Talking with the Author of 'HER HANDS'

Looking through the window of HER HANDS exhibit

      After reading and rereading the poem, Her Hands, I first thought about publishing it on my blog and asked for permission to do so, but after reflecting on it some more, I realized I didn't want to publish it without knowing more about the person who wrote it.   I knew nothing about her except her name and the words that she wrote and that the exhibit coordinator knew her.   I started writing this blog attempting to share my creative journey and I had vague thoughts about someday writing about other people's creative process.   I found I wanted to know more about Suzanna Merritt and you would think that contacting her would have been my first response, but it took me awhile to get to that point.
     Remember, if you have read my past posts, I am an introvert, and while I enjoy meeting new people, talking to people I don't know on a telephone can turn me into a quivering mess because I can't always formulate my thoughts quickly enough or follow visual cues.   I don't like phones, so unless I know you well or I have a specific message to convey I will avoid talking on the phone. But this year has been about facing fears and each one I face teaches me more about my overactive imagination and how it gets in my way.  So  when I called Suzanna Merritt (after formulating questions) I found a wonderful surprise at the other end of the phone line.
      Suzanna was asked to write the poem during the 1990's when she was working at the University of Maryland in the provost's office and in the Women's Center.  It was during women's history month that an art exhibit called 'Her Hands' was taking place showcasing the handcrafts of women and their contribution to the world.   She wanted her poem to reflect the life of women.
       Suzanna's voice has the sound of England in it and I found out she moved to the states in 1964.  She lived in Buffalo and currently she resides in Maryland.   When I questioned her about her writing and her writing process I found out that she had lived through World War II as a child and when she was about 38 disturbing and unhappy memories from the wartime bothered her so she started writing as a way of dealing with those memories.  At first she wrote in rhyme because she thought that was what poetry was but she took some classes in writing; poetry and short stories, continuing to develop her writing style.
       " I write about things that move me." is what she told me.  Her poetry is a way of expressing and understanding her feelings.   She also writes poems for people that they request which have many subjects, even football games.   Traditional publishing didn't work for her so after taking a class based on the book, 'The Artist's Way'  by Julie Cameron http://juliacameronlive.com/she came to decision to give her poetry away.   In the process she has found that her poems go places and reach people in ways she never imagined they would.
     A poem she wrote about 9/11 ended up being read at a church in London,England on the tenth anniversary when there was a ceremony commemorating the victims of the tragedy.   She happened to be visiting at the time and was asked to read it.
      Her family was a family of artists and she has found ways to embrace creativity in her life.   She does photography, calligraphy, sewing , and knitting and she loves scenery and nature .   She also loves to garden and has found creative ways to do that as she gets older and traditional ways are too difficult.   Her definition of creativity is that there are many different ways to do a simple task  and if you can't do it the old way then you can find a new way.  She says she has changed and her writing has changed over the years.   I got the impression that she is satisfied with the changes and that her act of creativity and enriched and healed her in many ways. 

    In my conversation with Suzanna I once again was reminded of how much creativity and the use of creativity can increase our understanding of others.   When we do something creative we are building something of value for others.   A work of art, poetry, music, dance, drama, can touch another person and remind them that they have something good to live for .   A work of art can help us work through an ugly event in our life or remind us of a special time and a work of art that is shared can help someone else that we may never meet in their life's journey.

Preparing for an Art Exhibit: The Poem

Window wall in process

More pieces in process of hanging

Art is waiting for it's place

work's to be placed in gallery

The Gallery Show of Women Artist's in Hamilton NY (May and June)  was inspired by a beautiful poem that was written by Suzanna Merritt.  Each artist received a copy of the poem below and designed their work around it.   This poem was very beautiful and made me wonder about the author so in the next post, you will learn about her too!

Her Hands

They began as tiny hands, perfect in form

Emerging from the womb

Knowing only how to cling.

Growing and learning, they travel life's path

Progressing toward their maturity:

Searching hands at the potter's wheel,

Muddied by wet clay, earnestly shaping

The vessel to hold their essence.

Dancing hands,delighting our senses,

Imaging our thoughts,

Gracefully conveying their subtle messages.

Musical hands, singing their songs,

Playing our dreams

On the keyboard of life.

Creative hands, knitting and sewing,

Patching together

The torn fabric of rented community.

Wedded hands, wearing the gold band of commitment,

Complementing his two hands:

A unity greater than the sum of its parts.

Researching hands, fingers tapping keys,

Recording thoughts, explaining the mysteries;

Her words alongside his words.

