Mostly about how I want to be Tolkien

Someone asked me recently what I was doing artistically lately. I dislike update posts, partly because I think, "it's none of your business, Mr. Internet." Also, I find writing update posts to be rather depressing for me. I suppose I'm afraid of being judged. I don't often measure up to cultural ideas of happiness or success. This is my life right now. I don't mind it, but it might look different from the outside.

However, the question reminded me that I do want to write about what I am up to artistically. But I have to find a balance between shameless self promotion, and the more reclusive and secretive impulses of my introvert personality.

I haven't expounded upon the glories of Tolkien on this blog nearly as often as I should. I shall take this opportunity.

I think one of the reasons I love Tolkien's work is that he has captured and explored, in some of his works, a particular creative experience with which I identify. Lord of the Rings is his most celebrated work, but to me, The Silmarillion is Tolkien's richest and most personal work. Having read The Sil a few times, I feel like I know where Tolkien himself is peering out of his creations. There is a part of him that I can understand like a good friend.

Detail of a painting of Aule by Ted Nasmith.

There is this wonderful little story about a powerful artist, named Aule, who is inspired to attempt a creative act far beyond his power. He has a burning impatience, and an abundance of love and knowledge that he wants to communicate, somehow, to someone. His timing is bad, and he is less than competent to achieve his goal. In pursuit of his goal, he must submit his creations to a higher creative power, whom he is imitating. Realizing that his imitations are unworthy, and that imitation might be presumptuous of him, Aule tries to destroy his work, though he weeps as he does it. But the higher power steps in to save Aule's work, imperfect as it is, and completes it, filling in for the artist's incompetence.

I write, and sing, and draw, and make ceramics* because of a sort of pressure. I have all this energy which comes from beauty that I see, and people I love, and truth that is earth shaking, and from the painful joy and sorrow of just being alive. I am hopelessly incompetent to express or otherwise relieve this pressure. I can't wait until I am skilled enough to realize my vision. I'm not even patient enough to get a firm idea of what my vision is, or think it through. I suppose I will spend a large part of my life trying to develop patience and discipline. In my pride, I imagine that someone really needs a mug that I am making, or that my story will change the world. At some point, however, I become keenly aware that all my creative efforts will mean nothing if I do not offer them to God. I am jealous and somewhat in love with what I make. But the truth is, no one needs to hear ZitaLouise sing, unless it can help them seek the face of God. All my inspiration has its meaning in God; the art must also. But of course, when I adjust my intentions to God's glory, I find that nothing I have ever made with hand, or voice, or mind can ever be worthy, or capable, for that matter, of playing even a small part in this story. On the other hand, my incompetence is no excuse for withholding my poor attempts. Some grace must fill in the rest. I make my pitiful offering and then it isn't mine anymore.

I can't help but think that Tolkien identified with Aule at least as much as I do. Tolkien articulates what I could not, but perhaps the two of us felt the same. Perhaps there are lots of people who have this rather maddening relationship with God and their creations. Perhaps I can connect with them by making something that also echos that story.

So, lately I have had limited space in my house for painting or drawing. But I have had studio time at the local potters guild. So I have been making mugs. It is a slow start, but it is a se

ed that I think can grow. One has to start somewhere.

In search of a stable source of inspiration to focus and motivate my work, I am making mugs inspired by Tolkien. Tolkien's world is rich with cultures and characters and when I read it, I feel as though it were a real place that exists, somehow. I would like to go there and bring back a souvenir. I am trying to make mugs that either look as though they might belong to someone, or reflect and represent a person or place in Tolkien's world.

Artistically, it is a great design problem. How do I convey humility in a mug? Can I make this mug look brave and friendly at the same time? How do I express wildness and danger without sacrificing the functionality of this mug?

As a work of fan devotion, it is a lot of fun. What kind of mug would Gandalf drink out of? What would Gandalf look like if he were a mug? It makes me feel like I'm somehow part of that world. If not adding to it's imaginary existence, at least making the magic last a little longer after I close the book.

I'm hoping that somewhere out there, there are other human beings who would like to continue the Tolkien magic by drinking out of a hobbit mug. I am selling my Tolkien mugs on Etsy. You can see my shop here, if you want. My big impractical dream is to make lots and lots of Tolkien inspired ceramics, jewelry, drawings and other art. For now, all I've got is a few mugs. In all honesty, most of what is up there are drafts and essays of the designs I want to make. Perhaps someday I will get there. The part where these simple, imperfect mugs somehow lift hearts and minds to God is out of my hands. I pray that somehow it works out that way.

*I need a better layman's verb for the act of making ceramic art. I'd just say "I throw pots," but that is both limiting, since I rarely make "pots," and too violent when taken literally. Anyone know a better word?

"That's not Art. I could do that!"

