PASS AROUND POEM
I missed both eclipses of the sun and moon
but unwittingly wore my eclipse tee shirt anyway
the night the moon hung like a light bulb over the Golden Gate.
On the way home, we looked for the moon, found none.
I blamed the pattern of trees and ridges.
The Nigerians were unused to the vagaries of this coast.
Ghosts of ships, the interior of stone sleeping beneath the waves.
I cannot find the way to the end of my heart.
Who finds the way back home for the heart
knows the secrets of life.
He knows the wind will be jealous
and the willows will not forgive him.
He prefers the sound of rain
to the beating heart.
I am watching the stars crawl across the horizon.
To find the way, to lose it, and to find it again.
There are no simple answers
other than the constancy of the moon, the stars, this song.
The soft notes escape the melody
lingers in the black keys.
Feeding the piano he came to understand
the arms of the saguaro embrace the air.
Why did he call me to explain
why he beat her that night in Baja?
The sky considers the blueness of itself,
decides upon the word azul,
becomes water to thirst
because the clouds know how to dance in the sky
like a thought in hot water.
The water needed no directions from the mountains.
It knew the patterns of the sea, the paths to the sea,
dreaming it was a violet in search of the past.
5/31/94
I extracted my lines from several poems we passed around and each wrote two lines to, then folded the paper so we couldn't see the first line—4 authors. Makes you stretch.
Tuesday, May 31, 1994
Sunday, May 29, 1994
BUDAPEST, 1919 (from photos by André Kertesz)
BUDAPEST, 1919
—from photos by André Kertesz
1. From the Citadel, Margit Island
spreads her greenery across the Danube.
On this side of the river, Obuda,
Turkish baths, Roman forts, Celtic graves.
On the Pest side, the domed spires of government
pierce the bellies of ominous storm clouds.
Pesht, “sh” like in Irish. No latinate “s”.
No bridge to span the river. No Russian Front.
2. Bundled in a long coat, a woman
contemplates the fallen leaves in the forest.
Or perhaps immigration to America before it’s too late.
She could be my grandmother leaving Ireland.
A faint trail, more of wagon wheels than of cars.
The trees have enormous trunks, more like boulders.
Borders of religious geography demarcated by spires.
Soon this field will be pockmarked with craters.
3. Amid fallen leaves, a lone park bench.
It could be Peter’s forest along the Baltic.
We wandered through the fall colors.
The revolution hasn’t yet happened.
Ladders against bright haystacks the size of cottages.
Longhandled hay rakes comb their tresses.
Coral beads about my neck. Distant mazurkas
and tall poplars with no limbs sprout untidy new growth,
their tops candle flames flickering in the wind.
They have brought the cattle to the river to drink.
4. In a village outside Budapest I eat shashlick
am mistaken for a German. Few Americans here.
I get by on a little Russian, no German or Magyar.
More amber here than in Russia, chunks of ancient honey
to sweeten the pockets of smugglers.
The winter I turned 39, snow was falling,
I bought amber, lived in a country without status,
no longer the USSR, not yet Russia—again.
One man leads to another who shows me the next,
and so on, as if the countries themselves were lovers.
the citadel of Hungary, a respite before the storm.
—from photos by André Kertesz
1. From the Citadel, Margit Island
spreads her greenery across the Danube.
On this side of the river, Obuda,
Turkish baths, Roman forts, Celtic graves.
On the Pest side, the domed spires of government
pierce the bellies of ominous storm clouds.
Pesht, “sh” like in Irish. No latinate “s”.
No bridge to span the river. No Russian Front.
2. Bundled in a long coat, a woman
contemplates the fallen leaves in the forest.
Or perhaps immigration to America before it’s too late.
She could be my grandmother leaving Ireland.
A faint trail, more of wagon wheels than of cars.
The trees have enormous trunks, more like boulders.
Borders of religious geography demarcated by spires.
Soon this field will be pockmarked with craters.
3. Amid fallen leaves, a lone park bench.
It could be Peter’s forest along the Baltic.
We wandered through the fall colors.
The revolution hasn’t yet happened.
Ladders against bright haystacks the size of cottages.
Longhandled hay rakes comb their tresses.
Coral beads about my neck. Distant mazurkas
and tall poplars with no limbs sprout untidy new growth,
their tops candle flames flickering in the wind.
They have brought the cattle to the river to drink.
4. In a village outside Budapest I eat shashlick
am mistaken for a German. Few Americans here.
I get by on a little Russian, no German or Magyar.
More amber here than in Russia, chunks of ancient honey
to sweeten the pockets of smugglers.
The winter I turned 39, snow was falling,
I bought amber, lived in a country without status,
no longer the USSR, not yet Russia—again.
One man leads to another who shows me the next,
and so on, as if the countries themselves were lovers.
the citadel of Hungary, a respite before the storm.
