Exhibition Update

A painting of mine will be on display from November 19th, 2011 - February 5th, 2012 at Loveland Museum/Gallery, Loveland, Colorado. The exhibit is called "A Portrait of the Artist" and is showing in the Foote gallery.
The opening reception is November 19th from 1pm - 4pm. Juror Kyle MacMillan will be choosing three pieces to receive awards to be announced at the reception.
In the main gallery is an exhibit of Chuck Close portraits.


Loveland Museum Gallery (click link for googlemap) is located at:
503 N. Lincoln Ave.
Loveland, CO 80537
(970) 962-2410
Hours:
Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday: 10am - 5pm
Thursday: 10am - 7pm
Saturday: 10am - 4pm
Sunday: 12pm - 4pm
Second Fridays: 6 - 9 pm
Closed Mondays

Rock Climbing

A few weeks back a new friend of mine asked me if I was interested in trying out rock climbing. When I first moved to Colorado about 9 years ago it was my intention to learn how to climb. I was looking into classes. Then I became busy with life, marriage and children, school. Here I am on the other end of the marriage part, separated and divorce pending. No new story there. What is new, however is the opportunities that have arrived. My mentality has changed due to the split with my mate. I have made a conscious effort to let go of control and fear. Because of this I have made several new friends, embarked on new art projects I wouldn't have otherwise considered, visited Italy, become a member of NEXT gallery and now I have gone rock climbing. These have come to me because of my receptiveness to them and they present me with new challenges, which I am grateful for.

Two friends and I visited the North Table Mountain rock formations in Golden, Colorado yesterday. The formations we climbed are called Honey, I shrunk the Hemorrhoids. I have only known these guys for about a month and in that time have only gotten together with them a few times. I commented on how strange it was that I trusted them despite this, while there are other people in my life I've known longer who I would not have trusted with belaying me while I climb a rock face.  Anyway, they are very peaceful and patient personalities.

I began by watching and learning vocabulary. Take is what you say to indicate to the person belaying that you need the rope tightened, you need a break and want to hang from the rope, or you may fall. Slack is what you say to indicate a looser rope. As I took the first few grips, I was able to let go of the overwhelming idea of scaling the rock up to the anchor, the top bolted loop through which the rope is threaded. My mind was focused on finding the next couple of holds, the next move to get me to the top. There was no fear for me. I had expected to feel scared of falling, but I didn't once feel that fear. I'm not boasting, I find it incredibly odd. There was really only this choice of giving up or going on that I had to struggle with occasionally. For instance, it was my first day and I went up a route that was rated a 5-9. Easy is 5-5 and the ratings go up to 5-15. This was mostly vertical with a small overhang. At one point, I was flattened up against a vertical wall with a couple small lips for my toes and one handhold I didn't feel very confident about. My legs and arms were tired and I kept shifting to give one limb a rest at a time while looking around for another grip that would lead me to another grip. At that point, I thought I was going to have to give up and rappel down, but I chose to stay there and seek out a way to continue and with the help of my excellent coaches below I made it to the top anchor. Also on this climb, I remember being about four feet away from being able to high-five the anchor and thinking, maybe I've gone far enough, this is my first day climbing after all. Then I thought, I've come this far and I want to do it all the way. On another climb there was a point where I had to press my arms against opposing outcroppings and work my feet up to a waist-high foothold before lurching to a new hand-hold. I knew I could make this move physically, but I had to convince myself that it was going to work, I had to wait for confidence to well up inside of my gut. After I succeeded passing this maneuver, I was mentally messing with myself and thought for the first time about falling. Even with a tether, there is a chance that you can fall incorrectly, smack against rock, and there are safety measures, if overlooked, could prove fatal. I didn't feel in any danger and I thought to myself, I would be okay dying this way. The worst case scenario is that I would die rock climbing and I would be okay with that! Psychology is so important during the climbing. I feel like I learned new things about myself through this experience. It definitely fortifies the confidence. Now, what I was doing was top-roping, which means someone has already led; gone up to the top and threaded the rope already. Leading is different because there are times in between bolts when the climber is risking a free fall of several feet. This increases the fear factor which impedes on one's perception of one's own ability. It was very humbling to watch my more experienced friends performing the lead climbs.

As I hiked down from the formations, my legs a bit wobbly, my toes feeling like they've been minced, fingertips throbbing, I thought about how I was basically accomplishing my bucket list this year. This thought immediately bothered me. What happens when you've cleared your bucket list? You're done? Are these things happening for a reason that I don't know? I had to stop my thoughts as I was being seduced by over-analyzing.

I definitely want to go back and climb more, but I also want to actually learn technique that will improve my abilities. There are different things that turned me on about rock climbing, the puzzle is a big one that excites people. Piecing your climb together one move at a time is like a mind puzzle, it requires thought. A lot of the climb felt very intuitive, I had the feeling I was tapping into memories of my ancestors. I thought, if I were forced to save my life by climbing up this rock face, I could. One of my favorite moments, during my first climb on a 5-8, was a moment when I had found a small ledge to stand on, I was leaning up against the rock, a narrow but deep crack behind me emitting a cool air current. I was trying to catch my breath, my body rising and falling with release, when a small, white butterfly delicately hovered about a foot in front of my face as if examining my progress for about 5 seconds. Later on, back on the ground, an orange butterfly landed on my hand and stayed there for several minutes. I looked closely at its eyes and wondered if those multi-faceted eyes saw into multiple facets of existence which we don't see with our single lens eyes. I kept thanking my friends for inviting me to join them. It was satisfying to my soul.

