Illumination

Two Artists Under One Roof (II)

I'm often asked the question of how Manya started as a jewelry designer.

There were the childhood influences of course, one of which I actually wrote into my first novel, Fighting for Eden.

Jessie looked over the sewn patterns of red, blue, yellow and white beads, and easily caught it.  Long ago, when Nora had first begun beading, she had explained that in every Yakama beadwork, no matter how beautiful and complex, there was always one bead deliberately set askew, destroying the purity of the piece because, Nora had pointed out, only Creator could make something perfect.

And there were the Asian influences, too.   How could a jewelry designer not be inspired when surrounded by so many stones and precious metals as one seemingly trips over in Asia?

Nevertheless, the true start was when she began beading her first works and taking them down to the night markets of Taipei.  The night markets of Asia are (in)famous for their noise, their heat, their vibrancy and their shadows.

It used to freak me out when she would do that every Friday night: sitting there on the sidewalk in the middle of a night market, flanked by other locals hawking their wares, happily selling her jewelry

Needless to say, she blithely ignored my concerns.

For a while, anyway.  And, looking back now, I can easily see that her night market adventures were one of the first compromises ever made in our courtship.  Should have known it would involve an artistic decision.

The point was this:  I was freaked out that the police would routinely shake down sidewalk sellers, terrified that she would be deported.

So, she finally agreed to 1) carry her jewelry in a suitcase, 2) make friends with the locals on either side of her so she'd have advance warning and 3) when word came down the line that the police were moving in for a shakedown, to close up her suitcase and blend into the crowd.

I breathed more easily after that.  And Manya?  She got valuable experience designing and selling her first works of jewelry design.

Yet, there is more to this story.

Having known Manya for well over twenty years, I suppose it was inevitable that I would come to influence how she sees her art, just as she has assuredly influenced mine.

I remember her early works being rather chunky.  Clunky.  And, I might as well admit it (she does), there was little consistency in the theme of each piece.  

Indeed, it's probably not too much to compare them to a garage sale.  Higgledy-piggledy collections of glass, stone, trade beads, metals and other whatnot, strung out at various lengths of wire, chain or thread.  

In fact, a couple of Thanksgivings ago, her Mom wore what both our mortified eyes immediately recognized as one of those early pieces.  In vain did we plead with her to put it away.

(Nothing doing.  Now realizing a sort of perverse maternal pride in wearing what her accomplished daughter is embarrassed to admit as one of her own creations, her Mom flaunted it quite happily throughout the rest of that very long day.)

Needless to say, Manya's works don't look like that at all, anymore.  These days, they are sleek, elegant, delicate, harmonious in theme and design, showcasing often surprising, sometimes breathtaking combinations of colors in gemstones and metals.

What changed?  Whence chunky to elegance?

Manya tells me it is my influence upon her.  That I got her to notice the elegance of a line.  Even if the line is a simple one, properly handled, one sees a purity there.  

She was a bit scared of committing to such a simple line.  At least, at first.  

However, gradually, she began to see that the elegance of the line, no matter how simple, becomes the frame.  The frame around which the entire beauty of a piece is constructed.

Nice thought, that.

PS.  (Fighting for Eden is available on Kindle, also in softcover from Lulu.)

Where Do Artists Go When They Hurt?

This is always a bit of a touchy subject.  Yet, it is one that touches all artists most intimately.  It is a matter of the heart, battered or broken.  Where do we go when we hurt?

Well, all kinds of places.  It depends on the artist.

For example, the greatest setback I've suffered in the last years was a coup a few months ago.

I was invited in to help a high school rebuild its broken theatre company.  After five successful shows mounted over fifteen months of hard work, and the first acting award the company has seen in years, another teacher and a group of parents decided they wanted to run things.

They charged me with precasting shows with my favorite students (thereby cheating all other students of a fair shot).  They refused to allow me to defend myself.  Then, when I called their bluff and agreed to work with the casting committee they insisted upon, they refused to answer.  In short, I was out and they took over.  That they did this two weeks before the fifth show opened only rubbed salt in the wound.

