WATER

I spent ten months in the womb; four additional weeks in the water-based, amniotic fluid than most. Departing from that gestational period of time, I began a life journey of connection, or reconnection, with water. I suppose we all have a connection to water. We drink it, bathe in it, play it in and build homes near it. We use it to nourish gardens, cool each other off in the summer, and wash our cars in the driveway. I have participated in these water-related activities, but there has always been something more. It was something almost semi-unconscious. There was another layer. A layer I never put into words until recently. It was natural. It was intuitive. It was part of me. I was drawn to water.

Water was not a by product or a commodity in my life. During activities where water was involved, I was aware of its intrinsic power. I was aware of it when I watched it boil and produce steam in the kitchen. I was aware of it when I pointed my toes and splashed as little as possible while diving through its surface on the lake. I watched in awe as the sun would reflect its rising upon the still waters and witnessed the colors change upon the waves as it set. I sat on cliffs by the sea consumed by the rhythm and mesmerized by the sound of thunderous waves crashing below and retreating back out to the ocean. I was enthralled by the journey droplets took on the window in the back seat of the car on a rainy day. Sometimes I would root for one drop of water over the other as the two appeared to race to the window’s edge. I listened to the way it sounded as people or cars splashed through puddles. I saw how it reflected light. I watched it dance from a fountain or fall off a precipice.

As a teen, I cared for the family pool. I uncovered it in the morning and covered it at night. I filled it when it was low. Vacuumed the bottom and skimmed the top regularly. I measured the ph and balanced it as needed. In return it gave me the gift of floating, diving, and swimming in its crystal clear liquid. It was not just a pool of water, it was a friend with whom I communed and found rest. There has been an unspoken give and take between water and me; a respect and a love. Water has been a supporting character in the story of my life.

As an adult, I search for water on a regular basis. I look for it when I am driving or riding in a car. I pause when I catch a glimpse of it by the road, in a photo, or on a screen. My ear tunes in when I hear rain falling, a faucet running, or the delicate echo as it fills a drinking glass. I savor moments in the shower, or while washing dishes, or listening to it swoosh in the washing machine. I am appreciative of water’s cleansing ability. Every vacation that I take, I head to a location close to a body of water because, without its presence, I am never fully refreshed or rejuvenated. It calms me. Being with water allows me to be. Be with myself. Be with something beyond myself. It provides moments of contemplation and reflection. It soothes all five of my senses and activates my sixth. I am taken to a wider, expansive place within and beyond. I am moved by its beauty, awed by its power, and taken in by its silence.

I struggle when winter months arrive and my liquid companion turns like stone. A part of me freezes with it. I try to consider its beauty in another form but to no avail. My friend is distant, inaccessible. I can only wait. It is a struggle. I plan an excursion to a warmer climate where I am able to have an encounter and ease my journey through the winter solstice. It is helpful, but never enough. Leaving is difficult. I detach. I hang on. I persevere. At last, the chill disappears as the thawing season arrives and with it, water’s fluidity returns. Ripples reappear. The sparkles shine on the surface again. I am reunited. All is well. I ponder what it is about this natural element of the planet to which I am drawn and wonder if I am attempting to recreate the full envelopment of it in the earliest moments of my existence. Perhaps my infant self knew that departing the womb would mean a journey away from, and in search for, oneness. A search evidenced in my returning to bodies of water. A return more than physical. It is a spiritual return. The oneness calls and hints at something more. I listen and feel deeply when I am in water’s presence. I am centered. It is communion.

There is a transcendent quality to water. Many religious traditions feature water in their texts. Metaphors and analogies that incorporate water are nearly limitless. American Modernist poet and Pulitzer Prize winner, Wallace J. Stevens is quoted as saying, “Human nature is like water, it takes the shape of its container.” That may be the unspoken dialog that takes place between me and water. It reminds me of the triality of my nature. It is body, mind, and soul communing with solid, liquid, and gas. We are related. Water reflects the truth of who I am below the surface of form and provides me the opportunity to open my arms in surrender and consider the vastness of life. The specifics and the intensity of my connection to water may be unique but the influential power of water on our physical, mental, and emotional health is universal. Water’s omnipresence connects us to a space beyond ourselves. It is a source of contemplation, inspiration, and revelation. It inspires creativity. Whether we are fully submerged or casually observing; physically present or indirectly aware, water is familiar and transformative.