5/29/94
Wednesday, May 18, 1994
STILL LIFE (from photos by John Adams listen)
STILL
LIFE
from
photos by John Adams
—for
Maury Lapp
Eggplants—or
are they aubergines—
migrate
across a plank in sepia tones.
The
sedulous heart of the cabbage gleams
as
if the stage were part of its coterie.
Cherry
tomatoes, crown jewels—
one
missing from its setting.
Nailed to the wall: four leaves.
Cardinal
directions rendered in light & shadow.
We
imagine color in the language of the eye.
I
think of Neruda’s Odas Vegetales,
move
from tongue to tongue,
but
the subject remains fixed.
Tired
of writing about love,
I
am summer’s fallow field.
Silver
nitrate in babies’ eyes at birth
make
photography the second conceptual art.
Someone
hands me an assignment:
Write
a letter to the kitchen knife.
I
sever words from the darkness.
literature and art
intersect.
Talks about change.
Hands me a dime
Hands me a dime
to spin and toss
to the table’s edge.
Influences the outcome
in black & white.
to the table’s edge.
Influences the outcome
in black & white.
Waits to see what will develop.
5/18/94
EROSION (from photos by Aryan Chappell)
EROSION
—from photos by Aryan Chappell
Sandstone erosion
as if calligraphy trapped in stone
needed the wind to reveal its secrets.
The secrets in stone reveal the pathways of writing,
our history trapped in stone.
The journey of the horse,
the reasons for the wind,
the migration of thought,
the bones of words
in the crevices of the mind.
A revision in stone,
a line becomes articulate thought,
becomes art, becomes the architecture of the sky—
as if clouds and wind were storytellers.
The readers of stones during winter run-off,
the emergence of pathways of light,
a white branch along a creek.
The following stones
teaching the forest how to cast shadows
the river to run uphill, other stones to cry.
The emergence of branched structures from layered rock.
The fog melds the hillsides with the sea,
the clouds seeking the bowl of earth
along the wall, buttresses and layers
human forms frozen in stone.
Clouds and rivers and canyon light.
5/18/94
—from photos by Aryan Chappell
Sandstone erosion
as if calligraphy trapped in stone
needed the wind to reveal its secrets.
The secrets in stone reveal the pathways of writing,
our history trapped in stone.
The journey of the horse,
the reasons for the wind,
the migration of thought,
the bones of words
in the crevices of the mind.
A revision in stone,
a line becomes articulate thought,
becomes art, becomes the architecture of the sky—
as if clouds and wind were storytellers.
The readers of stones during winter run-off,
the emergence of pathways of light,
a white branch along a creek.
The following stones
teaching the forest how to cast shadows
the river to run uphill, other stones to cry.
The emergence of branched structures from layered rock.
The fog melds the hillsides with the sea,
the clouds seeking the bowl of earth
along the wall, buttresses and layers
human forms frozen in stone.
Clouds and rivers and canyon light.
5/18/94
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.
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?
Wednesday, May 11, 1994
INTERVIEW WITH A LADY-IN-WAITING
INTERVIEW WITH A
LADY-IN-WAITING
My life was filled with
parties, dancing until dawn.
All those violins practicing
the mating flight.
I don’t remember who called
him The Great.
My destiny was to be a court
songbird,
my art, to preen my feathers
in the grand ballrooms.
I learned to smile; the sun
rose on his every command.
The water garden at the
Summer Palace
offered us a chance to
discard our plumage.
So many rooms and floors
with inlaid stones
and columns of malachite and
gilt.
Yes, the peasants
labored,
but we never let that enter
our pretty heads. Bread enough.
Of course winters were cold,
they’re used to it.
I heard Bonaparte’s army was
defeated by our mud.
What did he expect? Winter’s
vast empire is Russia.
Once I said Yes to a man, then changed my mind.
Urgent rustle of wheat
before the harvest.
I miss his eyes. The eye of
the Baltic. The canals.
Afternoon tea in the gazebo.
His honeyed arias.
His footprints, ravens in
the carrion snow.
5/11/94
I was teaching workshops on interviews with the dead, where we had to get inside their heads and imagine.
NAKED TRUTH
NAKED TRUTH
The mirror knows more than it shows the world
that greeniness hiding the deeper truths
by holding up the naked truth—
like being unmasked at the ball before the final hour.
As if some transparent beast were waiting to spring
out of the cupboards of the world;
not some spirit guide, but a real monster
with bristles and fangs
and the strength of eons to tattoo words above my door.
“Enter cautiously, Monster within (at work)”
as if I invented the reasons for creativity,
or an excuse to play out of tune again and again
to the dreamhills as if I’d lived the rest of my life
in advance, but always my horses are lost in the wilderness
and I cannot find the way home.
The talisman of the dream,
lost inside the heart of the world.
5/11/94
This is from Katharine Harer's Questions, a CPITS lesson—but many of these poems were written on weekends so I didn't always write them all in class.