Mother's hands, training little fingers

In tying bows, fastening buttons,

And how to sip from the cup of life.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Weary, work-worn hands,

Wearing the sales tag of cheap labor

Yet priceless in their necessity.

Unhappy hands, bowing in obedience,

Endeavoring to protect

Smaller more fragile hands.

Loyal hands, continuing to serve, 

Honoring their purpose

In the face of betrayal.

Bound hands, in bandages of restraint,

Stifled into submission;

the world denied their caged potential.

Angry hands, forming into fists,

Hammering frustration, chiseling out change

On the wooden face of the status quo.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Healing hands, dressing the wounds, 

Easing the sick pain with the balm of Gilead;

Desperately needed, yet ever dwindling.

Calm hands, palms pressed together in prayer,

Claiming the warm power

To gently unfold the blanket of peace.

Still hands, laying crossed over the heart, 

Their purpose sustained

In the fullness of time.

Lifeless hands, relasing their ongoing spirit

To merge in mystical union with many hands,

Attached to arms that embrace the world,

Creating, serving, teaching, praying,

HER HANDS

Choosing to Imagine

"When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies. And now when every new baby is born its first laugh becomes a fairy. So there ought to be"

Author: James Matthew Barrie quotes (the creator of Peter Pan)

When I was a child I looked forward every year to the broadcasting of the musical Peter Pan with Mary Martin as Peter.  The role is traditionally played by a petite woman and Martin was iconic.  She brought Peter to life for me in that musical, which I only saw in black and white on our TV.   I could feel the wind in my hair as I flew through the air with Peter.   I cried when Tinkerbell was dying and I faithfully said, " I believe in fairies" for her.   Peter Pan was the person who did not want to leave childhood, who did not want to grow up.   I understand that.   Being an adult is hard with hard choices and unclear paths.   It would be easier not to grow up and to be a child forever.
However, one can always maintain the important qualities of childhood.   Wonder, curiosity, questions, imagination, creativity, and belief in magical possibilities.   Believing that we can help the fairy live, that we can change the world.    Changing the world does not have to a big thing, it's the little things that count.   Smiling at the grumpy clerk, maybe complimenting them on what they are doing, visiting an aging neighbor, picking up trash on a dirty street, collecting coats for cold children, serving food at a food kitchen, giving socks and blankets to the homeless on the street.....there are a thousand little things that will change the world and if everyone did just one.......
I was also a teenager in the late 60s early 70s.  There was a belief in the air at that time that we could change the world.   We grew up and became adults with all that entails and I think many of us lost the childlike wonder and belief in fabulous possibilities.  
Faith is renewed  when a child that is born  and we get a glimpse of the marvelous paths this little one could travel.  If we are patient enough to pay attention to a child, we can grasp belief in the impossible again.   Little children find everything amazing because they see with new eyes and we can borrow those eyes to see things new ourselves.  Their minds are verdant valleys of imagination and wonderful ridiculous ideas.   My oldest grandchild imagined for quite a time that he had a "roar car" and his imaginary car could do amazing things.  He also had an alter ego that he called super-Braeden who had great abilities.   There was no doubt in his mind of the power of these imagined beings.  
There are those who believe there is something wrong with this kind of imagination, but I don't .  I think wrong imagination is the kind that causes us to believe the wrong things about other people.  It causes us to think that others think negatively about us or that we, ourselves, are worthless.   The kind of imagination that makes us think we are better than someone else because we have more money, or a better job, or more degrees, or better clothes.   I don't think the glorious, whimsical, fantastical, imagination of a child is anything but wonderful.  Einstein said and I think he should have a good grasp on the subject,

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”

So I am no longer a child and I may not believe in super powered cars or have my own personal altar ego superhero (although I could really use a few powers at times) but I try my best to always look at the world around me through the lens of imagination, what could be.   I try to look at people that way also.  I try to see who they could be.   I know the world is full of so much pain, sickness, and just plain evil, but I also know that it was never meant to be that way and if I can manage to look at it with the eyes of possibility, maybe I can still change it, even a little bit.

'She Birthed a Laughing Child'  each section 18" by 24" Available for viewing or purchase at "Her Hands" exhibit, Hamilton NY   at the Old Parry Hardware store across from the bookstore.

