Remember Kim

     I couldn't remember her last name this morning, but thanks to the internet and to Blogger, I found Kimberly Davis again.  Her voice, her kindness, her creative spirit are all alive and well on the internet, these few years after she died unexpectedly, and far too young, in the midst of a remarkable life. For a sense of her spirit, see this post on "Ordinary Superpower" on her blog:  http://kimatsyao.blogspot.com/2010/07/
     Kim was one of my inspirations in fiber arts.  She was a teacher, a leader, an entrepreneur, a guiding light.  She was co-founder and co-owner (with Cynthia Spencer) of a shop called Stitch Your Art Out in the tiny town of Pine Grove Mills, PA.  Women were drawn to her and the shop for fabric and sorority. Kim led us in many "Block of the Month" adventures and other "Creativity" expeditions.
     I signed up for one advanced class, and at the first session I felt that I was too much of a novice to participate with so many expert quilters.  Kim calmed me and assured me that we would achieve this together, one step at a time, and we did.
     Still, there are many fabrics in my collection that remind me of the project with Kim that occasioned their purchase.  She was fearless in her own art and in guiding the rest of us to create from our own visions.
     After she was suddenly gone from our lives, I realized that she was still with me in so many ways. A poem by e.e. cummings seemed to express this, so I stitched it into a creative project.  Here is the poem and here is the piece I call "Remember Kim."

in time of daffodils(who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why,remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so(forgetting seem) in time of roses(who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if,remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek(forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me,remember me

Semiosis of Winter Beach (Day 1-5)

Semiosis of Winter Beach:
Twenty Days in Ocean State of Mind
(excerpt)

Day 1
Flat grey/green stone about twice the size of my thumb pad.
Ordinary wear and tear on the “back,” but
Deep striations in geometric/hieroglyphic pattern
On the “front.”

Not a Rosetta Stone, no.
Treasure map? Possibly.
“Message in a bottle”? Hmmn.
Story of long imprisonment
and escape? Maybe.

Palm-like lifelines, divergences, canyons:
strong inclination toward one direction, but
explorations into new territories as well.

And here is the storyline of a fresh
Spring rising in a desert
And finding its way to
The sea of open air.

And deep indentations where this vessel
Of meaning was once held
Tight by a creature
With opposing thumb and palm,
Or huge dull teeth.
Metaphorically, of course.

All in all, it is a language of stress
And mute fracture,
Of time-traveling through
Dimensions of place
And emotion,
Feigning stillness,
Holding shape,
Beckoning sensation,
Fingerprint to fingerprint.


Day 2
I was scouting winter beach for the perfect white egg today. I saw it uncovered by the tide on Day 1. In my fancy, the oval bird bodies mounted on one leg with narrow end toward the wind were hatched one by one from this perfect white egg.
But it’s gone. Or hidden from me today. Anyway, it’s not a bird’s egg I seek, is it? It’s the egg of my own euphoria, of my purpose. Seeking that egg here on winter beach, but also, most defiantly, in cityscapes, and rarely, among the cumulous, cirrus, stratus clouds and, oh, yes! the stars!

Here on winter beach today are small, speckled, dimpled stones (eggs) with imperfect bodies circling and potent or potential. Flat on one side for broadcast news, like “wish!” or “awesome!” or “come to me!”

Here are large, palm-flattened, smooth, dark, slate stones. Egg-shaped, but somehow not eggs. These are weapons. Skull-stones, war-stones, hate-stones. Or in the hands of some, stones to make grain into flour into bread into community, into love.

One stone gave birth to me and is still calling me. Perhaps it is not smooth and shaped like the egg I am seeking? Am I the rough-edged chunk, broken from a daring edifice? Or the pearly chip of shell of short local life? No matter whatever. I am one with winter beach, the tides, winds, waves, and sand.


Day 3
There are ripples, waves, surges, waves of waves, and flights of birds.


Day 4
The most amazing sight:
At the back edge of the curling wave
Visible rising maze of mist.
And in the droplets,
A miraculous rainbow dashing
Along the edge of the tumult
Rolling colors out along the verge in
Littoral delight.


Day 5
Today winter beach is
About the fold,
The crease in the deep angle where sea
Meets sand.
Both surfaces tilt up from the fold.
I am on the solid facing toward
The mysterious slant of
Water into atmosphere,
Wondering what holds it
Up and holds me down,
With eyes that follow the
Sharp horizon up
And over senses;
and far into imagination.

