art

One More Walk with Julia

April 5, 2019 by admin

She looked sad as she moved to the front of the room. For a moment I thought I saw tears in her eyes. Turns out I was right. As author and teacher Julia Cameron took the stage, she opened by telling us about a long-time colleague of hers who had died two days before. She asked us to send prayers and then bravely began the weekend workshop.

This is the level of authenticity I have respected and admired for more than twenty years. Julia has written more than forty books, and she has never tried to present her life as perfect. In her searing memoir Floor Sample, for example, she details her challenges with mental health issues. Yet her honesty never feels self-serving or pitying. It’s life, baby, and the cure for the pain is self-compassion and making art. On that she never waivers.

Having practiced The Artist’s Way all these years, I have experience firsthand how it changes lives. When I first pulled the book off the shelf in the summer of 1997, I was a writer who didn’t know how to start writing. Previous attempts had resulted in a great deal of creative wounding, even from so-called writing teachers.

Seeing Julia again (my third time), I was still surprised at how the simple tools of Morning Pages, Artist Dates, and fill in the blank exercises could pull so much out of me. Late in the weekend I felt breathless, stripped bare. Several days later, I am still processing what happened, noticing subtle and not-so-subtle shifts…everything from deciding to order a decent blender to digging in deeper to my novel-in-progress.

As a long-time veteran, I was pleased to meet so many people who were new to the book. Some had been given a copy years before and felt like the time is now. I was able to share the many changes life had brought as a result of doing this work: several books, with more in process; a college degree at age 45; multiple new interests, including gardening; an amicable divorce (a direct result of doing Morning Pages); and a happier, healthier marriage.

For an entire weekend I got to have “real” conversations with people, tossing aside small talk and pretense in favor of what was in our hearts. We laughed, we cried, we hugged, and we rooted for each other’s success, regardless of our chosen art form(s).

At the end of the weekend, I felt renewed. And Julia no longer looked sad. Her blue eyes were bright and merry in spite of her grief.

For me, the workshop was a chance to see the master in action once again, and to bring my love and gratitude. I came to The Artist’s Way because I wanted to write. What I gained was that and so much more.

A Writer’s Life is Many Lives #WDC18 #amwriting

August 15, 2018 by admin

As I come off this year’s Writer’s Digest Conference, I am thinking about how fortunate I am. I get to do work that I love, and when I spend time around other writers, I am among incredibly generous and supportive people. As author Steven James said during his “Story Trumps Structure” workshop, we are in a rare business where people who could be our “competition” come and share everything they know. He likened it to Apple going to Google and sharing all their secrets.

The magic, of course, is that there is no competition. Each of us has a unique story to tell, so the more of us the merrier. We don’t have to elbow anyone out of the way.

Back home, I am once again immersed in my projects. For one, I am reading about artists, particularly female and self-taught. Think Grandma Moses as one of many examples. I’m also learning to draw and watercolor. I’m not doing this because I want a new hobby, though I suspect I’ll keep at it because it’s fun. No, it’s a way to understand my main character better.

While I continue my research for that novel, I am living (in my mind) in late 19th-century Scotland. This story idea has sent me to Scotland twice and the old mills of Lowell, Massachusetts; introduced me to proletarian novelists such as Elizabeth Gaskell (think contemporaries of Dickens); and introduced me to genealogy.

When I wrote What She Knew, I studied the victims and perpetrators of the Madoff Ponzi Scheme. I was fascinated with the movers and shakers of Wall Street and what would happen if one of them actually grew a conscience.

In short, as a writer I get to live many lives. I get to play dress up and try on new identities. I get to peer inside the heads of my characters, who I grow to love as if they are real people and real friends.

This is a good life. A happy life. A fulfilled life. Last week I met a lot of wonderful writers who share this journey with me, and I am looking forward to getting to know all of you better.

