I'm not just talkin' run-of-the-mill unpleasant, frustrating or embarrassing - like late for an exam with no pencil or naked on a stage type thing. I'm talkin' cinematic air disaster tsunami baby-drowning sucked into a vortex of the unimaginable variety. Yeah. Well, a few days ago I decided I was going to try something new. For several days I have provided myself with a new bedtime mantra (evidently meditation wasn't working for me). I started to tell myself that I could only have "pleasant dreams, pleasant dreams, pleasant dreams." The first night I dreamed I met Paul McCartney. Not a bad start. The next few nights I hardly slept, but my dreams were okay. Last night was the best. I dreamed that the cell theatre company was an itinerant troupe of actors who were happy and successful, travelling from place to place performing and making a nice living. What a pleasant dream!
Art Smarts
I love getting blog responses from my friends, but sometimes I get the most surprising responses from strangers. Last week was the best. It was a comment addressing the accidental dead squirrel photo. Someone thought it was "pointless and gross." Right on! As artists, we plan, we think, we pray for inspiration, we sweat, we create. Yet the most poignant pieces come when we allow the unexpected; when reality imposes itself on the imagination. "Pointless and gross" might describe many things. I would say war is pointless and gross. A photo of something the dog dragged in captures reality both at its simplest and most profound moment. Surely it is not the thing I'd have assembled for a photo, but it was a moment I will never forget, now recorded. When life seems pointless and gross, art reminds us of our humanity. That's why we make it. Thank you, O.G., whoever you are (and for your meaningful tip about hand cream)!
Does art have a shelf life?
Does art have a shelf life?
There are those who look at art and see junk, and those who look at junk and see art. As a procrastinating pack rat, I’ve amassed a pretty impressive collection of precious junque over the years. Of course it's all junque with potential. I just can’t make myself part with the random tchatzkahs that have been lurking on my shelves and in my head as art, patiently waiting for me to use them. For a husband who sees the shelves, but not inside my head, this can lead to some pretty tense moments in a marriage!
Recently when Alan asked me to help rid the house of its accumulated surplus, I said I’d try. I’ll bet for some people a major purge is probably an instinctive thing that kicks in at a certain stage in life; like nesting when expecting a baby, it is nest-emptying for empty-nesters. I felt his pain, but still I had my own conflicting urge to hold on.
Last week, after a profoundly liberating acupuncture session, I was challenged and inspired by my uniquely gifted acupuncturist to participate in a metaphorical exercise to “clean up my house.” I went home and wound up spending the day working on a collage that lived for so long in my head I thought it had expired.
I had collected, among other random objects, some naturally dead (not by my hand) flies because I like the idea of using organic materials. Okay, so maybe that’s a little weird, but I’m not Damien Hirst. Anyway, as I was intensely engrossed in gluing down two flies, the indispensable finishing touches to my project, I hardly noticed my dog near my feet, except that she was chomping and slurping rather noisily. Soon I was peripherally aware of a strange odor, but the flies demanded my complete, undivided attention.
Okay, done…Daisy what’s up with you? I looked down and saw that my sweet little dog was engrossed in her own project. She’d dragged a decomposed creature in from the yard. Although it was hard to identify the body, it had the tail of a squirrel. So what was I to do? I immediately took a picture. It'll go on a shelf with all the other photos I’ve stashed away over the years. And it could turn up as art. Someday…
Nuclear Art
BLOG 2/25/11
Baby, it’s cold outside. But here inside the cell we are getting ready for the warm weather that’s sure to come. We now have new chairs, new curtains, and a new outdoor space to conjure new projects from the vast universe (or is it universes?) of art.
Lately I’ve been pondering the proliferation of art, which seems to be running neck and neck with the worldwide freedom fight. We are seeing an unprecedented surge of protests against tyranny from the peace-loving human community. When in history has the military refused to fire into a crowd of innocent people? Talking heads tell us that dictators are scratching their heads! It brings to mind the time before the Berlin wall came down.
War, war, what’s it good for?
What, you may ask, does this have to do with the proliferation of art? It is no secret that the world is becoming less and less patriarchal. Just ask a matriarch! People are rallying for gentler, peaceful solutions to the problems we face; problems pretty much the result of male domination. All of the artists I know prefer making music and art to wielding guns and waging war. Peaceniks have been accused of being idealistic. What’s wrong, I wonder, with a vision of utopia?
Some Neanderthals are poking their noses out from under the harsh rocks of reality. Even Imus is talking about the feminine factor on his politically laughable morning program, a true sign of the times! Hopefully we will see other dictators go the way of Mubarak. Let us hope this is a trend towards true democracy.