NATURE

NATURE

It is said that embedded within our genetic make up, there is an instinctive bond with the planet on which we dwell - that we are innately drawn to the beauty of nature and to the organisms with which we share it because, as Wallace J. Nichols referenced philosopher Alan Watts in his book, Blue Mind, “You didn’t come into this world, you came out of it, like a wave from the ocean. You are not a stranger here.” (pg 11).

There is a sense of reunion offered to the sojourner encountering the elements of the outdoors. It is a returning to the familiar; a reintroduction to our greater selves just as the wave reintegrates with the ocean. This mystery draws me into the natural world and away from manmade structures. There is a tug at my soul that informs me that it is time to come away from the routine and commune with that which is beyond the limitations of walls. It beckons me to retreat from battle and find reprieve; renew my vision. It reminds me of the collective soul of the universe and my place within it.

A change in our exterior environment can impact our interior spaces. When the weight of a fast paced, information filled, dog eat dog world begins to be too heavy to carry, the tension between the routine of everyday life and the ritual of an encounter with nature intensifies, reminding us to pull away. It is a call to re-situate, a moment to remind, and an opportunity for rediscovery.

I work with a diverse group of creatively minded students. Our time in the studio is full of heartfelt, open dialog. It is an embracing, encouraging, respectful and supportive environment. Individuality is celebrated, innovative ideas are pursued and challenging the status quo is commonplace. Students and teacher alike are free to function within their unique personality and traits of character. The space we share generates expansion and growth. There is a sense of intimacy that initiates a motivation to explore. Students develop roots that dig deep into the fertile soil of relationship and respect. It is authentic community. In the studio it is safe to risk, to fail and to try again. We are evolving.

In contrast, the system of principles and procedures within which our creative community abides is one that reinforces conformity and embraces standardization.  Within the larger context of the school, applause is given to measurements while unbound ideas are denied. The open-minded, curious, risk-takers are ignored, labelled or silenced. It is a difficult environment. Stereotypes and labels sometimes descend like a fog. I often bump up against misunderstanding, misinformation and misrepresentations. I lose my way and get caught up in the fight. It is depleting. The pull to get back to basics tugs at my core. A reminder to reconnect builds until cannot deny the need to identify with the wide open spaces that stir my soul to life. Nature calls.

Nature is an access point to rest and contemplation. I am informed by it, inspired by it, fed by it and healed by it. The richness of the natural world fills my soul with a wealth of calm. It speaks to my weariness and soothes the tension. I soak in the blues, the greens and the browns. I am enveloped in the warmth of the sun. A breeze catches me off guard. A wave laps a rhythm upon the shore. Leaves crinkle beneath my feet. Soil, sand, rocks and moss. Trees. The singing of birds, cry of loons and quack of ducks. The smell of earth fills my nostrils. Sun and clouds move overhead. Crickets and fireflies make their debut at night. Stars. There is a symphony of activity to behold. Nature reaches the unreachable. It shines upon the invisible part of me and provides deep moments of connection. It provides me with clarity. It is a refuge. It is the type of refueling required in order to return to the important work set before me. It strips me of the encumbrances and entanglements and allows me the liberty to invest in and focus upon things transcendent. Miraculously, I am transformed and able to reenter the system with clarity. I have evolved.

Moments in the vast outdoors lead to the realization that I am part of something greater. I am part of a larger, mysterious story. I explore ways in which to orient myself in this grand framework and how to incorporate it into the many dimensions of life. I consider what is critical versus that which is frivolous. The richness of the natural world activates the bigger questions, offers perspective and beckons towards balance. As the American naturalist and nature essayist, John Burroughs is quoted as saying, “I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.” (pg 84) Research associate at California Academy of Sciences and author of the book, Blue Mind, Wallace J. Nichols shares, “In nature we realize there is something so immeasurable, so magnificent, that it exists both within us and without us. That recognition can transform our sense of responsibility and renovate our list of priorities.” (pg 232).

