My spider plant is blooming and having a baby. I've never had a successful spider plant, so it's fun to watch it each day. I didn't know they got flowers on them. It's the spider plant the company librarian gave me when I moved out of the corporate building two years ago to the building where I am now. It was a baby off the giant spider plant she had up there, which was the baby from a big plant in the executive offices. It was only about 6" long and had 4 or 5 leaves and was wrapped in a paper towel when she gave it to me. It sat on my desk in a coffee cup with a bit of water in the bottom for a couple weeks until I brought in a pot for it.
Donna died a couple months later. She was writing a book based loosely on her family history about bootleggers during the 20's.
Em and I recently watched a movie we stumbled across while perusing Netflix. "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." Neither of us had heard of it, but the blurb said it had won some awards so we decided to give it a try. It was very good, even if it was in Swedish and we had to read subtitles. In the previews we saw it was part of a trilogy, so after we finished watching, we had to go online and read more and see what other movies were available. #2 is on our counter now (it arrived yesterday) and #3 is out in theaters (but probably on limited release since it's in Swedish). I mentioned the movies to a friend of mine, and she said "Oh yeah, the Steig Larson books were best sellers. He died before they were published so there's a big battle over his estate."
I was in a workshop one time where the teacher kept referring to fiction/plots/characters as coming from a "great Jungian subconscious pool", a never-ending stream any one of us could dip into. At the time, I took this to mean there are stories drifting around out there, waiting to be told, much the same as there are souls in heaven waiting to be born. It is only a matter of choosing where they will go. When a story chooses us, we only need to follow it and be truthful in the telling of it, faithful in the translation. It seemed to me as if it might be a little like being possessed. Relax and don't fight it, then write down whatever comes to mind and if you don't try to control it, if you are 'faithful' and 'truthful', you will have a good story when you are done. Maybe a bit like the Nurture philosophy - there is no such thing as a bad story, only a bad writer who doesn't give an honest translation.
In the past, this idea has made it possible for me to freewrite. To trust the Muse. To put no limitations on what I write - except for the parts that don't seem acceptable. Those I gloss over. But that's another discussion.
Now this idea of the great Jungian subconscious has come back to me, in light of the deaths of these writers - Donna, Steig, and of course Patty. Where does fiction go when the author dies? Does it go back into the pool and get doled out to another writer? Is the Muse more of a facilitator than a storyteller? Does she only decide who gets what stories? Like a cosmic telephone operator? Is my number unlisted?
Now my muse looks more like Lily Tomlin than the grim reaper.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Grim Reaper
I'm having a hard time believing in my writing right now. Not with believing I can write, but the validity of what I do write (or have written maybe is more accurate these days). It REALLY bothers me that the story Patty was working on was cut off in the middle as if the characters just evaporated. It really bothers me that everything she knew and imagined and thought about is gone. Okay, so maybe it's not exactly 'gone', but I kinda feel like it is. Even when I can manage to believe in an afterlife of some shape, I can't believe fiction would go along.
It doesn't feel as if it's my own writing I'm troubled about . . .but if everything feels trite and pointless, maybe it is?
I wrote about 1000 words of fiction on Saturday morning, but it was total freewriting and even while I was writing, I had to work hard to ignore the voice that kept saying "what's the point, it's a stupid alternative romance with no market and no message and no plot."
The editor maybe looks a bit like the grim reaper now, sitting off to the side, watching my efforts in amusement, shaking his head at my foolishness. I guess my snowflakes must really make him laugh.
It doesn't feel as if it's my own writing I'm troubled about . . .but if everything feels trite and pointless, maybe it is?
I wrote about 1000 words of fiction on Saturday morning, but it was total freewriting and even while I was writing, I had to work hard to ignore the voice that kept saying "what's the point, it's a stupid alternative romance with no market and no message and no plot."
The editor maybe looks a bit like the grim reaper now, sitting off to the side, watching my efforts in amusement, shaking his head at my foolishness. I guess my snowflakes must really make him laugh.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Dear Patty~
Today is one of those days.
I miss your smartassery soooo much . I don't have any particular complaints (or celebrations), no particular witty repartee up my sleeve... but I long for the days when we traded a few dozen one-line emails during the day, playing off each other's wit as if we were playing tennis. Or when we brainstormed a new story and new characters. Or wrote about our respective characters meeting up with each other on a cruise or in Thayer. Or just discussed current events and big ideas and various issues.
