Tuesday, August 16, 1994

CALIFIA SPEAKS:


CALIFIA SPEAKS:

I did not choose this blanket of grass
or the slow fire of this golden heat.
My trees sink roots deep into my canyons.
They are my children.

I did not choose this deluge of rain,
nor the miners choking my rivers.
Why does the canal run south
for the border when so many
people want to come north?
Why do those red lines on maps
slice me from my first-born peninsula
and why does Baja speak
another language of salinity
the pickled tongue?
The myriad rivers
have lost their mouths

I do not understand this
preoccupation with separate things
when I roll out my wealth for all—
this golden wedding blanket,
this blue sea of the future,
these snowy peaks of the past,
the deep virgin lakes of my sorrow
the promise of my naked wealth
for all to see.

I did not choose this golden hoarde
to steal my hidden wealth;
leaving me vulnerable to the elements—
once my gold was gold enough for all.

8/16/94

Sunday, August 14, 1994

CLIMAX ENDING


CLIMAX ENDING

Language comes to me
unadorned with the hypothesis
of roses before the fading
of summer’s rage.
In darkened rooms we lie
naked escaping summer’s
wrathful eye.
Cool nights offer escape
and I rewrite the poems that carry me
until the neap heat of midday;
words sensuously release the metaphors
until orgasm is the invisible line
a conclusion, an end stop—
to what isn’t written, not even hidden
characters to give away
the secret climax ending.

8/14/94

Sunday, August 7, 1994

DOG DAYS OF SUMMER


DOG DAYS OF SUMMER


not                quite             noon
the temperature spikes                        another ten degrees
hammer in hand                 I can’t get these windows  open

in this august heat I think of how Tennessee Williams’ women
survived                     naked                               summer
regal liz  poor drowned natalie   vivian eternally blanche


in this three-digit weather                 we learn to appreciate
the minute increments toward                              body heat
    we depend upon the kindness of air            through lace
         and window screens                             stripped down
             the long vowels in sentences    into slivers of glass
           practiced stance in cold showers  
                                                               compared it to chi’i
ate raspberry sorbet at midnight               chewed our nails
                                                                    myriad tongues
of fans tasting the four directions                          for breath
  the pale aftermath of sky no white spaces between words           


                    our eyes covetously transgressed
     the condemned lintels            of imagination
                             and the desire for inspiration
                                                          we hung damp sheets
across doorways and windows bared our necks 
                                                                       to any breeze                      
                                                                                                                           .                                                                                 a truce
            said it’s the right kind of night for                a fire           
                                                                             or murder
           doppelganging in the canyons         the siren’s song
                                                          stitched into a shroud


the cats flopped down     blamed us for the heat       
at tailgate parties
we learned to foretell the future in ice cubes       
     we changed the lyrics  
        crushed mint beneath our heels   slept with the tvs on
          hoisted beer skyward                no one ever chooses
                their family                                neighbors or love


when the screen door slams      it’s not hypothetically measuring 
   the temperate distance between yes and maybe


my neighbor                 retrieves his small son from my bed 
reconciles             with his girlfriend
                        they stop by                     grab the ice chest
                                                                                               I crawl inside
                                     fall through the spaces between worlds


8/7/94

This had justified margins and was set up to look like lace. Doesn't exactly transfer here.

2001  Transfer Magazine, #82, Fall issue

Monday, August 1, 1994

Budapest, 1994


I play roulette with numbers for the grandmothers from the east that I never had; it’s all in my head. But not the numbers. Say them: 19, 45, 56, 68. Lottery or is it roulette? To be at home and at rest among the rubble.

Anna Kiss wrote how the fields became sad when they took away the men. The wind told her. After the war everything became unfamiliar to the survivors, and we, all of us, alive today, are survivors of war. Shell-shock, our inheritance. László said Anna was once so beautiful, he was shocked, she was a witch, a hag, he said.