We need nature. It is critical to our survival. Not only is it a physical resource but it is a spiritual one. It is therapy. It is an anchor that pulls us back and holds us still. It brings health, balance and well-being to body, mind and soul. It renews vision and equips for everyday living. Being in the wilderness produces feelings of respect, wonder and renewal. Perhaps that is because humans share the same molecular components that make up the planet. There is a creative exchange between humans and nature that benefits wholeness of our being. Dutch artist, herman de vries attempts to express the relationship between humans and nature, or the loss thereof, through his work. The depth of his own relationship to nature is illustrated in his reflection upon occasional childhood activities in an excerpt from his essay, the world we live in is a revelation, “sometimes in a quiet spot in the dunes on the coast of holland, i undressed myself and pressed my body to the earth and felt a great joy, or as a little boy, i fixed my eyes on the endless rolling waves of the sea and fell into a trance.” (pg 163). de vries subscribes to the idea that we have placed significance upon man-made objects when in fact, the components of nature are worthy of more importance because they form a part of our primary reality.

GETTING LOST

A review of Rebecca Solnit's "A Field Guide to Getting Lost"

Rebecca Solnit does not claim to have been born a writer instead, she chose to become one as a young child. She does acknowledge an interest in story, landscape, and nature that she has carried with her since before she learned how to read. After completing her contemplative book, “A Field Guide to Getting Lost,” readers will quickly agree with the areas in which she claims interest but they would have a hard time denying what appears to be a natural born talent for writing. Solnit’s ability to perceive and interpret ideas into a written language is captivating. One can get lost in the rhythm of the words alone. She has written numerous books on a variety of subjects and is well regarded as a writer, a historian, and an activist. 

In “A Field Guide to Getting Lost,” Solnit unravels concepts of the unknown and the unquantifiable without losing the beauty of mystery that is so essential in the journey. In the chapter welcomingly titled, “Open Door,” Solnit asks the reader to consider, “Do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of nature? Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.” (pg 15) The path Solnit takes the reader on is one that is both familiar and unknown as it encourages the pursuit of discovery and transformation - of exploration and touching the edge of the unknown in order to sharpen one’s senses.

Reading “A Field Guide to Getting Lost” is like sitting down to a couple mugs of steaming hot chai with Solnit while contemplating soulful subjects. Her transparency assists us in reflecting upon our own qualities - positive or negative - and encouraging us to surrender to the magically obscure path before us. I was often struck by how simple yet profound her insights were regarding human nature and our desire for control or safety. I was equally impressed with her humility in suggesting that our ideas of the unknown and wandering are hindrances for growth.

Irony is not lost in the book for Solnit is able to compare and contrast various subjects much like the paradoxical title and theme of the book. Getting lost does not require a field guide, or does it? Solnit lays out a strategy for searching and embracing the allure of uncertainty in order to fully encounter that which is certain.

Solnit’s writing style mimics her subject matter. One feels as though they are on a journey through parts unknown encountering the familiar and unfamiliar, experiencing confidence and insecurity in discoveries along the pathless expedition. Solnit’s writing is smooth and assuring while weaving autobiographical accounts in her examination into the exhilaration and fear of the unmapped. At times this reader felt that the information was too much. That, like being lost in the woods, there came a point where one felt hopeless and confused - unable to make their way through the unknown. But, in retracing once steps (or, rereading) the newness becomes somewhat familiar and one is able to take in more meaning than originally experienced. Meaning that rests below the surface of the initial encounter.

Early in the reading, Solnit sets the tone by stating, “To be lost is to be fully present, and to be fully present is to be capable of being in uncertainty and mystery.” (pg 6) Solnit also addresses artists specifically when she claims that the role of an artist on this journey to getting lost is, “to open doors and invite in prophecies, the unknown, the unfamiliar; it’s where their work comes from.” (pg 5) Her words resonate in the days that follow the reading as one begins to embrace the idea of losing oneself in order to be more fully aware as well as release the comfort of control in order to be a conduit of the mysterious through creative endeavors.