Or vented.
Or anything.
I just plain miss you.
I'm trying to write again. I haven't written since you left. I can't think up new characters or stories and I haven't had the heart to write about the stories and characters you were so much a part of helping bring to life.
I know if you were here, you'd kick me in the butt and tell me to write.
I think maybe the 'disbelief' stage lasts a lot longer with internet friendships.
Is looking around and wondering who you'll come back as a form of denial? or bargaining?
I miss your smartassery soooo much . I don't have any particular complaints (or celebrations), no particular witty repartee up my sleeve... but I long for the days when we traded a few dozen one-line emails during the day, playing off each other's wit as if we were playing tennis. Or when we brainstormed a new story and new characters. Or wrote about our respective characters meeting up with each other on a cruise or in Thayer. Or just discussed current events and big ideas and various issues.
Or vented.
Or anything.
I just plain miss you.
I'm trying to write again. I haven't written since you left. I can't think up new characters or stories and I haven't had the heart to write about the stories and characters you were so much a part of helping bring to life.
I know if you were here, you'd kick me in the butt and tell me to write.
I think maybe the 'disbelief' stage lasts a lot longer with internet friendships.
Is looking around and wondering who you'll come back as a form of denial? or bargaining?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Courting the Muse
Inspiration sometimes feels very random. Like, if you face East at noon and have marmalade on toast on the 3rd Tuesday after the equinox...
Well, maybe it's not that random, but sometimes it feels that way.
The truth of the matter is, if you set aside time to meet with your Muse, eventually she (or he) will show up on time, with more ideas than you can possibly write about.
The key is trust. She trusts you to show up at the keyboard and you trust her to provide inspiration.
You go first.
Show up at the keyboard every day, or every other day, or Monday through Friday, or every Saturday morning at 5am. You pick the time and the place. Just be consistent.
The Muse won't show up first, and she might not trust that you'll show up consistently, so she'll wait, lurking in the shadows, teasing you with a glimpse of an idea that evaporates as soon as you get around to showing up at the keyboard. But once she trusts you'll be there, she'll sometimes get there before you and be waiting, drumming her fingers on your desk, bubbling over with ideas.
It’s not easy to keep the date. You can make excuses til the cows come home. I had to clean the house. I had to fix dinner. The cats needed to be fed. The dog had to go for a walk. I was stuck in traffic. Oh yeah, there are a bazillion excuses - and I've probably used most of them and then some. But if you truly want to write - for whatever reason - set a date with the muse. Be consistent. Show up at the keyboard and do like we did yesterday. Set the timer and write, even if you have no thoughts in your head and the Muse is off in the Bahamas somewhere, ignoring your texts. Just write whatever words you can. Consistently. After a week or two, or maybe three, one day you'll realize that you're on your way to the keyboard, stuck in traffic, and you're already thinking about what you'll write.
This 'date' with the Muse can be a particular place (like your computer desk), a set time no matter where you are, a particular notebook any time of the day or night, a particular tea, fragrance, chair.... Or a combination of those things. The key is consistency. After awhile, this place/time/notebook/tea/whatever, will become a trigger. It will become a sign to your Muse (which, by now, I hope you recognize as your own imagination and inspiration) that it's time to deliver.
Sounds simple, huh?
Yeah, it is. And guess what?
It works.
Trust me. I've done it.
Of course, sometimes things disrupt our carefully constructed routines or favorite places, and we have to adjust. Just be careful that doesn't become an excuse for not writing. Unfortunately, I also speak from personal experience.
If you're looking for an exercise, try writing a description of your Muse. Maybe your Muse looks like Sharon Stone (movie: The Muse - 1999). Stephen King calls his Muse 'the boys in the basement'. You decide.
It's time for me to set a date, and court my Muse into coming back to me.
Well, maybe it's not that random, but sometimes it feels that way.
The truth of the matter is, if you set aside time to meet with your Muse, eventually she (or he) will show up on time, with more ideas than you can possibly write about.
The key is trust. She trusts you to show up at the keyboard and you trust her to provide inspiration.
You go first.
Show up at the keyboard every day, or every other day, or Monday through Friday, or every Saturday morning at 5am. You pick the time and the place. Just be consistent.
The Muse won't show up first, and she might not trust that you'll show up consistently, so she'll wait, lurking in the shadows, teasing you with a glimpse of an idea that evaporates as soon as you get around to showing up at the keyboard. But once she trusts you'll be there, she'll sometimes get there before you and be waiting, drumming her fingers on your desk, bubbling over with ideas.
