Sharon Zeugin

Sketch Austin

2011-11-20T19:21:00.000-08:00

Congress Avenue, people on the street, Sketch Austin People tomorrow!

Espresso Yourself

2011-11-19T10:33:00.000-08:00

I didn't start drinking coffee until I turned 50. Having always been the one in my family with "champagne taste on a beer budget", it seemed only natural that my taste-buds are ignited by the expensive Starbucks stuff, not the ordinary cup of Joe. Indeed, I have been born again into the afternoon non-fat latte tribe, and have probably single-handedly kept Starbucks afloat in a flagging economy. A trip to Italy in 2010 coincided with my "taste for coffee discovery," and seemed the perfect place to explore my new-found love of lattes and cappuccinos. It was at a small street cafe in Rome, however, that I learned from my friend Laurie that Italians consider the cafe latte and cappuccino to be breakfast drinks only. This startling discovery made me realize I needed to adapt immediately, or be easily targeted as "AMERICAN TOURIST!" when sidled up to a coffee bar in the late afternoon ordering my favorite milk-foamed concoction. Luckily, it was only 10:30 that morning when Laurie set me straight, and I choked down the latte I was drinking. (11:00 am seems to be the cut-off time). Henceforth,"When in Rome....."it would be espresso or cafe for me during the day.

When we eventually got to La Romita and began the extraordinary adventure of sketching in small villages and cities throughout Umbria, I happily discovered I could continue to indulge my love of lattes and cappuccinos. Because we arrived by bus in these towns well before the bewitching hour of 11 am, lattes were not out of bounds! We could easily take the time to stake out a cafe, order our foamy coffee drinks, savoring them slowly while sketching whatever was in front of us. Indeed, it was typically the first cafe where we landed which would determine the focus or subject of many of our sketches. In Orvieto it was the spectacular cathedral (past 11:00 so it was espresso for me). In Assissi it was sitting on a fountain's edge, near the cafe, (latte, before 10) sketching a wall. In Narni it was in the town square, in front of the church near the fountain where all the old men sat shooting the breeze (10:30, cappuccino). However arbitrary or silly this seems, having one's coffee establishment be the determining factor in making a decision about what to sketch was useful when confronted by a multitude of possibilities ranging from architecture, ruins, fountains, sculptures, people, landscape.

As plans for my upcoming sketch/art group at La Romita are underway, I have made a note to myself to include a section in my "When in Rome" Helpful hints information sheet about ordering Coffee in Italy.
Espresso, anyone?

Art Escape in Umbria: July 2012

2011-10-14T11:56:00.001-07:00

La Romita is on my mind.

The smell of ancient olive groves, the resident cat Narina, a sleek, stealth creature who glides effortlessly in and out of the studio chapel, past watchful eyes as she tries to join us for dinner in the dining room. The fuschia blooms of geraniums in the courtyard welcome eager morning- eyes of travelers about to embark on a days' adventure. More sights, more towns: gargoyles and fountains, steeples and chimneys; ancient ruins and medieval marketplaces, cobblestones and narrow streets, colors both muted and bright, ancient and modern. Cappuccino anyone? Will you walk with me in quiet reverence through the painted tomb of the church where the bones of St. Francis of Assissi lie? The Sea lies within a mornings' drive, the sparkling waters of which for centuries have greeted kindred spirits: fellow travelers. It is not wine-dark like the Aegean, but magnificent azure blue, dazzling, glistening, and it alone may hold the key to the mystery of the ancient residents who lived along its shore. A museum nearby holds fragments of their Etruscan story--audacious sarcophogii and intricately decorated pottery--the rest left to be filled in by the steady work of archaeologists, and our imaginations.

La Romita. A peaceful haven midst our busy, art-filled days, a perch above the modern comings and goings of the city Terni, which has hidden within it more sights and treasures to explore. What! An Italian Cosco? Not quite, but an equally as compelling busy modern shopping mecca filled with cell-phone clutching shoppers rushing about in five-o'clock fashion. Something old, something new around every corner as we make our way back to the bus and up the winding, impossible hill to our Italian home. The sun sets and the dinner bell rings. We gather filled with stories of the day--and anticipation of more to unfold--our sketchbooks painted with life, old and new, memories formed and noted in azure blues and olive greens, deep reds and ochre. La Romita. The wine is served while evening descends with starlight spectacle, and laughter erupts midst the singsong flow of animated conversation. People linger over dinner and Narina brushes by my legs as I stand outside in the courtyard watching the moon rise over the ancient olive groves. "Home is where the art is", I think, and move with anticipation towards the studio to paint with the students who have gathered there.

Reflections & Cemetery Wonderings

2011-07-25T13:38:00.000-07:00

2010 came and went in a flurry of monumental events. My Mother moved to Austin, I turned 50, I directed my first Literally Letters program at Ghost Ranch, went to Italy with my daughter, I started a new class called "Sketch Austin," started drinking coffee for the first time in my life, began classes in African Dance. I taught at the International Calligraphy Conference in Boston, was rejected for an MFA program at UT. I was invited to teach in Italy for 2012; I attended a week-long "Process" personal growth intensive at the Hoffman Institute in Northern California, and completed four sketchbooks.

One experience, however, which effected me most deeply, was an accidental visit to the Wimberley cemetery one Sunday afternoon in early Spring. My Mother and daughter and I decided to take a rode trip in search of wildflowers, so I headed out towards Johnson City. On a whim I decided to turn off at Dripping Springs and go to Wimberley where we were disappointed to find that the flowers weren't blooming there yet. After a glass of iced tea in a charming cafe, we drove through town looking for a place to turn around. It was then that we happened upon the cemetery. Compelled to stop because of the unusual displays we saw on the gravesights, including tchotkas of all kinds, bird-feeders, hand-carved stones, we got out and wandered around, drawn in to this artful, wacky netherworld whose inhabitants clearly had had more than a sense of humor in life--they also had the delightful audacity to know that even death could not thwart their final self-expression and exclamations of "I AM. Unique!"

The most touching part of our self-guided tour through the cemetery was discovering a stone near the entrance covered with toys and other child memorabilia. It was a young boy's grave who we were told (by the caretaker who conveniently showed up) had died of a heart attack on Christmas eve. She also told us about the first person buried in the cemetery--on the opposite end--the little Wimberley girl who had died of a rabid skunk bite. We were all moved, and our drive home was quiet, reflective. When I came home that evening I wrote the following directly in a little sketchbook:

Cemetery Wonderings

Some people I met today live six feet under, twenty-five miles away near some mighty fine oaks.
A boy, six years old, dead of a heart attack on Christmas eve. His white stone bore the simple epitath (from the movie Toy Story) "To infinity and Beyond."
A husband and wife buried next to one another, her feet at his head, a humming bird feeder attached to her headstone.

The little Wimberley girl was eight years old when she died of a rabid skunk bite in the late 1870's. It was her family's wish to bury the child under her favorite live oak tree not far from Cyprus Creek, and they were granted permission to do so by the Dobie family who owned the property. The girls' family were among the founders of the town of Wimberley, and her burial under the big oak tree marked the founding of the Wimberley cemetery.
----------------------------------
Does Wimberley girl know her neighbor "Infinity and Beyond,"
His life summed up in action figures lovingly placed and undisturbed around his still unmoving bed?
A carved stone whimsy of a dinosaur looks on--a gargoyle watchman of sorts--
so near the gate he won't be running through,
an eternity away from his Mama's loving arms.
To infinity he rises and leaves us with toys
to ponder his life.
Beyond.

She couldn't know we'd ever think of her,
this child brought back to memory by a chance encounter.
We went looking for bluebonnets and found her story instead,
a rabid skunk and a town named for her family.
She was...
I am not...
Someday.
And my daughter clung closely to me
as if to stave off the claim eternity has on all of us.

She was only eight after all,
and I miss her full-grown story she never lived,
and yet she grows old along with me
who has just now discovered her to remember.

SZ Spring 2010

2010-08-05T13:43:00.000-07:00

Her bones are found among the quarry rocks,

and barren landscape scuffed with sage,

a layered life of sky, earth, sun and sweat,

brittle, ancient, hidden, treasure.

Bone dry, stratified,

rich with filtered sediment

of collected past

River tears flood living days.

A Fossil!

Her query soon complete,

she'll lie in wait beneath the mesa sky,

among cholla blooms and charcoal dirt

with hopes to be discovered

Cat Daze

2010-04-14T14:33:00.001-07:00

This past Saturday, our typical routine of a morning walk was disrupted by a sobering experience with my Mothers’ cat. While it is an extraordinarily ordinary experience to usher any living being into "infinity and beyond," even my background as a hospice social worker doesn’t give me much of an emotional edge when the Grim Reaper comes calling so close to home. The simple fact of the matter is that when you love someone or an animal, it hurts like hell when it dies. Death happens. And even when you see it coming--you know that the THIS IS IT moment is immanent--it always comes as such a surprise and shock, the end of a life. I didn't know it would be this particular morning we would be summoned to my Mothers' side, at the South Lamar Animal Emergency hospital, to support her in making a decision about what to do with her 18 year old Black cat who appeared to be catastrophically ill.

I have always disliked this mangy, thin-as-a-whippet, poor excuse for an animal whose screechy yowl was like nails on a chalkboard, and who should have met his end long ago in a dog or raccoon entanglement, or other form of natural selection. Black, wiry, thin and ugly, this cat was not the cuddly kind who purred or warmed your legs with gentle nudges; he was all stealth, sleek, a ruthless hunter who in his prime had killed his share of groundhogs, squirrels and other small creatures in his many hunting forays near my Mothers’home. Chief among his disturbing habits was to drag half-dead critters into the house, let them go, play with them, then eat them. It was not unusual for my Mother to find the remains of the cat’s prey in the bathtub, a few tufts of fur and some blood and bones provoking many a scream on her part. Oddly (to me) she didn’t hold these disgusting habits against this animal, but forgave him his sinister exploits, and looked upon him as some noble creature of Egyptian Royalty “Bast” descent.

Lately, however, the cat’s sheer age and tenacity had worn me down, as well as the fact that this mongrel beast owned my Mothers' heart. How could I help but admire this feisty cat who had successfully burned through all his nine lives, only to be uprooted recently from his woodsy Northern Calif Home and relocated to the urban Austin landscape across the street from our family? My Mother, whose eyesight has deteriorated dramatically, was forced to make this move, and her one consolation throughout the whole ordeal has been the company of "Monster" on whom she doted. Not only did this cat adjust remarkably well to this major upheaval, he seemed to be right at home in the neighborhood, terrorizing my own cats, yowling at my door from time to time, investigating my neighbors’ yards. I took him for granted as a seeming permanent fixture in my Mothers’ life, and was caught by surprise when his activity came to a halt on Friday. 24 hours later, he showed no improvement, and it was our unspoken understanding that he was in decline, and that his days were numbered.

So there we were Saturday morning, dogs barking in the waiting room, Mom crying, cat gasping for breath, the kindly veterinarian giving my husband and me all the options, a young technician coming in and out with various estimates of what any choice was going to cost. Was I too harsh to ask for a straight up answer to the question, "Is this IT? Is the cat dying?" No such definitive answer was forthcoming, just hushed voices and the vet leaving the room for us to ponder our financial and/or ethical choices. Steroids or no? Fluid injections--or how about some kitty morphine? Cremation or burial? If cremation, did we want a special (it cost a lot) urn for storing kitty's ashes? Or did we want a kitty coffin in which to put the cat until he could be buried? It all came down to "to be or not to be," kitty Hospice or The Shot.