Almost One Year

I see that I haven't posted on my blog in almost a year! Where did that time go? My role as "Asset Manager" kicked in big time over the past 18 months! Every phone call, document, negotiation, search, application, and detail of all the transitions below was processed through my mind and creative energy. Roles as "Artist" and "Author" were secondary during most of this time.

We sold our house in State College, PA after twenty years of Happy Valley and Penn State University. Our belongings went to three locations : 31 Tanglewood Trail, CubeSmart in Wakefield, RI, and another storage unit in State College. We intended to spend the summer in RI, possibly planning to renovate the cottage and then return to a rental in PA for fall semester. Vincent would be on research leave for Jan-June, so we would be back in RI then. Retirement plans were fuzzy, not near, not far, but certainly eventual.

In July, shortly after my last blog post, our children and grandchildren arrived for "Beach Week #19." On the very first day, the kids told us that they recommend we consider moving to a condo versus doing a major renovation to upgrade Tanglewood as a permanent residence. Our daughter-in-law got on Zillow and found an open house for the very next day. Along with daughter and daughter-in-law, I went to see the condo on Gibson Avenue in Narragansett. Love at first sight! Four blocks to the ocean! Large rooms, lots of light, secluded grounds, historic buildings.

Vincent and I made an appointment with our realtor to return and see all of the condo units available, and long-story-short, we put a bid on a for-sale-by-owner condo for a good price, but needing a lot of renovation. Paperwork . . . Paperwork . . . Paperwork. And simultaneously having touch up work completed on the Tanglewood house to prepare it for sale: paint exterior, fence, etc. etc. Closing was set for September. We returned to State College to move into a shared rental with a friend, and soon I traveled back to RI for the closing and to meet with contractor for renovation planning.

Penn State threw a new angle into the mix! They offered a "Voluntary Retirement Program" with incentives for eligible faculty to retire at the end of the academic year. Vincent qualified and after consultation decided to accept the offer. So, our fall was spent with more paperwork along with traveling back and forth from State College to RI to supervise the renovation.

By the end of December, we had moved everything from State College to Tanglewood Trail, including ourselves. We knew that we would be back to PA several times in spring, summer, and fall, so it felt final, but not finished, especially with friends.

By late January we moved into the condo and began to stage the Tanglewood house for sale. Meanwhile, we are both exploring our interests in Narragansett, at URI, and in surrounding communities. I arranged for some of my smaller art pieces to be displayed for sale by joining the Fayerweather Craft Guild. Membership includes working at the shop one day a month during the months of May through December. I will also facilitate a workshop for this group in August. My first "work" day in the shop is next week. My larger art pieces will be displayed at a coffee shop, Java Madness, from late September into October.

Vincent had three (at least) academic meetings in Jan, Feb, March and I went along on all of them. We were in Brooklyn once and then in Cambridge twice. Amtrak and MBTA were very convenient for our travel. I walked A LOT on the beach this winter, loving every moment and writing almost every day. That will be my very next post.

In April we returned to State College for a week of meetings, friends, more moving, etc. I added a few days visiting family at the end of the trip. The closing on the Tanglewood house took place while we were in PA. Paperwork . . . paperwork . . . paperwork. Oh, and that reminds me, we applied for all the Social Security, Medicare, PSU health supplement, etc. etc. Paperwork . . . paperwork . . . paperwork! AND of course, I prepared all of the data for our tax return.

And that brings us to May. Almost to the end of May. I've been sewing a lot and will have photos of new work to post very soon! You'll see "Mother Has a Wild Heart" and "Frame of Mind" and "Longevity Banner" soon. I am very happy with these pieces and hope to escalate my visibility with some new gallery opportunities as well.

I've been reading some of my own writing lately and starting to make plans to complete some things and to send other things out for rejection letters. Or whatever comes back! Last summer I did send out a poetry manuscript and received a comment including the words "lush and sensuous" along with the rejection.

Writing this account is significant. It is turning the page, or closing the entire book, of "asset management" work of the past 18 months. I wake up now and walk two steps to my sewing table. I feel writing and reading times and places are abundant. New opportunities are opening and I can begin the day in my imagination mode rather than my efficiency mode. I will close with a quote from Wallace Stevens that is part of the "Frame of Mind" piece that I am finishing today:
"She sang beyond the genius of the sea."

