artist reception tonight my inner hermit begs “do we have to go?”
art and the business of art meetup at a gallery reception
the best part?
wearing the tag “Artist”
with my name on it
gratitude in my heart
Distances in Time and Age
After a New Sentences column by Sam Anderson in the NYT: 9.9.18
“We all host younger selves inside us…a multitude of nonsychronous selves.”
The distance between our birth
and today is fractured into a host
of younger nonsynchronous-selves.
To wit—I will always be the skinned-knee
gangly clumsy bookish girl reading
about others changing the world;
the protesting hippie college-dropout
out to charge change into the world;
the youthful but serious nursery-worker-
out to change the local landscape;
the menopausal haiku poet out
to change the world one syllable at a time;
The artist/painter out to change
the world from the inside out.
I am now sixty-six years old.
The skin-kneed girl is still six years old.
The hippie is eternally eighteen.
The nurserywoman is forever twenty-two.
The haiku poet is evermore fifty-four.
And the artist-painter–ageless.
Despite all of this and worthy of it all:
if not for the wild phlox
this moment lost
Let me enjoy this moment.
It’s just past daybreak Sunday early September.
In fact, it’s a late Labor Day weekend this year and
with the flux and flummish of school traffic starting,
beach trips ending and a flourish of block-party
bbqs – things are still all mixed up. The soft whirring
of crickets and bird choirs are the morning’s only
sounds and conversation. No leaves rustling, no heat,
no full sun yet – after a summer of only sun and barely
an occasional shower during the night.
I am propped up in bed (oh how deliciously derelict
for me – it’s almost 7 AM!) with only a trip to the
farmer’s market planned, a day at my easel and a new
composition notebook to write in with new graphite pencils.
The dog is still snuggled in her bed, still unaware
that her belly is empty and her bladder full. I was
going to check the weather on the internet but decided
“What for?” this moment?
A sketch, really a study an artist tacks up on
her wall or in her journal to show and allow that
the wonder of infinite possibility and creative play
really begins and lies in her own hand holding
a brush a pencil a pen a poem a stillness, a moment
and much much more.
I hop out of bed
and paint the jazz guitarist
scatting the tilt of his hat
and sway of his scarf
ag ~ 2014
“The fact that no one understands you doesn’t mean you’re an artist!”
This statement is clipped from a local newspaper and is tacked to my refrigerator door. It is a sentiment that more than one person near and dear to me strongly agrees with. It makes me laugh, because I usually do make the excuse for some of my flighty behavior and quirky choices based on “artistic temperament.” The fact that it may be true, and that my cover is blown only enhances its power in my mind to continue its use as a valid explanation.
winter temperatures fluctuate my role as trickster
ag ~ 2014