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Tag Archives: short story
Shapeshifter.
January 14, 2017 jvarina	Leave a comment
The harsh wind licked the dusted snow off of the poorly constructed cabin. Positioned a few meters away from the edge of the cliff was the construct rocking along with the blizzard. Ice crept in through the gaps in the roof. A young man with an overgrown beard threw open the door and hurried inside. He wore a leather jacket with fur around the shoulders, a wooly hat, and had a pair of rugged binoculars wrapped around his thick neck. Using the lens, he peered out over the other side of the mountain. "We're safe," he frantically said to his younger brother, cautiously positioned against the wood. The eldest pedaled back from the frosted window, and slowly doused the oil lantern sitting on the floor.
"You got it, right? I saw you attack it with your knife, right?"
"I think, it was moving so fast I couldn't even tell."
"What's that on your back?" the younger brother weakly whispered. The eldest quickly reached for the fire prod before removing his coat and bringing it to his nose.
"It smells like…sulfur," he said.
"Was that some bear?"
"I…I don't know. I can't even describe it ."
The wind's speed started to diminish as the indigo moon crept behind the peak of the mountain. "I shouldn't have brought you up here, this is all my fault," the eldest said.
"Don't think like that," the younger exhaled.
"No, it is, I should have waited until you were healthier before we did this."
"If we would've waited, I may never have done this climb," he passively smiled. "You know I wanted us to go on this trip, we've talked about it for too long."
"Always the optimist, even in the face of danger,"
"Right…" the younger replied. "What do you think we should do? Bar the doors?"
"Smart idea. Whatever is out there, it'll have a harder time getting through the door if we block it."
"Did you get a good look at it? the younger curiously asked while gasping for air.
He shook his head, and specks of crystallized sweat bounced onto the frigid boards.
The eldest rose to his feet and began rearranging the furniture to barricade the entrance. He angled the massive dresser towards the door, tilted the circular table to block the exposed window, and broke the lantern to scatters shards of glass in front of each possible entrance. Sitting in the corner, the younger brother watched in awe at his resourcefulness.
"This reminds me of old times?" the eldest said while wiping his hands.
"Oh…does it? How?"
"Remember how we used to play in the woods. I'd build a fort, and you'd sit around waiting for it to be complete. We'd stay out till the sun went down, and we'd play that one game. I forgot what it was called," the eldest said.
"Ah, that's it. You always wanted to be it too," he chuckled.
"Mhm."
"Those were the days…everything was so simple back then."
"And then I got sick…" he confessed.
"And then you got sick."
"Who would've thought," he coughed, "that ma and pa gave me the bad genes?"
"Don't blame them," he stated.
"I'm not. Nobody is to blame but myself, for being so weak," the younger paused. A gale cut through the logs and stung their sullen eyes. "That's why you wanted to bring me up here, right? To show me I wasn't weak."
"Guess you figured out my motive, huh?"
"I am the smarter one, remember?"
"Is that so," the eldest laughed.
The repositioned furniture slightly creaked as the night progressed.
"Do you even want to take a guess at what that was?"
"It had two legs, and it stood upright."
"I thought I saw a tail or something attached to it. But I don't know any animals that stand on two legs and have a tail."
"Ever heard of a kangaroo?"
The younger leered at his brother, "you think a rabid kangaroo is chasing us across the Appalachian trail?"
"No, but it is an animal with two legs and a tail."
"Yeah yeah, so we have no clue then,"
"Do we need one?"
"Not really, so long as we survive," the younger confessed.
"We should escape, first thing in the morning."
The younger nodded before dropping his head back onto the wood. "I'll take first watch so you can regain your strength. You'll need as much of it as you can if we have to make a quick escape."
"Wake me up when it's time to switch shifts, or if you hear anything. I don't care if it's just an icicle falling off of the roof, wake me up."
The eldest snapped his fingers, before reaching for the cast iron prod in front of the fireplace.
In the stillness of the moonlight, a slight echo rang from outside of the cabin. The youngest just managed to drift off to sleep, before the echo resounded. He frantically jumped out of his nap, but reached for his side immediately afterward; his muscles were spazzing once again. "Did you hear that?"
"No, what was it?"
"Sounded like a shout. Shit, do you think it found us?"
"Doubtful," the eldest said.
"What about our tracks?"
"The blizzard probably covered them by now, even ol Ham-bone and his bloodhound nose couldn't find us. And we put them lights out as soon as we came in."
"Right, I forgot about that," he exhaled. The silver moon shone its light through the window, flooding the cabin with ivory. As the beam crawled from one wall to the next, the younger brother picked his head up for just a moment to notice his shadow across the floor. His sickly frame was barely visible; the radiation had eaten away at much of his muscles, leaving a crackling skeleton in its wake. The youngest twirled his wrists, watching the darkness give form to his figure once more before glancing at his brother; his eyes trailed the floor until they reached his sturdy boots. The eldest peered through the sliver of the window that was available, gripping the metal prod. The moon retracted behind a slight wave of snowy clouds, but for a short second, the younger brother failed to recognize his brother's shadow. Along the floor were the shades of his boots, the iron in his hand, and even his hat; but in the areas where his body was visible were absent.
"Hey, bro-"
"Shhh," he interrupted before placing his bony index finger over his lips.
The youngest remained quiet as he watched his brother from his corner of the bleak cabin. The remaining light from the moon dissipated, leaving them in complete darkness.
Huff. Huff. Huff.
Trying to control his breathing, the youngest clasped his shaking hands together and tightened his fingers around each other.
A low growl came from outside the cabin that caused the younger brother to lose his rhythm. Unable to see his brother, he forced his buckled knees to curl, giving him enough momentum to rise. Using the wall as support, he nudged himself closer to the entrance, hoping to catch his brother. As he leaned against the sturdy board, the growl increased in volume, whatever was outside, it was coming their way.
"Brother, brother, where are you?" the youngest whispered. When he experienced the gnawing silence, he assumed that his whisper wasn't loud enough, but he couldn't even hear his brother breathing. The growl suddenly changed into something more of a shout, a primal cry. "Brother, please help," the youngest whispered once more. Footsteps shuffled along the boards, and suddenly, he felt a frigid hand against his shivering arm. He had recognized the grooves of his brother's hand before he pulled him down.
"It's outside," the younger stated.
"Yeah, I heard."
"Maybe wait?"
"Right, the entrances are blocked. There's no way it can come in."
"Exactly…" the eldest voice had a sinister tone in it.
Continue reading Shapeshifter. →
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Eve's Drop
January 1, 2017 jvarina	Leave a comment
Sp/l-it
The rain quietly rests on the window sill, watching the scene unfold before it's crystalline eyes. A silent film with two figures, man and woman, sitting on the edge of a bed. Lips moving, bodies shifting, jerks and jolts as irreversible lighting strikes their hearts. A moment, now space expands. An otherworldly pressure blanketing the bedroom, pausing just above their tears. Two becomes one faster than droplets sliding down the stained window.
She walks into the bedroom, her feet crumbling under the weight of calcified guilt. Crawling out of clothes that smelled of regretful cigarettes and old books. Standing above a rotted coffin, buried under soiled sheets; a resurrected corpse now occupies this space, the same bed where they used to lay. Unaware, she's created a Frankenstein of her former lover, made with pieces of men who want nothing but to feel warmth. How deftly mad was she, to bring him to her sacred garden and attempt to place a lost soul in this new body? And this man, this monster would never leave now. No, she had given him life, who was he to turn away from that?
He stepped out of the rented taxi, neck scented with cologne and a touch of starch. A finely shaven beard, chiseled from ear to chin. He a was a man, and ready to do what men do, and indulge themselves. Listening was a bore, and whisky always made his lips run loose. He approached the crowded bar, scanning over the bottles like a falcon above the forest; but no prey appeared. Reaching into his black denim, he unveiled a leather wallet containing enough money for him to face his fears, or so he believed…
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Hovel Of Horror, Stories
Serial Streamer
September 3, 2016 jvarina	Leave a comment
There was a slight glare from the light but she continued to look. It was darker than normal this afternoon, the sun seemed to go down earlier. The sound of heels tapping pavement could be heard at the other side of the alley. Instinctively she clutched her keys, placing them between her fingers. Her wedding ring made it difficult for the key to fit but somehow it slid in. Her phone in the other, using it as a guiding light, searching for the apartment number. Sirens wailed in the distance while television noises echoed through the hall. But then it became silent, as if all the oxygen has suddenly disappeared. The darkness from the other side began to shift, slowly at first. Out of the void a figure began to appear, the lights casting a dim silhouette over his face. And then a small light, a set of legs followed by hair and face. A woman. A lost sheep. Somehow she managed to step into his view, just when he was getting ready for the night. She seemed to be the perfect warm up for the approaching festival. Tonight was his night. Under the mask he could only hear his own breathing,
Until the rhythm became him, then he would go.
The front pocket of his uniform was glowing, a white phone peeking from under the cloth. He looked to the streetlight, and from under the mask it looked like the light was fading.
She didn't notice him until he was only a few paces behind her, how quiet he moved. A slight chill went up her blouse, causing goosebumps to stand at attention. It was mid May but between the silent bricks it felt like December. Cold with a hint of the end. She looked at the houses, watching the numbers climb. Her own destination seeming farther, while the end was still following. A Mis-step gave him away, for his feet were in sync with hers. She turned to see a small figure, a teenager. His outfit slightly dirty, the singe of the day's grime was still on his sleeves. His hands were long, they almost didn't belong to him. The streetlight flickered and his face appeared, only for an instant. Pale skin and hollow eyes, until two pupils appeared from the dark circles. A mask. She thought back to her husband, and wondered how she would never stroke his chin again.