It’s not easy to keep the date. You can make excuses til the cows come home. I had to clean the house. I had to fix dinner. The cats needed to be fed. The dog had to go for a walk. I was stuck in traffic. Oh yeah, there are a bazillion excuses - and I've probably used most of them and then some. But if you truly want to write - for whatever reason - set a date with the muse. Be consistent. Show up at the keyboard and do like we did yesterday. Set the timer and write, even if you have no thoughts in your head and the Muse is off in the Bahamas somewhere, ignoring your texts. Just write whatever words you can. Consistently. After a week or two, or maybe three, one day you'll realize that you're on your way to the keyboard, stuck in traffic, and you're already thinking about what you'll write.
This 'date' with the Muse can be a particular place (like your computer desk), a set time no matter where you are, a particular notebook any time of the day or night, a particular tea, fragrance, chair.... Or a combination of those things. The key is consistency. After awhile, this place/time/notebook/tea/whatever, will become a trigger. It will become a sign to your Muse (which, by now, I hope you recognize as your own imagination and inspiration) that it's time to deliver.
Sounds simple, huh?
Yeah, it is. And guess what?
It works.
Trust me. I've done it.
Of course, sometimes things disrupt our carefully constructed routines or favorite places, and we have to adjust. Just be careful that doesn't become an excuse for not writing. Unfortunately, I also speak from personal experience.
If you're looking for an exercise, try writing a description of your Muse. Maybe your Muse looks like Sharon Stone (movie: The Muse - 1999). Stephen King calls his Muse 'the boys in the basement'. You decide.
It's time for me to set a date, and court my Muse into coming back to me.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Just Do It.
My advice to someone in my state of mind is to be gentle with yourself. Set a goal to write, but do not put restrictions on what the writing must be. Nor does it need to be the same every day. One day it might be journaling, one day a blog, another day it could be an ‘essay’ – and I use this term loosely. Character sketches, descriptions, and even fiction scenes are acceptable.
Set your goal only to get words on the page. Set a goal of time rather than word count, with the only requirement being to keep writing and not stop. No staring at the blank page allowed. If you don’t know what to write, write that.
“I have nothing in my head. My brain is pudding today. I don’t feel inspired and I feel rather cranky that I’m forcing myself to write. But I’m doing it because I’ve been told it will be a good thing, that it will help this foul mood, that it will unlock the frozen words in my head. I don’t know if I believe it, but for now I’ll go on faith. If it’s worked for others, it could work for me. And if it doesn’t, at least it was free.”
If you feel that you’re wasting time, writing drivel, comfort yourself with some sage advice I heard years ago: Give yourself permission to write garbage. Even garbage becomes compost with a little treatment.
“Just get it all down on paper, because there may be something great in those six crazy pages that you would never have gotten to by more rational, grown-up means. There may be something in the very last line of the very last paragraph on page six that you just love, that is so beautiful or wild that you now know what you're supposed to be writing about, more or less, or in what direction you might go--but there was no way to get to this without first getting through the first five and a half pages.”
–Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird
“The only time I know that something is true is the moment I discover it in the act of writing.”
—Jean Malaquais
This last is particularly helpful if you’re writing from a place of gloom or depression. Sometimes we think we know how we feel and what our thoughts are, but very often, if I’m pushing myself to keep writing until the timer dings, eventually something I write surprises me. This doesn’t happen at first. Our filters are pretty good at keeping the weird thoughts, the unacceptable angry thoughts, or the just plain embarrassing thoughts off the paper. If you wholeheartedly accept the challenge, you will eventually uncover things buried beneath the daily clutter.
If you need more convincing, Google on ‘writing therapy’ and see how science has supported the benefits of writing.
Go on now, go set your timer and put some words on the page. You don’t have to share them, just write.
Set your goal only to get words on the page. Set a goal of time rather than word count, with the only requirement being to keep writing and not stop. No staring at the blank page allowed. If you don’t know what to write, write that.
“I have nothing in my head. My brain is pudding today. I don’t feel inspired and I feel rather cranky that I’m forcing myself to write. But I’m doing it because I’ve been told it will be a good thing, that it will help this foul mood, that it will unlock the frozen words in my head. I don’t know if I believe it, but for now I’ll go on faith. If it’s worked for others, it could work for me. And if it doesn’t, at least it was free.”