Thoughts on Consciousness and Hessie Trail

Today I was supposed to paint. I scraped my palette and received an invitation to have breakfast and go hiking with a couple of dear friends. I went along. It was such a beautiful drive up to Hessie Trail, a little ways outside of Nederland. My friends brought their dogs, Rudi and Spot. They were very excited to go hiking too. It's been so long since I've hiked. The air was scented with warm pine. The sun down in Boulder was a glaring 95 degrees but up on the trail it had dropped to a perfect 76 degrees Farenheit. The trail curved gently around the foothills and brought us to a waterfall. We left the trail to seat ourselves on boulders overlooking the falls. Bronze boulders as large as trucks in precarious poses as if in suspended animation of tumbling were dressed with white, rivulets of lace. The decision to go hiking was sealed after breakfast and I was originally wearing a long skirt, so Molly lent me a set of spandex shorts, the sort of which I haven't worn since about the age of 13. Normally I don't show this much of my legs and it left me feeling slightly self conscious, but I must admit they were very comfortable for the context in which I was employing them.
I was hypnotized by the moving water. I said to Dan and Molly, "It's so great to be alive." Trite words, but sincere.
I ran my hands over the tender needles of a young evergreen that tenaciously took root on top of the boulder I sat on, in what looked like a shovel's worth of earth caught in a dip. I felt the rough surface of the boulder and the chartreuse lichen, the fallen dried needles. It filled my senses with wonder. Molly offered me a very ripe peach from the cooler. It was so soft it buckled in my fingers. As my teeth broke the skin, the peach nectar flowed down my chin and as I drank it, it cooled the inside of my throat. I feel so blessed that I am allowed to experience such sensuousness in my version of existence. I guess it's common for painters to occupy themselves with and focus on relating the sensuous in their work, perhaps because of the tactile nature of hand made artwork, ceramics for example. Today, on the trail, I decided that I don't exist. The I is a fiction. The I is really everything. Existence is actually oneness but we are a delusional, schizophrenic, narcissistic oneness. Once while on the pilgrimage to Italy, I was listening to my sister talk and I let go of my ego, the sense of boundary between the self and everything else and suddenly I felt a strong oneness with her. My perception spread outside of my body and everything became like a mirror to my spirit. It lasted only a minute.
I experimented with this while I was walking through the woods today admiring all the tree people, bird people, rock people, dog people, all the different versions of the Is or Am. It created a sense of loneliness, but perhaps the Is or Am is too infinite to be confined to one version of itself and that's why there are so many. In this way, the Is or Am can love itself by loving those perceived to be external selves, but when the Is/Am is being vain and selfish and thinking only of its loneliness, the love diminishes.

Crucified Earth I

Crucified Earth II

Cold, gray airport.

Vibrating neon lights.
Cold gray airport.
I want to be with the black wasp
gleaming in the sun
on an orange lily.

I forgot to record a few notes about a concertino I saw on my last day in Venezia. We had the pleasure of a nearly private mini-concert by a man and his piano. It cost 10 Euro per person and lasted about 40 minutes. It was the perfect ending to our sensory driven trip. I relaxed my eyes and felt the music. The vibrations and intensity tingled different areas of my brain, activating emotions of joy and passion. Another example of love being poured into a piece of work, first by the author and secondly by the performer.
I am waiting for a flight taking me back to Denver, back to my children and my work. Over the next few months my mission will be tending to the flame in my heart that has been ignited by my pilgrimage to Italia. This flame is the communion I hold with my muse, my dedication to my artwork and love for my children. I want to teach them and show them of this love, that it allows your life to be full and it allows your spirit to thrive.

I want to be a love conduit. I am so thankful for all my experiences and all of the people who have taught me, all the people I know are my teachers.

Venice and I both wept from the sky

Venice wept upon us as we ran to the bus stop with our roller bags skipping across the cobblestones in a silly dance. We were unprepared for the thunder shower but Brenda suggested we don shower caps for our race through the deluge. It was a good idea and helped us stay slightly warmer as the rain soaked our clothes to our skin. We arrived 25 minutes early for the bus and a mysterious taxi with no taxi sign pulled in front of our waiting area. "Marco Polo Aeroporto?", he asked us and the man who stood close by under the thin awning that afforded us meager protection from the rain. All of us rode to our destination, us to the airport, the man to a restaurant outside of San Lucia Venezia. After getting our things out of the "taxi" and checking in at the ticket counter, I questioned whether he was actually a sanctioned cab driver, especially since he had no fare meter or communications radio and stank like he'd been drinking hard alcohol. All the same, we got to the airport.
I finally remember, I was able to visit the cafe at the Biennale in the Giardini, adjacent to the Central Pavillion, the one for which Tobias Rehberger designed the interior. It was glorious! I had really enjoyed his lecture when he came to Denver, but didn't have a chance to chat with him myself. It seems like I ended up going to that Logan Lecture alone. Alone! My new adjective.
When I entered the cafe, I was greeted by disorienting graphics that made me giddy. Vivid, neon orange and lime against black and white patterns that misinformed the eye as to the shape of the space along with mirrored surfaces to intensify the disorientation and fracturing of perception filled me with gladness! I felt so fulfilled that I had been there to see Rehberger's piece in person! His installation at the Denver Art Museum for the Embrace! exhibition was a room full of multicolor bungee chords strung from floor to ceiling. People were allowed to interact with the installation and meandering through the chords was challenging, being forced to push and pull against the bungees in order to forge across the room. His is a brilliant and joyful mind, truly exhibiting the meaning of being love conduit.
A funny think I just remembered: The taxi that took us to our hotel upon arrival in Rome on the 15th had Amy Winehouse on the radio and the pseudo-taxi that took us to the airport from Venice also had an Amy Winehouse song play during the 10 minute drive. Ironic no? (After arriving back in the states I learned she had died the day before).

The Cafe designed by Tobias Rehberger

The Cafe designed by Tobias Rehberger

The Cafe designed by Tobias Rehberger

Anonymous Stateless Immigrants Pavillion

San Giorgio, Venice

FAIL: Anish Kapoor's Ascension

Oh, we saw "Ascension" by Anish Kappor and it was indeed a disappointment. There is this elaborate setup, specially designed towers that house columns of fans almost reaching the ceiling of San Giorgio, a central platform emitting a wisp of steam that is supposed to manipulate upwards to a vacuum tube, a sucking duct that exhausts out through one of the dome's windows. People were sitting around in the pews and on the steps leading to the altar with a range of expression from boredom to intense concentration as they waited for the twisting column to manifest. Some with cameras on tripods were frozen, hypnotized by the expectation that at any moment they will have the opportunity to snap a photo of a miracle. My mom made the observation that it is like an ascension we've only read about in the Bible; no living witnesses, may only have been hearsay, but the faithful arrive hoping to witness it.