He walked to his prey, and reached into his pocket. A flash of silver illuminated in the alley. Under the mask he could only see one thing, her. Her body began to grow larger as he lumbered towards her. Suddenly it grew smaller, and her feet began to move quicker. No matter, they always run. He turned to the left and continued down the hall. His phone still sitting in his pocket.
She ran down the halls, screaming for help. It wasn't enough for the occupied apartments seemed to only house lights. She turned around and noticed that he was gone. A slight trickle began to crawl down her legs, the liquids from earlier making an escape as she searched for hers. Her phone light was now off and the keys were no longer within her hands. She crawled into the pile of trash next to the rusted gate. The smell was only tolerable because her life was on the line, but she still gagged. And then it became quiet, no longer rustling plastic and drastic heartbeats.
His hand reached down
Her hair was snatched
His shoulders bulged as he lifted her
The trash bags rolled off her legs as she was taken
He kneeled next to her and unsheathed his knife.
In the distance a trickle could be heard, a fresh puddle forming in the gutter. In the dark it was colorless, but in the morning the street would turn Crimson. He lifted her body off the ground and tossed her into the trash, the festival was about to begin and he was late. She wasn't…enough. He reached down into his pocket and checked his phone. His screen mirrored that of the alley, his new canvas. Leftover blood was streaked across the LCD lights and for a second the cells made a kaleidoscope on his mask. A solitary red flash was pulsating in the corner until a hold transmission button appeared. He pressed it and the screen went black. A lone sigh escaped from the nostril holes and a set of words refracted off of his face. The screen read "Lost Sheep" and his transmission ended.
I sat in the corner of my room, numb. Tears unable to fall and words no longer forming. What had I just witnessed? The ending of an innocent life or the craving of a sadistic man. The two accounts both open on my screen, wondering who's story was the real one. I was afraid, but most of all I was confused. How, how could I watch that? How could I sit still and experience the end of an existence. I wondered who was the real monster as the same night sky began to fall over my bedroom window.
This short came from the idea"what would happen if someone live-streamed a murder?"
The Special Pen
June 15, 2016 jvarina	Leave a comment
This story is dedicated to all those souls who were taken from us too early through injustice, hate and violence. This is also dedicated to those who's hearts and notebooks are filled with the silent echoes from the past. May these words grant us a minute of reprieve.
When I was born God gave me a pen. He said it had special ink. When I was old enough, the world gave me a notepad and then told me it was time to use the pen; however God gave me no instructions. So I started writing, and the pen worked. But not long enough. The ink would fade by the next day. I wrote about many things. about love. about fear. about the future. But my notepad was always blank by the morning. So I put it away.
I saw the name of a soul who was taken too early. It hurt to see this happen, so I decided to try the pen again. It bled this time, and I awoke the next day to find that my notebook was now real. Weeks later another name found it's way into my book, then another. At first, these names were so important, because they were so few and the white space was so great. However, more and more began to appear, faster too. So quick that my hand began to hurt and the notebook started filling up. On occasion, I had to write many names at once and my fingers would go numb. Eventually I had a list of names that never disappeared.
Continue reading The Special Pen →
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I February 15, 2018
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Learnin' November 28, 2017
Close Quarter Confession November 21, 2017
It's 4AM, and We're in Your Car… November 16, 2017
Seasonal Suffering November 12, 2017
P.E. Class November 4, 2017
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Eastern Division Preview
BREWSTER WHITECAPS
After finishing the 2021 regular season 22-11-3 atop the East Division, Brewster ran the table going 4-0 in the playoffs to capture their second championship in four seasons. Led by head coach Jamie Shevchik and numerous returning players, Brewster hopes to carry their success into 2022. Among the returning players are Dale Stanavich (Rutgers), Teddy McGraw (Wake Forest), Brian Fitzpatrick (Rutgers), Zachary Neto (Campbell), and Kurtis Byrne (TCU). Stanavich, a hard-throwing lefty, was one of the most dominant relievers on the Cape last summer. He finished with a 2.29 ERA over 19.2 innings (including playoffs) with a 16.9 K/9. This spring Stanavich owns a 0.98 ERA over 18.1 innings with seven saves. Despite suffering an ankle injury mid-season last year, Zachary Neto returned for the Whitecaps playoff run, adding some clutch home runs. This spring Neto has raised his draft stock even more, hitting .379 with 17 XBHs so far. Hunter Owen (Vanderbilt) should be a big piece of the Whitecaps pitching plan this summer. In seven relief appearances this spring, Owen has a 1.54 ERA and a 12.9 K/9 in 23.1 innings. Brewster will open their season against a familiar opponent, traveling to Bourne on June 12th for the first time since sweeping the Braves in the Championship last August.
CHATHAM ANGLERS
The Chatham Anglers finished the 2021 season 16-19-3, fourth in the East Division. Leading the Anglers infield will be Johnny Castagnozzi (North Carolina), who has primarily played second base for the Tar Heels this spring. At the plate, Castagnozzi has hit .318 with a .983 OPS and eight home runs. Caden Grice (Clemson) will return to Veterans Field, following a brief stint with Chatham last summer. In nine games, Grice hit .250 with a pair of home runs. In his collegiate career so far, Grice has hit 19 home runs with 70 RBIs and a .931 OPS. Ethan Long (Arizona State) will solidify the Anglers infield, alongside Castagnozzi and Grice. A consensus All-American in 2021, Long has .318 in his collegiate career with a 1.027 OPS, 43 XBHs, and 79 RBIs. Jacob Watters (West Virginia) has potential to be a big piece in the Anglers bullpen this summer. The right-handed junior has put together a 3.52 ERA through three seasons as a Mountaineer, but owns a 14.2 K/9 and has yet to surrender a home run through 64 innings in his collegiate career. With no shortage of talent, Tom Holliday and the Chatham Anglers will look to win their first championship since 1998, the longest active drought in the East Division.
HARWICH MARINERS
In 2021, the Harwich Mariners finished 19-12-5, second in the East Division. Head Coach Steve Englert will look to lead the Mariners to their third consecutive Eastern Division Finals appearance, after defeating Y-D in 2019 and falling to Brewster in 2021. Brock Wilken (Wake Forest) will be a big piece of their anticipated success this summer. Wilken was named the CCBL's Most Valuable Player in 2021, hitting .302 with a .949 OPS, six home runs, 26 RBIs and stellar defense at third base. Wilken has continued to rake this spring, hitting .288 with 10 home runs and 41 RBIs. Returning alongside Wilken will be Tatem Levins (Pittsburgh), a CCBL All-Star in 2021. Levins finished last summer with a .402 OBP while catching in 29 games for the Mariners. Since transferring to Pittsburgh this spring, Levins is hitting .325 with 10 home runs. Jake Gelof (Virginia) has the potential to become the second consecutive Mariner to win MVP this summer. Following a freshman season where he hit .252 with a .804 OPS, Gelof has made massive strides this spring. So far he's hitting .388 with a 1.368 OPS, 54 RBIs and 14 home runs. Gelof is in the running to lead the NCAA in home runs and could be a nightmare for CCBL pitchers all summer long.
ORLEANS FIREBIRDS
The 2021 CCBL season saw the Orleans Firebirds go 13-17-5, finishing last in the East Division. Led by Kelly Nicholson, the Firebirds will look to replicate their success from 2019 instead, when they finished atop the East Division. Luke Keaschall (University of San Francisco) is the sole member from the 2021 squad returning to Orleans this summer. Keaschall was named CCBL Player of the Week last season in week five, hitting .538 that week including a 6-RBI game. Keaschall is hitting .336 this spring with five home runs and 19 RBIs. Perhaps the tallest pitcher in te CCBL this summer will be Charlie Hurley (University of Southern California), coming in at 6'8". Following a freshman season in which he strictly appeared out of the bullpen, Hurley has thrived this spring after transitioning to the rotation. The right-hander has a 1.85 ERA through 43.2 innings this spring, after putting together a 4.29 ERA in 21 innings in 2021. The most impressive stat in Hurley's collegiate career so far is that through 64.2 innings he's allowed just one home run (0.1 HR/9).
YARMOUTH-DENNIS RED SOX
The 2021 Yarmouth-Dennis Red Sox finished with a 16-14-7 record, good for third in the East Division. The Red Sox will feature a pair of exciting pitchers in Alonzo Tredwell (UCLA) and River Ridings (TCU). Tredwell, a true-freshman for the Bruins, has shined this spring through his first ten appearances out of the bullpen. Over 16.2 innings, Tredwell has a 1.62 ERA with 15.0 K/9 and just 1.1 BB/9. Ridings' success this spring is no surprise, being named a 1st team Freshman All-American last season, compiling a 1.08 ERA over 33.1 innings. This spring, Ridings has delivered a 2.03 ERA over 13.1 innings so far. An intriguing name to watch this summer will be Cole Roberts (Loyola Marymount University), who is the son of current Dodgers manager Dave Roberts. Yarmouth-Dennis will look to get back to their winning ways in 2022, led by longtime Manager Scott Pickler, who is just six wins away from having the most all-time wins in Cape League history.

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The Tales We Weave (part 2 of 2): "Focus: Fiber 2011" in Canton
The Tales We Weave (Part 2of 2): "Focus: Fiber 2011" in Canton
Another smaller, but vibrant work that requires a shift in viewing posture is Bonnie Patterson's "Bitter Root." The 'ground' for this piece seems at first to be an abstract field, and on one level it is. The multiple fabric swatches are heat transfer images of Montana topographical and geological images – a mapped landscape interspersed with a few larger images of Washington, D.C. When visiting this not- so- plain(s)- state(ment), tilt your head about 45 degrees clockwise to read the embroidered longhand text along the bottom half. Politics and poetry meet in a kind of folk-art embrace of social and environmental concerns. A story being told.
