Leonardo Da Vinci

"If a painter wishes to see beauty that enraptures him, he has the power to create it. If he wishes to see things that are grotesque... or are laughable, or are truly pathetic, he is the lord and master of them... Whatever lies in the universe--in essence or imagination--he has first in his mind and then in his hand."

i'm working away, but I CAN'T SEEM TO FINISH ANYTHING.

photos of some progress::
building the canvas/ christy helping-

the painted 5'x5'.
cello player, memaw, and some other random things

moving forward

i think i just finished the cello player. and two days ago Juan and i picked up 6 canvases from Israel Horovitz. Apparently Julian Schnable lived in his neighborhood and when he was moving he threw these canvases out. Israel picked them up, knowing someone could use them. One year later thank God they have been waiting for me- size 4' x 3'. tomorrow i'm going to pick up 5' stretchers and to rearrange my room a little. i bought 3 yards of canvas the other day for $10 a yard because the man at the fabric store said i was pretty. i am having such a beautiful time and things seem to be going perfectly. i'm realizing everyday more and more that this is what i'm meant for.

i met with Karen last week- a homeless woman who called me because she saw my artwork and she's an artist too, she needed someone to talk to and thought she could seek help from a fellow artist. i told her i could bring her some art supplies, but i couldn't offer her my place to say. we arranged for a another day to meet, and she didn't come. i asked the clerks at starbucks if they recognized that an older woman, with large breasts, and slightly unkempt hair had come in that morning- they didn't notice anyone who met that description. Karen called again, but i decided not to meet with her anymore. i would like to help, but i think she needs more help than i can provide. [god protect and provide for her, amen.]

today i am ready to begin my painting

the last two days i was preparing the space:
1. taped paper onto the floor
2. made a curtain for my bookshelf so i won't be distracted with titles and letters and colors.
3. bought house paints: burnt sienna, royal blue
4. and a few more pastels/ rembrant soft

questions on my mind:
1. should i buy violet or mix it myself
2. home depot for plywood or utrecht for canvas and stretchers
3. live models? no> national geographic images on my mind

images on my mind:
1. crying girl from newspaper, with shiite mother in background
2. martha clark with her horse
3. memaw/ today i finally painted over my painting of the old woman in venice- i've painted and repainted this thing too many times. to start over... using the polaroid i have of memaw

thoughts to myself:
1. trust in my ability to combine colors
2. the preparations are over/ relax and let out paint
3. converse with god and all will be revealed.

"the smallest of things"

photos from my play last night... i was a pakistani girl living in iraq, trying to bring my brother inside the house

"Bread and Wine" - poem by Paul Goodman

An empty container that cannot be filled is nothing at all.
Smash you! be nothing!
Now hope is no longer hollow,
but shards are a lasting reproach of violence.
Ow! no longer am I disappointed;
whatever is broken has a bright outline.
I love you immortal contents of the empty
container that could not be filled I smashed.
In the raw light of my no longer disappointment
I am immortal drunken with the contents
of that empty container that could not be filled
I smashed, whose shards are lying on the ground.
Say! who is this tipsy fellow who is dancing for joy
as though he were in love and had what he wished for?
He has drunken the immortal contents
of an empty container that could not be filled
but he smashed it on a rock
and the shards are lying on the ground.
He keeps repeating how he broke the jug.
I too feed daily on the non-being of paradise
of which a month ago I gave up hope,
the days pass unresentfully away,
I have put on weight,
people remark that I look young.
-Alas! where is Adam? where is my
Adam who used to waken to surprise?
Adam my red one made
of the red soil of Appalachia?-
I was distraught with longing for paradise
convinced it was unattainable for me,
I came to my senses at 142
West 23rd Street in New York.
-Woe is me! where is Adam, fearless?
where is Adam namer of the beasts?--
Such is my bread and wine; also, creator and spirit,
let me make a song like Yuan Ming
on his lute that had, for poverty, no strings.