I have to admire my Mother, because she made the same decision I would have in this situation: Cat Euthanasia. Cost and inconvenience aside, the real question was, “whom would it really serve to haul the suffering cat back home, keep a death vigil for what probably amounted to a few days, only to have to come back to the vet for the same decision?” It was clear to us that his end was near, and it seemed the more compassionate alternative to help the cat along into the Happy Hunting Ground without delay. And so with Monster in my Mothers' arms, she chose to give him what in our eyes seemed to be a dignified end. While the vet administered enough propofol (we know what that is thanks to Michael Jackson) to first knock him out, I reflected upon his wild cat-life escapades, his demonic countenance and vampire-like fangs, his voracious appetite, his years of hunting, the countless hours he spent in the evenings on my Mothers’ lap.

As cat’s lives go, this one had had a good one. My Mother knew that, and though devastated, was clear and unwavering in her decision. It was time. Thus, with a nod from Mom, the vet gave Monster the fatal dose of the stuff of Euthanasia that kills cats, dogs, horses and people on death row. It wasn't terrible, just sad, and remarkably upsetting.

I have always marveled at the difference between life and death, particularly the moment after death has occurred. While Monster lay there newly dead, I thought of how miraculous it is--more mysterious than scary--to see a being who was moving, breathing, living just moments ago, so still, not moving. Having been in the presence of both dying animals and people often enough in my life, it is always a profound and humbling experience, provoking a feeling of quiet reverence. Did we really say, "He looks so peaceful!"? Yes, however trite we sounded, it was true. Small consolation for us, though, as we stumbled numbly out the door with carrier and blanket sans cat, my Mothers' grief (and our own) coming on in waves.

A Voice of My Own

2009-10-27T15:05:00.000-07:00

When Icarus flew too close to the sun, his wings melted and he fell into the sea. This cautionary Greek myth came to mind the last time my friend Denis Brown visited me. Denis is no mere mortal; in calligraphy circles he IS the Sun King, the Mozart of Calligraphy, the one who has reached a pinnacle in our art and remains at the top of his game. In comparison, my work seems messy, pedestrian, earthy and most definitely imperfect! Like Salieri in Amadeus, I have felt doomed to mediocrity.

That is until I was surprised by an inner voice which stated clearly, "You are flying to close to the SON!" It seemed perfectly timed as this "message" came to me as I was doing laundry, the most mundane of tasks. I thought about it for awhile, and realized that I had convinced myself that the only standard by which my art could be measured was in comparison to the work of Denis Brown and his ilk, the maestros or SUN's of Western calligraphy. If I continued to compare myself with ones' whose light shine so brightly, I not only risked melting my wings, but being blinded as well.

I have followed this clear, intuitive message and it has served to help me stay grounded while seeking my own WAY to soar in art. My wings are not fashioned of wax, but of solid, disciplined studies of line and composition. Art journals have helped me appreciate the value of ephemera, of process, of ordinary experiences recorded with honesty and lack of self-consciousness. As much as I appreciate highly polished, sharp and extraordinary things, I also appreciate the Wabi Sabi-ness of the not so pretty, the decaying and worn down stuff of life.

Now when I leap, I do so with the knowledge that my own light is bright enough to guide me, my confidence and skills strong enough to keep me aloft until I drift back to earth softly, landing firmly with my feet on the ground (rather than in the sea, submerged in the unconscious!) Indeed, earth is where I choose to be, immanent, embodied. However imperfect, I am committed to my own voice, my own truth. I can accept my limitations as well as my strengths and keep working to shape my visions, however vague or mundane.

Denis left this morning after a four-day teaching gig in Austin. I did not take his class, but stayed in my studio, practicing on my own, soaring here and there, happy to do what I do. Our conversations were stimulating, provocative. I spoke my truth and he shared his; I was not blinded by his light, but warmed and inspired by it--and ignited by our shared passion for art.

"Get Thee to a Monastery!"

2009-07-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

I always loved the line in Hamlet when poor Ophelia is admonished to "get thee to a nunnery." Indeed, I have long been fascinated with nunneries, monasteries, cloistered orders, so it was with great eagerness and curiosity that I got myself to St. John's College in Minnesota last week which has at its center a Benedectine monastery. The purpose of the visit was to teach at the annual International Calligraphy Conference, hosted by the Minneapolis-based Colleagues of Calligraphy.

The first calligraphy group to host a conference of its kind in 1981, The Colleagues' have arguably been the standard bearer since that time, helping chart the course for future generations of calligraphers. Currently, what is most significant to calligraphers about their venue of St. Johns, is that this community is the patron of the first hand-written bible in over five hundred years. Pages of that bible, which is still in the process of being created, were on display all week, and several contributing American artists were on hand to discuss their role in creating the artwork for this historical document.

All this is well and good, but what held my attention all week was not the lovely trappings of bibles or monastic grounds (on which I inadvertantly trespassed in my quest for a nature-infused quiet haven), but rather the theme of the conference: connections. That and one of the guiding purposes of the Benedectine Order: hospitality.

Connections, hospitality, hospice. As I set up my room for the conference I thought of my former work as a hospice social worker. I was thinking less of the death and dying part, but more of the root of the word hospice, meaning hospitality. In fact, in the middle ages, hospice referred to a resting place for weary travelers. Only in modern times would we come to associate the word with the care of the terminally ill. As I pondered these things, I decided that in the spirit of Benedectine hospitality, my classroom would be a resting place for those artists either wearied by the burden of perfectionism, or at a crossroads with their art. Setting this intention and inviting my students to create a safe and hospitable community seemed as much or more important than what I had been asked to teach. This seemed borne out in the end when class participants created the most lovely, personally inspired books.

Interestingly, the Medieval Benedectine monks were not only noted for their hospitality, but for the illuminated manuscripts they produced. It was thus fitting that the title of my class, "A book of Ours"referred to the medieval standard "book of Hours," small prayerbooks which Christians could refer to throughout the day to inspire and strengthen their faith. These prayer books might include elaborate illuminations, decorations, and of course calligraphy, or be more modest in their make and appearance. The purpose of my class was not to imitate these books, but to be inspired by them in making our own contemporary, personally meaningful ones. Rather than solely relying on the words of others, we would furthermore use our own words as "sacred texts." As I saw these books take form and shape, each unique to its maker, I was struck by how powerful a safe and loving community can be in helping one move past personal hindrances such as fear.

Connections. On the final day of the conference, participants set up sharing tables on which they put the artwork they had produced during the week. The rather drab, unremarkable gym which had served as a cafeteria (while a new one was being built) became alive with colors, marks, gestures, painting, writing, calligraphy. On one end there were large brilliant canvases with splashes of color juxtaposed with carefully painted calligraphy. At the other end were exquisite book page layouts in progress, black sumi marks dancing in space with lovely calligraphy linking together all the design elements. In the middle of the room were the simple and breath-taking pencil drawn Romans which stood out for their lack of guile or pretense. And in our corner were painted tyvek-covered books which upon opening revealed gems of paintings, writing and marks--each a reflection of the makers' inner world. As I walked through this communal art-sharing revelry, taking in these glorious and spirited displays of discipline and play, I was struck again by how this had come about: through loving connections with one another, both teachers and participants, which inspired trust, and through our hosts who had asked us to treat each other as we would Christ.

I am home now, far from the monastic gardens, the lake of Woebegone (sp?) fame, the mediocre institutional food, the new friends and old ones whom I already miss. Facebook or e-mail will keep me connected with everyone, and though I am more drawn to the archetype of Avalon than a monastic cloister, the Benedectine spirit of hospitalit guides my Way.

Shared Beat

2009-04-07T09:06:00.001-07:00

Earlier this year I read a book written by a local author about the Lascaux cave paintings. I have always been drawn to the quality of this prehistoric art--how vivid and alive the lines are and how with so few strokes the artists captured the essence of a living being. When my husband approached me about painting "totem animals" on the surface of drums he is fashioning out of whiskey and wine barrells, I knew where to turn for inspiration.

Let me back up a bit....

Clark's "Bubba Taiko" drums have been a hit at the drum circles to which he totes them all over Austin. They are large, and make a big sound. It has been no small task engineering these drums, and Clark has spent many an hour searching the internet for practical guidance. After teaching himself how to weld, and creating his own (in his words) more crudely designed hardware, he has recently opted for commercially designed pieces which he has had to order from Thailand. Not only is the hardware more aesthetically pleasing, it is ultimately more functional, and helps keep the skin of the drumhead more tautly stretched. Originally, Clark's plan was to simply stain the drums, and indeed his first one is stained a lovely red. We both agreed, however, that the drums can have more personal--and universal--meaning as artifacts if we customized them. Thus the idea of totem animas was hatched.

We see a lot of animals on our walks around Town Lake, and to us, the most special among these are the Blue Heron, Cardinals and turtles. As Texans, we are also fond of Armadillos and Horny Toads. And though we are not big fans of snakes, we do admire them for their power, beauty and archetypal significance. Clark is fond of fishing, so Red Fish seemed another logical choice for a "totem animal."

This last Sunday, I honored my promise to paint these animals on a "proto-type" drum in preparation for painting Clark's latest, "new and improved" version of Bubba Taiko. In the spirit of the cave paintings, I decided to use charcoal which my Mother had found in a dig near Ghost Ranch. This charcoal, which is millions of years old , found among dinasaur bone fragments, has special significance for me because Ghost Ranch is my spiritual Mecca.

I had made several sketches of the animals I intended to draw and paint on the drum, but still felt ill-prepared as I began. My goal was, simply, to make as few lines as possible, keeping the drawings fresh, calligraphic. The charcoal is crumbly, and not as easy to use as commercial grade, but I thought of what my prehistoric predecessors were able to do with their own crude materials and stopped worrying. For paint I decided to use acrylics, choosing a very simple, earthy palette of burnt umber and burnt sienna, white and a touch of cobalt blue. Without using any brushes, I smudged the paint with my fingers and with a kitchen sponge which I tore into various sizes. I sprayed a layer of fixitive on the whole thing after I finished--we plan to seal it with another coat of clear matte acrylic.

As I look over at the finished "piece" I am pleased with the result. Clark is happy, too. For the most part I succeeded in fulfilling our shared vision and am prepared to move on to the bigger drum. I love the ritual aspect of the making of the drum and how it used; and I loved making the preparatory sketches and observations for drawing and painting on it. Also, the Ghost Ranch charcoal, which I was saving for some vaguely imagined future project, seems perfect for this personally envisioned, unique artifact.

Clark has no specific plans for these drums other than they be well-crafted and used for drumming. Perhaps he will sell them if offers are made, but in the meantime they provide us with a lovely opportunity for artistic, musical and spiritual collaboration.

Death Happens

2009-03-23T12:37:00.000-07:00

The death of a star should have no impact on my life. Yet, hearing of Natasha Richardson's unfortunate fate made me very sad. Perhaps I am shocked because she was close to my age, and a mother of two young sons. Or maybe it is because she was a partner in that rare breed of happily married hollywood couples. And then again, maybe her death is simply another reminder that no matter how blithely we go along, caught up in the wonderful mundane details of daily living, taking everything for granted, the grim-reaper has the last word, and can snatch it all away in a moment.