And it is indeed a narrative, often autobiographical sensibility that informs many other works here. In that sense, such works, for all their clearly modern look, speak nonetheless to early textile art traditions of storytelling as well as a passion for pure, decorative pattern.
June Lee's "Who We Are" is a deceivingly simple presentation of five black, hand-sewn shirts with white collars, made from translucent Korean cloth. These are school uniforms, hovering in midair above five sets of disembodied, brightly colored fabric hands on the floor. Each set of hands is poised in a specific gesture. These would be signals, Lee tells us in her statement, passed (unseen by the teacher) between students. The piece is a stark, quietly provocative 'story' of declared individuality in the context of strictly imposed conformity - a new twist, perhaps, to 'kid gloves.'
"Amazing Grace" by Cynthia Lockhart is an intensely explosive pastiche of hand-dyed and painted fabrics, lace, collage, and applique. Its spectacular opulence of color, shapes, and textures is a fittingly exuberant homage to divine presence along life's meandering pathways. Another homage is "Gothic Vessel (after Duccio)" by Jennifer A. Reis. This one, spectacular in its own right, is to Duccio di Buoninsegna, a 13th century Italian painter of religious subjects. The intricate, swirling beadwork in this Madonna icon is wondrously evocative of shimmering golden mosaics. And speaking of beadwork, the three works by Simone Schiffmacher transform a burger, fries, and taco (each presented on a gold leafed cafeteria tray) into dazzling, jeweled trophies of a sort - an impressive, labor-intense apotheosis of junk food.
Among the more abstract, patterned works, Rumana Hawa's "Unison Vault" is another fascinating example of Jacquard weaving, and utterly enchanting in its interlocked shapes. They're every bit as complex and maze-like as the artist's accompanying statement. Something maybe about metaphysics, metaphor, and/or the spirituality of math. Arcane language aside, the delightful proof here is in the looking. So be hypnotized, be very hypnotized.
Without having relevant statistics to back up or dispute any assumption that the fiber arts are still primarily 'womens' work' (aside, possibly, from the context of international high-fashion clothing design), it is interesting to note that the work in this show is in fact predominantly by women. Having said that, Adam Kessler's pieces, "Solar System Fan" and "Human Fan," are remarkably unique entries. And it's not so much because they're by a male, but because of their appealing intimacy and facile embroidery of figures sewn through elegantly shaped wooden blades. At once hard, soft, and airy.
The conceptual play between hard and soft is very much at work in M.E. Ware's "Power Suit for Modern Mothers." Hard, as in a critical look at cultural stereotypes and assumptions about gender roles and appearances. Soft, as associated with delicate or feminine, and the raw material of the work – felted laundry lint! This freestanding work, humorous and severe, is made entirely from grayish lint that's been sculpted into a clothing store mannequin wearing a woman's business suit – a cautionary stepping out, perhaps, from dingy domesticity into tainted corporate power-grabbing.
Like so much of this exhibit, it's a potent, inventive melding of intellectual and visual muscle…and grace.
Photos courtesy Canton Museum of Art: "Amazing Grace" by Cynthia Lockhart (top), and "Gothic Vessel (after Duccio)" by Jennifer A. Reis. On view through March 4, 2012, at the Canton Museum of Art, 1001 Market Ave. N. in Canton, Ohio. (330) 453 – 7666 www.cantonart.org
The Tales We Weave (part 1)
Over the past several decades, the "feminine needle arts" have convincingly outgrown their historical niche as decorative, functional craft. Quilts and embroidery samplers, for example, were once perceived in the West as the purview of women who were not otherwise encouraged to participate in a man's world of 'serious' art making, and seen as relatively milquetoast mediums when compared to such 'high art' pursuits as painting and sculpture. But the creative and certainly ingenious manipulation of textiles (including weaving, quilting, embroidery, knotting, beadwork, and applique, among other methods) now occupies a significant and vital place in the world of contemporary fine art. Abundant and compelling evidence is currently on view in the spectacular exhibit called "Focus: Fiber 2011" at the Canton Museum of Art.
Coordinated with the Textile Art Alliance of the Cleveland Museum of Art, the show is a stunning cross section of fiber works by 39 artists from across eight states. The exhibit was juried by internationally prominent fiber artist Dorothy Caldwell, who selected 50 pieces from 278 submissions. In her statement for the show, she tells us, "I was struck by the audacious use of eccentric fabrics and casual construction – the unpredictable carrier of a message."
Audacious…unpredictable…message. Yes indeed to all three. The range of scale, methods of construction, and visual/conceptual content here are remarkably deep, often surprising, and consistently intriguing.
In the hard-to-miss large scale department, there's the razzle-dazzle "Resurrection" by Heather Ujiie. It's a joyously electrifying union of digital ink jet images and embroidery, with beadwork and other intricate embellishments. This preternatural panorama – a psychedelic Garden of Eden tapestry, really – is made on six hanging cotton panels, each measuring 10' in height and collectively spanning 19' across. Absolutely mesmerizing.
Large (10'x4 ½') and mesmerizing too, but in a much more understated way, is "Cell Tower Stretch" by Catherine Theodore. Her hand-dyed rayon and cotton threads are 'Jacquard woven' (a computerized loom mechanism/process that produces a tight, smooth, gently raised texture) into a lush, bluish-gray field beautifully interwoven with other colors that quietly offset the black silhouette of a cell phone tower, thus imbuing a thoroughly modern industrial structure with a classical elegance.
"In a Different Light" by Xia Gao is, again, very large (approx. 15'x7') and even more subtle. This impressive expanse of buckram (a stiffened cotton/linen) is screen printed with an abstract, all- blue "pattern" that suggests an aerial view of earthbound organic detritus. The configuration looks as if literally lifted from the ground, like an elaborate collograph or stencil. The entire work hangs about three feet away from the wall, suspended from brackets, and is perforated all over with tiny burn holes. It begins to make more sense after reading Gao's accompanying statement (something I highly recommend for all the works in this show).
Therein we learn that the work addresses Gao's personal connection to the state of Nebraska and that the tiny holes were produced by burning incense sticks through the fabric. The randomness of the organic plain becomes a kind of organized spiritual plane that passes light through the holes, making for the delightful surprise of dozens of silhouetted images projected on the wall behind. The images are largely of human figures engaging the natural landscape. And so the work takes on a fascinating sculptural dimensionality as it requires us to shift our physical orientation to it, to see it not just from the conventional front and center pictorial position, but from behind and underneath as well. It's a powerful, pro-active metaphor for shifting our perspective on relationship with the natural landscape.
For that matter, it brings to mind the overall heft and beauty of this show (more comments to be offered soon in part 2) – a refreshing, thoroughly engaging conflation of tradition and innovation.
Photo, courtesy Canton Museum of Art: "Resurrection" by Heather Ujiie, on view through March 4, 2012, at the Canton Museum of Art, 1001 Market Ave. N. in Canton, Ohio. (330) 453 – 7666 www.cantonart.org
Wholly Holy Holydays
"The idea of a great moral teacher saying what Christ said is out of the question. In my opinion, the only person who can say that sort of thing is either God or a complete lunatic suffering from that form of delusion which undermines the whole mind of man…We may note in passing that He was never regarded as a mere moral teacher. He did not produce that effect on any of the people who actually met Him. He produced mainly three effects – Hatred – Terror – Adoration. There was no trace of people expressing mild approval." -C.S.Lewis -
Then Jesus told him, "Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed." - John 20:29 –
Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished! - Luke 1:45 –
Today is Friday, December 23, the day before Christmas Eve. Years ago, my wife, Martha, told me that she calls this day "Christmas Adam." It's an endearing assignation, and not hard to figure out. Adam came before Eve. Today puts me in mind of first things first. Primary attentions. Priorities. So here's a few thoughts on Christmas.
One particularly impactful essay by C.S. Lewis (quoted above), originally published in his 1970 book, "God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics," begins, "What are we to make of Jesus Christ?" Lewis immediately follows the question by observing that it has "…a frantically comic side." I've come to regard the wording of his observation as meaning 'tragically ironic.' He continues, "For the real question is not what are we to make of Christ, but what is He to make of us?"
In occupying my thoughts with great persistence over the past several weeks, this 'real question' is to me in many ways a real shame, if only because I pray on it too much just seasonally, or on Sundays, and not enough daily. Otherwise, I allow our terribly addled world to prey on my time and allegiances, thus too often making its priorities my own. Thinking about such things especially at this time of year is easy enough, even as it might smack of cookie-cutter religiosity or a hollow sense of tradition and spiritual 'duty.' Is the question one to be trotted out annually like a favorite Christmas bauble, only to be packed up and stored away until next year?
Additionally, throughout this Christmas season of 2011, I have often painted in my mind's eye the image of a weary Jesus asking the world at large, "What have you made of Christmas?" And the only way for me to honestly respond is to daily come back to what, exactly, I am willing to let Jesus, my Creator and Lord, make of me. It is a matter far more urgent than just "keeping" Him as a great teacher, or feel-good abstraction of goodness in a season that bears His name. The truth, indeed the reality, is that He came to reveal, and keep ALL of us in, what he IS - living, unspeakably glorious Love, Joy, Hope, and Peace. Forever.
First things first. By His grace, believing IS seeing. May your eyes, then, be filled with the light of Jesus. Merry Christmas.
Photo: My 2011 Christmas oil painting/greeting card.
Posted by Tom Wachunas at 1:37 PM 1 comment:
Accessing Ambiguities
"What modern art means is that you have to keep finding new ways to express yourself, to express the problems, that there are no settled ways, no fixed approach…It is about the hurt of not being able to express yourself properly, to express your intimate relations, your unconscious, to trust the world enough to express yourself directly in it…Some questions are too painful to answer. Some questions we are unwilling to ask. And some are impossible to answer."
