Journal entry 2 on our art studios…

Journal entry on what types of studios we need to flourish in creating and being ourselves-as it is below, so shall it be, but better above-as they say:

Artists make art studios so they can make art. We build below what makes us feel most free to create. That atmosphere reminds us of who we are, but also leads us into the possibilities of what we are becoming….
We are currently building an art studio we can live in and host events. A Gallery House to live inside our metaphors.

Fun thinking about what we need around us to create—our art studios on earth reflect our forever art studios above, I’m sure. With mine….

I always must have stimulation and visual and sonic and light designed inspiration around me to create. Multiple layers—open art books, old cameras and clocks, stacks and stacks of books, old many shaped lamps, strange curiosities, old maps,, old polish poster art etc. I can’t create in sterile environments I have a hard time creating in hospitals, although I’ve done art therapy in them), or it is much harder at least for me.
Julio, my art mentor’s house back in my college days, was perfect for me, as it had so much visual stimulation, even the glass eyed furnace was theatrical.
And he had two ended brooms he had made on the walls, and glass blocks from around the world in the windows…..he was an architect and sculptor who made his own glass, but also collected artifacts from around the world. I felt right at home in his Art House! He lived inside his metaphors, as I also try to!

My eyes need many distractions in order to focus on making art.
Old globes, pictures of whales from magazines, fashion costumes on racks, hats everywhere, up and down the walls.
I create best inside a theatrical setting. I’m sure I would paint best on an old theater stage.
Everyone needs different spaces to create in; and I often study the artist’s studio to see who they really were, and where their art was birthed.
Artist and their studios tell you how to read their art.
For me, I also need multiple stations ready to go—a photography set up with good lighting and cameras ready; a painting station with canvases and aisles on the ready; often a place to create music if needed as well. And always old clocks and record players and theatrical props of all sorts.
I had a dream once of the “land of possibilities”. It was a part of heaven for artist and had piles of brooms, whale bones, lots of sorts of raw materials that one could choose from depending on the wind of the Spirit that day (if there are days in heaven). I loved that part of heaven.
I think we recreate whatever part of heaven we occupy down here, in partial ways, but spaces that have a continuum with our forever homes above!
In another dream, my house had a bowling alley, and full of theater, slides going out the windows, fireman’s poles and lots of spiraling staircases! One could just roam like in a labyrinth from room to room. Only the long hallways connected them, and they were strewn with statues and old film poster art etc.
That is my type of kingdom.
I know some folks who create best in taxi cabs or airports. I do well with sketching ideas there, but need more theatrics around me to really focus.
Or at least that’s the atmosphere I need to create wtihin while here! Can’t wait to see my Big Top Studio above!
It says a lot about us, and our identities—what we need around us in order to create! Atmosphere is air for an artist.

What sort of atmosphere makes you feel most creative? That is most yourself and open to be? What’s your ideal art studio for yourself?

Knowing your art studio above here below….journal entry

Journal notes on what type of studio we each need to be ourselves and make art:

Know exactly what you need in your own studio in order to move into your new one on Cedar. The right organization and old boxes. The right paints and brushes etc. I may need help (DG) on that when the time comes.

I always must have stimulation and inspiration around me to create. Multiple layers—open art books, old cameras and clocks, stacks and stacks of books, strange curiosities, old polish poster art etc. I can’t create in sterile environments, or it is much harder at least for me.
Julio’s house was perfect for me, as it had so much visual stimulation, even the glass eyed furnace was theatrical.
My eyes need many distractions in order to focus on making art.
Old globes, pictures of whales from magazines, fashion costumes on racks, hats everywhere, up and down the walls.
I create best inside a theatrical setting. I’m sure I would paint best on an old theater stage.
Everyone needs different spaces to create in; and I often study the artist’s studio to see who they really were, and where their art was birthed.
Artist and their studios tell you how to read their art.
Then I also need multiple stations ready to go—a photography set up with good lighting and cameras ready; a painting station with canvases and aisles on the ready; often a place to create music if needed as well. And always old clocks and record players and theatrical props of all sorts.
I had a dream once of the “land of possibilities”. It was a part of heaven for artist and had piles of brooms, whale bones, lots of sorts of raw materials that one could choose from depending on the wind of the Spirit that day (if there are days in heaven). I loved that part of heaven. I think we recreate whatever part of heaven we occupy down here, in partial ways, but spaces that have a continuum with our forever homes above!
In another dream, my house had a bowling alley, and full of theater, slides going out the windows, fireman’s poles and lots of spiraling staircases! One could just roam like in a labyrinth from room to room. Only the long hallways connected them, and they were strewn with statues and old film poster art etc.
That is my type of kingdom.
I found an old local school they converted into a similar space for artist, with lots of interactive spaces throughout. I go there often to feel home!
Although I’d rather live in Europe, at least here in Texas I can build something closer to my forever studio above!
For that I am thankful. Life’s a rehearsal down here for our forever art studios.
Just as Juilio my mentor’s house much like where he now dwells. But I’m sure his one above is even larger and has more masks, trees inside, pieces of all types of glass from around the world etc.
He lived inside his metaphors, as I try to do.