If you feel that you’re wasting time, writing drivel, comfort yourself with some sage advice I heard years ago: Give yourself permission to write garbage. Even garbage becomes compost with a little treatment.
“Just get it all down on paper, because there may be something great in those six crazy pages that you would never have gotten to by more rational, grown-up means. There may be something in the very last line of the very last paragraph on page six that you just love, that is so beautiful or wild that you now know what you're supposed to be writing about, more or less, or in what direction you might go--but there was no way to get to this without first getting through the first five and a half pages.”
–Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird
“The only time I know that something is true is the moment I discover it in the act of writing.”
—Jean Malaquais
This last is particularly helpful if you’re writing from a place of gloom or depression. Sometimes we think we know how we feel and what our thoughts are, but very often, if I’m pushing myself to keep writing until the timer dings, eventually something I write surprises me. This doesn’t happen at first. Our filters are pretty good at keeping the weird thoughts, the unacceptable angry thoughts, or the just plain embarrassing thoughts off the paper. If you wholeheartedly accept the challenge, you will eventually uncover things buried beneath the daily clutter.
If you need more convincing, Google on ‘writing therapy’ and see how science has supported the benefits of writing.
Go on now, go set your timer and put some words on the page. You don’t have to share them, just write.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Physician, Heal Thyself
I was sick over the weekend. Not terribly so, but enough that I didn't want to go anywhere or eat anything other than chicken broth and saltines. I'm pretty sure it's a real bug of some sort, though I can't help but wonder if part of it is fueled by depression. Or what to do about it.
I've been toying with the idea for awhile... I've suffered clinical depression a couple times over the years, and taken meds. I told myself then it wasn't meds I needed - my circumstances sucked. But what I found was meds helped me cope and come up with solutions rather than to be immobilized by tears. The times I've been depressed, I've been unable to write.
I've heard that some of the best artists (actors, writers and artists) have mood disorders, depression, bi-polar, etc. Could my depression become a tool rather than a hindrance?
Am I really depressed? How do you know?
Does crying every day mean I'm depressed? Or does it mean I'm just unhappy with my current circumstances? I think part of it is the apparent inability to change the largest reason for my unhappiness. Which, depending on the day, is either mine and Em's conflicting schedules, or the need to work full time at a job I only marginally enjoy, trading my time and energy for money to pay for the obligations of supporting a large family.
I tell myself I want to stay home and write full time.
But when I have time at home with the computer or a notebook, I stare at the blankness, overwhelmed with the desire to write and the lack of any words that want to be written.
I have a to-do list... not imperatives, but ideas I've wanted to pursue.
I want to redesign my writing website, turn it into something that is mine rather than a group effort with a less-than-involved group.
I want to teach myself CSS so I can work on a wider variety of websites.
I want to blog more. (doing that, though, requires facing Patty's death, and sometimes I'd rather be in denial. It's softer)
I want to get back to my stories. To history. To the research I so enjoyed.
I want to start working on a powerpoint presentation - 'just for fun' with my ideal workshop in mind. To learn to make it into a DVD, to collect my thoughts, to start developing the muscles I need if I choose to pursue the persistent dream of teaching workshops.
With all these things in mind, I sit down at the computer and surf a bit, read a few headlines, some Hollywood gossip, and play a few games.
I think I need to attend one of my own workshops.
Will this state of mind be helpful in figuring out what to teach?
Is it laziness?
Avoidance?
Fear?
how would I encourage someone in my state of mind to write for therapy?
I've been toying with the idea for awhile... I've suffered clinical depression a couple times over the years, and taken meds. I told myself then it wasn't meds I needed - my circumstances sucked. But what I found was meds helped me cope and come up with solutions rather than to be immobilized by tears. The times I've been depressed, I've been unable to write.
I've heard that some of the best artists (actors, writers and artists) have mood disorders, depression, bi-polar, etc. Could my depression become a tool rather than a hindrance?
Am I really depressed? How do you know?
Does crying every day mean I'm depressed? Or does it mean I'm just unhappy with my current circumstances? I think part of it is the apparent inability to change the largest reason for my unhappiness. Which, depending on the day, is either mine and Em's conflicting schedules, or the need to work full time at a job I only marginally enjoy, trading my time and energy for money to pay for the obligations of supporting a large family.
I tell myself I want to stay home and write full time.
