Showing posts with label Marsha Connell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marsha Connell. Show all posts

Sunday, May 15, 1994

Gallery Tours: Sonoma County 1994

GALLERY TOUR ’94 Maureen Hurley

It goes without saying bucolic Sonoma County is good for artists, but do galleries support good art and local artists? Who buys art, what sells? With a list of 40+ galleries (excluding cafes, bars and banks), I needlessly braced myself for what often gives art a bad name. Galleries ranged from the exclusive to the down-home; most were sophistocated, with prices to match any budget and taste—from traditional wildlife to abstract expressionism. Wine country landscapes and plein air pieces were solidly represented—but I didn’t expect to find such a wide range of artistic visions.

Some excellent new places have opened including The Photography Gallery, and the Coop; some doors have closed—the Anasazi, Bronson Tufts, and the J. Noblett galleries. Nature abhors a vacuum: three new galleries opened in the town of Sonoma.

In two short blocks from 5th to 4th Street in Santa Rosa, are three fine galleries comparable to those in San Francisco, Amsterdam, or London. Two galleries in one, The Fine Frame & Art has pastels and oils on display in the back room where the frame shop is located. Owners Maureen Baumgartner and Kevin Berry, also a fine painter, made this gallery a pleasant space. A weathered brick wall sets off art nicely.

In general, I was delighted to see the work of the numerous artists whose work I’ve reviewed over the years. A most auspicious beginning: Polaroid transfer photography by Kathleen Carr, an assemblage piece by Raymond Barnhart.

The second business, West Coast Editions, has an inventory of limited edition contemporary fine art prints. Owner David Perez, a former printmaker, has a superb collection from around the world. Goya fitfully snoozes in a drawer above eclectic California artists, Diebenkorn, and Curtis. In 1989, I brought some of Jim Curtis’s etchings to sister city, Cherkassy, Ukraine, which were snatched up by the official and underground artists alike.

Perez focuses on contemporary artists of California, and the Bay Area. Prices are affordable; $50 for lovely little pieces by Michael David Richie. There are some real art bargains under $500. Perez explains most sales are in this price range, and many customers are local. Other gallery owners voiced the same opinion.

Limited edition prints are the art of choice for prospective buyers. (Purchase prints with a print run of 300 or less.) For those who balk at multiple copies, monotypes or monoprints offer original art in print format.

The current show is abstract monoprints from the Smith Anderson Editions of Palo Alto, celebrating 25 years of printmaking. Featured with internationally renowned printmakers, are two local artists, my art professor from Sonoma State University, Inez Storer of Inverness, and College of Marin classmate, David Best. David is best known for his outrageously encrusted cars, replete with stuffed rhino and water buffalo head hood ornaments; it was a pleasure to see his skill displayed in the print medium. Figure studies of La Lune, and another untitled piece evoked images of Doré’s engravings. Storer’s monotype, Elizabeth of Hungary, with a nesting bird on her head, was whimsical. The show runs to the end of the month.

Open since November, The Photography Gallery, a few doors down from Fine Frame & Art, offers fine black and white, and archival quality color prints of local photographers. Bob Hasenick’s poppy was featured on the cover of the 1994 Audobon desk calendar. Owner Jack Haley has some stunning large format work on display. Haley was out on a shoot in Nevada, but a photographer friend said Haley has an innovative marketing approach, renting wall space to artists, thus taking a much smaller commission than the standard 40%, and one can purchase prints framed or unframed.

To make ends meet, most galleries are also frame shops, Soundscapes on Mendocino Avenue sells audio equipment and home entertainment systems. Mark Silver, in audio retail 26 years, was ready for something new. In L.A. he decorated his stereo stores with art, now he’s switched focus. Partner Sarjan Ebaen manages the art end of business. In 11 months, he’s exhibited 25 artists. In addition to featured artist of the month, watercolorist Ray Jacobson’s work is on permanent display. Gerald Huth’s 72 construction/ paintings, On the Human Condition, figures rendered in many mediums, are punctuated by text from T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland . Ebaen says 75% of the work priced under $1000 is what moves. Though large ticket items do sell, those priced from $250 to $500 are equally important. Future trends include art furniture, and artist-designed entertainment centers.

I took a quick peek at Louisa Fraser’s work located on the balcony of Whistlestop Antiques, wandered over to a storefront window of the Karl Walburg gallery where $85 would buy me “anything in the window.” The Karl Walburg gallery and frame shop in the former “Sweet Potato” store on Railroad Square is enormous, the largest in the north bay. Though the gallery is only a year old, Karl, son of sculptor Gerald Walberg, and partner Christine George have produced 12 shows and three fundraisers, exhibiting the work of hundreds of artists. “We sell art by keeping prices low, but art is not about price tags,” said George. Prices range from $5 to $60,000. On exhibit is Mexican painter, Conrado Dominguez, with local artists Dwight Eberly and Nancy Tieken. Eberly needed no introduction: I recognized his Salt Point pieces. Land Images, California Landscapes by Five North Bay Artists will be on display July.

On 4th street, the reputable Lawrence Gallery with an international clientele, is the oldest and most established of the Santa Rosa contemporary art galleries. Three glowing Wendy Weldon abstracts immediately caught my attention as did watercolors by Portuguese artist, Chacorro. Not overtly fond of appraisable investment art, I squeezed past canvases, wishing the posh room was a bit wider, to find refuge in Israeli artist Itzchak Tarkay’s lovely watercolors. Lawrence Gallery exclusively represents the work of Chicana artist Sonya Fe who recently moved from Sonoma County. Fe’s canvases, with a price tag of $30,000, may be out of the average buyer’s range, but prints begin at $150. John Lennon’s limited edition serigraphs (silkscreen) are also on sale.