Mask of Servitude

Alphonso comes to our table and asks us what kind of coffee we would like each morning at breakfast. He never changes his expression, even when the owner of the hotel jokes about sending Alphonso with us to the airport. My mom called it his "mask of servitude".

Gondola

Orifice and Water line in a canal

Ti voglio amar, Venezia

Post- and Proto-Renaissance, by Oksana Mas. Ukrainian Pavillion, Venice Biennale, 2011.

A painting by Francis Bacon from a small solo show in Venice

After reveling in the most wonderful cappuccino brought to us by Alphonso, we walked down to the bus terminal. It had stormed with lightening and thunder the night before and was still cloudy. An occasional sprinkle teased my cheek with the threat of downpour. We confirmed our bus for 5:a.m. to the airport to catch our 7:10 a.m. flight to our connection in Paris to Chicago. From there we will drive to Indianapolis where I will catch a 7:30 p.m. flight to Denver. I will arrive in Denver at 8:30 p.m. on Sunday, 4:30 a.m. Monday Italy time. Today was a little more relaxed with the big day ahead in mind. We rode on a gondola, very tranquil and peaceful, the sound of the water trickling and slapping, lapping softly against the brick buildings, echoing through the narrow canals. The movement of the gently rocking rhythm soothing my spirit. The sounds of chatter or music channeling from the byways, growing louder then dimmer as we approached and passed beyond. We had a lovely lunch of gnocchi and canneloni, a glass of lovely, red wine. We wandered and found Teatro le Fenice, looking for the Francis bacon exhibit. We found it and it was okay, BUT we stumbled upon the wondrous and whimsical installation by Oksana Mas from the Ukraine, Post and Proto-Renaissance. WOW! I don't know how many hand-painted, individual easter eggs, Ukrainian style, affixed to enormous panels, each one becoming a pixel in a copy of a section of Jan van Eyck's altarpiece The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. It was marvellous. The presentation, inside a small, old building facing Teatro le Fenice, was a dim room, the masterpiece lit, sparkelling before you as you ascend a creaky wooden ramp. The creaks you make as you walk make you feel self-conscious, that and the larger-than-you face of Christ made out of Easter eggs is staring past you. Most people were incredibly silent besides the horrendous creaks they were trying hard not to create as they walked. A soundtrack of trickling water and whispers played in the darkness. It was such a blessing to have seen this piece, it made me so happy, an accidental discovery of great treasure. I had set out to see the Bacon show but didn't know I was actually supposed to see Oksana Mas. Funny how life works that way at times. We also visited San Giorgio Basilica earlier and saw Anish Kapoor's Ascension. I will write on that tomorrow as it is time to sleep.

Later...

The sky is turning periwinkle again and we have returned from our daily sojourn. What a festival of sensation was to be found at the Venice Biennale! Too many, of course, to list in detail here, although maybe when I am home I will write more about the pieces. Most notable of what I saw were two pieces by Haroon Mizra. He is my new favorite living artist. His installations were so intense. The first one I saw was Apavillion of Then and Now. One enters a triangular box, practically light tight. The walls are covered in a sound-proofing-like layer of large foam triangles, gray. In the center of the room's ceiling is a halo of LED lights. The light is accompanied by a buzzing speaker under the grated floor making a noise reminiscent of an electric frequency. The noise and the light slowly intensify in volume and brightness. The frequency morphs from a muffled buzz to a sharp pinging. Suddenly light and sound cuts out completely, leaving the viewers confused. It was great! It made my adrenaline pump and I had to stifle giggling each time the light cut out and I could hear people shifting their weight in the darkness, wondering what to expect. After about 15 eternal seconds, the light and buzzing dimly return to existence and the intensification begins again. It was really entertaining. In the other installation called Sick, Mizra's work is once again in a wedge shaped space. It consists of speaker wire and speakers, a telted screen which played some cut up imagery and resided under a small plastic bench which supports a speaker. The speakers howled and barked in a twangy way with similar electrical feedback sounds, diminishing, morphing crescendos and decrescendos, playing with the ear and the sensations of vibration, bouncing off the unfamiliar angles of the room. One speaker, on its back, is fitted with a piece of plastic tubing. On the speaker face a piece of gold foil dances. It was so simple but sincerely intense.
Turrell's light installation did not disappoint either. The glowing blue rectangle on the wall was, of course, a room to walk into. Entering the environment was like entering a realm of the subconscious. The luminescent blue lent a foggy, nondescript experience of the environment of the chamber. The presumed lighter blue wall in the back of the room was a drop off into a larger blue-lit room. Sensual deluxe!

Outside of Haroon Mizra's Apavillion of Then and Now

Frog King

Anonymous Stateless Immigrants Pavillion

Tomorrow is our last full day in Italy. Not much is on the agenda. Today, some of the boat drivers were on strike so we could only get a boat from our Ferrovia station to Rialto. We walked a great deal today, but by now we were used to it. Maybe I'll take Jonas hiking in the mornings until he goes back to school. I wish we could afford to send him to Waldorf.

I have come to confess the small size of sphere of knowledge I posess.

My brain is so full of information its reeling. We arrived in Venice yesterday by train, got off a stop too early, had to take a local train for 1 Euro per person that went over a tremendous bridge. Again, overwhelming. Venice is one enormous art installation. The layers of brick and plaster and multicolored paint showing through where time has eroded away. I let the waiter order for us at dinner, which was a mistake and awesome at the same time. He brought us two 35 Euro per plate fish entrees. It was delicious and heavenly, although expensive, we were glad for the treat. We had had a long ride on the bus-boat from Murano to Burano and back to San Lucia Venezia. I am so happy. My heart has become weary from all the happiness and beauty and it is slumbering in the intoxication of all the love seen in art and ideas here. I want to live in Venice.

