Friendship with a dead sculptor…(ii)

We were walking along the edge of the ocean’s foam apron, water chasing our bare feet. Seaweed piled up in little pyramids on the sand, oozing sulfurous vapor that bit into the fresh air. With his big hands this hirsute man spoke as he gestured towards the skyline, saying that it is here in nature that he finds his savage muse.

In sculpture if you become too academic in poses and style, you are making an absentee of nature and thus life becomes absent from your work. We must unfreeze sculpture, life is the thing, everything is in it, and life is movement.

You should be at the order of Nature. A sculptor should take from life the movements that he observes but he should not impose them. Obey nature and do not command her and know that there is no recipe to improve nature, for it will become a lie. The secret is to ‘see’ her and not to just look at her.

The wind picked up and carried his words away but did not hinder his monologue.

What we commonly call ‘ugliness’ in nature can become full of great beauty in art. For the great artist everything in nature has character and that which has character is beautiful. That which is considered ‘ugly’ in nature in fact has more character for its inner truth shines through more so than that which we consider ‘beautiful’ in nature. Capturing this power of character in art makes the sculpture strong with value. There is nothing ugly in art except that which is without character, that lacks inner truth. That is why Baudelaire could make the festering corpse about love, why Velasquez could render the dwarf so touching.

As we stood under the shade of the palm trees he looked up and said that he is the confidant of these trees and this ocean;  they talk to him like old friends. But his eyes now caressed the golden bodies of the sunbathers embedded in the sand; their limbs oiled and stretched to harvest every single ray of light.

Do you see their living detail?

Somehow through the years I have stopped paying attention to the loud tourist but with new eyes I scanned their bodies. The surface of their skin’s slight projections and depressions, the body itself a multitude of almost imperceptible roughness. Every body curved into an attitude, a story.

 



*Grunfeld V. Frederic, “Rodin. A Biography” Henry Holt. 1987.
*Rodin, A “Rodin on Art and Artists” Dover Publications. 1983.
By |2017-07-12T13:05:39-04:00June 8th, 2011|

Friendship with a dead sculptor…(i)

 

The Royal Poincianas are in full, blazing crimson bloom and, as I peer over my chipped porcelain teacup inhaling its dark aroma, the conversation starts.

 

It is a monologue that drifts over the static channels of more than a century but when he speaks his beard moves like a stiff, red, thatch roof. Barely two inches taller than me, we look at each other through a fog–not because of the curtain of time–but because of our weak eyes. Our sight is due to the unavoidable curse of a sculptor that works many hours transfixed and bent over his material in low light.

 

His hands–once called une main d’une prodigieuse vitesse–are moving restlessly when he speaks about how the power of observation should always be practiced…look at an object and fix that image in your mind and try to retain its memory as long as possible before you sketch it. When you are carving your object, never see the form in length but that of its width; a surface is always the extremity of the volume. He will lean forward in his chair to make very clear his point that it is all about the projection of the interior volumes. In each swelling of the torso or the limbs a suggestion of outward thrust is made by a muscle or a bone that is buried deep under the skin. Oh, and for god sakes do not brood over your failures too long for there is not much time; an intense nervous excitement should always drive you back into the studio and into your work but there is no need to hurry.

 

Wait a minute–what do you mean? I have to work with nervous excitement and fast hands; or there’s no hurry, so take it easy? Which one is it?

 

His fingers are now rolling a clay coil absentmindedly and he slowly utters that, a sculptor should be wild about working, getting up early, sketching non-stop, studying the masters, never be distracted for so much as a minute! But you always have time to make a beginning once you are sure of your subject; a sculptor can establish his or her reputation with a single piece of sculpture.

 

A silence falls between us that becomes filled with the songs of the cicadas, both lost in thought. I asked him if he will come back tomorrow?

 

 



*Grunfeld V. Frederic, “Rodin. A Biography” Henry Holt. 1987.
*Rodin, A “Rodin on Art and Artists” Dover Publications. 1983.
By |2017-07-12T13:05:40-04:00May 27th, 2011|

The Birthright

His words always fit my heart and soul like a glove, his books “an axe to chop open the frozen sea inside“.