Postcards from a massed grave. Franz Josef, WWI, Trianon, and the white terror of WWII. A generation without farewell, we were born into the world old. The politics of winter changes its mind, but the storyline remains the same. Snow, a symbol of the old guard mired in the mud, scent of leaves rooms filled with collected shadow mausoleums of the mind, becomes the bright talisman of the new guard.

Margít Island stripped bare of her trees. The soul scratching on the eyes of death. Sand, groin of the Donau, I can still see the outlines ofsoldiers. Occupation in any country, trees dumfounded by the fall. Escaped breath in winter’s kingdom.

Who reads the words of dove’s beaks, tulips, summer’s convulsive mouth. We hold our breath for the dead. Beds unmade by the sunlight. We drink Bull’s Blood, I think of Sandor Csóori’s fingertips blooming in the graveyards of resurrection.

Maybe in this forest someone stabbed a girl made of wax. Scorched voices of the candle flame. Who was talking about angels? I have not had to measure my life by the firing of guns, or the bearing of a son killed by war, any war. The winter death of my father buries me until mi yesd summer. My weapon is pen, film and paint. Who can speak all the names of the dead?

In dreams I find myself wandering along the Danube again, wondering whose life is vicariously living through me. Forints in the ash tray. I don’t smoke. Someone said, “Spiders are drawn to music.” They bite me when I move my poetry books, I become ill for the caretaking of words.

The leaf-hands of autumn knitted the smoke-laden sky’s sweater. I can learn to live with departure, and loss as a way of life. There is no other choice. I have never swam in the warm waters of Lake Balaton, nor have I measured the circumference of Szentendre Island, my notebooks having drowned in the thermal pools of Szechenyi Baths. My poor scalded words, a crude broth for an uncertain future. 

August, 1994


Saturday, July 30, 1994

Intangible Instructions, version 2 and a half

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 at San Luis Rey 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 Dubrovnik, Darrio City, Bagdhad, Blake’s London, or L.A. burning. Dante’s seventh circle.

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 in 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. White ravens 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 phone in the dead of night. Fear of not enough time to read the face inside the eye of night. Fear of repeating the past. I said I stayed in my dreams. Memorized floor patterns, but specific moments never came.

The hunter flame burned celluloid memory. 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. Blame it on Beltaine. 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 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.

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 his madness. I thought of Rilke. Raucous words escape the phosphor screen, take flight, flock to the trees. The computer is the 13th muse.

Fear of his thoughts. Origins of a code tracking 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. The heart of a stone beats once every 1000 years. Fear of finding the naked dawn descending the fire escape, each step of light defining the canyons of man. Fear of the raven on CúChulainn's shoulder.

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. Fermat’s theorum the day before his death.What the raven whispered.

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.

1994, 2002

Sunday, July 17, 1994

SUNNY BLUES


SUNNY BLUES


I got the blues so bad, gotta get outa this town
The bluesman’s done gone and turned me down
Had a man in New York, another in Leningrad
Two more waited in vain for me by the canals of Amsterdam
When the bluesman turns you down, it’s more than bad
It’s pathetic. No need to leave town to find the blues
It’s got me here at home, right where I am
These blues have got me runnin’ around
The bluesman’s done gone and turned me down
And when he comes over to fix my brakes
I get lost in his naked hills and then I hesitate 
Maybe I’ll tool on down the road, go to Bolinas
get outa town just to save what’s left of my pride
Instead I feed him blackberry pie, pretend it’s all right
No need to leave town to find the blues
The blues’ve got me at home, right where I am
When Sonny plays the blues birds fall from the sky.
Is there nothing between us ’cept my imagination?
Maybe I’ll fly to Spain, I might go to Prague
I wanna say, “Take me for a ride, we’ll go whole-hog,
we’ll go dancin’, yeah, dancin’ in the rain
These blues have got me runnin’ around
The bluesman’s done gone and turned me down
I was too slow on the uptake, she who hesitates
is lost, that’s why I’m sittin’ here all alone
with no single man to call my own
What can I do but wait, dream about him all night long?
Or is he just another man who’d do me wrong?
No need to leave town to find the blues
The blues’ve got me at home, right where I am
I’ve been dreamin’ of scorpions & snakes
stung by the tale of his kisses, been staying up late
just to keep from dreaming that same old song
I neck with a bottle of wine, biding my time
take his kid blackberrying on the back roads of my mind
These blues have got me runnin’ around
The bluesman’s done gone and turned me down
I wanna feel his lips on my harmonica 
wiggle my hips and slide down his trombone
But he’s talkin’ to his new woman on the telephone
We’ll never make sweet music and a brand new song
or go dancin’ in the rain in Forestville
No need to leave town to find the blues
The blues’ve got me at home, right where I am
I like the way his mouth slides down that Mississippi harp
When he smiles at his new woman, it damn near breaks my heart
I got the blues so bad, don’t wanna be hangin’ around
These blues’ve got me runnin’ ragged into the ground
singin’ the place names of blue: indigo midnight prussian delf sky
I got the blues so bad, I gotta get outa town
The blues’ve got me at home, right here, right where I am
And I can’t ever sing him this sweet, sad song           
                                               
