Earlier this year I read a book written by a local author about the Lascaux cave paintings.  I have always been drawn to the quality of this prehistoric art–how vivid and alive the lines are and how with so few strokes the artists captured the essence of a living being.  When my husband approached me about painting “totem animals” on the surface of drums he is fashioning out of whiskey and wine barrells, I knew where to turn for inspiration.

Let me back up a bit….

Clark’s “Bubba Taiko” drums have been a hit at the drum circles to which he totes them all over Austin. They are large, and make a big sound.  It has been no small task engineering these drums, and Clark has spent many an hour searching the internet for practical guidance. After teaching himself how to weld, and creating his own (in his words) more crudely designed hardware, he has recently opted for commercially designed pieces which he has had to order from Thailand.  Not only is the hardware more aesthetically pleasing, it is ultimately more functional, and helps keep the skin of the drumhead more tautly stretched.  Originally, Clark’s plan was to simply stain the drums, and indeed his first one is stained a lovely red.  We both agreed, however, that the drums can have more personal–and universal–meaning as artifacts if we customized them.  Thus the idea of  totem animas was hatched.

We see a lot of animals on our walks around Town Lake, and to us, the most special among these are the Blue Heron, Cardinals and turtles.  As Texans, we are also fond of Armadillos and Horny Toads.  And though we are not big fans of snakes, we do admire them for their power, beauty and archetypal significance.  Clark is fond of fishing, so Red Fish seemed another logical choice for a “totem animal.”

This last Sunday, I honored my promise to paint these animals on a “proto-type” drum in preparation for painting Clark’s latest,  “new and improved”  version of Bubba Taiko.  In the spirit of the cave paintings, I decided to use charcoal which my Mother had found in a dig near Ghost Ranch. This charcoal, which is millions of years old , found among dinasaur bone fragments, has special significance for me because Ghost Ranch is my spiritual Mecca.

I had made several sketches of the animals I intended to draw and paint on the drum, but still felt ill-prepared as I began.  My goal was, simply, to make as few lines as possible, keeping the drawings fresh, calligraphic.  The charcoal is crumbly, and not as easy to use as commercial grade, but I thought of what my prehistoric predecessors were able to do with their own crude materials and stopped worrying.  For paint I decided to use acrylics, choosing a very simple, earthy palette of burnt umber and burnt sienna, white and a touch of cobalt blue. Without using any brushes, I smudged the paint with my fingers and with a kitchen sponge which I tore into various sizes. I sprayed a layer of fixitive on the whole thing after I finished–we plan to seal it with another coat of clear matte acrylic.

As I look over at the finished “piece” I am pleased with the result. Clark is happy, too.  For the most part I succeeded in fulfilling our shared vision and am prepared to move on to the bigger drum.  I love the ritual aspect of the making of the drum and how it used; and I loved making the preparatory sketches and observations for drawing and painting on it. Also, the Ghost Ranch charcoal,  which I was saving for some vaguely imagined future project,  seems perfect for this personally envisioned, unique artifact.

Clark has no specific plans for these drums other than they be well-crafted and used for drumming.  Perhaps he will sell them if offers are made, but in the meantime they provide us with a lovely opportunity for artistic, musical and spiritual collaboration.

The death of a star should have no impact on my life. Yet, hearing of Natasha Richardson’s unfortunate fate made me very sad.  Perhaps I am shocked because she was close to my age, and  a mother of two young sons. Or maybe it is because she was a partner in that rare breed of  happily married hollywood couples.  And then again, maybe her death is simply another reminder that no matter how blithely we go along, caught up in the wonderful mundane details of daily living,  taking everything for granted, the grim-reaper has the last word, and can snatch it all away in a moment.

Or maybe not.  One of the many things  I love about being an artist–about making art–is that our art outlives us. It can live on through changing times and places, continuing to express something to anyone who pays attention to it. In this sense, art is immortal, eternal and thus, so are we.