The mirror knows more than it shows the world
that greeniness hiding the deeper truths
by holding up the naked truth—
like being unmasked at the ball before the final hour.
As if some transparent beast were waiting to spring
out of the cupboards of the world;
not some spirit guide, but a real monster
with bristles and fangs
and the strength of eons to tattoo words above my door.
“Enter cautiously, Monster within (at work)”
as if I invented the reasons for creativity,
or an excuse to play out of tune again and again
to the dreamhills as if I’d lived the rest of my life
in advance, but always my horses are lost in the wilderness
and I cannot find the way home.
The talisman of the dream,
lost inside the heart of the world.
5/11/94
This is from Katharine Harer's Questions, a CPITS lesson—but many of these poems were written on weekends so I didn't always write them all in class.
Sunday, May 8, 1994
ILA, TAKE TWO, GAVIOTA
-->
ILA,
TAKE TWO, GAVIOTA
from Elemental Portraits: Nocturnes for Two Pianos,
from Elemental Portraits: Nocturnes for Two Pianos,
composed
by Kirk Whipple
Seagull,
I’d want the air
because
the sky is the ocean
and
I don’t know the words
for
the direction the voice takes.
The
mountain sleeps with the sea
and
the horizons of Alba
struggle
to transcribe the notes in the sand.
Your
fish are grinning, light is asleep.
The
moon and the sun dance on the sea
because
the children of the air
don’t
know the solitary soul of the gull.
Seabird,
seabird, the air is your country
it’s
your fortress, it’s the heart,
and
the sea, your house.
Gaviota
quisiera el aire
porque
el cielo es el mar
y
no conozco las palabras
para
esta dirección de la voz toque.
Las
montaña duerme con el mar
y
los horizontes de Alba
la
lucha discribien las notas en la arena.
Tús
peces sonreian, la luz está durmiendo.
La
luna y el sol bailan en el mar,
porque
los niños del aire
no
conocieron la alma solitario de gaviota.
Gaviota,
gaviota, el aire es tú pais,
es
tú castillo, es tú corazón,
y
el mar, tú casa.
CODA: POSTLUDE: ELEMENTAL PORTRAITS
ELEMENTAL PORTRAITS
—from musical compositions by Kirk Whipple
POSTLUDE:
She is there to lift us out of obscureness.
Portraits of sunset,
ocean cloudscapes dreaming
a dressage of neon rain,
a party in the other room
the nightingale singing,
a steady flame,
the two of us at sunrise.
walking in the starry clusters of sand
and the burden becomes another
Silencio de negra.
grace notes outside the key edible.
the patterns on a lake,
we forget the paths.
what we’ve lost touch of.
We have nothing but ourselves
In our circuituous wanderings
we carry the burden of freedom forward.
because she is the light to guide us,
teaching us to begin again.
Arpeggios of water waltz
cusp lean into the wind
trust it to hold you
crisp bells before the storm
the hills, come to the sea, wave/rocks flight of birds across snow
clear message before the storm
the breath to sing
sighting land like Columbus
the clue of birds on the horizon
riding out the tune cresting each wave.
cross-rhythms like a shiver of ear candy.
Return to first field
stepping up each measured step
As this rhythm bubbles up
the parched earth
Those things deep inside
step up, fall back, begin again.
Chill of spine, chickenskin
syncopation of the pianists,
short burst rearranges.
the pulse finding us deep inside
he's growing surer but also more faint
as the path becomes clear
deep beginnings the end of stuttering colors,
a free beginning, creating the concept of darkness, of sound
Dark to light/lyrical matter-of factly,
—from musical compositions by Kirk Whipple
POSTLUDE:
She is there to lift us out of obscureness.
Portraits of sunset,
ocean cloudscapes dreaming
a dressage of neon rain,
a party in the other room
the nightingale singing,
a steady flame,
the two of us at sunrise.
walking in the starry clusters of sand
and the burden becomes another
Silencio de negra.
grace notes outside the key edible.
the patterns on a lake,
we forget the paths.
what we’ve lost touch of.
We have nothing but ourselves
In our circuituous wanderings
we carry the burden of freedom forward.
because she is the light to guide us,
teaching us to begin again.
Arpeggios of water waltz
cusp lean into the wind
trust it to hold you
crisp bells before the storm
the hills, come to the sea, wave/rocks flight of birds across snow
clear message before the storm
the breath to sing
sighting land like Columbus
the clue of birds on the horizon
riding out the tune cresting each wave.
cross-rhythms like a shiver of ear candy.
Return to first field
stepping up each measured step
As this rhythm bubbles up
the parched earth
Those things deep inside
step up, fall back, begin again.
Chill of spine, chickenskin
syncopation of the pianists,
short burst rearranges.
the pulse finding us deep inside
he's growing surer but also more faint
as the path becomes clear
deep beginnings the end of stuttering colors,
a free beginning, creating the concept of darkness, of sound
Dark to light/lyrical matter-of factly,
no big swell or crescendo like in the movies.
