Well, no, this post is not about the Willa Cather novel, O Pioneers!  I just like the title and its feeling of a call to action, accentuated by the exclamation point.  Not many titles have exclamation points.  This post is about an exhibition at the University of New England in Portland, Maine called Maine Women Pioneers III – Homage.

From the UNE website…”Homage is the second of four exhibitions honoring 50 living Maine Women Pioneers. Homage  highlights veteran artists who are powerful examples of career and lifelong original creative accomplishment, ahead of the curve without resting on their laurels…Artists include: Lois Dodd, Maggie Foskett, Susan Groce, Beverly Hallam, Allison Hildreth, Frances Hodsdon, Lissa Hunter, Dahlov Ipcar, Yvonne Jacquette, Frances Kornbluth, Rose Marasco, Marylin Quint-Rose, Katarina Weslien.”

I have never been called a pioneer, nor have I thought of myself as having a lifelong anything.  But inclusion in this show has confirmed a theory of mine.  If you do something adequately well for a long enough time, someone will notice.  I am at the young end of this group of Maine women artists.  There are several of us in our sixties, three or four in their nineties and the others fall in between.  They are all accomplished artists and I feel honored to be among them.  There will be a catalogue available in February.  In future, I will send some images of the show.

A couple of web addresses for you, if you are interested in knowing more.  The gallery, www.une.edu/artgallery/, click on Current Show.  And a review in the Sunday Portland newspaper, www.pressherald.com/life/audience/bullish-on-wide-ranging-display-of-pioneering-womens-work-at-une_2013-01-06.html.

Last week I mentioned how worth the wait is a blue winter sky in Maine.  Here is a small example.

I’m looking out the window in the laundry room/office at home, watching the snow blow and swirl in gusts of wind as the sky gets lighter and lighter, promising some clearing soon. There is nothing bluer than a Maine sky with only the white snow and black tree limbs to frame it. It is worth the wait.

We are approaching a new year, having just passed the solstice when days begin to lengthen, but the truth is that we are still in for a long slog of obdurate weather and darkness. It is time to look back just a little at the previous year (not too much dwelling there) and then forward to what might be our future in the coming year.

Looking back is a personal thing. Each of us has a different set of criteria for assessing the 366 days of 2012. But looking forward can be more communal and inclusive. Plans with friends for trips or gatherings, with galleries for exhibitions, with personal trainers for getting into shape are the order of the day. It’s time to dream a little. How does that saying go? The one that’s on the poster in the dentist’s office and coffee mugs everywhere? “A dream is just a dream but a goal is a dream with a plan and a deadline.” Gotta have that dream…then come the plan and the deadline.

The first catalogue for the new year arrived on Friday. The commercial Christmas catalogues stopped about two weeks ago and now we’re into the gardening and summer arts program season. Ah, the stuff that dreams are made of. (See where I’m going with this?) The newly arrived catalogue is from Haystack Mountain School of Crafts, the first of the lot. Now, you probably already know, if you have been reading this blog, that I am involved in Haystack, that I love Haystack, that I am immensely grateful for Haystack. And so when I saw the cover of the catalogue, it was like receiving a love letter or a notification from Publishers’ Clearinghouse. I smiled, fixed a cup of tea, sat down and started dreaming.

I looked at every page and selected the class I would take in each session and pondered the reasons why I selected it. This seemingly pointless process is important for two reasons. First, it asks me to evaluate each offering but, more importantly, it asks me to evaluate myself in order to figure out which class “fits” with where I am now. A year ago, I wouldn’t have considered a clay class. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have considered a painting or drawing class. Ten years ago, I would have considered only a textiles class.

Second, this dream can come true. The dream can become a goal. If there were ever a worthy goal for an artist, it is to find the situation that will enlarge his or her vision and skills. Haystack does that. My selections varied from clay to basketry to drawing to writing in this summer’s offerings. But the big one devoutly to be wished is the Open Studio Residency. Mmmmmm, two weeks of working with other artists in a supportive atmosphere in one of most beautiful places on earth for free. Now for making a plan and meeting the deadline. I can do that.

