getting by with a little help from my friends

This should have been in that last post....but the construction of the "mattress" stretcher is possible via my friend Jack's expertise and the sewing/stretching of the canvas happenned via Juli's smartness (last names are not mentioned because this is the internet...and some people like their privacy...those funny people)

Welcome Back-Invitational Alumni February 10, 5-7

One week left till this big ole painting in my studio will be finished (God willing and the creek don’t rise). I got back from a month and a half stint at my parents in Atlanta where I did the bulk of it, now is time for the finishing touches. Her name is going to be Resurrection story: the Residue of the Day.
She’s a painting of a double mattress, cushioning, tag, cording around the edges and all. She happens to be a portrait of my parent’s bed at the time when I was born. I haven’t confirmed whether that was my conception site or not (cuz that conversation would freak me out)...some things can stay mysterious. This is just one detail Freud would have fun with...another would be his occasional slips that come out of my mouth like, “I’d love to talk, but I’ve got to get to work on my mattress” or “This workin’ all day on a mattress can get tiring.” As much as these things make me smile, they are not why I have devoted this chunk of time to this painting.

If my pieces over the last three years went on a field trip, I think the “follow the leader rope” that would connect them all together would be vulnerability. I’ve chosen subjects that are kinda silly, kinda pathetic, usually forlorn with the hopes of turning them into superstar-Cinderella-prom queens....but not with lots of make-up and jewelry and steleto heels (or glass slippers if you prefer), but with all their eccentricities, wear stains and out dated styles hanging out for the world to see. I’m taking the very details that would lead to their rejection and turning their volumes up to Spinal Tap’s eleven. And hopefully surprising people when they think they are beautiful...a different kind of beautiful. Not the cliche. Not the airbrushed Vogue magazine model beautiful. Hopefully our eyes will be opened to an unanticipated beauty-a redefinition with some room for complexity. Hopefully these pieces are a sacrament for me in that direction. I think it was in the Great Divorce where CS Lewis described a woman as being beautiful...but instead of her beauty leading men to unfaithful inclinations, it made them all the more ready to cherish their wives. This is the God inspired beauty with which I hope to one day turn heads and the kind of beauty that’s the goal of this exercise in art making. The end of Psalms 51 says this: “Going through the motions doesn’t please you, a flawless performance is nothing to you. I learned God-worship when my pride was shattered. Heart shattered lives ready for love don’t for a moment escape God’s notice.” Evidently that’s the kind of beauty that turns God’s head. Shattered pride, shattered hearts. I’m painting stripped sheets and worn upholstery.

India...continued

So really throughout this trip there were all sorts of little object lessions in the whole looking, seeing, being seen subject. There is the aspect of what it was like to be an outsider, to be conspicuously out of place. Related is the attention given based on my comparatively light skin...because of my shade of flesh, I all the sudden became powerful and wealthy and beautiful in the eyes people shaped by cultural baggage. Merchants counted the number of times we passed by their booths in a day and occasionally, cursed us when we didn't buy anything, beggers gathered where ever we went, strangers wanted their photos taken with us or of us or with us holding their babies...once, when i got lost on the way back to our hotel in Mumbai, a man who I didn't recognize told me where I was staying...in Delhi mothers sought Juli and I out for tea--literally running down the road to catch up with us---and then introducing us to the batchlors of the household.....

Of course, I did my share of looking too...not to mention my share of trying not to look. I took all sorts of tools that would help me look...three camaras...one with a video button (ironically, sometimes you have to sacrifice a bit of the experience in a moment for the purpose of remembering it later. Juli is smart to not photograph the first couple days.) In the Jain Temple we visited, you were permitted and encouraged to take photos, with the one stipulation of never photographing with your back to an idol. The way different people practised their faith I found particularly interesting...the jenuflects before the Jain idols, the women with shroud covered faces, the rows of Muslem men bowed down in prayer at the set time in Chor Bizaar. Obviously this isn't when I pulled out the camara; I kinda felt a little guilty when I looked for what felt like too long a period of time....something about not wanting to spy on what another person sees as holy.