I asked arts consultant Darth Elledge who was buying art. Though most of his customers are from the East Coast, Elledge doesn’t neglect local customers, “Developing a clientele may take months. If they buy a painting, they deserve individualized treatment. I will go to their house to install a painting, and rearrange the furniture if necessary.” I would feel comfortable purchasing art from the knowledgeable Elledge, and most gallery representatives I met.

In order to stay in business, galleries must diversify with both commercial investment art, and art for serious collectors. Arts consultant for the Petaluma Ah! Some Art, Eolah Bates said, “When I first came here we exclusively sold ‘limited editions.’ We have many first-time buyers. The clientele is more sophisticated, preferring original art to lithographs.” Ah! Some has traditional oil paintings by local artists Henry White and Ralph Bayer. Upcoming artist include Betty Burns and Terry Behrens.

Purist at heart, I have a knee-jerk response to “limited editions” of 10,000 or more. “Those Bev Doolittles are in demand by the corporate investor,” Bates reminded me. “We still sell limited edition posters.” A commodity, stock certificate in poster format. “Collectors have to start somewhere, and Greenwich artists hold their value,” said Bates.

Michael Richie has an artist in residency and show of pastels and etchings at the Press House Gallery at the historic Buena Vista Winery in Sonoma. Sonoma County pastel artists Marsha Connell (who had a previous show at BV), Mary Silverwood, and Richie typically push the inside of the envelope out; a new word for “pastel” is needed. Richie’s vibrant pastels of Latin America are anything but pastel. The Press House Gallery, a balcony over the gift shop/tasting room, is an interesting display space where one can sip a civilized glass of Zinfandel. Richie will be working on location from June 10 to July 17.

Mary Silverwood’s pastels and limited edition prints are available through Diane Shulkin of My Daughter the Framer in Santa Rosa. Framed pastels range from $1600 to $2200. Mary will have a dozen new pieces for Matanzas Creek Winery’s annual Wine Barrel Gala June 25, where her work has been continuously exhibited since 1989.

A glorious day, I headed for the coast. Though it’s June, many west county galleries are closed mid-week. Norman Gaddini’s hand-tinted scratchboard pieces at the tiny Occidental Art Gallery resembled lithographs. The hard to find Jessica Framer/Coop gallery is worth tracking down—Occidental needs a decent fine arts gallery.

Two galleries opened on April first in Freestone; what’s this, an Arts destination? The King-Heller Gallery at the Paint Store (formerly Anasazi gallery) featured one of the Sonoma 4 plein air painters, Bill Wheeler. Currently on display are rare figure drawings by the late William Morehouse, also of the Sonoma 4. The three-room gallery defies plumb lines, but has great knotty pine floors; to prove it really was a paint store—a bucket of “Rural Outdoor Paint” is on the potbelly stove. Lively and energetic, Morehouse’s coffee-wash nudes from ’87 to ’91 have cryptic numbers and letters, a code known only to Bill. . . A deer trotted up to the back door as if to pay homage to Morehouse. Stuart Buehler’s paintings and assemblages will be on display July 2.

On a caffeine contact high from Bill’s drawings, I pulled into the Freestone House Gallery at the Wishing Well. New owner Jim Longacre has transformed the space—bare wood walls adorned with meticulous watercolors by Freestone artist Pamela Glasscock, and work by 6 other artists. So tranquil. Said Longacre, “It was natural for the nursery to bring in art. Sacramento tourists, fed-up with what passes for art at coastal galleries, exclaim, ‘Now, this is a breath of fresh air!’” The 1st Annual Botanical Art Exhibit opens June 18, and runs through mid-September. On the road, life began to imitate art: hedgerows of roses, irises, Indian paintbrush framed by my truck window.

The Bodega Landmark Gallery—half a shed crammed to the gills with eclectic paintings stacked five deep next to a smashing exhibit by Philip Buller? Oh well, the salt tang enticed me down the road.

With the exception of Guerneville printmaker Gail Packer’s intaglio prints, most art in the three storied Branscomb Gallery is banal—renderings of the usual suspects: otters, whales, and bunnies. Packer’s prints of rural Sonoma County are the only thing happening. Hildy Henry’s hand-painted folk art frames do real justice to Gail’s pieces. Other notable exceptions are El Meyers’ watercolors upstairs, and tapestries from southern India. There’s an excellent display of intaglio printing with three of Gail’s copper plates; she rarely prints more than 200 copies of any piece. Framed—from $500 to $750.

You can see more of Gail’s work, along with Lorraine Cooke’s pastels at the Curtis Chase Gallery in Guerneville. Once I dragged a print of Coleman Valley Road, that Gail donated to sister-city, Cherkassy—through airports and customs, onto trains, trolleys and busses across Russia to deliver it to the Cherkassy Arts Guild.

The Ren Brown Collection is a tranquil space with small Japanese gardens and running water; an environment that’s seamless, a haven in any storm. Lovely wooden tables adorned with exquisite raku bowls; I wanted sink into the tatami mats and have someone serve me green tea ice cream. Elegant etchings from Ritsuwo Kanno’s first American exhibition are absolutely breathtaking. The show run through July 11. I could’ve lingered for hours, but the coastline was a movable feast, and I had miles to go, and deadlines to keep.