- Artist Louise Bourgeois, from a 1988 interview with philosopher and critic Donald Kuspit –
"Joy and Departure" is the intriguing name of the current exhibit at The Little Art Gallery in North Canton, featuring paintings by Joe Martino and sculptures by Annette Yoho Feltes. If I read the statement that accompanies the list of works correctly, the thematic premise of the show is that both artists' works here were intended to be seen together as somehow complementary in their departures from familiar reality so as to evoke unexpected joy and fascination on our part. In the process of putting the show together they have to some extent, in a few of their pieces, cross-fertilized each other's work.
I can certainly see how "joy" might be one outcome of seeing Joe Martino's pieces - as in the joy of encountering enthralling new visual structures in the context of scientific exploration. This isn't surprising when considering that Martino is a retired teacher of chemistry and marine biology.
His mixed media abstractions are elaborate, heavily tactile, shimmering gatherings of forms - both geometric and irregular - that float in and on undulating fields of variable color, ranging from dark and earthbound to stunningly electric. Some of the forms look scraped on to, or out of, the surface, making for some delightfully ambiguous figure-ground passages. Other forms appear poured or spilled on to the surface in organic configurations that are often set off with elegant, thin contour lines of raised paint, as if mapping a topography.
These are complex and meticulous works, alternately suggestive of explosive astronomical events, astral clouds, and microbial minutiae. Telescopic and microscopic. With its often metallic iridescence, Martino's nebulous geometry can be preciously decorative. But I don't mean 'decorative' in any pejorative sense. Rather, his pictures are vibrant, intuitive celebrations of spectacles both familiar and wondrously mysterious.
And it is mystery, more than overt "joy," that abounds in the sculptures by Annette Yoho Feltes. With various combinations of terra cotta, porcelain, rope, wire, and wood (among other materials), she makes objects that are (even at their most whimsical) invariably visceral and arresting. Feltes' aesthetic is firmly rooted in solidarity with that of art world luminaries Louise Bourgeois, Magdalena Abakanowitcz, and Eva Hess. Feltes calls them her "saints."
I can see why. Without being too blatantly derivative, what Feltes shares with those 20th century mentors of mixed media sculptures and installation art is a well-honed ability to let the juxtaposition of her chosen physical materials be intensely expressive of spirit and psyche. Particularly in her three freestanding works ("The Necessary Sacrifice," "Fruitful," and "A Mother of Two"), there's a raw, even primal emotionality at work. These metaphorical constructions have the look of ritual objects, like ancient shamans' ceremonial charms, that speak of vexing enigmas or pain. But there's also an abiding sense of anticipation and promise, of impending arrivals, of conversations incomplete, literally hanging in the balance. Suspended thoughts. Her strange, bulbous forms might be carcasses or entombed nightmares. Then again, eggs, cocoons, or ripe fruit. Fertility and birth, harvest, mortality. Sublimated fears and anxieties, or channeled dreams?
In accessing and trusting their own experience of living, conscious and unconscious, contemporary artists will often leave us challenging 'statements' that stop in mid-sentence, as it were. Ambiguities and dichotomies in flux. Much of the "art experience" in this postmodernist era is in fact more dependent than ever upon us, the viewers, to resolve or at least sustain the dialogue. Annette Yoho Feltes' 'voice' is a young but burgeoning and uniquely important one in our local arts milieu, and one that merits our continuing attentions.
"Joy and Departure" will be on view through January 14 at The Little Art Gallery, located inside the North Canton Public Library, 185 North Main Street, North Canton. (330) 499 – 4712, Ext. 312
Liquid Urban Light
"Watercolour could have been used more by the modernists. It is so direct, and when the white paper convention is accepted, so powerful, even brutal, that it would seem an ideal medium." – David Milne –
What would David Milne (who died in 1953), among Canada's most prominent artists of the 20th century, make of the popularity and high visibility of watercolorists in our northeastern Ohio midst? Would he consider their work 'modernist' in the sense that I take the above quote to mean? Would he see a powerful, "even brutal" employment of the medium?
I'm sure that he would indeed encounter some truly original and engaging practitioners of the medium in our artistic population. To get there, though, he would have to wade through a preponderance of entrenched traditionalists. Not there's anything necessarily insipid or invalid about the niceties of a tightly painted still life, floral arrangement, quaint seascape, or sentimental landscape. But quaint and sentimental is one thing. Saccharine and generic, no matter how well rendered, is quite another. Looking at exhibitions in these parts over the past 20 years, it seems to me that we're remarkably heavy with lightweight and otherwise unremarkable watercolor painters.
Ted Lawson's work decidedly does NOT fall into that demographic. Ample evidence is currently on view in his exhibit, called "A Moment in Time," at the Canton Museum of Art. With the exception of two aquatic-themed images, all of the watercolor paintings here are cityscapes – some of Canton, but most of Manhattan.
All of these urban visions share a photographic sensibility in their soft detailing and in how the scenes have a viewfinder- in-the-moment sort of framing. This isn't surprising, since Lawson does work from photographs. But what's most uncanny is how his bold, luminous colors and fluid technique manifest light, imbuing his images with the plein air vibrancy and spontaneity so characteristic of the Impressionists. "Washington Square Park" is a stunning panorama of contrasted light. Wispy foreground trees hover over cars parked in the shade and pedestrians in silhouette, while the famous landmark arch and the city structures in the distance seem to shimmer in soft sunlight.
There's also the matter of Lawson's impeccable sense of design and composition, both in form and color distribution. While these pictures are certainly representational, they're built upon seeing abstractly. Many of the scenes have an almost architectural dynamic in how visual textures are constructed, with concentrated areas of small details and shapes balanced against larger, more airy passages. In "Union Square Saturday," the light is diffuse, befitting the rainy day depicted. A cluster of umbrella shapes moves rhythmically, as if dancing across the middle of the picture plane, floating in sharp counterpoint to the amorphous reflections glimmering on the wet pavement at the bottom.
For all of their liquid charm, the paintings nonetheless project a compelling, visceral immediacy. And occasionally even real drama, as in the aptly titled "Night Fever." It's a practically hallucinatory, furiously red vision of head light glare colliding with the sparkling metal of passing traffic.
These are exquisitely exciting impressions of transient episodes in city life. Lawson has managed to turn the clamor, clutter, and largeness of the urban milieu into a sublimely poetic visual experience. Interestingly enough, though his brushwork generally has little in common with that of Claude Monet, I'm still reminded of Monet's abiding passion for translating light into form. The French master once observed, "Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love."
Simply necessary to love. For my part, with Lawson's work, that's a necessity – indeed an invitation - joyously met.
Photo: "Riding the Bike Lane" watercolor by Ted Lawson. On view through March 4, 2012, at the Canton Museum of Art, 1001 Market Avenue N., Canton (330) – 453- 7666
www.cantonart.org
Evocations: The Art of Martin Bertman
My first encounter with a Martin Bertman painting was in 2008 at Second April Galerie in downtown Canton. Call it a summoning. From 20 paces, a small piece called "Before Awakening," one of the 25 Bertman works (oil, acrylic, watercolor, and mixed media) currently on view at the Canton Museum of Art, is a portrait that, despite being faceless, beckoned with great insistence. As if reconnecting with a long lost friend, I've been awakening to his work, caught in its mesmerizing thrall, ever since. And so it has truly been an honor and gift most memorable that I have had the opportunity to curate this show that I call "Evocations."
Bertman's configurations – some abstracted, some more clearly representational - reside in a place both primal and modern. Here, a raw primitivism and a pictorial refinement resonate with equal intensity - like dance partners entwined in an ever moving, passionate embrace. While it is apparent that a number of historic influences (Symbolist, Cubist, Surrealist, and Expressionist, to name some) are threaded throughout his ouvre, the artist has deftly personalized those sources and re-organized them into a unique, compelling visual vocabulary of intriguing motifs and emblems. Yet for all of its personal content and sometimes obtuse symbolism, this is an iconography that nonetheless evokes an accessible, deeply human spirituality.
Evokes what, exactly? 'Human sprituality' embraces a decidedly broad canvas, as it were, of painterly exploration. Bertman's surfaces often have a tactile physicality, though not of the heavy impasto sort. His subtler brush strokes – whether sweeping and lambent (as in "O'Keefe's Desert"), or mincing and stippled (as in "Moses"), are invested with energetic, gestural spontaneity. His imagery can be both familiar and approachable ("Cubist Still Life" and "Large Leaf," for example), as well as inchoate and elusive ("Night Birth," or "Light and Dark"). The most consistently abiding conceptual element throughout these pieces (representing approximately 20 years of work) though, is their narrative resonance. There are fascinating tales being "told" here, some with gravitas, some lilting and innocent. In that, Bertman is as much a thinker and storyteller as he is a painter. And these visual voicings revel in a superbly poetic language, generously imbued with potent mystique.
Look long enough, and I think you'll feel somehow drawn to not just the artist's private musings about being alive, but also into the rich milieu of collective human thinking about history, myth, and matters of the soul. Not so surprisingly, then, after you read Bertman's statement posted with the exhibit, you would hopefully sense how these are indeed images a life-long teacher of philosophy could or would make.
Residing in many of Bertman's works is a distinctly European aesthetic sensibility, often evoking the spirits of Paul Gauguin, Marc Chagall, or Henri Matisse, among others. And the color! Always the color – sumptuous, intense, vibrant like the Fauves, emotionally gripping like Van Gogh, playful like Picasso.
Yet always distinctly Bertman. Bertman the painter/ philosopher, the synthesizer, the weaver of tales. The celebrator of seeing. The sublime evocateur.
