Let Blue Speak (in a Paris Taxi)

July 19, 2021

When we moved to the prairie almost twenty years ago, I envisioned a blue gate for the fence that defines the “yard” – and a talented friend built it. Beyond the gate in these recent, cloistered months, we’ve witnessed cranes, deer, fawns, doves, foxes, owls, hawks, turtles, armadillos, cows, calves, large and rowdy woodpeckers, new oaks and tiny pines, abundant weeds - and a welcome stand of wild blackberries. (The portfolio Beyond the Blue Gate gathers images of Sandhill Cranes there - and further afield.) We’re always grateful when we open the newly painted blue gate to tend the garden, walk, play with the children and dog or wonder at the ever changing prairie.

Though my work has been predominantly in a muted or black and white palette, shades of blue keep turning up: in the work, on tables, in closets, on shelves, doors and gates and – recently – in dreams. In one, I was in Paris, attending an art opening with a dear friend. We entered a taxi where a lively group of people was engaged in reading a play out loud, a play in which each character portrayed a color: Red, Yellow, Green, Purple… They became shy and thought they should stop the reading now that we were in the taxi with them, but the dream ended with my encouraging them to continue, saying, “Let Blue Speak”.

It seems a good time to consider some of my own work and see what Blue has to say. There are turquoise thresholds (windows, doors, gates), waters and birds of many blues, a bright bench, blue dolphins and…

…the handmade book, Isabella Blue/Isabella Blu, about a little girl who adores Blue…until Orange flies by. This is my only bilingual book. Learning Italian is an ongoing project.

These two small drawings are of treasured marine blue and turquoise cups from dear friend Penny. They bring delight and beauty to shared “cuppas“.

I wanted to begin and end with water images, reflecting on the impact and meaning of water’s presence - and absence - in our shared world.

This Day

September 17, 2020

Last fall, before Cloistered Time (aka the pandemic lockdown), I began work on a handmade book with the familiar Rumi passage, “Let the beauty we love be what we do”. I had become dis-heartened; each day, our world felt more fragmented, our environment more imperiled. The Rumi line held an important reminder for me, a call from his 16th century writing, to attend to the present and to that which is – still – present, alive, simple and beautiful.

But Rumi’s preceding lines gave me pause: “Today, like everyday, we wake up empty and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.” Reading and a generous library have always been reliable and sustaining allies in my life. In an earlier post, Books Breathing, I wrote about my deep involvement with reading, a reading community and books themselves. (An early handmade book on the subject, Book Time, was referred to in that post.) Further, I resisted owning “empty and frightened” as my morning state.

*The newspapers are the ones that were stacking up. The painter’s palette and beloved ceramic cup invite another focus. The cup folds out toward the reader.*

Still, the process of tacking ideas, images, words and pages on the studio wall to get started on this project was begun. I felt a need to honor the whole quote, with its emptiness and fear as well as its beauty. I had taken several photographs of newspapers stacked high at the front door and realized that my own “empty and frightened” times were associated with an increasingly urgent reading of newspapers, news journals and digital media, a burgeoning case of “You can never get enough of what you don’t need.”

Rumi’s admonition to open the day with music and beauty renewed a resolve to begin our days with nature, early light, a quiet coffee in a turquoise cup, readings on art and nature and returning to the rich, contemplative offerings of Marv and Nancy Hiles’ An Almanac for the Soul, a gift from dear friends Barbara and Charlie. The reading of excellent (and, yes, alarming) books continues, but is more intentionally placed within the day – and balanced by lyrical and steadfast company.

Labyrinths have been of interest and significance to us for a long time; we love sharing the path with others.

The title page of This Day presents the photograph Threshold, a frog on the brass handle of our front door. The close presence of creatures and plant life in Florida are a gift, an education and a responsibility. The frogs on the front door are delicate, sweet reminders that here and now, we dwell in nature. After the baby owls fledged in the early months of the pandemic, two orphaned fawns took up residence nearby, grazing in the neighborhood at all hours. (Wildlife Care has shared advice and wisdom, as they did with the owls.) We have had the happiness of watching this pair grow, consider being adopted by a shy, young doe, confront massive Sandhill Cranes and investigate a preoccupied opossum. And, there has been the inimitable joy of sharing them with the children.

So, This Day begins with opening a blue door, being encircled by great oaks and graced with visitors.

Connecting – Then and Now

August 06, 2020

The previous blog post explored connection in life and work. For me, in photography, that signifies connecting with subjects and valuing their voices, be they the voices of people, animals, trees – or light. Last fall, my work was in a show with several levels of connection, one of which was to connect me with my work from over thirty years ago, offering the opportunity to reflect on its through lines.

The show was called Musing Women and was at FSCJ, the Florida State College at Jacksonville. Musing Women was in part homage to Kalliope, a unique art and literary journal that thrived in Jacksonville from 1979 – 2008. Curator Lynn Lewis brought together recent work from artists who had been in the journal with work from new artists and writers, richly connecting – and celebrating – past and present. What a gift to gather with artists and friends like Nofa Dixon, Louise Freshman Brown and Phyllis Delaney – in person! I was honored to have had my work featured in the January,1982 issue of Kalliope, with the writing of Marge Piercy.

In those early images, though different from my work since in many ways, the themes of both connection and its possible loss present themselves.

The young woman with her dove is an image of trust and connection. I remember the dove exploring our house: beautiful, gentle and curious. This image appeared again this spring, as a blueprint in the new and excellent Jill Enfield’s Guide to Photographic Alternative Processes and is in the Harn Museum collection. The image Absent reminds me of my early engagement with photography itself, from vintage cameras and tintypes to the convention of deckled edges on snapshots. But it is the figure who has been peeled from a photograph who still exerts a visceral effect, bringing to mind people with whom we have lost touch.

“Alas for Those Who Never Sing but Die With All Their Music in Them” grieves those places where we fail to connect – with one another or with our true work. The quote is from Oliver Wendell Holmes and appeared, hand-written on an envelope, in Bill Hutchinson’s treasured ephemera collection. The lost identities of the subjects and photographers of those vintage pictures shares a sadness with many inherited boxes of family photographs, including my own. There is perhaps some solace when they are witnessed again, encountered in new times and settings.

The porcelain figures in Connected by a Thread were foreground at the time I made the photograph. Now, it is the intimate pincushion circle of tailors/seamstresses that stands out for me, mending and making whole, trying to connect the figures with a fragile silver thread. The thought of healing presence connecting with those who are isolated resonates more than ever.

Let’s meet in the kitchen! Tomato Place Setting and Side of Eggplant are from a longer series of “vegetable place settings”, foreshadowing my vegetarian future. The series referenced my love of cooking for and being with family and friends, gathering around the table to cook, dine, converse, laugh – and maybe play some cribbage or Mexican Train Dominoes afterward. Zoomsotto chronicles a version of gathering with dear ones for these cloistered times.

Above, at the beginning, is Baby with Cabbage, an image from the time, one I still sometimes give to friends welcoming infants. The serious, sweet child on the tintype spoke to me, does still. I remember trying to explain to our lovely baby sitter why I was carving a cabbage into a frame for him. It’s a playful response to a perennial question, of course. In welcoming children, our joy and wonder are renewed, as is our connection to and responsibility for the world we share and steward.