Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 56

Tequila, a Doll, some Dishes: this week's drawings

The Empty Bottle. 9" x 6", fountain pen on paper.

Mexico has been much on my mind lately. In Washington, we have Obama making a bold executive order about immigration. In Mexico, continuing violence by the drug gangs, and massive public protests. Last night's anti-government-corruption demonstrations in Mexico City were peaceful, but I am worried: I've come to care a lot about this country and it people. The drawing wasn't a result of conscious thinking. For some reason we've kept this thick glass bottle that we bought in the Mexico City airport, intrigued by its name and design. Awareness of the Mexican revolution is still everywhere: in the street and building and monument names, in popular culture, in the murals. Spiraling violence, government corruption and increasing revelations of government complicity with the drug cartels have created increasing frustration and anger. After the recent killings of protesting students in Guerrero state, apparently handed over to a gang by the mayor of a town and his wife, who had ties to the group, public outcry has risen to its highest in recent memory. I'm the last person to condone violent revolution, or violence of any kind, but I greatly admire the spirit of the Mexican people and their tradition of protest, and I share their outrage. This week the image on this bottle (the paired guns, much larger, are also deeply impressed in the glass on the back) seemed ominously appropriate : the Mexican revolution was intended to give power back to the people, and they remember that. Today I saw a Mexican proverb posted on social media: "They tried to bury us. They didn't know we were seeds." How much we, in this rich country (where we buy the drugs and refuse their citizens entry) have forgotten.

Dish Drainer. 9" x 6", blue fountain pen on paper.

A very fast drawing made after dinner one night, intrigued by all the shapes and the complexity of how they fit together. This image would easily lend itself to abstraction, but I can't say that abstraction interests me very much these days. I seem to be drawn toward the concrete and the everyday.

Old doll in my Studio. Grey ink and wash on paper, 9" x 12".

I've had this doll ever since I can remember. She was given to me by a close friend of my grandmother's, a single woman who lived in New York City and traveled a good deal. I also have a small heart-shaped box with the same yarn embroidery that must have come from her as well, but I've never known what country's folkloric costume she is wearing. I've always thought she was from eastern Europe - maybe Hungary - does anyone know? Her dress is red with yellow and green embroidery and colored ribbons, and she wears a lace chemise and large gold earrings, and a long red headscarf. Her enigmatic, sideways glance intrigues me, and I'm hoping to explore other ways to use her more expressively in still life compositions.

Where are these drawings going? I don't know. Maybe toward paintings, maybe toward some larger charcoals where the relationships between objects are more developed. I figure eventually they'll tell me themselves. Right now, they are practice, and exploration.

Speaking Truth to Power

Ursula LeGuin made this speech last night at the National Book Awards, where she was honored. A wise woman who has looked at the way "powers and principalities" work for most of her life, LeGuin spoke about both the need for writers who can envision a different and better reality, and about the current dangers of writing-as-commodity. Her speech was not long, but wisdom doesn't need many words. She said, in part:

I think hard times are coming when we will be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now and can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine some real grounds for hope. We will need writers who can remember freedom. Poets, visionaries—the realists of a larger reality.

and

Books, you know, they’re not just commodities. The profit motive often is in conflict with the aims of art. We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art—the art of words.

--

I've been talking about these things -- the role of the writer in current affairs -- recently with my friends T.C. and Parmanu, and I'm ashamed to admit that my attitude has been more discouraged and even cynical than it should be. In the face of the powers "we the people" are confronting today, it is very hard to see how the voices of writers and artists can create real change. The deteriorating, intractable situation in the Middle East, in particular, along with recent elections and the political leadership in much of the western world, have made me feel even less empowered than usual. But I should know better: that's not the point, as I know deep down, and have said before. Art needs to express the truth, but it also needs to point toward something better: to keep hope alive. The Russian and Eastern European poets who've always inspired me knew this very well; so have many of the writers and artists of Latin America. Emerging voices of women and oppressed minorities from around the world are beginning to be heard through literature, art, photography -- but what about here, in North America?

Part of the problem for me, I've come to realize, is being a white privileged American: who wants to listen to us? And what, exactly, do we have to say? But here is LeGuin, instantly making that point, simply telling the truth not with bombast, but with the quiet authority gained not only through her long career, but her long human life observing the ways of the world. As the western world changes in so many ways for the worse, it's incumbent on those of us who've seen that change to speak about it, to express what we are observing, and what's in danger. But I'm not convinced this response has to be done in a negative or overtly critical way; it's also possible to write or make art that simply shows a different reality, a different way of being. I know I've been marking time, a bit, in my own work -- and that's OK, we need to do that sometimes. But eventually, hopefully, we find the way to move forward and express something true and meaningful. I'm grateful for my younger writer-friends who are more idealistic, perhaps, and push me to look beyond my own discouragement -- to dig deeper.