Photo: "Before Awakening" by Martin Bertman, on view at the Canton Museum of Art through March 4, 2012. More information at (330) 453 – 7666 and www.cantonart.org
Pressler at 87: Imprecise, but Passionate
While there was nothing particularly 'Christmasy' about the program offered by the Canton Symphony Orchestra on December 4, the atmosphere in Umstattd Hall felt nonetheless distinctly festive and anticipatory of something very special. That would be, of course, the return of legendary pianist Menahem Pressler, last heard here in October, 2009, when his performance of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 17 was met with thunderous adulation.
And so it was that the first work on the program – Mozart's Overture to Abduction from the Seraglio – was a rollicking call to attention, replete with joyous bursts of cymbals, triangle, and drums. It's a scintillating, rambunctious piece, and the orchestra rose to the occasion with cheerful panache. In retrospect, the work demonstrated the orchestra's crisp mastery in the percussion section, and heralded the more expansive, emotionally gripping percussive scope of the evening's final selection.
In dramatic contrast to such a brisk start, the beginning of the program's next entry, Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 4, seemed like a whispered message - a simple four-note piano theme quietly delivered by Menahem Pressler. In its day, such an introduction was a daring departure from standard concerto openings, and served to establish a meditative commencement of an unfolding, ornate dialogue between piano and orchestra. As Kenneth C. Viant astutely observed in his program notes, Beethoven's fourth piano concerto is the least "demonstrative" of his five piano concertos and "…one in which inward drama is favored over outward display."
This doesn't mean that the contemplative nature of the work isn't without its technical challenges for the pianist – usually in the form of repeatedly intricate, cascading arpeggios. Presslers's physical dexterity was less than optimal here. He is, after all, in his 87th year – all the more astonishing when considering he still conducts prestigious master classes and dazzles international concert audiences. Yet even as his performing mechanics may have been uneven, such imprecisions did little to diminish Beethoven's compelling lyricism.
This was particularly apparent in the second movement, Andante con moto. The scoring is such that the initially heavy, dark-sounding strings are ultimately subdued, through a call-and-response sequencing, by the piano's insistent, gently plaintive articulations. Throughout the movement, and then into the vivacious finale, Pressler's playing exuded remarkable poeticism along with his own passionate enthrallment with the music, eliciting immediate, gleeful shouts of approval and a standing ovation from many in the packed auditorium.
Maestro Gerhardt Zimmermann's delightful penchant for convivial banter with the audience was in fine form as he introduced the next work on the program – Camille Saint-Saens' symphonic poem, Le Rouet d'Omphale (Omphale's Spinning Wheel). He informed us that the second theme in the work had at one point become the theme music for a famous vintage radio program, and challenged anyone in the audience to identify the show. He awarded one woman a CD of his Vivaldi Four Seasons recording for correctly naming the 1930s serial drama, The Shadow.
Meanwhile, the shadowy theme in the Saint-Saens work actually represents the presence of Hercules, dressed as a woman, as he encounters Omphale, the Lydian Queen whom the gods had sentenced him to serve. The orchestra captured all the lush, subtle crescendos of this graceful work with sublime finesse, the strings stretching out Omphale's spinning wheel thread into a single note - a high, achingly soft finale.
That ending was in turn an effective transition into the ethereal strings – conjuring dawn on a quiet sea - that began the evening's concluding work, Claude Debussy's evocative, powerful La Mer. Rarely have I heard a work so rich in orchestral textures, tempo variations, and fascinating timbres. This was Debussy's monumentally ambitious and heroic interpretation of the sea in all its manifestations, visceral and airy. And I've never heard this orchestra so rapturously engaged in the moment – from the alternately sonorous and mellow strings and eloquent majesty of the brass, to the intensely sparkling swells of percussion and the bright, buoyant effervescence of the winds. More than just a stirring masterpiece of mimetic orchestration, this was a transcendent journey to remember.
Humbuggery and Grace
"Come in! Come in, and know me better, man!" -The Spirit of Christmas Present, from Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" (1843) –
This year marks the 30th anniversary production of "A Christmas Carol" by the Players Guild Theatre in Canton. Promoted as having enhanced special effects and music (this is the version with music by Steve Parsons and lyrics by John Popa, originated in 1997), I nonetheless considered bypassing the event.
I saw the show last year and raved about it. Lately, though, I've felt a dampening of the proverbial 'Christmas spirit', further jaded by the encroachment of newer national "traditions" such as Thanksgiving night camp-outs at retail stores in a growing readiness to greet the Spirit of Christmas Consuming. And the straw that broke the reindeer's back, as it were, was the report of a bragging California woman who pepper-sprayed fellow customers in a mad fit of "competitive shopping." Black Friday to be sure. Scrooges' searing opinion of society's dispossessed – "Are there no prisons?" - has yet a new application. Humbug to you all, I said. I fart in your general direction.
Fortunately I repented of such extreme cynicism – surely a Scrooge moment - and came to my senses long enough to revisit one of literature's most treasured Christmas narratives, lovingly retold here by a 32-member cast under the joint direction of Joshua Erichsen and composer Steve Parsons (with assistance from Jeremy P. Lewis). The instrumental music alone, provided by an impeccably polished 11-piece orchestra, is robust and scintillating, able to lift even the Scroogiest heart. There's a distinctly fresh luster, too, in the charming, energetic choreography by Michael Lawrence Akers.
Joshua Erichsen's scenic design - with its thrilling fly effects, meticulously sculpted sets of 18th century architectural facades that swivel to reveal period interiors, and clever use of a trap door in the stage floor – brings remarkable dimensionality to the proceedings. But the real magic here is to be found in the songs, the singing, and the characters' lively performances delivered by an inspired cast of truly professional quality.
Walter Shepherd is a warm and earnest Bob Cratchit, and his song, "A Child Alone," with Zachary Charlick – delightfully authentic as Tiny Tim – is one of the evening's most tender moments. Heartrending, too, is Amanda Medley in her role of Scrooge's erstwhile love, Belle, who brings her sweetly riveting vocal finesse to the soaring ballad, "I Have to Know." Also soaring, literally and otherwise, is Kelley Edington as the Ghost of Christmas Past as she flies and sings the ethereal "Wandering" with an incredulous-looking Scrooge in tow. And Justin Edenhofer is genuinely convivial as Scrooge's nephew, Fred, while equally strong in his dual role of the young workaholic Ebenezer, particularly as he sings "Ten Minutes More."
It's pleasantly surprising to see a woman cast as the Ghost of Christmas Present. To that role, Eva Roberson brings a pure, passionate urgency tempered by child-like innocence. And speaking of children, young McKenzie Mack's solo work in "Rogue's Song (Shine a Light on Me)" is startlingly powerful.
The evening has several memorably funny and lighthearted scenes, among them the jaunty "Mister Scrooge" early in Act One, performed with quasi- vaudevillian glee by The Collecting Men trio of Austin Gantz, John Scavelli, and Andrew Knode. In Act Two they join forces with Tom Bryant (who also played Jacob Marley's Ghost), Trisha Fites, and Linda Teis as a gang of scruffy grave robbers during the raucous and irreverent romp, "We Build Ourselves Up."
A veteran of many Players Guild productions, the inimitable Don Jones reprises his role of Scrooge this year with a notably renovated authority. In fact, whereas last year some of his energy seemed at times under-developed (though not detrimentally so), this time around he invests his character with a substantially more vigorous animation and savory, credible pathos. When he's mean, we shudder at his vitriol; when he's remorseful, he breaks our hearts; when he's redeemed, we're giddy with elation right along with him. And did I mention his seasoned confidence? On opening night, the set was agonizingly slow and jerky as it rotated into Scrooge's bedchamber encounter with Marley's ghost. In a brilliantly hilarious ad lib, Jones, teetering slightly, handled the unscripted moment with endearing aplomb as he muttered, "Well, here's an adventure…we must be having an earthquake."
Adventure indeed, Jones' performance, along with that of the entire cast, is an invigorating respite from the mundane, ever-growing absurdities and distractions that can suck the meaning – the joy and the hope - out of Christmas. Far from providing merely escapist entertainment, though, the Players Guild's continuing faithful commitment to this classic story is a necessary and brave tradition of holding up a much-needed light, and an otherwise generous offering of artful grace in troubled times.
"A Christmas Carol – the new musical" at Players Guild Theatre, located in the Cultural Center for the Arts, 1001 Market Ave. North, in Canton. Shows through December 18 – Fridays and Saturdays at 8 p.m. and Sundays at 2:30 p.m. Tickets are $23 adults, $21 seniors 60+, $18 under 18, available through box office at (330) 453-7617, or at www.playersguildtheatre.com
Photo: illustration of Marley's Ghost by John Leech from first edition of "A Christmas Carol" (1843)
A Mind's-eye View
A Mind's-eye View
My normal practice in reviewing art shows is to publish before the exhibit is closed, which is certainly helpful in bringing interested viewers to the gallery. Artists often tend to appreciate that kind of support, too. So it is with hat in hand that I offer my sincerest apology for being so late with this one. But the show in question, which closed on November 26 – "Women In Aprons" at Zygote Press in Cleveland - was just too sublimely memorable to fade away without some well-earned raving on my part.
The exhibit featured the printmaking works of two women - Hui-Chu Ying and Patricia Zinsmeister Parker – and its title seems to have derived in some part from Ying's wall installation of 30 red fabric kitchen aprons, collectively titled "She Says," tacked to one of the gallery walls. Each apron was embroidered with white script in phrases of a distinctly feminist character, such as "Give a woman a job she grows balls," and "One woman can change anything." But it is the relief monoprints in her Prayer Series where a remarkable pictorial magic is at work. Replete with delicate floral configurations and symbols from various religions, these lush prints, with their intricate fields of calligraphy punctuated by organic and representational forms, suggest elaborate embroidered prayer scrolls or 'Oriental' carpets, as well as delightfully meditative, abstracted landscapes.
