Be Inspired

In my August blog I mentioned that my open studio group in Ventura had decided to publish a book presenting our art and the intentions behind it. Art: Twenty Ten is ready now and I want to share the process we used to create this inspirational gift. Perhaps you will find clues about how to make one of your dreams a reality.

Art: Twenty Ten was born when Katherine Chang Liu, advisor to our open studio, asked if we thought publishing a book showcasing the wide variety of our work would be a good idea. Two persons in the group had already self-published art books and told us how “relatively” easy it had been. One volunteered to put us in touch with the graphic designer who had prepared her work for publication. We calculated how much it would cost each of us to purchase this person’s assistance. It would be between $15 and $25 per person. (It was $20.) Thus encouraged, we voted to take on the project.

After the open studio, one of our members began floating title ideas via email. After a few rounds of input – for and against a variety of titles – we arrived at Art: Twenty Ten. The title initiator, Carole Gardner, has a lot of graphic and computer skills and in short order she was trying out sizes and cover designs. After another few rounds of email, we agreed upon a square format, the cover page she designed, and the basic design for each artist’s two-page spread.

After contacting our chosen graphic editor, Carole reported that if we got everything to him by mid-October, we could have the books in time for Christmas. We decided to go for it. The graphic editor felt it would make everything easier if he only had to deal with one person rather than twenty-seven individual artists. Carole volunteered to field input from all of us, check to be sure it met specifications, and forward approved work to him.

As project director, our appreciation of Carole grew by the day. She recruited a committee that included Liu to provide ongoing feedback, editing and proofreading. Each individual artist selected three images of works from one of her series (one to be large and alone on the right hand page), wrote a brief statement of the intention behind her work, and acquired a portrait to accompany the statement.

Carole’s diplomacy came to the fore. Sometimes what an artist wrote was too brief or too long. Sometimes the three images didn’t show well together; images were not sent in the correct format; or information was incomplete. Once all of an artist's information was correct, Carole sent a proof of the two-page spread to be confirmed or edited before production.

There were foot draggers. One artist had photos with background distractions that had to be removed. Another had to locate, unpack, and photograph her work. One suggested, “You really don’t need my work, there are plenty of other painters.” One didn’t know where she put the CD with her images. Nevertheless, with help from friends and using her own computer graphic skills, Carole brought all twenty-seven artists from twenty-seven different locations into the fold.

Each artist received a mini-proof of the whole book before it was sent out to possible publishers. You would think that after working together in open studio, some for many years, there would be no surprises. Not so. When writing her statement, each artist opened her heart and shared her most profound intentions. We found reading the statements and seeing the images inspiring and we weren’t even seeing the color version! We shared how blown away we were by the power and beauty of our book.

Our graphic editor got quotes from two publishers, Lulu and Createspace. He and Carole decided to make both versions available. The Createspace version is slightly smaller (8.25 x 8.25 inches) than the Lulu version (8.5 x 8.5 inches) and less expensive.

You can order Art: Twenty Ten directly from Createspace at www.createspace.com/3497717 and get a 20% discount ($8.20 - 20% = $6.56) plus shipping by putting in the code RPG886A7 on check out. At amazon.com Art: Twenty Ten is $8.20 plus shipping. The Lulu version costs $17.10 plus shipping. You can order Art: Twenty Ten by going to http://www.lulu.com/ and entering the title. It will not be available on amazon.

If you or someone you know has ever wondered what goes on in the head and heart of an artist engaged in the creative process, or if surrounding yourself with beauty inspires you, I highly recommend Art: Twenty Ten. And, of course, my work and intentions are included in the book.

Trip of a Lifetime

I stood at the end of a long dirt road that reminded me of the TV series Gunsmoke, except that the soil was the russet red color found throughout eastern and southern Africa. I could feel my blouse sticking as the July sun sent sweat streaking down my back. My hands were clammy and my fingers were swollen so much they felt like small sausages.