thoughts on building a house, and wood

Every plank matters when building…..

Each plank of wood is a decision
To make when building
Each softness age and timber
And story of each tree-then proximity.
What what will this piece of wood be
In conversation with now that it is in a new
Place, a new conversation.
Becomes part of your door.
I can’t remember when I didn’t learn
The name of each bird I met
And now, each plank I place.
Each element is part of a longer story
We are trying to tell well—that is by
Considering what each piece of wood is
Trying to say.
What new question will this piece of wood
I picked ask
More boldly than I ever could have?
And when I add something to the earth
I need to take care
That this is what was meant to be said
As all I build with comes from her.
And returns. All these materials aren’t mine. I am just stewarding a long conversation between them.

Magritte’s Apple…

Magritte’s apple

Ok, I get it
Reason alone is boring.
Like an apple on a hat
Which isn’t eaten.
But what’s not?
A woman’s body turned to rainbowed window. Fair enough.
But don’t pretend to know
What your subconscious is saying
Much less mine.
You are bored, ok.
I can relate to that.
Just say so, and we can
Walk and talk and look at odd birds
Or something stimulating.
But, if you thesis is: I too am bored.
That’s just not enough
To go on.
Ok, you now left your newspaper
On her breast
And it became a rainbow.
I’ll go with that, as your cigar
Burns out….
Thanks at least
For that much
Old lonely friend.
Your still an apple in my eye
Regardless. But,
Could’ve used a bouquet
Made of fruit
About now.
Not an apple in a man’s eye-
Even Toulouse knew how to wear a shoe
On his hat. Still, thanks
For trying to not get bored
In your times friend.
I would suggest getting out more
And mixing with the locals, or
To eat an apple together with someone.
Life get’s juicier when you eat and enter it! But, by the way, great blazer suit.
You must be still so dapper!
Thanks for sharing your surreal snapshots friend. And I liked your hat!

Magritte’s Apple

Magritte’s apple

Ok, I get it
Reason alone is boring.
But what’s not?
A woman’s body turned to rainbowed window. Fait enough.
But don’t pretend to know
What your subconscious is saying
Much less mine.
You are bored, ok.
I can relate to that.
Just say so, and we can
Walk and talk and look at odd birds
Or something stimulating.
But, if you thesis is: I too am bored.
That’s just not enough
To go on.
Ok, you now left your newspaper
On her breast
And it became a rainbow.
I’ll go with that, as your cigar
Burns out….
Thanks at least
For that much
Old lonely friend.
Your still an apple in my eye
Regardless. But,
Could’ve used a bouquet
Made of fruit
About now.

Talking to dead artists in museums…

Sometimes I talk back to the dead artist when looking at their works. Just to keep them engaged, (and the museum folks guessing) in their own quest-ions. Life’s a dialogue, and art is still a conversation among old friends!

Looking at Edvarrd Munch’s works today, I had this to say:

Munch

Norway

Oslo

Kristiana

He went mad outloud

Given death’s ungovernability.

Given so much loss

And a life lived among ghost

But on his way out

Held up a broken mirror

So we could see at least

Through a glass dimly

What all artist already know.

Death is un-convertible.

But life’s response is another matter.

You gave up

On love

Which was to be

His final oxygen tank.

As love is for all lovers.

Artists included.

Choosing death above life

While abiding in life

Is bad poker

Which presumes to know too much

Of suffering.

Suicide is cowardly and lacks vision

Or hope in sight again….

All our lives suck

But life is still beautiful.

Why not just suffer well instead.

Make death’s bed less drippy for us all.

Or just quit painting, and write your autobiography finally

Make a smoother path for other’s exits.

Or help us die better. That is, in Love.

Or chronicle the slanted tale of life well

Offer clues for those to follow.

Something to go on….

For those of us, still here

Screaming!

But listen, if you now can

I really loved your lines friend.