I tend to like small bits of my paintings.
This makes me think I should work small

 On my last day of college classes, I dropped Mintos in a pop bottle and watched it spout like a fountain. I listened to a children's book read aloud while glass bottles shattered against a wall behind me. I played toss with a ball of yarn around a tree. I finger painted. I threw paper airplanes around an amphitheater while shouting iconic lines from popular movies.

I'm an art major.

Drawing of John, before I knew him.

Did I think it was fine art? That's actually kind of irrelevant. I don't really care if it was art or not. Did it have a purpose? Yes, we were experimenting with time and space. We were creating an illusion of an experiences the same way a painter can create a visual illusion on a canvas. Do I realize that the previous sentence will sound like nonsense to most people? Yes. Yes it sounds nonsensical. You will have to take my word for the legitimacy of these activities.

Ink Wash!!

I'm not taking much of my art portfolio home with me. Today I gave away all of my paintings to two class mates who will paint over them and use the canvas for their own art. I gave away a bunch of ceramics too. And I got home to find a giant pile of 18x24 sketch books that also won't fit well on a train.

I struggled, these years of studying art, to invest myself in my work while remaining open enough to learn and make valuable mistakes. I erred on the side of not caring. I also struggled with why I was majoring in art. Thought I never wished for a moment that I was majoring in something else, I still feel like I am not quite an artist. I am not really part of the In crowd. I never managed to have a conversations with my some of my art teachers in which we both understood the question and the answer. Perhaps I kept the outsider attitude about art majors, even while I was one. I never took my own art very seriously. I am very serious about the craft part of it. But I never had any illusions about my work being "fine art." Perhaps I'm what my painting teacher called (with some condecension, bordering on scorn) a "paint-on-Sundays" artist. Not a "fine artist" at all. I think I'm okay with that, for now.

Slightly Splotched Victory
Over Pen and Ink

Whenever I was given a choice, I picked media that I was the least comfortable with, and subjects that were challenging. I repeated projects until I got closer to what I wanted to accomplish. I think I worked pretty hard. I know that I only scratched the surface and that I will have to keep working for many more years before I am a master of any of these skills.

A sheet nailed to a cork board.
Definition of "a study"

My violin teacher once told me that as I continued to play my instrument, I would slowly become aware of smaller and smaller movements of the muscles in my fingers; the tension and release of smaller and smaller muscles. At first I am concerned that I put my fingers down in the right place. Later on, I am aware that I should only let the tip of my finger hit the fingerboard. Then, I find that I can do that better if my wrist is pulled back at a particular angle. The subtlety goes on forever. But even after all that, it's not art unless I can simultaneously engage something much bigger than myself. An idea must be expressed through all this fine subtlety. To be an artist, you have to have something more than skill. Drive to keep working is what I usually call that other component. Talent might be a third part. But I don't know how that works at all, so I am not going to worry about it. Similarly, "art" is more than a drawing (or object) that is well executed.

Another small part of a "study" in color.

None of my "art" as a student here was more than studies. Most of it wasn't breaking any traditional art conventions, and it still wasn't "art." I was just working on the skill set. A recording of a musician, no matter how talented, playing scales is not particularly exciting, and it isn't quite "music." So I wasn't particularly sad to get rid of my paintings or my pottery. They served their purpose and I take the lessons learned home with me to apply them to other projects.

The rest of this painting was kind of blah.
But I was really excited about that bottle when I got it to look like a bottle.

So, that begs the question, what next, now that I am done being an art major? I think I might be an artist some day. (I don't know about a "Fine Artist." They seem to be a rather pretentious lot.) I think I have a skill set now that I didn't before. I certainly have a better (if incomplete) understanding of art history under my belt, which is really helpful in answering a lot of those "what is art" type questions. Here is where talent and drive really come into the picture. Will I have the drive to apply my skills to some kind of project that might be art? And, will I have the talent to do so successfully? I'm really quite interested to find out.

I have no idea what this is. Charcoal and chalk.

Happy place

Well, I'm only taking 15 credits this semester, instead of 17-18. I'm sure this phenomenon of so little homework will not last, but I'm taking advantage of the extra time right now for things I really want to be doing.

I have a ton of art supplies that I brought from home. I hardly ever get to use them on my own projects, I generally end up using them for homework. My studio art class this semester is painting 2 so all that work has to be done in the studio on campus. No drawing to be done at home, so...

 I'm working on some things I started last summer. This picture of Ceci makes me wish she was here, especially since my room mates sister, who is Ceci's age, is coming over to play games tonight.
I am in my happy place. A lovely snowy day out my window, our desk covered in colored pencils and my music playing. I'm having fun aplying what I'm learning in painting to color mixing with pencils. It's a different sort of game, but I think I can learn a lot switching back and forth between pencils mixing on the page, and paints mixed on the pallet. I hope I can keep up this kind of stuff on weekends at least.