Or maybe not. One of the many things I love about being an artist--about making art--is that our art outlives us. It can live on through changing times and places, continuing to express something to anyone who pays attention to it. In this sense, art is immortal, eternal and thus, so are we.

Funny how little this reassures me when faced with the prospect of my own demise. I cling tenaciously to this life of mine and don't really want to give it up anytime soon. Got too much living to do, places to go, people to hang out with, experiences to have, love to give and experience. There are books and songs and paintings in me, ripe and waiting to be birthed. I have volleyball games, weddings and christenings and family gatherings to attend. I have yet to go to the South of France, or drink wine in Tuscany. New Zealand, Australia and a return to Montreal and Salt Spring Island are on my bucket list as are so MANY OTHER THINGS.

Woody Allen once wryly remarked that Americans think that "death is optional." Because of our "can do" uber-protestant work-ethic which insists that we can fix or conquer anything and are a failure if we can't, we are left high and dry when death does happen. For all the work Elizabeth Kubler-Ross did to educate Americans about the importance of mourning and death rituals, we still seem to be clueless about how to deal with the inevitable.

Liam Neeson's way of dealing with his beloved wife's death touched me deeply, and is instructive for all of us. It would have been understandable if he had chosen seclusion in order to avoid the glare of public gaze at such a vulnerable time. Instead, the next evening he was out on the street allowing himself to be embraced and held by friends when Broadway dimmed its lights for Natasha. The following day he openly received family and friends at a wake he held for his wife, and he helped carry her coffin into the Church for her funeral service. He even graciously allowed photographers to snap a photo of his family after the funeral. Death happened, yet he reminded us that we don't have to suffer stoically or alone, and that one can bear the unthinkable when held close by a loving, supportive community. He reminded us that to be vulnerable is to be human, and to be human is to love deeply and feel keenly our losses.

As the afternoon wanes, and evening presses on with lowering sun and cooler wind, I am convinced of only a few things: that love, art, family, community and friends are worthy pursuits in this life, and that I will risk remaining vulnerable and alive, curious and open, knowing that "to everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven."

"I'll Sleep When I'm Dead"

2009-03-18T03:19:00.001-07:00

"I'll sleep when I'm Dead," sang Warren Zevon in one of his memorable songs. Oh how I want to sleep while I am living, but it ain't happening!. So here I am, catching up, writing early morning pages, mourning the days when sleep came so easily.

Perhaps the shift from Winter to Spring makes us all restless. Central Texas is in a liminal "in between" state which lasts about a week, when the temperature can vacillate between 80 something to 39 degrees. One day we wear flip-flops and by evening we are scrounging in the back of our closets for the Ugg boots. We are constantly adjusting our air-conditining and heating, and it makes for some uncomfortable nights, alternating between sweat and freezing.

Or maybe it is simply age and the restlessness that comes from knowing that the horizon--the end of our days-- that once seemed so far off is steadily approaching. Whereas in youth, one is flush with TIME, by middle age, we know that we will never accomplish all that we have dreamed of, and can barely make time to do some of the most pressing things on our "bucket list." And so at 3:00 am my mind is flooded with all the things I want to do--the swimming, the tennis, the yoga, dance. The friends to see, the places to go.

I wake up in the middle of the night with thoughts of art unfinished, lying in flat-files, and art yet to be made. (Ah, the joy of the formless, shapeless vision, that has not been birthed into real life. It can remain perfect in all ways, flawless in concept and execution.) I go over in my mind colors, techniques, writing styles. And morning comes with the rush of necessary mundane tasks-- and the vision recedes...poof! Perhaps this is why journaling is such an essential practice. It helps to tether those ideas onto something concrete, if only a page in a sketchbook. It keeps the mind connected to the body through the physical act of drawing, writing, coloring.

Perhaps this sleeplessness is the result of having neglected my sketchbook yesterday. I made art, but I did not draw enough.

"To sleep, perchance to dream..." I catch the first glimmers of light from the sun which is about to rise. Instead of cleaning my studio, it seems wiser to creep back into bed with sleeping husband and cat. Perhaps this bit of blog-blathering will have helped to quiet a racing mind, and sleep will come unbidden. And when I arise again with the morning in full bloom, the first thing I will do is draw my way into another day.

Learning Curves

2009-03-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

The rain has stopped for a moment and I look out at new green buds frosting the thirsty trees. This wet morning has given brief respite to an otherwise dry spell here in Texas. Art waits and I do not respond to the call, rather taking on the myriad mundane tasks related to selling and promoting it. Bound to my computer, I long for ink, paper and pencil or brush. Ah, websites. Postcards, prints, printers and photoshop, Adobe Illustrator. Cameras and Jpegs, Pdf's and Tiffs'. I slowly acquire a new language while remaining a stranger in a strange land--one who has thus far only learned enough to say "Hi", "Bye" and "can you do this for me?" This is not the age of Aquarius, but the age of left-brained computer savvy. Too bad I was born with an inclination for right-brained activities.

The frustration I experience over the simple act of downloading pictures and then saving them for various purposes, be it print, or web pages, has stymied many an attempt on my part to become more savvy in graphic design. And yet, I perservere, willing to adopt the attitude of "Beginners Mind" and carry on in my slow, snail-like fashion. During a class in web-design and Photoshop taught by Denis Brown at the Calligraphy Conference this Summer, a friend suggested that I go home and take a course for seniors. She was not insulting me, but giving me good advice: simply find a class which will go at a slower speed, one which does not assume that you know anything about computers, photoshop or web-design.

My brand new printer sits in a box beside me. It will be of no use to me until I grasp a few more fundamentals of my computer, of Photoshop and Illustrator. I continue to muddle through the basics of these programs, marveling at their depth and breadth. I know that this Macbook Pro I use daily is far more powerful than I am capable of appreciating, but in baby steps I begin to gain access to more of its wonderful functions.

Soon I will make my own prints with no effort. I will make postcards and business cards, flyers and brochures. I set these intentions, simple and straightforward, and move toward realizing them, slowly and steadily like the rain outside watering my yard.

State of Art

2009-03-05T11:56:00.000-08:00

I am reading a book which has prompted me to get my art-act together: "I'd Rather be in the Studio." It offers great practical advice for those of us who want to sell art. There is lots of helpful information about website design, mailing lists, marketing strategies. One of the sections talks about the importance of the artists' statement. It really is quite a challenge to articulate what it is I am doing in my art, and I sat for two hours yesterday muddling through a rough-draft of my new and up-dated statement.

I won't share the specifics of what I have so far--that will be posted on my website soon--but I will talk a bit about the process.

It seems a conundrum to put into words that which is best experienced visually. For every word one chooses to describe something, there are so many others which might equally apply! How do I describe my passion about lines--lines of trees, cracked lines in sidewalks, lines of handwriting--and my desire to connect drawing, calligraphy, painting and collage? Or, how do I best express in words my desire to move beyond my formal "logo-centric" traditional calligraphy training in re-visioning what calligraphy--beautiful writing--means to me personally?

Not easy. But I am working on it, and I would recommend everyone who purports to do art to try it. We owe it to our viewers, our patrons and ourselves to at least have an inkling of what we are up to, what we are trying to express in our art.

Our calligraphy guild, Capital City Scribes, is having an exhibit at Wally Workman Gallery in Downtown Austin in April and it seems a perfect time to offer our viewers some insight into our art-making process. Particularly because we are calligraphers, our artist statements afford an opportunity for educating people about the spectrum of creative possibilities within the field. Indeed, if I call myself a calligrapher, people immediately assume I do wedding invitations and poems, period. When they see my art, they inevitably say, "I didn't know you are an artist!." Thankfully, our guild members offer a full-spectrum of approaches to calligraphy, so the exhibit will provide viewers with an eclectic visual feast-and lots to ponder. Our artist statements will help them make sense of pieces (like so many of mine) which have illegible writing, or simply gestural lines, instead of straightforward formal calligraphy.

So I continue struggling with the "words to say it,"all the while thinking, "I would rather be in my studio."

FAME

2009-03-02T17:03:00.000-08:00

"Fame! I wanna live forever..."

Maeve and I just sent Clark out to Vulcan Video to get the movie FAME. (Vulcan Video is our last surviving Austin original home-grown video store. If you can't find it at Vulcan, the movie does not exist.) Why FAME? Maeve has been accepted at the McCallum Fine Arts Academy for high school. It is the closest thing to the Performing Arts High School Model in New York on which the movie FAME was based.

I must confess that I was initially hesitant to support Maeve's decision to go to McCallum. It is a public school (where are my politics now?) and Austin inner city schools certainly have their problems. Maeve also applied to two St.'s--St. Stephens and St. Andrews. But the Saints have yet to come marching in with admission acceptances, and Maeve has decided she wants a public school experience after years of private, so here we are. Actually, I am surprised by my initial concern about her choice of visual arts. Because I am a visual artist one would think I would want to encourage my child in this direction since she has such aptitude, talent and propensity to do so! Ah, it seems that for all my bohemian open-mindedness there is a conservative streak in me when it comes to my kids' education. I really had Maeve pegged as an "academic" (which she is) and thus wanted to encourage her to go to a school with a concentration in liberal arts to help develop her amazing intellect. Alas, as all parents learn sooner or later, our children have minds of their own, and an inclination to do what they want to do.

I am not worried about Maeve. She will be fine wherever she goes. And truly, an art education can provide her with the skills necessary for survival in the 21st century: flexibility, adaptability, right-brain mode development. Indeed, I saw a book recently that talked about the importance of liberal and fine arts in educating people to be able to think creatively. To have a child excited about art is such a thrill--and to have a program in our midst which encourages students to pursue a career in the arts could not be more perfect.

So we watched the FAME kids dance and sing and blunder their way through the NYPerforming Arts School, which did not minimize the vicissitudes and challenges of pursuing a career in the fine arts. And my daughter and I smiled, knowing that her adventure lies before her and I will be dancing and singing and drawing along with her as she realizes her dream of being an artist.

Too Hip

2009-03-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

The art scene. I think of Andy Warhol and cavernous, drafty soho lofts with floors covered in paint. I see Basquiat paintings, large and outrageous covering the walls, with black-clad hipsters milling about holding glasses of wine, making Barnard or NYU-educated remarks about the art. I see model-tall, anorexic women, lovely, with haunted expressions, smoking cigarettes. looking intense and earnest. The scene is hip, hip, hip.

I was at a gallery opening here in Austin last night which is what inspired my thinking about the art-scene( as I have imagined it above). Alas, there were no Basquiats or Warhols on the wall, just lots of photos and paintings and drawings of nude models. The place was small, but tasteful, with high ceilings and clean concrete floors. It's small size made it feel intimate, conducive to conversing with other people looking at the art. It was really nice to have a "waiter" come around and offer small glasses of red or white wine, and I made a note to myself of the practicality and cost-effectiveness of this strategy of providing alcohol to a lot of people.

As I watched people come into the gallery, I did see model-thin women--a few with what my daughter would call "emo makeup," and some black-clad men with a token tattoo here and there. And the purple-cloaked woman who sashayed into the room certainly caught my eye, as did the young woman in black patent-leather thigh-high boots. Ah, and one young woman who I overheard to be one of the nude models in some of the photographs, showed up wearing a feathered mask.