But when I have time at home with the computer or a notebook, I stare at the blankness, overwhelmed with the desire to write and the lack of any words that want to be written.
I have a to-do list... not imperatives, but ideas I've wanted to pursue.
I want to redesign my writing website, turn it into something that is mine rather than a group effort with a less-than-involved group.
I want to teach myself CSS so I can work on a wider variety of websites.
I want to blog more. (doing that, though, requires facing Patty's death, and sometimes I'd rather be in denial. It's softer)
I want to get back to my stories. To history. To the research I so enjoyed.
I want to start working on a powerpoint presentation - 'just for fun' with my ideal workshop in mind. To learn to make it into a DVD, to collect my thoughts, to start developing the muscles I need if I choose to pursue the persistent dream of teaching workshops.
With all these things in mind, I sit down at the computer and surf a bit, read a few headlines, some Hollywood gossip, and play a few games.
I think I need to attend one of my own workshops.
Will this state of mind be helpful in figuring out what to teach?
Is it laziness?
Avoidance?
Fear?
how would I encourage someone in my state of mind to write for therapy?
Monday, October 4, 2010
Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance...
Some days it hurts more than others.
Sometimes I can fool myself into pretending we're both just busy with different pursuits.
And then some days, I want so much to blather, or share an observation, or process or discuss. Or just laugh about something. And you're not there.
I remembered today how you told me I was a blessing. That you felt compelled to remind me of that, and did just that, for several weeks, in almost every email. Why didn't I save those emails? Because I didn't realize all the emails we traded would come to an abrupt end so soon.
Did I tell you often enough that you were a blessing to me?
I was going thru some old emails that I did save... some of the early ones where Em, Jill, you and I were chatting. "Reply All"... I found the one where I asked about your writing process. I didn't have the heart to read it just then. I put it in a folder to read another day.
I want to lay on the floor and kick my feet and scream "It's not fair!"
I think I'm in the anger place today.
Denial isn't so disruptive.
What will acceptance feel like?
Sometimes I can fool myself into pretending we're both just busy with different pursuits.
And then some days, I want so much to blather, or share an observation, or process or discuss. Or just laugh about something. And you're not there.
I remembered today how you told me I was a blessing. That you felt compelled to remind me of that, and did just that, for several weeks, in almost every email. Why didn't I save those emails? Because I didn't realize all the emails we traded would come to an abrupt end so soon.
Did I tell you often enough that you were a blessing to me?
I was going thru some old emails that I did save... some of the early ones where Em, Jill, you and I were chatting. "Reply All"... I found the one where I asked about your writing process. I didn't have the heart to read it just then. I put it in a folder to read another day.
I want to lay on the floor and kick my feet and scream "It's not fair!"
I think I'm in the anger place today.
Denial isn't so disruptive.
What will acceptance feel like?
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Two Weeks
Well, Patty… It’s been two weeks since you left and I’m still swinging between anger (well, not really anger because you know how I am… but I do feel cheated), and denial (I keep checking my email just in case you might have internet access in Jamais Pays). A thousand times a day I think of stuff I want to tell you. Just random stupid shit that pops into my mind and I know no one else but you could appreciate.
I’ve gone thru my email archives now and then, choosing random ones and reading the whole thread, and smiling or laughing, or just remembering, and then crying a bit. I will miss reading about Mirry and Kitty, and Buckie and April, and the new character – Dana… and the other two who I wasn’t so sure I liked, but whom you promised I would. I want to see ‘Sandy’ published, but I didn’t save that one for some reason. I do have a bunch of your stories saved here, and plan to have them bronzed for posterity. I want God Don’t Stop to be published and recognized for great fiction.
I wonder if attending a funeral service would help with the closure? But since you didn’t have one, that isn’t an option. So how do I find closure? Do I need closure? I could just email you whenever the mood strikes… but it won’t be the same with your sometimes thoughtful, sometimes smartass replies.
I regret we never wrote the VVI cruise. I am pondering writing a funeral service… or more appropriately, a wake. I think you'd like a wake better. It will be in Thayer, and your alter-ego TJ will be the one laid to rest. I’m sure Mac will have some crudely worded but heartfelt things to say. I think Rachel will weep openly and be comforted by Deni. Trina will cry, too. Roni will try to hold back the tears, blinking them away. Dot will be stoic and supportive, lending her shoulder to those who need it. Margie will cope by feeding everyone and staying busy. If TJ was going to have a regular funeral, Jude, Deni, Roni, Zach, Mac and Ty would be the pall bearers, but Jemma intervened and stated that a memorial would be held in Texas and that TJ wanted to be cremated and her ashes spread (hey – where do you want your ashes spread?)… somewhere in Texas… so the Thayer crowd will have to do without the traditional burial and church basement reception, which TJ (and you) would have hated anyway. Tell TJ to keep an eye out for Aunt Bette – maybe they could have a reunion date in Jamais Pays and remember old times.