“…our presence there was legal but illegitimate. We had an abstract right to be there, a birthright, but the basis of that right was fraudulent. Our presence was grounded in a crime, namely colonial conquest, perpetuated by apartheid. Whatever the opposite is of native or rooted, that was what we felt ourselves to be. We thought of ourselves as sojourners, temporary residents, and to that extent without a home, without a homeland.” ~J.M Coetzee

Summertime,  2009,  Penguin books, 209-210

By |2017-07-12T13:05:40-04:00May 6th, 2011|

Patti and Lewis speaking the gift. Conversations between books.

I closed “The Gift”, its cover a soft cream with a pinkish heart confirming its romantic words, pressed as dried flowers between the pages. The esoteric view of the artist always leaves me a bit uncomfortable. My eye catches the glossy black book sitting on my nightstand. On it ‘bad girl’ Patti Smith mischievously peers from a black and white photo. Mmmm maybe I need to ask her?

FROM MY READING LIST:
*Hyde, Lewis. “The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World”Vintage. 2007
*Smith, Patti, “Just Kids”, HarperCollins Publishers. 2010.

HOW DOES THE ARTIST BECOME?

Lewis Hyde: “Most artists are brought to their vocation when their own nascent gifts are awakened by the work of a master. That is to say that most artists converted to art by art itself. The future artist finds himself or herself moved by a work of art, and, through that experience, comes to labor in the service of art until he can profess his own gifts….We come to  painting, to poetry, to the stage, hoping to revive the soul. And any artist whose work touches us earns our gratitude.” (Hyde, pp59)

Patti Smith: As a child..” I drew comfort from my books. Oddly enough, it was Louisa May Alcott who provided me with a positive view of my female destiny. Jo, the tomboy of the four March sisters in Little Women, writes to help support her family, struggling to make ends meet during the Civil War. She fills page after page with her rebellious scrawl, later published in the literary pages of the local newspaper. She gave me the courage of a new goal, and soon I was crafting little stories and spinning long yarns for my brother and sister. From that time on, I cherished the idea that one day I would write a book.” (Smith, pp10-11)

WHAT COMPELS THE ARTIST TO CREATE?

Lewis Hyde: “Having accepted what has been given to him[the artist]- either in the sense of inspiration or in the sense of talent – the artist often feels compelled, feels the desire to make the work and offer it to an audience. The gift must stay in motion. “Publish or perish” is an internal demand of the creative spirit, one that we learn from the fit itself, not from any school or church.(Hyde, pp188) “Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz speaks of his “inner certainty”as a young writer “that a shining point exists where all lines intersect . . . This certainty as also involved my relationship to that point, ” he tell us. ” I felt very strongly that nothing depended on my will, that everything I might accomplish in life would not be by my own efforts but given as a fight.” (Hyde, pp 186) Art as a way of life: Not any self-control or self-limitation for the sake of specific ends, but rather a carefree letting go of oneself; not caution, but rather a wise blindness; not working to acquire silent, slowly increasing possessions, but rather a continuous squandering of all perishable values.(Hyde pp 194)

Patti Smith: ” … I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves? And what was the ultimate goal? To have one’s work caged in art’s great zoos- the Modern, the Met, the Louvre?…Why commit to art? For self-realization, or for itself? It seemed indulgent to add to the glut unless one offered illumination…I understood what matters is the work: the string of words propelled by God becoming a poem, the wave of color and graphite scrawled upon the sheet that magnifies His motion. To achieve within the work a perfect balance of faith and execution. From this state of mind comes a light, life charged.” (Smith, pp650)

WHAT DELIBERATE PRACTICE DOES AN ARTIST NEED?

LH: “Once a gift has stirred within us it is up to us to develop it. There is a reciprocal labor in the maturation of a talent. The gift will continue to discharge its energy so long as we attend to it in return. (Hyde, pp 62)For the slow labor if realizing a potential gift the artist must retreat to those Bohemias, halfway between the slums and the library, where life is not counted by the clock and where the talented may be sure they will be ignored until that time, if it ever comes, when their gifts are viable enough to be set free and survive in the world.(Hyde, pp 67)The fruit of the creative spirit is the work of art itself, and if there is a first-fruits ritual for artists, is must either be the willing “waste” of art (in which one is happy to labor all day with no hope of production, nothing to sell, nothing to show off, just fish throw back into the sea as soon as they are caught) or else, when there is a product, it must be this thing we have already seen, the dedication for the work back toward its origins.(Hyde,pp192)