I stood there in my own "Free-People" labeled cashmere sweater, with modest green earrings, blue- jeans (which cost a fortune) and red high-heels, marveling at the costuming--the artfulness of the people. I smiled knowing I was not hip, nor will I ever be. It was enough for me to see my two paintings on the wall of this juried exhibit. Even more thrilling, a friend of mine bought one of those paintings. And, I was grateful to have the opportunity to show a bit of the Austin art world what calligraphers are up to these days. (or at least what this calligrapher is up to!)

I left the party early as more revelers came in. Perhaps some of the wilder belly-dancing costumes on some of the women coming into the exhibit could be explained by the fact that Studio II Gallery is next to Lucila's Belly-Dancing studio. This is the same Lucila who sponsors the monthly full-moon drum circle of which my husband and I are regular attendees . And the gallery is also near Plum Blossom Studio where I occasionally enjoy massages and accupuncture treatments, facials and tarot-readings. My house is a stone's throw away from all of these places--my own "Scene" of art, home, health and community.

Eccesiastes of Calligraphy

2009-02-27T10:01:00.000-08:00

In response to the ongoing debate about calligraphy ( is it art or craft; is illegibility okay? what about formal vs. handwriting?), I wrote the following, part of which I recently calligraphed in my class in California:

Ecclesiastes of Calligraphy

For every piece there is

a time to rule up

a time to jump outside the lines

a time to be formal

a time to improvise

a time to be legible

a time to be illegible

a time to use nibs

a time to use chopsticks

a time to use color

a time for black and white

a time to doodle

a time to put well-behaved lettering on the lines

a time to be silly and fey

a time to be ominous and serious

a time to use gothic

a time to use your own handwriting

For every piece

There is reverence for the client who appreciates fine work:

there is hope that art will bring healing into the world

there is joy for being gifted as an artist,

for making things that matter

there is an honoring of posterity in making artifacts that can last beyond our years,

there is love of humanity for our ability to express ourselves through art

there is payment which goes beyond the money we receive;

for every piece there is an opportunity to express our uniqueness, to dance with lines and color on a multitude of surfaces, to seize the moment and truly LIVE

I risk, therefore I fail (sometimes)

2009-02-26T14:24:00.000-08:00

I am one of the most fearful, cautious people I know. Or at least I used to be. It is thus odd to me that the art I do is all about risk: I improvise, trust my intuition, go with my gut. During my "free play" improvisations things come out which surprise me--and it sometimes feels so uncomfortable to not know where I am going.

As a teacher, I feel compelled to offer students an opportunity to take risks in a safe, encouraging environment. My own experience has shown that a willingness to go off the well-trodden path can often lead to discoveries that can change the course of one's artistic direction and experience. Rather than try to lead people where I think they should go , I try to encourage them to trust themselves, to use the exercises and techniques I offer as jumping off points; I try to help them find their own WAY. Sometimes I underestimate the need for people to have more structure; sometimes I overestimate peoples' ability to deal with discomfort. In taking my own risks as a teacher, I am bound to fail sometimes.

Failure. Ah, my worst fear. Or is it? I think about the word...then feel the feelings, then think again..and I start to smile. I start to laugh!! Ah, how ridiculous. I am a wonderfully imperfect human teacher trying to help other people relax into themselves and I am worried about failure?

Back to risk. I will continue to risk being human--to experiment, to try new things, even if they don't ultimately pan out. If I don't follow my own heart, trust my own WAY, then I can offer very little to any one else.

I really do feel the fear and do it anyway. Teaching, making art, living life---it is all one big trust walk and I am so happy to be in the thick of it.

Contentment

2009-02-24T15:37:00.000-08:00

Being content. It seems the artist's lot is one of constant anxiety. Haunting questions such as, "do I have anything worth saying?" or "am I good enough" or "will I ever sell anything?"can be a familiar mantra in one's head. And then there is the isolation one experiences when one chooses to make art. More anxious thoughts arise such as "my friends will disown me for hiding," or "why am I so selfish?", all contributing to a general feeling of unrest. It takes time--lots of time--alone to develop ideas, to muck around in the paint or drawing or sculpture without guarantee that anything decent will emerge. Who knows, maybe nothing will happen and all that time will be wasted.

Being content. In the face of the myriad struggles which we face as artists, can we really be content? I was challenged to reconsider the "artist as angst-ridden soul" in a workshop I took with Ewan Clayton in the mountains of North Carolina. He was presenting a Japanese concept (I don't know what to call it, really) or aesthetic called Wabi Sabi. In the context of that presentation, he talked about art arising from contentment, not anxiety. I immediately distrusted this notion, thinking that only through blood, sweat and tears could something worthy of being called art emerge from my being.

I am reconsidering this distrust. I look at a flower and I draw it. I am peaceful in my observation and joyous in putting down the lines. Ah, my breath is even and steady. I really love to draw that flower, I am content.

I feel this way in life-drawing class. Indeed, I have experienced such peaceful, content moments as I observe and draw the models before me. Because I have been at this practice for awhile, I know better than to worry about perfection. I simply try to really see and then draw what I see. All the while, content to just BE in the moment. The same feeling arises when I write calligraphy. I dance my calligraphic line across the page and look in wonder at the connections I have made over the years: I have finally grasped all the basics and can put them together freely in my own way. Not perfect, but the writing is my own.

Anxiety of any kind is highly overrated. I challenge myself to more times of being content, of allowing what IS to be..what is. To let things rise and fall, ebb and flow, to move with the current, to surrender to something larger than me. Life. Love. Connection.

I Draw, Therefore I See

2009-02-23T12:41:00.000-08:00

Drawing from life, daily practice, just showing up on the page.

In January, I made a commitment to myself to draw something--anything--every day. I got a spiral bound sketch pad (Hobby Lobby, cheap!) which I tuck into my purse every day, along with a small bag full of pencils and pens. It has become a habit to take out these simple tools and materials and sketch whatever is in front of me, wherever I am. My husband, daughter and cats are my usual subjects because they are ever-present and available as models. I have sketched my daughters' volleyball team members, people in airports, my hand, other peoples' hands, chairs, books, flowers, working men across the school from where I pick up Maeve. After a month of this practice, I see progress as evidenced by my ability to catch the essence of a subject in fewer yet stronger lines.

Frederick Franck, in his delightful and sensitive book: Zen Seeing, Zen Drawing talks about drawing as a practice for learning how to See (yes, that is a purposeful capital S). In order to really capture the spirit of a subject one must really look at its details; one must be fully present. It is actually quite exhilarating to be so involved in what I draw, and I am certain this practice helps lower my blood-pressure and keep my breathing steady. Drawing relaxes me. I don't worry about how good the drawing is--I just move my pencil across the page. I try not to look too much at the page as I draw, and my grasp of the pencil is very loose. Perhaps by the end of the year, drawing will be such a normal extension of myself that it will seem effortless.

Besides these small gestural drawings, I am also revisiting books on perspective and proportion. For instance, I am far more likely to get a good quick sketch of a hand if I understand what the structure of a hand looks like--if I have a blueprint of a hand in my mind. I go to Peck's book "Atlas of Human Anatomy for the Artist" for these studies. Although I still can't remember the names of bones and muscles in a hand, I know what they look like!

And so I am off to draw again. My cat is yawning, perched and waiting for me to begin so she can jump off the table and into my lap.

Doin' Lines

2009-02-20T13:18:00.000-08:00

We write in lines as if to say we can herd our thoughts along a linear flowing path.

My own writing wants to go in circles and make diving leaps here and there, following its own way to who knows where. More labyrinthian than linear, I like to wander as I write, taking the line out for a walk or run. All the time playing with the space between, above and around the marks i make.

As I once described Glen Epstein's calligraphy for his website, I want writing which laughs out loud and tumbles out of line; lettering which dances and cavorts across the page to the beat of some swanky rhythm. Outrageous, delicate, sensuous LINES.

I line up my books on the shelves and put everything back in its place today after another round of teaching. I will soon leave to wait in line to gather up my gaggle of middle school girls, aghast that I have become a car-pool, mini-van driving mom.

The lines of tree branches--barren but daring a bud or two here and there--dance in shadows on my paper studio blinds.

As Kaz Tanahashi writes:

"You can't hide anything in a line. you are there whatever line you draw. And you will stay there, even when you go somewhere else.If your personality is interesting enough, the line will be interesting. To do this, you have to be fearless." Brush Mind by Kaz Tanahashi

Enough lines for one day-well until I stare at my face in a mirror :)

Rainin' California Style

2009-02-17T09:54:00.000-08:00

The rain outside is welcome to my ailing yard plants which withered under the unrelenting Summer sun. They have not recovered, even after my attempts to nurture them back with daily watering. I have since surrendered my yard to winter, and now look out at the muted greys of bare trees and scraggly vines covering an otherwise barren fence . I am ever hopeful that things will bloom in Spring in spite of my own benign neglect and the vicissitudes of nature.

It was raining in California this weekend, where I spent four days immersed in a calligraphic wonderland. The setting was Kellogg West Conference Center, tucked away on the beautiful Cal Poly Pomona Campus. Who knew such a treasure existed amongst the freeways and urban development that characterizes so much of the Los Angeles area? I was delighted to discover that the view from my classroom not only included trees, but a lovely view of the green hillsides of Pomona, and the snow-covered San Gabriel Mountains in the distance. The air was clean and cold as it rained. Whereas once a deep breath in Los Angeles might fill my lungs with smog, in Pomona, my lungs felt cleansed and refreshed when inhaling. The rain was a welcome boon to a parched Southern California, so none of us complained. As a Texan who has watched her own backyard succumb to drought, I was thrilled with the moisture.

Indeed, I loved the rain in Pomona as it invited my calligraphy class to embrace an interior space, to come inside gratefully and willingly, with no sunshine to invoke a desire to be out of doors.

The Letters California Style Conference is unique among such venues because of its location and size. The conference organizers are sensitive to the need for art students to have time and space to create--and the Kellogg Center with its lovely accommodations, delicious food, and stunning views offers such a haven from the distractions of the outside world. Limiting the number of classes to 10 contributes to a peaceful atmosphere, where one is not only able to visit with one another between or after classes, but can do so without the distractions of evening performances or Must See exhibits. Indeed there are exhibits at this conference, but they are refreshingly small--the faculty of 10 exhibited pieces, and the conference attendees participants' exhibit. All in one room, alongside blessed Brenda Broadbent's traveling Paper and Ink store which supplied us all with the tools and materials of our trade, as well as a plethora of delightful books and new art-making stuff. Ward Dunham and lovely Linnea held court in the corner of the auditorium where they offered for sale beautifully-crafted wares, including custom-designed seals and sealing wax, and exquisite fountain pens.

As challenging as it is to teach a class with all the accompanying anxiety of preparation and travel, I am once again struck by what a priveledge it is to be invited to offer a workshop to such interesting and willing participants. The calligraphy world is so unusually blessed with curious, gifted, motivated individuals who are invested in a lifetime pursuit of artistic growth. No one I have ever met--however skilled-- rests on their laurels, but continues to devote time and energy to skill-building, to stretching their capacities and their visions. My class this weekend was one such group of calligraphers, courageous in their willingness to risk plunging into unfamiliar territory. I congratulate them on submitting to a "write of passage" and moving closer to calligraphy they can call their own, based on their own personal, energetic and unique lines.

