connections to the past

I've been thinking about time passing in a whirl, without a governor switch. Life in the fast lane — even though this is supposed to be the languid, restful stage of life. Contemplative, serene and insightful.

No doubt about it, I am an adult. Can't confuse that fringe of dark hair at the back of my head for youth and vigor. It's just a fringe of memory now. I used to be able to dance into the early morning hours, now I am tired at nine. I used to wear mini-skirts, now I focus on floaty body covering clothes. Some memories are questionable, some persistent, some are life-affirming.

The back of my head reminds me that today is bolstered by the memories of yesterday.

So all of a sudden I am over 60. Yesterday I was 35. Can these feelings of flight and avoidance be part of aging?

Trimming my memories to highlights gives the glitter of life a balance to the darkness.

Now I am more concerned about legacy. About mistakes. About environment. About authenticity. Pretty doesn't do it for me anymore. More stuff gives no solace. Nor does order or constraints. As a designer the constraints of budget, format and timing often dictated the solution. No longer. I can do whatever I want. And that can be a problem. (whining on mute for now). I must pursue this art with urgency. It is about connections. Plugging into the highlights while recognizing the base of the dark and mysterious.

Wired up for connections.

All the trimmings

I've been thinking about trimmings. The way we trim off the excess when we have to choose a new path. The way we add things to our meals and memories and collections. Trimmings are extras....extraneous or extraordinary. They are the side salad, appetizers and desserts. But they are also the leftovers, discarded and forgotten.

I save all the trimmings. There's a whole in there somewhere.

Collections show which extras I want to save.

There are two ways to think about trimmings — as additions or subtractions. In fiber art trimmings can be decorative edges or edited scraps—add-ons or take-aways.

My memory is a collection of trimmings. I don't know how my brain selects each bit. Do the memories come up by catalyst or do they float around waiting for a chance to surface? As we formulate our thoughts do we pick up little trimmings, put them together in new combinations and blurt? Or, is the whole just a leftover of the editing? And what about the new stuff we learn each day? Where does it all go in the stack?

Conversations are a collection of thoughts trimmed in emotion, logic and beliefs. The extraneous drones on and on, the extraordinary inspires and lingers. Bits and pieces stay with us, stored mysteriously in the heap of understanding.

Assembling a group of extras gives me a playground for stitch. This is a work-in-progress that started with two-inch strips sewn together and then cut into rectangles.

This medium gives me a perfect way to use trimmings. I can edit, add, and subtract. I linger with compositions that move forward, get stuck in cul de sacs and challenge my perception. I squint my eyes to see the final stack, tilting left and right to find the balance. Then I commit to negative and positive spaces that support or conflict with each other. Each shift of perspective tells a new story. Each scrap adds its own voice. I'll let it build until it tells me to stop. Then the fun begins—a new playground for stitch.

seeking solace

I took this picture a few years ago. It speaks to my yearning for a community that gathers with compassion. Meeting on the town square used to be a way of sharing good news and consoling those with bad news. We would keep tabs on the latest births and nod in agreement at how difficult life can be. Lending a hand if need be. Touching each other with soft embraces.

Umbrella gathering, Paula Kovarik

Today the town square has been replaced by media channels that shout about our differences and post horrific news via 140 character soundbites. Even the weather channel is now called the Severe Weather Center. Our communications have been reduced to photos with captions, videos with click bait and two-thumbed typing with hashtags. Essayists have difficulty getting published because so many publications are being gobbled up and shut down by the mega corps. Our newspaper in Memphis is now going to be produced in Nashville. How can we possibly get a feel for community that way?

Dizzy, Secret Life of Stones, Paula Kovarik

And don't even get me started on the politicians who seem to revel in fear.

Propaganda, Secret Life of Stones, Paula Kovarik

Shelter, Secret Life of Stones, Paula Kovarik

How do we stop it? How do we get back to the slow consideration of each other? Can we remember that differences add texture and depth?

Secret Life of Stones, the back, Paula Kovarik

child's eyes

Over and over again I am reminded that awe is the realm of wonder. Children take us there. Leaping into the unknown is their only choice. They've never been here before.

Fountain child, Paula Kovarik

My piece, Pollinators, was accepted into the Delta Arts Exhibition in Little Rock this year.

This week I went to the Delta Exhibition at the Arkansas Art Center in Little Rock to see my piece, Pollinators. I had the double delight of seeing an exhibition of children's artwork in the reception hall. I was awestruck.

These children have a raw sense of composition, color and energy that is unmatched. Their spontaneity and eager mark making make the art in the other rooms look like they are napping. Kudos to their teachers who must be standing by with pride and joy.

The Weird Girl by Camden Wells, first grade

Monster by Roman Serfaty, first grade

I wish I could publish all of the pieces I saw that day. They bring joy and wonder to a day filled with heartbreaking national news. If only we could channel that child-mind to our understanding of life every day. If only we could turn the course of violence into orange monsters that can be contained on sheets of newsprint. If only we could protect these innocents so that we can learn from them. If only we could see that life is joy and wonder.

And awe.

Sliding with abandon.