(I know that some will say it was only a high school theatre company.  Yet, those kids meant a lot to me.  They still do.)

Regardless, when hurt, where do artists go?

I went to Mu.

But that's me.  I truly think that each of us must choose our own way.  We must each choose that explanation of the unseen that makes the most sense to us.

The point, then, is not so much where you go, but that you go there.

You go there, and you stay there.  For as long as it takes to heal the battered or broken heart, no matter what anyone else has to say about the matter.

After that, you pick up your art, and get back to work.

Those Dry Spells

I was talking with a young photog the other day.

In fact, to my critical eye, he is one of the most talented photogs we have currently residing in Edmonds, regardless of his youth.

Which is ironic, for I first met him while working with a high school to rebuild their theatre company.  He found himself as a (set) dress designer.  Indeed, he quickly became our lead dress designer.

Many was the time, in the five shows I directed there, that I would ask what he planned for some aspect of the set dress.

He would throw out a remark or two which, while clearly making sense to him, I simply could not visualize.

Nevertheless, I had grown accustomed to the quality of his work.  So, I would swallow hard and wait to see what transpired.  Of course, it always met and quite often exceeded all our expectations.

Yet, as talented as he is as an artist, he ran into a dry spell this spring with his photography:  He didn't jury into a show that he had expected to.  He didn't make the cut at a local summer market.  There were other disappointments.

All artists know this awful time.  Resources get taken away.  People get ill.  Programs get canceled.  Funding dries up.  Coups happen.  Or, worse, the artist loses inspiration.  The Muse no longer speaks.

And then, worst of all, a constant drip, drip, drip of thoughts begin eroding self-confidence:  Maybe I should give this up.  Maybe I'm being ridiculous here.  Why did I ever think I could be an artist?

Yet, awful as these dry spells are, they always end.  So, knowing this, we just have to get through them.

The alternative is giving up our art.  And that, as every artist knows, is experiencing the death of a loved one.

Two Artists Under One Roof

Right around this date, twenty-two years ago, in a dark and mysterious bar in China,  I asked a woman if I could buy her a beer.

She completely dissed me, but that's another story.

Yet, I persevered long enough to gain a first date a few weeks later.  There we sat, in a seafood restaurant on Sungjian Nan Loo (ie Sungjian South Road) in Taipei, Taiwan, making awkward conversation.  

The most intriguing part was that we eventually settled on the topic of jewelry design.  (There are several sources at hand in that part of the world for breathtakingly beautiful jade of various colors, sumptuous amber, and intricately worked silver.)

Now, if someone had tapped me on the shoulder at the time to let me know that within ten years, we would own a small gallery just north of Seattle, I would have immediately asked what he was smoking.  I have to be honest here:  I wasn't talking jewelry design with her because I was interested in it.  I was saying whatever I needed to say to get to a second date.

And, I did.  Which led to a third, a fourth, followed by countless ups and down, emotional highs and lows, the Chinese wedding, the American one, a gallery and - somewhere along the way - two slowly growing artistic careers.

Which begs the question: I've known and loved this woman for over twenty years.  Just how much, if at all, has she affected my art?

Quite a lot, actually.  When we met, I had no idea whatsoever of becoming a writer, whether novelist or playwright.  In fact, I was so far from appreciating writing of quality that - typical of my upbringing - I read only spy, military, and crime thrillers.  One after another.  

To read a thoughtful novel, instead of an action one, was to my mind a sign of the effeminate.  Only a "limp-wristed guy" (as we put it back in the Midwest) would ever do it.

And that's just reading such a novel.  How about writing one?

Here's a bit from my first novel, Fighting for Eden...

It was a beautiful ride.  In fields along the way, with a hawk soaring high above for company, they could see the lazy ballet of line after line of sprinklers throwing out their offering to the parched earth, their great ten foot high wheels rusting quietly in the morning's heat.  Pausing to watch a rainbow doing its sparkling dance over a water line, a sight she never tired of no matter how often she saw it, she spotted a coyote in the distance skulking along the side of an irrigation ditch and, glancing quickly at Jake, thought a prayer of thanks that he wasn't carrying a rifle.  Whip danced a few steps herself, rousing Jessie from her reverie...