(What would a patriot dream of,
or is she a patriot’s dream dreaming a person?)
I am the endless stranger inside the depths of night.
(What would a patriot dream of,
or is she a patriot’s dream dreaming a person?)
I am the endless stranger inside the depths of night.
Friday, May 6, 1994
VIRGINIA: THE STEADY FLAME
—for
Virginia Cayton
Giving
us the rhythm of your name,
the
voracious hunger of syllables
and
staccato of piano keys,
the
steady flame of she who leads us
from
the darkness of the wood.
Calling
you home, calling you—
Virginia.
I
want to tell you of the rising sun,
of
the height of redwoods
by
the edge of the lake,
pulling
us in, plucking us from both sides
like
a harp, or a violin fretting us.
The
black keys singing, Virginia.
An
unnameable quality,
the
tracings of shadows—
To
swing the syllables of the air—
How
distance is minuscule.
Life
is like that measured beat
of
jubiliation. Repeat it again.
Over
the rise, clouds gather
in
your name. Virginia.
Your
feet trace shadows
on
the back roads of the mind.
The
journey forward
must
also contain the past.
For
what is a pianist without a piano?
Arms
punctuate ideas,
strengthen
us, build stairs until we
sink
down into ourselves
and
feel it from the insides of our knees.
The
wind is calling you
by
the music of your name,
Virginia.
VIRGINIA:
THE STEADY FLAME
TAKE
TWO:
As
if someone entered the room
a
draft tickles the flame,
teaches
it the elements of dance;
it
knows how to bend in the breeze.
Like
the roaring stand of pines,
it
sings its eventual death song.
Not
perpendicular right angles
but
the bending of light, of time.
Wave
and particle, quantum mechanics.
Who
holds the room together,
who
shows the darkness how to dance with light?
A
child claps his hands with joy
following
the melody of your name, Virginia.
Oh
Virginia, the sky knows your name.
The
darkness is its brother—or is it sister?
Virginia,
the mountains’ purity
is
composed of ice & rock.
We
learn anew the meaning of sublime
living
in the heart of the flame.
Virginia,
the black notes take hold, climb the summit,
seeking
the darkness & the light in one breath.
Chiaroscuro
and contrapunto, the flickering flame.
Thursday, May 5, 1994
COLLAGE POEM AFTER HEARING PAUL BOWLES’ LETTERS
COLLAGE POEM AFTER HEARING PAUL BOWLES’ LETTERS
—Tangiers, 1931
He said:
Below our life, all is water.
I was an ugly baby, an abnormal child
writing a 2-page story at the age of two.
I was blue, soft at the corners of the mouth.
When I was eight I wrote an opera.
But there’s got to be a base.
Flip a coin. Heads: run off to Paris.
Become a writer. Tails: do myself in.
The parrot looks at me suspiciously
whenever I type.
He spoke wistfully of the time of his father—
when they kept tame gazelles in the room.
Drank thick dark coffee
on the bougainvillea-inflamed terrace.
There is no greater crime
than the excitement of envy,
said Lao Tsu.
There are no tourists anymore.
The proper length of time
to stay in a hotel is one night,
the proper length of time
to stay in a city is one day.
Stay in a different quarter each time.
Always walk fast.
Here I shall live
until the eucalyptus leaves learn to fall
in a city whiter than Jesus’s soul.
Voices. Something is singing at night.
I’m going away to death’s black arms.
Below our life, all is water.
There’s got to be a base.
The radio, like a terminal moraine.
Aloneness. The veil. This is the base.
How fast is the beating heart?
Here, nothing, no Petrushka. No base.
No thoughts, only tones.
The call of the muzzeim.
And the sheltering sky.
5/5/94
—Tangiers, 1931
He said:
Below our life, all is water.
I was an ugly baby, an abnormal child
writing a 2-page story at the age of two.
I was blue, soft at the corners of the mouth.
When I was eight I wrote an opera.
But there’s got to be a base.
Flip a coin. Heads: run off to Paris.
Become a writer. Tails: do myself in.
The parrot looks at me suspiciously
whenever I type.
He spoke wistfully of the time of his father—
when they kept tame gazelles in the room.
Drank thick dark coffee
on the bougainvillea-inflamed terrace.
There is no greater crime
than the excitement of envy,
said Lao Tsu.
There are no tourists anymore.
The proper length of time
to stay in a hotel is one night,
the proper length of time
to stay in a city is one day.
Stay in a different quarter each time.
Always walk fast.
Here I shall live
until the eucalyptus leaves learn to fall
in a city whiter than Jesus’s soul.
Voices. Something is singing at night.
I’m going away to death’s black arms.
Below our life, all is water.
There’s got to be a base.
The radio, like a terminal moraine.
Aloneness. The veil. This is the base.
How fast is the beating heart?