The major delight of this conference (besides the afore-mentioned), of course, was to reconnect with the TRIBE as I call it--to visit with beloved friends and discover new ones. The facilities were conducive to stealing away to a comfortable couch with a couple of friends in the evening. With glasses of wine in hands, maybe poring over a new book or publication, we could relax and visit in a deep and satisfying way.

And while it rained in California, my creative drought was surely washed away. Back in Texas, watching the rain from my studio, I feel the burst of new tendrils of ideas growing, waiting to flower on my canvas....

The Heroine's Journey: Reflections on Art Workshops

2009-02-05T15:01:00.000-08:00

I always experience a workshop--whatever the time length--like a hero or heroine's journey. If you are familiar with Joseph Campbell you will know what I mean. For anyone not familiar with Campbell's "mono-myth" cycle, I will sum it up as an experience wherein one receives an "inner calling" to take a particular action. Heeding the call, the individual embarks on a journey, moving beyond the known boundaries of his/her experience. Along the way, she inevitably confronts a series of challenges which typically lead to a "dark night of the soul" experience: here one feels he/she has completely lost his way. It is at this moment during the journey when a helpful boon typically occurs --one which leads the heroine out of her predicament, guiding her safely home. Perhaps outwardly unchanged, the hero/heroine has, nevertheless, experienced an inner shift of consciousness leading to greater wisdom and self-awareness.

An example of this process is Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Her call comes after forces beyond her control land her in a strange land. The task before her is to find the Wizard of Oz who is the one individual who can help her return to her native Kansas. During her incredible journey she collects wisdom, courage and a heart--and couragously defeats her greatest foe in completing the necessary task set before her by the Wizard: killing the wicked witch of the west. Alas, Dorothy then discovers that the Wizard is only an ordinary man who is ultimately unable to help her return home. It is at Dorothy's moment of greatest despair, as the wizards' balloon floats off without her, when Glenda the Good Witch appears and advises Dorothy that she has had the power to return home all along. Three clicks of her red heels, and Dorothy is back in Kansas.

Like Dorothy, we artists who heed the call and go to workshops embark on incredible personal journeys. We meet our inner demons of all ilk--and no doubt encounter a few wicked witches in the form of self-censure and self-criticism. Our helpful boon comes when having perservered through our oftentimes hazardous inner landscapes, we learn that there is an art spirit inside glowing brightly which has been there all along.

As a teacher I am like the wizard--human and unable to grant magic powers. Like Glenda, though, my job is to remind you what you already know. I can hold up a mirror and reflect back that spirit waiting to be discovered; I can help you dust it off , polish it and release it joyfully onto the page and into the world.

Tsunami

2008-11-06T14:26:00.000-08:00

I had a dream about a tsunami the night before the election. When I woke up, I didn't feel distressed; I felt energized. Nervous, nonetheless, I spent the day fuming, wondering whether or not America had awakened from our collective sleep to "take arms against a sea of troubles" and choose to change direction, or whether we would choose to go down deeper into the heart of darkness.

Tuesday night I was at a friends' house watching the election returns, seated next to a woman whom I had not met before, but who had been close with my mother-in-law, the late Governor Ann Richards. Margaret described what was happening in the election as a tsunami. I smiled and told her about my dream and how portentious it seemed. Indeed, it seems archetypal: what we experienced Tuesday night was a deep, seismic shift--in attitude, in vision, in confidence. It was the culmination of a movement begun long ago, with many fits and starts over the years. Inspired by a man whose background has been suspect to many and symbolic and healing for the rest of us, we saw thousands--millions--of people do the quiet, steady hard work of reclaiming their country. Many of those thousands were in Chicago watching Obama step into the role of president-elect of the United States of America. Thousands more danced in the streets in communities throughout the USA and the world, including the front door of the White House in Washington, DC. Tsunami. If ever there was a time to use the hackneyed phrase "a picture tells a thousand words", this was it.

In electing Barack Obama, America has not spoken, but shouted. Intelligence and truth have prevailed. We have turned from the "warrior" leader archetype to "visionary/healer" archetype. We have chosen hope over fear, possibility over destruction. We have co-created a vision which Barack Obama so beautifully embodies and eloquently expresses: ordinary citizens can accomplish great things. We don't have to live out a script of cynicism and failure, we don't have to create armeggedon for Americans and the rest of the world. We CAN CHANGE OUR DIRECTION. WE CAN LIVE OUR IDEALS AND PUT THEM INTO PRACTICE. WE ARE CHANGE. Yes. We. ARE.

I have been experiencing bouts of tears alternating with wonder and joy. I feel like I can breathe. The tsunami is washing away something old, battered, weary. I am riding the wave and am hopeful, dreamy and ready to continue the hard work of being a responsible American citizen. Can we risk putting aside fear and act from compassion, reason, intelligence? Can we really co-exist peacefully with each other, regardless of race, religion, politics? Can we create an America worthy of our higher selves and vision? Yes, WE can.

Summer Kamp and the Livin' is Easy

2008-06-10T14:49:00.000-07:00

I love how my life is punctuated by particular events occuring at the same time every year. There are the obvious holidays, birthdays--and of course the Austin City Music Festival--all fun and much anticipated. For my daughter Maeve, none of these days which mark the "round of the seasons" seem as special as the first day of KAMP at Kickapoo, in Kerrville, Texas. Indeed, just yesterday, we were sitting in the long line of cars leading into the picturesque setting that is Kickapoo Kamp, waiting to drop off her trunk and other bags, when Maeve remarked, "Here we are again!" On this first day of camp, her fourth term at Kickapoo, she went on to share her feelings of anticipation, nervousness, excitement, curiosity. Blessed by cloud-cover and a cool breeze, I smiled as I sat with her in the car and listened, and wondered right along with her which friends would be back, what cabin she would be in (marveling that each year she seems to skip the logical "next cabin"!), who her counselors would be.

When at last our car rolled under the large oak trees near the "Band-Aid" nurse's station, Maeve learned where she would be living for the next two weeks. She then bounded out of the car and up the hill towards her cabin, meeting several old friends along the way, one of whom, is a "Pawnee" and a fellow vegetarian. I saw Myrtle, the ubiquitious and kindly "keeper of Kampers", delighted that she returns year after year to participate in the growing of our blessed girls. Laura and Bimmie were in their usual office stations, calm, welcoming and unfazed by scattered parents like me who typically forget some important form to be filled out.

We unloaded Maeve's stuff in Cabin #3, learned that her counselor Nicole from last year had not only returned to Kickapoo, but would be her counselor this year as well!

It took only an hour to get settled, at which point Maeve hopped down from her top bunk bed, hugged me and said "bye!" A few years ago I might have been taken aback by such an abrupt, seemingly emotionless farewell. However, It was clear that it was time for me to go, and allow my daughter space to make the transition to her camp home. As I made my way back to the car, I didn't feel sad, I didn't feel worried, and I didn't feel teary-eyed like I have in past years. I felt joy and pride at having a daughter so secure with herself--and with her surroundings--that she could part with me in such a simple, lovely way.

Kickapoo Kamp. Certainly not as fancy as some of the Hill Country girls' camps on the Guadalupe. Indeed, it is downright rustic. Cabins are not air-conditioned, and the somewhat primitive accomodations would seem crowded to the spoiled among us. A few spiders and ants are surely my daughters' cabin companions, and I wonder how she is going to do her increasingly complicated bathing rituals in a bathroom shared by 8 other girls and two counselors! The food staff do not cater to vegetarians like Maeve, and there aren't that many places to go if it rains. Oh and those rugged, sharp steps she skips down and up a hundred times each day, coming and going to her various activities. I can't imagine her navigating them successfully in the dark, flashlight or not!

But the camradarie. The fierce protectiveness of the staff--their absolute confidence in the girls and their ability to thrive away from home, while learning something important about themselves and each other in the process. The loving kindness of Myrtle, the patience and smiles of Teri the nurse, the lively counselors and Kampers who return year after year in this rustic haven. The fun-loving family who own Kickapoo, who LIVE Kickapoo--All of this--and the ineffible "something special" of the place--create two of the best weeks of my daughters' year.

Last Summer, a parent of one of Maeve's Kamper friends remarked, "Kickapoo is like the camp that the twins in the (original) movie " The Parent-Trap" attended. It is good, clean, old-fashioned fun!" I might have paraphrased his remark a bit in the relating of it here, but the gist of it seemed to be, and I agree, that in such a slick, fast-paced world of modern conveniences, it is refreshing to offer our children a healthy alternative: a rustic retreat. Life without air-conditioning? Heck yeah! No internet, t.v., cell phones, video games? Yup. Kickapoo provides a positive "time-out" for girls to reconnect with themselves, with their humanity, their instincts and passions, and with each other.

Without the numbing distractions and questionable pressures of modern life, girls can be, well, girls.

I have done a bit of research on girls camps in Texas. Some look really lovely and sophisticated, boasting of air-conditioned cabins and gourmet food. One camp website showed a picture of young women clad in white, diaphanous dresses. Others , alternatively, look funky and down to earth, offering ropes courses and rock-climbing classes. I took a moment to reflect on our decision to send Maeve to Kickapoo (sight unseen her first year!) and wondered if we had taken the time to explore the other options more fully, would she have chosen Kickapoo? It is really a moot question, irrelevant in my daughters' eyes. She is most unabashadly "kickapoo for life," a proud Cherokee who is hopeful about becoming a Pawnee--and perhaps even a counselor some day. There is no question in her mind (nor in ours, after three amazing terms) that Kickapoo is her rightful place in the Summertime scheme of things.

Maeve did have one complaint this year about going to camp, and that was simply, "I want to stay at Kickapoo longer."

I Am Connected Therefore I AM

2008-04-23T18:37:00.001-07:00

A restless wind stirs up the trees outside my studio. The night is thick with humid air, a prelude to the coming thunderstorm. My mood is neither thick, moody nor dark, but rather light and cavalier. I am drunk with conversation, filled with friendships far and near.

I am giddy with connection.

Not so long ago I stood outside the human circle, pained by loneliness, driven by a goal whose end could only be more suffering: mastery.

I drove myself unrelentingly, my skills improved, my output of art remarkable. Some accolades came my way, and recognition. I got the job I wanted (traveling calligrapher) and realized a dream or two from long ago. But I did not live happily ever after. In my quest for ME, I grew further from essentials bonds of family and friendship. Having crashed and burned (my psyche is so wise!) in a breakdown of sorts, I realized that making art could not be the WHOLE point of my life.

Ah, the awakening. The realization: LIVING is art. Artfully living is the deeply satisfying experience, not merely the solitary and isolating one of sweating over a canvas. Or even reveling in it. I don't need to be alone to create, and I don't have to suffer so much existential angst in the process of making art. Give me a good glass of Merlot (thanks, SIDEWAYS, for making Merlot so appealing to me!) friends, family--and especially my calligraphic tribe, and I am content. And I still make art --quite a lot of it--nd I enjoy it a whole lot more now that I am a part of an ongoing conversation with so many loved ones.

There is so much more to say, but the thunderstorm is gathering momentum. I must rush into the house before I get soaked so I can spend these next precious hours with my brilliant 12 year old Maeve who has many concerns about the environment and just admonished me to use canvas bags for shopping.

I am connected therefore I Am.
All is well in my world.

