Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Vashon Island Spring 2012, Art Studio Tour
















The Spring 2012 Vashon Island Art Studio Tour Brochurs have arrived and the online Vashon Island Art Tour web link has been launched.  Thank you Sy and Ric of Novak Creative, Inc., and Jan Wall, our outstanding, indefatigable, indomitable, coordinator and leader of many, many successful Vashon Island Art Studio Tours.  
Thank you everyone who have been involved in making the Vashon Island Art Tour- Beautiful! Findable!  Possible!  I hope that it is a successful Art Studio Tour for artists and patrons alike.  Preview it now!  http://vashonislandartstudiotour.com/Spring2012/

Threshold Guardians


The symbol often is more potent than the thing itself.  Through distillation Symbol can appear to become the thing itself.  I try to approach my art in that way.  A reduction and simplification of shape that still has meaning and still tells story.

Wallace Stephens did it with words.  He says this poem is not an idea about a thing but the thing itself.  However it is his reality and his presentation of the thing itself.  It is still his idea.  In this poem he explores the nature of reality and is searching for the recognizable in the unknowable.

"Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself."

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier-mache...
The sun was coming from the outside.

That scrawny cry--It was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.

Wallace Stephens

It is still March but not much longer.  Officially it has been Spring for seven days but still not warm enough for nature to fully wake. 

Above and below I have posted images of my cut steel garden art "Threshold Guardians" personifying adventure, edges and boundaries. These photos were taken in the last snow of the season and the landscape, draped in white, became simple shapes, reduced to the idea of things and though less familiar, more understandable.







Friday, March 9, 2012

Narcissus Reflected


In our image obsessed culture the old, old story of Narcissus and the body beautiful is as new as another gorgeous photo, thank you Bruce Weber, for Abercrombie & Fitch's latest pitch to purchase. 

To purchase what?
  
 A reflection of beauty of course.  Made self aware by comparison and confounded by perfection we are all in love with surface but desire depth of being.  

So the story of Narcissus forever resonates in the individual’s search for self.  

At left is my new Monotype Print, Narcissus Reflected (22 x 29.5 in.)  See it in my studio during the Spring Vashon Island Studio Tour.


Here is Mr. Eliot's take on Narcissus, a poem of self awareness and metamorphosis, Cantacal V, Or-


The Death of Saint Narcissus by T. S. Eliot

He walked once between the sea and the high cliffs
When the wind made him aware of his limbs smoothly passing each other
And of his arms crossed over his breast.
When he walked over the meadows
He was stifled and soothed by his own rhythm.
By the river
His eyes were aware of the pointed corners of his eyes
And his hands aware of the pointed tips of his fingers.
Struck down by such knowledge
He could not live men's ways, but became a dancer before God.
If he walked in city streets
He seemed to tread on faces, convulsive thighs and knees.
So he came out under the rock.
First he was sure that he had been a tree,
Twisting its branches among each other
And tangling its roots among each other.
Then he knew that he had been a fish
With slippery white belly held tight in his own fingers,
Writhing in his own clutch, his ancient beauty
Caught fast in the pink tips of his new beauty.
Then he had been a young girl
Caught in the woods by a drunken old man
Knowing at the end the taste of his own whiteness,
The horror of his own smoothness, And he felt drunken and old.
So he became a dancer to God,
Because his flesh was in love with the burning arrows
He danced on the hot sand Until the arrows came.
As he embraced them his white skin surrendered itself to the redness of blood, and satisfied him.
Now he is green, dry and stained With the shadow in his mouth.