Here, nothing, no Petrushka. No base.
No thoughts, only tones.
The call of the muzzeim.
And the sheltering sky.
5/5/94
Wednesday, May 4, 1994
STOLEN RIDE
STOLEN
RIDE
—for
Nathan
Bright
copper against the afternoon sky,
they
were better than day dreams.
Like
young girls they coyly bared their necks,
pulled
the tall oats with such surety,
ears
and feet in a slow syncopated tandem waltz.
In
love with their beauty, I was ten.
With
ropes concealed behind our backs
Micaela
and I climbed the steep hillside.
Honey-voiced,
we approached, they leaned
into
us as we scratched their necks.
The
wind lufted their manes like prayer flags.
I
was ten, I idolized the lake country of their eyes.
The
ropes arranged themselves.
As
if by magic, we were transported
to
the ridges that opened like a path
leading
us deeper into the mystery.
I
was ten, in love with their flint-hooved surety.
The
kingdom of the air was ours.
Our
hearts flying, fists clenching manes,
raw
horsepower unleashed the green blur
of
meadows, the flight of birds, our teachers.
I
was ten, enraptured with their velocity.
We
could not bear the separation at dusk.
Alive,
they filled the barn with their breathing.
Mesmerized
by the rhythmic grinding of their teeth,
we
felt proud, gathered armloads of grass.
Our
secret safe in the abandoned barn,
we
went home bursting with excitement.
Ours!
Ours! I was ten, in love with their loveliness.
The
red light of the sheriff’s car
worried
the curtain, the blood rose
like
lava and settled, that dread chill
icing
my toes. He said “We still hang
horse
thieves around here.”
In trouble with the law,
I
stood there, ten, afraid to breathe.
In love with their beauty, I was ten.
5/4/94
PIANO PORTRAIT
PIANO
PORTRAIT
—For Herman Berlandt who once lived in a
storage room
and slept on the baby grand.
Poor
chewed teddy bear on the studio piano—
(the
plant looks guilty.)
It
serves as a bar, an ironing board, a shelf.
The
piano’s lips are closed.
Small
brass knobs like eyes, or nostrils—
more
bulldog than swan.
No
cygnet, or grand piano,
when
properly encouraged
it
sings superbly.
An
infinite swan song.
It
wants touching—
the deft stroke and caress, or even abuse:
a Lullaby by Brahms, or Maple Leaf Rag.
the deft stroke and caress, or even abuse:
a Lullaby by Brahms, or Maple Leaf Rag.
It
vocalizes the song of the fingers
in
arias and open octaves.
I
imagine those black and white keys asleep,
or
perhaps when the lid is down,
they run out the back door
to play among the wires
they run out the back door
to play among the wires
only
to return at the sound
of
approaching fingers.
5/4/94
Sunday, May 1, 1994
Saturday, April 30, 1994
Intangible Instructions
There is always the desire to return. The tail of a blue fish emerged from her fingers, his arms were fins. Memories floated backwards in time to listen for the vestigial singing river in the dry riverbed. I never wanted the plane to land, but the Andes rose like a white dream to punctuate the sky. Faith in miracles. Here, Pizarro slept. There, Blake saw God in an apple tree. Time flowed backward, lined up like the homeless, like the basureños in makeshift houses along the Apurimac, or in Tijuana. Lined up like the locked eyes of death into the burning future on several continents. Myth: I carried a new gift of life. In the end, memory fails. Conquistador y amor. In Quito, the snake dancer from the selva cursed me. The bridge failed me. Coltrane’s sax defines qualities of night but the doors are locked. The six-legged nightmare rides on the smoke. Ask me what this means, I cannot read history written in the smoke of the victor. Say that in Selma, Dubrovnik, Darrio City, Bagdhad, Blake’s London, or L.A.
The descending fog envelops our feet. A warning call clearing the double-vision down the canyon past temptation. A gorge divides water from water, brings it together again. Except for the L.A. river. Do you know how to soar down through the dilemma, both following and leading? Counter-clockwise dance. Remembrance, resemblance. Which direction does the vortex choose? What carries us on and on? The child’s face buried in the moon’s path. They wander through the empty streets of Cusco, Moscow, San Francisco. In every voice, in every mirrored face, the bell toils for them. We speak with our hands. The gift of hands offered language to the children.
She stored apples under her bed. Illicit money whispered in the palms, Feel me! The teeth of graveyards are built on this foundation: the tail of the 20th century rendered in the useless orchestrations of Oppenheimer’s regret. The eagle keening. Living art in empty sheets. Riderless horses. Where is Schrödinger’s cat? Pandora? The blind mouse sleeping on the back of a dead bird dreams of angels. Clear the shelves of omnipotent windfalls and quantum malignancy. The marriage hearse reinvents the mother. Death reinvents the mechanics of fear. Open the box. Not.
