The New Studio Space

The studio needed a complete renovation but I put it off until we decided to refinish all of our wide plank floors (and live here while doing it…).  I had to clear out everything, dreaded as an idea but a chance for the purge and once I got started, remarkably satisfying (of course I now worry about needing something from my merciless culling of art supplies). It helps to throw away things you don’t need or even want and find all of that wonderful empty space. Lately I love empty space. I had been set up for how I worked long before the pandemic and all of that changed. I needed a bigger work table, lots of storage for the many new materials I’m discovering and working with and less clutter, less stuff all around me. The first project in my new studio, hand made ornaments for 2023. I have always loved making them especially in my new space!

After the new mess was cleaned up!

Healing Angels of A X X I A

“ I have sent you nothing but angels…”

                                 ND Walsh

and it seemed that way… this was the year of finding joy in the sorrows, where there is loss, there can be gain, my senses seem to be amplified when my spirit is raw… as I joined torn clay strips, the angels took form with gesture and grace, then to the Raku fires for glaze… scrubbing away the last ashes revealed their nuanced color, crackles and iridescence and then, they awaited their wings… each figure guided me to the colors, materials, adornments and the pieces of reclaimed wood that they would stand on… the angels had arrived.

        Hand Made in Our Studio ~ One of a Kind

The Making of Art Angels

My Art Angels are born from my new work, segments from my original paintings have been transferred to canvas, double sided to “stuff” them a bit and add dimension so they are not flat like a drawing or painting. Their simple body forms are made from antique linen, the clothing details and wings formed from the bits and pieces that filled my work table… antique linens, silks, canvas, laces, textiles, torn paper, stitchery and tiny treasures… all over painted so that the colors are as I want them, like a painting. I do not make dolls, I do not know how to sew, I do not seek perfection. I may never make another one again but the angels are here now.

The Center is Fire

Those early dire warnings of the coming eclipse darkened our lives at the edges, seeping like a spilled ink bottle until we were completely saturated by the unknown. We learned to live in the shadows, to see in the dimmest light and without endless distractions, we had not yet realized that this was the time to find ourselves again. It’s easy to forget what we love, what we hope and dream of. We don't even notice that we often come to speak of these things in the past tense, I used to… Those long lists stored somewhere in our minds may no longer even be about us in the here and now. When did we last find the time to rewrite them? 

Now we had nothing but time and a new experience… going slow. When you get out of the fast lane, you begin to see those side roads you never had the time to travel. That’s where where all the treasures lie. Inspired thoughts took form….storm wood, clay, metal, hand made and gathered objects from near and far.

The elements can not be understood with words, they are experienced. Fire stands in the center and holds the secrets, ceremonies and rites of transformation, initiation and rebirth. Ancient hearths kept alight, fire deities, prayer rituals. To strike the match is a summoning for this intermediary to awaken incense, candles and our souls. Smoke, ancient scents and flickering light blur ordinary reality, they are practitioners of the magic and mystery that lead us to another realm where we find ourselves again.

"In each moment the fire rages, it will burn away a hundred veils. And carry you a thousand steps toward your goal.”  ~ Rumi       

The Art of Dressage and the Frame Drum

Other than my passion for both, on the surface there seems to be no connection between dressage, a riding discipline and frame drums. Life is like that in many ways and if you are willing to look a little deeper, you will discover the unexpected. Learning dressage has been one of the more challenging things I have asked of my body and my mind. Any riding discipline requires practice and more practice, corrections, refinements, criticisms and the will to keep going. The hardest work of dressage is what is barely visible. You might detect the subtle leg and seat cues from rider to horse but never the rider’s mind at work. So what does any of that have to do with my frame drums and the Circles that I hold?

Dressage was an ancient war horse training. The drum could awaken the energy of the warrior, not to strengthen the fight but the mind to do so. To be the best rider or warrior there must be control of breath, impulse and thought.

Those beautiful dressage riders that hold the viewer in awe as they glide in oneness with their horse are in their zone, they know their center and ride from that place. The drum’s destination is that very same place, our center where our spirit dwells, where there is absolute calm and tranquility, where we can connect with unconscious and conscious awareness. 

My frame drum collection grows, each one has a different voice to teach a different lesson, just like every ride, every horse has done for me. As my ride has improved so has my drumming… knowing without questioning, led more by instinct and less by intellect seems to be the same road that leads to the art of the ride, the art of the drum and the art of being our true selves.     