Duncan's Mills has five galleries! Quercia gallery (once home of the Christopher Queen gallery) has an excellent collection of contemporary art hung from floor to ceiling. My only complaint: it’s hard to read the faded, hand-written tags. What a selection: Frank Gannon’s California Impressionism, Bev Rowe’s vibrant pieces, Ray Jacobson’s seascapes, Jennifer Hoover’s paintings (I originally saw at the Framework gallery of Forestville). It was hard to tear myself away but Christopher Queen gallery across the courtyard beckoned. The 18-year-old gallery has a flower exhibit of contemporary watercolors and oils by Morten Solberg, serigraphs by Henri Plisson and others. As co-founder Nancy Ferreria gave me a tour, my eyes feasted everywhere, wonderful paintings, excellent Middle Eastern rugs, and objet d’art. In the next room, wildlife including Solberg’s polar bear with abstract background—a style that made the Forestville artist famous. Upstairs is her father Swede Wallen’s superb collection of early California art. William Keith, Deakin Edwin, Thomas Hill—reasonably priced. In July, artists of the Bohemian Club including Keith and Hill will be shown.

Quicksilver Mine Co. hangs 7 lively shows a year, the gallery is attached to the store, shows spill out into the storefront windows and throughout the store. Art bins extend the current repertoire, offer bargains on non-featured artists. Micah Schwaberow’s woodblock, Russian River Moon, a steal at $75. John Curry’s assemblage was pricy at $24,000. Curator of the current Man to Man exhibit, Rob Higgins said, “I was tired of the usual T & A and wanted to see something else.” Carl Hedberg’s resin sculpture “View from a Urinal” to Jesse Helms, is decidedly upfront. Higgins explained, “The male figure is not well represented in art.” Has he hit upon a future trend? The California Museum of Art has an upcoming show on male images. Traditionally, publication and presentation of art (and poetry) disproportionately features male artists. Sonoma County is one of those rare places that exhibits the work of many women artists, I hope to see male images by women artists too. Man to Man runs to July 17, followed by Karina Nishi Marcus’s exhibit entitled, Confluences: Abstractions of Water and Space.



guessing May 1994?


Friday, April 22, 1994

Branching Out: Poetry & Art with Maureen Hurley & Marsha Connell

BRANCHING OUT

Branching Out, is an exhibition of recent pastels, watercolors, & collages by Marsha Connell with poems by Maureen Hurley. Connell and Hurley have collaborated in their working processes both as artists and teachers. For example, Hurley wrote a series of poems to Connell’s collage prints, Dream Vessels. Some of them appear in the catalogue/book, Dream Vessels. Working as artists in residence since 1979, through Artists in the Schools of Sonoma County (ASC) and California Poets in the Schools (CPITS), they have led students in exploring the links between the visual arts and poetry. This Body is Ask: Art and Poetry by Sonoma County Students, co-edited by Connell and Hurley is a documentation of these experiences.

Connell, who is noted for her bold watercolors and pastels of Sonoma County and California, works on location, or from drawings done on location. Connell states her aesthetic concerns, “I begin with direct personal experience and observation to create lyrical abstractions with attention to color, shape, rhythm, and mood. In my recent pastels of barns and cabins, I’ve shifted focus from the organic aspects of landscape to the human-made elements that interrupt and define the landscape’s space and scale.”

Connell has shown in over 25 solo exhibitions, and nearly 100 group exhibitions on both coasts; her most recent solo exhibits were at the Badè Museum, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley and the Buena Vista Winery Artist in Residence Project. She holds a Master of Arts Degree in Sculpture from San Francisco State University, and a Bachelor of Science Degree in Fine Arts from Skidmore College. Connell is an instructor of art at Santa Rosa Junior College and Sonoma State University and has been artist in residence for several Northern California schools. She also conducts workshops privately and for organizations including the Mendocino Art Center, Gualala Art Center and Elder Hostel.

Both Connell and Hurley are recipients of seven California Arts Council grants. Maureen Hurley is a visual artist and photojournalist as well as a poet. Her poems and photographs have appeared in over 100 magazines and journals. Her poetry has been translated and published in Dutch, Spanish, Russian, Romanian, and Ukrainian. She has won numerous state and national awards for her poems, including two Sonoma County Community Foundation/NEA writer’s fellowships in 1990 and 1992; the 1992 award was for the Dream Vessels series. A poem was nominated for the 1993 Pushcart Poetry Prize. Other awards include an honorable mention in the National Poetry Series competition and two awards for Dream Vessels Poems #1 and 2 . She was a semi-finalist in the 1993 Kalliope/Papiér Maché poetry contest, and a finalist in the 1994 Negative Capability poetry competition.

Hurley holds a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Art Studio from Sonoma State University. She is California Poets in the Schools Area Coordinator for Sonoma County, and has led workshops in public schools, mental institutions, universities and Elderhostels in California, the Netherlands, the Bahamas, and the former USSR. Hurley initiated and developed programs in which she and Connell exchanged student poetry and art with sister city, Cherkassy, in the Ukraine.

The California Museum of Art exhibition opens April 22 and continues through May 31, 1994. Hours: Monday through Friday, 9 AM to 5 PM.


Tuesday, April 19, 1994

BRANCHING OUT


BRANCHING OUT

Inside the architecture of dreams,
my cabin expands to arboreal heights,
sinks exhausted into the earth, becomes a barn,
grows a storey and a wing with blue trim.

An abundance of light and late afternoon shadows.
Inscribed above the door at the top of the stairs,
“Seek the answer; there are no questions.”
Rows of unread books ease toward the horizon.

My memory is not equal to the naming of my fear,
a tenant in the basement rummage sale of dreams.
Wrapped in the clothing of the dead, I’m set adrift
in a shoe that becomes a raft to cross the marsh.