 

 

When I wrote about the mosaic that I just finished I realized I never told you, dear reader, the title of the piece.  I was searching for a name, (which is often the hardest part), thinking of the poem that is the guideline for the exhibit, (I promise to publish that also) and the week of our newest grandchild's arrival when the Peter Pan quote came to my attention, twice.  I happened to come across it when I was searching for quotes about childbirth, and then later my husband just happened to be watching "Finding Neverland" and I just happened to walk in when they were quoting it in the movie.   So I named the piece "She Birthed a Laughing Child".  

Why is it called a work?

     In the last few weeks I have been preparing a triptych which is a three piece work of art for an upcoming exhibit called "Her Hands".   (More about the title and where it comes from will be coming in a later post).  This was a hard one for me to design.   It just didn't come to me  and it also took me awhile to figure out the substrate that I was going to mosaic on, so consequently it didn't get started until last weekend and I had a deadline.   Of course it was also supposed to be relatively large, so I knew I had a lot of work ahead of me.
 Sometimes I just see a design in my mind, sometimes I just start working and it happens, but more often than not I have to let the idea percolate until it comes to completion.  It is a frustrating process, especially when you have a deadline.
      This design started with sketches, lots of them, on scratch paper at first, and then more complete ones in my sketchbook.   At times I don't need a lot of information in my sketches and at other times I do a more complete sketch with colors.   I did two complete ones for this work and one that was just a pencil sketch.  Then I assembled and painted the substrates and drew my design on them, with changes I already had decided on.   Next it was finding the metal beads and old rhinestones, the colors of glass, and  the  brass ballchain I needed.  Grout color had to be decided and purchased and glue bottles had to be filled.   Finally I was ready to start..........

     Things were moving along at a decent pace and I was satisfied.  The relaxing motion of placing pieces, listening to music,  and gluing down the pieces was a rhythm I was familiar with.   It seemed as if the way would be smooth.   I finished for the night and went to bed.   The next day I looked at what I had done and I just didn't like the design of the bird.  A phoenix like creature that seemed not to be what I envisioned.  It was flat, not firey.   It just didn't fly like I wanted it too and it had taken me a good portion of the night before to make it.  About the time I was considering the bird we got a phone call asking us to pick up my son's little white chihauhau which meant our daughter-in-law had entered labor and our grandson was on his way.  We picked up the dog and went away expecting to see our newborn grandson sometime later that day.   I did all the things I had to do that day and that evening I continued to work on my piece and waited for the news.
       Now I had to remove the bird, which meant prying off all the pieces I had put down and redesign him.  I do what I often do and searched the internet for interpretations of a phoenix and I looked at various ways other mosaic artists handled birds.  Finally I came up with a new design and worked late into the night expecting at any moment to get a text or a call that the new baby had arrived.
        Little did I know that during the process of this piece that my little grandson would take 44 hours to make his way into this world.  I worked and waited, getting updates every so often, answering people's inquiries of fb or the phone and prayed for the health and strength of my daughter-in-law and her son.
My piece grew and it's eventual appearance became clearer in my mind.
        Eventually labor ended for my DIL and little Asher made his appearance!  The most amazing creative process of all, a child, was over and a new precious personality entered the world to begin his life's journey and to change his parent's life forever.  We got to hold him and greet him and welcome him with relieved and joyful hearts; a tiny little miracle with perfect tiny parts; fingers, hands, wrinkly little feet, the firstborn of my firstborn.
Meanwhile I still had a lot of work to do and time was getting shorter, so I dug into the process with the help of coffee, ibuprofen,  a speaker call from my friend, music, old movies (one I can listen to while working) my husband bringing me food, my youngest son cutting glass, another friend hanging with me until 4 in the morning, a final 24 hour work period ( with breaks for stretching ), a 4 hour sleep, and 3 more hours of grouting and cleaning, the triptych was finished!  It held the symbolism of new life, of starting over, of rebirth, of empowerment, of joy, and laughter.  Much of what being a woman walking through this life means to me and the optimism of my own personal worldview, with all the color that speaks to me.  This is why is it called a WORK of art.

The Process of Respect

The new look of the elevator waiting area..

