Terri Windling's Blog, page 256

Tunes for a Monday Morning

Today's tunes are both from Scotland, and both are sung in the Gaelic language.

In the video above, Julie Fowlis performs a traditional Gaelic song, "Hùg Air A' Bhonaid Mhòir." Fowlis is a native Gaelic speaker, an amazing singer, and also a scholar of the social and cultural history of the Highlands and Western Isles. (She's from the Outer Hebrides herself.) This particular tune can be found on Songs from Cuilidh, but all of her CDs are equally good.

Below is Mànran, a Glasgow-based band that's been getting a lot of attention here -- created by six young musicians interested in promoting Gaelic-language music to a new generation. This performance was filmed on New Year's Eve, when they were the house band for the BBC ALBA Hogmanay show. I heard three of the band members interviewed recently, and they sounded sweet, sincere about their Gaelic-language mission, and also like they were having a lot of fun. They've got one single released so far (co-produced by the great Phil Cunningham), and an album is in the works.

The Moveable Feast

Just a quick one today to note that the conversation "on blogging as an art form" is spreading: from Rima (of The Hermitage) on John Barleycorn, to here at The Drawing Table (in yesterday's post, and the comments that followed), and now over to A Mermaid in the Attic in Australia. If you're interested in the subject of blogging, Christina has a new post up at the Mermaid that is well worth perusing....

Reflections on blogging...

 

Over on the John Barleycorn blog, Rima Staines discusses the art of blogging, and how she started, and why she started. It's a strange kind of art form, blogging; and the question of why reasonably sane people feel compelled to blog [that hideous word, I wish there was a better] is, for me, an intriguing one. It's got me to pondering why I blog myself...which I've actually done for quite a long time now if you count the years that Midori Snyder and I ran a blog for the Journal of Mythic Arts, although that was a good deal less personal than this one. And like Rima, it took me a while to find a comfortable "blogging voice" when I began The Drawing Board.

The thread of my Rima-stirred thoughts about blogging is all knotted up with a number of other things that I've been pondering lately – about art, and life, and energy, and "spoons" -- and out of this tangle there's something specific I want to unravel, but I'm going to have to tease it out slowly from the snarl of other threads, so please bear with me.

This is also going to be a more personal essay than the others I've posted here, touching on the rather intimate subject of living with chronic illness. And that's a subject I approach gingerly, for an essay about illness can be mistaken for a plea for sympathy ("Oh, poor, poor me!"), or as a means of defining oneself as part of an aggrieved minority ("Us sick people don't get no respect!") rather than what it actually is: a creative/intellectual attempt to understand the process of living with illness while simultaneously living as a creative artist. (I'm thinking in particular of some very misguided reviews Nancy Mairs received for Waist-high in the World, her sharp, insightful essays on life with MS.) So I hereby give notice that I am about to tread further than usual into this murky territory today...and perhaps in speaking of the personal, I can find my way to back to more general thoughts about living the Artist's Life; or, at very least, give voice to issues that others dealing with illness might find familiar, or useful.

First let me define my terms. I'm going to refer to the limited energy one has when dealing with a chronic illness in terms of "spoons" -- so if you haven't yet read Christine Miserandino's very useful "Spoon Theory" essay, it might be helpful to do so. And by the [hateful] term "blogging," I'll be referring specifically to the writing of individual, personal blogs (like Rima's blog, or this one) rather than other sorts of blogs: professional, commercial, multi-author, etc..

With Rima's words running through my head, I was walking in the woods with my dog earlier (where I ran, quite unexpectedly, into Brian Froud and his dog, but that's another story...), thinking about the "art of the blog," and why, after a somewhat trepidatious beginning, I find it so congenial. I'm in a different stage of my life and career than Rima, and thus my answer to the question "Why write a blog?" is bound to be a different one from hers, or any other young artist's. The answer that came to me suddenly as I trudged up the hill through the mud and leaves came from a thoroughly unexpected direction. It has to do with chronic illness and spoons and the thorny issue of communication.

Now, I can't speak for everyone with a chronic illness, and my own (which I prefer not to name; the specifics of it aren't important here) has its rhythms and quirks that may be slightly different from, say, diabetes, or HIV, or fibromyalgia, or chronic fatigue...but what many of us with differing health problems share is a constant need to juggle whatever spoons we have to hand on any given day. And for me, the simple act of communication is one that consistently threatens to empty my spoon drawer.

Perhaps it's because I communicate for a living, and therefore the spoons specifically shaped for that job are ones I particularly have to hoard in order to meet the daily demands of my work. All I know is that the simple act of a writing a letter to a friend, or answering an email, or (especially) picking up the phone are entirely beyond me when those spoons are used up – and they're precisely the spoons I tend to run out of first, due to the nature of my work.

