Discoveries

People leave things in books-that is a fact of life. Some times it's a ticket stub. Some times it's a check.  Some times it's a photograph.  Sometimes it's a piece of bacon.  And some times it's a bit of intrigue, the end to which you will never know.

Mrs. Casey,

Mrs. P ( band director) has a small group of parents that got themselves elected to the Boosters board.  They have the same "no values" mentality.  They allow their kids to do things that are not Christian.  One set of parents drove the band trailer all year and charged the band.  This has always been a volunteer job.  But they are friends w/ Mrs. P and she wouldn't let anyone else volunteer.  This same man cannot hold down a job and they put him as Treasurer.  Our previous Tres.+ others are afraid he won't be able to do or money will disappear.  Parents pay 200-300 for marching.  The budget is over $20,000.  Mrs. Stivender is trying to come up w/ things to get rid of her.  Please don't tell anyone where this came from.  Angie 

(Hand written note on small note paper that has this quote printed on each page:  "I know the plans I have for you."  Jer. 29:11.  Found in a book in a library in Florida.)

The Hour of Mice and Deer



(photo by J. Martin Ward)



Nearly a decade ago I became friends with a US Army Medic who was serving in Iraq.  Upon returning to the States, he found it hard to adjust to life outside of a war zone.  He was haunted by memories of patrols and the loss of two comrades.  He had anger and regret with no place to put them.  Not surprisingly, he had a few run-ins with Johnny Law and spent several months in jail on an assault charge. 

It was during this time that we became true penpals.  Envelopes flew back and forth between us, letters full of stories and news and games. One letter cautioned that I was to read it outside, atop something high, under a full moon, late at night.  And so I did.  On a clear February night in temperatures below zero, I nipped outside at three in the morning, clambered atop the cab of a pick-up truck in the yard and read the letter.

I don't remember what was in it now, probably lots of laughter from the writer imagining me gullible enough to be out in the freezing cold following his whim. But I will never forget the stillness and incredible beauty of moonlight on snow and the words of someone reaching out to me across so many miles and experiences.

When I crawled back into bed, I found I couldn't sleep. I needed to make my own homage to what had happend and thus wrote this poem:

The Hour of Mice and Deer

I was awake’d at 3 AM,

Nocturnal musings from a pen

Calling me from slumbers deep

To answer riddles, hide and seek.

The full moon on the patient snow,

The stars above, the cold below.

No gloves of wool, nor hat of fleece,

In my own house I was a thief.

Stealing glances, listening hard,

I moved as dust into the yard.

The door behind me gently closed;

The sting of night at 3 below.

Yellow paper, man-made light,

A silent witness in the night,

Instructions in a reckless hand,

Un compos mentos rewards the man.

Clear, cool nights inspire the mind,

We gaze amazed at what we find.

We came together seeking knowledge

And in the process found our solace.

Here, my view is open spaces,

The heart recalls what time erases.

There, your view is no less grand,

Despite the concrete walls at hand.

Your jailers cannot even see,

They are the captives, you are the free.

Words of lead upon a page,

Redemption as the battles rage.

The moon, her silent vigil kept.

I read your words. I thought. I wept.

For only you could bid me here,

In the wee hours of mice and deer.

There is a sound that snow possesses

When the temperature regresses.

It leaves its mark upon the soul

Of those of us born to the cold.

Imprinted with this icy brand,

We learn to wait and understand.

Patience will be our salvation

In this life of our creation.

I said a silent, sacred prayer,

Then mindful of the chilling air,

Crept back inside, leaving no trace

That I had traveled to this place.

And yet my mind with visions filled.

There are no liquors, nor are there pills,

That can begin to replicate

The heady joy of entwined fate.

We were not strangers when we met.

The heart recalls what time forgets.

In variations we reside.

You held my hand somewhere in time.              

c. Feb 4, 2007

Art and Our Lady

The Virgen de Guadalupe has been making her way into our life of late.  Living in Austin, Texas, for several years, we saw her on grocery store candles and in roadside shrines.  Our Lady of Guadalupe Church sits resolutely in a challenging neighborhood on the east side and she peers out of tiny retablos at Tesoro’s Trading Company on South Congress. 

