portabella passing

Arriving in San Francisco late in the afternoon brought back memories of dusty gray air but the sunshine streamed through it and redeemed the smog/fog okay to bear. I had come to scout overseas possibilities and couple my stay with a day or two looking at art.

On Sunday, I took the Bart from Millbrae to Powell Street costing $8.50 round trip. Years ago, when I worked in Los Angeles in the fashion industry, I frequented San Francisco. This was the city I had thought about moving to but now I was getting off at my destination and I hurried to MOMA. (I had recently watched "Milk" with Sean Penn and James Franco who both acted beautifully. The film was informative and brought back the San Francisco of the sixties movement, beat poets and Hare Krishna.)Once at the museum, I scoured the exhibitions, cramming my already tired eyes with quick assessments of wonderful photography shows along with the Bay Area greats, just next door to artist masters such as Matisse, Picasso and Max Beckman. It was the two photography exhibits that I found the most appealing. One featured Francesca Woodman who showed an astounding aesthetic at the young age of 22. Woodman committed suicide at that age but her maturity and skill of piecing self portraits was astoundingly refreshing. You had to enter each piece intimately to examine and scrutinize the content frame. The other photography exhibition was a retrospective of Rineke Dijkstra (her photographs pictured above and below). The artist gave you the information in large glossy colorful prints and most of it was an easy read; the artist astute to our "quick fix" needs as observers. Her portraits showed young Israeli soldiers - the same boy in uniform contrasted in his regular everyday clothes. Other pictures told stories of a young woman starting from ten years in age gradually developing into a mature twenty year old woman. Each photograph was huge - close to 10 by 7 feet, cosmetically presented, a fairy tale image of glorified pop. This was not dismal portraiture no matter what subject matter concerned. Another series of works was a strand of bull fighters after a bout in the ring (seen above). Each matador wore a dishevelled look stained with blood and grit.

I left the museum more inspired by the photography exhibits than anything else presented. It was a rewarding and invigorating treat always welcoming life's surprises. As I exited outside, a sumptuous fill lingered on Market Street, as I watched people, I checked out the flower stalls pausing briefly, quaint shops and singing minstrels guided me back to my return place.

At the airport, I gobbled a grilled portabella mushroom sandwich peppered with feta, pesto, grilled onions, tomato and lettuce. This huge mushroom spread on the bottom bun, amazed and suddenly realized however, that I was in one of the food capitals of the world - no matter where!

time out of mind

The past loomed in front of me as I tried to doze off late last night. Unexpected recollections popped up from old haunts of long ago.

The scent of sea breezes drifted into my psyche when I was carefree and thinking of that period of innocence, I was almost there, feeling that utter freedom of lightness. If there was trouble and worries at that moment, I didn't know it. Where did that sensation go? Jersey coasted past me. Grand vistas of the shoreline; the meeting place of first night dates, parked cars with timid conversations, afternoon dips, sunrise services, warm, humid kisses, the scent of pizza, jammed beer bars and hot boardwalk.

I was in love with the sea. It stretched endlessly for miles with waves of heat rising in rivulets above the wide beach sands; the ocean insurmountable, not comprehending the beauty of it all, I gave up and immersed into it's nothingness.

The sea was my refuge and I would escape to this landscape easily embracing the openness, the horizon always there greeting me with predictability. It was a mystery and fantasy land of tall grasses, rollings surfs, jetties, old fishing piers, white grasshoppers and lazy days. Why did I leave this paradise?

I have missed this space again and again sometimes fretting if these memories ever existed, drifting away out of sight, out of mind. How happy I am to be able to retrieve this place and at the same time how sadly I recognize these years gone by.

manic winter months

We stayed home for Christmas this year and the weather proved to be the coldest I have ever experienced in Alaska. The endless snow upon snow is beautiful but at times I feel like I am drowning in it. Roads become like tunnels and neighborhood streets narrower; playing chicken is a thought that passes through my mind as a solitary oncoming car competes to get by. Mornings are usually difficult because I am not compelled to go outdoors, so I wind up cooking and doing studio work. Otherwise, I am determined to get out to walk, ski or sometimes ride my studded bike on the streets. My outfits consist of wearing face coverings, heavy duty gloves, large boots or sorrels and layered clothing is essential. The other day I walked with a girlfriend and we hiked to a summit close by on O'Malley Road. The sun was brazenly bright and after trudging in the snow for twenty minutes, I became warm and the below zero temperatures became unnoticeable.

In the five weeks however, during our Christmas break, we did manage to complete our house insulation. Endless, long hours and tedious dirty work amounted to Ken working and finishing this job. Hats off to Ken for his persistence and focused energy.