MARK MAKING

“Guy!” I would hear my father call. I knew the tone. It was the one that he had used before and it is the same tone that he would be using again another day. He found my name written somewhere in the house. It might have been on a wall, in a closet, on a baseboard or a window frame. I wrote my name everywhere. Sometimes it was discrete. Other times it was not. It started as soon as I could put the letters of my first name together. I was wide-eyed and electric when I realized that the combination of those three individual characters represented me. I instantly felt compelled to make my mark. The location did not matter. Nor did the writing utensil. I wrote it in the fog on the bathroom mirror with my finger. I wrote it on my plate in the residue of food with a knife. I spelled it out with objects gathered from around the house. I even tagged the asphalt with aerosol and lit it with a match. It frustrated my dad. He would say, “I can’t believe you,” shake his head in disbelief and walk away. I would laugh. It would be over until the next time when my mark was seen.

My mother’s cousin was a mark maker. He would come over to the house with his wife and they would play cards with my parents. I liked him. He had a kind heart and no matter what he was doing, he would light up and turn his attention toward me when I entered the room. He did this to everyone (it was his nature) but I liked the way it made me feel significant in his presence. I was a kid. He was an adult. Those roles did not matter when we talked. He was genuinely interested in me and what I had to say. He came to me expectant which caused me to rise up into my best self. He was listening. I was lifted when he was around. I was able to have a real conversation about things that mattered to me. I walked a little taller after he left. He did not write his name on the wall of the house but he tagged his essence upon my soul.

I recall reading about Robert Irwin’s time in the studio when he was creating his line paintings. His approach was to sit, look at the image before him and wait. He would contemplate the mark he placed upon the canvas and listen. Sometimes he would be led to move it every so slightly up or down. The movement may have been minuscule to the eye but to the overall vision of the work, it visually sang in major chords. I was struck by how incredible it was that this artist was so attentive to placing a line of paint in such a way that supported the purpose of the piece. He placed his lines with sincerity. He was consciously aware of how the placement of the mark would impact the work.

It is my desire to make marks with focused intention. Marks that provide hope and point to possibility. Marks that stir contemplation and move someone to a greater space. I want to be aware of the affect I am having on others whether it is through my life, my art or my spirituality. Much like my need to write my name, I am compelled to leave a mark.

LISTENING

I searched one full year to find a mug that was right for my Sunday morning ritual of steeping looseleaf tea. The current drinking vessel was a generously sized, comfortable mug, but when it was lifted to my lips one Sunday, something felt off. It was time for change. I began to imagine the ideal replacement mug and casually began my search not anticipating how challenging it would be to find the right one. Every time I test drove a mug from a shelf, back to the shelf it would return. Some were the right size. Some looked good and were comfortable in my hands. But none of them felt right. It became a routine, almost mindless yet mindful. I stopped looking for certain styles or colors. No matter what they looked like, I picked them up and put them down. Picked them up and put them down. During this process, I was listening; waiting for the right one to speak to me. After months of searching, the words began to pour off my tongue once again to explain my quest to a potter at a local market as I performed the same dance with her mugs scattered among plates and bowls. Suddenly in mid-sentence I stopped, looked at the mug in my hand and knew: this was the one. I heard it. I felt it. Without hesitation, I purchased the mug, took her business card and left satisfied.

On the morning of the mug’s inauguration, I looked up the potter online and read her bio where she explained her passion for clay and the process through which she goes to create her hand-crafted pieces. I learned that she owns the property where matter is dug up from the ground and taken home to prep for molding. In mid-paragraph I paused as emotion surfaced. I realized that the mug for which I had been searching had been waiting in the soil for someone to remove it from the earth and form it into a vessel for me to use. The mug did not exist when I began my search.

Eckhart Tolle claims that “Most humans see only the outer forms, unaware of the inner essence, just as they are unaware of their own essence and identify with their own physical and psychological form.” I was not looking for a mug. I was looking for something more. It was a call out to the deep waiting for the deep to respond. My approach was not clinical, attached to form and function. If that had been the case, I would have settled for any ceramic container with a handle that would hold liquid from which I could sip. I was not looking for a mug. It was the formless within the form that I was seeking. I was looking for essence.

This listening is an odd way to exist in a world where much of the interaction that takes place is on a superficial level. We quote the phrase, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” but that is how the majority of people function. Does it look appealing? Will it meet my surface need? Sold! Whether it is clothing, food, furniture, activities, jobs or relationships too many jump in and purchase, eat, buy, participate, accept and bond without truly listening. Impatience and the desire for instant gratification override our ability to hear. Unfortunately, as Tolle said, the inability to see the inner essence is a mirror on the inability to identify the essence within ourselves.