So, as spring approaches, we are looking forward to all the surprises the world has in store, both in and out of the cell.
nOtes frOm my Opus: ALLEY OOP
Before Brooklyn, when I still lived with my sister and her husband-the-doctor, they had a Siamese cat called Ffup (Puff backwards), and a Standard Poodle called Licorice (because she was black, duh). The cat was like a dog. I used to walk the dog on a leash to the park, and the cat would walk too, without a leash, scampering up ahead until we’d catch up. This went on for several blocks. The neighbors came to know us and love us.Shortly after I moved out, my sister called to say she developed an allergy to Ffup and asked if I’d like him. “Sure,” I always wanted a Siamese cat. It sparked the Holly Golightly in me. So Ffup came to live with me, and my roommate. Now Ffup was a nice enough name, but I had a feeling I had to brand him with a new name to truly make him my own. I started going through names, rejecting the usual pet names, reading baby name books, feeling stumped until I remembered where the kitten came from in the first place. The original owner was an associate of my sister’s husband-the-doctor. His name was Alvin. Alvin. Perfect.
Not long after that, cousin Bobbi called to ask me to babysit her cat. She knew I loved cats. I can’t remember the cat’s name, but he was big and white (was it Snowball?), and had a big nose. He reminded me of Barbara Streisand, so I called him Barbara. I think he didn’t like that.
At the time, I had an avocado tree. I had raised it from a seed, and it had grown to be tall and quite attractive. So much so, that I entered it in The Avocado Pit Grower’s Contest in Gramercy Park. Seriously. I schlepped that big ol’ potted tree in the subway all the way to the city, to a hotel basement, where the competition was fierce. You know how much I hate competition. Then, my poor plant was deemed nice. Nice. But too young to participate with the big boys. Dejected, me and my nice tree schlepped home. But Barbara (the cat) liked the tree, too. So much so that he used it as a litter box. He liked the tree but hated me. He killed my beloved tree. I think it was because I called him Barbara. After that, I could never get another avocado pit to grow.
Surviving Arts Blog
Surviving Arts @ the cell
When I log on to my email I get seduced. Celebrity news pops up like the abundant tulips on Park Avenue in the springtime. Who can resist such an alluring display of pomp and circumstance? But unlike the beautiful and benign eye candy on that lush avenue, the celebrity gossip is far from benign.
Too often, when we can’t ignore, we sneer, laugh or just plain envy those special people whose status most of us will never achieve. Far from elevating us ordinary folks, we are turned into voyeurs who want to step into the shoes of the rich and famous or, worse, want to witness the failure of the great so as to assure ourselves that we are the lucky ones.
I think there are two kinds of artists. Those that need to create, no matter the outcome, and those who create to seek fame and fortune. People need validation. We toil to make our marks lest we die forgotten, without being noticed or without a feeling of leaving the world a better place.
The point of our Surviving Arts series is to make a clear representation of what it takes for art and artists to survive. We wish to convey that art survives because artists must survive and create no matter what the price. So, next time you see a celeb pop up on your computer screen, consider the value of their art, then consider the value of your support of the many talented artists you can see live at the cell!
Surviving Artist: http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7776407/
Rod Revisited
Rod Revisited 2/2/11
Someone calling herself “Madonna” has called me out on the Rod Stewart incident. She says it’s not him. Not Rod Stewart? Wow! I was fooled? And not just me! Perhaps it was life imitating “The Truman Show.” Everyone was in on it, but me. All the nice strangers sitting around me and even the flight attendants! Well, I can imagine the crew playing along. That’d be good for an inside joke on a boring flight. But how’d they get the others to play along? Even my husband. Wow! Well this brings me to an interesting question: If it was NOT Rod Stewart, how does this change my life?
For a few days I was under the wonderful spell of delusion. When my reality was challenged, I had to consider the ramifications. If it was him, I had a brush with stardom. If I believed it was him, I believed I had a brush with fame. If it was not the real Rod Stewart, was I no longer cool? Did I make a fool of myself? And who the hay was he, anyway?
I really liked thinking that I had a brief encounter with Rod Stewart. Now I may never know the truth. Does it matter? And who the hay is this “Madonna” anyway? I kinda have to wonder if someone who calls herself “Madonna” isn’t bit delusional. Or maybe it is the real Madonna.
But then again, did my Rod Stewart have a prominent mole on his face? Surely I’d have noticed, wouldn’t I? And the eyebrows…they’re not quite right.
A Rod Stewart imposter? Could it be? I had a reason to believe. Truth be told, I’ve been compulsively searching for the answer. You might think I’m obsessed, but I don’t want to talk about it. Facebook, Celebrity Sightings, Celebrity Impersonators, other websites I didn’t know existed! Hours, days, precious time wasted, just to figure out if I was duped. Wake up, Maggie!!! Okay, I'll stop now. Tonight’s the night. I have to accept I will never know. It won't be the first time...This happened once before. I didn’t know what day it was. I was standing on line for a flight from NoLa to NY. I was convinced Sean Lennon, that beautiful boy, and his girlfriend were standing in front of me. I was sure, but I will never know, really...But just so you know, Rod, you’re in my heart.