Lunch: Calzone and Bellini

I am so happy. I am going to the Venice Biennale today. I don't think we'll get to go again tomorrow. Sunday, we leave for the States. So soon! This trip is heavy and I am growing accustomed to the physical and mental/emotional exertion on a daly basis. Back in the States I want to keep up my activity levels as I have been here. I feel charged and ready to create! The Biennale is going to punctuate this even more urgently. I must maintain discipline. My children need to feel this energy too. I want to pour this enthusiasm for creating into them, enthusiasm to learn and explore. I am looking forward to being with them and sharing my days with them as fully as I can.

Firenze, goodbye.

illegal snapshot of a Rembrandt painting (NO FLASH)

small model of da Vinci's design for underwater breathing apparatus and flotation device

July, 20th, 2011 because I must specify it is still the same year as last entry and haven't been in Italy for an entire year, no confusion allowed. There is enough confusion going on.
Today... today we went to the Leonardo da Vinci museum of inventions. He had a mind that was constantly going. Many of the inventions were made into models, some that were functional and one was allowed to activate. Next we went to the Galeria Academia. First, I must mention that I had a cappuccino today. The design in the foam looked like a heart. I drink in love, I drink in love. It was heavenly.
So, at the Galeria Academia I expected to see some Bernini, but none was there. There was a painting by Ingres that was not his best; just a boring portrait of a man in black. A ton of sculpture by Bartoloni, of which I did actually enjoy La Carita. Some average Botticellis. Then, there was the David by Michelangelo. After seeing it's image in reproduction so many times to the point of it being cliche, seeing it in person, I understood it's popularity. It is wonderful. Talk about a work formed from deep love. I stood and stared for a long time, left and came back and stared some more. I found that after a few minutes of staring, unblinking, I expected it to take a step and move aruond. I kept imagining its chest rising and falling. After seeing David, I didn't want to look at anymore artwork. I wanted David to be the last piece I saw today. Tomorrow its off to Venezia for me! What a piece of work is man...
Does art exist because of ego? If we returned to nature and shared a singular consciousness, would art have a place? Is art about the disconnection and our unconscious desire to be connected? Art is a creation of shared experience. The only thing art requires is an audience.

Florence: Uffizi Gallery

Duomo

I really need a cafe. My brain is pumping. I just visited the Uffizi Gallery. Rembrandt and Caravaggio both use this mixture of what looks like raw umber and cadmium red. Rembrandt remains the master, but Caravaggio is excitement and passion. I had no idea Rembrandt was there at Uffizi. Three paintings, one self-portrait as a young man, one of an old rabbi and another self-portrait as an old man. My heart can barely conceive of the love in these works. It makes me want to push past my limitations and reach that state of love. I feel so full, my brain and spirit are stretching, bursting. I also saw Botticelli, Tintoretto, da Vinci, Titian. After seeing Rembrandt and the other masters I didn't want to pollute my mind by looking at lesser masters. Oh, AND Judith Beheading Holofernes by Artemesia Gentileschi rivals the Judith by Carravaggio. The Caravaggios at the Uffizi were of Young Bacchus and Medusa's Head painted on a shield. They were first rate, but nothing in that museum compared to the Rembrandts. How could it? I did appreciate the peeled eyeballs affect of looking at a finished da Vinci, The Annunciation, but must say I prefer Jan Van Eyck to da Vinci if that's what you're going for. My brain is too full. By the time I am done with Venice I will be ready to explode.
-Oh, to top it off... We walked past the Galeria Academia and the line was crazy! -wrapped around the building. We came past the eye dazzling Duomo of Santa Maria di Fiorno then to the Uffizi. The line was out of sight there, too. We inquired about which line we should be in, speaking with a guard posted at the entrance. We could stand in one giant line if we had reservations and another giant line if we didn't have reservations. My mother said, "This line here? Oh, okay." The line for regular tickets was taped off around the corner of the entrance and they admitted groups of people at a time. My typically mild mannered mother ducked under this taped barrier and cut in front of about 400 people. Nobody seemed to notice! My sister and I followed her, slightly aghast at her deed. She turned to us and said, "If you want to get ahead in life you have to be willing to cross the line sometimes." I think she was motivated by seeing how crushing it was not to see the Borghese gallery, but, really, I would have had to sacrifice seeing Uffizi or the Galeria Academia if it took all day to wait for one of them. I needed to be in that museum.
This coffee was wonderful.
I think the blue I'm having trouble identifying in the flesh of Rembrandt and Caravaggio is probably French Ultramarine. I rarely use it. I can't wait to try using their color combinations when I get home. I took a discreet photo, no flash of course, of the hands in Rembrandt's Old Rabbi painting. They are so colorful and gauzy yet descriptive. Da Vinci's drawing in his paintings is perfect, but Rembrandt understood before his contemporaries the meaning of painting. The way he uses brush strokes says, "this is a painting with a soul."
Walking back to the hotel in Firenze (Florence), the rain finely freckled us. I paused to video and photograph graffiti that had been washed out and re-exposed from under layers of peeling paint and plastered posters that were faded and shredding. A man rode by on a bicycle. He gray beard matched the dog that rode in the front basket, barking at people on the sidewalks. We passed the botanic gardens and the air smelled green.

The St. Matthew Cycle and the Catholic Church's defiling of the Pantheon

Early rising this morning was again difficult because of sleeplessness. We made it to San Luigi dei Francesi and laid eyes upon the three paintings in the St. Matthew Cycle by Caravaggio. Again, all other paintings in the cathedral looked like washed out illustrations after viewing the rich dramascapes of Caravaggio. I stood in front of them for a long time. Tour group after tour group filtered in and out. The love and care poured into these paintings is overwhelming. That cliche about my heart feeling like it could burst came to mind, I really felt that way. I feel drained emotionally. We made a feeble attempt to find the Bernini sculpture at a church we didn't know the name of around the train station some where. In the train station is a mall and I loved the shoes, the heels? What is up with me?

San Luigi dei Popolo and the St. Matthew Cycle by Caravaggio. In the background, The Martyrdom of St. Matthew.

