Mine or theirs?

I've been thinking about influences and how they affect my work. I am conscious of noticing. Conscious of storing up details of line and pattern, images and ideas while at the same time forgetting the details of names and dates, locations and authors. My mind seems to be choosing its limits.

Catalysts is a piece devoted to the idea that noticing begets growth. Thank you to Piet, Pablo, William, Paul, Vasily, Theodore, Lee, Alexander, the bees, trees, birds and my grandchildren. Paula Kovarik

So what happens when I unconsciously add an image that another artist originated? How does that borrowing affect the interpretation of the work? My mind is like a bamboo thicket of remembered (and forgotten) detail. How does it all connect to a cohesive whole? Am I mimicking or channeling? Appropriating or hoarding?

And does it matter?

In this age of instants I crave the considered. The slow brewing. An uncrowded clarity of thought. But the slideshow is moving at a pace that keeps me breathless so I am never certain that the idea is original. Never sure if I am just broadcasting pre-processed thoughts.

this memory doesn't fade

Rock star smile.

Rock star smile.

Mom died three years ago today. Her buoyancy, fearlessness and resolve astounded me. She learned new art forms in her eighties and pursued them with vigor. She spread love and acceptance to all around her without judgement. She could bait a hook at the same time as steering the boat. She loved romance novels, bacon-fried potatoes, fabric in all colors and hearing from her sons. She would get in her car and head off without destination just to get a handle on what was out there. She was my mentor and sideline cheerleader.

I miss her every day.

fading shadows.

Memories fade, but not these. She is sharp in my memory. She talks to me in my dreams. I can feel her hands on my shoulders.

I miss her every day.

taming the bulge

It happens every time I leave the studio for a trip. My head gets filled with images, words, doubts, wishes and ideas. Then I get back to the studio. And freeze.

TMI

My brain is like a whirlpool.

So it was no surprise yesterday when I decided to pursue one of my ideas....in a rush of optimism.....and the medium was not cooperating. Who knew that not basting a piece of linen to a frothy assortment of batting would result in chaos as I stitched inward on a spiral?

I did. I knew it. I was just too impatient to take the time for prep.

I spent the afternoon hand basting the bulgy layers together resulting in a brain-like texture similar to the confusion in my mind.

Spending the afternoon tucking mass into ripples with a basting needle gave me time to reflect. And that reminded me that I chose this medium because of that meditative quality, that time out of space contemplation, the quiet of one stitch at a time.

Seen at the Frankfurt airport

I'll use this image of a dandelion that I shot in Frankfurt as a reminder. Life is fast and can be full of hard surfaces. Some ideas lead to spent flower heads. Others shine brilliantly in the sun. Both are worthwhile and require wild abandon and dogged pursuit.

I didn't take notes

Traveling for a month dislodges old habits. I didn't bookmark articles to read later. I didn't create rough drafts of journal posts. I didn't balance my checkbook (with the disastrous result of forgetting to pay our mortgage). I didn't wake up with a to-do list. I didn't work in the garden. I didn't exercise. I didn't draw.

I did take pictures. A paltry record of abundant input.

And I wonder when some of these images will start to show up in my work.

And I found new (to me) artists to explore.

Mosaic from St. Peter's cathedral in Rome.

Images and ideas travelled through my mind with a flutter of recognition:

Trees planted too close stretch skyward and are turned to pulp.

Trees bent with the wind have deep roots.

We visited a churchyard where the 16th century cathedral was blown down by the wind. The bell tower remained reminding everyone how tenuous life can be.

Spires point to infinity.

Antennas reach to capture waves.

Sculptures of saints often have pillows of stone.

Time is both vertical and horizontal.

Does any of it make sense?

I am not ready

I woke up this morning with a clear message from my dreams. (imagine the voice in my ears)

I am not ready.

Fractured focus has taken me down pathways of neglect. In preparation for leaving my studio for a long vacation I flit from one must do to the next without breath between. The end of the day feels like it used to when I was working 12 hour days. And now I realize that they feel that way because I am working 12 hour days.

Research, practice, confusion and debris play little games with my timepieces. Do I go down the rabbit hole of new ideas or focus on this little tendril not yet tamed? Multi-tasking dilutes wholeness. I swoon next to the whirlpool of too much. Am I in the deep end just treading water?

So, yes, I'm not ready. Not ready to focus with intent. Not ready to leave my nest of toys. Not ready to commit to one direction with my art. Just not ready.

Nevertheless, the plane tickets are bought, housing reserved, itineraries roughed in. I can't tie this sewing machine to my back (though I certainly will have some lap work to do in the carry on bags). Traveling will bring new perspective if I let the list grow short. Or not. It could be a way of adding to the pile.

Breathless and anxious. These are both signals for overload. No turning back now.

I am ready.