First an explanation…no images!  WordPress, in an effort to make life easier and more efficient, have changed their software in such a fashion that the image upload gizmo no longer works for me!  I’m sure that it can be corrected, but for the moment, we have only words.  Imagine an image of  trees and ground without snow, brown and dour.  Then imagine one with a blanket and frosting of white.  Now you get the drift.  (Ow, bad pun.  Sorry.)

Sunday night we had our first real snowfall, not enough to be a problem, just enough to change the landscape.  It was a first, but not the first first for me.  I have seen many first snowfalls.  Yet, there is a sense of pleasure that comes with this seasonal event.

What is it about the first time that is so satisfying?  The first time you draw something that looks like the subject matter.  The first encounter with a material…clay, fiber, paint, stone…that seems familiar and challenging at the same time.  The first moment you recognize your work as Your Work.  The first exhibition.  Why does the second or fifth or thirtieth not hold the same thrill as the first?

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do in and with my own artwork lately.  I mentioned in a previous post the confusion created by change in the art world wrought by the economy, generation change, gallery closings, etc.  The notion of being first, of being new, has a place on this list.  Newness counts big time.  Even bad work or work that merely shocks, as long as it seems to be new to a particular audience, has more value in the market.  (I’m defining market loosely to include sales venues, museums, publications, education.)  The demand for newness is stronger than ever before and, like last call in a honky-tonk bar, can make a bad thing look pretty good.

But it works the other way around as well.  I, too, find myself looking for something new.  The affair with clay is probably as much about being new and fresh as any real ability or promise with the material.  Drawing is at its most fetching when the image produced surprises me.  Galleries with whom I have had a relationship for a long time seem less exciting as they prefer that I continue to make the same type of work.  Maybe a new gallery would love me for the artist I am now, not the one I used to be.

Why am I not satisfied with continuing to do the same thing, to coming home to the same man (as I stretch the metaphor a bit too far)?  Is it the mandate of an artist to explore and evolve?  Or am I simply bored and assuming that new = good.  As far as the actual artwork is concerned, yes, I do believe that searching and growing and evolving are required of artists.  As far as what one does with the artwork, how it gets out into the world, I don’t know if new is better.

There is comfort in the assumption that what has worked will continue to work.  I like to think that the Internet isn’t that important, that major expositions such as SOFA are the places to be, that I need to put on the same make-up and wear the same red dress.  (Oops, there goes that metaphor again.)  But it doesn’t seem to be true.  On the other hand, new isn’t necessarily better either…well, maybe some new stuff is.  You see, I am confused.

When I began thinking about committing to writing each week, I made a promise to myself.  If I can’t say anything that might be of relevance, use, inspiration or insight, I won’t say anything at all.  I’m not going to post cute kitten pictures or the latest political joke or what I had for breakfast.  Usually, during the week, something strikes me as interesting and that becomes the source of a week’s post.  Other weeks, well…not so much.  This was one of those weeks.

I suppose my lack of subject matter is a reflection of the fragmentation that happens during the holiday season.  There isn’t enough time to think in a coherent way about any one thing for more than three minutes.  Practical issues take precedence over philosophical musings.  It’s true that there is more going on for the few weeks between Thanksgiving and the new year.  Everyone becomes social and has parties.  Galleries have special events.  Friends participate in craft shows.  There are cards to address, decorations to distribute around the house, concerts to attend.  I’m not complaining, really.  (I do sound as if I am pretty often, don’t I?) But I do look forward to January for what doesn’t happen then.

Clay class has stopped until the first week in January.  Here I am with dozens of pieces to either bisque or glaze and I have to wait.  I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again…clay teaches patience.  I am still enchanted with the possible forms and frustrated by the glazing.  And drawing continues.  The studio is the only place in which I can continue as if there were no other demands on time.  For now, that’s as good as it gets and the rest of life is a whirl.  But January will be here soon enough and I’ll be complaining about having no social life.

And, by the way, it was oatmeal.

OMG, I forgot to post this last week!  I had written it and saved it as a draft and thought that I had posted it and, well, I hadn’t.  Apologies.  I’m feeling like an idiot too often these days.  Read on.