Fear of the scent of money, fear of poverty. Fear of the telephone in the dead of night. Fear of needing glasses, fear of not enough time to read the face inside the eye of night. Fear of repeating the past, of paradoxes, of ambivalence, of love’s trap. I said I stayed in my dreams. Memorized floor patterns, but specific moments never came. The hunter flame burned celluloid memory. Imagery: Hopperesque scenes shot in black & white. The desire to return embedded in the fear of fear.
Fear of not growing up. Fear of control. Fear of growing up and not being in control. Or of growing up and being in control. What if I ran away and no one stopped me? That moment of star-crossed thresholds. Not saying, Now I lay me down to sleep. Saying, I see my future as nothing, becoming nothing. Becoming the breathing of the open door. The thrones of angels. Fish with the hearts of men. Each belabored breath blinded by the light, I open my eyes. Looking forward, looking back. My erotic dreams littered with scorpions. Carpe Diem. Descend with eyes open wide, like Beatrice.
Do you remember when we danced face-to-face? The way your mouth opened into my darkness. I’d asked to move forward. Just a little more time. I wanted him out of my vocabulary and into a room with no walls. We swam to the ceiling. You flew into the light, grew fins. We needed to rearrange definitions of speech, of the forgotten rain. The dance continues. Kiss me while the bones of humanity learn how to sleep in open doorways, and eyes learn not to see. Out of necessity, they bathe in the streets where privacy is closest held, yet farthest away. To suckle memory. Whose tongue in my mouth? Por el loro, he said. Van Gogh’s sunflowers weren’t gold enough in the city of bankers. I held a namesake lover who cried in front of Vincent’s Self Portrait. But my arms weren’t strong enough to hold back the digital madness. I thought of Rilke. Raucous words escape the phosphor screen, take flight, flock to the trees like wild parrots. The computer becomes the 13th muse.
Fear of your thoughts. Origins of a code trickling down my thigh. What I ought to have said. Or, if I said too much. Fear of my thoughts. Fear of the telltale beating of the apple heart. Fear of finding the naked dawn descending the fire escape, each step of light defining the canyons of man. Exponential dreams of sirens scream in prime numbers, the mellifluous sax, the real voice of street corners. Notes bleed from the page escaping a shipwreck of blood. Fear of blood enters into it, another equation.
Fear the exponential division of prime numbers. The audience dreaming of an audience dreaming. Fear the agony of doors destined to be reduced to numbers. Fear the stairwells destined for darkness, stolen lives, stale smoke. On bulkheads facing the sea, and in stairwells facing dark alleys, fear the semen trapped or not trapped in translucent orbs, a tangible sign on all the continents. The bridge becomes a flamenco skirt for the moon. Whose father swam in the Amazon with the piranha? Who wears the moon’s mask? Learn to describe doves, the twin orbs of a woman’s ass. The lover’s hand under my dress. No mermaid’s tail. Then the cunt. When I said love, I got religious. Learned to walk, then crawl. Desire silences the guitar strings with scissors. Think about post-modern love deconstructing beneath city clocks without hands. Orgasm is closest to art. I didn’t mention syringes or T-cells.
No need for voices from the void flung like arrows. Or the bell tower of the heart’s drum. What are we willing to accept? The clichéd rose asleep on the piano lid. Maxwell’s hammer descending in slo-mo. Kennedy shot again and again. Some are not yet dead. Others were never really alive. Fish trapped in the sheets. The approaching storm delivered in monotone. Or in natural speech. Bukowski, dead. The TV channel-surfing in an empty room. Think of random blue noise as a way of life. Intangible instructions. Love’s fascism, asleep in a pool of blood, wants touching, stroking, punctuation. The restless sky mounts the moon. When will blood learn how to become stone? Was it better than anything, walking on the moon? Were we ever in the garden? The endless pit? One thing is certain: Night is neither noble nor sacred; her indifferent legs are open wide.
© MAUREEN HURLEY 25 April 1994; rev. 6/21 Freewrite on the 1993 Poetry Film Winners
The descending fog envelops our feet. A warning call clearing the double-vision down the canyon past temptation. A gorge divides water from water, brings it together again. Except for the L.A. river. Do you know how to soar down through the dilemma, both following and leading? Counter-clockwise dance. Remembrance, resemblance. Which direction does the vortex choose? What carries us on and on? The child’s face buried in the moon’s path. They wander through the empty streets of Cusco, Moscow, San Francisco. In every voice, in every mirrored face, the bell toils for them. We speak with our hands. The gift of hands offered language to the children.
She stored apples under her bed. Illicit money whispered in the palms, Feel me! The teeth of graveyards are built on this foundation: the tail of the 20th century rendered in the useless orchestrations of Oppenheimer’s regret. The eagle keening. Living art in empty sheets. Riderless horses. Where is Schrödinger’s cat? Pandora? The blind mouse sleeping on the back of a dead bird dreams of angels. Clear the shelves of omnipotent windfalls and quantum malignancy. The marriage hearse reinvents the mother. Death reinvents the mechanics of fear. Open the box. Not.