I will wait for the best rather than settle for the sufficient. It is not about perfection. It is about flow. It is about hearing the song below the surface. In his notebooks of 1912 - 1914, Piet Mondrian is quoted as saying, “The surface of things gives delight, their inwardness gives life.” When I reach to take my mug off the shelf every Sunday morning, fill it with chai and sip from its edge, I am grateful. I am reminded that there is meaning behind the form. I sense the inwardness, the mysterious, the transcendent. Life is present. It is worth the wait. It is worth a listen.

ROTHKO: REFLECTIONS ON MEANING

The elder Rothko was not interested in the way something looked but rather using the way something looked to express an idea. His approach to creating was a holistic, focused and intentional process that is an outward expression of his personal philosophy. No facet was left unturned, not even the title. Titling the work was an interruption to the discovery process and thus was a distraction from Rothko’s aspirations. His son, Christopher explains in his book, "Mark Rothko: From the Inside Out", “Removing titles from his paintings was an extension of this same quest for direct and profound interaction with his viewer and reflected a new emphasis on communication unimpeded by spurious or external elements.” (pg 163) Ultimately, Rothko desired to speak with the viewer of his work in a meaningful way. It was not about the beauty of a painting but an attempt to draw the viewer into an encounter and consider more deeply the things of which they assume and push them out of the ordinary into the essential - taking them from a settled, comfortable place into a mysterious, philosophical journey. 

According to Rothko’s son, “Viewing a Rothko is a process. It involves rethinking how to look, a quest for understanding, and a recognition of our own inner workings at play in the undertaking. It is an experiential endeavor where the process of interacting with the painting is a large and essential part of what one takes away. It cannot be bypassed or abbreviated, or that elusive thread of understanding will remain elusive… the painting (will) revert back to just a group of colors and rectangles glossed in a title.” (pg 162)

Rothko’s work concerns the conditions of life about which we should pause and consider. They, “demand that the viewer take time to reflect, to suspend the here and now and adopt a rhythm more in tune with the universal, the eternal.” (pg 205) Through the use of color and form, his later works stir the senses for spiritual exploration; to consider our own inner space where the inner beauty is more important than the outer. He is attempting to capture something that is not easily communicated through familiar language. His work is a doorway, an entry, an invitation to delve into the deeper places. It is a sensual relationship of communication. He creates an environment for still, meditative reflection for those willing to travel beyond the external and connect with the internal. Entering the conversation with a blank slate, void of titles or labels to influence our interpretative process.

Nicholas Bourriaud echoes the idea of this interaction between the artist’s work and the viewer in his book, “Relational Aesthetics” when he discusses the exchange between the artist, the work of art and the viewer. He claims, “If a work of art is successful, it will be open to dialogue, discussion and that form of inter-human negotiation that Marcel Duchamp called “the coefficient of art”, which is a temporal process, being played out here and now." (pg 41) The full realization of the art rests upon the one willing to allow the present aesthetic clues to guide them into an experience beyond the tangible. The balance between the artist’s intention and its realization is equally dependent upon the audience as much as it is upon the hand that created the work. The piece begun by the artist continues through the person viewing the art, even though the artist has physically removed themselves from the piece. In essence, the art contains the spirit in which it was formed.

In, “Concerning the Spiritual in Art” Kandinsky discusses the idea that art is born in mystery and that through the artist it is brought to life with purpose. “It exists and has power to create spiritual atmosphere.” (pg 53) He further shares the following comments on the inextricable connection between the soul and art declaring that “The artist must have something to say, for mastery over form is not his goal but rather the adapting of form to its inner meaning.” (pg 54) The temporal clues will lead to the ephemeral message for those willing to travel the course.

Rothko’s work, particularly during the later years, was dependent on the viewer to take responsibility for their encounter. If you were not connecting with the work, it was a sign of your own inability to reflect and see yourself in the piece. His approach was to create an environment that allowed for contemplation - a search for truth - dependent on the viewer's willingness to engage beyond the surface. His use of color, shape, and space were merely passageways for the soul to move beyond the physical and into the spiritual.