Hands take three

I think I might need to make a special tag for hand posts.

One of my required classes for my art major is New Forms. This perfectly vague name is the best the department can do at defining a class that's whole purpose is to be undefinable. Basically, this class is supposed to teach us to think outside the box and communicate ideas visually in non-traditional ways. Is it ironic that the class that is hardest to explain is all about communication? Actually, my teacher would say that it isn't about communicating the idea to a viewer, it's just about the artist exploring the idea for herself.

  Oh post-modernism. It seems like a very lonely world, doesn't it? If my art doesn't connect me to people and help them understand something, how the heck am I supposed to connect with them?

So, we picked a concept and then did a whole bunch of projects in which we tried to convey that concepts. The catch for the final project was that we weren't allowed to use any traditional art material (paper and pencil, canvas and paint, plaster or clay) unless we had a darn good reason for it. So I used rice, Elmer's glue and wire mesh mostly, with some plastic gems and a few strings of those colorful party beads thrown in for good measure. My concept, basically, was poverty as a virtue. I guess you could call it gratitude, or simplicity, or something else, but I have been raised with the idea that somehow the poor are blessed. The whole thing changed quite a bit as I went along. It was a real journey, but somewhere along the way, hands got thrown in. I think it started because I was thinking about the idea of possession. We posses something only if we have the power to give it away, like freedom is the power to choose good, not the power to do whatever we want. So the gesture of giving or taking or 'Handing" something over lead me conveniently back to my oft repeated theme: the human hand.

 I'm not really sure if I succeeded in my unofficial goal of making something that I don't hate. Part of me is a cynic who constantly says "This isn't art, it's just post modern rubbish" but it is not completely void of visual pleasantness.
The whole thing was really interesting and I will draw on it in my other work for sure. I just probably won't use elmer's glue and rice in any more art projects.

Scribbles

With all this talk of being an art major, I figured I'd better produce some evidence of it. I considered posting some photos of my tattoos and paperclip piercings. But I don't have any. The cool thing to do in my art department is to run around in white canvas shoes that have been heavily decorated with colored Sharpies. Don't have those yet either. But this is my favorite study from last semester's drawing class.

It's because I'm an Art Major

The Acrobat

From trapeze to
to trapeze, in the hush that
that follows the drum roll's sudden pause, through
through the startled air, more swiftly than
than his body's weight, which once again
again is late for its own fall

Solo. Or even less than solo,
less, because he's crippled, missing
missing wings, missing them so much
that he can't miss the chance
to soar on shamefully unfeathered
naked vigilance alone.

Arduous ease,
watchful ability,
and calculated inspiration. Do you see
how he waits to punce in flight; do you know
how he plots from head to toe
against his very being; do you know, do you see
how cunningly he weaves himself through his own former shape
and works to seize this swaying world
by stretching out the arms he has conceived -

beautiful beyond belief at this passing
at this very passing moment that's just passed

~ Wislawa Szymborska

The very first quarter of Community college, almost three years ago, I took Intro to Lit, Music Theory 1 and Drawing Technique... I think... anyway it was a 100 level drawing class.
I reflected that first day that I knew I would like my Lit class. The teacher seemed pretty cool. The worst part was going to be the other students who were taking it just to fulfill a requirement. I was going to be one of the geeky ones who actually enjoyed the coursework. But I knew I would fit in with the other geeks, so it was all cool.
I discovered that music theory is my favorite language. It came more naturally to me than learning to read words or numbers. And I love music people.
The art class was a puzzling phenomenon. I didn't have a lot of experience in formal education, but anyone who has taken a studio art class knows that they are a little different, just by their nature and structure. But I was okay with that after the initial scary plunge of having to actually draw in front of a teacher and ten or fifteen other persons who are "the artistic one" in their family or school. The really difficult part is that art students are weird.

First of all, there is that stereotype. Walk through my community college art department and there is no denying that this exists. It is a very diverse look, but in a way they are also all the same. There are the angry looking ones with eyes that have no light or sparkle in them. They look a little hunted, solitary. In other classes, they sit in the back, don't talk to anyone, and make fabulous doodles all over their notebooks instead of taking notes. (Have to admit, I am guilty of that last one, except I keep mine in the margins and they are far from fabulous.) They are the kids who can't major in anything else because everything else is too objective. They can't deal with anything that has right or wrong answers. They don't know what to do with their lives. Losers, back sliders and renegades major in art.
Of course, that is only a stereotype. You see a lot less of them at AQ. But there is always that loneliness in art. You may create with the whole history of society and culture behind you, but ultimately, you create alone. Most art students I know prefer to work alone. It's a very personal battle with whatever you are creating. There are no study groups. It takes us a long time to learn how to talk about each other work or even our own. In many ways, as with all art forms, there simply is no language.