Last night I read a few short stories by the Chinese dissident writer and painter Gao Xingjian. I've never read his work, though he won the Nobel in 2000. Because of his criticism of the government, everything he has written is banned in China; he lives in Paris and is now 74 years old. The stories I read, from his collection "Buying a Fishing Rod for my Grandfather," were a revelation. In just a few words, he conveys everything he wants to say: the story of a newlywed couple climbing up a hill to see a rural temple becomes weighted with enormous anxiety that we realize is the result of his past years in "reeducation" farm work - something Gao himself endured. But this is conveyed in a simple vignette, mainly through dialogue.

It's in almost direct contrast to the lengthy, description-rich work of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I've just read finished the massive recent biography of Marquez, and re-read Love in the Time of Cholera and am halfway through a re-reading of One Hundred Years of Solitude:a book filled with protest but also so rich with humanity and truth abotu power that it spoke not only to a whole continent, but to human beings everywhere.

It's not given to most of us to be like these three writers, but we all have our part to play. I know that as an artist, a publisher, and a person, I can hide my light under a bushel, or sell out to commerce, or continually nurture the light shining within myself, for my sake and that of others. It's really my choice.

But what do you think? Do you think art can make a difference?

Back and Front

Well, I've been piecing up a storm over here. A quiet weekend (I didn't have to sing on Sunday) was just what was needed.

The top was finished by Sunday evening, yesterday I figured out and cut the pieces for the back, and by noon today I had finished the piecing of the back, which used up most of the fabric I had left. I'm planning to use a flannel sheet inside, and will buy that soon and then get started on the quilting; the plan is to quilt it by hand, which I like doing (though I'm not an expert by any means,) and I prefer the way it looks to machine-quilting, but it does take a long time. The rows will NOT be close together!

I took a number of shortcuts: this is not a quilt-contest sort of project (nor are any of my textile projects, for that matter.) But it will be on a bed this winter and being used, rather than sitting unfinished in a box, and that's great, especially since the first snow has fallen in Montreal and we woke this morning to yesterday's icy slush, now frozen hard. When winter finally arrives, it sure settles in to stay.

Related articles

Repetition

Mint tea and sheesha: this week's drawings

On Thursday evening, after an appointment at the Jewish Hospital in Cote-des-Neiges, J. and I found ourselves wanting something to eat rather than driving home in the rush hour traffic. We entered a small Moroccan restaurant and sheesha bar -- not a usual place for us -- where we lounged on cushioned banquettes, ate delicious kefta and poulet grillades, drank mink tea sent to our table by the observant manager, and shared a sheesha for two hours amid the Arab men and a few women who were talking, smoking the sweet apple-soaked tobacco, drinking coffee, playing with their phones and computers, and casting an occasional eye at the Arab music videos on big screens. It was uncharacteristic for us, and deeply relaxing, and we thought about this cold city and mixed-up neighborhood where, as in old Damascus or Jerusalem, the Hassids and less conservative Jews and Arabs and Christians actually manage to live together in peace.

These are the last flowers that were blooming in a pot on our terrace, and I don't even know what they are - some sort of salvia, maybe? They're tiny and purple. I cut the last of them and brought them inside one evening earlier this week. Yesterday we saw the first snow flurries, so it won't be long.

And here's a jar of comb honey, some tea, and some almonds. I guess I just wanted to make things hard for myself - drawing thick honey with wax in it, or a cup of tea, using a fountain pen, is not exactly easy! Some kind of wonky circles here, but I like the drawing anyway.

I'm not interested at all in making illustrations, or worrying about accuracy: as a commercial artist and graphic designer I've done enough of that for one lifetime. What I'm after in these drawings is the impression of things, a feeling, and an interesting arrangement of shapes -- and the ability to capture that quickly and freshly, without making a drawing that looks labored or fussy. A true sketch. Looking back through my sketchbooks I can see a lot of progress since I started doing this regularly, a few years ago, as well as a lot of experimenting with different media and styles. Nothing feels "fixed" (and I hope that persists), except that the practice is becoming part of my life; I enjoy it, I'm happy when a drawing works out well, and I don't get upset when they don't. And I like having this different sort of record of my life. Drawings bring places, people, events and emotions back to me in a way that a photograph can't, probably because of the time spent doing them: there's an awareness of yourself as part of a particular scene that persists along with the marks that your hand makes on the paper. Anyway -- it's been worth the effort and a lot of bad drawings to get to a point where it feels like fun.

