Destiny Allison's Blog, page 24

Celebration Sale

In celebration of two events happening in the next two weeks– my birthday and my wedding — I am putting the ebook version of Shaping Destiny on sale through June 3. During this happy time, the ebook is priced at $2.99. Thanks for joining me on this incredible journey!

Click here if you want to check it out.

Talking About Art Now

I spent today in a university classroom.  This is not my natural habitat.  In fact, I was so out of place I might as well have been a rattlesnake on a New York City sidewalk.  I was doing a friend a favor by serving as part of a professional “panel” chosen to help students defend their propositions on “Talking About Art Now.”  

The class, from what I could tell, had focused on art criticism but had covered a lot of ground.  The student propositions were wide and varied, ranging from critique being the most important validation of art to the role China is playing in shaping the art market. 

I was my usual self –  opinionated and passionate.  I do not really belong in the quiet halls of academia where objectivity, analysis, and intellect reign supreme.  No, I belong in the gutters of chaotic materials, memories and dreams.  I live in the mud-pie magic of childhood jubilance, the anguished mayhem of decision making in an atmosphere bereft of rules, and the always yearning for something true.  In my studio, or in front of a blank screen on my computer, there is seldom solid ground. 

I remember a literature class I once took where the professor led our class through an analytical dissection of a work by some well known poet.  I followed her lecture and participated in the discussion on rhythm, use of metaphor and simile, and the context of time and place, but in my head I was screaming, “It’s a poem!  Just feel it!  Let it be!”  Listening to the dissection of that poem was like watching an autopsy of a living thing, a puppy under a knife.  No, I do not belong in classrooms.    

Today was a little different.  I wasn’t there as a student, though I learned some things.  I didn’t really care what people thought of my opinions, and I was enchanted by the young women in the class.  Some were savvy and articulate.  Some were passionate and committed.  One seemed to have recently climbed out of bed.  They had pushed themselves for this assignment and their frustration and excitement were contagious.  My friend, the adjunct for whom I had come, appeared to have been an excellent teacher. 

Yet at the end, on this last day of what must have been an intense and heated semester, there was no consensus, no qualifying absolute about how to talk about art now.  In this post modern world, where truth doesn’t exist, concept is more important than perception, and form has transcended line and plane, the traditional vocabulary for determining artistic merit is seemingly obsolete.  

Everyone in the class had their own opinion.  There was no text book conclusion.  I silently applauded my friend for teaching her students that the questions are always more important then the answers.   Still, I found it ironic that “talking about art now” seems more subjective than it has ever been.  Is this a good thing?  Or are we collectively “dumbing down?”  Are independent authors and artists the barbarians at the gate, or are we righteously revolting against oppressive tyranny?  How do we set the bar, or should there be one?  I welcome your thoughts.

Why is it I never have a camera when I need one?

On Sunday, we took the backroads home.  We drove up from Tucson, through winding hills in high heat, our little car working hard to top the mountains and mesas.  In the desert, there were yellow flowers, blooming cactus, and greens in every shade.  Juxtaposed against the sandstone variations and the deep blue of the sky, the colors were striking.

We didn’t talk much.  Too many days of busy left us quiet in our own minds as we took in the landscape and the silence.  The desert is a good place to disappear inside yourself.

As the landscape changed, we switched positions and my love fell asleep.  So I drove through miles and miles of land interrupted only by endless strings of barbed wire.  Soft, undulating grass hils, blackened occasionally by lava rock and minerals, were soft yellow against a sky readying itself for a storm.  There were no other cars, no other people.  It was like driving into a painting, the landscape frozen in a muted pallet of gray and ochre.

Like art, the land is also, to quote John Updike, breathing room for the soul.  At the reading and book signing event at the art gallery in Tubac, I gave everything.  It was energizing, exciting, and gratifying.  But after, I was a bit of a wreck.  Driving home along those beautiful back roads filled me back up, and opened again the wealth of possibilities.  I just wish I had remembered to bring a camera so I could share with you the wide vistas, the silent roads.

 

Blue Highways

I just finished reading Blue Highways, by William Least Heat-Moon It was beautiful.  Man in search of himself without a place to start.  Man in search of himself on the road.  Man in search of himself at journey’s end.  A familiar story. 