Clearly not a passage you'll find in your average thriller.

Whence the change?  As I recall, Manya's greatest influence on me as a writer came down to one question that she asked me long, long ago.  We were discussing the merits of my typical reading fare, and she asked...

"You've read so many of these thrillers.  How many of them do you remember?"

Almost none, I had to confess.  They all just tended to blur, one into another.  I thought that was the point, actually.  Read to escape for a little while.

But, now, suddenly, this whole new world opened up.  Why settle for the routine, the common, when I could reach beyond them for those who had gone one better?  After all, if you've only so much time before the big curtain descends, why not spend it on the best?

And the rest, as they say, is history.

PS.  (Fighting for Eden is available on Kindle, also in softcover from Lulu.)

Jig Saw Girl

I'm not sure why but, for some reason this year, during Father's Day, I found myself following the advertising.  Almost as if it were a cultural statement about how we, as a people, think of our dads.

So, for example, page idly through the weekly flyers from SEARS, Target, Kmart and other large chains and you find pictures of smiling dads standing with their happy kids next to barbecues, sporting goods and tools.

I found myself thinking, "What if I don't want a barbecue?"

Okay, so perhaps my hope that advertisements featuring dads smiling next to sketching pencils, french copper sauciers, and knitting yarn is a little naive.  Nevertheless, on this day that celebrates manhood like no other, apparently, as a man I should prefer barbecues.  Why?

SEARS says so?  Maybe...

I cannot believe that large corporations with marketing budgets for polling would be pushing products that their customers do not want to buy.  What, then, does this say about us as a people?

I am reminded of something I saw last fall.  I was directing a play at a local high school, and it was set construction day.  No one had ever used a jig saw, so (typical of me) I asked boys and girls alike whether they wanted to learn.  All the boys volunteered.  None of the girls did, save one.

This girl was quite possibly the gentlest soul of the company.  Moreover, high school students tend to talk about each other.  A lot.  And while I never heard anyone describe her using the word "fragile,"  I remember  a few conversations that seemed headed that way.  Clearly not the type you would expect to pick up a noisy, scary jig saw.

As for me, this was my third show working with her, director to actor, and I had long grown used to her inner toughness.  It was always there when she needed it most.  So, I wasn't surprised in the slightest when she volunteered to learn to operate a jig saw.

Of course, she handled it quite well.  Better than quite a few of the boys, as I recall.  And where was I?  Right next to her, holding the wood down so it didn't jump as she cut it, my fingers following along with the cut, about 2 to 3 inches from the noisily rasping blade.

(Honestly, is there a better way to show how much you trust someone to do well than that?)

At any rate, there we were, cutting out the arch to an entrance when I saw it happen.  All the senior boys, then the junior boys, one by one, put down whatever they were working on and, instead, began gathering around, watching this girl handle the jig saw.

Did they say anything?  No.  Were they proud of her?  I don't think so.  If anything, they looked like they were expecting her to chop off my hand.

Now, these are some of the hardest working dramatists I've ever known.  We achieved some extraordinary theatre working together.  Yet, from their expressions, I couldn't help but wonder if these boys hadn't been trained to find a girl successfully operating a jig saw an unwelcome thing in our world.

After all, haven't we all created such gilded cages for our loved ones, at some point or other, just to make us feel better?  When will we stop?

PS.  What happened to the jig saw girl?  She finished her job of cutting out the arch and, with a nervous smile of pride in her achievement, went on her way.

Last Iris

Today sees the final rise, peak and (toward evening) the fall of this season's last iris.

It's been a glorious run these last weeks.  Some years we get the occasional violet flowering.  This year, they were all a lovely, buttery yellow.  I am sorry to see this last one go.

Yet, the Buddhist within has long learned to respect this.  Everything worth living for is transient: happiness, beauty, meaning.  Even irises.