Inside the refuge of my heart, bees drone out words.
If I could find a place big enough to house my thoughts,
the concept of home would become a fragment of the past.
I’ve tried other solitudes. The calendar preys on its own agenda.

If I could play the violin or piano, I’d teach those frets and keys
dark ladders to the sky, and arpeggios of birds escaping gravity.
Trapped behind glass, flowers smolder against winter clouds.
Tchaikosky’s “Violin Concerto in D” comes to mind.

My ability to swim in the air leaves me confused,
I’m neither fish nor fowl, my breathing is labored.
I practice the crawl, my feet strum the power lines.
Does my guide have wings? I know the timbre of his voice.

My grandmother taught me about the sacredness of trees.
When we hauled branches to the pile for burning,
they clawed the sky with a fierce desire for the field’s
music and for a spring that will never come.


4/19/94

from Marsha Connell's Dream Vessels
This was not published but displayed in Lynn Woolsey's office.DREAM VESSELS —from collages by Marsha Connell

Thursday, July 9, 1992

DREAM VESSELS #39: The Whole World is a Very Narrow Bridge FIRST DRAFT


DREAM VESSELS #39: The Whole World is a Very Narrow Bridge  FIRST DRAFT

     —From a collage by Marsha Connell

Sea gulls and fairy terns wheel and turn 
over the bridge and its reflection
the river, a sentient being, skin of mist,
the pale mauve at sunset.
The vessel of our ancestors, the Anasazi,
has borrowed wings and the birds all point to the unnatural nest
where an egg glows like the moon, or the earth, or the sun.
The water near the dock is restless, wanting to move on,
the birds hold formation.
Is the porcelain egg a bowl to give birth to a winged pot?
Does it dream of flying over more peaceful waters
at an undeterminate time of beginnings or endings?
Everything depends upon how you read it.
A flat plane? Horizontal or vertical?
A trinity of birds has broken past
the imprisoned sky of the winged vessel
So many bars, the bridge, the nest, the dock—all to confine us
The pot is full, round, fecund as a nine-month woman,
decorated with the symbols of life,
the Greek key, the labyrinth.
The minotaur is asleep,
the legs of gulls like small brush strokes
against their fanned tails, are they guarding their eggs
or are they opportunistic, about to descend
upon an unguarded nest for a meal?
Cannibalistic creatures.
Nature is non-moral, yet we are shocked by such notions
as if there were some significance
buried there for us to glean from.
We are only repelled by the notion
because the metaphor is too obvious,
too potent, this is why it repels us.
But birds are the messengers, they know the density of air.
Only in rare dreams do we join them, testing our wings.
I remember finding a baby bird on the garden path
of an obscenely decadent hotel, the Waikaloa,
the Disneyland for adults.
An immigrant starling too young to leave the nest
the distress calls of its mother, real enough.
I was caught between contempt
for opportunistic non-native species
who do so much damage to our crops,
but then it struck me that we too, are opportunistic immigrants
plundering the nest of something infinitely more fragile.
So many paradises succumb to corporate taming.
We are the ones responsible,
the ones who wander through massive hotel lobbies
in order to quench our unending thirst.
The egg is not in a nest, it is the illusion of a nest,
circular, familiar, the egg is suspended, perhaps rising, 
or falling down the bottomless mesh tube,
a flume, a conduit churning to the ground in arabesque formation.
We are flooding other countries with our technology.
It clings to us like opportunistic burrs
brushed off in a likely spot to colonize.
The ascension of the vessel into the sky, a resurrection.
Perhaps it rose out of the tomb too early
searching for a rushed spring,
the mesh tube, the opening to the tomb.
But it is not Christ seeking the trinity above our heads,
the pot, by nature, is female. The ascent of She,
winged into the cacophonous air, the crepuscular air.
The underworld is of our own choosing.
We invented it to appease our guilt.
I read about a curious notion that we cannot see the parallel
between the religions we were raised in
and this is why we must read the myths from other cultures.
We tend to think of our own upbringing as fact, not metaphor.
Yet here it is again and again, the metaphor
rising from the underworld
called Persephone, called Inanna, called Demeter,
called Isis, called Astarte, called Christ.
The egg must be rising because the pot is ascending,
free of the underworld at last, it metamorphoses,
or did it give birth to the egg? Completeness of evidence
and the procreative urges to further the species at any cost.
The starlings who rob the nests of others,
like the missionaries in Hawaii, governments—
each with a vested interest to further the self.
Group ego and fear of the void
that is sure to follow death and extinction.
Surely there must be more to life
than the nest, the starling thought to itself,
before it plunged to the earth, pinfeathers still sheathed.
Surely there must be more to living
than this death, this ceasing to be,
early people thought as they placed flowers on the newly dead.
Surely this is a metaphor for something else
Surely ours is the enlightened path,
each tribe proclaiming, uttering the first “I am”
but as each proclaimed their identity,
they separated from the larger whole,
thus spontaneously developing creed and dogma.
The multiple “I am’s” echoed around the world
shattering the dawn,
self-expulsion leads to the center of things,
the feeling of either being on the outside
seeking the center of the universe,
or making the center the place where you stand.
You conceived it into being.
I am, therefore I am, came long before the Cartesians.
Every revolution has its own prison
because of the nature by which it was construed—in extremes.
Action/reaction nether being the center of things.
I am/ I am not.
Thus the maws of the void open up
to swallow us whole before our time.
“Is”ness.
And so the birds wheel and turn like dancers,
or do dancers mimic the birds?
And what of the snake who listens
to the ground with its whole body?
Ear to the ground with its ribs,
listens to the dark wisdom of the earth?
Of life and death, of zygotes and blastophores.
Hot ash bonfires, cremation, and hidden fecundity.
The pot rises carrying its precious burden to the sky
so the air will know another kind of kin,
seeks union with the great unanswerable void,
and the questions that will never be answered.
This is the way of things. Monotones,
the black lip of despair, the pot speaks to the air.
I resist the notion of Ariadne but she’s there.
The mesh becomes the web, the bridge leads to the other side,
the first egg, fallopian tubes spider, reptile,
human, fish, all arise from the egg.
Symbol of Christ, the web, Peter’s net,
in ova, in the egg, unprepared.