Giddiness

September 9, 2014 by admin

Here, enjoy this taste of tomato through the Internet. They’re small, just a bit larger than a cherry tomato, but take one into your mouth. Let it roll around your tongue and teeth for a moment. Now, bite down on it. Let it fill your mouth with its juices, sweet yet tangy. Just one will leave you nourished, but go ahead. Take another. We leave the bowl out on the counter and eat them like candy. If you’re old enough, you remember when tomatoes always tasted this good, nothing like the red cardboard you get in the grocery store.

The anticipation began in spring when the first tomato starts appeared at the farmers’ market. When I grow them from seed, it begins even earlier, in egg cartons under grow lights, as the first leaves start to emerge. In late May, when it’s warm enough, I put them outside on my deck. By this time, the plants are already tall enough to need support. In early July, I am harvesting the first fruit.

It’s late summer now, and the tomatoes are just about finished. Here in the Pacific Northwest, tomatoes are the holy grail, difficult to grow because our temperatures remain in a narrow band, never too cold, but never too hot, either. After last year’s bumper crop, friends told me not to expect that kind of production every year. I know they’re right, but I’m too busy eating them to think about next year.

As some of you know, for the past 20 months or so we have been involved with a bitter and nasty legal battle. I can’t and won’t write the details here, because some aspects are still ongoing. However, on Friday, one piece of the battle ended. It’s hard for me to take that in, and my Sunday night sleep was disrupted as it has been for some time. Still, I am freer than I’ve been in some time, and that makes us giddy.

Ancient Madrona by Rachel Josepher Gaspers

Port Townsend was filled with visitors for the annual Wooden Boat Festival. The monthly Gallery Walk coincides with the festival, filling our little downtown with people and a carnival atmosphere. We ran into friends everywhere we went, and without the expense of a hearing, we spent some of that money on art. Seems like a better use of funds! I include a couple of photos here, and will follow soon with a photo of the third piece we bought — which has its own separate story.

We are deeply grateful to the friends who have stood by us in our difficulty, to the creative atmosphere of our town, and to the garden that always reminds me of what truly matters.

Taste the tomato and see if you, too, don’t feel as giddy as I do.

The Ghost of Emily Carr

May 16, 2012 by admin

Canadians love Emily Carr. They didn’t back when she was still alive, an eccentric woman who didn’t follow society’s rules for her, but decades after her death, this artist and writer is hitting her stride. A Carr painting sold in 2009 went for $2 million. In Victoria, a bronze sculpture of her, complete with signature hair net and pet monkey Woo, greets tourists as they enter the garden area near the Fairmont Empress Hotel. A short walk away, her childhood home is on display for those who love her writings, art, or both.

(For a look at Carr’s art, click here. For a look at her books, click here.)

The sculpture apparently sets some peoples’ teeth on edge because it conveys the oddities of the woman and not her genius as an artist and writer. “This is a sculpture for tourists,” one critic complained.

Carr was well ahead of her time, a woman who chose not to marry in order to marry her art. She spent time in the forests of Vancouver Island, living with First Nations People and drawing images of their lives, including totem poles that European settlers later took down.* She lived in Victoria during its beginnings, born upon the arrival of the railroad, and her writings are rich with description of life in the city that hadn’t yet developed.

Though she struggled most of her life for money (even turning her back on art for 15 years to run a boarding house), she managed to scrounge enough together to study in San Francisco and, later, Europe. Fascinated by the post-Impressionists, her work took on new depth and dimension when she combined her love of Canadian nature with the influences of her European teachers, creating extraordinary works of vivid color and expression.

Though she had always kept journals, she turned seriously to writing late in life, when ill health kept her from traveling to her beloved woods to paint. Her writing gave her recognition, which then led her to Canada’s legendary Group of Seven, Canada’s finest artists of the time. She found a level of success at about the time she could no longer paint.

Carr was considered a “difficult” woman. Her legendary rudeness occurred when she thought young artists were lazy, or when someone was trying to interfere with her own art-making time. As someone who often gets snappish when I feel that others are trying to usurp my work time, I relate to her.