So, do we make the mistake of trying to hold on too tightly to this last iris?  Of course not.  That would be silly.  Indeed, we cannot hold back the forces of life.  Instead, the inner Taoist works with them.

Lately, we've been talking at home quite a lot about living creatively.  (Which, of course, is working its way into my new novel.)  That once we realize how transient life is, the importance of each moment takes on new meaning.

Will the moments of my life take on a dreary sameness, or will I consciously apply them toward the distinctive, the fresh, the brief?

Trying to answer this profound question has had a prosaic effect on our garden, for example.  What do we plant and why?  Should our garden take on a pretty (at first) then (later) stale sameness all year round?  Some nearby neighbors have made that choice.  Whenever I look at their garden, no matter the month, it looks the same.

On the other hand, what if we consciously planted flowers, say, to bloom in different corners of the yard at different times?  Having committed ourselves artistically in this fashion, we then get to enjoy the blooms of that choice.

Today we take those quiet moments to say goodbye to the last of the irises, knowing that yesterday saw the first day lily bloom and the latest rose blooms.  And that tomorrow will bring its fresh joys, too.

Bad Muse Day

In some alternate universe, I'm certain that I wrote well today.  (Sigh.)

Enjoy the Game!

Enjoy the Game!
That's all it was, wasn't it?
We see that now, just the same.

Your fulsome tears, shed as pricks
To those worried for you,
As planned.  Heartless bag of tricks,

A tapestry of lies and deceit
Thrown o'er trusting eyes
To blind, manipulate, to cheat,

As you sneer, daring to choose
How far to take this game.
Yet, in winning you lose.

All that breathless freedom gained,
Gone, now a master rides you
Choked, burdened beast enchained.

That delightful garden you knew
Is now a barren desert of
Distress, longing, bitter rue.

All those joyous ovations stand,
Now, embarrassed silence,
The clapping, your one hand.

Success was yours believed
In this wider world.
Now, failure, yours achieved.

But, hey!  Enjoy the Game.

© Jeff Stilwell 2012

An Empty Space

An empty space!  In which to fill,
To dream, delight, to fancy, too!
Day's brightest dares, night's darkest mares
All given shape, breadth, vivid hue.

The Artist sets to work, creates
Through sweat, toil, blood and fire
A world ne'er seen, nor known
To tease, excite, enlarge, inspire

Our lives.  A success, free for all!
The Others, too.  Their art not known
The Created they then covet
To take, steal and own, theirs alone.

The Artist the Others pursue,
Target, smear his name to disgrace.
Fear, their banner; safety, their sign
Proclaimed, to chase him from the space.

The Artist retreats, heart-stained weeps
His love, his loss, all that he knew.
He wanders, rent, a time long spent
His agony his only due,

In search, to find, one day, anew...

An empty space!  In which to fill
To dream, delight, to fancy, too!

© Jeff Stilwell 2012

The Artist and Mu (II)

Who knew there would be so much interest in Mu?

That serenity known through lack of fear or desire.  How do we get there?  Specifically?

Well, it's a lot like baking cookies.  Really.

Before we go there, however, it's probably best to talk about what we don't need to get to Mu...

• a special room, sound-proofed from the neighborhood
• painted in a special color
• with Om and Yin/Yang symbols 
• and burning candles and incense

Nor do we require...

• a special haircut or robe
• sitting in a special posture
• with our hands turned in just the right manner
• chanting a particular sound or prayer

Nor, either, do we need to...

• find a labyrinth or
• do so many circuits clock-wise (or non) around a stupa
• breathing in some sort of esoteric pattern

Nope.  None of these.  Getting to Mu is quite simply a matter of practice - wherever, whenever, however.  And the more you practice teaching your mind not to give way to fear or desire, the less your mind will.  

Which brings us back to baking cookies.

After all, the more you bake cookies, the better you get at it, right?  Fewer burned cookies, not so much sugar that everyone's teeth hurt, or forgetting the egg or mistaking baking soda for baking powder, etc.  Surprisingly common, isn't it?  

