“Cast upon yourselves a spell against stagnation.”
How is it that some of us go forward with vigor and adventure to the end, and some of us wither? Or, most likely, we have both qualities but wish to increase the former — the vitality that is connected to hope and self-confidence. How do we free ourselves from the mind-weeds and negativity that are obstacles to renewal? How do we cast a spell against stagnation?
The challenges will keep coming. Here in the desert, having time before class begins, I am making a list of things that are antidotes to ossification, the word itself reflecting the rigidity of bones. Here is my list so far:
Sit alone next to a tree, a place where you cannot be found except by the tree.
Turn left instead of right.
Reach out to someone you don’t like.
Stop thinking about your work and do it.
Stop thinking.
Make room for serendipity.
What follows is a week of serendipity and exploration in Taos, with wonderful images from the student work.
“Voyaging beyond the bathtub…”
In his book, Essays for Artwork, George Wyllie, a Scottish artist, spoke humorously about art-making. He insists that going beyond your comfort zone and the trends of the day — that “voyaging beyond the bathtub” is fuel for creativity. Inspiration requires food, and the necessity for makers to adventure, to shift and “unplan the future”. There is a need to get beyond the walls of the bathtub and the gallery, to get beyond what is familiar and ignite like minds. Collaborate in new ways. Shake off old ideas by wandering into unknown places and finding artists across the sea or the desert or the road. You don’t have to go far, but finding a new perspective is inherently refreshing.
Walking down a cobblestone street in Stroncone, we happened upon a small opening in the wall, and walked into the Studio D’Arte of C. Massoli. Two small rooms filled with his drawings, sculptures, and paintings; and his desk with the lovely old books on the shelf…
Nulato: “The place we are tied together.” —Koyukon Indian
Stitching the books always reminds me of the place we are tied together. Some part of each person is woven into each book, as a part of each of us was woven together. Being in a beautiful place for a week in a workspace without screens was compelling, it deepened the work, and what you see here is testimony to the budding ability and exuberance of this creative collaboration.
“Let everything happen to you.” — Rilke
I am back from my month long European adventure. Thank you, and welcome, to all of you who signed up for A Silver Fraction while I was away.
In these weeks across the sea I fell into a wonder-filled world of time, history, collaboration and surprise. I am returning with a sense of renewal, and something more — a kind of recognition that can only happen when you become a stranger. Others see you as if you are new, and the world holds up a different mirror. The reflection I was offered was both familiar and strangely new. The remembrance comes with the blossoming of what has been lying in wait within. It occurs to me now as I write, that the feeling of belonging, this recognition, perhaps only comes after the willingness to be lost, not knowing who I am, being a receiver, a stranger.
I am bursting with creative ideas for the time to come. . .
To see more images click below:
“I have worked hard to give up a place ordained by others in the world….” — Mark Nepo
“I have worked hard to give up a place ordained by others in the world, for this always leads me into noise, confusion and gruffness.”
— Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
My aim in teaching is the same for my students as it is for myself: to give up the place “ordained by others” and step into my own particular place in the world. The world cannot find me if I don’t find myself. I begin class with more than an idea, more than faith: it is the experience that each student who shows up has a gift — a gift that no one else has. The contemplative atmosphere in the classroom cultivates work that is distinct to each student. In our recent class in Taos, New Mexico, all the students worked with the same structure, tools, book form, and alphabet — and yet delicious creations arose that are unlike anything or anyone else. (Images from students below).
Art as Devotion
I had the doors and windows open so that birdsong could come in. I heard the high trill of a melody that comes only in spring, repeated over and over with the passion of a love song. I went outside with my binoculars to investigate. A bird less than half the size of my hand stood in the branches of the tulip poplar, singing his blue heart out.
Indigo is the wrong name, at least now, in the breeding season. He is an impossibly brilliant mix of turquoise, ultramarine and cobalt that covers his entire body. The only indigo is on his wing tips and around his beak. Regardless of what color he is known by, the indigo bunting is dedicated to singing until someone answers, until someone responds to his call. He waits to be answered, and sings and sings. When he sings, it is with every feather; everything vibrates, down to the tip of his tail. He holds nothing in reserve. This is devotion.
Desert Stories
Our class at Ghost Ranch was inspired by the splendor of the land, and the sense of being away, away, away. The quiet of the desert and the expanse of the horizon in every direction, and the intuitive inner imagery stimulated by working with Barbara Griek, the Tarot, writing and painting. I fall short, every time, of conveying what the students bring…to each other and to me. I fall short of conveying the depth of experience felt in the classroom, and all that goes into the making of their journals.
In Taos, I had the privilege of teaching with Paul Maurer and Nancy Culmone…..
"Tree, Stone, Eye" | Student Images from Taos
Before I left for Taos to teach the opening classes at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, I was pushing against the inertia of our long, long sequester. I felt the uncertainty that had grown in many of us about going into the world. I felt the reluctance to move. The poem below made me smile:
My head was heavy, heavy;
so was the atmosphere.
I had to ask two times
before my hand would scratch my ear.
I thought I should be out
and doing! The grass, for one thing,
needed mowing.
— from “Inertia,” a poem by Jane Kenyon
Now I have returned from a few weeks in New Mexico, teaching the classes that had been postponed for almost two years. We were the only ones at the retreat, and the classes were small. The landscape was beautiful, christened with desert showers and new blooming flowers. Everyone had been through something significant in our long period of sequester. There was rejoicing — the fresh newness of being together in a room. This rejoicing was helped along by spectacular food, made by our chef, Sophia, and her team — and good wine.
I began, as always, with the conviction that each student who shows up has a particular gift, and is in class to enliven and strengthen that gift — the seed they were given at birth. Everyone is born with a gift. I believe, and am privileged to witness, that the making of art for its own sake will “bring into realization the self most centrally yours” (William Stafford).