Why is it we are always taught we are going to get somewhere and that  the journey will end?  The author’s journey was a peaceful thing, tying together our common threads and our individuality in a way that made me feel not so alone.   I loved the people he met, the rain on his windshield, the taste of fresh fish, and the holding onto history as the vehicle through which we arrive at our future.  I loved more the metaphor of his small roads.  We think our lives are along the big highways, our achievements and milestones the things we celebrate and commemorate.  But really, it is the blue highways of our lives — the small twisted roads, the roads that end and force us to turn around, the hitchhikers and creeks we happen upon without intention that are the fabric of who we are and where we are going.  This book is about the process and the journey of self and it is well worth reading.

Though it was Sunday, I was working. Despite the light b...

Though it was Sunday, I was working.  Despite the light breeze, warm sun, and fledgling green on the trees, I was tucked away in the cool, quiet privacy of my gallery after hours.  When the phone rang, I was surprised. Not many people call the gallery on a Sunday.

The caller was my son.  He wanted to tell my why he got arrested at an art gallery in Aspen this weekend.  He was laughing, pleased by his own sense of irony.  After a few drinks with friends, he walked the streets, killing time until his girlfriend arrived to meet him.  He saw lights on at an art gallery that was still open, and went in to look at the work.

As it happens, the work was good.  He purused the gallery until something caught his eye.  It was a sky blue painting with crystal drops that took his breath away.  He fell in love.  He espoused. He gestured.  He stared.  He walked away and came back.  He called me.  He called his friends to come over and see the work. Fixated on the work, he was passionate and excited.  Unfortunately, he was dressed in an old A-shirt, baggy shorts and a backwards baseball cap.  He is 6'2.  Though he is gorgeous and articulate, he was also drunk.

The sales associate didn't know what to do with his passion.  Or his size.  Or his intoxication.  So she called the police.  He left the gallery and the police picked him up on the sidewalk.  The police report indicates that the sales associate didn't think he was a serious buyer and felt threatened by his presence.

When he called me on Sunday, he said, "There was something about this painting mom.  I can't even tell you what it was, but it grabbed me.  It was amazing.  Have you ever felt that way about a piece of art?  Do you know what I'm saying?"

I am not sure where the story lies in this.  Is it about a 22 year old man who fell in love with art?  Is it the stereotyping of a young man in sloppy clothing?  Is it that art is reserved for the wealthy?  Is it in the artwork itself?  It is probably in all of these, but the story is his to tell.

For me, I am proud of him, and sharing his laughter.  I think it is almost great that he was arrested for loving a piece of art, and I had to smile when I replied to his question, "I do understand sweetheart.  I do."

 

On Being a New Author

An editor at The Flaneur recently asked me to write an article on being a new author.  Wow.  The parameters are huge.  

Should I write about what it feels like to finally have the book in the world?  How could I write about that?  10 years in the making, 5 professional edits, still finding things I wish I had said better, and I am not, finally, at peace – though perhaps this is a flaw in my character. 

Should I write about the marketing process?  Now, after so many years of being a big fish in a small pond, I find myself swimming upstream against a strong current and competing with the likes of Zombies and Vampires for a small sliver of market share. 

Should I write about the moments, waking softly from a night of turbulent dreams, when I think about the one young woman whose life I might change?  Or, conversely, should I write about the waking nightmares, where my book vanishes into obscurity before anyone ever reads it in its entirety? 

What is it like to be a newly published author?  It is sheer hell.  I track every hit, ponder deeply every sale, shout my name and my book into the vast void of internet and social media while I pray — and contemplate consecrating dead animals — in the hope that someone I do not know will read this book and like it.  

Truthfully, my new book, Shaping Destiny: A quest for meaning in art and life, is the most honest I have ever been with the world.  I am expecting to get flayed.  I am expecting those intellectual enough to understand the references I make and the thread I follow, to destroy me for feeling.  I am expecting those who live by emotion to flay me for being too intellectual.  I am terrified that this time, as opposed to the dozens of solo art shows where my blood and guts are visible for all to see, I will get eaten.  

There is no joy in being a new author.  I imagine there is joy in being a seasoned author, as there must be joy (I remember it vaguely) in aspiring to be an author.  Being a new author means doing everything a serious artist loathes – marketing, smiling kindly and trying to hide the spark in your eyes when someone says they are reading your work.  It means begging for the reviews, posting listings and info on sites you have never heard of and are, occasionally, ashamed to be listed on, and it means hours every day checking stats, social media, and review possibilities while always remaining gracious.  New authors should be Southern women, not artists.  I am not sure artists have the stomach for it.  