I thought about the many male geniuses whose bad behavior was often excused. Picasso, anyone? Or, we just saw a documentary on Bob Marley, whose influence on reggae and music in general still astounds — but who also seems to get a pass for less-than-stellar behavior. We women, on the other hand, are supposed to be “nice” no matter what. Some things haven’t changed since Carr’s time.

Sitting in her childhood home, I was overcome by her courage and forthright individuality. She reminded me, in her way, to get on with it — to create and to learn, to continue to seek out my own vision for my work. Like Emily, I love nature and animals, but am less comfortable with people. Like Emily, I have often felt a sense of isolation, of not fitting in, which often shows up in my fictional characters. Yet what fascinates me is that Emily Carr, in spite of what people thought, kept on with her craft, creating until the end of her days. I am a sucker for resilient people.

Let me be like Emily and to always create no matter what!

What artist, writer, or other figure has influenced you in your work? Do tell!

*Emily’s reputation has endured some controversy about her painting of Native totems. Though it is believed that the First Nations People of her generation supported her desire to preserve the images, other modern First Nations People see her as appropriating their work. In her writings, she herself struggles with her inability to comprehend fully the experience of native life. She also rails against the fashion of the time of “converting” and “civilizing” native peoples. Unfortunately, many of her reflections were edited out of her first book, Klee Wyck, leaving many First Nations People with an inaccurate impression of Carr.

Revealing the Hidden Female

July 8, 2010 by admin

Kayaking, canoeing, hiking: just another day on the island of Vancouver, where we recently spent several days. We spent most of that time on the wild Pacific edges, or, as some call it, the Graveyard of the Pacific, where rogue waves and sudden storms have smashed ships and killed many in the process. Our experience, was far less dramatic, thankfully, though we did spend a few terrifying moments moving over open water in our little kayak, fighting the current that wanted to pull us out to sea. Awed by the raw beauty of the place, I began to plan future visits even before we left. I wanted to “crack the code” on hiking there, because our tour books offered little information.

When I travel, I love to find good stories about a place, information that gives more flavor than facts, that tells me of its heart and soul. As I dug around, I found pay dirt with my discovery of two powerful women: Cougar Annie and Emily Carr. Well known and revered in western Canada, they were completely unfamiliar to me. So, while I have come late to their party, I am no less passionate about them than the Canadians who keep their memories alive.

Cougar Annie made her living selling the bulbs and seeds from a wild, chaotic garden that she grew. She ran a few other side businesses as well, survived four husbands, and raised eleven children. She gained her colorful monicker after shooting a number of cougars that threatened her livestock, also earning bounties on several of her kills. I should mention as an aside that one of her husbands died by shooting himself in the leg while cleaning his gun–obviously Cougar Annie demonstrated a bit more skill! She lived to age 97, ultimately spending 65 years on her beloved island. Her garden continues to this day, now maintained by environmental and First Nations organizations who limit visitors to protect it.

Emily Carr grew up in Victoria, the daughter of British parents. She demonstrated artistic skill at an early age, which her parents encouraged. Later, she visited several native tribes, sketching the people and totem poles, in part, to preserve them, as she saw native ways waning and wanted to capture them for all time. At the time, female artists were rare, and Carr endured criticism for her “strange,” expressionistic work. She lived a lonely life, even giving up art for several years to run a boarding house. Locals saw her as strange, and success arrived late in her life. In the midst of this new-found fame, she had a heart attack and was forced by doctors to stop painting. Fortunately for us, she turned to writing as a creative outlet, publishing several books in her 70s, and more posthumously. From her we hear stories of the natives she lived with, of life in Victoria as it transitioned to a modern city, and more.

Both of these women lived at a time when women weren’t supposed to be strong, powerful, or independent–and yet, I had never heard of them before now. Yes, as a writer I have read the classics from female authors, such as Jane Austin, Louisa May Alcott, and the Bronte sisters–all of whom led lives with the same independent spirit of Cougar Annie and Emily Carr. Still, sometimes I feel that we know too little of women such as these. I’m sure there were many more, anonymous women whose strength led families, who worked hard, and who created. Having just printed Patchwork and Ornament by my late mother-in-law, Jenny Feldman, I can attest that many have created art and writings that the world will never see.

