Filtering by Category: Abstract
This morning I sit here at the table and the sun has laid down a million diamonds for me on the water. I feel life breathing back to my spirit. Slowly. I had the camera out yesterday and I took the opportunity to photograph my son's orchids which are thriving beautifully in spite of the chill. I love these flowers so much, not only because they're so pretty, but because they mean so much to him and because it is a joyful thing to watch him care for them so faithfully. I thought of him in the quiet, while I was working. He has always marched to the beat of his own drum and makes no apologies for it. I love that about him. When I photograph his orchids, I work really hard to represent that. To see them differently.. to see everything differently.. the way he does. I read a quote recently that said...
I think he does a really good job of that.
I have been searching a great deal lately. Searching for where to belong, how to belong, to whom I belong, in what work I belong. But the truth is... I'm pretty weary of that search and kind of feeling like I just want to sit down by that sparkly water again, and belong to myself. I want to spend more time listening to music and talking to people I love and less time here.. staring at a computer or iPhone screen. I want to get out there and see the places I love again and hear the waves and marvel at the stars from my bed and share a sunrise with my husband taken in from the summit of a volcano. I want to stare into the soul of a flower and say, "Hello you:)" once in awhile, without a camera anywhere near me. In fact... I am seriously considering painting a whole lot more with my words and a whole lot less with pixels this year. Four years I've been chasing this wind. I think it's really time to lay it all down and bask in it. Let it move me, surround me, ruffle my hair, fill my lungs, caress my skin.
I've long sought to see with my heart through the lens of my camera. I think this year, I'd like to see my life through the lens of my heart.
I had a conversation with my son recently about abstract art. He has a difficult time understanding its purpose and why some painters like Jackson Pollock made so much money on paintings he thinks he might have been able to paint himself. We have a favorite Mexican Restaurant in Syracuse where several abstract paintings are hanging on the walls and they consist primarily of bold colors and straight lines, with a few splashes of paint mingled in. The entire table ended up in conversation about those paintings, with just about everyone shaking their heads and giving up trying to understand. He's not alone in feeling disconnected from the language of abstract art, but he would be remiss to simply dismiss it, in my opinion. Attempting to understand other perspectives is always a good exercise.
As I pondered that last night, I realized... this is something I love about humanity. We all have such different gifts and speak such different languages to the world and to each other. The beautiful body of mankind looks like this to me. Some of us are the thinkers/philosophers (brain), some are the do-ers (hands and feet). Others are the arms... oh the arms! How beautiful it is to fall into those, whose job it is to hold. (I hope you all have arms in your life). The shoulders... a place to rest. The eyes.. those who are visionary. And then we have those organs which you cannot see. The internal ones. The heart and soul... the artists and musicians. Imagine if we took that away. No more movie scores. No more paintings on the walls. No more family portraits. No music on your ride home from work.
I read a book once about how we all speak and respond to five different love languages. I always thought that was so interesting. How if we speak our language without ever learning the languages of those around us, then we'll struggle forever to connect and never truly do so. I believe abstract art is a kind of language. It's the language of emotion and I speak it often in my own work so it is easier for me to understand it, than it is for my logic-minded son.
This morning I wanted to create something that conveyed the abstract language of laughter. I wanted to hear it and to feel it, bubbling up from my spirit because laughter is good medicine and I could use a high dose of it today. I didn't expect to find it in the color blue. I associate blue with melancholy and sadness most of the time. But it is also the glorious color of a spring sky, or a new egg in a robin's nest, or the color of my hydrangeas which will be in full bloom in only a few months. And this morning... it is the color of my laughter.
Be still when you have nothing to say; but when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot.
D. H. Lawrence said it first, but I've repeated it maybe once or twice.;-) He was controversial, no doubt, but listen to what his friend Catherine Carswell had to say when summing up his life after his passing (Copied directly from Wikipedia)
"In the face of formidable initial disadvantages and life-long delicacy, poverty that lasted for three quarters of his life and hostility that survives his death, he did nothing that he did not really want to do, and all that he most wanted to do he did. He went all over the world, he owned a ranch, he lived in the most beautiful corners of Europe, and met whom he wanted to meet and told them that they were wrong and he was right. He painted and made things, and sang, and rode. He wrote something like three dozen books, of which even the worst page dances with life that could be mistaken for no other man's, while the best are admitted, even by those who hate him, to be unsurpassed. Without vices, with most human virtues, the husband of one wife, scrupulously honest, this estimable citizen yet managed to keep free from the shackles of civilization and the cant of literary cliques. He would have laughed lightly and cursed venomously in passing at the solemn owls—each one secretly chained by the leg—who now conduct his inquest. To do his work and lead his life in spite of them took some doing, but he did it, and long after they are forgotten, sensitive and innocent people—if any are left—will turn Lawrence's pages and will know from them what sort of a rare man Lawrence was."
That last sentence is profoundly worth chewing on.