PS: “One cannot imagine the mutual happiness we[with Robert Mapplethorpe] felt when we sat and drew together. We would get lost for hours. His ability to concentrate for long periods infected me, and I learned by his example, workings side by side.(Smith pp57) We gathered our colored pencils and sheets of paper and drew like wild, feral children into the night, until, exhausted, we fell into bed…Sometimes I would awaken and find him working in the dim light of votive candles. Adding touches to a drawing, turning the work this way and that, he would examine it from every angle.” (Smith pp60-1)

WHAT IS THE PITFALLS FOR AN ARTIST TO AVOID?

LH:”A gift can also move out of a desire of some oppressed part of the soul to come to power. In politics affection and generosity usually lose their autonomy and become the servants of power. Also warns when this power is not received a bitterness can set it. Bitterness is the biggest danger to an artist.(Hyde,pp314)The artist who hopes to market  work that is the realization of his gifts cannot begin with the market.He must create for himself that gift-sphere in which the work is made, and only when he knows the work to be the faithful realization of his gift should he turn to see if it has currency in that other economy. Sometimes it does, sometimes it does not.”(Hyde,pp360)

PS: “The artist seeks contact with his intuitive sense of the gods but in order to create his work, he cannot stay in this seductive and incorporeal realm. He must return to the material world in order to do his work. It’s the artist’s responsibility to balance mystical communication and the labor of creation. I left Mephistopheles, the angels, and the remnants of our handmade world, saying, “I choose Earth.”(Smith, pp256)

FINAL THOUGHTS?

LH:”We are sojourners with our gifts, not their owners even our creations do not belong to us.”(Hyde,pp 364)

PS:”I preferred an artist who transformed his time, not mirrored it.” (Smith pp69)

I like the idea that Patti Smith can step out of the cerebral muse world and back into reality. I bet she can smoothly dance between these two worlds, giving and receiving the gift at the same time.

By |2017-07-12T13:05:40-04:00April 2nd, 2011|

Sojourn

the pink caravan trails on my ceiling.
the otter burrows deep down into my jaw.
with rattles they come dancing with screaming cats on leashes.
the little angel climbs up my wall, he would have been sweet if it wasn’t  for his crab claws.
somewhere a ball is bouncing non-stop.
i am only a speck of dust, yet this dust comes from the stars.
the chandelier drips like a stalactite from the ceiling. This house is no longer my home.
i cannot focus, the pots and pans keep giggling in a metal grinding rhetoric.
maybe the pot is fucking the pan. Shut up already!
my hallway is a slippery slope in which you gently slide into an abyss of pillows and feathers.
swallowed by this pillow I drowned in feathers and mites. Sinking.
the bugs are crying, crying, they try to tell me something but their throats are too small.
the mortar in between the bricks start to grow into tumors and callus.
the crying bugs are now in the far distance like a song by an Arab in the desert begging for redemption from God.
in this desert there is no forgiveness only a mirage of playing children in pink dresses.
the camel came scurrying by, his humps the perfect chopstick holder.
it is so uncomfortable, it does not fit the air and space does not belong. Like a violin dueling with a bag of potato chips.
a Gabbeh rug is slowly crawling through the forest.
my arms are made of lead, two metal snakes just dangling.
i ask the rug “Where are you going’ He says “Don’t you know that there is a war?”
that is when I started to run, the leaves got thicker and deeper until I had to swim my way out through autumn.
i was wearing a tight black leather cat-suit until I realize it is made out of licorice. I have already eaten the arms.
can to much licorice kill you? I have started to lick my eyes.
the secedes whine like sewing machines in the trees, I think they are making ‘coullottes
i met a brown recluse the other day, I do not think he was particularly happy with me.
he told me if it was not for the high level of plastic in my blood he would have bitten me.
i ask the rug “How do you survive out here”
he says ”Mushrooms”
two shadows live in my suitcase, they do not like to travel by air.
the pink caravan trails on my ceiling.

~June 2008

By |2017-05-02T13:04:08-04:00March 10th, 2011|
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