For me, finally coming into my own at midlife, these women shine a light on my path, inviting me to join them in strength, power, and the joy of creativity. Writing can be a lonely and discouraging avocation, and meeting Cougar Annie and Emily Carr, I feel less alone. I remember that my job is to create with passion and joy, regardless of the outcome. They nudge me to let myself express a more outrageous side–to let those waves crash to the shore without fear, to allow the storms to well up and, at times, overcome, and to keep paddling my inner kayak toward the islands, not allowing the sea to sweep me away, but still letting it bounce me around a bit.

This, Too, Has Passed

June 1, 2010 by admin

Finally, finally, today I ended my writer’s block. I spent time on the new novel, re-reading, adding to it, and creating transitions for the next part of the story. How did I do it? In a not-very-dramatic fashion, I scheduled it and then sat down to write. That’s it. No magic. No visit from the Muse. No big “Ah ha!” in the night. Ask most writers, and they will tell you that the secret to writing is putting the butt in the chair. They’re right.

Still, there are things we can do to stoke the fire, to bring about a personal renaissance when one is needed. For me, that means going back to the basics. Each morning, before I get up, I write three pages longhand…a trick from Julia Cameron and The Artist’s Way. For some time now, I have been lazy about the pages, doing them haphazardly, sometimes stopping in the middle. For the past few weeks I have made myself do them, sometimes kicking and screaming, for one simple reason: they work. I feel better.

In our Morning Pages, we are advised to put down whatever we are thinking or feeling, regardless of how petty or bitchy it is.Not coincidentally, my pages today raised bitchy to a new level. I unloaded my frustration so I would free myself from it…no beating around the bush, no denying that I was pissed off, no pretending I was happy when I wasn’t. What a relief! And better to put it on the page than to yell at my hubby.

For the past few weeks I have also focused on regenerating my yoga practice. While I do yoga consistently, my practice has felt stale for some time. I thought a visit to Kripalu in western Massachusetts would help me refocus, but it didn’t. My practice for the last several months has been about showing up, doing my best, and knowing that stale periods with yoga, like stale periods with writing, eventually pass if we just keep at it. My dry spell went on for so long that I was starting to waiver–would I ever find my love for yoga again? Yet somehow, my practice has started to reflower, just as some of my plants, ravaged by feeding caterpillars, are sprouting new leaves and blooms.

As I have spent more time in the garden than with the page for quite a while, I wonder if this quiet, non-productive time is not only appropriate, but necessary for me as a writer. Of course, most writers will say that regular writing creates a habit and helps to relieve the drama of writer’s block. Yet somehow, as I tend my plants, I am learning a new way of relating to life. I am more connected to nature’s cycles, including her resilience against freezes, storms, pests, and my inadvertent mistakes as a novice gardener. I am learning that sometimes my best course of action is to do nothing–to wait. I am learning to be a better listener, and I think there are many stories in the garden waiting for me to hear them.

I have waited, discontented, lost, sad, missing my art, but waiting with the beginnings of a trust I have never had. I thought I had learned about faith years ago when I was stripped of all that I had or longed for: family, finances, and health. Yet this faith, the faith I am learning now, feels different. As I study the unique rhythms of nature and the balance of the little ecosystem I am creating, I am finding my own rhythms. Just as I learn each step in the garden when a new experience presents itself, I am learning how to provide my own inner ecosystem what it needs. Once upon a time I had to learn to choose life. Now I am learning to dance with it, and to appreciate even the times of desert, knowing that soon leaves and blooms will appear.

The first day of revisiting my novel, and words emerged like my tiny tomatillo seeds. Is it a coincidence that I spread compost on my plants today, giving them new food? I have spread compost to my spirit, and now the writing garden seems eager to emerge yet again.