At twenty-three this was my first trip abroad and everything about it was virgin territory for me: the flight from Chicago to New York, crossing the ocean by ship, taking a ferry from London to The Hague. We’d made a whirlwind trip to the medieval city of Bruges, a brief stop in Communist controlled Prague and then on to view the acropolis in Athens. We had been given a brief history of mid-east tensions by a Jordanian scholar in Aman, visited the pyramids near Cairo, and eaten highly spiced goat meat in Addis Ababa. We had received an overview of Africa in Nairobi before landing in Dar es Salaam, the capital of Tanganyika (present day Tanzania).

In the mid 1960s Dar es Salaam was a frontier town – rough and raw – starting from scratch to build something. The dirt road seemed to disappear into cavernous open space blanketed by an impossibly blue sky. A new signboard read Nkrumah Street, recently renamed in honor of the highly celebrated leader of Ghana. On either side of the rusty ribbon road stood low wooden buildings - unpainted, ramshackle, with corroded tin roofs.

Advancing along a row of these wooden sheds, I spotted ahead of us a rickety sign with FRELIMO scrawled in chipping white paint. We arrived at the office of the Mozambique Liberation Front and my heart skipped a beat as my then husband knocked on the shaky door. After a moment, the door creaked open and I could see three dark curly heads hunched over maps on a battered teacher’s desk.

Our research into African liberation movements had begun. We hoped to find clues in post-independence Africa for our work in the black inner city ghetto where we lived in Chicago. I stood among the guerrillas that day and listened to their stories of using community theatre to awaken villagers to the evils of colonialism. My stomach registered so much fear that I felt I might melt into a puddle at any moment. But my head was exploding with electricity.

Looking back, I recall being vaguely aware of Leakey’s discoveries of ancient human skeletons in this area, but I was oblivious to the fact that those dark skinned young soldiers were my distant relatives. We continued to Northern and Southern Rhodesia (present day Zimbabwe and Zambia), Congo Brazzaville, Cameroon, Nigeria, almost to Chad, Ghana, and almost to Timbuktu. At the end of the summer we flew from Accra to Paris and thence to New York and Chicago.

It would be another twenty-five years before mitochondrial DNA research would establish that all humans have descended from one woman in East Africa. It would take another thirteen years after that for the Discovery channel to produce The Real Eve and explain how DNA tracking reveals the migratory routes taken by our ancestors as they left Africa and traveled to all parts of the globe.

Since that summer decades ago, I have traveled all over the world and that first trip had receded into the darker recesses of my memory. It took an event last spring for me to realize it was the trip of a lifetime. Not because it was my only trip to Africa; I made several trips over three decades. Not because I was repulsed by steak ala tartar in a town on the border of Nigeria and Chad. Not because I flew around the continent in six-seat planes and nearly died on the way to Timbuktu when one of the two engines failed.

The significance of that primal trip was revealed when I did a DNA sample for the genographic project of National Geographic. The results of the test showed the migratory route of my maternal ancestors. The trip I made as a young woman had essentially retraced the journey of my mother's ancestors back through Eastern Europe, through the Near East, back all the way to their origin in the Rift Valley of East Africa 170,000 to 50,000 years ago.

I have been to the birthplace of all modern humans. I have breathed the red dust those first humans breathed. I have gazed at the same stars my ancient relatives followed. I know from whence I have come. I am humbled by knowing in my breath and bones what awesome courage it takes to live as they did, in harmony with nature.

The Practice of Self-Affirmation

Many years ago I created a ritual to handle my anxiety over the first Christmas without my daughter. Called 12 Days of Christmas, for each of 12 days I gave myself a gift. These were as small as a $5 teapot from Goodwill, as costly as going to the ballet, as sweet as a box of chocolates, and as spiritual as a set of Mother Peace Tarot cards. It was one of the most self-affirming things I had ever done.

In the years since my first 12 Days of Christmas, I’ve used that ritual to navigate difficult periods of my life. I realize now that performing that ritual has developed into the practice of self-affirmation. In the last year I performed the following acts of self-affirmation.