Fear of the scent of money, fear of poverty. Fear of the telephone in the dead of night. Fear of needing glasses, fear of not enough time to read the face inside the eye of night. Fear of repeating the past, of paradoxes, of ambivalence, of love’s trap. I said I stayed in my dreams. Memorized floor patterns, but specific moments never came. The hunter flame burned celluloid memory. Imagery: Hopperesque scenes shot in black & white. The desire to return embedded in the fear of fear.
Fear of not growing up. Fear of control. Fear of growing up and not being in control. Or of growing up and being in control. What if I ran away and no one stopped me? That moment of star-crossed thresholds. Not saying, Now I lay me down to sleep. Saying, I see my future as nothing, becoming nothing. Becoming the breathing of the open door. The thrones of angels. Fish with the hearts of men. Each belabored breath blinded by the light, I open my eyes. Looking forward, looking back. My erotic dreams littered with scorpions. Carpe Diem. Descend with eyes open wide, like Beatrice.
Do you remember when we danced face-to-face? The way your mouth opened into my darkness. I’d asked to move forward. Just a little more time. I wanted him out of my vocabulary and into a room with no walls. We swam to the ceiling. You flew into the light, grew fins. We needed to rearrange definitions of speech, of the forgotten rain. The dance continues. Kiss me while the bones of humanity learn how to sleep in open doorways, and eyes learn not to see. Out of necessity, they bathe in the streets where privacy is closest held, yet farthest away. To suckle memory. Whose tongue in my mouth? Por el loro, he said. Van Gogh’s sunflowers weren’t gold enough in the city of bankers. I held a namesake lover who cried in front of Vincent’s Self Portrait. But my arms weren’t strong enough to hold back the digital madness. I thought of Rilke. Raucous words escape the phosphor screen, take flight, flock to the trees like wild parrots. The computer becomes the 13th muse.
Fear of your thoughts. Origins of a code trickling down my thigh. What I ought to have said. Or, if I said too much. Fear of my thoughts. Fear of the telltale beating of the apple heart. Fear of finding the naked dawn descending the fire escape, each step of light defining the canyons of man. Exponential dreams of sirens scream in prime numbers, the mellifluous sax, the real voice of street corners. Notes bleed from the page escaping a shipwreck of blood. Fear of blood enters into it, another equation.
Fear the exponential division of prime numbers. The audience dreaming of an audience dreaming. Fear the agony of doors destined to be reduced to numbers. Fear the stairwells destined for darkness, stolen lives, stale smoke. On bulkheads facing the sea, and in stairwells facing dark alleys, fear the semen trapped or not trapped in translucent orbs, a tangible sign on all the continents. The bridge becomes a flamenco skirt for the moon. Whose father swam in the Amazon with the piranha? Who wears the moon’s mask? Learn to describe doves, the twin orbs of a woman’s ass. The lover’s hand under my dress. No mermaid’s tail. Then the cunt. When I said love, I got religious. Learned to walk, then crawl. Desire silences the guitar strings with scissors. Think about post-modern love deconstructing beneath city clocks without hands. Orgasm is closest to art. I didn’t mention syringes or T-cells.
No need for voices from the void flung like arrows. Or the bell tower of the heart’s drum. What are we willing to accept? The clichéd rose asleep on the piano lid. Maxwell’s hammer descending in slo-mo. Kennedy shot again and again. Some are not yet dead. Others were never really alive. Fish trapped in the sheets. The approaching storm delivered in monotone. Or in natural speech. Bukowski, dead. The TV channel-surfing in an empty room. Think of random blue noise as a way of life. Intangible instructions. Love’s fascism, asleep in a pool of blood, wants touching, stroking, punctuation. The restless sky mounts the moon. When will blood learn how to become stone? Was it better than anything, walking on the moon? Were we ever in the garden? The endless pit? One thing is certain: Night is neither noble nor sacred; her indifferent legs are open wide.
© MAUREEN HURLEY 25 April 1994; rev. 6/21 Freewrite on the 1993 Poetry Film Winners
Wednesday, April 27, 1994
MUTE STONES
MUTE STONES
—after Charles Simic
the dread stones
wavering on the cliff
seeking the lowest point
seeking the water’s pathways
seeking the belly of the ocean
and the origin of land
the upthrust of their birth
the stones that once flowed like
water
out of the mouths of volcanoes
are most eager to test the
boundaries of hardness
and the structures of fluidity.
Once they were standing waves
beginning flight
seeking air and the heart
of the earth bled
making them whole
giving them substance.