I think I will forever brainstorm to you because I know you’ll call ‘bullshit’ if ever I stray into predictable and lazy writing… and also because you’ll always correct my grammar.
I feel cheated, too, because I wanted so much for you to come visit us, to see Pullman, and share observations and spend a couple weeks talking about writing half the night. I feel cheated of your candor and clarity, your wit, your imagination…your friendship. You were a blessing to me and I don’t know that I told you that often enough. You lived out loud and encouraged me to, too. You challenged my safe way of thinking and showed me a different way to look at things. You gave me a safe place to argue, always arguing back but never getting in a snit and attacking me for not thinking like you.
Oh hey.. I just had an idea… I’ll talk to Sherry about programming you into VVI, and I can come visit you there. Maybe they’ll perfect the mobile Sim project and you’ll be able to come to Pullman after all…
I guess I better hit ‘send’ because my lunch break is over and I don’t want to cry at work.
Email when you have time.
Love,
Barb
I’ve gone thru my email archives now and then, choosing random ones and reading the whole thread, and smiling or laughing, or just remembering, and then crying a bit. I will miss reading about Mirry and Kitty, and Buckie and April, and the new character – Dana… and the other two who I wasn’t so sure I liked, but whom you promised I would. I want to see ‘Sandy’ published, but I didn’t save that one for some reason. I do have a bunch of your stories saved here, and plan to have them bronzed for posterity. I want God Don’t Stop to be published and recognized for great fiction.
I wonder if attending a funeral service would help with the closure? But since you didn’t have one, that isn’t an option. So how do I find closure? Do I need closure? I could just email you whenever the mood strikes… but it won’t be the same with your sometimes thoughtful, sometimes smartass replies.
I regret we never wrote the VVI cruise. I am pondering writing a funeral service… or more appropriately, a wake. I think you'd like a wake better. It will be in Thayer, and your alter-ego TJ will be the one laid to rest. I’m sure Mac will have some crudely worded but heartfelt things to say. I think Rachel will weep openly and be comforted by Deni. Trina will cry, too. Roni will try to hold back the tears, blinking them away. Dot will be stoic and supportive, lending her shoulder to those who need it. Margie will cope by feeding everyone and staying busy. If TJ was going to have a regular funeral, Jude, Deni, Roni, Zach, Mac and Ty would be the pall bearers, but Jemma intervened and stated that a memorial would be held in Texas and that TJ wanted to be cremated and her ashes spread (hey – where do you want your ashes spread?)… somewhere in Texas… so the Thayer crowd will have to do without the traditional burial and church basement reception, which TJ (and you) would have hated anyway. Tell TJ to keep an eye out for Aunt Bette – maybe they could have a reunion date in Jamais Pays and remember old times.
I think I will forever brainstorm to you because I know you’ll call ‘bullshit’ if ever I stray into predictable and lazy writing… and also because you’ll always correct my grammar.
I feel cheated, too, because I wanted so much for you to come visit us, to see Pullman, and share observations and spend a couple weeks talking about writing half the night. I feel cheated of your candor and clarity, your wit, your imagination…your friendship. You were a blessing to me and I don’t know that I told you that often enough. You lived out loud and encouraged me to, too. You challenged my safe way of thinking and showed me a different way to look at things. You gave me a safe place to argue, always arguing back but never getting in a snit and attacking me for not thinking like you.
Oh hey.. I just had an idea… I’ll talk to Sherry about programming you into VVI, and I can come visit you there. Maybe they’ll perfect the mobile Sim project and you’ll be able to come to Pullman after all…
I guess I better hit ‘send’ because my lunch break is over and I don’t want to cry at work.
Email when you have time.
Love,
Barb
Friday, October 1, 2010
Thoughts from Neverland
Patty asked me to help set up this blog back in May, with the intentions of sharing some of her wry views of the world and the people in it. I encouraged her, knowing her wit would find a following. It never quite took off, possibly because most of her spare time was spent writing novels (and a few short stories in which our respective characters met up for events or vacations).She said she and Jill had talked about creating a website titled Jamais Pays (which is French for "Neverland") .