Madonna, are you listening?
Rod and Me
Rod Stewart and Me
In case you believe I am not occasionally star-struck, let me lay that idea to rest. I am, as I write, sitting next to Rod Stewart. To some of us (of a certain age) he is a living legend. If you are too young to know him, I suggest Maggie May enlighten you.
On this brief encounter on American Airlines, I had summoned up the courage to ask to take a photograph of him. He misunderstood, and quickly volunteered to pose for a picture with me! And just like that, the flight attendant snapped a shot.
“I grew up with you,” I remarked, as if I’d known him forever.
“I grew up with you.” He was totally charming and disarmingly understated.
I showed him the photo.
“It’s nice,” I assured.
“You look nice, “ he smiled. Maybe it was a mercy complement. Whatever.
He went back to his beads, the ones he was holding from the moment he embarked.
“Are you nervous?” I asked, as he fondled the Buddha beads. He looked like someone who he knew his way around Rosaries.
“No,” he shook his head. “Just bored.” I swooned from his adorable British accent. Even at sixty-something, he was adorable.
Rod Stewart was bored? I wanted to say, “When I’m bored, I like to write a song.” Was I really gonna suggest that to Rod Stewart?
“We saw you perform at Jones Beach in a torrential downpour.” I was relentless. “Under an umbrella. It was romantic.” Still agreeable, he smiled. His eyes sparkled. I swear he remembered that concert.
Our time together was dwindling. As we touched down, I took one long last look.
He wrapped his beads around one hand and crossed himself with the other.
My Asp
Karma Chameleon 1/20/11
When I was a kid I had a chameleon. I have always loved lizards and snakes. Really! I think I was first fascinated by slithery creatures when I was quite young, spending summers in the Catskills with my family. I recall the excitement of hopping along protruding rocks, crossing icy brooks and streams as we searched for the pretty black-spotted newts that we’d capture as temporary pets. They were ours for the 10 or so minutes we’d possess them, examine them, then again set them free. They were almost the same delicious shade of orange as Creamsicles, which I also loved, and therefore non-threatening. Kids have weird associations!
I was always a lover of nature, especially animals, including amphibians, but not spiders. I don’t particularly like spiders. Except for daddy-long-legs. They are okay. And maybe tarantulas. As long as they are domesticated. I don’t like them in the wild. And I really hate scorpions.
So, I got to be very curious about lizards. I thought it was amazing that a creature could actually transform itself to blend in with its surroundings. I think I wanted to be a chameleon. I liked the idea of being indistinguishable from the earth’s myriad inanimate objects. I acquired a pet chameleon so I could study it, watch it morph, figure out how camouflage could work for me. I think on some level I wanted to disappear, to be invisible so I could study the world without being noticed. Not to blend in so much as to find truth about identity. That is what I do. I am curious about identity.
I have collected rings, pins, and even furniture in the image of snakes and lizards. I also have lots of little froggies around my house. I could get really analytical about all this, but modern wisdom tells us that analysis can lead you down roads to Nowhere, so why bother?
Recently I found an antique ring. It is a snake ring. When I spotted it, I realized I had spent years searching for this very ring. I tried it on. A perfect fit. A perfect metaphor. I think I have finally learned who I am.
What do you know about karma chameleons?
Maslow’s Hierarchy
Is it just me or is Armageddon on the minds of many? Judging by the cinema, the news, the internet, and the radical right, I’d say it’s not just me. But I’ve taken the thought in the direction of least likely to succeed. What if, in the end of days, we really are in a new beginning, as the new-agers are wont to believe?
Given the amount of new creative work, I can see a time when all people are free to create and play without the constraint of economic factors. Think Abe Maslow and his “Hierarchy of Needs.” Most of us in these United States have what we need to survive. We work to live. We “buy time” to pursue our pleasures, to achieve our human imperative.
Artists work to live and live to work at their creative goals.
Unfortunately, most artists die before they ever get a significant financial return on their artwork, if any.
We are all creatures who seek the highest level of satisfaction until we reach the peak, and then we try again. That is part of being human. In the here and now, where the measure of success is in the monetary value of one’s work, everyone is competing to be heard above the fray, hoping to win the jackpot. But only a select few get to make a living as artists. Is financial success the only measure of our worth?
Perhaps we should take a lesson from the Tibetan sand painters. Like children at play building castles in the sand, the lamas form mandalas of colored sand as a meditation on impermanence. Through their activity they capture the essence of being, the pleasure and challenge that is life. After weeks of work the mandalas are destroyed and deposited into a body of water to be carried to the ocean. The ocean, like time, erases all illusions of immortality.
If we were to take financial reward out of the equation, if we could feel validated by our creations just because we have created... we may end up with a bunch of artists creating in pursuit of self-actualization. Could it be the apocalypse will actually hail the unexpected? If we could simply understand that validation need not come only in the form of money, maybe we would see that we are already heading towards a new Eden.