-Paul Goodman, in the BLACK MOUNTAIN REVIEW, 1955

going backwards

this morning i gave a presentation on the Black Mountain College. While i was waiting for class to begin i looked at a book of Jenny Saville... so much art, paintings, artists. I think I've looked at enough paintings for now. I must confess that the more I look the more jealous and overwhelmed I feel. need to paint. to finish school and to paint in open spaces. with more brushes (one for each tub).

i was thinking more about Picasso today. when i watched the video of him drawing- i was thinking that it made sense that he went through so many artistic periods in his life. that he began with realistic painting and finally ended in abstract representations. and that in order for him to have mastered the art of proportion (which enables him to draw perfect figures wihtout correction in a matter of minutes) he had to spend a lifetime practicing in more realism.

but why is it more easier/natural for me to draw like picasso and egon schielle than it is to draw from rembrant? maybe because i am picking up where picasso left off- in the abstract. where picasso started with the real and went forward into the abstract... i have to start abstract and go backwards into the real.

whatever it is/ it is always a matter of sensation- of something more sensual than mental .. but anyhow. off to rehearsal .

i just want to say thank you for those that bless us. i'll more later.


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the mystery of picasso

i deleted a post i created may7,2006... because today is april 28,2007. and the last post i created before the may 7th was april28,2006. i think its fair enough to allow a year to pass and to restart again.

tonight i watched a Picasso documentary by Henri-Georges Clouzot. it was picasso in his studio, created works with markers and inks on vellum paper. the inks bled through the paper and the photographer filmed from the opposite side. we watched the drawings come to life, line by line. it seems that picasso has an array of characters that is always on his mind:
1.nude females lounging
2.bull-fighters, bull-fighters falling upside down after being hit by the bull
3.men with big noses
4. goats/horses 5. a rooster 6. a snake charmer
7. walls with pictures hanging on them
He worked with inks in jars with a paint brush for each jar/and when it was time for him to refill- he poured more ink from what looked like a wine bottle. it was fascinated to watch these pictures come alive... the lines informed the figure. .. (note to self-for next performance art work with inks and vellum/ create a scene on the page...) a scene. generally his figures in this series were not just floating in space/ the background was suggested or a shadow was placed under foot.


i checked that documentary out from the library because i had seen a short film on youtube...
this short film on youtube http://youtube.com/watch?v=7vgAYTC9bRY
i have been watching and re-watching for the past week

it is good to learn from our masters.

a pablo neruda

Pablo Neruda:
"Investigations"

I asked of every thing
if it had
something more,
something more than shape and form,
and I learned that way that nothing is empty--
everything is a box, a train, a boat
loaded with implications,
every foot that walked along a path
left a telegram written in the stone,
and clothes in the washing water
dripped out their whole existence.
I went from country to country, never knowing
where to put down my bundle, now so heavy,
loaded with all my knowings,
till with so much seeing and knowing,
moving and moving, asking and asking
every chair, every stone, and later
so many men who never answered,
they got me used to answering myself,
replying to myself without speaking,
talking with no one, to amuse myself.
Perhaps it's what happens to a blind man
who from so much not seeing then sees everything
and in a single focusing
sees
with all the intensity of aa diver
who descends one single well in the whole ocean
and in that place all the fish are gathered.

longing

I long for a community of my own. for collaborators. for a chance to make some art that really means something to me. for a feeling of going forward. of stepping in and stepping down. clinching with my fist. for someone to give me an idea a direction a commission. a mission. sitting idle drives me nuts. art supplies laying about the hard wood floor taunting me. so close so close don’t touch don’t touch. pen and paper not satisfying. wordless. wanting to be wreckless and hopeful. to reach out to spit to vomit to uncontrollably respond. maybe I’m just not inspired. not spontaneous. been a long time.
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love these souls

my southern pals: ross from alabama and estelle from north carolina.

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just got my certificate from "Locks of Love"... my eleven inches of curly brown hair will make some lovely girl a beautiful wig. to donate your hair to locks of love, go to: www.locksoflove.org

[qoutes from this book i'm reading: Testament by Nino Ricci. The book is historical fiction- a reaccount of the four gospels. ]

It seemed that what Yeshua taught us was that we could not divide things
into clean and unclean and what could be kept and what cast out, but must take
all as one, and see how it made us.