 Summer 1992
DREAM VESSELS —from collages by Marsha Connell


DV files 40-46; 48-51 
were never transcribed from freewrite
DV files 47 & 52 empty.  Hope I have hard copy.

Wednesday, July 8, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 38 Morning Tea DRAFT



DREAM VESSELS # 38 Morning Tea

     —From a collage by Marsha Connell
A white rose transmuted above the empty cup
the act of just after breaking night’s fast
everyone dressed in the white shrouds of sleep
arise, binding the sheets to their heads, a cowl
they become winged like angels, or ghosts
see how the white rose stretches on extended wing towards the light
she is a swan song going about her business rooted in the commerce
busy-ness like bees we congregate in all the world’s places
uninhabited by  ghostly shrouds
we become monozygotes
the ouroboric serpent circling the cup is trapped in the saucer
forever destined to chase his own tail
in some places of the world peasants lay out saucers of milk for the snakes
as if they were children or cats and there is a certain catness about them
they listen to the wisdom of the earth through their ribs
in summer molt they are blind sensing the heat
as the herds of people commuting to work
the ritual of morning tea is a sacrament
the knife severs the dream world from the workaday world
there is such elegance in all that whiteness
bone china abstractions
the spine of each feather tinged with pale yellow
the blue white apparitions of the crowd, we see only the backs of their heads
they seek Mecca
the snake churns around the saucer counterclockwise
though we no longer adhere to the notion of the coriolis effect
to go counterclockwise is the notion of ascendance
we always seek the top. Clockwise we start at the azimuth and the end
only to fall from grace struggling toward the eleventh hour and the death knell
while the snake unwinds time and the notion of handedness
right and wrong dexter and sinister
the lifting of tea to the lips
the leaves of the camellia family,
neo-colonial issues arise out of this whiteness that suggests purity, or even death
the art of tea, the humbling of self and the offering of self as action, as gift
the distillation of the ancient regime of Zen Buddhism in the act of tea
but we are finished with such notions
the symbol of the snake is repeated in the abstract patterns of the cup
its body, a shoreline, rippling waves in the cosmic void
as it searches out its own tail
when the snake lets go, it is said, is when catastrophe strikes
the snake cannot find the end of himself and so he endlessly circles
the cup of morning
seeking to heal the breech but we have lost the earthly wisdom of snakes
they’ve been banished from the garden (sub rosa) concealment
that is why everyone is facing Mecca in search of the garden of the psyche
but the cup is half-empty and half-full, we cannot see the bottom of it
no need to find a gypsy to read the fortune in the tea leaves
the approaching end is self-evident
Gaia’s final concert of silence amid the ghostly rustle of sheets
inhabitants of an earlier time when the earth was new
we creatures have outdone the cleverness of our creator
the shadows of all oblique angles the curve of the henchman’s arm
and the final blow  rara avis
the rose lifts her skirts, flies away into the morning light
out of the depths (ad infinito) from the beginning
the firm melody of the snake who has no ears, his entire being, a tympanum
the cup is the egg, the serpent circling the egg, the orphic bowl
the sanctum of winged serpent but he is outside his realm
and where are his wings?

Tuesday, July 7, 1992

DREAM VESSELS #37: Mountain Fire Shepherd

DREAM VESSELS #37: Mountain Fire Shepherd 
                                    from a collage by Marsha Connell

A shepherdess steps into a burned land. 
The shelter is not a yurt, but a mountain.
Perhaps the darkness of Tibet.
Where to find tent poles with a shortage of wood?
Tied to the door frame, is an amulet,
laurel leaves and feathers to protect her.

No one sees her in all her coral finery.
On this continent, or in Hawaii,
she would wear a feathered cloak.

Four rams hold up a chalice to the sky,
they rise up to collect rain.
Have the forests been felled by a volcano,
or worse?
The borderless birds watch us. 
The bluebird will not come again,
not this silent spring, or the next.

The orb above the tent is not a moon; 
inexorable oil barrels rise
instead of a harvest moon. 
We march toward the carbon past,
a death-march we can’t stop.
The fire from the oil wells in the Middle East 
will be felt in the remotness of Tibet.
And in the time to come.
The fire will darken her life too,
though Tibet is a closed country.
Our presence is felt there as well.

Summer 1992
This was a corrupted file and I have no hardcopy

Monday, July 6, 1992

DREAM VESSELS #36: Sirens FIRST DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS #36: Sirens(Angels sing while the world burns) FIRST DRAFT
                                    from a collage by Marsha Connell

And if the world were divided into two
by Corinthian columns, and stone angels
singing from opposite ends of the spectrum,
would it divide the secret heart of light?
Would the redwoods know the strength of greatness?
Would city is rise Up like teeth, or tombstones?
Would the the galleons ships set sail
in the reef clouds over the oil wells?
Would light know how to fragment,
and the holy stones, our smokestacks,
echo in the voices of children
singing from the plateau, or from the tableau?
Scrolls carved in stone, ex lap us.
One boy clutches his robes as he sings,
while others stare off into space, hand on head.
Arms around shoulders, they said
Do the men on the ship hear them,
do they sail to their doom,
to the New World, tabula rasa?
The sirens of the New World. Próspero’s cave.