To care for myself:

1. I set aside time every week to talk with my best friend.
2. I walked thirty minutes a day and did yoga or Pilates at least two days a week.
3. After owning my condo for seven years, I painted the interior in colors that nourish my spirit.
4. Knowing my tendency to become absorbed in a book and read all night, I held off reading The Help until my most intense period of work had passed.

To respect my creativity:

1. Despite early rejections of my Pilgrimage series of paintings, I persisted for nine months in creating and sending out an exhibition proposal that resulted in having three solo shows.
2. In spite of having limited resources, I invested in spending two weeks studying with my art mentor.
3. I purchased a professional easel so as not to harm my neck and back by leaning over a table for long periods of time.
4. I reorganized the studio to accommodate the easel and have all my supplies close at hand.

To challenge myself:

1. I went kayaking and refused to give up just because I didn’t get it right in the first half hour.
2. Despite not being a science fiction or fantasy fan, I read Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy because both of my granddaughters loved the books. It turned out that I thoroughly enjoyed them.
3. I committed to doing my Children of Eve series on wood panels rather than paper, a support with which I am very comfortable.
4. I wrote a blog every month – even if it was in the last wee hours of the last day of the month.

In listing the above items, I’m not bragging about myself. I am giving you examples of what the practice of self-affirmation might look like. I challenge each of you to take up this practice because the interesting thing about self-affirmation is that it does not lead to self-absorption. On the contrary, it opens us up to care for that which is beyond ourselves. For example,

1. In my care for the environment, I choose not to own a car. (See my blog on E to the third power.)
2. A friend and I have traded our gift exchanges for making contributions to groups doing critical work in the world. Some of these include Central Asia Institute, Ophelia’s Place in Eugene, Partners in Health, Doctors Without Borders, Heifer International and Institute of Cultural Affiars.
3. I am a member of President Obama’s Honorary Kitchen Cabinet – meaning I gave generously of time and money to elect a visionary leader.
4. I’m out canvassing for Democratic candidates who will move our country forward - out of the slide into oblivion where we were previously headed.

If each of us cared for ourselves, nurtured our creativity, and challenged ourselves to move out of our comfort zone, I suspect that not only our economy but our civic life as well as the arts and education would blossom in exciting ways. Why not give it a try?

2010 Ventura Artists Summit

A cardboard woman with a skirt of white netting, a hollow left leg, and overflowing shopping bags presided over twenty-seven artists working at an array of tables. easels, chairs, and stools. Judy Levinson's wacky take on figures set a magical tone for two weeks of serious studio work in the company of artists intent on producing meaningful work. Bell Arts Factory in Ventura, California was the venue for our gathering.

Ranging from thirty to eighty years in age, we artists were Swiss, English, Canadian, Asian American, East and West Coasters, South Westerners, and a sprinkle from Middle America. We came bearing the wounds of divorce, cancer treatment, high blood pressure, arthritis, diabetes, asthma, motherhood, grief, broken hearts, exhaustion and exclusion. Each artist had extracted herself from an easy or difficult situation in order to produce her best work and take it to a new level; no eye, ear, neck, back, leg, or emotional ailment could extinguish her will to create.

Katherine Chang Liu, leader and mentor for the two weeks, presented thought-provoking slide shows, gave individual critiques, cheered flagging spirits, and extracted commitments from those who have kept their creations away from the public eye. But it was the energy of the individual artists that created an electrifying atmosphere conductive to high performance.

For me personally, the summit was an opportunity to launch into my new Children of Eve series of paintings after months of research and data collection. I needed a concentrated period of work to release the visual language of Pilgrimage and find something fresh and specific to the story of our human migrations out of Africa 70,000 to 50,000 years ago. Hopefully, producing four pieces has built enough momentum to keep me going on the remaining eighteen.

Together we artists committed to publishing a book that will showcase the range of work we are doing. Twenty-seven artists are doing one-of-a-kind: cardboard creatures, imagined topographies, lithographs via computer, textural histories, collaged self-portraits, off-the-wall assemblages, genealogical constructions, distorted spacial arrangements, bold and lyrical abstractions, outrageous and gestural figures, and paintings of sculptural forms, color-field shapes, feminist antics, pointilistic skulls, moody environments, color frequency settings, surreal and composite images, calligraphic landscapes, garden vegetation, symbolic narratives, and social commentary. There are no duplicates.