The library, my favorite place in Anchorage, is a great resource of travel books and free foreign films. The other day, I watched a Finnish film set in Helsinki and the environment was austere, existential and empty. It reminded me a lot about where I live presently.

My first remembrances of Anchorage are empty cafes laced with lingering iced air. Everything becomes a contest in the cold and while you fight the wind, you gingerly place your feet carefully because of the chances of slipping on sometimes slick pavement. There is an abstract sense of wilderness; you identify with the fur hats and empty cold banked curbs as a special place. Yet these things produce a remote sense of obscurity, and still begs for a foreignness of adventure. Years ago, Ken and I would sit by Earthquake Park and look out over the dark wide inlet vista that seemed to stretch for eternity. The tinkering lights on the horizon gave you some landing place of perspective. You forget people you have met at one time in the area because they become different looking throughout the year; either in bike gear, scarves, sunglasses or turbaned with the latest winter hat gives sway to another hidden persona. The Alaskan dark is the heaviest and most poignant element, but the one challenge of Alaska that I have seemed to beat. Alaska becomes an indoor place, of wood stove furnaces, fireplaces and engagements that bring you closer to one another. Upon entering my home, I find myself rushing around the house to beat the chill or to replenish the empty firewood box. I rush outside to warm up the truck, race to the mailbox across the street, rush inside from being outside. It is a fleeting place and it has become a restless place for me. My junctions to the college campus become mini field trips and I hole up before class reading and drinking coffee. After the Christmas holidays, flickering lights remain on the window sill to brighten my early morning days with optimism. I look forward to crashing early evenings spending time reading in bed but rise early to make up for any lost time.

Winter has caused me to reflect and feel Alaska; a bitter sweet sensation of living place. It is still a journey living here and it has taught me more about surviving than any other place. Alaska is an acute physical existence. You see the densely packed mountains tops and feel removed from this landscape but you know it's grandeur exists. It is the sense of nature that brings me to feeling powerless and not in control because this magnificent terrain remains untouchable.

Tree of Life

I recently viewed the film The Tree of Life directed by Terrence Malick, starring Brad Pitt, Sean Penn and Jessica Chastain. While I was skeptical at first with many of the photography images I thought pretentious kitsch overload in the movie making domain, it won my heart over. It is a must see and a recommended movie for everyone. The film can be slow, beginning with the birth of three boys and their gradual maturity. The death of the oldest son makes the film go back and forth abstractly to their childhood home and family. It takes place in the 50's and Brad Pitt expressed the mood and tension poignantly of his character. It is a reflective piece and a quiet honest psychological observation on the thoughts from the characters. It is a subtle and hopeful film of quality.

closer to hand

Above is a new work titled Tuxedo Moon. I have chosen a few works that were completed this past month inspired by my visit to the Utah landscape. These works are drawings with oil stick and paint on watercolor paper, all approximately 18" x 20". They were done spontaneously with great ease and clarity. The theme of the work is based on the hourglass formations that I saw from the desert terrain. I noted the rock cathedrals; beautifully orchestrated natural lines of symmetry mixed with the plant life have their own aesthetics and beauty formed over millions of years.
The artwork pictured above is titled Canyon Cup. I like these works because they are simply drawn and implied. Abstract work is the hardest to comprehend and probably the least accepting of all art movements. When I discuss the theory of abstract to my classes I inform students that we usually do most of our thinking abstractly. It is a hard concept to embrace because of it's elusiveness.
Above the piece is called Canyon Torso and the piece below is called Hourglass Landscape. Colors are indicative of the country that I saw; vast expanses of red soil, peppered with green Juniper trees and of course the brilliant blue sky was a constant.
My favorite piece is called Arrowhead Dress pictured below. These are contemporary pieces of art; works done for the now and studies of how my mind works, never taking or copying from photographs but are drawn from my imagination. They are a collective body of impressions that are greatly thought about, studied, and reworked to fit my understanding of the subject at hand.

China and staying inspired

Currently, I am reading a novel called River Town by Peter Hessler. He writes his accounts and personal experiences while as a Peace Corps college instructor in the town called Fuling located in the Sichuan Valley. (While Fuling isn't located on the above map, you can locate the nearby city called Chengdu.) His depictions of the Chinese people are intriguing; dealing with educating the country people in this area, Hessler teaches English literature. He expresses how the peasants absorb themselves in Shakespeare and Beowulf easily and how they naturally experience the language. They work hard with comprehending the prose and don't complain about the difficulty of nuances. Hessler talks about the Yangtze River, the Wu River which runs south of the Yangtze, and the Three Gorges Dam. This past summer I watched a documentary on the Yangtze River; the relocation of hundreds of villagers that would have to move from the valley because of the construction of the dam but were given better accommodations in exchange. However, I saw the eventual rise of the river tides progressively increase, farmers thrown from their fields while being virtually displaced was criminal. Hessler goes on describing the river and the river industry, his relationship with the Chinese and his experiences learning the Chinese language. He gives great detail on the politics and historical context on this area.