They say nothing  compares to the purity
of soprano voices of young boys.
Castrati, they kept their voices for their art,
the art of the church, the art of dogma.
In the cathedral of the forest
a plague of cities spreads its disease.
Everything rising up towards God,
the trees, the columns, the ship’s masts.
everything rises. The boys, the smokestacks in the cities
while the oil derricks pump dark blood
from the earth, from under a cloudy sky.
Sky and sea are one thing.
Maybe we are the lost continent of Mu.
Looking up, singing from the fabled Alexandrian library,
from a time when sequoias circled the earth,
final remnants of another age in the New World.
I cannot help but think of Christianity
when I see the redwoods, their longevity
sparks something within me.
Seedlings when the Demotic hymns were sung,
when the cities along the Adriatic
took root among the the stones.
It is said the Aegeans became sailors
because the land was too rocky to till.
I cannot ameliorate these oil wells
in beautiful skies at the same time.
We are ships traveling through
while a chorus of angels sing a delusion of faith.

Summer of 1992

Sunday, July 5, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 35: Burning Bush FIRST DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS # 35: Burning Bush  FIRST DRAFT
     —From a collage by Marsha Connell

In front of the Wailing Wall, a flamingo stands.
A tree in the form of a woman
and a tender bud of a flower unfurls
its yellow petals in a slow combustion of light.
Migrating geese rise from a cemetery,
The glistening darkness of raven wings
is not squandered on the depths of the eye.
The vase postulates the concept
of swallowing the sun whole.
Tendrils seek the assurance of gravity,
mixed with the vagaries of the wind.

Marsha said: I cannot get any closer to the Western Wall
because the citadel is masculine energy.
No women are allowed to pray at the wall.
No wonder the woman who is a tree
combusts into a raging fire.

 She is seeking God in a man’s religion.
It’s not a question of taking back the myth,
or anything for that matter.
Death of the spirit is coequal
to that of bones or feathers.
Still we follow migratory patterns
because this is what we know best.
Sculptural beginnings of blossoms cut from the soil,
transfer energy to the a vase, temporal, fleeting.

Last night, the apple tree fell over in the wind.
I saw the trunk as a hollow.
So much deadwood, cambian layers, a thin ray of green
hope among the rotted depths of that hollow trunk.
When where will Midnight, the cat take his daily nap now?
The apples to sour to eat. But we are talking of the world.
Why does God need a wall?
There are already too many walls between us,
between the sexes and God.
Even belief in God is suspect these days.
The rules are all wrong.

They said women have no souls,
that we were merely vessels to hold incarnate seed.
Our wombs, fruiting apples, even the dead know
of transmigration and of seasons. Their bones turning
like stones. They hiss as we approach the wall to pray.

Why must we always except belief in their terms?
Without death there would be no burial rights,
no religion, less separation of the sexes.
But the woman ignites, just the same.
Immolation is one of the four elements.
In the house alone, against the coming night.
Always we are seeking the light,
but our souls toss and turn
as this unbridled passion gathers us in.
Always we are seeking patterns
but the lichen knows only the completeness of stone
coming home. Turning it to dust.

Summer 1992

Saturday, July 4, 1992

DREAM VESSELS #34: Eclipse FIRST DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS #34: Eclipse FIRST DRAFT 
 —From a collage by Marsha Connell

A woman bedecked in flowers
a royal wedding barge of her body
pulled over the sea, Ophelia, here's for rue—
an adolescent dream of beauty and of peace
where the coral blossoms full strength.
she has grown useless alizarine wings
that were once maple seeds
but she cannot fly under the sea.

Two oranges hastily rise, the sun, 
its doppleganger pouring forth from the pitcher.
The eclipse poured out of the frame, changed the world.
The kelp undulates in a secret mystery dance of its own.
Small fish come to listen to the knocking of stones
along the shoreline, intransient as stone
where the mock orange bends, shedding white tears
onto milady's gown, which will surely pull her down.

Full fathom five, and she is singing, as she goes down.
Hands articulating the notes, madness transcends
itself into art. The play's the thing,
The bride returns to water, the sphere of her birth.
Sleeping Beauty, someday her prince will come.

Summer 1992

Friday, July 3, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 33: Death Comes to the Maiden FIRST DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS # 33: Death Comes to the Maiden  FIRST DRAFT
—From a collage by Marsha Connell

The coral snake curls toward the fan
which is written as an invocation to the wind.
When it is hot fan yourself and pray at the same time,
two acts for the price of one,
a corsage of bluebells, the oxblood vase
is like a genii bottle, uncorked. Skeletons rising out.
A man and a woman curl in the pose of final sleep.
Not of our culture where we reside
in separate lead-lined coffins
with no hope of re-joining our species.
But the Tarot cards on the table are from another frame,
a woman in white watches over the game,
the long white hall with the burnished wood floors
has the stillness of a late Victorian afternoon.

While inside the caves the beasts
dream themselves into being.
The aurochs, the bison the, the Paleolithic horses,
the skeleton of a woman protect a child.
Her last act as mother. The man under her,
as if asleep, his thighs over her pelvis.
Perhaps it was a scene from Pompeii.