Sometimes they dream
of returning to the womb
Few are offered the chance
for the earth’s tectonic plates
select only a few
to reinvent themselves
as liquid, as land
So this is the way of stones
the star charts of the moon face
the secret prints in the moon’s
dust
If we go inside a stone
we would find the patterns
revealed
the dreams of stars
Once I held a meteor, a smoking
mirror
In my hand I saw my twin
locked in that inky dark
underworld
gazing back at me, lips parted
as if to speak, but as I leaned
closer, she was mute as stone.
4/27/94
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 20, 1994
PHASES OF THE MOON
PHASES OF THE MOON
I keep thinking about the side never seen by man,
not even Armstrong and Aldrin.
I am always keeping my face toward you
in synchronous rotation,
one side always in the arms of night,
no matter how 1 twist and turn toward the day
except for those times when the earth intervenes.
My dreams are the hard reality of stellar dust
I would like to be a dancer, slender as a thought
at the parties of the gods. Where is Apollo's logic
In the sky at night, dreams of colors unimagined
the side never seen by the sun
or passion in synchronous rotation.
No flags to blemish my face
waxing, waning, crescent & gibbous
no footprints left in lunar dust
my faith, or happiness.
when? March-April 1994
I keep thinking about the side never seen by man,
not even Armstrong and Aldrin.
I am always keeping my face toward you
in synchronous rotation,
one side always in the arms of night,
no matter how 1 twist and turn toward the day
except for those times when the earth intervenes.
My dreams are the hard reality of stellar dust
I would like to be a dancer, slender as a thought
at the parties of the gods. Where is Apollo's logic
In the sky at night, dreams of colors unimagined
the side never seen by the sun
or passion in synchronous rotation.
No flags to blemish my face
waxing, waning, crescent & gibbous
no footprints left in lunar dust
my faith, or happiness.
when? March-April 1994
ANALOGOUS TIME
ANALOGOUS
TIME
The
future began as a dream
of
light, darkness took
its
own time being born.
Digital
time had not yet been in-
vented,
clocks woke late,
out
of breath,wondering
what
to with time
without
hands
or
faces.
4/20/94 CPITS in class
ANALOGOUS TIME, ii
The necklace of the night—
smoke scattered light
across the sky
Meteors dreamed
of the fire
trapped in the sun.
The future began as a dream
of light, darkness took
its own time being born
Time had not yet been in-
vented, clocks of time
woke late, out of breath,
wondering what to do
with their hands
and faces.
4/20/94
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, April 14, 1994
TESTIMONY IN STONE
TESTIMONY IN STONE
after
Alberto Blanco’s reading
Filled with the immensity of
this new time
we assemble ourselves like
clockwork
seeking a new order
without abandoning the old
in the continuum of our days.
From mistakes come the right
paths
dogging our footsteps
the heart in all its thinly veiled
complexities.
The flowering of days mark the
passage of years
at our temples
higher reckoning of the frontal
lobes
transcendent speech, mute as
alabaster
dressed in light by the hands of
children
I have seen worked stone with
more speech
and in the cautionary “don’t
forget”
from a friend wishing us well
in the forgetting,
in the salvation of the heart’s tabernacle
the key of speech as mute
before the testimony of stone.
4/14/94
Wednesday, April 13, 1994
DEEP IN THE PINES
Deep in the pines
your eyes reflected
winter’s green story.
A fire in my dreams
opens the door
to memory
working at a different rate
from the north
the oak
dreams in the dark
4/13/94
Saturday, April 2, 1994
FAX SIMILE
FAX SIMILE
Hey word
don't be afraid
take a sad fax
and make it flutter
remember
to get it under your fin
and you'll begin
to take it better
4/2/94
Friday, April 1, 1994
XIBALBA
XIBALBA
In
Teotihuacán, the place where men become gods,
under
the place of fear, under the Fifth Sun,
the
scorpions at the base of the world tree are asleep.
In
Xibalba, the place of ancestors, the underworld is dark.
The
eliptic band of constellations that marks
the
daily path of the sun across the night sky
is
searching for the beginning of dreams.
From
dreams comes information: the time to plant,
the
weavings, the time to sacrifice.
It
is said nourishing the gods nourishes the people.
Where
is the king whose sexual blood was spilled
onto
the codex for the good of the people?
Whose
bloodsmoke rose to open the door to the sky?
When
a woman puts on her huipil
it
is said her head emerges at the center of the world.
A
door designed by dreams weaves
patterns
from the beginning of the world.
I
dream of scorpions stinging me again and again.
Under
the Fifth Sun, under the place of fear,
six-legged
gods were born from smoke
of inquisition.
Nourishing
only the sterility of yourself,
in
a tragic falling off from myth and history,
like
a despotic Aztec rey,
you
lanced yourself with thorns,
spilled
only ink on parchment, not royal blood.
It
combusts in the darkness of desk drawers.
No
holy smoke for the gods of the sky.
In
a door designed by dreams
my
head emerged in the center of the world
to
where I no longer feared you.
You
no longer wounded me,
my
conquistador
mi
amor. . .
4/94
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