Art With Names

Where do the names come from?

“Longevity Banner” for example. This is a new piece (in process with pins!) that developed through many versions and placements of constructed pieces in various combinations. This name and the names of all my pieces come to me from the fabric, from the artwork in process. Does the fabric shout to me? Or whisper? Well, yes, I’ve received instructions in both volumes. Sometimes the loudest shouts say that a combination isn’t alive, isn’t ready, isn’t finished; a clear and simple, “No!” The whispers of assent, confirmation, and delight are more subtle, but also unmistakable, like Archibald MacLeish’s poem: “palpable and mute as a globed fruit; silent as the sleeve-worn stone of casement ledges where the moss has grown.”

Both construction and naming are the results of collaboration, a cooperative imaginative/creative process, a collective drama among friends: me and the colors, shapes, textures, patterns. First comes delight: I am tickled; a precise juxtaposition enchants me, say turquoise and violet. Not just any turquoise or violet, but very particular shades and patterns of turquoise and violet. There are also specific shapes necessary to enhance the construction: triangle, rectangle, skewed polygon. All possible shapes are in play, but mostly shapes without curves. The curves come later when I allow my cardboard patterns free play across some of the constructed fabric pieces. There is nothing quite like a circle for pulling together the deliberate juxtapositions into an image of completion! Often, however, I am not looking for completion, but rather for the dynamic thrust of angles, so my circles, ovals, teardrops, and smooth waves live just a little to the side of the main work table in my studio.

Are all artists compelled by words? Do landscape artists or photographers name each and every one of their artworks? Do they play with phrases that tweak the meaning of the visual experience in different directions? The names are important to me; they are the savory stuffing in the turkey, the muscled flesh on the skeleton, the living breeze among the branches. The names animate the artwork for me. If a small piece—one of my CROPS, for example—is called a “Hug” and another is called “Inspiration,” the two pieces are going out into the world with different purposes and they will hold to those purposes for as long as someone remembers their names. It might be that I am the only one to value the artwork along with the names. So be it. They are “fabricated for delight,” and the delight is all mine!

Fiber Fables: Drowning

Nothing made any sense underwater. Plants, colors, shapes, and shadows mingled without meaning. Up was a spinning globe and down was a newfangled zoo.

Her arms and legs were telecommuting to another city while someone else twirled the radio dial through dozens of stations sliced thin like pastrami on rye.

One second twisted back and the next one sprang forward. A question mark marks the spot where treasure used to be found. Tumbling vertigo into lassitude into volumes of encyclopedic rage (in alphabetical order).

Hansel and Gretel finally show their faces and lead the way home.

Calligraphy: fly, dream, wish, soar, hope floats

Fiber Fables: Quadratic Formulations

Quadratic Formulations

This is an explanation of how to get “out of the box,” so to speak, if you happen to be confined in a space bound by four walls.

Quad, of course, means four, but your escape will involve a curve with unknown end points. You will know your escape curve is ripe, when it exhibits a firm root system.

First, count the number of windows, doors, and colors in your space. In the absence of humility, generosity, and patience, these will be your known values “a,” “b,” and “c.”

To discriminate among false and real solutions to your dilemma, you may wish to complete the square and/or inspect your factors by surrendering your identity according to the algorithm of Vieta.

As you approach proof of a viable escape, you will note a proliferation of variables, including the alternative derivatives of “x,” the renowned known unknown. Do not be distracted by this or by the parabola of the naked woman jumping off a cliff.

When you master the curve of escape, you will hear a symphonic rendering of complex coefficients accompanied by the dance of imaginary numbers.

Lost Luggage Far From Home

Lost Luggage Far From Home

Lost, but not forgotten.
Lost, but not alone.
Far from home, but not abandoned, not cold, not empty,
Not not.
Lost, but not less.
Luggage full of meaning and feeling.
Luggage of insight;
Luggage of delight.
Loved luggage though unnamed and unclaimed now.
Long loved luggage.
Layered luggage.
Longing luggage, witness to absence
And presence, witness
To love and beloved, witness
To lost love.
Love carried across time and place,
Across lives;
Living love always lost, but never
Far from home.
Luggage of generation
And generations, marked
With lives lived across
Time and place, across
The gap between love and
Suffering, between
Home and far.
Luggage from home.
Lost, but
Not
Forgotten.