Here’s a little story.  I was driving to the studio, turning a corner as I do every day, when I saw a car pulled to the side in an unlikely place.  Two women were standing by the car.  First response…out of gas, in trouble.  I stopped behind them and stepped out of the car.  One woman was dressed in the North African scarf and garment seen often in the immigrant community here and the other woman was dressed in jeans and a jacket.  I approached the jeans-clad woman and asked if I could help.  She looked at me and started to say something with difficulty.  The other woman said that I was very kind to offer but she had called her son and he was on his way to help.  I looked again at the woman in jeans and jacket and asked if they would like to wait in my car.  Again, the Muslim woman said that they were fine.  I wished them well and continued on to the studio.

“What an idiot I am!”, I said, as I drove away.  Even though it was apparent almost immediately that I was being confused by the visuals, I persisted.  Such is the nature of prejudice.  Of pre-judging.  I was convinced that the woman who looked more like me was the one who was, indeed, most like me, the one who spoke the same language.  Lesson learned…again.

But on reflection, I realized that this little scenario was also an illustration of the power of visual information.  Even when what I had heard forcefully contradicted what I believed, I depended on the visual input to be the truth.  While I didn’t like what it said about me as a citizen, I did like the feeling that visual images are powerful, that as an artist, I have the opportunity to affect people in a direct and non-verbal manner.

That was last week, this is this week.  Started more clay work, shown here.  And I bought a carry-all for clay tools.  Guess that means I’m committed.  Or else it means that I just like gear.  LOL

Thanksgiving.  Gratitude.  Appreciation for what we have.  The day and what it represents (not football and overeating, though those are important rituals, too) have always struck a chord with me.  Maybe it’s because my grandmother, Mammaw, always asked each of us at the table for what we had been grateful in the previous year.  There was a moment that we knew was coming each Thanksgiving in which we would have to say something out loud and not sound like a total dweeb.  I have no idea what I said but I do remember thinking about it.

I haven’t thought about what I would say this year.  There is an exponential growth of possibilities as one gets older.  And, too, there is an exponential growth of awareness of how lucky we really are.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Most of the work from the shows in York and Rockland is back in the studio, stacked against walls and sitting on tables.  Sigh.  As I was loading the car in York, work for the next show was coming in the front door.  Literally.  Me with a pedestal, him with a 3′ x 4′ painting.  We did our pas de deux, or more like a do-si-do, and he was in and I was out.

Now the question is, “What do I do with that work?”  Figuring that out makes me face a larger issue that is facing many of my artist colleagues…how, where and to whom do we show our work?  Galleries with whom we may have shown for some time are shifting focus, perhaps in response to a changing economy.  Some have closed.  Some are online only.  Collectors who have been stalwart supporters and enthusiastic partners in the development of basketry as a field are aging and are no longer collecting or are actually de-accessioning work.  (That’s Artspeak for getting rid of work.)  Publications are writing with an emphasis on design, as well as international, digital or political work, often from the collector’s point of view, not the artist’s.  The importance of celebrity has put the emphasis on the story of the artist, not the story of the art.

It may sound as if I’m complaining.  I’m not.  I’m just trying to figure it out.  I can feel around me the energy and excitement of the 60s and 70s in the craft world.  There was a sense of ownership, of a “Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!” vibe that meant we all felt a part of something larger that we could shape and be a part of.  At least, we could learn the emerging rules and jump on board.  Art fairs, small local galleries, low but adequate prices in an ever-accelerating economy and cultural support of the baby boomer bulge.  There were a lot of us and we were creating something seemingly new and exciting that people could include in their lives.  I feel that energy today for a new generation, and it’s thrilling.  But I’m not sure where I fit in.

Now art fairs seem stale, the audience has aged.  Small “starter” galleries of the 70s are now closed or have developed into solid institutions.  Prices have grown steadily, reflecting our work’s inclusion into the broader art market, but those same higher prices earned over time preclude a younger, entry-level audience.  Collectors, too, are aging and of course they are no longer buying at the same rate as they were.  (We are grateful that they are giving their collections to museums, insuring a documentation of what we have done.)  Publications are a confusing lot, pitched toward the marketing, not the celebration, of art.  Or to the obfuscation, not the illumination, of art.

I think I’ve gone on long enough.  There will be a Part II at some point, as I come up with some answers.  But for now, I will find places to put this work.  It is too good to languish in the studio.  At least I know that.