While Ken and I have plans to go to China next year, we usually go away for the winter season but house repairs and an update for a new computer made us decide to spend a Christmas in Anchorage. It will be our first Christmas in the state of Alaska in nine years. I look forward to setting up a tree and making it festive, cooking and spending time in the studio. However, I need to stay inspired and these trips abroad fuel my creative capacities.

But I did get to spend some time this past October; mountain biking in Southern Utah gave me incentive to work on some drawings on this spectacular landscape. In fact, I have become attached to drawing and like how I am closer to the paper - realizations are purer and embody the hand. These are works that color, line and composition do the talking - nothing else, no fragments, or bits of paper, collaging or fabric remnants feeding the expression.

It is hard for me to stay inspired and immersed in the art process. It is a continual challenge and struggle. These trips give me the impetus to remain focused and engaged. Making art connects me to my center and I love the introspection of the studio. There is something about leaving a place of comfort and seeing other cultures, people, and experiencing their ways of doing things. I have always had a restless spirit and need to go and see. Perhaps, staying in Alaska during the core winter months will ignite some ingenious drawings on the other hand.

king of the mountain

By biking and through a generous group of organizers of feisty Alaskan women, I got to the state of Utah. Immediately upon landing in Green River, I reconnected to the desert and realized how much I missed this landscape. It was an expansion of dry land, warm air and a scent of sage that greeted me. The Moab Airport is a quiet gem and I landed in a Beecraft 1900 after a layover from Denver; it is a small aircraft that sits not more than eighteen people. The airport has one landing strip and you are greeted with your baggage at the foot of the plane. I loved the intimacy of the building and this southwestern unpopulated domain made it an authentic and a novel establishment.

Upon being picked up by Brin, (our fabulous guide that would lead us throughout the biking territory of the Maze in the Moab), we rode for thirty five minutes to the Comfort Inn where I was meeting the rest of the bikers. While driving there and seeing familiar desert scape, I had forgotten the dinginess of place, the forlorn atmosphere, but the wide expanse of the sky extinguished these sights as quickly as the highway surged and sprinkled passing cars and trucks coming and going in it's desolateness. This is the romantic west; the heat pleasurable, where open half domed skies are immense, almost too blue to believe. The color is indescribable; a dense aqua and teal with the intensity of cobalt intermingled might be a fair description. Clouds lingered in the sky, floating Magritte fashion. Underlined the puffs were a purple, dark gray and these shapes dangled like cotton candy balls, hovering far away but still they seemed touchable.

Once at the Comfort Inn, I walked next door to the Museum of Green River and perused the information on the valley. It was a good introduction into the state; often forgetting America's greatness and the founding explorers that discovered this great terrain was a favorable surprise and a good reminder to stay humble.

The next five days would be filled with an assortment of gifts; great cycling among the paths of the Moab, climbing a bit here and there, and reaching to wonderful tops of jaw dropping spread out sights of wide canyons among canyons. Every where I turned I was aghast with the scale and magnitude of beauty; orchestras of Junipers trees and dotted sagebrush pressed against the red land, giant sculptural rock formations made me think of the Egyptian tombs and wall drawings of ancient times, conical pyramidal shapes were reflections of the remoteness of place pressed centuries of time to my face. I might have been on the Moon! Masses of brush would be contrasted to the hard blue sky as the evening would crash with a lit full moon creating assemblages of wonderful color and arrangement. The wake up morning light was clear, casting a yellow glow on the surrounding mountains and desert fields.

The biking wasn't difficult for me, while traveling the long roads could sometimes be monotonous the paths were redeemed by the heat. That glorious constant sun kept me reeling in the miles which seemed effortless as this keen energy source beat on my legs and the side of my face; I felt fantastic and would end fantastic at the end of the day's ride. You could describe some of the trails as jeep trails, dusty and soft red dirt and other times if you weren't careful you could speed down an incline to some deep ruts that could throw you out of control.

Above, is one of my favorite pictures. I took about four hundred pictures of the desert and choose thirty to post on Facebook. We ended our rides sitting and chatting around the fire; good camaraderie and assortment of characters sparked our adventure. The food was wonderful with a healthy balance of fresh fruits, salads and fish or meat. We were given choices and a varied menu each morning, lunch and dinner. Our guides, Brin and Ben, were there to help and suggest alternatives if there were any questions to where to ride. Most of it seemed impromptu but I admired this because the trip was tailored to every one's needs and fitted every one's comfort level. Hats off to the Alaska Dirt Divas!