Related articles

What's going on here?
Madeleines
Folk art and fruit

Repetition

In my feed reader, the blogs I visit regularly are grouped under categories. Along with the literary and personal blogs I've always read, I've got categories for Art, for Style, and for Textiles and Crafts. When I've been working too hard and doing a lot of things for other people, I've noticed that I tend to spend more time looking at these: admiring people's ingenuity and creativity, fantasizing about projects, following links to fabrics, patterns, materials. It's one of my particular forms of escapism.

Recently a friend linked to a UK quilter's site, issabellathecat, and I was immediately attracted to the bright, vibrant colors -- like Mexico! -- and no wonder, it's getting pretty grey here in Montreal! Quilting, I thought, yes, that would be just the ticket: repetitive, soothing, not too demanding on my eyes or my head. Of course, it would be fun to buy a whole bunch of new fabric, but I thought maybe I ought to pull out my quilting bin and see what was in there. I laid out a bunch of uncut fabrics that I'd collected, and considered those, and then I unfolded this partially-finished quilt top, started at least twenty-five years ago. (Like Isabella, Manon was immediately "helpful.")

It would make the most sense to just finish this nice quilt, wouldn't it? Maybe I will, and maybe I won't. I did iron it, and lay it out on the floor:

My design and color sense has changed and gotten a lot bolder since I made the first blocks, the small blue ones. The last time I worked on it, maybe ten years ago, I added the strip along one side with the larger triangles, and started to think about how to complete the top asymmetrically. There's plenty of fabric to do it, it's just a question of whether I really want to, since these colors and this type of design aren't quite what I had in mind, although I still like them a lot. Or it could quite quickly become a large crib quilt for a new baby, rather than growing enough to fit our own bed.

The green fabric was an old dress of mine from the 1970s; the bodice is still in the bag with the quilt pieces, while the skirt has been cut up. Funny, all the associations and places this quilt top brought back: the art/sewing room in my old house; the small but special fabric store in Norwich, Vermont where I used to shop; the place I bought my first rotary cutter; the wall hanging I made from a similar triangular design, using some of these same blue fabrics, after my grandfather died. I thought about how much I used to sew, and how little I do now, but it wasn't with regret, just noting the fact. Life moves along and our priorities change, as well as how we allot our time. Twenty-five years ago, I had lots of time in which I sewed and knitted and grew my own food; now I live in a city, do different things with the same basic desires; our patterns have changed. That's fine. But it's also good to check back and notice why I had the urge to do something like this. Maybe I need to slow down, work on something repetitive and calming, without a deadline, something that's just for our home, for keeping warm, for the nest that we need as winter approaches. And maybe what I need to do is to buy some bright colors and make something completely different! It's actually OK, I've learned, not to finish certain things, but just listen to them.

Palm

Palm and Live Oaks, Florida. Watercolor on Arches cold press, 10" x 14".

During the past few days I've been working on this watercolor painting, a further exploration of the palms I sketched while in Florida. I spent some time looking at John Singer Sargent's wonderful paintings of that same place, and gleaned a lot from studying his paintings of palmettos and reading the technical notes on his work in the catalog from the recent show in Brooklyn/Boston. Still, we have to forge our own way, and in any subsequent paintings I'd let go even more.

In this painting I'm happy about the way the light comes through the  leaves, and especially with the suggestion of Spanish moss hanging from the branches: that's just wiping through wet paint with the side of my hand.

 

 

Folk art and fruit

Fruit in a wooden bowl with Mexican kitchen retablo. Fountain pen on paper, 6" x 8.5". 11/6/2014.

The only story behind this drawing is that we found the little folk art retablo at the Saturday craft market in San Angel. The craftswoman had a large display of these shadow boxes hanging in her booth. The wooden exteriors were painted in bright colors - ours is a sunny yellow - and inside, on three shelves, were miniature kitchen objects found in traditional Mexican kitchens, all made of the same materials as in real life. The pots are real ceramic, the straw brushes real straw, baskets are made of woven palm leaf..well, OK, the stacks of tortillas aren't real corn! We were completely captivated and had to bring one home: the only hard part was choosing which one.

What's going on here?

Still life with spice grinder, embroidered cloth, and two walnuts. pen on paper. November 4, 2014.

I sat down after dinner, wanting to draw a little, but feeling tired from a long day and rather uninspired. Looking around for some objects to arrange, this small brass spice grinder caught my eye. I felt it needed something soft with it, a cloth, but nothing too elaborate. I pulled out a simple embroidered white linen napkin. Now, what else? The bowl of nuts on the sideboard offered two wrinkly but substantial walnuts.

For some reason, this subject or my mood didn't lend themselves to the simple line drawings I've been doing lately, and I found myself working more methodically, with more detail, maybe because I was tired and not feeling very playful or light. As a result, it's not a very good drawing, but the artistic merit isn't what interests me about it.