7/17/94

Friday, July 15, 1994

GALACTIC TAX


All this talk about neutrons and big lies
the explosion of stars and everything is questionable
even the rules-- but what does that matter
when the sky practices pulling on a taut skin
of blue ocean each morning changing it
for the pinholes of stars
when indigo leaks from the quiet summer
splendor of chikory by the dusty roadside  
and the sky is a dome
where Venus and Jupiuter burn holes
inro our consciousness as if there were no handholds
left upon this earth to hang a frail poem without words
at the debut of the first star each night
Venus eclipsed by the moon
Mercury too low on the horizon to see
an alien planet in the evening sky
I want to shoot holes in the Big Bang Theory
because my family spends time in the west
prospecting for musically honest pulsars
to peddle in the miserly warehouses
and bazaars of the spectrum
while I hunt for neutron stars
with my optical telescope
I sometimes nibble on sweetmeats
and sherbet madse by white dwarfs
and red giants
but the turbanned vulture of Allah
took all my dinars and jewels
of the spectrum
and I honestly can't say,
what universe we'll prospect next for dreams
because the radio telescope was reposessed
by the Crab Nebulae of the
Inter Galactic Revenue Service

date? saved 7/15/1994
probably a CPITS exercise
same date as Duncan Garrett poem

BLACKBERRY SONG FOR NATHAN


BLACKBERRY SONG FOR NATHAN LOWE


I have a friend
He’s only nine years old
We talk about the weather
And the reasons behind our fears                             
In the mornings we pick berries
And wipe away our tears

We tell each other the stories of who we were                           
Blackberries bleeding on our tongues
In those rolling hills where we’ve begun

He smiles at me
With his purpled teeth
Paints the face of the day with light
Rides his bike against the winds                                   
And the river forgets to sleep
The night never begins

We tell each other the stories of who we are
Blackberries measuring the depths of summer
In those rolling open hills we still remember

I want to tell him
No matter what our age
We’re all children deep inside
Still waiting for someone to play with
And the wind whispers inside our ears
Urging us to recount the myths

We tell each other the stories of what will be
Blackberries giving us sweet advice 
In these sheltering hollow hills of our lives

I’m not his mother
He’s the child I never had
I’ve got no one to call father
We pass the time eating blackberry pie           
And sometimes he calls me “Dad”           
Hawks scribe names across the sky           

He imagines the future as a blackberry patch
On the dirt roads of summer leading us back
         To those rolling open hills where he was born


7/17/94

Thursday, July 7, 1994

WHO, INDEED


WHO, INDEED

Who is this beast breathing beside me
Like some long forgotten ancestor
Coming for recognition in the night
To give me new colors for dreams
That continue to shake me from the cradle
Where breathing came from
Beneath the skin of the ocean

DATE?
rev./saved 7/7/94

Wednesday, July 6, 1994

IN THE CLOUD FOREST


IN THE CLOUD FOREST
                           —for JOS
A través de la noche de piedra, déjame hundir la mano
y deja que en mí palpite, como un ave a mil años prisionera,
el viejo corazón del olvidado!
     —Pablo Neruda, IX, Alturas de Macchu Picchu

On the trail to Machu Picchu,
fire opened the door to memory.
Our eyes mirrored the struggle
of the selva’s final story in the cordilleras.