This is an aspect of my life that constantly frustrates my dear, patient, long-suffering family members (back in the United States) and friends (both in the U.S. and here). I drop out of sight, I don't pick up the phone, emails drop into some kind of cosmic black hole. I'm warm and engaged and present on a good day, and retreat into mumbles and chilly distance on a bad one. Sometime I'm a reliable sister/niece/friend, and a regular part of others' daily lives...and sometimes I disappear for days, weeks, months on end with no warning at all. If I were a hermit by nature, none of this would be a problem, but I'm not -- I'm a person with a wide, deep circle of close relationships; an artist who thrives on connection and community; an outgoing woman whose natural rhythms are often disrupted by the over-riding rhythms of illness.

What has all this to do with blogging, you ask? It is this: Writing short pieces for a more-or-less daily blog is, for me, a means of communication, of maintaining vital connections: with friends, with colleagues in the publishing field, with the wider Mythic Arts community. Yes, it takes spoons, but not many of them (now that I'm comfortable enough with the form and technology that I can put up a daily post reasonably quickly) – and when compared to the number of spoons it would take to stay in frequent touch with the many people I know and love, to answer every email and return every call, those couple of spoons become negligible and well worth the cost. Blogging, for me, is my daily missive from the trenches of my creative life to the people, near and far, who make up my world. It's a form of round-robin letter to say: this is what I'm doing, this is what I'm thinking, I haven't disappeared. I may not be entirely well, but I'm still here. And if other people whom I've never personally met are reading these missives too, well then that's fine by me. I assume they're here because they also love books and folklore and mythic arts, and that means they're not really strangers, they are part of my wider community too.

Now here's where I'd like to see if I can make the leap from personal circumstance to something that might relate to other artists as well, beyond the small subgroup of folks also coping with illness or disability. It's almost always difficult for artists in any field (except, perhaps, for a very privileged few) to balance the time needed for creative work with all the other demands of life. The need to manage ones time and energy may be more extreme and urgent for the chronically ill, yet I know few writers or artists (heck, do I know any?) who don't wrestle with the details of work/life balance. If it's not medical issues taking up ones time, it might be children, or elderly relatives, or a day job, or community obligations, or all of these things at once. The sheer busyness of modern life can feel relentless and overwhelming...and that, in turn, conflicts with art's requirement for time, solitude, and periods of sustained, uninterrupted concentration.

I think that even if illness was suddenly, blessedly removed as a factor in my life, I would still be at this same point in my journey: having reached the years of middle age, and recognizing that time is not infinite, I feel compelled to turn inward and focus my time and attention on truly mastering my craft. The social gregariousness of youth is no longer possible, or desirable; there are only so many hours in the day, after all. And yet, the life- and art-sustaining web of connection begun in ones early years remains important even as one grows older, slower, and more protective of ones time. That, for me, is where blogging comes in. It maintains that web of connection.

Here's what blogging is to me: It's a modern form of the old Victorian custom of being "At Home" to visitors on a certain day of the week; it's an Open House during which friends and colleagues know they are welcome to stop by. I'm "At Home" each morning when I put up at post. Here, in the gossamer world of the 'Net, I throw my studio door open to friends and family and strangers alike. And each Comment posted is a calling card left behind by those who have crossed my doorstep.

But it's important to remember that the flip side of the Victorian "At Home" day is that it also provided boundaries -- for it was widely understood that visitors were not to drop by on other days of the week. Visitors could leave calling cards with the butler, but the Mistress of the house was not instantly available to them. Like every artist (and particularly artists deficient in health and energy), I too need large periods of time when I'm simply not available to others: when I'm working, or resting, or off at the doctor's, or re-charging my creative batteries, or working out thorny plot problems while roaming the countryside with the pup. In these days of speed and instant access, of Facebook and tweets and 8-year-olds with their own mobile phones, it's almost a revolutionary act to say: I'm not in to callers. You can't reach me now. And yet artists need this. We need to unplug. We need to spend time in the world of our imaginations, where the 'Net and mobile phones cannot go.

But here's what I find interesting: The very same technology that threatens to force constant communication upon us can also be the thing that allows us to create necessary boundaries. Blogging, for all its intimacy as an art form, is also an excellent boundary maker. Yes, we open up our lives on our blogs...but only this much, not that much, and each blogger decides where that line will be drawn. The blog is a controlled kind of publication. It doesn't provided instant access to its maker, unless the blog's author specifically wants it to. The open, generous space cultivated on a blog need not (indeed, probably should not) be duplicated in the physical world; for in the world, what a working artist truly needs is the equivalent of the butler at the door, politely turning callers away: The mistress is not 'At Home' today. She is working. I will tell her you called.