The Pantheon

Colosseum

We entered the Pantheon after going to see the Caravaggios. Apparently the Catholic Church restored the inside, maybe some of the outside of the Pantheon. The statues of Greek gods and goddesses were moved to the Vatican. The Pantheon has been turned into a basilica with statues of martyrs and a pulpit and altar. My heart was troubled by this. The Colosseum was also stamped with a huge cross. I feel as if these places have been stripped of their connection with history, graffitied by Christianity and defiled to their true purpose. The argument is that the Catholic Church saved the structures from crumbling. Intriguing in a scandalous way, the Vatican houses statues and relics of Greek gods, Egyptian gods and Mayan gods, probably more. they have a great collection and their archives are off limits to laymen. I'm tired. My body is tired. My heart is tired. My mind is tired.

Love and Caravaggio

Trees at Borghese Villa

Santa Maria del Popolo

After being sleepless last night we all accidentally slept until 10am. I pulled a dress on over my head and zipped downstairs because breakfast closes at 10. Coffee and croissants were still there. The lines to get on the bus were long at the terminal so we walked 10 minutes to the Colosseum. We didn't go inside because I was concerned about getting to the Borghese Galeria. We got on the bus at the Colosseum where the lines were minimal and arrived at Borghese Villa which is a campus of gardens, trees, paths, a zoo, museums, the galeria and more. It was beautiful. The trees rang with the sound of cicadas and a breeze made temperature in the shade perfect. My adrenaline surged as we approached Galeria Borghese which houses close to a dozen Caravaggios. Because the building is so old, only a certain number of viewers are allowed in each day. I remembered, after the fact, that reservations were strongly recommended. The day was sold out and I would be on a train to Florence when the next available tickets would apply. The galeria is closed on Mondays. I fought back tears and bought a Caravaggio book. I bucked up and thought, this is not how my day will end. Thumbing through the book, I located other places in Rome that had Caravaggios work: Santa Maria de Popolo and San Luigi dei Francesi. After becoming frustrated with the map, which seemed to be of Rome from Earth 9 rather than this Earth, we flagged down a cab and arrived at the church. I waited until 4:30pm until the doors opened. I hate listening to the sounds of people when they are eating. Standing in the heat, I waited with a small crowd. Across the street in the piazza, were a family who had rented "people movers" to get around the town. This seems extremely silly and removing. I quickly scouted out the paintings in a dark, small chapel to the left of the main altar. They were on either side of the chapel and blocked from being seen straight on so had I was forced to view them from almost a 45 degree angle. You have to pay a couple of Euros to activate the lights that illuminate the paintings. The paintings were of The Crucifixion of St. Peter and the Conversion of St. Paul on the Road to Damascus.
Oh my gods! Look at the toes! The toe nails, the throbbing veins, straining muscles, the way the hair swirls in a different direction where the flank meets the belly on the horse. St. Peter's expression of pain through which he believes he is undeserving to be crucified upright like Christ, his master. His subtle self-resentment and acceptance of his execution.
The dust between fingers and nails, the gray dirt on the bottoms of feet, the light glinting off a single finger nail. The way the horse's eye careens doe-fully toward Paul in confusion at seeing its master helpless, belly-up on his back in the dirt. The crows sound different here, like people laughing in a strange, lustful manner.
Did they sing these same songs when Caravaggio a.k.a. Michelangelo Merisi, was carousing the streets with his drunken sabre, making mischief. I can imagine the holy folk commissioning a painting from him. "You want a painting... I'll make a painting for you... how do you like this?" Delacroix and Rembrandt have the technique and skill, but the drama of Caravaggio I daresay surpasses theirs. He overwhelms you with passion but leaves things mysterious where you want them most obvious, leaves you wanting more.
My brain burned. I sketched the paintings in my mind, tracing the lines, prominent lines around the figures of raw umber? I began trying to mix his colors in my mind, umber with cadmium red. Cadmium yellow, alizarin, cobalt, lead white. Layers of glazing. I'm thinking about my paintings unfinished at home and looking forward to time in my lowly kitchen studio again. I'm also looking forward to holding and talking with my children again. It's time to work and enrich the lives around me. I really would enjoy a cigarette. Today, upon arriving back at the hotel room, the sweat and dust created a slime on my skin. I toweled it off and felt satisfied knowing that I am sweating out impurities from my body.

When I was waiting to go inside the church I was conscious of the uncomfortable heat and the burning blisters forming above my heels, my sandal straps have been wearing away my skin on my achilles tendons. I smiled and felt like this was pain to remind me of my lesson I am receiving. "I come to you with a humble heart" I said in my mind to Caravaggio, over and over again. While I stood in his presence, the presence he's left for us, I could feel part of my heart filling up with love. I have to temper myself and discipline myself so I can share this love with other people in the same, gracefully gripping, compelling and passionate way. I want to be Love Conduit. I don't want to drain people. I want them to feel full like the way I felt looking at those paintings.

Rome day 2: Santa Maria de Maggiore, Trevi Fountain, Vatican

This morning we breakfasted here at Serena Hotel. I had yogurt, croissant, ham and black coffee. We walked down to Santa Maria de Maggiore, a beautiful basilica. It's original structure was built in the 400's. The patterns of many different marbles and tiles decorating the interior dazzle the eyes like a Navajo rug. Many symbols are plotted out on the floors, some recognizable, some meanings forgotten. There is a sunken chamber/chapel that contains a sculpture of Pope Pius praying to a reliquary across the room. In the reliquary is a piece of wood proclaimed to be from the manger that Jesus Christ was laid in as an infant. Along the sides of the main church interior are confessional booths labeled with different languages for pilgrims. Next we walked to Trevi Fountain. I thought it was by Bernini, but it is actually by Salvi after a design by Bernini. Anyway, it is gorgeous. It was, of course, swarming with tourists. After this we got gelato in a cone and walked back to the hotel. Brenda got chocolate and I got a scoop of lemon and one of cherry. On the way back I kept snapping photos and had to jog to catch up with my mother and sister. Sometimes I photographed magnificent buildings, graffiti, ripped layers of ad posters, my sister shooting photos, peeling plaster, etc. I love the juxtaposition of these ancient buildings with modern signifiers (antennae, street lights and street signs, graffiti). The majority of the graffiti, stickers and posters, adorn more modern components and buildings. We grabbed slices of pizza and I could only eat a third of my slice.