Until the book is ready, enjoy these photos of Katherine commenting on another of Sand Poland's stunning assemblages, my easel in the studio, and the beachside view from my balcony in the Crown Plaza Hotel.

Kayaking the Rogue River

“I’m going to lead a women’s yoga and kayaking retreat on the Rogue River at the end of June,” announced my twenty-three-year-old yoga teacher. My arm shot up when she asked if anyone in the class might be interested in attending. I’d been looking for an opportunity to go kayaking for seven years and there was no way I was going to miss it when it arrived dressed as a women’s retreat.

“Those who don’t want to kayak can ride in the raft,” Kelly continued. Not want to kayak? How could anyone not want to kayak? My experience seven years earlier had been in a wooden kayak on a lagoon. The kayak sat low in the water and the thrill of “being the water” had made me ache for more of such experiences. “No raft for me,” I said, “I’m going to kayak.”

Kelly effused about how we would do yoga and meditation and have a fabulous outdoor meal on Friday night and then camp overnight. More yoga and meditation before breakfast in the morning and then at 9:00 we’d be picked up by our river guides. Even though I’m not an avid camper and knew I would have a restless night on the hard ground, nothing was going to stop me from kayaking the Rogue River.

And kayak I did. As we stood at the edge of the Rogue and got fitted with life jackets, our appointed guide, a highly experienced woman in her fifties, jumped into the raft. “Who’s coming in the raft with me?” Four of our band of eleven women moved toward Carrie. They tried to lure me, the oldest in the bunch, into the raft. “No way, I want one of these shiny red inflatable kayaks.” They gave me a new one to christen.

Many of the other six kayakers wore bikini bathing suits and baseball caps. I was determined not to have sunburn cut my experience short, so had covered all over and had a wide-brimmed sunhat. I was proud to be wearing Tevas - real river shoes - a leftover from my previous kayaking adventure. I lathered sun block on the little bit of exposed skin as our life-jacket fitter showed us how to hold the paddle long side up. Then he helped each of us into our kayak and pushed us away from the shore. “Oops,” I thought, “is that all of the instruction we get?”

Two sixteen-year-olds, a boy and a girl, were in kayaks on the river. Eric and Kelly (same name as my yoga teacher) were introduced as the kayak guides. The guy would take the lead and the girl would bring up the rear. Eric took off and some of the women followed. All I could remember was that you moved the paddle from side to side, pushing back against the water. I started paddling.

The inflatable kayak sat on top of the water and was easily taken by the currents of the river. Just then a big boat whizzed by and I started going around in a circle. “Oops, how do you stop this? Oh well, when it faces forward again I’ll just paddle fast. Oh. Oh, there’s a rock up ahead.” Not knowing how to get around the rock, I held my oar out in front to keep from crashing. I used the oar to push away from the rock and by shifting the oar around the rock I managed to get past it alright.

Eric motioned for us to gather round him. He explained how we would go through the first rapid. He would take the lead and we should follow, doing exactly what he did, staying on the right side of the river. The raft would come through last. Guide Kelly came up to my side. “I think you need to put the oar more deeply into the water,” she said in a friendly voice. “Thanks, Kelly. I’ll try.”

I was in the middle of the nine kayaks. I kept focused on Eric and paddled as deeply and as hard as I could. The kayak shot forward, crashing into waves that came cascading over me. The cold water was shockingly delicious under the hot sun. I kept paddling with deep and strong motions. “Thank God for all of the rotations I’ve done in Pilates class,” flashed through my mind. More waves and showers of cold water and we were through the rapid. I was breathless from the exertion but also from the excitement. “That was so much fun,” I thought.