Funny how little this reassures me when faced with the prospect of my own demise. I cling tenaciously to this life of mine and don’t really want to give it up anytime soon.  Got too much living to do, places to go, people to hang out with, experiences to have, love to give and experience.  There are books and songs and paintings in me, ripe and waiting to be birthed.  I have volleyball games,  weddings and christenings and family gatherings to attend.  I have yet to go to the South of France, or drink wine in Tuscany.  New Zealand, Australia and a return to Montreal and Salt Spring Island are on my bucket list as are so MANY OTHER THINGS.

Woody Allen once wryly remarked that Americans think that “death is optional.”  Because of our “can do” uber-protestant work-ethic which insists that we can fix or conquer anything and are a failure if we can’t, we are left high and dry when death does happen.   For all the work Elizabeth Kubler-Ross did to educate Americans about the importance of mourning and death rituals, we still seem to be clueless about how to deal with the inevitable.

Liam Neeson’s way of dealing with his beloved wife’s death touched me deeply, and is instructive for all of us.  It would have been understandable if he had chosen seclusion in order to avoid the glare of public gaze at such a vulnerable time. Instead, the next evening he was out on the street allowing himself to be embraced and held by friends when Broadway dimmed its lights for Natasha. The following day he openly received family and friends at a wake he held for his wife, and he helped carry her coffin into the Church for her funeral service. He even graciously allowed photographers to snap a photo of his family after the funeral. Death happened, yet he reminded us that we don’t have to suffer stoically or alone, and that one can bear the unthinkable when held close by a loving, supportive community.  He reminded us that to be vulnerable is to be human, and to be human is to love deeply and feel keenly our losses.

As the afternoon wanes, and evening presses on with lowering sun and cooler wind,  I am convinced of only a few things: that love, art, family, community and friends are worthy pursuits in this life, and that I will risk remaining  vulnerable and alive,  curious and open, knowing that “to everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m Dead,” sang Warren Zevon in one of his memorable songs.  Oh how I want to sleep while I am living, but it ain’t happening!. So here I am, catching up, writing early morning pages, mourning the days when sleep came so easily.

Perhaps the shift from Winter to Spring makes us all restless. Central Texas is in a liminal “in between” state which lasts about a week, when the temperature can vacillate between 80 something to 39 degrees.  One day we wear flip-flops and by evening we are scrounging in the back of our closets for the Ugg boots. We are constantly adjusting our air-conditining and heating, and it makes for some uncomfortable nights, alternating between sweat and freezing.

Or maybe it is simply age and the restlessness that comes from knowing that the horizon–the end of our days– that once seemed so far off is steadily approaching.  Whereas in youth, one is flush with TIME, by middle age, we know that we will never accomplish all that we have dreamed of, and can barely make time to do some of the most pressing things on our “bucket list.” And so at 3:00 am my mind is  flooded with all the things I want to do–the swimming, the tennis, the yoga, dance. The friends to see, the places to go.

I wake up in the middle of the night with thoughts of art unfinished, lying in flat-files, and art yet to be made.  (Ah, the joy of the formless, shapeless vision, that has not been birthed into real life. It can remain perfect in all ways, flawless in concept and execution.) I go over in my mind colors, techniques, writing styles.  And morning comes with the rush of necessary mundane tasks– and the vision recedes…poof!  Perhaps this is why journaling is such an essential practice. It helps to tether those ideas onto something concrete, if only a page in a sketchbook. It keeps the mind connected to the body through the physical act of drawing, writing, coloring.

Perhaps this sleeplessness is the result of having neglected my sketchbook yesterday. I made art, but I did not draw enough.