Somehow, it seems fitting that I use this as a way to keep in touch with her. Maybe, instead of 'Thoughts FROM Neverland' it should be retitled to 'Thoughts TO Neverland'.
Patty - you may have left us, but you are not forgotten. And if there is wifi in Jamais Pays, I hope you'll email.....
Thursday, May 13, 2010
In the Rubaiyat
Before my partner Jill died, we visited the Phoenix Art Museum about every other Tuesday. On a Tuesday in January of 2009, we visited two traveling exhibits. One was plates of the original illustrated edition of The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayam by a man named Elihu Vedders. Whether or not you like the Rubaiyat, it can’t be denied that these illustrations are great examples of late Victoriana, after it had matured a bit over the saccharine tones of Maxfield Parish, but before it had blossomed into true Art Nouveau on its way to the cynicism of Art Deco.
The translation itself is by a Cambridge Don named Edward Fitzgerald.
Seeing this exhibit a few weeks before for the first time, I looked up the Rubaiyat on-line so that I could read its verses at my leisure. There have been many translations, but the best use a clean, unadorned style which I like to think Omar himself would have chosen, had he written in English. Fitzgerald’s translation is quite good, however, and though I’d never read more than a few verses at any time in my life, seeing them with these illustrations makes me feel as if I’m greeting old friends.
The other traveling exhibit was called Odyssey: photographs by Linda Connor, a collection of photographs that Jill dearly loved. Jill would enjoyed viewing the work of virtually any artist, but her favorite subjects were inanimate--nature scenes, buildings, religious idols, landmarks--and possibly because that’s what she shot herself, that’s what she liked to see in other artists. It took me a long time to appreciate it, but Jill often saw these objects as imbued with a life or spirit of their own. There was no need for her to shoot humans, because the oak tree, the fountain, the mountainside, the statue all have their own lives, their own sense of living which Jilly saw and felt inside them--inside herself.
I was especially fond of the Avedon exhibit when it was in Phoenix, because Avedon shot humans almost exclusively, bringing forth the wonder and complicated nature of the most complicated of creations. It’s not that I can’t see the life and the spirit of the universe inside the rocks, trees, and animals that surround us, but none have the complexity of humans--at least to another human. Perhaps to cats, other cats are a fine example of depth and complexity. Possibly a dog sees a human as incredibly simple, but is challenged by the depth of his own kind. Although it seems unlikely, a tree may be aware of another tree and what it means to the two of them to be trees--a rock or mountain may be aware of its own place and the place of others of its kind in the universe. Perhaps most people would agree that it’s unlikely that rocks, mountains, and trees have even the level of consciousness of a dog or a cat, but it’s presumptuous to think that on some level, they are unaware that they do have a vital place in the universe. It’s also presumptuous to conclude that such things do have “entity” status, do have awareness, but in the case that we’re wrong in that presumption, then we’ve done them no harm. In the case that we’re wrong in the presumption of non-awareness, then we have done them an injury and, perhaps without quite realizing it, have done one to ourselves.
So, at the east end of the Phoenix Art Museum was a tribute to inanimism--to the great monuments of now and then--whereas at the west end is a tribute to the follies, concerns, dreams, and wishes of humanity--in a couple of hundred otherwise unrelated quatrains. Both exhibits gave us a chance to understand within ourselves something we didn’t understand before, as does all art.
They defined art, each to each, in more subtle ways, as well. There are so many working definitions of art--and some that don’t work particularly well at all--that it’s just silly to bring them up. On the other hand, to feel what we feel when we look at something created by the hand of the individual is to feel the art of it all, to feel art within us. From a practical viewpoint, when we view art, we help to create it. Take something famous, such as, say Luncheon of the Boating Party, Renoir’s masterpiece, considered one of the greatest paintings of all time. I choose it because many of the characters depicted on the canvas are actual real-life people from late-nineteenth-century France, including the artist himself.
This means that there are many contributors to this painting on the front end. Not that they’re all artists, but lending themselves as models, as objects of art, makes them effectively co-creators along with M Renoir. Okay, so that’s two co-creators so far, if you count the artist as one and the subjects as one other.