This afternoon we went to visit the Vatican, some of its museums, the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter's Basilica. The Sistine Chapel was simply overwhelming. I had to imagine what it was like to have no television and all visual imagery came from handmade pictures or prints. My mind was able to calm and focus. Imagine, attending mass in the Sistine Chapel on a regular basis, when you weren't listening to mass, or were, you could explore the paintings. There are probably more surprises hidden in the paintings that those who have the time and attention span to investigate long enough find. The tour guide pointed out a figure in the lower right of the Last Judgment, in the section depicting hell. He had pointed ears like a demon. The guide told us that Michelangelo painted this figure to look like a certain cardinal who was not satisfied with his paintings. A snake is coiled around him and appears to be biting the man's penis.
I thought I had read that there was a Caravaggio painting on the way to the Sistine Chapel. I didn't see it, so I thought perhaps it was on the way to see La Pieta. When we got to St. Peter's Basilica, under which is allegedly the remains of Peter the apostle, I asked a guard if there was a Caravaggio painting there. He scoffed and said, "No! That is not necessary. We have Michelangelo here." -and he gestured to the corner where La Pieta was. :-)
Tomorrow we will go to the Borghese Gallery where they have almost a dozen Caravaggios!
La Pieta. La Pieta. La Pieta. A lovely, living thing made with such love that it must be locked away behind bullet proof glass, 15 feet away or more from those who long to gaze upon, want to say they saw, want a piece. The love is sincere, the love is there and it comes to those who approach it with simple, true love in there hearts. I saw the love and felt it but it was shy among all the snaps and flashes of cameras. It hid itself after a glance. Sistine chapel. Overwhelming. Too much time in the sun and now I have a pink mantle on my shoulders and neck. i slept for about an hour and have been awake for at least two. The others are asleep. For another hour I stood in the balcony of the hotel room window and watched people walking, strolling, smoking, leaning against a car, wall, pole and talking. The chatter and laughter like a muffled jazz performance warm-up session. I really want to go downstairs and outside, have a cigarette and share a conversation. Its very late now and the voices have taken a decrescendo. I stood there and thought about things I'm trying not to think about on this trip. I guess and hope that's why I write, to help them decrescendo too.

Saint Luke, the patron saint of artists, outside wall of Santa Maria de Maggiore, Rome

Trevi Fountain, Rome

Arrival in Rome

This guy stood in the crosswalk bouncing a soccer ball off of his head.

Collosseum

Aboard the GLT bus tour of Rome

We arrived in Rome at about noon. I hardly slept on the flight. Watched most of Black Swan, too. Wrote, cried, tried to sleep. We rested for a couple of hours then roused ourselves to get on a bus that toured Rome. The Collosseum, the Vatican and other monuments were on the chart. We scoped them from the outside. Tomorrow will be for further exploration. I was in awe. The streets of Rome are narrow and the buildings tall. One street would be very commercial, then the bus would round a sharp angle that it could barely pass, narrowly missing cars, scooters and pedestrians, and suddenly I was gazing upon ancient ruins. I can't fully digest the age of the Collosseum and the fact that I was standing in front of its magnitude. I'm so tired. Tonight, for dinner we went to a place that had the most aloof waiters ever. Strange.

fescennine fervidity

I'm not 23 anymore. 

I have two children who are more important to me than anything else. I'm a single mom and some days I don't want to get out of bed, but I do. I take care of my children and I pour my love into them. Then I take care of my artwork and I pour my love into that. My children and my artwork depend on the flow of love and happiness from my heart, from my inner-most well of who I am. I don't have any right to play games with my heart. I anticipate the works of the Old Masters, may it move my spirit in awe and love. Their love that continues to be shared through the works of their hands, let this love fill the well in the inner xylem of my being that it may thrive and spread lush and beautiful works, green, verdant, alive, creations that continue the flow of love to others. Saturn, get out that oiled scourge and teach me your unforgettable lessons well that I never defy you with my weak, vain flesh again. Here I am, crying about loneliness, when it is my opportunity to grow and give nourishing fruit to others. So selfish and deceptive is the heart. Vain and selfish.

Pilgrimage of Humility

On the airplane. We will make a connection in Paris and arrive in Rome. I just finished the Adam Sandler movie Go With It. I rather feel like curling up alone and crying, but I don't cry around other people, and I'm not alone, so, luckily, I won't. This pent up sadness is in larger reserves than I originally thought. It was so excellent to see Nicole last night. We were such close friends. We were inseparable! We went to London, Amsterdam, Switzerland, San Francisco together. Numerous concerts; Pennywise, Gwar, Slayer, Tool, A Perfect Circle, Ozzfest, Lollapalooza, ...whatever the punk fest was, lots more I can't remember. We tried to skateboard together, made up ideas and drawings for comic books together, worked together, slept next to each other, spoke in our sleep together. Defended each other, comforted each other, kept no record of money spent on each other. Painted crazy looking make-up on each other, dressed to complement each other, told off guys for each other. So many things I'd experienced little or nothing of before or again. It was so good to hear her tell me she didn't care about the past. I told her how for the past 10 years I had simply given up on having a best friend like that again. I'm so happy to have finally passed all these years into this new part of my life. I know nothing about what other people experience in life, each soul experiences everything differently. I am only privy to what I experience. I want to be a good thing in other people's lives. I want to make them laugh and help them find happiness, to see beauty.
Sometimes we are at our worst when we are the most content. When I was happily married, I took my artwork for granted. I soon learned it was the only constant in my life. My eyes have been further opened to reexamine myself. I see so many errors, so much selfishness, probably an old habit formed through feeling sorry for myself. I now see that I have been the one to invite disappointment into my life by expecting to be let down. Even in my joking, I accuse those close to me of crimes they've not committed. The joking is a tool, a a weapon of manipulation used to oppress and control, just as negative as anything less subtle. Why, all these wasted years, did I, in my pride, deny this? I covered it up and made excuses for it instead of seeing the damage I was doing and amending it.
Now, I'm trapped in my private thoughts, at last, forced to confront my real monster; me. Let me continue to be sensitive to the gossip people start and let me end it. Let me see my own faults before I examine those of others. Allow me to fix myself before I bring more pain to anyone else. Help me to be the love conduit. Purge my spirit. When I gaze upon the masters' works I am about to see, let it absorb into my soul that I attain true humility. When I see Caravaggio's hand at work, Michelangelo's La Pieta, da Vinci's genius, Bernini, Botticelli, who knows who will surprise me there with another lesson to humble my frame, let it kill the parts of me that remain vain and weak that I demand the most grueling work to be completed in high quality or not at all. It is time for me to wake up. It is time for me to truly work, to have self-respect and to respect those around me and in my life. It is time for me to be humbled and to create for the beckoning of my muse. My muse. Reveal yourself to me. Let's not do this at all unless we do it all the way. It will hurt and my vain flesh will fight, but let us do this all the way. Humble my spirit so I may create what is real and sincere.
I don't know what the universe will bring me. My will makes no difference in anything besides my creation of art and the nurturing of my children.