Probably the one of the toughest confrontation concerning how to see another came with the beggers. It is unfair to assume based on skin tone....but the reality is the dollar carries much more weight than the rupie (as does the Euro, the pound, etc..) There were so many people in need and I am so rich. So many people that I could never give to everyone that asked and still make it home...and then there's the whole philosophy behind it that I haven't worked out in my brain.(what actually helps people that ask for money? Giving directly, giving to organizations that help, keeping food to give, etc...) So the first question that arrose in this confusion and guilt:"when do I give?"...I still don't have a hard fast rule.(probably never will). Sometimes I said no, sometimes I gave rupies, sometimes I bought food, sometimes I said no..prayed, and then gave when the person came back again.) One of the next questions that comes up with the necessity of a "no" answer: "How do you look at someone when you can't give and they keep asking?" Do you ignore them so maybe they won't follow you all the way home? Do you try not to ever catch their gaze to begin with? Do you look them in the eye when you say no?

Arriving at the Ashram in Delhi exposed yet another angle to these questions of looking and seeing. Here people who had once been on the streets (probably in most cases too sick to be one of the beggers but in desprete need of help) were now in community together recovering or having a home in which to die. Many of them bore the signs of trauma, injury, birth defects, handicaps...visual indicators that made pain and vulnerability or just simply difference evident with a first glance. I saw many brave souls maneuvering the streets of Mumbai with similiar situations. One woman I can still see in my mind, adjusting the plank with wheels that transported her body in lue of her legs (legs that looked as if they hadn't grown since age 4) preparing to cross the insanely chaotic downtown streets of Mumbai (the ones that get my pulse going as I try to intersect them with my two good legs). When I first got to the Ashram, all the difference stood out...Does he have that shape of face from Elephantiasis? How did he loose two legs and an arm? Why is he so small? Then after a couple days and some time with the people there, something beautiful and unexpected happenned. I stopped noticing the differences any more than the shape of my own nose or Juli's pretty eyes. The differences just became part of what it meant to be that person....and when I started to love the people, those difference somehow became beautiful to me. Then I remembered how tough it was to really see folks with similiar stories before in Mumbai. How self conscious it made me, how I didn't want to stare, so most of the time chose to look away when in their range of sight. How their forced vulnerability made me feel vulnerable too..."but by the grace of God go I"...Why do I have the particular grace of my good health and they don't? How long will I have this grace? I'm sure God loves them every bit as much as me....

When I noticed my perspective changing at the Ashram, I had this crazy strong desire to sit with people and just look at them, really seeing...not stairing or ignoring, but looking lovingly and respectfully. Somewhere in the middle of this transformation, a seed of self forgetfulness began to grow. When they became beautiful in my eyes, I think for a moment or too, so was I. I didn't have to worry anymore about how I was being perceived. I just started drawing people and letting them look back at me for really long moments of silence....and letting crowds gather to watch every mark i made on the page and every mess-up I had to erase. I could feel redemption happenning. Sometimes people would ask to be drawn, sometimes I asked them. Padam gave a bashful smile when I was drawing the details of his face. I would look up at Seetu and smile till he giggled recording an image of his big joyful laugh in my book. Then, when we were done, I asked the person to sign the drawings of themselves if they could....like it was a contract between the two of us, a mutual agreement take part in the process. Pintu drew this great marshon figure instead, Seetu a pattern of circles.

Of course later, when Provene tried to video tape me for his documentary super close, all-up-in-my-face like, I freaked out again and the self consciousness reared it's ugly head....never quite get there in this life, but there are moments when I have eyes to see more deeply into the inexpressible glory of the people I meet along the way...

more on that topic...India

Alright, so, this henna is wearing quickly off my hand, reminding me that I want to get these thoughts down before they go too....