There is a poem about an acrobat that I studied in that first Lit Class. The acrobat almost kills himself because he is seeking a beauty he is incapable of achieving. He is missing wings. The best he can do is "falling with style," like Buz Lightyear. Art is like that. Sometimes you are just trying to translate what you see, in life or in your head, into something else on the outside world, paper or clay or paint. Everything is against you. You are not God. You just can't will things into being. Even when you have the skills necessary, something is always missing: that part of myself that I can't quite make present: The acrobat's wings. And this makes art students retreat into themselves. No one else can do this for us, tell us how to do it, or even tell us when we have done it. Out in the big scary world, people like us starve because we have to create, and no one understands. The people who make money at it are not necessarily the ones who have wings. There really is no measuring stick. They are haunted and they are hunters. It's a little scary.
I walked away from that first art class thinking, "I can never fit into this group of people. I could never be an art major. It's a good thing I'm majoring in music."
Two years later, one morning towards the end of last semester I realized that I was wrong. I woke up and realized I am an art major.

I've been trying to avoid it for years. Please, no! Anything but that! I knew I was going to study art in some capacity. But even when I was thinking of double majoring, I would say English and Music, even though music was going to be my minor. I still referred to myself as an English major for some of this last semester. English may be the perfectly useless degree, but statistically, English majors get jobs. Music may be a similar dead end as far as money goes. But Music majors can at least commiserate with each other. They are all singing the same songs! And we all wish we could pay them a little more.
Art is so lonely. I have bounced between the three most pathetic majors a college can offer and landed at last on the most disturbing of the bunch.

But hiding it does no good. I should just get over the fact that eight out of ten people are not going to understand; probably nine our of ten. People are going to worry about me. People I meet are going to make assumptions about me. I'll be plagued with all sorts of comments that are akin to racism in their ignorance and obnoxiousness, and yet the speaker is almost always completely unconscious of having said anything annoying. It doesn't matter. I'm going to fly. So I'm not going to have an identity crisis about it anymore.

Hands take two

Remember how I have a thing about hands? I don't think I ever posted this bowl, but I made it in ceramics last spring and it was by far my favorite piece. I have made other hand things in ceramics.
This cover jar looks down right creepy. Or at least I was trying to make it look creepy. It was a wonky assignment to begin with.

Anyway, I am always drawing them and recently I found myself writing about them. In the margins of my notebook I found a description of my math teacher's hands. I took math last year at SFCC. This image of his hands lingered in my mind. Quick reflection showed that I have lingering images of several other sets of hands. So I started exploring more and thinking about my teachers in terms of their hands. If I was a poetry person, I would write a poem for each of them. But I'm not. So I have these almost poems... For your enjoyment.

My teacher’s hands are covered in chalk. Strong, thick brown fingers grip the tinny white chalk and make swift marks on the green board. Click-sch click-sch tap tap-sch, little white marks. Math for the liberal arts.

Magister has touched bright coral; living jewels under waters on the other side of the world. He has run his fingers over old tomes in a Catholic school, raising dust that smells like incense but is only academia. His silver hair slips through his fingers like so many other ancient, venerable things. He points at me and, in a voice like God’s, commands me to parse a verb. “Amo is the first person, singular, present tense, active voice, of the verb amo, amare, amavi, amatus; I love, to love, I have loved, Beloved.”

Dr. Peters could not understand why her fingers were so long. The only thing she wanted to do with them was hold a pen. All that length for no purpose but to curl around the narrow shaft of a writing tool seemed cumbersome. But she clutched at it and scribbled. Out poured all her thoughts and feelings, bursting at last through their imperfect channel. And her knuckles are swollen, as if they can no longer straighten and make her fingers long. A confused, knobby jumble.

The thumb-nail of Clair’s right hand has rested and struggled, wedged in the frog of her bow for so many years that it has flattened and concaved to fit the wooden nook. All her fingertips are shaggy and gray, like her. But they move so quickly, fitted to the strings, fingerboard and the shaft of the bow. Music, she says, is made by the tension and release of finer and finer muscles.

Breath of Life

My Lenten reflection on living on purpose has had some interesting repercussions. I'm in a creative writing class this semester (Very Happy), and it's the sort of class that prompts me to spill whatever is in my head. My poor teacher has had to read some rambles that might even rival the ones I post here. I was brainstorming, prompted by an assignment from my text book, about all the things I would like to learn. My greatest frustration and challenge this semester has been to own and invest myself in my work as an art major.

(Oh My Gosh, I Just Admitted To Being An Art Major On My Blog Where Anyone And Everyone Might See It! AAAAHHHH!!!)