The eleventh-hour drive to Cleveland was originally prompted by an invitation from Patricia Zinsmeister Parker to see her latest series of works made from rug liners (!) – those rubbery grid-like mats placed under area rugs to keep them from from slipping across smooth floors. Ten of her pieces here were in fact not prints per se, but layered 'paintings' mounted on black grounds, made from multiple mats, each a different bright, saturated color, while four of the pieces were monoprint collages – abstracts comprised of color fields printed directly from the rug liners. While nothing can compare to actually seeing these intriguing works up close and personal, the next best option is to spend time visiting her elegant web site, pzparker.com.
While Hui-Chu Ying's prints certainly exude a clear, perhaps even conventional 'sprituality,' Parker's are nonetheless invested with a contemplative if not more urbanized aura all their own. These slightly out-of-register grid configurations are grounds from which her forms and symbols (both familiar and irregular) rise, at once invading and evading our sense of equilibrium. It's the visual co-existence of contrasting motifs that gives these works a sense of undulating drama, often with a sense of humor, as evidenced by such titles as "Cleveland Got Mojo," "Central Park," and "Swiss Bank Account." Call it a street-savvy theatre on paper.
Parker's ten painted assemblages pulse and undulate, too, with all the insistence of flashing neon lights against the black night. Yet interestingly enough, they're not garish or off-putting, but exquisitely cerebral and subtle. These are quietly seething optical microcosms of compressed depth.
For a long while in viewing the show, "Women In Aprons" did suggest that ancient refrain, "…woman's work is never done." What continues to fascinate me about Parker's evolving ouvre is its utter unpredictability, and her apparent unwillingness to settle too comfortably too long into a particular aesthetic. Never done indeed, she is in fact one woman who can change anything about her work. And she continues to do so with unflinching confidence, freshness, and daring.
Photo: "Clockwork Orange" monoprint collage by Patricia Zinsmeister Parker. pzparker.com
Instruments of Revelation
"Some photographers take reality…and impose the domination of their own thought and spirit. Others come before reality more tenderly and a photograph to them is an instrument of love and revelation."
- Ansel Adams –
I recently eavesdropped on part of a conversation between several people discussing the efficacy of photography as fine art. They all seemed to agree that photography was a less "challenging" and "exciting" (those were their actual words) method for making "realistic" art than was painting or drawing. Examples of both Renaissance and modern painting masters were cited, including photorealistic (a.k.a. 'Superrealism') paintings by Chuck Close and Richard Estes. And there were several other comments about the admirable discipline it takes to skillfully render, in paint, something that's so amazing in its fidelity to visible reality that it looks, interestingly enough…like a photograph. And well, duhh, ANYONE can take a picture of a sunset with a camera, they agreed, but it takes a "true artist" to make it convincingly like the real thing with a paintbrush.
Something told me I would be hard pressed to find any Jackson Pollock fans in this gathering. More to the point, I wondered if they had ever spent much time looking at the work of photographers such as Edward Steichen, Cartier-Bresson, Dorothea Lange, Edward Weston, Ansel Adams, to name just a few historic champions of the medium. Turns out they hadn't. As it was, I entered the discussion only long enough to mutter my disagreement, gently suggest that they were misinformed, and thank them for prompting what you are now reading.
Over the years I have encountered, to varying degrees, similar reluctance to regard photography as a "high art" form, as if it were an under-appreciated, perhaps even boring stepchild of true art. There are many reasons for this. Whether despite or because of postmodernist pluralism in matters of aesthetics, some still hold the reactionary view that the prime directive of two-dimensional art should be the faithful, albeit inspiring representation of the familiar, physical world. Entrenched conservatism, to be sure. Yet ironically, there is often folded into that viewpoint an accompanying, simplistic notion of photography being somehow too easy, unoriginal, ordinary. Point, click, and presto! - a picture.
Our world is inundated, indeed overwhelmed by instantly accessible visual information delivered via photographs. Rest assured I am aware that most people operating a camera are not artists as such (or shouldn't claim to be) and are not setting out to make fine art, even as they may wow us with gee-whiz photo shop trickery. Still, one result of this ubiquitous plethora of pictorial data is that we can easily become desensitized and otherwise asleep in our ability to recognize (or even care?) what makes a great photograph and yes, great visual art. Like it or not, we have succeeded in designing and implementing a marvelous system for looking at too many pictures too fast… for throwing the baby out with the bathwater, as it were. It's increasingly difficult to separate the real gems from the costume jewelry.
Need a wake-up call? First, slow down. Then consider your time as well-spent in seeing the current exhibition of photographs, called "As I See It," by Steve Ohman at The Little Art Gallery in North Canton. It's a remarkably eclectic collection of 31 images, the majority of which are black-and-white. That alone places these pictures firmly in what can only be called a noble tradition that I hope never becomes obsolete. Though it might seem counter-intuitive, physical realities formalized in gradations of black to white - presented with the disciplined, masterful eye for the intricacies of light and texture that we see here - can be incomparably pure and powerful documents of life. Ohman's landscapes in particular are delightfully memorable for their thoughtful formal composition as well as their distinctly poetic sensibility.
In Ohman's hands, the camera, not unlike the painter's brush, becomes a vehicle for translating the often seen and commonplace into the newly framed and revealed. Likewise, his photographs are sublime windows on the sheer intrigue and mesmerizing pleasure to be found in the very act of careful looking. In "taking pictures," he gives back enthralling records of compelling earthly dramas.
Photo, courtesy Steve Ohman and curator Elizabeth Blakemore: "In the Distance" by Steve Ohman. On view THROUGH DECEMBER 11, at The Little Art Gallery, located in the North Canton Public Library, 185 North Main Street, North Canton. Viewing hours 10 a.m. – 8 p.m. Monday – Thursday / 10 a.m. – 6 p.m. Friday / 9 a.m. – 5 p.m. Saturday / 1 p.m. – 5 p.m. Sunday gallery@northcantonlibrary.org
Martial Meditations
"Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come." - Carl Sandburg –
"War is a cowardly escape from the problems of peace." - Thomas Mann –
"Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder." - Percy Byshe Shelley –
From the title of his solo show at Main Hall Gallery at Kent Stark – "Wounds of War" - to the titles of the individual drawings, paintings, and collage/assemblages, it's clear that Fredlee Votaw means for his work to pluck at our heartstrings and speak to our spirits. Given the show's hot-button subject of war, one intriguing quality here is its overall sense of contemplative calm and, in some cases, an almost stoic serenity.
These aren't pictures of war's bloody atrocities. No visual histrionics or gratuitous political diatribes. Collectively, most of the pieces here address the less obvious or sensationalistic - but all too real - pain of longing, isolation, and loss that war heaps upon its victims and participants. Much of the imagery seems to emerge from and float in white voids, as in the series of four drawings called "Thinking About Iraq." Three of those feature an impeccably rendered pencil or pen portrait of a child juxtaposed with the American flag pictured as the all-too-familiar funereal blue triangle.
Other works are distinctly more visceral, with brooding, earthen colors and textured surfaces embedded with human figurative elements. Visceral too is the simple (though certainly not simplistic) and jarring "Flag of Honor," a found American flag that's clearly been through a fire.
Even without the title references to war, these works unabashedly exude real emotion – some more intensely than others. "Missing Her Soldier Daddy" is a wispy oil painting of a little girl, standing against the ghostly side of a house that fades away into empty white space, clutching a stuffed animal, peering at us from under an oversized cap with a look of sadness too heavy for her years.
Sentimental? Surely, depending upon your definition. These days, and for that matter, for decades now, the notion of sentimentality in contemporary art has often been met with disdain and even vitriol by art world intelligentsia. Votaw's gentle brand of authentic reflection and nostalgic reminiscence is made all the more present, and indeed urgent, by his drawing and painting technique, which is nothing short of jaw-dropping in its clean precision of detail (though there are here a few genuinely interesting forays into looser abstraction). But I would submit to you that 'sentimentality' is a matter of relative degrees, and not intrinsically exclusive of appealingly provocative, relevant emotionality – which abounds in Votaw's work. And so it is that I think there's nothing vapid, clichéd, or mawkish about his aesthetic sensibilities.
Artsy aficionados who feel differently are just itchin' for a fight.
Photo: "Missing Her Soldier Daddy," oil on canvas, by Fredlee Votaw, on view through November 30 in the Main Hall Gallery (lower level of Main Hall) on the Kent Stark campus. Viewing hours are Monday – Friday 11:00 a.m to 5:00 p.m., Saturday 10:00 a.m. - Noon
"Dear Bill, I came back to this wall again to see and touch your name. William R. Stocks. And as I do, I wonder if anyone ever stops to realize that next to your name, on this black wall, is your mother's heart…" - from a letter written by Mrs. Eleanor Wimbish, mother of SP/5 William R. Stocks, 1st Battalion, 6th Infantry, 198th Light Infantry Brigade, American Division, who was killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam, February 13, 1969 –
It is important to me to tell you that even as I begin this commentary, I'm struggling to avoid sentimentalizing, sermonizing, or otherwise wearing my heart on my sleeve too much (which I fear I've already done with this sentence). But if I break my self-imposed rule here to never let you, the reader, sense my sweat and tears over composing a critique, I don't mind telling you that today I just don't give a rat's derriere about journalistic form or etiquette.
My drive home last night (Veterans Day) from the opening performance of "Dear America: Letters Home From Vietnam" at the Kathleen Howland Theatre was eerily like my blackouts from darker days in another life, sans mind-altering substances. Yet I was indeed altered.
Not sure how I arrived home safely. Can't remember traffic lights or the route. Only a flood of memories from 1968 to about 1971, some of which I'm not proud about. The infamous draft lottery of 1970. Panic. Plans to flee to Canada. Fear and loathing. The 'Sturm und Drang' of collegiate protests. The riots at my alma mater, Ohio State University. The May 4 mayhem and tragedy at Kent State. Heartbreaking conversations with bereaved parents and siblings of college chums who never returned from the bloodied, smoldering jungles of Asia. Words and faces that hadn't crossed my mind with such jarring clarity for many years. Altered. Artful theatre will do that sometimes.
