gone.

As the work has progressed only a single wing takes flight carrying with it my intent. The sky and flow of energy have become the focus. But they are borne of "unintent". Minutely on the bottom a row of figures marks the horizon, pure logic there or perhaps mere decoration?

Art has been said to be intent.

But that holds no truth. Art is the joining of brain to mind; left to right; logic to irrationality; visual to theoretical. All—the cortex, cerebellum, hypothalamus, thalamus, hippocampus, and basel ganglia—jointly, deftly command the brush.

"Neuroanatomists usually consider the brain to consist of six main regions: the telencephalon (cerebral hemispheres), diencephalon (thalamus and hypothalamus), mesencephalon (midbrain), cerebellum, pons, and medulla oblongata.^[27] Each of these areas in turn has a complex internal structure. Some areas, such as the cortex and cerebellum, consist of layers, folded or convoluted to fit within the available space. Other areas consist of clusters of many small nuclei. If fine distinctions are made on the basis of neural structure, chemistry, and connectivity, thousands of distinguishable areas can be identified within the vertebrate brain."
—http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brain

Words have been scratched and painted in, then covered or removed—like the lost heart and Spring's burst of green—buried and then consumed in an impossible flight.

So as the painting sleeps tonight (will I peak in on it like a mother on her sleeping child and if I do will I then be tempted to unsettle and perhaps unwittingly destroy it?), I discuss with my daughter Tegan the nature of intent and of intentions gone astray.

Everyone forgets...

2010-04-21T00:04:00.004-04:00

Realism, as a personal form of expression, hasn't held interest for me since I was a teen. Drawing realistically yes, or photographing sure—there is need to document, to capture, to refine one's skills, to be able to literally transcribe what one sees.

But paint?

With painter's tools in my hands, paint demands not to be constrained. I love the luscious, juicy, transformative nature of paint too completely! I become enraptured by it. In a single stroke, a painter can travel beyond the purely physical. A painter's brush can reflect back and bring forward what cannot be seen: the movement of light, the order of texture, the emotion of the line, the essence of life, the radiance of insight, the depth of human hope.

Should it be surprising that even our words for imaging have duel definitions: reflection—as in a mirror or as in examining deeper meanings; vision—as in being able to see clearly or as in being able to see what cannot be easily comprehended by many.

As a painter I go to art museums and constantly get scolded for getting too close to the paintings, even setting off alarms. But to take in a painting one must move as close to it and as far from it as the painter does when painting it. When in Spain it is the only way to see Picasso's Guernica. I could have stayed with that painting all day, much like when I was in the Basilica of St Francis of Assisi, Italy and first saw Giotto's vision of truth. It was painful to leave that place—that was my heaven!

So tonight the paint enables a found wing to fly, and I separate out the reality of my vision from that of the vision of my heart. I sacrifice colors, lines, details, and luscious paint that have not adequately reflect back some deeper truth I am in pursuit of.

"Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that

anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her

like antelope standing in the dawn mist."

-Jack Gilbert http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2010/02/23

Icarus Also Flew

2010-04-19T22:02:00.001-04:00

Ten years ago, truth tumbled out and life changed.

"Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It's the same when love comes to an end,

or the marriage fails and people say

they knew it was a mistake, that everybody

said it would never work. That she was

old enough to know better. But anything

worth doing is worth doing badly."

—Jack Gilbert

I have held in my heart images and stories that have gone untold. Admittedly I have been engaged in creating and opening doors and all of that has been a gift — an awesome opportunity to create beauty where paint can't permeate and in forms that extend past pigment and cloth.

However images and stories have a way of nagging,

of knocking,

of needing,

and of demanding to be told.

So tonight two stories break bonds. They stretched and yawned and tore through the binds that held my hands. Like tiny fledglings they perch on the edge of the nest, they are testing the air, their wings, and their hearts.

Accompanied by Laurie Anderson's "Strange Angels" http://www.lala.com/#artist/Laurie%20Anderson ,

Iris Dement's "My Life" http://www.irisdement.com/biography.html and

"Failing and Flying" by Jack Gilbert (quoted above),

I am held aloft by thoughts of my creative sisters Theresa and Mary,

my courageous brother and sister-in-law, Daniel and Joanne,

twenty years of my life,

and my wondrous romps through the woods — patient puppies leading the way...

... I take a level draw some lines, hammer in some nails, adjust. Paint is mixed, two whites and a palette of cool and warm upon an old glass window. Items collected from the Vermont woods are set and lit. A pencil draws a line, turpentine is mixed into pigment. A wide brush strokes the canvas, is wiped clean, and returns. The story tumbles forth.

A silent breath. Check back to witness the unfolding.