Who painted the caves of Altamira. Look up,
or Las Caux, the caves, who painted them,
Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon man? I
t was the Neanderthals who buried their dead with flowers.
The concept of an afterlife has been with us for a while.

The snake is curled around the leaves,
the moment just after having tasted the air.
poisonous or not? Count the color patterns
white black red or white red black like a chant
is the difference between life and death.
The music of the forest floor,
it’s as if someone just stepped out for a moment
and will return to finish the game.
But it was a long long time ago, judging by the clues.
It’s hard to say with a prognosis of the cards was,
but death is inevitably in the cards if you wait long enough.
The contemporariness of origins,
the first artists evolving the fruitful hearth.
And what are we searching for now, I wonder?
The millennium approaches, shaking its shaggy horns.

Summer 1992

Thursday, July 2, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 32: Alchemy FIRST DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS # 32: Alchemy FIRST DRAFT
—From a collage by Marsha Connell

The danse macabre begins on the vessel.
A ship with four eyes sinks beneath the waves.
A trireme, below the sea, and more ships.
The fish dart through galley portholes
while the sea pounds against the rocks.
Seeking the orient, explorers found fabulous wealth
in apothecaries—medicine was blended to order.
Sleeplessness, impotency, broken hearts,
gallbladder trouble, Balancing the yin and yang.
Bear hearts, tiger penises and rhino horns
crushed beneath mortar and pestle.
And thus began the transference of magic.
I can make out the sun, forest, brave warriors, gentlemen.
Something about a rice field—all written in kanji.
An abacus above the powerlines
resembles skeletons of huge beasts rising.
A double trinity of smokestacks like rockets,
or dragons, while flowers take on the flight of birds.
The amaryllis, black tulips, peonies from the Orient,
and the blood of carnations, the medicine of the ages.
A small worm tugs at the heart of the rose.

Summer 1992

Wednesday, July 1, 1992

DREAM VESSELS #31: Fish Farm FIRST DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS #31: Fish Farm   FIRST DRAFT
     —From a collage by Marsha Connell

A woman bends to plant rice, the fish test the air.
Parrotfish, and butterflyfish nosing the fish kite.
Carpe diem! Schools of fish seize the air.
The groupers hover around the woman,
a starfish reaches for the leaves of plants. 
A flounder eyes up the situation.
In the midst of all this, something rises, 
plantlike, from the vegetable kingdom, 
a primeval stand of fern fronds, 
fiddlenecks anchor the coral gardens 
to the garden above the sea. 
The mountains rise like a wall behind the village.
Two blue keys, perhaps, fishing boats
casting their nets, a multitude of fish later, 
and there are real fish, just nosing around, 
seeking their cousins in the churning air.

Summer 1992

Tuesday, June 30, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 30 Cabbage Harvest salvaged DRAFT


DREAM VESSELS # 30   Cabbage Harvest   DRAFT
     —From a collage by Marsha Connell
From the sky, a tea bowl gathers in lightning
I thought of black chickens
hovering over the city at night.
Something in the art of tea
electrifying the air.
While in a New England town in fall
the tribeswomen watch the spectacle of the dark sky
gathering greens for their dinner
the streets are quiet
the burlap sack tumescent
the tea bowl circles the city on black wings
and the women reach down to pluck the green and gold from the trees
to nourish the celestial tribe and the overprivleged one
perhaps this is where the manna from heaven originates from
the color of fall trees
you can hear the tea bowl folding its wings
as it settles for the night
the annular division of labor between night and day equal
no matter where we measure it from
the poles, the equator.
Itís just the way in which itís dished out
that affects where we live, what we eat
it all boils down to the weather
the horse latitudes, the temperate zone
where the trees live
the most densely populated place on earth

Summer 1992
DREAM VESSELS —from collages by Marsha Connell

 
DREAM VESSELS #37: Mountain Fire Shepherd   FIRST DRAFT
     —From a collage by Marsha Connell
The shepherdess comes out of the burned land and the tent.
The shelter is not a yurt, but a mountain. Perhaps Tibet.
Where to find tent poles if there’s a shortage of wood?
Tied to the door frame, an amulet, laurel leaves and feathers protect her
No one sees her in all her coral finery
On this continent  or Hawaii she would wear a feather cloak
Four rams hold up a chalice to the sky to collect rain
Have the forests been felled by a volcano, or worse?
homeless birds watch us.
the bluebird will not come again, this silent spring
The orb above the tent is not a moon;
inexorable oil barrels rise in place of the harvest moon
toward the carbon past, a march we can’t stop
The fire from the oil wells in the middle east
will be felt in the remotness of Tibet
The fire will darken her life too
though Tibet is a closed country 
Our presence is felt here too
When I was little my grandmother gave me a bluebird necklace 
This elaborate vessel. our culture does not invest in such elaborate art
a chalice, for us to own it is a sacrilege
we don’t have the investment of feeling for the power of anything natural
this very humble woman’s at peace with it so it’s more natural to her

Summer 1992
DREAM VESSELS —from collages by Marsha Connell

Sunday, June 28, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 28: Oil Spill DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS # 28:  Oil Spill     DRAFT
     —From a collage by Marsha Connell

