December 25, 2012

Stretching my sewing tape end to end on one side of the kitchen, and adding a foot to the other, makes my kitchen 5′ x 6′. 

It works fine.  Two burners, tiny fridge, tiny sink.

The sun streams in.  

The white reflects the brightness of the day.  

I was going to leave it at that, until I started remembering different kitchens in my life.

The first was climbing up and sitting on the edge of the sink, who knows how old, as my mom cooked dinner.  I would do different antics, wanting to lighten the mood.  I remember vividly, mimicking an Indian accent, pretending I was “Krishnamurti speaking” over and over “Krisnamurti, here, and speaking”. 

The next was the most depressing kitchen I’ve ever been in.  I’ll leave that one alone.

On to the one filled with sun and much fun.  A huge round oak table that supported our changing lives- from my mom pounding out a story on her Smith & Corona to my friends gathering around after cutting class, eating everything in sight because of the munchies.

Summers and weekends we would return to where I pretend to be Krisnamurti.  To the table that held a chip, marking the number of years of my dad’s sobriety, proudly displayed in a knot of the wood.  The same table that I slammed my fist down upon, in anger, wanting so badly, to prove many a point.

Then came the low to the ground table in Guatemala.  The hours and hours of drinking coffee, philosophizing, creativity flowing, under a thatch roof.  A kitchen filled with beautiful hand made everything- from the dishes to the yogurt.  The wake from the occasional boat passing, hitting the dock just out the open doors.

Skipping over many kitchens to the one that I made with my own hands.   Heavy, round cornered, 1950’s stove and refrigerator.  A stain on the wall where the match strike became the light for the burners.  Simple.  Easy to change.  And change it did!  Into a state of the art re-model.  Expanding the standard, and raising the height of the cupboards, to meet that of my then husband.

Coming around, full circle, to the sun on my back, this morning, here, in my tiny kitchen.

In April I was asked what my hesitations were about doing a job I was being interviewed for-?  Emphatic and over reacting to the question, I responded with “LACK OF MY OWN MY CREATIVITY!” ….. and then……with about just as much gusto as my response to NOT wanting it….. I accepted the job when it was offered.  

I am now coming down from the summer of working in a corporate glassblowing job which has kicked my butt on one hand, and landed me in one of the most beautiful places in the world on the other.

The butt being kicked?  So many ways….. one of which is my wounded foot from a bicycle accident I had on the way to work.  While, being the great employee that I am, I kept working on and stomping around in the studio on for the last 2 weeks of the job.

And…. I am back to that place I was in April-  My own creativity.  My own life.

I started out as a painter, and moved to silversmith;  my skill as a glass blower had brought me to an opportunity of guiding at risk youth in painting.   The last many years have been rewardingly filled with the business of a glassblowing studio and its production demands.  From introducing “The Glass Dress”, to the public demonstration of glassblowing techniques, I have enjoyed the evolution of my creative process.

The colors of a hot piece of glass while it goes through its changes invoke a spectacular awe.  There is no way possible to reproduce the visuals of this transformation.  I pay close attention and am a witness to the moment.  I take this philosophy with me into many areas of my life. (photo above)  

 A similar metamorphosis takes place while I continue a discipline of painting and journaling to keep current in whatever medium I am working, whether it be glass, painting, or teaching.  These techniques keep me in my flow and become a habit.  Like exercise for the body, it helps me be limber and current in the present.  In painting I take the awareness of the instant and continue through to the next indicated step… no expectation, no outcome, no demand, only the feeling, or maybe the sound, no- the pull of the brush on the paper, pulling me into a language that I speak in that moment.   Ordinarily, a “no-show” rule applies to this process…I love to break this rule with the photos directly above and below.

The same goes toward my journaling, a stream of consciousness with no care for vocabulary or punctuation, only a flow that comes through the action and brings me into the moment, which is gone as I write the word.    A “no read” rule protects me from the constant editor of my mind.

I watched these artists in their courage and I am still amazed as I remember seeing how they bared their souls to themselves.  An experience that cannot be repeated ever, a moment that is recorded in a brush stroke or a negative space, at first a choice, and then that moment is gone!  In one case gone over for a second layer, because the artist didn’t like what he started.   I watched him build many layers as he finally gave in to a painting that he felt was finished.  It holds up a mirror to life, as our past choices are refined and transformed through the determination to follow our insights.

I remember how one artist was working out his drug addiction with paint on paper.  It takes a backbone of steel to sit for almost two hours and dip those emotions into paint and lay them down on the page:

Another aspiring young artist, filled to the brim with ideas, was finally ready to let go of painting his name over and over.   I challenged him one day to not use his name; in the first two paintings after the challenge his initials sufficed.  From that point on it was almost as if a surge of energy grabbed him and he began powering his paintings through his imagination with whirlwind emotion:

One of my favorite incidents is the case of an artist who didn’t say one word to me for weeks.   He slowly painted many cloudy skies and storms.  His paintings began to include scenes of houses and playgrounds.  His first quiet words were spoken as he painted the sun coming up through another cloud, a last-minute addition to a seemingly finished piece.

I share this story as I move to a new chapter in my life.   I recently heard someone say “grab the love that is given from the unexpected places”.   I am and always will be so grateful to the guys in Wheeler 1 for sharing their lives with me and showing me love at a time when I needed it most- and didn’t realize it until sharing this with you now.  
Thank you.
And guys….if you are seeing your work here and you are 18 years of age….contact me please.  I would love to give you credit!