And am sorry for your pain.

But, you and Nietzsche talk it out

And tell us if you helped us out

or not.

A note in conversation with another dead artist

Sometimes I talk back to the dead artist when looking at their works. Just to keep them engaged, (and the museum folks guessing) in their own quest-ions. Life’s a dialogue, and art is still a conversation among old friends!

Looking at Edvarrd Munch’s works today, I had this to say:

Munch

Norway

Oslo

Kristiana

He went mad outloud

Given death’s ungovernability.

Given so much loss

And a life lived among ghost

But on his way out

Held up a broken mirror

So we could see at least

Through a glass dimly

What all artist already know.

Death is un-convertible.

But life’s response is another matter.

You gave up

On love

Which was to be

His final oxygen tank.

As love is for all lovers.

Artists included.

Choosing death above life

While abiding in life

Is bad poker

Which presumes to know too much

Of suffering.

Suicide is cowardly and lacks vision

Or hope in sight again….

All our lives suck

But life is still beautiful.

Why not just suffer well instead.

Make death’s bed less drippy for us all.

Or just quit painting, and write your autobiography finally

Make a smoother path for other’s exits.

Or help us die better. That is, in Love.

Or chronicle the slanted tale of life well

Offer clues for those to follow.

Something to go on….

For those of us, still here

Screaming!

But listen if you now can

I really loved your lines friend.

And am sorry for your pain.

Thinking upon my friends, the artists….

Munch

Norway
Oslo
Kristiana
He went mad outloud
Given death’s ungovernability.
Given so much loss
And a life lived among ghost
But on his way out
Held up a broken mirror
So we could see at least
Through a glass dimly
What all artist already know.
Death is un-convertible.
But life’s response is another matter.
You gave up
On love
Which was to be
His final oxygen tank.
As love is for all lovers.
Artists included.
Choosing death above life
While abiding in life
Is bad poker
Which presumes to know to much
Of suffering.
Suicide is cowardly and lacks vision
Or hope of sight again….
Why not just suffer well instead.
Make a path for other’s exits.
Or chronicle the slanted tale well
Offer clues for those to follow.

Magritte’s apple

Ok, I get it
Reason alone is boring.
But what’s not?
A woman’s body turned to rainbowed window. Fait enough.
But don’t pretend to know
What your subconscious is saying
Much less mine.
You are bored, ok.
I can relate to that.
Just say so, and we can
Walk and talk and look at odd birds
Or something stimulating.
But, if you thesis is: I too am bored.
That’s just not enough
To go on.
Ok, you now left your newspaper
On her breast
And it became a rainbow.
I’ll go with that, as your cigar
Burns out….
Thanks at least
For that much
Old lonely friend.
Your still an apple in my eye
Regardless. But,
Could’ve used a bouquet
Made of fruit
About now.

//
Van Gogh
You left me enough to go on.
Kandinsky, thanks for a visual map of music.
Picasso, get over yourself
Your talented, but to paint suffering
You must suffer more than isolation.
Cezanne, thanks for seeing well
For us all.
Paul Klee, that you existed
Was enough to make me want to also.
Rothko thanks for those broodingly deep
Mediations, I saw through them with you.
As for the rest of you,
Stay true to you
We need something to go on…
Now.
We’re all clever and talented
But teach me Love
And I’ll really listen.

Magritte’s Fruit

Magritte’s apple

Ok, I get it
Reason alone is boring.
But what’s not?
A woman’s body turned to rainbowed window. Fait enough.
But don’t pretend to know
What your subconscious is saying
Much less mine.
You are bored, ok.
I can relate to that.
Just say so, and we can
Walk and talk and look at odd birds
Or something stimulating.
But, if you thesis is: I too am bored.
That’s just not enough
To go on.
Ok, you now left your newspaper
On her breast
And it became a rainbow.
I’ll go with that, as your cigar
Burns out….
Thanks at least
For that much
Old lonely friend.
Your still an apple in my eye
Regardless. But,
Could’ve used a bouquet
Made of fruit
About now.

She is Stronger than dirt

She is Stronger than dirt.

Each day I watch my elderly neighbor garden. That habit of being she alone
Has fully inhabited. But also,
I look over often, to make sure she hasn’t fallen over
Asleep on her leaf piles
As we all will be.
In the meantime, we rake over
Our own tombs.
“From womb to tomb”
She once looked up
And said to me through
The fence.
“The point of all this tending,
Is Love.” She added today, directly
Before returning to mulching.