Still, I do it all.  I smile.  I wait.  I submit.  And through it, I pray.  Here is my mantra:  Thank you for your gifts.  My hands are yours.  Let the book reach one woman searching for herself.  Let it reach one artist who wants to go further than technique.  Help me have the patience.  Help me have the grace.  Let this book succeed.

Book Launch Video

For those of you who are interested but were not able to attend the book launch of Shaping Destiny, here is a video of the event.

I am deeply grateful to Ted Orland, Collected Works Bookstore, and the amazing audience.  This was a night I will never forget.

The books are now available at Collected Works and on Amazon.com

Off and Running

Wow.  What a night.  More than 125 people showed up for the launch of Shaping Destiny.  Ted Orland was generous, kind and funny.  It took everything I had not to cry after listening to his introduction and looking out at the audience from the stage.  

I read from Chapter 9 of the book.  Then Ted and I talked some about the creative process, self-publishing, and the intellectual components of the book.  Finally, we took questions from the audience.   It was a very, very powerful evening and I am so grateful for the support.

Collected Works Bookstore said it was the biggest book event they have ever had and we sold enough books to get the ball rolling.  Now, only 999,922 to go to hit the 1 million sold mark!!!  Well, you can't blame me for dreaming.

In actuality, now comes the really hard part — letting the world know the book exists.  I will be speaking locally over the next month.  In April, I will be appearing in Tubac, Az.  In May, I am trying to set up an appearance in the Colorado Springs area. 

For those of you not able to be at the launch, I will be posting a video of it in a few hours.

The View From The Studio Door

I am currently re-reading The View from the Studio Door, by Ted Orland.  I find myself referencing this book all the time in conversations with artists and community members.  The book sums up so many of the ideas and thoughts I have had over the last several years about the relevance of artistic communities, the importance of making art, and the value of art as an intrinsic componet of a healthy community. 

Here's what Ted has said about his book:

"In The View From The Studio Door I've tried to confront many broader issues that stand to either side of that artistic moment of truth. Issues like:

What are we really doing when we make art?
For that matter, what is art, anyway?
Is there art after graduation?
How do we find our place in the artistic community?

These are questions that count, because when it comes to artmaking, theory & practice are always intertwined. Simply put, this is a book of practical philosophy – written by, and for, working artists."

At La Tienda, we are working hard to build a community that is rich, vibrant and alive.  We are committed to supporting artists as much as we support the work they producie.  For me, Ted's book is invaluable.  I think The View from the Studio Door is a must read for anyone trying to survive as a working artist today.  It will not tell you how to make money.  It will not teach you how to make great art.  Instead, this book is like a really good friend — one you turn to over and over for support, comfort, challenge and laughter.   

I am so looking forward to getting to know Ted in person next weekend.  There are two events you can attend.  The first is the book launch for Shaping Destiny at Collected Works Bookstore on Friday.  The second is at La Tienda on Saturday night after the opening in The Exhibit Space.  If he is anything like his writing, it is going to be a wonderful experience.  Check out Ted's books here:  http://www.tedorland.com/books/view.html

Dedicated to Rush Limbaugh

This is an excerpt from Chapter 9 of Shaping Destiny.  I truly hope we do everything we can to ensure that we retain control of our bodies.

Rage consumed me like a virus.  A sneeze – at first, hardly noticeable – got bigger and more intense until it became a cough deep in my chest that tore at my lungs, spewed bile into my mouth, and interfered with my sleep at night.  Like at my father's grave – and with the cigarettes I smoked incessantly – I had believed that smoke was essence and ashes were waste and I was the catalyst through which the metamorphosis of cigarette to smoke and ashes could occur.  I wanted to breathe unimpeded, without the smoke or the ashes, but I did not know where to find my essence without them.

My children and I lived in a home that was old, broken down and far too big for us.  The roof had been leaking for years and parts of the floor had dry rot.  The water came through old, iron pipes and smelled of sulfur.  There were three enormous fireplaces.  The kids could stand in them and for the first time there was no question about how Santa Claus would fit through the chimney.  The ceilings were ornate and the moldings were hand-carved.  The heater didn't work and the children, wrapped in blankets, huddled close to the fire and got ashes on their toes.  We danced to the music of Janice Joplin, Ella Fitzgerald, Ray Charles, and Counting Crows.  In the evenings after dinner, my sleepy children leaned softly against each other on the couch, listening in silence as I read to them.  And each evening, they tried to stay awake so the story would go on and they would not have to crawl into cold beds where mice droppings often fell through the latillo ceilings above them.