Which makes us wonder whether it really could be all that simple.  After all, we are talking about an ancient Asian religious belief.  And yet...

Cue the artists again.  

This is a concept every artist knows.  For our job as artists is to make sure that our brushwork (so to speak) is excellent and not embarrassing.  And there is only one way to get there: spend those hours in the studio working it, practicing.

We get to Mu in precisely the same way.  Practice.

The Artist and Mu

I'm getting a number of questions about Mu.  Not least, the overall question of... "Say, what?"

First, Mu.  To use Christian language, I would say that Mu is like Ecstasy.  (No, not that ecstasy.  And not that one, either.)  Nevertheless, they are similar.

Mu is that inner peace that comes through lack of fears or desires.  You get there through practice, disciplining the mind not to give way to fear and desire.

As a result, you know greater clarity of sight and mind (because you are no longer distracted with useless clutter).

That's the textbook answer.  There's a deeper one, too:  Mu, like Ecstasy, is a metaphor.

Which isn't too surprising.  I've long thought that all religious concepts are handy metaphors for the feelings we struggle to explain.  Mu is no different.

Take Salvation, for example.  All faith traditions that I know of focus on Salvation.  From what, though?  From either a burning Hell or the absence of God altogether (Judaism, Christianity and Islam).  From the curse of rebirth, from daily fear or desire (Buddhism).  From delusions that you exist apart from the Brahman (Hinduism).  From rigidity in thinking and, therefore, life choices (Taoism).  The list goes on...

Interesting how universal the question.  Also interesting how different the answers turn out to be.  And that's the cool part.

Cue the artists.

Throughout all time and place, it's the artists who come up with the metaphors that give us a handle on abstruse explanations to...well, you name it:  Resurrection, Detachment, Divinity, Damnation, Delusion, Creation, Redemption, Singularity, Grace, whatever.  Point to any religious concept and you'll find a bevy of artists who've crafted wildly different metaphors to help us all get a handle on it.

(They can't help being wildly different.   They're artists, after all.)

Even so, that the question is universal to all religions, inevitably leads to some similarity among the answers.  Take Mu again  - with its serenity borne from lack of fear or desire - one does not have to search very far among the mystic traditions in any of the religions to find similar metaphors.

For example, in Christian mysticism, Mu strikes me as remarkably similar to the Ecstasy one knows from union with God here and now.  (Rather than waiting until after you die.)

Funny, that.  I expect it will always be that way, so long as humans continue to dream up their own faith traditions.

Which means, I suppose, artists will be helping us grapple with our religious dreams...well...forever.

The Artist, Vulnerability and The Coup

We've all read about the coup d'etat of bygone eras.  An old regime falls as the new pretenders take power.  It happens from time to time to the state.

It also happens from time to time to the artist.  Captured stylistically, I'd describe the process as...

An artist enters an empty space and creates something beautiful.  Other people show up saying, "Hey, I want to control that."  The jostling then becomes so ugly that the artist one day says, "I have to go now" and leaves.

Indeed, the artist loses every time.

Why?  Because, creating art means making yourself vulnerable.  Being vulnerable makes you a poor candidate for fighting off coups, with their attendant deceit and double-dealing.

Interestingly, those who win such coups are, by definition, poor candidates for making themselves vulnerable.  That also means they have no art.  How could they?  Which, I suppose, is why they have to take control of others' art.

Is all this too dark?  I'm honestly not sure.  I myself recently suffered just such a coup.  Yes, it was messy.  Yes, it was awful.  Yes, it was wounding to watch such lies told of me.  (After all, those who win have to justify the takeover by smearing the reputation of the departed artist:  You know those artist types - unstable, irresponsible.  We're better off now.)

Yet, as I continue to ponder the event, an odd wisdom descends upon me, like a gentle rain: Yes, they took what I once created.  Brutally, too.  But that's all they will ever have.

I?  I still have my art.  And I'm free to take my art wherever I wish.  I always will be.  And no nasty ol' coup can ever change that.