But there is, as many artists recognize, more to it than that. There is still the viewer, the one who looks upon the canvas and interprets it in his particular milieu. Art, we are constantly reminded, is not created in a vacuum. Without the viewer, the artist has created for nothing. Indeed, it might be said that the artist has been clapping away with one hand.
There are two characters in every novel: the writer and the reader. But there is an analog for art: There are three artists in every canvas: the subject, the painter, the viewer. Without any one of them, we don’t just have one-third less art, we have no art, for with no subject, the artist cannot paint and with no viewer, the art has not been created. Art does not come to full fruition until it has been viewed.
The translation itself is by a Cambridge Don named Edward Fitzgerald.
Seeing this exhibit a few weeks before for the first time, I looked up the Rubaiyat on-line so that I could read its verses at my leisure. There have been many translations, but the best use a clean, unadorned style which I like to think Omar himself would have chosen, had he written in English. Fitzgerald’s translation is quite good, however, and though I’d never read more than a few verses at any time in my life, seeing them with these illustrations makes me feel as if I’m greeting old friends.
The other traveling exhibit was called Odyssey: photographs by Linda Connor, a collection of photographs that Jill dearly loved. Jill would enjoyed viewing the work of virtually any artist, but her favorite subjects were inanimate--nature scenes, buildings, religious idols, landmarks--and possibly because that’s what she shot herself, that’s what she liked to see in other artists. It took me a long time to appreciate it, but Jill often saw these objects as imbued with a life or spirit of their own. There was no need for her to shoot humans, because the oak tree, the fountain, the mountainside, the statue all have their own lives, their own sense of living which Jilly saw and felt inside them--inside herself.
I was especially fond of the Avedon exhibit when it was in Phoenix, because Avedon shot humans almost exclusively, bringing forth the wonder and complicated nature of the most complicated of creations. It’s not that I can’t see the life and the spirit of the universe inside the rocks, trees, and animals that surround us, but none have the complexity of humans--at least to another human. Perhaps to cats, other cats are a fine example of depth and complexity. Possibly a dog sees a human as incredibly simple, but is challenged by the depth of his own kind. Although it seems unlikely, a tree may be aware of another tree and what it means to the two of them to be trees--a rock or mountain may be aware of its own place and the place of others of its kind in the universe. Perhaps most people would agree that it’s unlikely that rocks, mountains, and trees have even the level of consciousness of a dog or a cat, but it’s presumptuous to think that on some level, they are unaware that they do have a vital place in the universe. It’s also presumptuous to conclude that such things do have “entity” status, do have awareness, but in the case that we’re wrong in that presumption, then we’ve done them no harm. In the case that we’re wrong in the presumption of non-awareness, then we have done them an injury and, perhaps without quite realizing it, have done one to ourselves.
So, at the east end of the Phoenix Art Museum was a tribute to inanimism--to the great monuments of now and then--whereas at the west end is a tribute to the follies, concerns, dreams, and wishes of humanity--in a couple of hundred otherwise unrelated quatrains. Both exhibits gave us a chance to understand within ourselves something we didn’t understand before, as does all art.
They defined art, each to each, in more subtle ways, as well. There are so many working definitions of art--and some that don’t work particularly well at all--that it’s just silly to bring them up. On the other hand, to feel what we feel when we look at something created by the hand of the individual is to feel the art of it all, to feel art within us. From a practical viewpoint, when we view art, we help to create it. Take something famous, such as, say Luncheon of the Boating Party, Renoir’s masterpiece, considered one of the greatest paintings of all time. I choose it because many of the characters depicted on the canvas are actual real-life people from late-nineteenth-century France, including the artist himself.
This means that there are many contributors to this painting on the front end. Not that they’re all artists, but lending themselves as models, as objects of art, makes them effectively co-creators along with M Renoir. Okay, so that’s two co-creators so far, if you count the artist as one and the subjects as one other.
But there is, as many artists recognize, more to it than that. There is still the viewer, the one who looks upon the canvas and interprets it in his particular milieu. Art, we are constantly reminded, is not created in a vacuum. Without the viewer, the artist has created for nothing. Indeed, it might be said that the artist has been clapping away with one hand.
There are two characters in every novel: the writer and the reader. But there is an analog for art: There are three artists in every canvas: the subject, the painter, the viewer. Without any one of them, we don’t just have one-third less art, we have no art, for with no subject, the artist cannot paint and with no viewer, the art has not been created. Art does not come to full fruition until it has been viewed.
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