I have heard it said that when an Arab befriends you, you have a friend for life.   I now have an Arab for a friend.  He is an Iraqi refugee and in the process of working on our lovely old church I have begun  to know him.  He is not strong on the English language and I definitely know no Arabic so our attempts to communicate are interesting.  I tend to speak too fast and his attempts are strongly accented.   When his children are around, one of them will often translate or he will phone them and ask the word he wants to say.  There is still much we have in common.  We share a love of music.  He was a professional keyboardist in Iraq and even though the arabic musical system is quarter tones he enjoys the sound of the piano and plays it beautifully.  He does not read music, he plays from the "heart" and it is sounds from his heart you hear when he plays.  He has four children that he loves very much and so do I.  He loves beauty and so do I.
Why do I speak of my Arab friend?   Because even without language I have learned so many things from him.   He is in this country which is so very different than his and I don't even know how welcome he feels here, but I can imagine that suspicion greets him often.  He is used to a very hot country and we have long and cold winters, but he says he likes the cold.   He is doing a job that is unrelated to the music he did and yet he does it with such love and care and attention to detail.   I do not see resentment, but gratefulness in his attitude as he works and  he goes the extra mile and beyond.  He always seems joyful and yet I have learned enough about him to know that not all is joyful in his life.
When I examine myself in the light of his ethic, I find myself lacking.   I find myself complaining and ungrateful for many things.   I also find myself challenged by my own attitudes towards the Arabic people and I wonder.   I wonder if I could be so brave as to leave the culture and the language that I know so well and make a life in another land, a land that is suspicious and sometime hostile towards me.   I wonder if I possibly could work as hard or as carefully as he does.   I wonder if I could care so much.
If you follow my blog at all you will soon learn that neatness and tidiness is not a natural gift for me and when I am working I tend to make messes and finally clean it all up when I am done.  I often come into the workroom at the church and find my messes cleaned up ( and sometimes stuff I was saving is thrown away, because I do keep things that look like trash to other people:)).  If I am doing something that he can do he will jump in and offer to do it for me.   It is humbling and consequently I do try to be neater and more orderly in my process.
  How does he deal with this culture where women do so much?  Or is he grateful for a culture where his daughters can thrive also.  I know he wants much for his daughters.   They do art with me and his 9 year old daughter says, " I live for art!"  I am honored to be trusted with them.
While I was working on the project that is pictured above this post, he and his son were cleaning the building.  This little room is the elevator waiting room and one time he brought garbage up and opened the door and hit my ladder.  "Sorry, sorry," he said.  After that he would call, " Hi, Cathy!" as the elevator passed by the place I was working.   It was getting late and the building is big and it makes noises that freak me out a bit.  I asked how long they were going to be there, because I wanted to leave when they did.   I tried to explain my nervousness.   He caught what I said and told me, " I not afraid in this building.   This is God's house , it safe here. You do not need to fear."    I do not know him well enough to know how he views God or if he even thinks the way I do at all, but in that moment I realized that he has a respect for sacred spaces and that the work that he does is a work of honor, from his heart, as is the music that he makes.    Yes, I learn a lot from my Arab friend.

      When I was little I had a neighbor, John, who was a farmer and a strong, gentle man.   He took a little girl's drawings and paintings and hung them in a place of honor above his desk.  It was my spot and it made me happy to have my pictures posted there.   Years later, after I was an adult with my own small children,  I visited John again and he had another child's pictures above his desk.   My first reaction was, "that is my spot!" and then my rational adult self took over and I was happy to see another child being encouraged, but there was still a spark of jealousy.  Why is that?
       I watch a tv show from Australia about young dancers and their struggles at prestigious ballet school.  It is not a deep show, but the theme of jealousy is woven throughout and because I love dance and my daughter was a dancer, I like watching the show.   The main character is a young lady with an incredible talent that she doesn't realize that she has and others are jealous and try to sabotage her.  Even a teacher, at one point, lets her jealousy hurt the girl.    This is not so rare.   The art world is competitive and jealousy runs rampant, be it music, fine art, dance, theater..... But the girl's focus is the criticism, the things that are wrong with her dancing, not the things that are right, and in the process often loses the joy that dancing brings her because she never feels good enoughand she often misses the way other people are jealous of her.
      Jealousy is something that all artists and creative people have to deal with.   Not always from ourselves to others, but from others to us.  At the risk of being called an overly sensitive women (see, I have to put a disclaimer) I think it is difficult for women, (especially women who are wives and mothers)  to escape the disapproval and jealousy of others.  Art takes a lot of time and a lot of focus and to do it and to do it well, one has to let some things go.  Maybe traditional things that others consider important.  There is a level that you are allowed to be at, but if you want to be more than just a hobbyist, you often face a lot of condemnation.  Oftentimes it is unspoken, but it is there and it is painful.  I think a lot of it stems from jealousy.
        Oftentimes there is this impression that the person is "showing off" or " egotistical" because their work is on display.  And in all art forms there are those who are doing that, but I would say for most the work is not about showing off.   It is often extremely difficult for artists to believe in their own ability.   We see our mistakes, we see the parts that are unsatisfactory to us, we see the picture in our mind that we have not obtained.  We have a difficult time judging our own work and the work is often a part of our personality.  So learning to take criticism can be difficult because it is like a criticism of our own being, but that doesn't mean we don't want or need criticism.   A good critique can help us move past things we are struggling with and help us see things that we cannot see.  
      We deal with these kinds of questions.   Are we good enough?   Do we have anything important to say?  Are we more than just another piece of sidewalk Elvis's?   Is it finished?  Is it ?   Am I?  How do I balance my family with my art?   Why can't I get through this block?   I did it once, will I ever be able to do it again?
     So how do I deal with this?  I have to admit these kinds of things have held me back.  I fear the resentment of others.   I struggle with time and guilt about other areas of my life.   I'm not the mother or wife  I pictured myself being.   I sometimes ignore the needs of others.   I spend way too much time in my own head.  I get jealous when someone is more talented than I am.  I am human and I have an often fragile ego.
      I have had to learn to let go of some of the ideals I pictured and work with who I am.  I compete with myself in my best times.   I work on sincerely appreciating the talents of others and doing my best to support those talents.   I give back in any little way that I can.  And sometimes I just stick my tongue out and say, "this is the way God made me, so what!"
     My path has led me to a good place, a place where I feel I can grow as an artist.  A place that is forgiving of me when I can't forgive myself.   I am losing the fear of stretching my wings and flying.   Even though I am not a youth, my time is just beginning, my story is still being written and I am endeavoring to live for an audience of one, the one who made me.