Phillip L. Robb directed this production that he adapted for the stage from the book of the same title. First published in 1987, the book was edited by Bernard Edelman, and was comprised of more than 200 letters written to families and loved ones by men and women who served in Vietnam. HBO produced an Emmy-winning documentary based on the book in 1988. Here, approximately 70 of the letters were read in alternating fashion, with genuine, often impassioned and startling sensitivity, by a solid six-member cast: Greg Emanuelson, Robert C. Fockler, Jim Long, Denise Robb, Rod Lang, and Jacki Dietz.
No fictions here. No 'based-on-a-true-story' speculations or saccharine dramatizations. No need for costumes or sound effects. The projected images on a sheet at the back of the stage, largely synchronized to echo content of the letters, are real photographs of real people fighting, flying, running, resting, hiding, hurting, dying, crying and yes, sometimes smiling. This is not so much war illustrated as war illuminated. War told by writeous warriors, as it were, who wrote with surprising eloquence of fear, loyalty, courage, love, confusion, anger, longing, and pride with searing intensity. War not as a vague memory, but made newly present through the dying art of letter-writing. And here, war read out loud by real people with heartbreaking reverence for the living and the dead.
There are too many truly moving passages in this performance – shared equally among the cast - to enumerate here. But two of them refuse to stop rattling in my memory. In one, late in the second 'act', Rod Lang, with steely, chilling determination in his voice, reads a letter from soldier Gregory Lusco, published in 1970 by a newspaper in Massachusetts. It's an articulate but supremely blistering rant against the immoral, insensitive divisiveness and misplaced political sensibilities in this country at the time of the Kent State shootings - a soldier crying out for compassionate attention and respect for those who sacrificed their lives in Vietnam. An equally unforgettable moment (quoted at the beginning of this review) is the epilogue, wherein Denise Robb, with glassy-eyed pathos, effectively becomes the mournful mother who leaves letters to her son at the memorial where his name is etched.
Another memory during my drive home was of a popular poster during the volatile, heady Hippie days of my youth that read, "What if they gave a war and nobody came?" Now, while I'm sincerely grateful to have witnessed last night's powerful and relevant remembrance, more than ever I'm thinking a better idea would be for us to forget how to do war altogether. To disappear it from our lives. To alter our minds forever. Call it a benevolent blackout.
"Dear America: Letters Home From Vietnam" performances November 12, 18, and 19 at 8 p.m at the Kathleen Howland Theatre, located in Second April Galerie, 324 Cleveland Avenue North, downtown Canton. Tickets $10.00 for adults, $5 for students, senior citizens, and anyone with a public library card. ALL VETERANS ADMITTED FREE. To order call (330) 451 – 0924, or www.secondapril.org
Photo: the Cast – seated, left-to-right: Robert C. Fockler, Jacki Dietz, Jim Long / standing, l-r, Greg Emanuelson, Denise Robb, Rod Lang
Luminosities
"In faith there is enough light for those who want to believe and enough shadows to blind those who don't." - Blaise Pascal –
"We search for flares of existence and acknowledgement of being. Our mortality becomes glaringly obvious, as the world around us and those within it start to fade away. Peace is a visitor." – Marti Jones Dixon, from her statement accompanying her painting, "Self at 50," at Anderson Creative -
"…So it falls to us to illuminate, magnify, reveal." - Craig Joseph, from "Dementia", a written work in the exhibition "Into the Light" at Anderson Creative -
One way to embrace the function of art is to think of it as a metaphor for light. Or think of making and encountering art as a celebration of what light is and does. Here, I don't mean art merely as well-crafted mimetic object – an imitation or illusion – but rather art in its ever-evolving, performative function to explore and reveal the essence of a person, place, thing, or thought. And if we consider light itself as that phenomenon which allows or inspires us to apprehend a physical or spiritual 'reality', art at its most powerful is an embodiment of that phenomenon, and a necessary one at that.
And so it is that Anderson Creative continues to mount courageous, innovative, and yes, enlightening thematic exhibitions that are compelling expansions of the purposes and practices of conventional galleries. The current show – called "Into the Light" - features seven local artists who have embraced the subject of light, literally and symbolically, and who collectively provide a deeply meditative and elaborate sensory experience for the viewer.
The gallery has been made over into three separate, intimately appointed rooms, each focused on a particular aspect of interpreting the idea of light – as a physical entity, a manifestation of spirituality and myth, and attaining enlightenment/awareness in matters of mortality and afterlife.
Marcy Axelband's large painting, "Sometimes Light Is Dark," is a stunning, very red abstract diptych. Its loose, sweeping strokes intertwine to form a kind of wrinkled texture – a symbol, perhaps, of the rarefied act of seeing. The markings seem to be simultaneously congealing and dispersing, all bristling with a painterly muscularity reminiscent of Willem De Kooning's urgent expressionism. Lynn Digby's portraits and landscapes here are easily among her most dramatic and well-painted in recent memory. Her "Lana's World" is at once telling and eerily silent, with its distant fires burning in the murky night, yet oddly hopeful in its suggestion of a transcendent light source outside the picture plane. The light in Marti Jones Dixon's powerful, four-section self-portrait, "Self at 50," is uncompromising in its harsh exposure of progressive aging – a force that sculpts mortality. And Michele Waalkes' elegant digital prints are masterfully subtle, gentle visions of forms and shadows in ghostly light.
Speaking of ghostly light, filmmaker Andrew Rudd's "Shadows of Progress" is a haunting, wispy video projection of the headlights from cars reflected on his living room walls, passing by in a mesmerizing, somewhat lonely procession of luminous streaks. In a similarly contemplative, poetic spirit, Craig Joseph's written works are poignant reflections on significant, even cathartic moments and circumstances, wherein 'light' is the realization of some personal truth.
A notably sublime addition to this exhibit is the recorded original music by Paul Digby. It's a sumptuously orchestrated aural backdrop, classical and Romantic in emotional sensibility, and otherwise achingly beautiful in its often reverential, hymn-like lyricism and rich choral textures.
This show is yet one more remarkable example of Anderson Creative's unique nurturing of art as a fully cognitive journey into perception. I'm reminded that on one level, we see a thing only because of the light it reflects. Yet in its reflecting, the thing seen becomes a light in itself, inspiring and illuminating our imagination. Here, we viewers are encouraged to be more than passive observers of static objects. Rather, we enter the possibility of becoming collaborators in creation, to better know our own inner light.
Photo, courtesy Anderson Creative, "Lana's World," oil, by Lynn Digby. On view at Anderson Creative through November 26 at 331 Cleveland Ave. NW, downtown Canton. Hours are Noon – 5p.m. Wed.-Sat.
www.andersoncreativestudio.com
A Poignant, Curious War Remembrance
It is certainly no surprise that great symphonic music, when delivered by orchestras as generally impressive as the Canton Symphony Orchestra (CSO), can be edifying on a strictly cerebral and technical plane. But I was also reminded by the CSO concert on November 6 that there's real magic in how an orchestra can woo our hearts and evoke powerful emotions, even when questionable program content and order might undermine their momentum.
The thematic backdrop for this occasion was a commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the American Civil War. While the evening's opening work – Verdi's Overture to "La Forza Destino (The Force of Destiny)" – is not about any particular war as such, the opera does embrace a somber theme of fated human affairs. The orchestra negotiated the overture's intertwined motifs of brooding foment and lighter-hearted meditation with notably vibrant energy, setting a stirring enough tone for what followed – Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man."
Still, given the solemn, percussive booming that opens this iconic work, and the ensuing thrill of the electrifying brass, I wonder now if the concert would have been better commenced with this compelling call to attention, as the orchestra handled it with truly inspiring panache. The heroic nobility of the work was augmented by the artistry of James Westwater, who has forged a distinguished career in integrating live symphonic music and multiple, monumentally-scaled photo projections in a form he calls "photochoreography."
Classical purists might object that such added theatricality is as unnecessary as it is distracting. While I found the synchronized pulsing of the projected images to be visually mesmerizing and emotionally stunning in "Fanfare," and even more so during the performance here of Copland's "Lincoln Portrait," the effect did seem more like an afterthought in both Pachelbel's "Canon" and Philip Glass's "Interlude No. 1 from the CIVIL warS."
The Glass work was originally written as a connecting segment between scenes in Act V of an ambitious collaborative project with Robert Wilson, from 1984, that was never presented live in its entirety. Its inclusion in this setting could reasonably be regarded as a metaphor for the calm before, or after, a battle. Unlike some of Glass's more strident pieces, this very short work is hypnotically serene in its simplicity. It was played here with a hushed sensibility that, once again, effectively set up our anticipation of Copland's majestic "Lincoln Portrait."
This was arguably the most deeply moving performance of the evening, further embellished by the arresting photographs from the Civil War that hovered above the orchestra like so many shifting storm clouds. Christopher Craft's text narration, which the composer built largely from Lincoln's letters and speeches, was both poignant and commanding, and made all the more compelling by the orchestra's final explosive note – a victorious exclamation delivered with the deafening clarity of a cannon blast.
After such impactful drama, it seemed a curious choice at this point to insert Pachelbel's "Canon." Peace after the war? Possibly, though a somewhat toothless peace at that. While the familiarity of the work certainly didn't breed anything contemptible, the understated performance here was simply too ordinary for an orchestra of this caliber.
Similarly, in the concert's final work – Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 4 ("Italian") – the orchestra was at times uninspired. For all of the first movement's rhythmic and melodic verve, the normally invigorating resonance of the strings seemed uncharacteristically lackluster, and at other points through the work perhaps even a bit out of tune. Fortunately, such quirks were overcome by the vigorous, authoritative reading of the ebullient, propulsive finale.