This, then, is why I write a blog: not for the reasons so many young artists do (as they build their careers and find their audience), but because, as an artist in my middle years, it helps resolve one of life's central conflicts: that both illness and art demand solitude, yet the heart requires communication and connection.

I am also a woman woefully short on spoons and at this point in life I have learned to accept it. (Okay, my husband would say that I am learning to accept it.) Calls will continue to go unanswered. Emails will routinely begin with the words: Please forgive me for taking so long to respond.... Friends will continue to worry when they haven't heard from me for a week, or a month. But these days, at least, they know they can always find me here at the Drawing Board...with fresh coffee brewing, Tilly at my side, and a pen or paintbrush in my hands.

In the physical world, my studio is my work space, not a social space, and a rather fierce butler stands scowling at the door. But here, in my online studio, I am "At Home." And everyone is welcome in.

The art in this post is by the Swedish painter Carl Larsson (1854-1919).

Coffee or tea...?

This morning, I recommend running on over to the "John Barleycorn" blog. Once you're there, pull up a chair and join my husband, Howard, and his comics partner, Rex, for a cup of coffee (or tea if you prefer) with the brilliant young artist/writer/bookmaker/animator/accordion-player Rima Staines. It's the first of a two-part "Around the Table With..." discussion, and the coffee is fresh and hot....

The Night Journey

Yesterday, Theodora Goss discussed my poem "The Night Journey" over on her writing blog, and I feel honored indeed. Thank you, Dora.

Change in the wind

Tilly and I climb the hill behind our house on a winter's morning.

Halfway up, we sit together and watch...

...the mist drifting white and ghostly through the green and rust of the valley below.

The pup is unusually quiet and still this morning, and so is the world around her.

We look across the hills of the village and out to the open moor beyond.

The air is still tastes of winter, but the snowdrops are up, and the daffodil tips, and birds now sing of the coming spring. I'm reminded of a picture I took of the snowdrops at this time last year, Tilly leaping among them in sheer delight....

Spring is coming. Not soon enough, but it's coming. Inside me, the sap is rising; ideas and art, stories and hope start to push their green shoots through the soil, through the cover of leaf mulch, and into the light of day.

Note to Tilly:

You are a dog. You are not a fox. You do not need to smell like a fox; you do not need to roll in fox poo. If you're ever in doubt on this issue, please refer to the chart above.

Signed,

Your loving family (as they collectively hold their noses)

On Your Desk

(Click on the image for a larger version.)

The two desktops in the picture above come from Leland Purvis in Portland, Oregon. Besides being one my favorite people, and married to another one of my favorite people, Leland is an amazing artist and creator of books published in the comics and YA fields. His publications include the "Vox" series, the "Pubo" series, Suspended in Language (with writer Jim Ottaviani), and the new "Resistance" graphic novel trilogy (with writer Carla Jablonski).

About the photo(s) above, Leland says: "Basement studios aren't ideal, but I seem to find myself in them again and again. There's a quality about being down and away from the world, sealed off from indications of time and weather, that allows for a focus otherwise more difficult to maintain. It isn't just about having a place to work, but a 'placeness' that provides conditions in which I can direct my attention, deliberately, repeatedly. I can spend hours below fostering worlds on paper with brushes and return to discover the surface changed and grown while I was away."

Oh boy, can I relate to that....

To see Leland's art and learn more about his books, visit his website and his blog, Purvision. I've also include a few sketches below, just to give you a taste....

 

Our next desk comes from an artist and writer who also has a strong interest in comics: Robin Berk in central Michagan. Robin (who is 8) lives with his parents, Ari Berk and Kristen McDermott, and a lively new kitten named Gwynneth. Both of his parents are writers, and his father also paints; creativity is the Family Business.

About the photo below, Robin says: "Well, I like to draw at my desk, that's what it's basically for. I like to draw fantasy pictures, science pictures, and science fiction pictures. Some of the pictures come from things I read, or stories I hear, like myths and legends."

"On my desk right now is a black hole picture; a comic book I am working on; a wand from my friend John Vickery who lives on Dartmoor; a three-eyed green monster I drew and cut out; lots of drawing supplies like pencils, markers, glue sticks, a stapler; and lots of paper. My desk is located in a corner of my dad's study, right in front of his desk [featured in this "On Your Desk" post on December 14th]. It's nice that our desks are facing each other because we can look at each other while we're writing or drawing.

"Here are three of my drawings (below): Medusa, A Feast For Two Rats, and The Gross-Guts Skeleton: "

"The skeleton hangs in our front hall," says Robin, "and his legs, fingers, neck and head are all jointed with paper fasteners so he can bend and move. He sort of guards the front door."

And no doubt does a good job of it too!