Two women walk over an oily sea
a necklace of diamonds
the boats pull the blue-black oil
barricades globular oil glistening
seductive oil on the rocks, the birds
in jeweled formation
the planets rise guardian-like
behind the women who walk
covering their faces
the nomadic blankets
where credo is interwoven
with the dailiness of survival
and art is not separate
but the oil, these diamonds
fabulous wealth for the few
imbalance maybe
diamonds are frozen carbon tears of stars.
A woman's face is afield of diamonds,
they fall from her hands.
The Persian Sea is doomed
we’ve defecated in the cradle of life.
These tropical seas abound with life,
they blossom like tribal rugs—
a blanket of oil for the sea
a blanket of sludge for the shore
plumes of smoke for the air
visible from space.
It took the smoke from 600 oil wells
to block the light of the sun.
how to explain to the next generation
the  sabotage of the Bergan Oil Fields.
The oil slick did not differentiate
between the grebes and cormorants.
Soldiers shooting into the dark with infrared scopes,
shot down 8000 camels as ememies of the state.
What of the 30,000 birds?
What of the Syrian bear shot in the foot
by an Iraqi soldier for target practice. 
And what of the camels caught in crossfire—
no exodus for them, other than death.
At the zoo, a giraffe bends down to eat grain
from an old man’s upraised hands.
A call to prayer from the minaret.
The desert is covered with tar, like a vast parking lot.
A boy squats by the sea to wash for prayer.
Hussain attempted to ignite the water
with 4 million barrels of oil.
The turtles coming ashore to lay their eggs,
we’re bewildered. No sea grass to eat.
The wading birds die quietly in the marshes.
Birds and insects, seeing blue sky reflected in the oil pools
mistaken it for water.
A river of oil floated down to the coast,
fresh crude trapped in the branching arms of coral
turned to asphalt, Medusa's hair has turned to stone
in the incoming tide of destruction.

Summer 1992
DREAM VESSELS —from collages by Marsha Connell

Saturday, June 27, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 27: Dark Vision salvaged DRAFT



DREAM VESSELS # 27:  Dark Vision    DRAFT

     —From a collage by Marsha Connell
 
A black ship with lateen sails

in front of the gates to the courtyard
where lions with three-pronged tails
rise on each column.
A woman covers her face
the sea is the red of bombs, of destruction.
Glistening lights of the harbor on an oily sea
the lions on the pillars who watch us
for reactions liook as if theyíre about to cry.
The columns curling upward
like serpents on the healerís staff
the apron covers her but she weeps into her hands
the sea and blood share the same origin as tears
why is she weeping?
the past and future clash
in 1990 there were 111 wars world-wide;
a typical year, someone notes.

Summer 1992
DREAM VESSELS —from collages by Marsha Connell

 
DREAM VESSELS # 28:  Oil Spill     DRAFT
     —From a collage by Marsha Connell
Two women walking over the oily sea
a necklace of diamonds
the boats pull the blue-black oil
barricades globular oil glistening
seductive oil on the rocks, the birds
in jeweled formation
the planets rise guardian-like
behind the women who walk
covering their faces
the nomadic blankets
where credo is interwoven
with the dailiness of survival
and art is not separate
but the oil, these diamonds
fabulous wealth for the few
imbalance
maybe the diamonds are frozen carbon tears of stars
A womanís face is a diamond
they fall from her hands
the Persian Sea is doomed
weíve defecated in the cradle
the tropical seas abound with life
they blossom like tribal rugs
a blanket of oil for the sea
a blanket of sludge for the shore
plumes of smoke for the air
visible from space
it took the smoke from 600 oil wells to block out the sun
sabotage of the Bergan Oil Fields
the oil slick did not differentiate
between the types of grebes and cormorants
Soldiers shooting into the dark with infrared scopes
shot down 8000 camels as ememies of the state,
what of the 30,000 birds?
What of the Syrian bear shot in the foot by an Iraqi soldier for target practice.
and the camels caught in crossfireóno exodus for them but death.
At the zoo, a giraffe bends down to eat grain from an old manís upraised hands. A call to prayer from the minaret. The desert is covered with tar.
like a vast parking lot
A boy squats by the sea, Hussain wanted to ignite the water with 4 million barrels of oil.
The turtles coming ashore to lay thteir eggs, bewildered. Nosea grass to eat.
the wading birds just die quietly in the marshes
Birds and insects, seeing blue sky reflected in the oil pools
mistaken it for water and a river of oil floated down to the coast
fresh crude trapped in the branching arms of the coral turns to asphault medusaís hair turned to stone in the tide of destruction

Summer 1992
DREAM VESSELS —from collages by Marsha Connell

Friday, June 26, 1992

DREAM VESSELS # 26: Exodus rescued DRAFT

DREAM VESSELS # 26: Exodus DRAFT
     —From a collage by Marsha Connell

Three camels, ships of the desert
in caravan; turbaned riders asleep
in the green-gold of night
striding toward us
an archaic statue thick calves
a woman by the breasts, but a man in stride
the wind whips her garments
molding them to her body
left foot forward
a rice bowl above her head
the Orient, the camels, the silk road
naked vertebrae rise against the night sky
like a howling animal,
a quadruped reaching for the sky in grief
on the unstable platform of two legs
while lightning punctuates exclams the horizon
The snow capped mountains bathed in royal afterglow
a messenger walks out of the desert
neither male nor female
we must seek new paths, new directions
the way we have been going has been too late
her arms are gone, she cannot embrace us
a fissure threatens to divide her
across the gut and she is bald
her hair is lost in the night
the rice bowl, a cauldron to resurrect the dead
but the fisher king is wounded and cannot heal
she is come to tell us
that she is come
and the camels head left into the sand storm
uneasily rocking their cargo (human or otherwise)

The Israelite fled out of Egypt into the desert
surviving a series of plagues. 


Do nothing be still turn your fears into faith 
Aram's rod, the jar of manna 
god walks among them.