I was pregnant.  At first, I thought it was the stomach flu and ignored it, hoping it would go away.  It did not.  Geoff, the man I was dating, had never experienced the possibility of fatherhood.  He was jubilant.  He thought I would keep the baby and we would live together, raising his child and making art like some far-out, early seventies song.  He was wrong.  I would not have another child.  I could barely support the children I already had.  I would have to work all the time or not work at all.  I would be condemned to living with mice and dripping ceilings for too long.  I would not have another child and be bound by circumstance to a man for whom I had no love.

For the first time in many years, I was free to make my own decisions.  I had ideas and possibilities for a different kind of life.  I was going to live without conflict.  I was not going to straddle myself between art and family anymore.  Instead, I would live according to the dictates of my dreams.  I could not be pregnant again with someone else's desire for me to be only what he needed. 

When I worked at the foundry, a piece came in that we nicknamed THE CREEPING JESUS.  It was made by an amateur sculptor who wanted to preserve it for posterity but didn't want to spend the money on either bronze or a rubber mold.  He insisted that a plaster cast be made from a waste-mold.  Rick told him he would lose detail in the work.  The mold maker explained that hydra-cal, the casting plaster, was not easy to rework.  The man did not care.  He knew what he wanted.  So the waste-mold was made, as was the plaster cast, and the man came into the foundry to view his work.

His sculpture had become hard, white and unforgiving.  There were air bubbles, parting line marks, and garish flaws in the anatomy.  The piece the man had held in his heart was gone.  The sculpture was no longer malleable, no longer the color of the earth, and no longer the product of his care.  The man finally saw that his sculpture was not a complete work.  The body was merely a mass – a rough form with scratches for a beard, lumps for hair, and bones that looked like they were made from rubber bands.  The hands and feet were more carefully worked. Unfortunately, they had been worked so painstakingly that they had nothing to do with each other or with the sculpture as a whole.  The Creeping Jesus was a body shape with hands and feet that looked like they were from four different people attached to it.

The man had lost control of his creation.  He saw only what he was willing to see and because of that he was not prepared to deal with the consequences of his actions or the truth they revealed.  He was in a moment of catharsis.  He had never worked plaster and the casting plaster we used was especially hard to manipulate.  He did not have the skills to fix the mistakes he had made.  To work the piece in its new form, he would have to acquire new tools, learn a new language, and begin a new process.  He did not make that choice.  It was easier for him to blame the foundry for destroying his art and it was easier for him to remake the same sculpture in clay.

I was like the artist who created The Creeping Jesus.  I wanted the process of becoming to stop.  I wanted to know what happened at the end.  I wanted a place of rest and not this perpetual struggle.  I spent years sculpting the hands and feet of my life because in them I had recognized a small, manageable portion of the thing in which I believed.  Marriage and children, as well as teaching and art, were the appendages that created movement and I had worked them feverishly.  When my work was cast, however, my lack of attention to the greater whole was blatantly evident and I had neither the language nor the tools to begin a new process with grace.  I had always pursued something untouchable, something that shifted and changed, and that I believed was outside of myself.  Like smoke and ashes, this thing had an odor and many shapes, but I could not hold it and I could not see it because it was inside me.  It was my breath.

So, under a cloud of Valium, green plants and watercolor landscapes, I lay upon a table and let them scrape and suck the child out of me to the rhythm of Dvořák.  Geoff sulked, believing he had lost his last chance to be a father.  I chastised him for his selfishness and celebrated my power of choice.  Maybe I had misunderstood my father's teaching; maybe the blood between my legs did demonstrate the creative thing I was capable of producing.  My responsibility did not necessarily imply acceptance and my fate could be altered, if not determined, by a word.  I told Geoff to leave.  I changed my pads and took antibiotics.  I threw away my only Dvořák tape and moved my work tables out of the cold and into the living room.

At that moment, I realized that this was my life – right now, not tomorrow, and not yesterday.  I understood the possibility that the present occurs only when I rise up to meet whatever is coming down…..