Kelly came by and flashed me a smile. “You did great,” she said. The rafting guide motioned for all of the kayaks to gather around her in a shallow quiet area. “Does anyone want to get into the raft now? We can deflate a kayak at any time.” None of the seven kayaking retreaters raised their hands. Carrie called out, “LiDoña?” I shook my head, smiled and yelled, “No. I’m fine.”

Another big boat went past and I started bumping into the other kayaks. “I don’t know how to keep from running into you,” I said to no one in particular. Kelly came over. “Look, if you push the paddle forward instead of backward, the kayak changes direction.” I did as she instructed and low and behold, the kayak righted itself. “Thanks, Kelly,” I called as the raft took off and Eric moved into the lead again. ”Oh, yes, now I remember that part,” I said to myself. My friends on Quadra Island had made me practice both strokes before they let me leave their pier on the lagoon. I thanked Leslie and David for their foresight and Kelly for reminding me.

Now I was really having fun. Being able to direct the kayak doubled the pleasure. After each of the next few rapids, Kelly would come by and say, “You’re doing great.” I smiled my gratitude. After about three and a half hours and I don’t know how many rapids, we stopped for a picnic lunch prepared by the rafting guide. It was none too soon as my arms were getting tired. Eric explained how to get out of the Kayak. “I think I’ll need some help,” I said. “I don’t think my hips will unbend.” My colleagues obliged.

After lunch, Carrie once again asked, “Anyone want to get into the raft now?” Our retreat leader said she was ready, so they deflated her kayak. “Tell us what’s up ahead and then I’ll decide,” I said. “More of the same except that there’s one really big rapid,” Carrie responded. “I think I’ll try to make it until we get to the big one and then I’ll get into the raft,” I ventured.

Off we went, this time with the kayaks taking the lead and the raft following. It was harder now because there was a wind against us. I could feel how tired my arms were but I kept paddling. After twenty or thirty minutes, I looked up ahead. A gap was widening between me and the other kayakers. The raft was hanging back with me. I examined the widening gap, felt the power of the wind against me, and measured the tiredness of my muscles. “I’m too tired to be able to fight this wind and catch up with the others,” I thought. “And I’m holding the raft back.”

“Okay, Carrie,” I called. “I think I’m done. I’m ready to come into the raft.” Carrie grinned. “Bring your kayak along beside the raft,” she said. “We’ll pull you in and then deflate the kayak.”

I happily took a seat as Carrie let the air out of my brand new kayak and put it into the back of the raft. It felt good to let Carrie’s strong arms narrow the gap between us and the other kayaks.

Two people were sitting on the front of the raft, each with one leg hung over the edge. They were holding on to a rope fastened to the rim of the raft. As we went through the rapids they were sprayed with water just as I had been in the kayak. After a while, one asked if anyone would like to take her place. I jumped at the chance and found that it was almost as much fun as running the rapids in a kayak.

As we approached a bend in the river, Carrie called out to Eric and asked him to retrieve a water bottle she’d left in some bushes at her friend’s house the day before. As Eric looked for the bottle, Carrie’s friend came out of a house up on the shore and the two of them exchanged pleasantries. Once the water bottle was retrieved, people in the raft began peppering Carrie with questions about life along the river.

Carrie had lived by the Rogue for most of her life. Our two young kayaking guides had grown up on the river. We learned that the rapids we were going through were called class two or three. The toughest ones are class ten and they are on the Columbia River in Colorado. I think Carrie said there are class five to seven on a different stretch of the Rogue River and she has done those but has never done the ones on the Columbia. I’m pretty sure I’ll stick with class two and three rapids.

Someone asked me if kayaking the Rogue was scary. I was not scared because precautions were taken. Our retreat leader told us repeatedly that we would only go on the easy part of the river and that we would have experienced guides. She kept her word. She told us that the advantage of the inflatable kayaks was that they wouldn’t flip over like wooden ones, trapping you underneath. That reassured me. Everyone, including guides, had to wear a regulation life jacket, one that had a neck cushion so that if you passed out your head would be up out of the water. I know how to swim and I'm fairly fit from weekly yoga and Pilates classes.