http://www.whodoesshethinksheis.net/    
This is the documentary that made me cry because it voiced so many of my feelings about life as a woman artist.  

What Dreams Are Made Of

    I sometimes dream of a perfect studio with beautiful furniture and perfect organization looking ready to be posted in a magazine.   My studio is a riot of stuff that I pull together in the work that I do.   I find inspiration in lots of things that appear to be junk in the eyes of most.   I like rusty metal, pieces of wood, odd rocks, broken jewelry, broken china, old paper, new paper, books, objects that people have given me, and of course lots of paint.  I have scenic paint, craft paint, wall paint, special kinds of paint, expensive acrylics, cheap acrylics, watercolors, tempera paint, and even face paint.   Then there is tile, stained glass, glass tile, mirror, beads, shells, and various objects that will someday be covered with other stuff.   All these seemingly unrelated things can be combined into another thing altogether.
    So I have another dream of a very large, even warehouse size studio, where I can spread out my items so that I can see them better and let them speak to me.  A place where I can spread muslin on the floor and build weird large objects and cover them with papier mache or cement or some combination of the two.  I am experimenting with assemblage which is like collage only you use more objects.   There is something fascinating about taking disparate objects and making something totally different out of them.   I like the textures and pattterns that come from metals and woods and plastics and paper mixed together.   I like trying to figure out what I can say with the things that most throw away.

     At this time in my life I do have a studio.  It may not be my dream studio but it is a real one, built in a double garage and made even better by a good contractor friend and my supportive husband.  I came home from a trip to find this studio built for me with tables on wheels and floors that are built above the concrete so it is not so hard to stand on.  Amazingly enough in this studio of dreams to be made, I can find almost everything.   There is order to my madness although you may not see it at first.   I have my paint areas, my collage and assemblage wall, paper storage, drawing tools, regular tools, mosaic materials storage, mags and books, fabric....I know where I keep stuff.   It is a place always in progress and I constantly try to make it better, but I like the fact that it is not perfect and I can spill paint or drop grout on the floor and I can leave stuff out if I want.

I think a lot of my life is about taking broken or unwanted pieces and putting them together.   I like the beauty and the story of of things that are not so pretty at first.   I like rough textures and patinaed surfaces that speak of mysteries to be discovered and possibilities to be explored.   Something may look useless and ready for destruction, but when we look deeper we can discover a new purpose.   It works that way for people too.  There are times in my life when I feel totally broken and unwanted, where mistakes I have made overwhelm me, or even a slight comment from someone else totally destroys the fragile view I have of myself.  Times where I am shattered to pieces and empty, ready to be discarded like so much trash.  There are times when I get to know other broken and shattered people because life has a way of destroying dreams and killing hope.    But I believe in redemption, brokenness made whole, and that is where my art springs from and my messy studio full of bits and pieces of stuff is a tool for my journey in the restoration of broken things and broken people.