Particularly captivating throughout the evening was the animated demeanor of CSO Associate Conductor Matthew Brown at the podium. His is a delightfully articulated and endearing physical commitment to the music, here emanating an uncanny sense that he literally held the orchestra – and the audience - in the palms of his hands.
Photo, by Jeremy Aronhalt, www.matthewbrownconductor.com: Canton Symphony Orchestra Associate Conductor Matthew Brown
Echoes of a Scream
"War does not determine who is right – only who is left." – Bertrand Russell –
Even the earliest moments of "Plumfield, Iraq", the season-opening production at Kent State University at Stark Theatre, augur tragedy. A group of young men and women, running in formation to a lively military cadence call, morphs into a frolicsome gathering of high school buds playing touch football. Someone named Cam is missing from the fun. Cam's best friend, Mike, gently pleads with the group to wait just a little while longer before going their separate ways and getting on with their day. Indeed, with their lives.
What unfolds, then, is a war tale, a "memory drama" written by Barbara Lebow - here with Brian Newberg directing a youthful, remarkably skilled eight-member cast - that takes place in the guilt/grief-riddled mind of Mike, suffering from a very protracted case of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). He is our lens on simple, innocent life in the fictional small town of Plumfield, Washington, and on the harrowing battlefield of Iraq. It is a lens at once crystal clear and fogged over by the vapors of horrific memories.
Without ever succumbing to ideological axe-grinding, grandstanding, or gratuitous preaching, Lebow's play is nonetheless an uncompromising look at the awful democracy of war. No respecter of age, gender, politics, or nationality, and with cruel equanimity, it leaves in its wake usurped dreams, wrecked psyches, and otherwise arrested lives. It's the chaotic contrast between Mike's nostalgic remembrances of Plumfield pleasantries and his searing wartime flashbacks that drives the story, starting with his reluctant decision to enlist in the Army along with Cam, both fresh out of high school. They're sent to Iraq, still under a delusion that the worst of the war, initially celebrated for its brevity, was over. They envision returning to the lives and loves they left behind, with their Veteran benefits assuring a college education. Cam would pursue a business career, and Mike a life in music.
There is essentially no physical stage set, and minimal props. In this somber atmosphere, "scenery" is delivered via light effects along with still and moving images projected on the large back wall painted to look like stone. Real war footage is generously interspersed with poignant snapshots and videos of the characters' laptop missives to each other.
Anthony Antoniades' portrayal of Mike is for the most part successful in its volatile balance between his character's gentle nature and his clear horror at what transpires in Iraq. He's shell shocked, literally and figuratively. At times he's twisted into a fetal, defensive silence, locked inside overwhelming shadows of loss, failure, and guilt. It's all a compelling counterpoint to the more ostentatious, confident nature of Cam, played with eminently credible, affectionate gusto by Matt King.
Both Erin Stewart, as Cam's newlywed wife, Lorraine, and Devonn Patterson, playing Mike's girlfriend, Beth, bring genuine tenderness along with palpable, bittersweet urgency to their scenes of trying to draw Mike out of his torturous memories. To rejoin the living.
Given all of the story's sharply and powerfully defined images of psychological and emotional trauma, the play's final moment of Mike climbing the stairs out of his basement is somewhat ethereal (and maybe for some, unsatisfying) and enigmatic. Is it a flashback, a dream, a goodbye to his life, a promise, a prophecy?
Call it an ascension, then. From the (de)basement of war's damnable malignancy, to the possibility of curative atonement. Amid echoes of lingering hope.
"Plumfield, Iraq" curtain times are November 10 (Thursday) and 12 at 8 p.m. / November 6 and 13 at 2:30 p.m. in the Kent State University at Stark Theatre, Fine Arts Building. Tickets are $10 for adults and $7 for senior citizens and students 16 and younger. To order, call (330) 244 – 3348 or visit www.stark.kent.edu/theatre
Photo: "Echoes of a Scream" enamel on wood by David Alfaro Siquieros, 1937
First Let's Kill All the Critics?
First Let's Kill All the Critics?
"We keep lowering the bar as to what makes acceptable, good, or great art. These days, many regard all art as somehow sacrosanct and above reproach, if only because it is the unique product of human hands and personal passions. This kind of thinking continues to generate an increasingly shallow democracy of ideas that is slowly obliterating art." – June Godwit, from "The Third Entity" (1975) –
Prompted to some degree by recent comments posted to my review of the Stark County Artists Exhibition at the Massillon Museum, what follows is not an apology, defense, or even clarification, but rather questions relevant to - in varying degrees (and in no particular order) - making, appreciating, and interpreting art. Questions that are intrinsic to the discipline – yeah, I said discipline - of critique.
Are all opinions about art of equal value? Who is qualified to assess the quality or meaning of art? What constitutes an "informed" opinion? Is knowledge of art history useful in discussing and/or evaluating contemporary art? Why or why not? Are the writings of Plato and/or Aristotle on art and aesthetics still useful or applicable in discussing contemporary art? Why or why not? What is the role of the artist in the 21st century? Is it global or culture-specific? Has the artist's role changed since the 20th or 19th or 18th centuries? How? What is the role of the art critic in the 21st century? Who is qualified to be an art critic? Do we need art critics? Why do we make art? Why do we look at it? Why should we care about art? By what standards do we assess the success or failure of a work of art? Who established/establishes those standards? Must a work of art, or an artist, be accountable to any standards? Should art advance or enhance our thinking about living, human nature, or morality? Who and what defines "bad taste"? Who or what defines "serious" or "high" art? What exactly is "low brow" or kitsch? Are these designations intrinsically "bad"? Does great art create its own tastes? Does bad art perpetuate bad taste? Is "originality" a fixed concept, or a matter of degrees? What constitutes "beauty"? Should beholders of art strive to improve their vision? Who or what contributes to that improvement? What do we expect of our art and artists? Should we expect anything at all? Can art alter societal mind–sets, or merely reflect them? Do you see art as escapist entertainment, or enlightenment? Can "serious" art be both?
I eagerly await your comments.
Photo: "Fountain" by Marcel Duchamp, 1917
The Tales We Weave (part 2 of 2): "Focus: Fiber 20...


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I'm a very visual person, graphic artist, videographer. You know the type. So when I finally started to make some progress working The Suppers Programs, I looked back at myself and saw a building that had no ground floor. I never knew I had no ground floor.
I had been toying with Suppers on and off for a few years. My energy wasn't what I wanted it to be and I needed to lose weight. I did a bit of this and a bit of that, floating around the program.
Let me give you the background. I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia years ago. I used any spiritual and nutritional path I could to alleviate pain, with some success. When I was 48 I lost my husband to cancer. Nine months later my house burned to the ground, claiming one of my dogs and everything I owned. I told myself that I could eat and drink whatever I wanted to get through a tough time and that eventually I would change those patterns. I even told friends and family the same thing. While my weight didn't skyrocket, I certainly was overweight and feeling pretty terrible.
I didn't go to Suppers as I worked through the tragedies because I was eating so inconsistently that I felt like a fraud. Then someone reminded me that I'm welcome no matter what. So when they offered a Paleo-style cleanse I decided to give it a try. The program was called Whole 30. That's when I got my big breakthrough. Nonjudgment is a distinguishing feature of Suppers, but I just don't expect the world to be so gentle. The only one creating expectations for me was me. The program seeks only to create the environment in which people can run experiments and sort out their own path to better health.
I had tried other things. No salt, no fat, vegan, etc., but most of these super diets left me feeling gassy. Somewhere at a Suppers meeting I picked up the idea that I wasn't supposed to feel gassy all the time and that a good diet for my body was one that would keep me feeling full and satisfied through the morning. Just eating healthy whole food wasn't good enough; I needed to make very specific choices of which whole healthy food I would eat. I liked the idea of an elimination diet; I thought it might help me to test foods and sort out for myself which were causing fatigue, gas etc. I knew that one of the cornerstones of Suppers, the breakfast chili, wasn't a good fit for me. The more I heard about Paleo, the more I thought it might be a good match, eliminating grains and sugars, the foods I gravitated to in a suspicious way.
I skipped the first round of cleanse groups: I knew I wasn't ready. I was secretly disappointed, knowing that some of my friends were about to undergo a transformational experiment. I had to wait until the next time it came around. Besides, the commitment to cooking is hard with my schedule. I start work at 9 a.m. and end at 8 p.m. To pull this off I was going to need a strategic plan and lots of support. The next time the cleanse came around, I was ready. It worked because there was a support group surrounding it. It had a lot of structure. I learned to cook about six meals that I now rotate. I knew I had to report back. I knew there were 10 other people expecting me to finish this 30-day program.
Of course I lost weight, that part I knew to expect. The delightful shock was that I no longer felt the sky falling and the ground trembling. Today I have a much more zen attitude about everything. Eating the right kind of food for my particular body created a solid foundation for every other aspect of my life – the ground floor of my building. I am a lot more confident. I can handle more. I can form a plan and accomplish things without feeling overwhelmed.
When you've been using food and beverages to manipulate your feelings your whole life, there's no reason why you would think that eating a particular way would turn you into a resilient person. What worked for me was the combination of feeling included and knowing that I wouldn't be judged. Healing is a social experience. A lot of us don't know that significant change is possible until something we hear someone else say resonates and we pick the right experiment. For me, an elimination cleanse was transformational; it put a ground floor under my feet.


text:
Anelytra tristellata är en insektsart som beskrevs av Sigfrid Ingrisch 1990. Anelytra tristellata ingår i släktet Anelytra och familjen vårtbitare. Inga underarter finns listade i Catalogue of Life.

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