After I walked around a bit that first day, I started taking photographs. With each picture I became more bold, because people loved it. I would get followed by mobbs of folks wanting photos taken of themselves when I wasn't careful. There was one man sitting at his shop (this cubby hole stuffed with various used electronic gear) that said "no" when I asked. I passed by, not thinking much about it, besides hoping I didn't offend by asking. Then, as I was lingering back to the hotel, he invited me to sit in front of his shop. I'm not exactly sure what got into me, but I asked if I could draw him in my book. I think normally I would have taken extra precausion after the first rejection to not ask something similiar at the risk of annoying someone but...something made me feel like it would be ok to proceed; seemed that he was trusting me more....felt like drawing him could be respectful and an acknowledgement of dignity...maybe to show that I didn't want to be a tourist just making snapshoots of exotic looking people, that I noticed something honest and tragic and lovely in his features. He agreed and I could tell he was pleased. He shifted position, folding his hands infront of him and looking intently at me. This was the scary part. The looking back part. Up until that moment, I never would draw portraits, and I think this fear has something to do with it.

This has been a long time push and pull for me. I love to look at people and at the same time can get pretty terrified at the prospect of being seen myself. Probably, like most other fears, its connected to what I deeply and profoundly desire...Fear has such a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" quality, doesn't it? Once, when I was 20 and in this young women's book study/mentoring group thing, Melanie (the mentor) lead us in an exercise where we paired up and spent a solid minute looking at our partner in silence. Of course, I get paired up with Melanie, our healthy socially, emotionally and spiritually adjusted mentor. I think I had had a tough day, which makes being truly seen even tougher. The whole time I was repeating to myself, "think about her, care for her with the way I am looking at her, smile at her..." but I couldn't hold back feeling too crazy vulnerable and tears welled up in my eyes that finally ran down my checks (I think, all the while with a smile on my face, cuz I was freakin' trying to be nice to my mentor!). I felt horrible that my fear wouldn't let me really see her. I have had many friends since that time who have cared for me in such a way as to chip away at that fear. Ken is one of those friends. He talks with his hands, using the sign alphabet. Sometimes there are long pauses between letters while he is waiting for his hands to do what his mind is telling them. This affords lots of time for looking and being seen in silence. If I wanted to be his friend at all, I had to not live in my fear. His friendship has been totally worth it.

Back to India, I sucked up that nervious self consciousness, first when the man started to look at me and later as a crowd of about 10 adults and kids gathered around to see what I was doing (speaking to each other in Hindi, laughing, watching every mark I made on the page). I finished the portrait and asked him to sign his name...Abdul Razak.

to be continued

Some things I saw, felt, intuited, dreamed, imagined, totally fabricated in India

I want to record a couple of these snap shots in my brain before they go dark, before I loose the feelings they evoked, the initial interpretations or lack thereof....I think also in there is the hope of sucking out some hidden meaning, sifting through this cacophony of sensations, piecing them apart one by one in order to put them together again a little more whole, with a chance to sit with them a bit longer from a couple more angles. I'm a slow processor. So here goes...

I woke up at 5 am the first morning (which is certainly all about jetlag and nothing remotely close to my normal syncopated body rhythms). I went outside to watch India wake up (leaving my dear lazy ass traveling partners snug in their beds--hehe, just kidding David and Juli). I think traveling anywhere helps me remember that I am alive, but this is particularly true of those first waking moments in India. Even in the 'burbs where we were staying (ok, right now, erase every picture in your head of the suburbs if you have not been to an Indian suburb...I really like Indian suburbs) India is teaming with energy. It's a spicy subji (sp?) of disparate sights and sounds and smells, quite often delicious, occasionally parasite bearing. As people started to come out to begin their day, I attempted some polite people watching, with few exceptions to the rule of finding that I was the one being watched first. The mutton shop across the street caught my attention...my eyes followed the boy carrying a headless, bleeding carcass over his shoulders to a little shack where others were hung waiting for purchase. Big black birds were gathered, also waiting (quite longingly). Side note: there is a small sect of Zoroastreans also known as Siks in Mumbai who don't believe in burying or cremating their dead. Instead they present them to the heavens by way of hungry black birds. This was one part of the culture with which I was happy to leave my interaction at book level knowledge . I wonder if the birds I was watching at the mutton shop lost a bet and were missing out on a buffet down town.