I am a single mother, I am 32 years old. My will matters nothing to anyone or anything. If I succumb to lonely emptiness and do not answer the call of my muse, it will not make a difference to anyone besides me and maybe my children. I don't have time to play games with my heart. If we are going to do this, then let's do it all the way or not at all.

Casting my line into the galaxy among the nebulae and comets.

Leftovers.
Old emotional leftovers that need to be composted. I have done injury to a dear, kindred spirit because my heart has been putrified by arrogance, vanity and judgmental senses. I have allowed my heart to hide behind faulty defenses and it has not been healing. Saturn cracks his whip across my back.
Saturn, crack your whip against my vain flesh until I am bent and humble, unassuming. Scourge my heart into gentleness. Tame me to be receptive and honest. Let me live up to my name. Let me be myself. I lay my vain flesh down and let the coyotes drag my body to the forest. they tear me into ribbons, the worms and flies free my molecules and the rain washes me into the earth. I am taken up in the roots of trees, into the leaves, devoured by caterpillars, fed to robin chicks, preyed upon by red-tailed hawks. Be humble. Be Kind. Be curious. I release my vanity. The vanity of my sex. The vanity of women that causes them to do strange things to themselves. The vanity that causes me to judge other souls who I have no way of ever truly empathizing with. The vanity that leaves me unguarded and vicious like an animal that attacks its own reflection. The nature in me which scoffs at grace and lashes out at vulnerability. The vanity which expects and demands from those around me, not allowing myself to cope with pain but denying the healing that comes through the injury.
I unwittingly subjected myself to the role of victim. I focused on my injury and did not try to understand it. A learning process, this is what pain exists for. Pain, you are my teacher. Dismiss my vanity until I have become your attentive, unwavering pupil. I embrace pain with open arms. When my mind balks at the nearness of pain, let me humble myself unto it. If you come to visit me I know it is a blessing because in your presence is the opportunity to gain wisdom. Let me live honestly by embracing the pain I have caused to myself. I have become master in my life if I own all pain that I feel. If I attribute my pain to others I am assigning them power which they truly do not have. In my mind I make myself a slave. The pain is my friend, like a zealous teacher who wants to prepare me for important tasks. These tasks I must prepare for. If I do not allow pain to train me, I will not recognize these opportunities and will not thrive or grow. The stagnation that ensues after missing the opportunities will stifle my soul further. In pain is wisdom and preparation. I cannot make things right, I can only respect pain and move forward with the lesson. My pain spread to others cannot be undone, but can be forgiven if I allow the lesson to be completed. I choose to be conscious to my pain, in my pain, awake and receptive to the lesson so my personal culture may develop. Denying the pain is denying the progression of the self. Let me not grow over confident that my understanding of pain dims. Let me not be foolish enough to think because I know pain brings wisdom that it is somehow more tolerable. My heart is not out of the thicket yet. The place of pain is still at the driver's seat. There are more changes that I will endure, growing pains and stretch marks. One day I will be able to say, My heart is a desert waiting for the rains, waiting to burst forth with colors and joy and life. Someday I will be unafraid, will give myself wholly over to love.
Focusing on injury creates a false sense of entitlement. I began to think I was owed something, began to blame others for negativity I had allowed in my life. I felt like I deserved to be treated better, became vain, focused on only myself, unable to empathize, an issuance of bitterness, a broken vessel that leaked and created a staining mass. Where did my love for my friends go? -to my jealously and resentment. Where did my patience with my children go? -to my selfishness and pride. Where did my gentle nature go? -to self-abuse and abuse of others in the guise of defensiveness. My friends, my children, my family, please forgive me. Let me learn to serve you and grow back into my heart, let my love grow back into my being.
Think a positive thought about everything. At least one positive thought. This will do no damage to you or anyone but will begin to train my mind to patterned thinking which increases love and understanding while reducing the arrogance, vanity and judgment I wish to purge, or at least control. I do not want to do damage. It helps no one.

