Void

I packed up 26 pieces for a solo show at my alma mater, Southern Illinois University, this past week.

And then dropped them off.

Southern Illinois University Gallery in Carbondale, Illinois will exhibit Stitched Intent beginning in September.

The gallery was empty, the University was just opening for the Fall semester. I saw no students, no bustle, no gathering tide of excitement. Just some locked buildings with the promise of education within.

The show will go on. Some students will trickle in, social distancing will be a prime directive. Social media will be used to promote the show. And yet it seems a void—a fancy storage place for the work.

We are living history right now. People will ask us ten years from now what it was like to live during this void. Empty movie theaters, vacant museums, void concert venues, disabled restaurants, echoing university lecture halls, day care centers without children’s voices and on and on and on. Our president has declared victory. But I see risk and a profound challenge ahead.

It is artists we look to when searching for answers to questions that can’t be voiced. It is the artist who must translate the unspoken. Musicians, painters, dancers, quilters, embroiderers, actors and writers are all stepping up to fill the void. There is a force that propels them to translate, transfer and transport our minds.

I chop up old work to create new work. I think it is a way to renew my sense of beginnings. I can let go of expectations. Throw away the idea of permanency. Sometimes the process begets failure, other times it opens new pathways in my thinking. I think that could be the silver lining in this challenging time. We will all have to see with new eyes. We’ll need new leaders and new ways of communicating with each other.

This is what happens when I cut up old work.

My art sustains me. The work provides an escape, nourishes my fretting brain and propels me to greater depth.

I am grateful for health and hope.

a studio visit

Anybody out there?

I’ve been watching the news a lot lately. Looking for hope, solutions and solace. I come away with anxiety instead. I enjoy an occasional good news story when I can find one. John Krasinski has started an instagram feed with his SomeGoodNews show that has lightened my spirits. I’ve finished two large jigsaw puzzles and I think that should be on every doctor’s prescription pad. Reading takes me away (I recommend Bridge of Clay by Markus Zusak and Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead. I just started Adam Bede by George Eliot but I am not sure why) . Yet, I still fall into darkness when I think of the effect of this pandemic.

My life is relatively normal compared to many. I spend a lot of time in my studio. I call and write to friends and relatives to be sure they are still OK. We gather at zoom meetings to say I love you again and again. And I make art.

The pandemic has wormed its dirty little fingers into that work.

Contagion, 28”x28”, Paula Kovarik

Contagion, detail.

Building these masks has been a challenge. I have a mechanism inside that allows their tongues to wag. Still debating about their bodies.

The studio is full of diversions. But I am questioning the reasons to pursue them.

It is a bright and perfect Spring outside. The garden is ablaze in color. Noticing that is a daily gift—a major miracle that reminds me that life is abundant and thriving.

There really aren’t any words I can find to process this experience. I feel it on my skin. It streams in my ears. The distraction of worry seeps into my core. And life is beautiful and abundant and hopeful at the same time. How will these challenges change the way we live life from now on?

What are your strategies for coping?

May we all rejoice in small miracles and find the strength to fight large beasts.