*cough*
I have begun to realize that my eagerness to try new things and be open to the direction of my teachers has sacrificed my investment in my art work. I am going through the motions of creating art with little intellect and no heart involvement. Nothing I have made thus far merits posting on this blog or even bringing home. I would like to learn to try new things and follow directions while still making the work mine, and taking pride in it. Things I do for my own amusement are done too cautiously and carefully. They become too precious too fast. My class work never becomes precious.
The following is the result of my brain storm. I wrote out lots of key words that were relevant, but when I shifted to actually writing, the first thing out of my pen was some advise my dad once gave me about our lawn mower.

When you start this stubborn old lawn mower -- the kind with the cord you yank on -- you have to pull as if you would pull your arm right off. It’s the only way to get the darn thing going. You look kind of foolish, standing there giving your all to a lawn mower, but it just won’t settle for anything less than your whole arm, from the shoulder down. See, the more power something has, the more of yourself you have to give it before it will move. If you think a lawn mower is hard, try moving a human heart.

Learn to give everything, if you are going to create. That’s why you create, isn’t it; to move human hearts? It’s going to take a lot. Everything. Bleed all over the stage, smash yourself against your sculpture, spill your guts all over the page. Does that scare you? It should, but not more than the less dramatic giving. It doesn’t have to be violent. It can be the delicate touch of your fingertips on a spinning lump of clay; as gentle and steady as the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep. Even when you hold yourself still, to let the air move with the last fading overtones in the wood and strings of your cello, be still and will those vibrations as if your life depended on their echo.

Nothing exists without God willing it into being. He can do that all at once. But if you, mere mortal, want to make something beautiful, you’d better concentrate your whole life on that piece of silver you are beating into shape. You have to give it some of your life because, after all, it doesn’t have any life of its own. How will it move hearts if it has no heart of it’s own, beating life through it? It must use life borrowed from its maker, just like you do. You know, these are just black smudges on paper. You are the one that makes them mean something. You are the one that makes the air vibrate.

You have to give everything. No, more than that. Don’t just do it. Embody it. Be Giving! And when you want to start a lawn mower…

Poor man's art.

Bernadette and I had a little trouble finding the place, and it was closing when we got there. We walked in anyway and I was a little hesitant. There is a smell I associate with poverty and drugs that I became familiar with when I used to deliver food for the St. Vincent society and when I rode the city bus to school, back home in Spokane (aka “Spocomton”). This place was full of it. I overcame my mild repulsion, since I had come this far, and even if we couldn’t get into the gallery, there was art hanging in the hallway.

Someone kindly let us in, opened the art room for us, showed us around and told us a little about the program. Heartside Ministry art room is both a gallery and a studio. The space is crowded with supplies, chairs, tables, and the walls are covered in art work. At first glance there is simply too much to take in. As I focused my attention on one group of work or another, I began to realize that there is something different about this gallery. Art is always expressive, of course, but the people who created these pieces really had stories to tell.

Our tour guide showed us the work of Deb Dieppa. He told us that she suffers from Multiple Personality Disorder. I remember studying MPD in my psychology class a few years back. It’s a horrible disorder. I remember thinking, “this looks like possession by demons.” It is caused by horrific abuse in childhood. Dieppa’s art showed her struggle with the disorder. They tended to be dark and a bit ominous. I kept coming back to a piece called “Shame.” A childlike figure dressed in a pale robe stood in a dark forest-like place with her hands clenched against her chest. Her face was a ghastly pale purple. It clearly captured something painful that the artist was very familiar with. But the very fact that she could paint about it and express her struggle gave a great sense of hope to her work. This hope, I found, was common to all the pieces that I looked at.

I didn’t get to hear the stories of the other artists represented. But their work spoke for them. Ann P. was one of my favorites. She often wrote an encouraging phrase across her paintings. “This Too Shall Pass,” across a cloudy sky with a hint of blue and sun. “Relax,” was a colorful painted puzzle pattern. These and others told of a life filled with struggle and hardship, but also hope and determination.

I was surprised to see how much of the art was religious. The passion, resurrection and the creation stories were referenced often. Johnny King’s “It Is Finished” (a very poignant crucifixion portrait) and “In the Beginning” (which showed the world as a bright horizon in the darkness of space. A silhouette of Christ stood in the center like a reminder that His fingerprints are in all things.) are examples. Christ said blessed are the poor. Most of the time, I have a hard time believing that he meant it. But seeing paintings like these makes me realize that these artist’s, many of them homeless, are capable of being must closer to Christ than I am. I always hear that Jesus made Himself like us, so he knows what we go through. I think Johnny King might know what Jesus went through. Christianity is indeed a poor man’s religion.

Along with the works that referenced the creation story, the works of an artist named Darwin seemed to put us in perspective by showing something much greater than ourselves. Darwin’s work shows the beauty of outer space; a world that is too large to fathom, and yet we are a part of it. How humbling and awe inspiring.

There was so much variety, I know I will have to go back at some point. Perhaps it is my over active imagination that creates all this meaning and inspiration out of these images. I don’t know if the artists intended to prompt all that reflection and hope. But that was the effect it had on me and I am very glad it I came to see it.

