Little Drawings on Glass

These are details of the new "plat de fleur" pieces. I have a show coming up starting this Wednesday. It's a guild show, and I didn't have any new work that hadn't been seen...that wasn't already committed, that was even conceived of. I waited until the last minute...And for some unknown reason, decided to do the "plat de fleur" pieces, containing these little silhouettes.

They are fresh outta the kiln. And to start, I have no idea where they were hiding in my head...But they surfaced, and I made these little tiles. Then incorporated these tiles into a field of transparent clear irid. They are very rigid (the dish forms) with these tight little squares of a drawing like ink on glass. The only thing loose about these pieces are the drawings...and even they are a bit tight. The texture imbedded on the back of the base glass gives some relief. They are very graphic and how they are composed makes them very strong.

I'm not certain if I like the pieces, but I like the little drawings.

This is a Bird of Paradise on cobalt.



A Calla Lily on pale mint green.




















Chinese Lantern. Mica on black.

As Simple As That

I could tell by the way he walked and the way he held his arms and hands that he was feeble. He was old, probably suffering from the beginnings of some form of dementia, maybe Alzheimers. He had a posture of leading with his chin, eyes down to the floor. His fingers were loosely curled over his thumbs, his arms were at his sides, slightly forward, and as he walked, he didn't swing them. His gait was mostly a shuffle. As though he was more stable if he didn't take his feet from the ground, but simply slipped one forward a small length, then the other in order to move along.

I was exercising in an Aquarobics class at the indoor public pool, when I saw him. I was surrounded by a few dozen other men and women who want to remain active, strong and keep moving in spite of age, arthritis, hip replacements and extra pounds. I saw this man, alone, shuffling along the deck on his way to the lap swimmers lanes. He awkwardly knelt to get in, mostly falling, then only moments later he was trying without success to get out of the pool. He was not at the ladder, he was in the deep end, trying to climb out along the edge. I had been watching him all along as I jogged in the water with my classmates. Yet I couldn't take my eyes off him. I was transported in thought and feeling to remembering my father's later years of life while declining with dementia.

As I watched him ineffectually struggling to get his own body out of the pool, I did nothing to help. The life guard was a young woman, a slight woman. She had him by the hands and was trying to lift him out as she remained at the side of the pool. Many of us in the pool and even others along the deck simply watched their struggle. I was frustrated that no one was helping them. Yet I didn't make a move to go over there to help either. It was only moments before he was successfully lifted out of the pool. He was clearly shaken and confused. Still I watched without helping as he tried to sort out where he was and where it was he wanted to go. I could see the lifeguard was distressed, sad, and watching his progress too.

My father would rail at the embarrassment of others knowing he was becoming dependent, confused, impotent in the ways of daily living and problem solving. He was not only becoming less of a man, but less of a human. His loss in bits and pieces of memory, knowledge, control of his body and his growing dependence on others to do the simplest of tasks for him was the ultimate humiliation.

For my father, I could help out of love, and he could accept my ministrations in private, but never ever before the view of others. At least that was so in the beginning. Toward the end, he was less self aware, and was so confused his pride couldn't interfere with his need for guidance.

I was feeling ineffectual myself, watching this elder struggle to navigate his way around the public pool, and suffering the results of loss of strength and good judgment. I was feeling angry that there was no other person there as a companion to help him get in a swim...to run the gauntlet of an unfamiliar public space when his body and mind were less than able. I was disappointed at my own impotence and lack of action to make his existence in that moment less of a struggle. Maybe what I was feeling was a remnant of grief for my own father, a moment of fear for my own potential of ending up with Alzheimers. Perhaps it was as simple as being paralyzed with indecision and feeling ashamed for not helping my neighbor.

Commodity

As if she were not good enough, she colors and describes her life to appear more than, as if you would know from a single glance that she was less than.

Less than desirable.
Less than beautiful.
Less than brilliant.
Less than good enough.

She paints you a picture of herself that is less than accurate, and more than she believes herself to be. As if you couldn't care for her, in her actual skin or without her colorful stories.

Perhaps she believes that the right shade of lip color and hair that is styled just right, and shaded in many tints of gold and bronze will help you to value her more highly than she values herself. Is it possible that the right amount of enhanced breast, liberally exposed, and a surgically swollen mouth to suggest a bruised-lip sex appeal, in reality increases her value as a human being? Surely it increases her sense of self, if sex is a measure of worth, a commodity.

Her sex kitten a la Joey Heatherton facade is just the outer layer of her artifice. I wonder who she really is atop those 'fuck-me' pumps, and larger than real life stories.