Amulet of Desert Nomads

My latest acquisition ~ a large Tuareg Amulet for the door of my treatment room
My collection of amulets, talismans and magical jewelry grows, there are certain cultures that attract me strongly and then I follow the path to discover the reason. Sometimes called a cross by Europeans, it is not, it is an amulet of protection for nomads living in the Sahara Desert, an inhospitable place filled with supernatural forces - Jinn, evil spirits, Ghul, setting traps for desert travelers. There are 21 Amulets, each design identifies a location of origin, this one a Tahoua. Every man, woman and child has an amulet, sometimes with magic formulas, made of leather or silver, the metal of Allah. Tuareg crosses were passed down from father to son with the words, “I give you the four corners of the world, because one cannot know where one will die”.
The origin and meanings are unclear, derived from the Ankh, symbol of the Goddess Tanit, male and female sexual symbols, triangular designs protecting from the evil eye, the position of the 4 stars of the Southern Cross? The best explanation… “in Africa everything is always true and possible.”

Tahoua Amulet hung with ancient rock crystal bead, antique gold leafed wax bead, hammered metal hook on a slice of antique reclaimed oak beam.

Spirit Feathers

Rituals of Earth Sky Spirit

For your sacred altar, Spirit Feathers carry the smoke of purifying and smudging rituals... companions for crystals and collected treasures, objects of focus in meditation and prayer, enchantments for the gods & goddesses... created with gifts bestowed by nature and embellishments of many ancestral cultures and traditions, feathers are filaments that connect the realms of earth, sky, spirit.

The making of Spirit Feathers is a process of many days. It begins with the choosing of the feathers. Their curves are the compass that points a direction, the painter assembles the beguiling palette, the energy master awakens the sticks and stones, they become storytellers of lore and history, keepers of ancient rituals and traditions. Our rests hold Spirit Feathers in the best position for the natural curves of both feathers and antler tips. We select the stone or shard that partners best with your piece. 

Conjuring The Color

That Binney and Smith box of 64 Crayolas with a built in sharpener was the start of it, a hypnotic lure, each one sampled with care and analysis, shading, rudimentary cross hatching, layering of colors. My mother made me color with the old man that visited the restaurant, how I hated him handling my magic sticks with no regard for their power, marring my coloring book with his stupid choices. I tried to give him the images I didn’t much like but really, I liked them all. He wore out my points, he tried to peel back the paper, if anyone was going to do that it would have to be me, oh my sacred crayons. So I painted a cloth for a display and the brush didn’t work very well, only the hands seemed to get the paint where it needed to be. But when I was done and hung the cloth up to dry, there were the hands, the colors and I didn’t want to wash them. Staring at them I was thinking, I didn’t even know what paints I would choose when I started. And then I wondered, who conjures the color, was it me or that 8 year old girl with the 64 Crayolas?

Who conjures your colors, where do they come from in your work, not the stuff that has to get done, I’m talking about the good inspired work?

It's Official

I have received my USEF classification and am now officially a para equestrian athlete competing in dressage. I’ve worked so hard, no easy days but all worth it!

Warm up with Harley at Blue Ribbon Farm Schooling Show

WILD HEARTS

Kennebunk Maine… the wild rocky Atlantic stirred by the last gasps of hurricane Dorian, high tide, wave after wave, the hypnotic beating of the ocean’s heart. My mind surrenders to a meditative state. The winding shore road is edged with boulders that stand like sentries, if you dare to venture below you have entered the realm of those that travel above and below the sea. The receding tide uncovers a rocky pathway to the water’s edge, blanketed in a seaweed forest of colors and textures, anchored tough to withstand the never ending furies. I scan the recesses and crevices, I am compelled because I sense there is something to be found. Everything that lures me is just beyond reach, just beyond safety. Boots and socks off, down the rocks I go, planning each step for the surest footing, if I want to reach this unknown, I must be a part of it. And then it’s there. In a bed of purple seaweed, an altar of wild hearts, left behind by someone. To be discovered by someone like me. If I had not looked harder, reached beyond my moorings, risked a crashing fall, heard the sirens’ songs, I would not have found the heart shaped rocks, I would not have been the person they were left for, I would not have found what I was really seeking, my own wild heart.