Our final work table of the day belongs to fiber artist and poet Karen Obermiller. ""I live in Otter Tail County, Minnesota," says Karen, "where the prairie meets the forest. I live in a tiny one bedroom apartment for now,  and I've limiting my art work to knitting hats. Even so, the yarn and finished work are creeping forward into corners and over couches like spring unfurling. It's a wilderness.

"The photograph (below) shows my workspace on a fairly tidy day. If you look carefully, the book at the bottom of the pile is The Wood Wife, which I'm just starting."

To view (or purchase) Karen's rather fabulous hats, please visit her Etsy shop, Pseko Designs. "I've also just shyly begun a new blog," she says, which you can visit here.

More desks to come....

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All readers of this blog are welcome to contribute to the "On Your Desk" series. You'll find more information (and the address where you should send your photo) in the first post of the series.

A Tilly Interlude

Small dog, big tree.

Small dog, bigger tree.

The "spring" in a Springador (lab & springer spaniel cross) pup.

Mud covered and heading for home.

Clean again and back in the studio, where sometimes the sofa is ever so much nicer than ones own bed on the floor.

Today's reading recommendation: "Value Yourself" by Theodora Goss, which is important for writers and artists. And for everyone else too.

On Your Desk

Today's desks come from two women whose work I absolutely adore, one an artist in New England and the other a writer in the American Midwest.

First the artist: Anna Brahms is a master doll and puppet maker in western Massachusetts. She lives in a cozy old house by a river and is inspired by fairy tales, nature spirits, and the beauty of the land around her. Anna studied art at the University of Jerusalem and spent two years performing with a traveling puppet theater troupe before turning her hand to making puppets and dolls -- living and working first in Jerusalem and Paris, then settling in the U.S. in 1981. Her beautiful art has been exhibited extensively across the U.S. and Europe, and has been displayed in Christmas windows at Tiffany and Saks Fifth Avenue in New York, in the Muse'e des Arts Decoratifs in the Louvre in Paris, and numerous other places.

Anna's desktop can be seen in the two photographs above and in the next photograph below. "I too love seeing artists' work spaces," she says; "it reveals so much about the artistic process. As a puppet and doll maker, my specialty is characters from fairy tales, and all sorts of mischievous nature spirits, faeries and such, so my work space is always crowded with lots of stuff important to this kind of work. Both puppet and doll making involves all sorts of crafts, such as sewing, painting, sculpting, and wig making,  so I am always busy doing something, even on those days when I don't feel especially inspired.

"My table is a mess," Anna admits. "My whole studio is that way. But being a Virgo, there is an order to my mess! At least, I usually know where to find things...."

The next two pictures are examples of Anna's work: scenes from "Cinderella" and "Sleeping Beauty" respectively. There's more -- oh, so much more -- on her website, which is absolutely filled with marvels to inspire you, delight you, and touch your heart.

The next desk belongs to Pamela Dean in Minneapolis, the author of some of my very favorite fantasy novels (Tam Lin, The Secret Country Trilogy, The Dubious Hills, and Juniper, Gentian, and Rosemary), and a handful of splendid short stories too (of which "Owlswater," published in Jane Yolen's anthology Xanadu in 1993, still haunts me all these years later).

"My pictures will look dreadfully scruffy on your beautiful blog,"  writes Pamela, "but I love the 'On Your Desk' series so much I wanted to contribute to it." Okay, perhaps writers' desk aren't usually as colorful as a typical artist's desk, crowded with paints and exotic-looking tools -- but I think that's what gives the magic conjured by writers a glamour of its own: the mysterious process in which whole worlds are created and characters brought vividly to life by the simple means of words upon a white page or computer screen.

Jane Yolen once wrote: "I have always been jealous of artists. The smell of the studio, the names of the various tools, the look of a half-finished canvas all shout of creation. What do writers have in comparison? Only the flat paper, the clacketing of the typewriter or the scrape of a pen across a yellow page. And then, when the finished piece is presented, there is a small wonder on one hand, a manuscript smudged with erasures or crossed out lines on the other. The impact of the painting is immediate, the manuscript must unfold slowly through time."

Ah, but then there's the book in the end...that beautiful object that many of us still love even in this age of the Kindle. And here, below, is the workspace of a woman whose books are completely enchanting:

"This is my immediate work area. The White Flower Farm catalog is a valuable tool of research, and the Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer CDs are the music I write to at the moment."

"These are the windows I face when I work.  The quilt was made for me by my grandmother after Ace Books put forty-one unicorns on the cover of The Secret Country."

"This the only bookshelf I could get at to photograph. A lot of these reference books are being replaced by the Internet, but sometimes I still prefer to open an actual book."

"And finally, the cat on the printer." (Yes, another workspace with its animal Muse.)

For more information on Pamela and her books, please visit her website/blog, Love and Rhetoric Without the Bood.

And I'll have more desks for you later this week....