We continue to see her here in Florida.  There is a large painting of her on the side of Lucy’s Super Market in Avon Park.  I found a prayer card with her image tucked into a sign atop a gas pump.  When Jamie had a dream that a groovy shaman had tattooed Our Lady’s image onto his wrist we agreed it was time we paid more attention to this mysterious lady.  Unexpectedly we found a small poster of her at Om Gaia here in Bradenton while at the Saturday Farmer’s Market.  The sale included some strands of beads for the Hernando DeSoto Grande Parade that evening but they quickly became our first addition to the little shrine in our kitchen. Curious about her origins, I began to troll the internet for her story and found a wonderful assortment of images and information.

La Virgen de Guadalupe is known as ‘Mother of the Americas’, an image under which the many conquered nation states of Mexico were united to form our modern idea of Mexico. Having been a country of many languages and invasions, it was the appearance of the Virgin in 1531 that lead to a galvanization of Catholicism with indigenous pride and practice of the local people.  Judy King, in her article “La Virgen de Guadalupe: Mother of All Mexico” writes this:

The appearance of Guadalupe on Tepeyac, the site of the destroyed Aztec temple of Tonantzin, the Mother Earth Goddess restored the dignity and the spirit of the people. Her arrival is said to mark the birth of a new land and a new people, neither European nor prehispanic, but both, the first product of the New World. Even her physical appearance announced the newness of this world, for her face looked neither like the Spanish nor the Indian. Her lovely features are the pleasant mixture of both - she is a Mestizo, the first Mexican.
 
King goes on to say:
It has never occurred to Guadalupanas that others could see the image as flat, and tacky, a two dimensional piece of religious art. They cannot believe that others are missing out on the unconditional love that makes the Virgin multi-dimensional, alive, and a very real part of the family. She IS, after all, their MOTHER, she is always there, waiting to be consulted, waiting to be consoling, waiting to listen, waiting to speak, to enfold them in her arms, to pull them on to her lap.

 Octavio Paz, the Mexican writer and Nobel Prize winner said, "When Mexicans no longer believe in anything, they will still hold fast to their belief in two things: the National Lottery and the Virgin of Guadalupe. In this I think they will do well. For both have been known to work, even for those of us who believe in nothing."

 Inspiring such devotion, it is really no surprise that the image of Our Lady is so joyously embraced and shared, whether on the back of matchbooks, in celebrated cathedrals or on the banners of the United Farm Workers.  We create to tell our stories, to ask for understanding and to show our love and appreciation. 

   Last Saturday, at a Bradentucky Bombers roller derby match here in town, I noticed a large tattoo of La Virgen on the slim, fishnet-stockinged thigh of a Gainseville Roller Rebel.  By the end of the bout the fishnets were torn but Our Lady took her victory lap with pride and grace. That seems to be what she does best.



Nuestra Senora
(acrylic on canvas by Wren Davis Pearson)

 (This article was originally written for The Village Magazine, a publication for The Village of the Arts by VMI Media in Bradenton, FL   http://thevillagemagazine.net/2012/05/art-and-our-lady-la-virgen-de-guadalupe-around-us/  Photographs are courtesy of Google images except for the final photograph of original artwork.)

Remembered

It's hard to feel abandonned by life when you have rose bushes....

When Worlds Collide.



Mexican Pottery Sink at The Refuge at Wit's End

 One of the interesting things about eBay is that it makes you remember things you had forgotten.  After looking at handbags, pizza ovens, buffalo turquoise rings and Russian paintings, I thought of the beautiful hand-painted Mexican pottery sink in the kitchen of The Refuge at Wit's End in Abilene, Texas. I continue to lust after that sink and repeatedly kick myself for not buying one similar to it when we were at Market Square in San Antonio shortly before moving to Florida. At the time it seemed foolish to spend money on a sink when I didn't have a place that needed one but to be honest, that was just lack of vision and Yankee frugality.