consciousness as an element

I have grappled with some thoughts on consciousness and what it is. Thinking of consciousness as a measurable element which we simply lack the tools to empirically measure, consciousness, like other elements, arguably came from a source, perhaps a single source. To be fair, there are possibly different types of consciousness. The consciousness of inert matter vs. living matter could be different, for example. If consciousness is another form of energy, as of yet incalculable, this could indicate a single consciousness. The singular consciousness has been shattered and blasted all over the universe/multiverse. Now the consciousness is schizophrenic, creatures as ourselves containing or carrying shards of consciousness that does not recognize itself in others. Sometimes, maybe it does and is repelled or attracted in an emotional reaction. What causes me to stumble is the sheer loneliness that this implies. One consciousness, nothing to relate to, shatters itself in an attempt to create the perceptions of relational experiences. I remember reading Christian literature which probed the question, "Why did God create the world?" The answer was because God is Love and Love wants to love and be loved. In vedic stories, the gods participate with humanity by means of avatars, the gods all being the many faces of one god. These ideas are strikingly similar at the root, being both about a desire for experiencing reciprocations of relational perception. Truly, reality is fiction because it is perceived differently by each shard of consciousness. Will the schizophrenic consciousness one day make itself whole once more? The success of social networks online could be evidence of an innate desire in each one to re-combine into a collective mind. The consciousness unified may very well be akin to inert matter. Matter is constantly working toward an inert state, the universe towards entropy. One consciousness, without perception of a relationship to another consciousness, would arguably be unconscious of itself, as in Nirvana. When an infant is born, psychology tells us that it does not perceive itself as separate from the mother. Perhaps the infant does not discriminate between itself and its environment or any other object or creature, reflecting pre-Great Separation of Taoist philosophy. The infant begins with no ego, the perception and boundaries of the self is something learned as infants develop. If an infant could be considered pure of consciousness, free from social imprinting, perhaps the state of singular, pure consciousness is also such.

24 Hour Artist Cage Fight

Tammi Lynn Brazee, Bison Traffic Jam,

Alkyd on wood, 2010, 48” x 71”

Dan Ellier Chapman,  Joe and Chris, 2010, oil on canvas,60" x 48"

Theresa A. Anderson, Colonization and Exodus, 2009- 10, charcoal, gesso, acrylic on linen. 48” x 96"

Veronica V. R. Franklin, Gitangali, 2010, oil on canvas, 48" x 60"

WHERE: Pirate: Contemporary Art

3655 Navajo St
Denver, CO 80211-3038

www.pirateartonline.org/

WHEN: July 1- July 17, 2011

OPENING RECEPTION: Friday July 1, 6-10pm

GALLERY HOURS: Friday 6-10 pm, Sat- Sun 12-5pm

Free and Open to the public

24 hour artist cage fight

An interview with the artist, Theresa Anderson:

Why this project?

“When I decided to curate this exhibit of figurative paintings and a raucous performance art piece I was intrigued by the dynamic interaction of the different players involved in Group 3759. We had started a small exclusive group of painters back in school to discuss, plan and exhibit our works together. We seemed to be united by similarities in artistic aesthetic and yet the group had eventually imploded socially. In fact a few of us temperamental people spent most of our time at the end yelling at each other while the others tried to maintain some kind of neutrality.

Coming back- some years later and meeting again- I was mostly fascinated by our group’s dynamics and the possibilities that exists for each of us to use this project as a metaphor for our personal family. As a conceptual realist whose work is concerned with layers of ambiguous autobiographical documentation, I knew that doing a performance art project held layers of meaning that was just ripe to be picked apart. Each of us could attempt to use the project in ways to push into their own selves. Also-in an art historical context of other artist groups being exciting idea generators, I wanted to push all that excitement into a marriage with contemporary reality television and performance art. “

Why a 24 hour cage fight ?

“Each of us address some level of social discomfort in our work. I wanted our project to actually push our group, each individual out of our comfort zones as an artist, as a part of this group. The space at Pirate where we will living and creating our performance art project feels intimate, but part of the space has ceilings that are pretty low and can be discomfiting after a period of time. Our starting point, the only things we’ve actually agreed upon to start the 24 hour work cycle is that there will be no privacy, we will document as much as possible of the performance art piece, we are putting up an 18 foot piece of linen on the back wall, and that each of us needs to be thoughtful about what we bring into the space. Everything that is brought in has to be left in some way as part of the final exhibit.

Each of our work takes some element of delicate and aggressive beauty and kind of mixes it up with the nastiness of life. And our painting collective, Group 3759, is a bit of that. Seductive and rich, nasty, delicate, and aggressive. Yeah, and beautiful too. The mirror to the performance art piece will be the 40 biographical paintings installed on the opposite wall that the group will complete before the performance art piece.

We already know how difficult it was just to agree on a few simple things to exhibit together, but we love and want the same things. Sort of similar to the tension of a sling shot our group is pulling and pushing against each other that when released has an insistent trajectory.”

Veronica V. R. Franklin uses her interest in the metaphysical to charge her painting compositions with meaning while playfully summoning the abstract and representational.  First Place recipient of the 2007 Colorado Aids Project Emerging Artist Award, University of Colorado at Denver's Outstanding Graduate Award and graduating summa cum laude, Franklin has big plans for exploring other art mediums before attending graduate school.

Dan Chapman became disabled in 1996 at the age of 36. Now 51, he has graduated with honors with a BFA in painting from the University of Colorado Denver. Chapman was named one of ten artists who left their mark on Denver in 2010 by Michael Paglia, attracting the attention of the Huffington Post as well. The Westword called him "one of the best contemporary realists working in our fair city" by Denver's Westword, where his solo show Memory Trips was also featured. His work often presents forgotten men befriended over his life’s decades.

Tammi Brazee will finish her MFA in painting this spring (2011) at Colorado State University. Her current work addresses the tensions that exist between people and the natural environment, particularly the tensions between observation and immersion, the natural and the artificial, and conservation and consumption. Her subject matter usually consists of idiosyncratic vacationers in peculiar, noxious landscapes.

Theresa Anderson’s work is part of private collections and has won grants, international contests, awards, and been included in publications such as the New York Journal of Arts and Design under “new talent”, Denver Post Fine Art Critic, Kyle MacMillan wrote “she is quickly distinguishing herself as one of the region's most promising emerging artists”, and Westword Fine Art Critic, Michael Paglia wrote “With this show, and others I've seen by her, Anderson proves she's one of the city's up-and-coming talents.” Currently the director and an exhibiting artist at Ice Cube Gallery, an associate member at Pirate: Contemporary Art and Anderson also has a large painting in the London based Saatchi Gallery archives for view on rotational exhibit as part of the Showdown program. Having been part of the Feminist Interrogations exhibit at ARC Gallery in Chicago, Anderson recently completed an internationally juried artist residency at Platteforum and a master artist demonstration on collage and exploratory drawing at the Denver Art Museum.