But there was in Yeshua that quality that made one feel there was something, still, some bit of hope, some secret he might reveal that would help make the world over. Tell me your secret, I had wanted to say to him, tell me, make me new. And even now, though I had left him, I often saw him beckoning before me as towards a doorway he would have had me pass through, from darkness to light.

It was possible, I saw, to return to the old ways, even when the truth had
been laid out before you, since what was familiar was always lying in wait to
reclaim you.

If we have no quarrel with anyone, he said, then we stand for nothing.

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You ask me.
Who is responsible for all this this this this
it's all hit or miss, the skeptic says.
Too prideful to stick to yes or no
lest the buzzer goes while you're
holding onto the temporarily wrong answer.
Drink, drink up, I say. This is the land of milk and honey.
suck. suck the earth dry. His wrath will come. when ho-
one raw and gusty night when all the lights are out
and your infections creep on you like a blister suddenly popped
who do you turn to then? A curious mind wants to know.

If this were a battle ground, land mines and sweating men,
gunshots drowning out the sound and they've forgotten what they're fighting for
then where are we now.
Watchmen are watching no signs of surrender my poor heart breaks.
"its like walking on a wire in a circus."
walking. walking slow and cautious.
When will we tell, and divide. separate.
Can't wash colors with whites lest the bright of the white will fade.
Not meaning black or white war but deeper than that.
This war will rise higher than that petty skin deep disagreement.
This is in souls. and soul saviours. and who controls it all.
And things that didn't seem to matter then keep coming up now
like pitter patter pitter patter rain falls. falling. colors bleeding. revealing
you are of the world and i am of religion-
both being ruled by a passionate conviction for social change.
But I hold my tongue resisting what I really want to say
because we could talk all night but if i mention jesus christ
then i've ended the conversation and i love you but this can only go so far.
"its like walking on a wire in a circus."

I am standing errect, politcally correct, holding my breath-
inside my thoughts are rolling, doing what they were trained to do
With white knuckles I reluctantly clutch my bow,
lean back preparing my aim ... hold, hold.
Watchmen are watching no signs of surrender,
my pour heart breaks. Aching for a way out.
Can't you see according to philosophy that we are enemies?

You ask me.
How do two souls that seem like twins have two different makers.
why is the sky blue? the sky is blue well that's just the way it is my friend.
Let's touch just our fingertips first. please, feel my spirit so i won't have to tell you.
dreaming of a white flag, muttered sky.


---- Anna Irby

"Something Calling"- by Tony Kushner (and Anna Irby)

There is something calling,
if you still retain a shed of decency
you can hear it- it's a dim terrible
voice that's calling-- a bass howl, like
a cow in a slaughterhouse, but
far, far off...
It is calling us to action, calling us
to stand against the calamity,
to spare nothing, not our blood,
not our happiness, not our lives
in the struggle to stop the dreadful day
that's burning now
in oil flames on the horizon.

What makes the voice pathetic
is that it doesn't know
what kind of people it's reaching.
Us.
No one hears it, except us.
This Age wanted heros.
It got us instead:
carefully constructed, but
immobile.
Subtle, but
unfit
to take up
the burden of the times.
It happens.
A whole generation of washouts.
History says stand up,
and we totter and collapse,
weeping, moving, but not sufficient.

The best of us, lacking.
The most decent,
not decent enough.
The kindest,
too cruel,
the most loving,
too full of hate,
the wisest,
too stupid,
the fittest
unfit
to take up
the burden of the times.

The Enemy
has a voice like seven thunders.
What chance did that dim voice ever have?
Marvel that anyone heard it
instead of wondering why nobody did anything,
marvel that we heard it,
we who have no right to hear it-
no right!
And it would be a mercy not to.
But mercy... is a thing... no one
remembers its face
anymore.
------ Tony Kushner---

precept upon precept line upon line
hearing this word but not doing anything!
woe to the street criers woe to the bell ringers
the school teachers the church goers
who know this word
but don't do
anything.

Arise, I say!
Cry out in the night
as the watches of the night begin.
Pour out your heart like water
in the presence of the Lord.

When will you come,
fall down at the throne of grace,
lay down your inabilities
lay down your emptiness
lay down your impotence
and say Father- here i am.
use me. me. me. i will go.
i will obey. i will seek you.
i will. i will.