Sun and Snow

2008-04-22T14:51:00.001-07:00

Snow on tulips, hail pelting on me in my friends' Lake Oswego Garden on Sunday. Is this Ice Age II, or what?

A weekend in Portland, Oregon restored my spirits. As always, facilitating a group of talented and motivated artists leaves me invigorated and refreshed. I taught the class" The Journal is the Destination."

It was snowing intermittently while we created art!

The week prior to the one in Portland was a bit different. I was in Scottsdale, Az, where the temperature climbed to the 90's. Shorts and sandals were the order of the day. It was a challenge to re-pack my suitcase for Oregon, diving into my closet where I had already packed away all the winter stuff.

For anyone reading my blogs, please forgive me the mispelling of Senator Obama's first name. For some reason, I want to leave out the c in Barack. I have since corrected my error, along with a few more. Having been a good speller in my time, I am mortified by these mistakes. Sigh.

And now for something completely different: bragging about Maeve. This Spring, Maeve won first place in a regional speech contest (modern oratory category), as well as first in vocabulary and second in spelling. All wins qualify her to compete at the State level. Ms. Richards is faced with a dilemma: compete at State at the speech tournament, or play with her volleyball team in a pre-scheduled tournament in Houston. Both are the same weekend. One is in Houston, one in Fort Worth. Upon careful reflection, Maeve has opted to play with her team, noting that "she doesn't want to let them down." I am very proud of her decision, difficult as it was. I might have been more selfish, choosing to compete in the speech tournament.

Maeve also won first place in painting in a regional art competition last weekend. None of us could attend the show because Maeve and Clark were in Dallas at a huge volleyball tournament, and I was braving snow and ice in Portland, Oregon. Besides this particular art win, Maeve also won a gold key award in the regional Scholastic Art Award competition. We are waiting to see if she places in the national level.

Maeve's sister Jennifer is soon off on an exciting adventure: a three week trip to Senegal, Africa with her Evergreen State College class. Jennifer has become very interested in politics and world affairs since becoming a "born-again" student at the Evergreen State College, Olympia, Washington.

And for me? No rest for the weary. A soiree tonight, visitors tomorrow, a gala on Friday, and teaching for my beloved guild on Saturday. Somewhere in the midst of all that is another volleyball tournament in San Antonio, Eyeore's birthday, and an art show for our dear friend Tom Cronk.

My life could not be more full or interesting.

Yes We Can

2008-03-30T09:10:00.001-07:00

I am tired of being an armchair liberal, paralyzed by anger and disappointment, spewing the hackneyed vitriol so typical of frustrated democrats. Perhaps it is middle age, the keen awareness that my time on this planet is limited. Whatever the motivation, conscious or unconscious, I have made a commitment to something bigger than myself.

And I am not talking about religion.

I am talking about life here and now, in my own neighborhood and community.

Which leads me to politics. My Republican relatives invoke the "no politics or religion" rule whenever my Mother and I come around. Of course, I always refuse to comply with the rule, and there inevitably ensues a tense and heated discussion among us about current events. Indeed, in the spirit of my American heritage, our constitution, our Bill of Rights, I willingly, happily argue. I take a position, I don't" go along to get along" in my political discussions. What does this accomplish?
I can live with myself and my conscience for having spoken out, for having declared my stance on an issue(s). I can proudly say I am engaging in a right afforded to me by virtue of being an American--the right of free speech. The right to engage in discourse, however uncomfortable it might be for me or for those with whom I am speaking/arguing with, to take a position and argue (loudly, even) for it. I also believe that one can argue (which I do) in a manner where one honors one's own and the integrity of others.
If you read about our Founding Fathers, they argued vehemently among themselves as they hammered out a most precious document in human history, the Declaration of Independence--and later, the Constitution of the United States. It was through their heated dialogue and debate that something greater than the sum of their individual attitudes, opinions, beliefs, ideals was birthed.

Politics, current and historic. Constitutional law. The current and past administrations, Gore vs. Bush, Bobby Kennedy's assassination. These are the topics I am passionate about lately. I am revisiting my history books and accumulating new ones. My neighbor and I are starting a book club with a focus on politics and history. We are beginning with Abigail Adams and John Adams.

What, pray tell, has possessed me? I am becoming a political activist. Why now?

I am inspired.

It seems I have been a good citizen all along, voting, helping ( a bit) with campaigns here and there. I am married to the son of the late Ann Richards, former Texas State Governor, celebrity at large. Ann was a ray of hope for me (and many others) in an otherwise bleak landscape of "same old" ,"Good old boy" politics. She was--and is-- an icon of hope and progress for women and minorities, and she inspired many to take up the fight for equal rights, among others. I wish she were here to talk to. To argue with, to listen to. But unlike Ann Richards, I have not put my time and commitment where my mouth is. Until now.

I have the integrity, intelligence, commitment and vision of Senator Barack Obama to thank for my new-found passion for political action. I am wise enough to know the folly of attributing rock star status to any mere mortal; but once in a great while, someone comes along who can ignite one's own vision, one's own capacity for integrity and "right action". Senator Obama articulates so beautifully and honestly the vision of an America I can fight for: one where our constitition is upheld and respected, one where there is a restored balance of judicial, legistlative and executive powers ; one with a commitment to go even beyond Johnson's Great Society and Roosevelt's New Deal in offering protection and support to our most vulnerable citizens. As evidenced by my own precinct and its motley group of new voters, Senator Obama has rocked us out of complacency with a positive message of YES WE CAN.

I just returned from the Travis County Democratic Convention, a proud and enthusiastic delegate for Senator Barack Obama. My precint 332 was a model of good will and cooperation, neighborly comraderie and support. I felt one with all of them--Clinton, Obama delegates alike.
I listened with empathy and support to my Clinton-supporting neighbors who have worked for years on the political frontlines for women's causes. We held our signs together (some crudely calligraphed by moi), alternately cheering for one candidate or the other. At the end of the day, after selecting our state delegates (one of whom is my husband Clark), there were more smiles than frowns among us, even hugs. I had made new acquaintences representing both candidates, and 78704 seems alive and well with talented, committed, intelligent people willing to take a stand for their candidates and their political beliefs. These are the folks I will continue to work with and among in the trenches as we trudge along in the political process of shaping and creating our vision of America.

My hope for myself and my fellow democrats working for a change in the White House is that whatever the outcome of the election, we come away with our integrity, dignity, compassion and humanity intact, and that we remain committed to the fight for fairness, equality and justice for all American citizens.

Am I Blue?

2008-03-04T14:46:00.000-08:00

I saw a cluster of bluebonnets in a yard on (yes) Bluebonnet Street today. I am convinced that my upbeat mood is in part the result of being surprised by the vivid shock of blue of these resilient and remarkable Texas blooms, which to me officially announce the arrival of Spring. I had just walked away from the front of Zilker Elementary School, which was cluttered with Obama and Hillary signs, and teeming with a gaggle of campaign supporters--and a reporter from a local news station trolling among them for something newsworthy.

Blue was on my mind as I continued to walk towards my house. I thought: What an odd turn of events it is that the Blue among us--the liberal democrats--would be so pitted against each other in the primary election. Who knew that we would have two brilliant and able candidates (more, actually, because John Edwards was certainly worthy) to choose from. Who knew how difficult it would be to make a decision to vote for one and not the other?

Ah, shades of blue, I thought, as I arrived at my door.

I made my choice of Blue last week. Alas, choosing one worthy candidate for president over another equally worthy one seems to come down to instinct, to gut feeling, to what or who inspires hope; it comes down to what my vision is and who I think can best support that vision for the GREATER GOOD.

I am not feeling blue, I am BLUE and upbeat. I am not into polarization, one side pitted against the other,; I choose all shades of blue. I am caucusing tonight for the candidate who I believe will ignite our electorate to get involved in our democracy, to help our country heal from gaping and profound wounds (spiritual, environmental, emotional, economic). I am at peace with my choice and excited about it.

When I go back to the caucus tonight I will see those lovely flowers in the yard on Bluebonnet street-first of the season--and I will think of the beauty of shades of blue (bluebonnets have a sprinkling of red, too!). I will hug both Obama and Hillary supporters, and I will be proud to be among them all.

I am excited to be part of a great awakening in our country.

Blue is such a lovely color.

In Between Time

2008-02-26T12:33:00.000-08:00

I blink and it is next year.
My body, mind and spirit have been out to lunch these past few months, and I have flitted away many an hour looking at People magazine, obsessing about what I am not doing, feeling flat, vacant, checked out. The inspiration which has guided me and determined my direction in art eludes me now, and I plod along with lack of clarity and purpose.

Ah, the doldrums. Is this middle age? Middle ground? Flatland? Wasteland?

Maybe it is simply February on the cusp of Spring, mired in the memory of long flu days in Winter.

I have long believed that our lives are lived in cycles rather than one long linear march towards the grand finale. Like walking a labyrinth, our Way is sometimes convoluted and sometimes clear, but always involves walking in circles. Having spent the last ten years of my own personal labyrinthian "Way"devoted to the study and practice of calligraphy, I have arrived at a plateau. More like the perimeter of the labyrinth rather than the center, it feels like a wait-station, a liminal "in-between" space, a place, in the words of the Talking Heads, "Where nothing ever really happens."

By no means have I mastered anything in my calligraphic quest, I have simply become more skilled, more confidant. I have explored and experimented and created things which surprise, fascinate and sometimes even scare me. Most certainly I could spend another ten years tweaking my skills, mastering this hand or that, but at present, this prospect does not make my heart sing.

No doubt this disenchanted liminal space I am experiencing is a predictable (and necessary?) stage in one's Way as an artist. One can tolerate only so much intensity and frenzied activity before needing rest and contemplative space. Indeed, after a very fruitful creative period, it seems important to take time to reflect on what one has done, to clear things away to create space for something new to emerge. When I view my experience from the perspective of "letting the fields lie fallow" for a while, it feels more positive.

I of all people should know to trust the wisdom of one's psyche.

So I wait and move more slowly. I don't rush through Central Market, but take time to sip the French Roast samples and smell the fresh mint I have rubbed on my fingers. I pause to breathe more deeply the scent of all the herbs, the coffees, the baked goods. I don't deny a taste of freshly baked bread, exquisite in smell and taste after dipping it into a small vat of extra virgin olive oil.

When one is waiting, one has time to observe. One's senses are heightened and one notices the details that are lost when one is moving too hastily.

My cat just stretched herself against my studio door in a perfect (and ironically named) "downward facing dog" position. She lazes in the sun in the backyard, and it seems like the next right thing to do to go join her.

Off the Grid

2007-08-31T12:24:00.000-07:00

I just spent two weeks in the backwoods of Northern California "Cleaning out my closets", to quote Eminem. Actually, it was my Mothers' closets--my attempt to help her clean out 40 years of accumulated living. Having just returned from Vancouver Island in the Pacific Northwest, it was nice to return to the climate I love: hot and dry days, cool mornings and nights.