Elbereth Star Kindler.

Lately I've fallen in love with Tolkien again. This irresistible world he created in my head begs to be translated into the outside world. As with all things that go on in my head, most of the essentials are lost in translation. Actually, the only thing that doesn't get hopelessly garbled are the stories; they tend to turn out better on paper than in my head. Maybe this is why I'm think I'm an English major and not an art or music major.

In any case, here is Varda, Tolkien's lady Elbereth Starkindler.
This is my fifth attempt at translating this image that Tolkien put into my head onto paper. Twice I have finished this image and been rather disappointed. The only good thing about the first one was the hands. I worked really hard on just the sketch of the hands. The only good thing about the second attempt was that it was slightly better than the first one. It's nice to see that I've made some progress. I figured out that I wanted to use black paper on the the third attempt. I started to wear a hole through the crumby construction paper with my eraser, so I didn't finish it. I might have to give the fourth version another shot at some point. It's much bigger and I have some ideas of how I want to fix it. I was playing with some materials that I don't know anything about.
She's still not quite right (even ignoring the minor proportional problems and other little things). Her face is not really how it looks in my head, but I was glad it looked like a human face and not a monkey like some of the others did. I'll get there. I've learned a lot drawing this image over and over. I feel like I have a much firmer grasp on the shape of a face, since I've had to draw it with the light coming the wrong way. The black paper is really maddening and fun.
So, the hard part is sticking with it till it's done. There are eleven more Valar and dozens of other Tolkien images that want out of my head, not to mention faces from my own stories.

Mud Babies

To top of my piano is once again covered in ceramics. This batch looks a little smaller, as far as the number of pieces. But all the pieces are far bigger than the ones I made last summer. I made lots of shot glasses last summer. This isn't actually all of them. One or two have already been given as gifts. There are still a few in my locker at school and I think there are a few more still cooling in another kiln. Once again, I feel like I've just started to figure out what I want to do with clay. I've started to actually do things on purpose with the potter's wheel. That's a mile stone. The small brown bottle in the back was a triumph because I actually drew the shape and then tried to make it. It took me two attempts, but I managed it.

I figured out the secret forbidden glaze combination to get those flashes of red and blue. It's two very runny glazes poured on top of each other. My teacher hates it when people figure it out because it runs right off the pots and onto the kiln shelves and generally makes a mess. Thus, I put it on the inside of a bowl. I So Clever.





This is the other thing I did on purpose. Well, sort of... I wanted to figure out how to make a chip dish with a built in place for chip dip. I made a plate with a Really thick bottom, then I pushed the floor down into a lump in the middle and pulled it up into a little bowl. It's not really big enough, but I felt very clever indeed for managing it. It cracked in the bisque kiln. I think something about pushing the floor down weakened it.

So, next time I get to play with mud, I'll do some more hand building and sculptural pieces. I love the wheel and functional pottery, but I feel like I only have half of the picture this way. I started several sculpture projects, but I didn't finish any of them. The wheel is just so much faster. I hate deadlines. Maybe, when I'm on semesters instead of quarters, I will have time to think things through instead of improvising so much. All the options are a bit overwhelming. There are about a million things your can do with wet clay, just forming methods and shapes you can make. Then there are thousands of decoration, altering, joining and further forming you can do when the clay is "leather hard." Then there is the "bone dry" stage where you can do a whole other set of decoration methods. This starts to sound like an annoying math problem. 1000000 X 1000 X 24... and we haven't even gotten to the glazing part yet. Do you want to dip, spray, pour or paint the glaze on? What color? What texture? How thick? Do you want to use stains? And then there are all these variables in the firing itself. Wood fire? Gas? Raku? And if your pot is on the edge, near the fire, that blue glaze might turn pale yellow, never mind that it looks red when you put it on...
I think I'm getting to a point where I can do some things with the first stage pretty well. I'm also pretty good with the bone dry part. There are only a few options at that point. The rest is all a game of chance. I've just decided to accept whatever I get and try to be appreciative. There are one or two pieces that I can reasonably expect other people to like. The rest is only beautiful to me. So the "pretty" ones get given away to my adoring fans. Anyone want one?

Ceramics and hats.