-------Anna Irby

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mary mary quite contrary

mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow,
with silver bells and cocka shells
and pretty maids all in a row.

women, we dress to impress
with our high heels and short skirt
pretending like we don’t mean to flirt
with the men, the women, the pink umbrella
in our underaged nonalcoholic cranberry juice

a night out with the girls
we pretty maids have
grown out of our mother’s pearls,
we now have our own style
and have learned to reconcile
our hips to shashay left right left right
and oh, we look stunning.

who’s that girl… lalalalala
we come together on the dance floor
look into each other’s eyes and like
a beautiful song our souls begin to harmonize
the beat is moving fast I am forgetting what I lack
hiding in this mask of painted nails and silver bells
and regardless of what our inner subconscious
insecurities have said and whether I dressed up for
me or your or him or her
and whether it took me
15 min. or an hour or 3 and a half hours
to powder my nose for you
I am a pretty maid dancing with my girls.

this moment of bliss reminds me
of the time when we
played Chinese firedrill by the Norfolk train
or the time when we
played that game of freeze out in the rain
or the time when we the time when we
when time fails to change
the sister to sister-
we fell in love with god together
singing at the top of our lungs-
I want to fall in love with you

pulling over to run through
that field of yellow dandelions
crayons melted on the back dash
easy bake oven with the light bulb burnt out
endless spend the nights eating ice cream
when we didn’t count calories and my
out fit didn’t define my identity.
when little girls have no one to impress
because boys have cooties
when faith was real and time stood still

when what he said, she said, doesn’t matter
I have no one to flatter and I am me
dancing on the dance floor
just me and my girls with silver bells and cocka shells
pretty maids all in a row
happy to stand together but shattered when I sit alone.

because when I am alone
there are these wasted nights
with the sound of rain on my window, and I-
bent over my journal, am wrecklessly writing words of doubt
and when I ask myself- am I
pretty enough? slim enough? smart enough?
and when I begin to let
cosmo and seventeen tell me what pretty is
and when I compare the size of my thighs to
hers and hers and her

mary mary you better water your garden or its not gonna grow.

I am standing on quick sand
reaching for your hand, begging acceptance
resisting rejection needing protection from this war in my mind
brought by the beauty of you.
friend, you are beautiful.
elevated to perfection making me feel as though I need correction.
losing hold of what little assurance I never received
not knowing who I am trying to please
or how I will ever fill this need,
Father, oh Father tell me
that I am beautifully and wonderfully made.

when we look to our maker to find our identity
we see our steel magnolias releasing their sweet
smell with angels leaning over them,
whispering grow- grow.
women, we are meant to connect with each other
we are meant to connect, not compete with each other.
soul to soul and love to love.
mary, mary, your garden grows beautifully,.
and so does mine.
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in rememberance of the pope... his words to the artists

"With this letter, I turn to you, artists of the world, to assure you of my esteem and to help consolidate a more constructive partnership between art and the Church. Mine is an invitation to rediscover the depth of the spiritual and religious dimension which has been typical of art in its noblest forms in every age. It is with this in mind that I appeal to you, artists of the written and spoken word, of the theatre and music, of the plastic arts and the most recent technoloies to the field of communication. I appeal especially to you. Christian artists: I wish to remind each of you that, beyond functional considerations, the close alliance that has always existed between the Gospel and art means that you are invited to use your creative intuition to enter into the heart of the mystery of the Incarnate God and at the same time into the mystery of man." 1999, Letter from Pope John Paul II
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"lord i will not stop until your name is glorified." this is a picture of my journal page that ryan took at the retreat last weekend. amazing discoveries.

And an old priest said, Speak to us of Religion.

And he said:

Have I spoken this day of aught else? Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations? Who can spread his hours before him, saying 'This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body'? All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self.

Your daily life is your temple and your religion. Whenever you enter into it take with you your all. Take the plough and the forge and the mallet and the lute, The things you have fashioned in necessity or for delight. For in revery you cannot rise above your acievements nor fall lower than your failures. ...

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the moutain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then you shall truly dance.

-exerpt from THE PROPHET, Kahlil Gibran