When I walk out of my Mothers' front door I usually pause to deeply inhale the scent of dry pine and wind. Continuing on the rough gravel driveway to the road, I am met by a doe and her two fawns, "the twins" I call them, who casually glance my way, and then continue munching on the melon rind my Mother has recently deposited under a small oak tree. I look up and see blue--intense blue---the outline of tall Ponderosa Pines swaying against the clear sky ocean unmarred by smog or clouds, and think, "I love this, my former home." Who was the poet who said, "You can never go home?" I think I understand what he means. On mornings like this, when the sky is just beyond my reach, so exquisite and blue, and the deer are like familiar pets, and the smell is so clean and dry, I feel a keen sense of sadness. I want to take the experience--that particular moment--bundle it up and bring it back to Austin with me. But I can't. I can experience it, and then the moment is gone...and I am back in Texas, home to most of my moments, only remembering the other life I left when I went off to USC in 1978.
As I sit here remembering, I am struck by how powerful and compelling the landscape of our childhood is, how it seems to live in us. Sometimes I actually physically crave it: I want to taste it, touch it. At these times, I have the urge to hug the ground, to feel the rough pine bark, to listen to the wind through the tall pine trees.

I turn to art at these times, to express what I am unable to experience in the flesh, to re-orient myself to that ineffeble place, and to remember in images, words, marks and colors what moves me about HOME.

Home in Texas I face the typical studio clutter of half-finished projects, papers strewn about, art supplies lying on top of piles of handouts from summer classes. It has been a busy summer filled with travels, teaching and studying. A bit wistful about Summers' ending, I walk outside and am startled into a smile by a racoon brazenly strutting about our deck in broad daylight. The smell is thick, my skin feels sticky. I don't hear the wind, but rather a bunch of chattering squirrels. A Jet flies overhead, and I glance at the clock to see that it is time to pick up Maeve. Home. In Austin, Texas. Where long ago I staked my claim, where I am happily bound to a life of my choosing; and where Hayfork breathes through my blood in my daily remembering.

Blood Remembering

2007-07-30T10:28:00.000-07:00

I sit in my studio flooded with myriad particular images, impressions and feelings, my response to the calligraphy conference on Vancouver Island from which I have just returned. The site of the conference was so stunning and breath-taking, it was almost a distraction from the task at hand--to lead students into making "a book of ours". A week of a labyrinthian journey seemed to connect my students to themselves, to their own vision of who they are as calligraphers and art makers. Their books were what I had hoped they would be: Their own, unique, beautiful, honest and true to a commitment to a personal process of discovery.

I came away exhausted yes, but renewed in my commitment to dedicate this year to art-making, to developing my writing--text and calligraphy--and to write my book. It is oddly comforting to know that I can, to quote T. S. Eliot, "begin where I started and know the place for the first time."

Indeed, it has been ten years since I fully committed to my calligraphic journey. When I began, I wanted to know it all, be it all. Of course now I am content to realize I know so very little-- that what I want to express is still beyond me, and that learning and discovery are a lifelong commitment. Rilke's humbling words about "Blood Remembering"ring true for me, and best sum up my attitude and expectations about my own art-making:

"For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, men and things, one must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents whom one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and one did not grasp it; to childhood illnesses that so strangely begin with such a number of profound and grave transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars--and it is not yet enough if one may think of all of this. One must have memories of many nights of love, none of which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor, and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again. But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises. And still is is not yet enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have turned to blood within us, to glance and gesture, nameless and no longer can be distinquished from ourselves--not till then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them." ( p. 94, R. M. Rilke, On Love and Other Difficulties)

Creation

2007-07-01T12:34:00.000-07:00

I pick up a stick and hit it against a metal pole. CLANG. I then scratch something in the dirt--a mark, nothing intelligible. I hit the stick against something else: thud. I keep walking, thinking of the power the first humans must have felt when they learned they could create something, a sound, a mark that was not there before. I feel the same energy and I don't want to stop: click, click, click, thud, clang, and I write my name in the dirt. I am loving the feeling of making something new, something my own. Whether on the beach in the sand, or on the rock cluttered trail on the hike up to the Mesa at Ghost ranch, I can't resist drawing in the dirt. Drumming, dancing, writing, drawing--Clark and I reflect on these ancient human practises as we walk around the lake, sweating in the thick summer morning heat. We talk of the power we feel again, having participated in another full moon drum circle last night .

The power of drum, dance, mark-making became the focus of an idea Clark presented as we neared Lamar Bridge. He proposed a collaboration between drummers, visual artists and dancers which would be simple, powerful and organic. Specifically, he envisions putting up a large screen/canvas at one of the full moon drum circles, behind and around which dancers dance, casting their shadows, moving to the full throttle rhythm of the drummers while visual artists make marks--drawing, painting, calligraphy--on the screen. The experience would be improvisational, the mark-makers responding to the moving shadows on the screen as well as the drummers' beat or vise versa.

To connect drumming, dance and writing and drawing in a moving, flowing event, would be most powerful and interesting, and the idea is compelling enough for us to make a plan to try it out soon.

Meanwhile, I will keep the idea alive in my class I am teaching in Red Deer, Alberta next week: The Joy of Calligraphy. I plan to invite participants to explore rhythm and writing--finding a beat, syncopation (altering the beat). We will have the opportunity to experience the thrill of mark-making, of making interesting lines with alternative writing tools, exploring writing kiniesthetically (I don't know how to spell this word!) as movement as well as breath, and as an expression of who we are.

I take up my stick and put it in the sumi on my table in the studio. There is no fear of the blank paper before me because I know the joy, the excitement of what happens next, when I put stick to page. The mark will be original; it will express the breath I take and the movement of my body. It may be followed by more marks, or stand alone. I may like it or not. It won't matter because in this simple act, I will experience the thrill of something ancient and intrinsically human: I have the power to create.

Tribes

2007-06-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

I was listening to NPR while driving Sunday morning and the topic of discussion was tribe and group affiliation. Specifically, the reporters' interviews revealed how emotionally charged a person's connection with a group/tribe can be, and how even after many years, one can continue to feel deep nostalgia for and affinity with a particular group.

The piece was timely, I thought, because my daughter Maeve is currently attending Kickapoo Kamp (yes, Kamp spelled with "K") in Kerrville, Texas. A significant part of her experience at camp relates to her tribe activities: she is a Cherokee, and the rival tribe are the Choctaws. Cherokees are red; Choctaws are blue, and each girl wears her tribe colors in the form of tee-shirts and bandanas. Throughout the two weeks of camp, the tribes compete--in friendly fashion--for the sacred blanket which is awarded to the winning group at the fire-ceremony at camp's end. This ritual is a culmination of a series of tribe activities, including an induction ceremony at the beginning of the session where new members are named to a tribe, as well as meetings and competitions throughout the week. Last year, the Choctaw Chief--a lovely high school age young woman--was so undone by the Cherokee victory that she was moved to tears.
My daughter later reported that there were no hard feelings on the chief's part--she was simply worried that she had let her tribe down.

I was never a Cherokee or a Choctaw, and actually wonder about the political correctness of co-opting Indian names for Summer camp. However, I can proudly say I am a calligrapher. And as I have discovered, through participation in my own local guild, as well as attending and teaching at international conferences, I am part of a unique and special tribe, a ubiquitious one which spans the globe. Indeed, I can go to nearly any city in the USA and abroad and find a member of this tribe--someone who would not only identify him/herself as a calligrapher, but would welcome me, a stranger, as an old friend.

If I were to give a profile of a member of this tribe (nearly impossible, there is such variety among us!) it might look something like this:

She loves words and language, is an artist in his own write/right; He/she has deep thoughts, is kind, caring and deeply spiritual (lots of variety there, too!) and is willing to speak out for what he/she believes (not shy of politics, whichever side the calligrapher is on), and is deeply compassionate--and giving. Oh, and talented--he/she is Very talented. and willing to share the pen off of his/her back. He/she will offer you paper when you run out in class, and will give you a pen because it is the "coolest tool which you must try!" He/she is an adventurer, willing to travel great distances to broaden her experience and skills, and to commune with her tribe. She probably makes paper, binds books and creates watercolors, oils or acrylics in her spare time, or is passionate about drawing. He/she has more ideas than time to realize them, and is probably great at photoshop and even skilled at building a website. He/she is a renaissance man/woman, with whom anyone would be fascinated to converse and spend time.

The calligraphic tribe has annual conferences, as well as other gatherings, from North Carolina to New Mexico where members are re-united, and where workshops are offered for education and skill-building. The shared, collective conference experience is one with its own rich history and lore, and where rituals abound. There are the opening and closing ceremonies which have predictable elements from year to year. There is also the ritual of hosting parties: the conference organizers for the next year typically host the party on the last night of the conference, which includes music, dance and general revelry. Not unlike Maeve's Summer camp, after a week of intense art-making, conference participants have a hard time saying goodbye. One's only consolation for leaving this profoundly rewarding "tribal" experience seems to be looking forward to meeting again next year, in another location, for another calligraphy conference.

For anyone curious about calligraphy and who missed the opportunity in their youth to be affiliated with a tribe, consider joining ours. Our colors are not limited to the blue and red of Choctaw and Cherokee, and we make our own symbols in the form of beautiful lines, words, images.There are few rules: only the eagerness to learn. As a member of this calligraphic tribe, your world will broaden in unexpected ways--art and otherwise--and you will make friends for life.

Local Austin Texas tribe: Capital City Scribes

POST SCRIPT: Some of my beloved local fellow tribe-members took me out to lunch today for my 47th birthday. The generosity of their spirit--in the time they took from their busy days to be with me--as well as the beauty in the gifts they gave (calligraphers are the best people from which to receive cards , trust me) overwhelmed me. I love these women dearly, as well as admire, respect and appreciate them as human beings and artists. How grateful I am to be included in their company!

Full Moondance of The Pen

2007-06-05T12:33:00.000-07:00

Belly dancing, Drumming, fire, wine, children, howling dogs under a full moon Saturday night on South Lamar, courtesy of Lucila's Dance studio. Lucila is a beautiful women "of a certain age" who teaches belly dancing and sells related exotic clothing and acoutrements in her shop. On the weekend of every full moon, she hosts a drum circle on the lawn outside the strip mall in which her studio is located, and fire dancers, drummers and belly dancers create a gypsy-esque gathering that one might describe as "keeping Austin weird."

Since my husband became a born-again drummer, he has sought out such gatherings to which, on occasion, I accompany him. I am not shy about grabbing one of Clark's drums--or the thing I keep calling a cow bell--to join in the rhythm. Nor do I hesitate, when the spirit moves to get up and writhe around alongside the more sophisticated, skillfull and interestingly clad belly dancers. This is a friendly crowd; all are welcome to dance, sing, drum, improvise in expressing ones self in whatever way one chooses. Indeed, what great joy it is, for an evening, to be part of this exotic, colorful full moon tribe, where one meets people by the name of Hawk whose livelihood consists of fire twirling/juggling, and where one can participate in an age old human ritual of gathering around a fire at night, even along a busy South Austin street!
I want to write like Hawk fire dances. I want my calligraphy to be as full and embodied as the belly dancers who move hips and bellies so sensuously, the girth of which by vogue magazine standards would be considered fat. Not in my estimation! They are beautiful, these women, whose example--in both body and spirit--teaches me to stop sucking in my gut and to move it in interesting and sensuous ways as I dance through my days. Like these belly dancer goddesses, I want my art to be rooted in the earth, to arise from the lower chakras, to sway and move with the knowledge and love of all undulating and curved forms.

