Today was a treat. Sunny and springlike with a few hours in the middle of the day to enjoy a writers lunch with a bunch of interesting people and Andrea Barrett. She had asked us to read William Maxwell's short story, The Thistles in Sweden. That little story held me captive while I read it, left me with my eyes open when I was done, and plain baffled. But the clear, close reading, the language and the excitement of our guide, and the insights of the other readers and writers in the room left me with a much deeper understanding of how Maxwell used objects, voice, memory, synopsis and particularly detail to make a bold an beautiful point about human nature.

The rest of my day unfolded in the same sort of magically mundane way as the story, reminding me again how objects and people, things and their stories weave themselves into my world. I noticed:

When the snow melts around here, the streets are filled with random scraps of paper, fast food cups (why do I see a cup from Wendy's at the same moment I'm thinking of my friend Wendy?), old socks, broken toys, strange, abandoned things...

Years ago, I picked up all that stuff, especially that spatula I found by the side of the road, run down and beaten up or the iron on the railroad tracks. I painted those things directly, as in the old painting I'm not too proud of now (think it's blue and green but I can't remember, and only have this black and white hanging around now). Abandoned stuff keeps cropping up in my paintings, my travels, and now the stories I am drawn to read.



I'm off to read more Maxwell ( W.G. Sebald was also recommended), more drawing, more hoping for spring...

take good care,
Rachael

I posted more paintings on the little pretties page.

Mark emailed me this info about a great sounding event in his neck of the woods (near Penland, North Carolina) and I'm wishing I was closer and could get there tomorrow night. The images did make me laugh and his e-mail makes some very good points.

In our area, there is such a focus and pretense on the sacredness of
the handmade object i couldn't take it any more! SO serious...and
between that and the commercial aspect of craft as a living, i finally
decided to respond to it. so, i have my stuff, and got together 5
other artists with a sense of humor and a willingness to break the
"rules" of the local arts community, and we're doing a show tomorrow
night at a restaurant in town. Unsponsered, unsupported, unruly. I
have sculpture and collages, k has fiber (in the form of extreme
knitted sculptural hats), a friend of mine that does glass has some
giant eating utensils (blown and cast), another friend has these mixed
media artists books (i think theres an audio component involved in
each), a metal sculpture or two, and a painter. we're also having 2
poets do readings, and me and one other person will do instant poems on
demand. finally, i think we have a BIG (6'x6') canvas stretched and
ready for some particpatory art/mess making. and who knows what else.

Everyday I am more convinced of the importance of organizing artists together in cooperative communities (smack dab in the middle of ordinary communities), of messing with expectations, of avoiding getting any chips on my shoulder as an artist or as a human being. With all the stresses (economic, social, artistic, otherwise) artists have, I do understand the need some of us have to assume the work we do is crucial to the survival of the species...but...um. It is not. Art is incredibly important but there's room for more than one watercolorist in any one place, there's no reason to believe that there is only one way to depict a landscape, and I firmly believe that art ought not be a specialized subject of erudite learning but a living, breathing, messy and magical endeavor.

The truly amazing artists I've known (and know) have somehow managed to make work that grows, changes, engages and connects over a long span of time. And they've raised families, lived in communities, done good things.

Holy pig butt!

take good care,
Rachael

Little soundbite for you from an old favorite Talking Heads song and something I was thinking about tonight as I scanned in some small paintings.

After several requests and kind compliments, I've put up a small sale of small paintings at small prices. These are the results of my pledge for no painting left behind (references to misguided national education programs forgive, I hope). I simply make too much stuff and I like it too much to throw it out. Occasionally I send small paintings to dear friends but mostly they pile up in the corner of my studio. And that's not right. I want to scatter my paintings around to good homes throughout the big bad world.

I'm seriously influenced by Duane's painting a day project , Mark's eBay project, and my own piles of those pieces I've always called, little pretties...

So here they are, enjoy, and find one of these in your mailbox...

Always for love!

take care,
Rachael

Little moments of aesthetic glee go a long way for a kid like me. Today I saw a stamp of this painting which made me stare and star and look again. I vaguely remembered a few lectures and little this and that about Heade but now I want to really look and really looking is what it's all about, friends.

More good stuff about Martin Johnson Heade is here.

I am also working on a piece that keeps me guessing, funny how allowing myself to draw into the paintings more is a thrill, a scary thing, and a joy all at once.

Take good care and keep drawing (little things, big things, messy things),
Rachael

My husband and I are both from fairly quiet towns in upstate new york. We went to SUNY schools. We are as thoroughly Empire state as those apples. So yesterday we ventured to a new land just a few hours away...yep, we spent the day in Ithaca. Or as we've called it for years, The People's Republic of Ithaca. Gorges. Cold. Vegan and available with soy.
We felt as if we were constantly walking uphill. Climbing stairs. Walking another block up, turning and finding the road even steeper.
We did see art and I have to admit that I was under impressed with most of the stuff on most of the floors of The Johnson Museum at Cornell. Again, we climbed stairs and more stairs but the place was a bit haphazard. The lobby was weirdly cluttered but it is free and what with this sharp Bonnectou directing us upstairs we were encouraged.
My main problem with the Johnson is a temporary one (or two rather). Too many things crowded the strange exhibition spaces (the building itself is a work of art with lots of big windows and a very concrete feel but they are working on expanding it someday.) More though, I really was irked by the installation by Elana Herzog which frankly took itself way too seriously, crowded carpets and carpet scraps into places where other paintings and sculptures were, and just said nothing to me. Well, actually it said,"hey, I'm smarter than you. I'm staples and carpet embedded into walls thus making more work for the guys who'll fix these walls and thus commenting in my own smarmy way on civilization and it's discontents." Discontent to see one set of unfinished ideas barge into the way of a whole lot of work that was finished, was subtle, was content to say what it had to say. I should maybe give this installation the benefit of my doubts because I guess her work had more strength.
The real treat of the Johnson and of our trip to Ithaca was the reward, once we were up thousands of feet in the air, at the very tippity-top of the museum to be surrounded by an exquisitely beautiful collection of Japanese ceramics, Chinese calligraphy, and Korean celadon glazed pots. We looked out huge windows at long skinny lakes and squat mountains, smiled, and remembered that the way back to our country was a pretty way, and generally downhill.
take care,
Rachael

Although urged by wise friends to go to the Rongovian Embassy, alas, we missed it. Simply will have to go back.