On the same weekend that I kayaked the Rogue, two Oregon men drowned while rafting the Columbia River. Neither of them wore life jackets. Now that’s scary. What we did was outrageously fun, exciting, and safe. From the time we set up tents beside the Rogue until we hit the road to return to Eugene, I couldn’t stop smiling. I asked Kelly to please do a repeat yoga and kayaking retreat next year.

Recharge Your Creativity

Sometimes you get more than you were anticipating. Looking to recharge my creativity, I offered my four-session creativity class this spring. I hoped a few people were also feeling this urge and was delighted to find four others who were willing to commit time and resources to exploring their creative edge.

One taker was halfway across the continent and requested to take the workshop via Skype. That was something of a challenge, but class members provided feedback on how to overcome the limitations of the virtual process. We got progressively better at making sure that our Skype member was clearly visible and connected throughout each session. In the end, by sharing our various creative projects both in class and on line, we did feel that she was a “real” member of the group.

The singer in our group announced, after a week of having her living room carpeted with magazines for her self-box collage, that if she had nothing else to do she would spend the next three months making one box after another. The front of her box is the first photo above. Our social activist expressed her passion for the environment in several sections of her self-box collage - one section is shown in the second photo above. An artist member became so fascinated with her colored-pencil Maori symbol drawing that she rendered it in acrylic on canvas - third photo.

Having a virtual student was not my only technological challenge. I also had the idea of making a video of the class and a friend agreed to be the videographer. It became clear early in the process that video documentation requires more dexterity and pre-planning than I had imagined. Not only had neither my friend nor I practiced enough with the camera, I hampered her by not having clear ideas or goals regarding what should be shot during each session. Nor had we anticipated how the intimate nature of the class would make it embarrassing to move in for close-ups. Once I even forgot to recharge the camera between sessions, rendering her powerless for half of that class. Nevertheless, my patient videographer persisted to the end.

If the first step of any learning curve is discovering what you don’t know, then I guess my videographer and I have begun the journey. And if making a video is similar to a writing project in which success comes from being willing to make the shitty first draft and then revise, revise, and revise some more, then there is ample scope for creativity. I hope you enjoy the one-minute video from our session on bark brush mark making.

Green Soup (No Sam, Not Eggs and Ham)

As I approached my front door last weekend, my next-door neighbor popped her head out and said, “I’m going away for a few days. Would you like to have the Swiss chard I bought at the Saturday Market?” Never one to turn down good organic food, I said, “Yes, of course.”

I don’t know how many times you’ve purchased or prepared Swiss chard, but the answer for me is that I have never bought it. So I had no idea what to do with this bunch of big dark green leaves with red stems that remind one of rhubarb.

Fortunately, I had acquired Anna Thomas’s cookbook Love Soup the previous week, on the recommendation of one of my yoga buddies. To my surprise, chapter 3 had four “Green Soup” recipes, all of which had Swiss chard as an ingredient. I selected one and made some slight adjustments in the ingredients in order to use what I had on hand.

I cleaned and cut the chard, added spinach, water and a pinch of salt and watched as what had been a full pot of green leaves dwindled to about one eighth in size. As the greens simmered, I chopped and cooked an onion in olive oil until it was soft and golden, scrapped it into the pot and rinsed the skillet with sherry. Then I sizzled some garlic in a little olive oil and added it along with black pepper and a dash of cayenne.

After everything had cooked for about twenty minutes, I poured batches into the blender and pureed the mixture. The result looked like a darker version of one of Odwalla’s superfood drinks. Back into the pot to reheat and, voila, one of the most tasty soups I’ve ever made.

I don’t know if it was the sherry, caramelized onion, Swiss chard, or cayenne that set my taste buds humming, but I’m so inspired by this success that once a week I’m going to try cooking another of Anna’s soups. I’m particularly eager to try her arugula and apple soup since years ago I was ridiculed for putting apples into one of the experimental soups I like to make from leftovers.

Thank you to my neighbor and to my yoga buddy for introducing me to Swiss chard and Anna Thomas’s Love Soup.