For several years I have spent time developing a script which was inspired by my love of such forms in nature, including my own female form which I rediscovered an appreciation of in my life drawing classes. My script became one which could best express what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it, in feminine terms. Indeed, seeking to reconcile myself with the masculine Western calligraphy tradition, I even "feminized" Roman Capitals in another script I developed, and use it for words I love:

...O and that awful deep down torrent, O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire....
and I was a flower of the mountain yes...and yes i said yes i will yes
(Molly Bloom in Ulysses by James Joyce)

Inspired by Hawk and the exotic dancers, my husband and his motley band of drummers who come out every full moon just down the street, I root myself in the lower chakras, breathe deeply and freely, and happily continue the dance of my pen, curious and unknowing about where it will lead me next.

Deep in the Art of Texas

2007-05-26T13:27:00.001-07:00

The Storm has momentarily abated (both inner and outer) and I see a crack of blue midst all the dark grey thunderclouds. Clark is digging post holes behind the studio and I am in need of a shower after a run/walk around town lake. Foreground among thoughts floating through my Saturday afternoon brain concern two of my favorite topics: food and art. Respectively.

Last night, we ate at Lamberts, a hip, downtown Austin Restaurant which is a wonderful combination of rustic and gourmet. Their food is comfort food, no nonsense to the core, exquisitely prepared and delicious. Our dinner companions (who had just returned from Paris) thought that Lambert's food was on par with some of their better gastronimical experiences in both Paris and the Netherlands. Ah---the fried blackberry pie and ice cream and the lemon ice box pie and the cornmeal coated deep-fried rock shrimp, to die for. On a previous visit, I had the Fried Green Tomatoes Salad which is in all ways surprisingly exquisite.

And then there is the Hacked Chicken Salad at Mirabelle and Castle Hill, french fries at Hyde Park Bar and Grill, and my daily "bread", black bean, avocado and mushroom tacos at Taco Deli. On many mornings I go into that little "divey" place, park myself at a counter, swat the flies and write in my journal. Food and art become one there as I use my colored pencils and micron pens to make lists, plan classes and note dreams in the book. My lists become word art, elaborate doodles which I happily color, and I am oblivious to the comings and goings of others around me. Meanwhile, I forget the time, my taco has come and been devoured, I glance at the headlines in the Austin American Statesman, swat another fly and go back home to begin phase II of my day.

Eating out is not just treat or sport here in Austin; it is an inevitability given the array of affordable and delicious options around town. The eateries I name are a few among many fantastic restaurants unique to our city. Famous among downtowners, movie stars, politicans and ordinary folk like myself is Las Manitas, a Congress Avenue landmark where the aforementioned congregate on Saturday mornings to drink cinnamon coffee and eat migas. Las Manitas, Eastside Cafe, Gueros--all are part of the fabric that make this city one I love to live in, places which define what can be described as the "Austin Experience."

Back in the studio after my morning'sTaco Deli reverie, I am greeted by a number of half-finished canvases. Looking at them I feel excited, purposeful, mindful of my obligation to finish them and let them go out into the world. The most recent canvases are thrilling to me because I am using a newly learned technique: rice paper collage. By Summers' end there will be enough work to have a show, here or elsewhere. I look forward to presenting this work, the culmination of a year and a half. The exhibit is a way to express to friends, community members--anyone who shows up:"Welcome to my inner world, and here is what I have been doing all this time, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the outer world."

Wherever my show will be, I am certain that afterwards my family and friends will celebrate at one of the eateries mentioned above. No doubt I will come away feeling blessed that I make art and eat well in my beloved city.

Beginner's Mind

2007-05-24T12:56:00.000-07:00

I know that I don't know anything. Interesting to keep arriving at this humble place after all the time and effort I have spent trying to master calligraphy. My quest for mastery has waned, somewhat, and has happily been replaced by an insatiable curiousity and spirit of adventure. I simply follow my intuitive muse which leads me in and out of formal writing, painting, drawing. Much of my "work" surprises me--and sometimes even makes me nervous. However, I am heartened by the messages from the Tao Te Ching: "A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent upon arriving. A good artist lets his intuition lead him wherever it wants." (27) And also,
" True perfection seems imperfect, yet is perfectly itself. True fullness seems empty yet is fully present." (45)
(Excerpts from Tao Te Ching, New English Translation, by Stephen Mitchell.

How often I want to lead my students, to tell them what to do when they look at me pleadingly and ask me for help. Instead, I choose to honor their ability to discover for themselves what moves and engages them and thus try to stay out of their Way. This is not always comfortable, but seems most respectful and honorable. Also, who am I to presume to know what a student must learn? I can offer specific techniques, guidance, road-maps, inspiration, and the rest is up to them. Regarding teaching, again I turn to the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching: "The ancient Masters didn't try to educate the people, but kindly taught them to not-know. When they think that they know the answers, people are difficult to guide. When they know that they don't know, people can find their own way." (65)
To all my students I try to offer the trust and reassurance that "Maybe you'll find direction around some corner where it's been waiting to meet you." (Grateful Dead, "Box of Rain," song).

I just pulled several books off of my shelves, one of which is a favorite bedside companion: "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind." A simple paragraph about calligraphy rings true for me. Richard Baker writes in the introduction:

" The Zen way of calligraphy is to write in the most straightforward, simple way, as if you were a beginner, not trying to make something skillful or beautiful, but simply writing with full attention as if you were discovering what you were writing for the first time; then your full nature will be in your writing. This is the way of practice moment after moment."

Off I go into the rest of the day with so much more on my mind, and in the spirit of Zen, I will try to simply BE HERE NOW.

This Amazing Life

2007-05-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

I just finished May Sarton's book "At Seventy." I was in search of her book "A Journal of a Solitude," at the Notre Dame bookstore (more on that in a moment), but "Seventy" was the only one on the shelf by this author. What a surprise and a delight this book has been, one in a series of Sarton's journals. To enter into this woman's world, to experience her observations and impressions of ordinary things like red squirrels in the cellar, romps near the wild ocean with her dog Tamas and cat Bramble was like a breath of Spring air. Like May Sarton, I daily revel in the extraordinarily ordinary things: my cats' behavior, critters running around near my studio including armadillos, possums and a multitude of squirrels. Or, seeing a brilliant red cardinal pop in my path as I run on Town Lake is as exciting as it gets in my estimation!

I loved how May openly discusses her struggles with writing--even after obtaining success as a poet and novelist. She seems to affirm that no matter what level of experience, the artists' life is one of constant challenge. I am also touched by her reverence toward the extraordinary "ordinary" people in her life: neighbors, friends, wannabe writers for whom she would take the time to read their manuscripts and offer commentary. She befriended so many and helped others in small and large ways: financially, emotionally and professionally. It was hard to put the book down because she opened up a world of inner and outer experience which I am drawn to. And of course, for those who know me, I am pretty passionate about journals and ones' personal experiences.

It seemed perfect to discover May Sarton in South Bend, Indiana. I was priveledged with an invitation to teach for the Michiana scribes this Spring, and was doubly blessed by a beautiful botanical garden venue, a host of gifted (some returnees) students, and a lovely--in body and spirit--hostess who is now a dear friend. Indeed, it was altogether perfect that Anna met me at the airport after i had just finished Sue Monk Kidd's book while the plane landed. Stepping off the plane, steeped in THE FEMININE, I had spontaneously uttured, "Our Lady"--and there she was, shining and bright in the guise of a wonderful artist and human being. We discovered almost immediately that we are kindred spirits and spent the weekend in a non-stop conversation of all the important things: love, life, spirituality, relationships, children, books. BOOKS. Anna has all the ones I have read and many more. I spent several evenings happily ensconced in her cozy guest bedroom, tucked into the most comfortable bed, with several of Anna's books. It was here I began to read "Journal of a Solitude" and vowed to promptly go out and buy a copy. The perfect opportunity arose when we took a tour of the Notre Dame campus (which is absolutely stunning) and ended up at the bookstore the following day. Alas," Journal..." was not available, but I came away with "At Seventy", which proved to be a delightful companion on my journey home.

Teaching has led me to amazing places and people. Calligraphers are a special lot--generous, caring, deep, and gifted. My own community of scribes here in Austin are among the finest: dedicated,multi-talented and with hearts the size of Texas. It is wonderful to be a part of such a special tribe.....

May Flowering Reflections

2007-05-22T13:06:00.001-07:00

May is a hopeful month. The days are green and filled with the promise of Summer ahead, and the Winter with its long dark nights is gone. I like these rich and heavily scented days, the blooming part of the year. I bloom inwardly. Outwardly? Different story. Looking at myself in the mirror I find my challenge is to welcome the signs of having lived, the signs of aging. I think of Wabi Sabi, the beauty of rustic things--of things rusted over, wrinkled and worn. No comfort to me at all. My instinct is to run to a plastic surgeon and say "erase all of it: the tired eye bags, the crows' feet, the sagging neck." Feeling more empowered than ever, I want to look the part; I want strength and loveliness, not tired worry lines, evidence of many past tears and stress.

I turn to art and work out my struggles on canvas, with collage and images, words and brush strokes. Here I can "put on my best face," which, interestingly, isn't ever China Shop Pretty. My art, like my outward appearance,shows definite signs of life. My calligraphy is not typographically perfect--not even close. And I don't much care. I seek a line of writing--a script which is visually powerful and evocative, feminine and mysterious--which best expresses ME. My words, my life, my experience. Perhaps, then, my approach to calligraphy will help me reconcile myself with what I perceive to be my outward physical imperfections. I can rename them as interesting punctuation marks, as living lines, as LIFE that is being lived inside and out.

In The Beginnning...

2007-05-18T08:42:00.001-07:00

Spring is in Full Bloom in Austin, Texas. The Cactus flowers are so magnificent and outrageous this year--I even saw a cholla "rose" in a yard in Barton Hills the other day. I am grateful for these clear, cool days, a prelude to the coming heat. Everything is green and filled with possibilities. My mind is waking up from a long and restless sleep. It has been awhile since I have FELT inspired or thought new thoughts. I have dragged through my days and now, I am breathing again. Art saves the world and it certainly saves me. A daily journal--whether filled with deep thoughts or doodles--is a WAY back into my energy and inspiration. Funny that I teach what I want to learn myself.

I read a book recently which reminded me of so much I have neglected in myself. Sue Monk Kidd's autobiographical book, "Dance of A Dissident Daughter" was like finding an old friend or discovering something that has long been shoved in a corner and piled over with junk. I have read all of her sources for the book, and experienced so much of the discontent she describes. The missing part for me has been a commitment to a WAY, a practice. That said, I quote Walt Whitman, who wrote, "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I am large, I contain multitudes." I believe I do have a practice: it includes calligraphy and art, running and being a wife and mother. I certainly believe that spirituality does not need to be so narrowly defined, and I am realizing that maybe I have been following a WAY all along, just didn't recognize it as such. Thanks to Kidd's book--and the author herself--which articulates so beautifully my own experience of relationship to divinity I am able to move forward in my life with renewed zest and inspiration.

The wonderful challenge which I am taking on this year is to create a "Book of my own," the working title of which is the "Feminine Face of Calligraphy". I envision the book to be non-linear, with excerpts from my many journals, as well as essays on my approach to making art. I will also include personal reflections, poetry and other musings.
My hope is to inspire others who like myself want to find their own voice and their own place in the world of calligraphy, the Western tradition of which has largely been developed and influenced by men.
More on that topic to follow....