Talavera Mexican Pottery

Deruta Pottery

The search for hand-painted sinks led me to looking at Mexican and then Italian pottery.  We have two dishes from Dertua that came from my cleaning days for West Lake Beach Dave back in Austin.  They are lovely and look even better with cake on them.  Deruta made me think of Vietri.  Both towns are centers for painted pottery in Italy, and I visited Vietri with my friends the Wilsons when they were living outside of Naples. Vietri produces pottery for companies all over the world-Williams Sonoma for example-but they also have created a great marketing tool for restaurants in their country.  In many establishments you can order the house specialty and it will either be served on a commemorative plate/bowl or you can purchase the dish separately. What a clever souvenir and indeed the plates are quite collectible.

Damariscotta Pottery

Seeing all this hand-painted pottery then made me think of my life in Maine when I worked at Praxis, a fine craft cooperative, and sought out pieces here and there from many of the state's talented potters.  Remembering of Praxis reminded me of my year working in Damariscotta at Two Fish and being introduced to Rhonda at Damariscotta Pottery.

Vietri Pottery

Thinking it would be fun to have some pieces of Vietri and Damariscotta pottery in our cupboards, I made a practice of checking eBay weekly for pieces to come up for auction. It turns out that people are buying and selling both brands at hefty prices far beyond my budget.  Frankly, I was surprised to see Damariscotta pottery even listed, for despite its being known nationwide, in part because Barbara Bush ordered a set of dinnerware when her husband was president, it's still pretty much a tiny potter's studio with no mail-order or website. As with the Vietri commemorative plates, you have to visit the place to leave with those special items which is what makes what happened next so odd.

I had been on my eBay pottery patrol for several weeks when I stopped at the Goodwill store on Cortez. It's a great thrift store in a neighborhood that is a little bit ghetto, a little bit barrio, a little bit assisted living.  I had dropped off a donation of clothes and was doing a quick scan of the shelves when a little hand-painted pitcher caught my eye. The pink, blue and white floral design seemed very familiar. 







  It couldn't be, I thought to myself, but picking up the creamer and turning it over, there on the bottom stamped into the clay was Damariscotta Pottery.  Well blow me down.  It looked to be piece probably from the late 80s early 90s when the glazes were light and the flowers very abstract.  The price tag was 99 cents. Too right I was having it.   On the off chance that there were more Dam Pots nearby, I moved carefully down the aisle.  That's when another familiar decoration on a plate caught my eye.  Picking it up, I giggled almost hysterically to myself.  It wasn't Damariscotta Pottery but it was a commemorative plate made by Vietri.  The restaurant is The 12 Apostles in Verona, Italy, and the chef's specialty was a veal creation.  It was $1.99.  After carefully checking to see if the shelves would give up any more treasures, I marched my treasures up to the cash register giddy as a school girl.  Who would believe it!  Each time I open the cupboard door now I have to smile.I don't know why it tastes better to have my milk poured from a Dam Pots creamer, but it does.  I don't know why I reach for the 12 Apostoli to put my toast on, but I do.  And I don't know why a little thrift shop in a small city in Florida has pottery from across the country and across the globe, but I'm certainly glad it does.

If you have the time, have a look at these links, especially the video for the 12 Apostoli restaurant which is quite beautiful.  If you find yourself in Damariscotta, Maine, take a walk up the little side street past Reny's andThe King Eider Pub.  Cross the parking lot and go down behind the big gray building that is home to Weatherbird and some art studios.  Tucked underneath you will find Damariscotta Pottery.

Ristorante 12 Apostoli
Commemorative Italian Cuisine Plates
Hand Painted Mexican Ceramic Sinks
Damariscotta Pottery
                                                                           Talavera Mexican Pottery
                                                                           Deruta Pottery
                                                                           Vietri Pottery



 



 

English Lessons for Non-British English Speaking People: Volume I

Lesson 1: A gaff is your home, be it an apartment, a house or a broken down Volvo Estate Wagon. (Note: a Volvo Estate Wagon is a Volvo Station Wagon.)

Lesson 2: 'Pudding' is a meal course, known in France as 'dessert'. You may indeed have pudding for pudding. You may also have cakes, ice cream or jelly.

Lesson 3: 'Jelly' is what is known in Italy as 'Jell-O'. Jam is what is known as American 'jelly' and Preserves is what is known as what you find at your nana's house or what is referred to as 'jam' on Air Force One.