“To sleep, perchance to dream…” I catch the first glimmers of light from the sun which is about to rise.  Instead of cleaning my studio, it seems wiser to creep back into bed with sleeping husband and cat. Perhaps this bit of blog-blathering will have helped to quiet a racing mind, and sleep will come unbidden.  And when I arise again with the morning in full bloom, the first thing I will do is draw my way into another day

The rain has stopped for a moment and I look out at new green buds frosting the thirsty trees. This wet morning has given brief respite to an otherwise dry spell here in Texas.   Art waits and I do not respond to the call, rather taking on the myriad mundane tasks related to selling and promoting it. Bound to my computer, I long for ink, paper and pencil or brush. Ah, websites. Postcards, prints, printers and photoshop, Adobe Illustrator. Cameras and Jpegs, Pdf’s and Tiffs’.  I slowly acquire a new language while remaining a stranger in a strange land–one who has thus far only learned enough to say “Hi”, “Bye” and “can you do this for me?”  This is not the age of Aquarius, but the age of left-brained computer savvy. Too bad I was born with an inclination for right-brained activities.

The frustration I experience over the simple act of downloading pictures and then saving them for various purposes, be it print, or web pages, has stymied many an attempt on my part to become more savvy in graphic design. And yet, I perservere, willing to adopt the attitude of “Beginners Mind” and carry on in my slow, snail-like fashion.  During a class in web-design and Photoshop taught by Denis Brown at the Calligraphy Conference this Summer, a friend suggested that I go home and take a course for seniors. She was not insulting me, but giving me good advice: simply find a class which will go at a slower speed, one which does not assume that you know anything about computers, photoshop or web-design.

My brand new printer sits in a box beside me. It will be of no use to me until I grasp a few more fundamentals of my computer, of Photoshop and Illustrator.  I continue to muddle through the basics of these programs, marveling at their depth and breadth.  I know that this Macbook Pro I use daily is far more powerful than I am capable of  appreciating, but in baby steps I begin to gain access to more of its wonderful functions.

Soon I will make my own prints with no effort. I will make postcards and business cards, flyers and brochures. I set these intentions, simple and straightforward, and move toward realizing them, slowly and steadily  like the rain outside watering my yard.

I am reading a book which has prompted me to get my art-act together: “I’d Rather be in the Studio.” It offers great practical advice for those of us who want to sell art. There is lots of helpful information about website design, mailing lists, marketing strategies. One of the sections talks about the importance of the artists’ statement. It really is quite a challenge to articulate what it is I am doing in my art, and I sat for two hours yesterday muddling through a rough-draft of my new and up-dated statement.

I won’t share the specifics of what I have so far–that will be posted on my website soon–but I will talk a bit about the process.

It seems a conundrum to put into words that which is best experienced visually.  For every word one chooses to describe something, there are so many others which might equally apply! How do I describe my passion about lines–lines of trees, cracked lines in sidewalks, lines of handwriting–and my desire to connect drawing, calligraphy, painting and collage? Or, how do I best express in words my desire to move beyond my formal “logo-centric” traditional calligraphy training in re-visioning what calligraphy–beautiful writing–means to me personally?

Not easy.  But I am working on it, and I would recommend everyone who purports to do art to try it.  We owe it to our viewers, our patrons and ourselves to at least have an inkling of what we are up to, what we are trying to express in our art.

Our calligraphy guild, Capital City Scribes, is having an exhibit at Wally Workman Gallery in Downtown Austin in April and it seems a perfect time to offer our viewers some insight into our art-making process. Particularly because we are calligraphers, our artist statements afford an opportunity for educating people about the spectrum of creative possibilities within the field. Indeed, if I call myself a calligrapher, people immediately assume I do wedding invitations and poems, period.  When they see my art, they inevitably say, “I didn’t know you are an artist!.”  Thankfully, our guild members offer a full-spectrum of approaches to calligraphy, so the exhibit will provide viewers with an eclectic visual feast-and lots to ponder. Our artist statements will help them make sense of pieces (like so many of mine) which have illegible writing, or simply gestural lines, instead of straightforward formal calligraphy.

So I continue struggling with the “words to say it,”all the while thinking, “I would rather be in my studio.”