Smoke peddled light across the sky.
Speculatively met us at the pass
of the abandoned fortress, Huaylabamba,
with tarnished masks and season tickets.

Gave us ringside seats—our eyes fondled
the cleavage of the Andean night chained
in firecrested ruby and golden necklaces—
the angry mantle of a campesino’s escaped milpa fire.

Cut off from the wounded hems of snowfields,
and chained to the heights, we dreamed of baptism by fire,
meteors trapped within the smoking mirror of the sun,
and of honor among thieves in this crucible of silence.

We climbed the long ladder of the earth to balconies of the sky,
to draw cool air through Neruda’s wet shrouds,
to firewalk on the coinage of coals and seasoned stars,
and to navigate the adamantine flame of the Urubamba river.

We kissed the secret eyries of crowned solitudes,
we gathered orchids, we entered the shining path to the heart
of the city of stepped stone, we burned poems written in blood
on the intihuacana. We emerged unscathed only to lose faith,

we scattered our ashes to the wind for seven years.
Waited for something—anything—to happen;
perhaps an irrefutable sign from the gods.


7/6/94

Thursday, June 30, 1994

DEVOLUTION IN THE FORM OF WORDLISTS


DEVOLUTION IN THE FORM OF WORDLISTS 
a collage from Omni Magazine

Taking his cue, the comptroller gestured to the Colonel as he passed him on the quay in Peiping, thus sealing his fate. A brief stint with Taoism filled  him with awe, and a belief in a tableau of the wise eye in the sky watching over each generation.

But Grandpa wasn’t about to be passed over so easily like a stick hiccouping a chorus line over a xylophone. Sealing his fate like some centurion before the lion, he was more like the Navajo with his ewes, protective, and therof stubborn beyond the line of duty. He didn’t have time to invest in avoiding wrecks, he bulldozed his way through the W-shaped benches attempting to render the sterile environment cozy. The pharmacy exuded that familiar bouquet of janitorial cleanliness.

6  30 94?

I know I was twitching like a cheap cinq-cent psychology maven during the rondezvous, incanting some mnemonic rhyming hymn to leopard folk gods as he was bawling like some heifer abandoned by the herd. A toast was raised to the indicted man. I doubt he took it hard, handsome gnome that he was, but then, an island of marijuana smoke was building in the forecastle. Often I wondered if the half-penny prayer was hidden in the tableaux of a fivepence answer.

Where was Spock when we needed him? His whiskey breath, more like a rank harvest of vinegar than the fine liqueur used in zabaglione or sherry upside-down cake, was a ripener of the first degree. People often went from pea-green to omelet-yellow before succombing to the fumes. It was a real knocker, enough to make xenogamy a national pastime. He offered me a Danish the color of yogurt ice cream but I’d jacked some quiche fritters into my mouth pronto to keep some professional distance from the seedy polisher.

At least there were no aphids on the blossoming Tree of Eden screensaver on the Macintosh computer. Christ, as if I didn’t have things other than breakfast on the mind. It was like devolving into a Marx Brothers routine. 

LOST WORDS


LOST WORDS 
             —For Tanure Oadaje


Climbing the mountain of confessions

Picasso was the Bird of Benin.
Tanure said when his grandmother was dying
to abandon the soil, you break the faith with flesh,
But the lines between us, so many stones.

Arabic words replaced words lost during the Dark Ages.


June 1994?  (I have no idea what this one came from—I was hanging out with the African poets at the time)

Tuesday, May 31, 1994

PASS AROUND POEM

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.

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. 

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.

Maury likes the places where
                     literature and art
                                   intersect.
                 Talks about change.
                    Hands me a dime 
                        to spin and toss
                   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

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?


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.