Lesson 4: Breakfast is what is known as 'brekkies' unless you are in Portugal where it is 'pequeno almoço'. Lunch is 'dinner'. Dinner is 'supper'. Supper is a 'little something something just before bed'.

Lesson 5: If a person is said to be 'rude' then they are a bit of a slapper. If a person is said to be a 'slapper' then they are the sort of people you don't bring home to meet the family but rather enjoy in the privacy of your own gaff after supper and hope they are gone before breakfast, which after a night of debauchery will most likely be pudding.

I hope that clears a few things up.

On Deciding to Become an Artist

Some days the path is very clear but recently I’ve been struggling with how to proceed in my life.  I think a recent trip to Office Depot, however, has helped me to clarify a few things.

I had arrived at the store in need of an ink cartridge for the printer as the old one had stopped working, as they always do, right in the middle of an important print job.  Entering the vestibule from the sidewalk, I could see two men monitoring my arrival.  One was tall, probably in his early fifties with styled graying hair, and his starched collar and clipboard quickly said ‘manager’ or ‘regional supervisor.’ The other man was young, average height, in short sleeves with various Office Depot badges and ribbons adorning his shirt. The men stopped talking as I walked through the sliding door and as if let off his line by the supervisor, the young man came bounding up to me like a dog set free in the park.

“What’s brought YOU to Office Depot?” he asked with fervor in his big eyes. His name tag said ALAN.  My first reaction was to take a step back so I didn’t get muddy paw prints on my pants.

When I said I was there for ink he asked in rapid succession,

“What kind? What color? Do you know where it is? I can help you.”

As I was all ready moving towards the ink cartridge aisle, he leapt in front of me and led the way the remaining few steps. Now faced with thousands of choices, his eyes glazed over and he looked at me expectantly.

“It’s HP 74 I’m looking for,” I said, zeroing in on the area I needed.

He stepped in front of me, scanning the shelves and began to babble.

“Let’s seeeeeee…….HP 74…….Do…dododododo….HP 74…….dododododo…” 

I leaned forward to select the voucher needed to take to the register but his hand shot out and grabbed one ahead of me.

“Here you go,” he said triumphantly with a nod of his head. “Just take that up front and someone will get that for you and you can be on your way unless there’s anything else I can help you find.  Paper?  Envelopes?  Stamps?”

I said no, thanks for the help, and started towards the empty cash registers.  Alan had a slightly panicked expression on his face.  The tall man was looking around with a grim expression on his face. As a cashier appeared from behind them, both men intercepted her so that by the time she got to the cash register she all ready knew what I wanted, though she congenially double-checked as she pulled the cartridge off the shelf and rang me up. The two men walked past me out the doors. Finishing the transaction, I popped the cartridge box in my purse and left the store.

Outside, the two men were leaning on the brick wall in the shade.  The tall man, who was staring out across the lot, seemed to not hear Alan who was waffling on about sales figures and computer programs. Once safely in the car, I started laughing.  What had just happened in there? It was like something out of a sitcom. What was worse, it was like something out of a human resources role playing exercise on customer service. What was designed to make me feel attended to and valued left me feeling that I, too, was being watched by a man with clipboard and that my free will within the confines of the store was something to be challenged and subjugated.

(Take a minute to watch this clip from the very funny British series, Black Books.  It started running through my head as soon as Alan descended on me!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fyowdq4bVxQ  )

The more I thought about Alan, I came to realize I stopped being him when I decided to pick up a paint brush and create.  Once you consciously separate yourself from procedures and trends that regard you as a cog in the machine rather than as an ambassador of the message, then it becomes increasingly difficult to spin the spiel and dance the dance.  The need to create something of your own and add your voice to the universal good becomes your trend, your procedure, your message.  The desire grows to connect with yourself and others through colors, sounds, words and works, not because a man with a clipboard full of statistics says so but because it feels intuitively the right way to move forward.  Despite the natural way of it, it’s not easy to be in today’s world as an artist and yet here I am, sensing that it might just be more beneficial to create something beautiful than to sell the most boxes of ink cartridges.