Another old page from my notebook. I didn't have access to a scanner for a long time. But now I have one, so I'm posting some of my shameful doodles and spelling.
I don't know if I mentioned it here, (probably not) but I took a ceramics class last summer. I've always dreamed of working on a potters wheel. It was amazing. It's a lot harder than it looks but I had expected that. I got a lot better by the end of the quarter. I will have to take pictures of some of the things I didn't give away. Most of my cups were horrid, and only one of the bowls survived a few months in my house. I had a great time. So much so that I'm pretty sure ceramics will be my concentration if I do manage to major in art. I still have lots of other things to try, but I've definitely found a home in clay.
I took Jewelry this quarter. I was excited because I liked that lost wax class I took a few years back. The class focused on the metalworking side of jewelry. I had a good time, but I wouldn't want to do spend a whole lot of time doing that. Wax carving, sure. Banging on a piece of copper, no. So that's one down.
I'll be back in the ceramics studio on Tuesday for the first week of Spring quarter. I'm really happy. I've got all sorts of ideas I want to try. I'm hoping I'll manage to make some cups that hold more than six ounces. We shall see how much I've forgotten since August.
I didn't actually have the nerve to wear my hat much last summer. It's pretty silly looking. I always think of Tolkien's description of Sam's hat in The Lord of the Rings. I think he says it's a shapeless bag, which Sam calls a hat. I always imagine it to looks something like one of my failed attempts at a cup.

And one more...

Finished this just after school got out. That's what Christmas Break is for. I can't find the other piece I finished. I think my mother stole it and but it somewhere for safe keeping. :P

Precious is LOST

Missing: One Rubbermaid water bottle.
Last seen: Last Sunday of the school year, May 2008, In the Jesuit House Chapel under the pew to the right of the alter.
Description: Teal. About 9 inches tall with a funny bend near the top. Screw-on lid with pop spout. Wearing two rubber arm bands. One white band printed with "life is precious" and one purple band bearing a butterfly logo and the words "Someone you know has Lupus." (see drawing)
If Found: Contact ZitaLouise at http://splatness.blogspot.com. Water bottle was Zita's constant companion for four happy years and she misses it.

Found my sketch book.

Last fall (as some of you may remember) I took my very first ever art class. As soon as the quarter was over we switched bedrooms and a bunch of my stuff didn't fit in the bedroom I moved to so we boxed it up and put it in the basement where it was quickly buried with the dinosaurs. When we brought our Christmas decorations our from under the stairs we uncovered several other boxes that we haven't seen in a long time.My sketchbook was in one of those boxes so I rescued it today.
It will have to go back soon, as there is still no room for it in my bedroom, but not before I scan and post some of the pictures.

Here are a few more hands. My favorites from this assignment.
Clara posed for the glass one. I did the line drawing and then did it again in charcoal which was really fun.




David and his toy "Yellow Man" who looks mostly grey.


My poor neglected violin.


And Maleny eating some soup.

That was fun. I'll probably post a few other things.
Update on schools: Adam's State offers an art scholarship for which I would have to send in some examples of work. I want to go for whatever I can, of course, but I'm not sure what I should send in. I think the charcoal wine glass would be nice. But I really have no idea what I'm doing with that sort of thing. I'm going to talk to my art teacher when it starts getting closer to the deadline.

I, Jaun De Pareja

Elizabeth Burton De Trevino is a cool writer and I have loved every book of hers that I have read. The first one I read was for a book club when I was about ten. I, Jaun de Pareja was about the slave of a famous painter. The most important part of the story for me was one little scene when the artist is talking about color. I haven't read it since I was ten but this is how I remember it. The artist pointed to a cloak and asked Jaun, or someone, what color it was. Jaun answered that it was blue. The artist disagrees and starts pointing out other colors blended into the blue cloak, in the highlights and shadows. Purple, black, green, red... and suddenly Jaun can see them. He sees color the way the artist does. My mother actually read this out loud to me and I stared at something, I think it was our curtain, and tried to see all the colors the way the character in the book did. I didn't hear the next part of the book at all cause I was too busy looking at all the hidden colors in our curtains.

Bits and pieces.

Last quarter I spent a weekend or two working on this mosaic for my art class. I had a really good time and got a migraine head ache from bending over it. It's a copy from an icon we have in my house.

The early Christians borrowed the mosaic technique from the Greeks and Romans who used them on their floors. The Christians put them up on the walls of their churches. The gold back ground was traditional because it put the figures in an eternal, non earthly setting which was appropriate for the subjects they depicted; Christ and the Saints mostly, also royalty and church patrons. I was sitting in class lamenting the fact that I couldn't go to Italy and see all the beautiful churches with these amazing old mosaics. My teacher didn't tell us that there are newer churches with mosaics like that in our own country.
I was at the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception (the Immaculate Conception does in deed refer to Mary, in case there should be any confusion) in Washington DC this weekend. There are so many beautiful mosaics in there it is literally breath taking.

I will tell you more about my trip and why I was there later. I'm all excited cause I think I figured out how to work the photo upload and I want to show you the pictures before it hates me again.
Some of my pictures are not so good so you should look at the virtual tour on the web sight but here are mine anyway.

This is Our Lady of Nations. There are so many beautiful little chapels opening in ever corner of this basilica. There are actually two main sanctuaries and dozens of little alters and memorials and smaller chapels.
You just can't beat the Catholic Church for beautiful art. I love all the different images of Our Lady. There is one for every country, race, need and cause. Here are some of my favorites.