It wasn't until this morning that I realized this is actually a portrait of my parents in-law: the solid brass spice grinder with its Arabic inscription reminding me of my father-in-law; the fine, delicate cloth with Armenian embroidery is one of a set that I received from my mother-in-law, and the two walnuts -- separate, tightly enclosed in their shells, but definitely related and creating a bridge between the other objects -- are a comment on their personalities and their relationship. The walnuts are the most interesting choice here, to me, since their symbolism didn't occur to me at all at the time.

It doesn't really matter if we're working realistically or abstractly, or in whatever medium: the subconscious will be involved if we are at all open to allowing it. I've been thinking a lot about the family I married into, especially after being in Florida, and it's fascinating to see how this was expressed without my thinking about it intellectually, just by allowing myself to follow out spontaneous instincts in the choosing and arranging of some objects. Probably, being somewhat fatigued and aimless actually helped with that. Jung believed in this kind of exploration and wrote a lot about it, art therapy uses these principles, but I'm more apt to think about my dreams, or to notice what comes up in meditation, than to use drawing or art as a way of understanding my own subconscious mind.

Learning from a Lizard

Honeypot, teabag, and carved lizard from Oaxaca. pen on paper, Nov 1 2014.

Those little Florida lizards must have gotten under my skin. Without really making a conscious connection, I put together this little still life the other night, remembering a carved and painted wooden lizard from Oaxaca we had bought in Mexico. (He's actually red and green with white dots.)

It feels good to be sketching a little bit again. Between Jonathan's book and a lot of professional work this fall, I feel like I've completely lost momentum for my own writing and artwork. That's OK -- this is the way my life has always been, doing creative work in intense bursts -- but I'm anxious to get back to it. I came back from Florida with some ideas I want to pursue, and the refreshed and rearranged studio is also an encouragement. Sketching every day is such an important practice: like sitting down at the piano for fifteen minutes, even when one can't actually work intently on a piece of music, it's a matter not only of keeping your hand in, but a reminder that this is an important part of yourself, not to be neglected or forgotten. Creativity isn't like exercise or flossing or all those things we do because we "should" or because they're "good" for us; it's more like breathing. When I'm away from my creative pursuits for too long, I'm away from myself, at my peril. The result is far less important than the doing, and over time, even the simplest and seemingly most insignificant efforts accumulate into something that can be seen and felt.

For that reason, keeping a sketchbook has become important to me, the same way a diary used to be. My blog has replaced, for the most part, my diary, but my correspondence with certain friends also provides a figuring-out-of-things function that seems to matter even if I rarely go back and re-read earlier letters. I have less need or desire now to create a record, but writing and sketching provide signposts of where I was, both in physical actuality and in my head, and they somehow organize my thinking and help me to understand myself.

It makes me immeasurably happy when I hear from readers that they've been encouraged to draw or write or take up some other creative pursuit again.

Music, on the other hand, is different: like the other arts for me, it's a continual personal challenge and emotional expression; but music is also both personal solace and intentional relationship and teamwork: feeling oneself as part of an ensemble, contributing one's best effort, and giving to others - the audience - in a very direct way. It's the most direct thread I can trace back through my life, all the way to my earliest memories. I can't draw it, and I can barely find words to write about it.

What, in your life, is like that? For I'm sure, if you look deeply, there is something.

Yesterday, we celebrated All Saint's Day, and there were two baptisms. The choir sang the offertory hymn - Ralph Vaughn Williams' magnificent "For All the Saints" - in front of the chancel steps, and this gave us a connection with the congregation we don't usually have. As we sang, I looked out at one set of new parents with their beautiful little daughter in her christening gown. They weren't usual parishioners, and they didn't sing, but they looked happy and a bit bemused by the gloriousness of the music; they smiled back at me. And I looked at a very old man in a front pew, someone who is always there, and who's spent his life in service to others, now unable to stand, but his lips forming all the words of the hymn he knew by heart. New lives, middle lives, old lives: all the saints.

Scary Montreal

Complete with a ghost in the window. Happy Halloween, everyone!

We'll be celebrating quietly at home (no kids ever come to our condo -- I miss them) after a quick trip this afternoon to the market where we might get a few treats. So that's All Hallow's Eve.

On All Saints' Day, celebrated liturgically a day late, this Sunday, we've got some special music to sing: a wonderful Mendelssohn mass in the morning, and the Fauré Requiem in the afternoon, with a string quintet and organ. You can listen to that on the radio at 4:00 pm EST (daylight savings time ends this weekend!) streaming live on Radio Ville-Marie, or, if you're in Montreal, come to Christ Church Cathedral - it's free. I'm really looking forward to it.