Sandy has come and gone.  I know that you have all seen the images on television and on the internet and know the devastation that she left behind.  We were lucky in Maine.  The Big One had little lasting effect. The day after the storm, I looked for evidence of its presence.  Of course everything was wet and there were small branches on the ground.  The trees had shed a good many leaves.  The blue bins that are used for curbside recycling were redistributed around the neighborhood.  But what struck me as a sign of the power of the storm was how the leaves in the street looked as if they had been spun in a blender.  They were broken and bruised and matted.  I guess in a way they were spun in a blender.

I had to look closely for the evidence of the storm.  Several weeks ago, I mentioned looking closely as a theme that emerged from the body of work just completed.  I’m seeing  it more and more.  I had picked up leaves before the storm and tossed them on a table at the studio.  Now, in looking at each leaf, I become aware of the patterns created by the veins, the shapes of each species and of each individual leaf in that species, the forms created by the drying process.  I’m enchanted.

So here is an assignment for you.  Choose a category of things…trees, doors, hands, bottles, shoes, twigs…and look for them as you go through your day.  If your choice is something that you can gather, such as leaves or flowers, do so.  If not, take a picture of each with your phone or camera, if possible.  Or draw each one, paying careful attention to the details that distinguish one from the other.  What you do with this information is up to you, of course, but the discipline of looking closely can have big rewards.

The storm is coming in.  After days of forecasts and dire warnings, we are beginning to feel the reality of Hurricane Sandy.  (Is that not a weenie name for an event that has paralyzed the entire northeast coast of the country?)  Portland, where I live, is on the outer edge of the massive area that is covered by the storm so we are not bracing for the horrible effects that seem to be beginning already in New York.  Flooding and power outages due to wind-induced tree falls on power lines are the most likely damage we will experience.

I tried to take pictures of the experience as it picks up steam outside the house but it’s impossible to capture the motion and sound in a still photo.  If I were clever, I could attach a video here to give you some idea.  Maybe if you pick up the device upon which you are reading this and shake it back and forth in a two-foot arc, all the while looking at the images, you will get some idea.  The cliché of the power of nature is true.  It is daunting and humbling.  There is nothing to be done to alter it.  One must only accommodate it as much as possible.

Hard as I try, I can’t link the experience of the storm to the work in the studio.  But that just may be the point.  The storm and its effect on daily life are unusual, out of the ordinary, disconnected.  Everyone feels a little excited but also out-of-sorts.  Squirrely.  There is something compelling about being a part of history, I guess.  When the TV folks say that it is the biggest storm in the past 80 years, we feel important.  If it were just another storm, an inconvenience, we would be annoyed.  No one wants to witness the 17th biggest storm in the past 80 years, or the 10th or even the 2nd.  We want the big one.  And I guess we’re getting it.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Autumn is the best, isn’t it?  This year we have had the most congenial of falls, warm enough, dry enough, colorful enough, to add up to a sense of well-being that defies reality.  Yes, we know that winter is coming but each day of autumnal beauty seems to hold us in a state of suspension unbroken by overcast skies and below freezing temperatures.  That is for later.  And maybe, just maybe, we will have another mild winter.  In fact, the pleasurable weather has gone on so long that people (the cranky ones) are beginning to say, “Oh, but we’re going to pay for it later!”  OK, I say, but let’s just enjoy this for now.

I have always liked fall.  I enjoyed going back to school.  I much preferred wool skirts and sweaters to cotton frocks.  The smell of dried leaves and the feel of dry air have always been singular treats.  But I must admit that autumn has taken on a new richness as I age.  I look at dried leaves and wonder at their sculptural beauty, more so than their tender straight greenness in the spring.  I like to think that it is an alignment of experience and spirit, that the beauty of late in the year and late in life have a resonance.  I don’t know if that’s true.  I don’t know if other folks of a certain age relate to fall in the same way. Giddiness is for spring.  A full hearty laugh is for summer.  And now, in autumn, it’s a warm smile.

Started back in ceramics class last week.  I’m definitely still in the spring of things there!  The shows are still up and I’m back in the studio, the place where I feel most comfortable, dithering away.  Feels good.