This is Our Lady Queen of Missions.


Our Lady of China


I don't know what this images is. It's the Easter Rite Chapel.


Our Lady of Hope


I don't know what this one is called but I like it.


These are just some of them. I only took pictures when the chapels were empty and I wouldn't be bothering anyone with my obnoxious tourist flash.

Then you walk into the main church upstairs. WOW! I've seen the image of Christ in Majesty dozens of times and I've never really liked it all that much. Never under estimate the power of Being there! Mary says "My soul magnifies the Lord". You've been looking at all these images of Mary in nooks and side alters and then you walk into the main church and this meets you:



^This one I took from right under it. Not the best shot. When you walk in it's like He's RIGHT THERE. Then you walk towards it.... and walk.... and walk.... and you get to the high alter... and then you walk some more.... and finally you are right under Him. Makes my little mosaic look kind of pathetic.
Here is a better picture I've stolen from an other web sight:


It's amazing. This is the reason. He is the One Mary leads us to. It's really all about him.

Right below the mosaic there are some statues of Saints. The people who built the basilica were smart cause they put the names of the Saints under them so that people who have no skill or knowledge of symbol recognition with Saints can figure out who's who. There are Saints ALL over the place. Right under Christ in Majesty was this Statue:

It's St. Zita!! right there under the big dome! Needless to say, at this point I was jumping up and down and squealing with excitement... right there under the big dome.

There was a side chaple for St. Louise too. Here is her statue and a mosaic of her.



St. Zita is such an obscure Saint that it was pretty amazing for her to be up there. We looked for a St. Zita medal in the gift shop but there was no sign of her.
There were lots of other Saints around. It was really a lot of fun to be there. I wish I had had a few days to spend looking around cause there were all sorts of things that I'm sure we missed. It's like a treasure hunt. There are things written on the walls and arches and stained glass and symbols that tell you so much if you know what they mean. It's almost a visual overload but at the same time it's still a house of prayer. All the gold and light and color is to lift our minds to God and the glory of his creation. Every Saint is an image of Christ and an expression of His glory. They are our family and little imperfect models for us to follow.
And Mary is the most perfect creature of all. Of all the Saints, she reflects and magnifies the glory of God most clearly and brightly.

Four beat pattern

My schola friend Teresa took her conducting final this semester. She conducted a Palastrina Mass for us and it was lovely. We were all so proud of her. I think she will be a really great conductor. She wants to teach middle school choir. This makes me thing she is a very brave woman. Anyway, she let me take pictures of her hands while she conducted for my art project. I did one page for each beat in a four beat conducting pattern. I was pretty pleased with how they turned out. My teacher spent most of the semester telling me not to be so careful so I was proud that I got these done in about ten minutes a page.
Down Beat


Beat Two

Beat Three Beat Four or the Up Beat

Hands up

I'm done! Schools out till the new year! After a careful inventory check, I have determined that I survived pretty well. I still have all my limbs and senses and so on. My shoulders and back protest that back packs are an instrument of torture and my girls club probably feels a bit neglected but beyond that I think I'm okay.

So, my last project for my drawing class was to pick an object and draw it fifty times. The idea was to get us to stretch and scramble for new ways to present an object. I don't think it worked for me cause I chose an object with SO many variations that I didn't ever have to think very hard to come up with more composition ideas. I chose to draw hands. Several people in my class looked at my like I was crazy when I told them. That kind of made me feel all egotistical and like I was bold and talented. Ah, self deception! Anyway, some of them really turned out nice so I thought I'd post a few here over the break.

Also, Jessie bought me an easel! I was drawing at her house one day and the next day when I walked in she asked me if I could stop by the art supply store tomorrow and take a look at the easel she had on hold there for me. Then she handed me a check. I was a little bit speechless. I ended up buying a different one than the one she picked out but it was just a really odd feeling. I would never buy myself something like that. I walked out of the store with this thing under my arm and I then I realized I was walking out of an art store with an easel that was now mine and that I had an easel and ... well... words fail.... It's the little things...
So, obviously, the hand above is the front of Jessie's thank you note. She has a little paper weight that looks something like that and she let me draw it.

Ring Bling

My last jewelry class was yesterday and I finished up my ring. If I had had the wax for another week I would have done some more with the band and made it a little less heavy but I am pretty pleased with it in general. I think I may have to take this class again, in the fall perhaps. I was floating when I got home last week cause our teacher asked me if I was interested in wax carving seriously cause she knows a jeweler who is looking to train a new wax carver. She said I had a natural skill for it. Ego Boost! Or maybe she was just being sweet. Mom thinks I should look into it. I sure did have a good time. I definitely want to do some more jewelry work. 3D is incredibly fun to work with.