Before you cringe in disgust and superiority (like I do way too often), think about the animals that will return our bodies back again to dust. Any better than birds? I'm not saying this because I'm wanting to appropreate this tradition along with my stocking stuffing at Christmas and turkey at Thanksgiving. It's just a picture of how in India the reality of being alive, particularly the physical reality of being alive as a creature, was always confronting me right out in the open air. At times it seduced me, at times, it slapped me around, but it was always there. Later, when I was staying in Delhi, coming to terms with our Indian rest room (which we affectionately called "squatty potty") and the babbling stream that flowed in front of our house with the latest news from ours and all our neighbors' Indian rest rooms, I eloquently explained to Stefan, who's had feet in both eastern and western soil: "It's not that westerners don't poop. It's just that we're less aware of our poop." Somewhere in that same conversation we talked about all the animals who headed for the hills before the Tsunami. Stefan proposed that at one point, our species had that sensing ability too...that connectedness to the earth. I think it was Juli who said she thought we westerners with all of our convenient and removed living are farthest from that intuition. The bovine growth hormone milk in my cereal probably does muffle that conversation the moon likes to have with the tide that's supposed to be setting my body clock.

Back again to that first morning, daylight began the constant horn-honking, bell-dinging, dog-barking, cow-mooing, merchant-negotiating that complimented nicely the visuals of rickshaws, taxi cabs, "goods" trucks, family-of-5-packed motorcycles, farm animals, children-with-large-wheel-barrows-carrying-cargo-the size-of-small-cars, pedestrians....all aggressively vying for a space on the road. If I were a better student I would remember the term my art history teacher used to describe the tendency within some artistic traditions to cram visual information into every minute section of space. No serene Japanese garden here or clean-lined Swedish design, negative space is to be conquered and subdued. I think she brought up the forgotten term when talking about a Hindu cave temple in India that was carved up the waw-zoo. I have a special place in my heart for this aesthetic...for all the Howard finsters and Trenton Doyle Hancocks and James Ensors and Barry McGees who fill up spaces like visionaries gone mad. Walking the streets of India was like stepping into that delightful frenzy. It's collage incarnate. It's Times Square squared, baby. hehehe

And if the whirling dervish of visual activity in the traffic patterns and the painted patterns (on "the goods" trucks, on henna clad hands, on women's sahris...) doesn't make your heart rate excellerate, certainly the flamboyant adoration of saturated color will do the trick. I must say that I was wooed and won by India's brazen hues....it wasn't a hard sell at all, I had already had a crush for quite some time.....

to be continued

"There's roads and there's roads
And they call; can't you hear it?
Roads of the earth
And roads of the spirit.

Best roads of all
are the ones that aren't certian.
One of those is where you'll find me
Till they drop the big curtain."

Bruce Cockburn, Child of the Wind

So the little grey cloud hovered above me with terrential downpours yesterday....which is the condition I think that generally inspires me to write these posts....sorry about that. I am happy now and again too. I talked to my sister for several hours the night before who senses that she is at the point where she will either grow bitter and emotionally closed from the pain of loss she has experienced and the new fear of more loss that same tradegy has brought about in her life...or she could somehow be given a new measure of faith. The bitterness and numbness feels like the more natural option (doesn't it always?) Several other friends this weekend have shared their tragedies with me and I am reminded of my own particular set of disappointments, my own stories that make a loving God seem incongruous with the evidence at hand. We've all got um....not to mention our collective stories that are most of the time, too big to fathom, like the recent earthquake in Pakistan and India. I still don't have bows for these loose ends, but something struck me in the movie I saw last night. The movie "In America", when the Irish Immigrant father is talking to Matias, the man down the hall of his appartment complex who's dying of AIDS. Matias asks if he believes in God and the Irish guy (sorry, I forgot his name) told him that he asked God to take himself in place of his dying son, and God ended up taking both of them....no, he didn't believe.

And here is my passage from the Frederick Buechner book that was on the table this morning about the Kingdom of God:

"As a poet, Jesus is maybe at his best in describing the feeling you get when you glimpse the Thing itself-the Kingship of the king official at last and all the world his coronation. Its like finding a million dollars in a field, he says, or a jewel worth the kings ransom. Its like finding something you hated to lose and thought you'd never find again-an old keepsake, a stray sheep, a missing child. When the Kingdom really comes, it's as if the thing you lost and thought you'd never find again is yourself"

Don't let us loose ourselves in bitterness from these tragedies. Your kingdom come. Your will be done.