I found Birdsong Radio several years ago when I was in the midst of a significant life transition. Familiar music has attachment to memory that is so refined it can take us back to the first moments we heard it, who we were with and what we were doing. The changes in my life made my former musical choices obsolete, painful memories were brought to the surface and I could not find comfortable sounds except for silence. Bombarded by music that is ubiquitous now in every store, office or elevator was another discomfort. I lived near a railroad and could hear the trainwhistle at all hours when I could not sleep and felt separated and alone. To this day hearing trains reminds me of those long nights.
Nature abhors a vacuum, wrote Spinoza, and it is a quotation I treasure. I adapted to my new life and found events that would fill the void. Walking the dogs, CoraBella, Rory and Cleopatra in the park every morning was one of the most important events of the day. Walking to the sounds of nature, I realized that this was the music I could listen to and try to achieve the peace I was seeking. The music of the birds, the wind in tall rushes, cicadas, crickets, croaking frogs and nearby whinny of the horses in the fields was the morning walk symphony that I craved at home. My exploration for sounds of nature led me to find Birdsong Radio. I downloaded the mp3 and subscribed immediately and began following the station.
I played the station while I painted, sketched and sewed. The bird calls are a sweet part of the tapestry of my artistic life and much of my work is created while listening to the station. During artists meetings I played it instead of music and people commented on how much they liked it. I have no proof, but it seems that the mellow naturalsounds made the atmosphere calm and our creative ideas flowed with ease.
This week Birdsong Radio released an updated website and phone app, see the links below to participate and support their endeavor.
This charming and delicate work is layered richly with color and ink at 3 am during rain showers and a dreamy conversation. Girlie Show June 2nd 6-10 pm at Suddenly Samantha in Easton, PA – this is a little preview of the type of work I am selling at the show.
As Earth Day April 22, 2012 approaches, I want to share a poem today. The poem came to me through a Word Wednesday poet from Allentown, PA. I have little to say, because I just prefer to let his words shine through.
Salt by Ismael Street
A mother is the salt of the earth . The salt of society. The light of the world. A natural resource far and above your Comprehension. She preserves, reconciles, and adds Taste to the fruits of life and love we enjoy We inspire to be. Her mirror reflects our soul. Her light lamp brightens our night. Giving rhythm in the dance of the ocean And the sun. Nourishing our minds, our bodies, And the world.
Being completely alone in the world…the solitude of painting and the peace of mind that comes with it is something no one in the world can touch or take away from me. The creative spirit thrives in my life and for that I have gratitude. There are friends, people who support one and I enjoy spending time with them. But being alone–without promise of sharing myself or giving anything to anyone is an exquisite sensation.
Dawn spent this morning in the company of my kaleidescope, turning, spinning, shaking, dipping and tipping it catch the light fragments, hearing the small pieces inside flit-flutter like little laboring beetles tracking their footprints inside. A tiny pleasure while spent in moments of solitude before the daylight completely unfolds and the dogs expect to be greeted with a big heart.
No painting today, this is a day of errands until the afternoon or evening when I can zone into my process of drawing and painting, working a 22 x30 watercolor right now on the table. Ready to unveil it soon.
Originally published August of 2010, this is revisited February 2012.
The Artist. A Title. A venerable title that holds so much promise, yet is born out of deep pain or resonant joy, each work is a reflecting pool of a life, a time, a dwelling, a bond, a collaborator or partner. Ever The Artist. I have dragged The Title kicking and screaming all the way, sometimes losing sight of it, putting others needs before The Title’s needs. At times The Title gets complacent and waits, whirring and worrying, behind me shadow-like, and then feeling trapped it gnaws off a leg. And it lets me know every time that it is weary of being flouted and it gets angry. That is how The Title preserves itself. What if I die before It gets It’s work done? How dare I…so I step aside again and let it chew off a limb or kill a part of my life so we can get to work again.
The Artist has just killed again.
Recurring theme – surfaced again, I had to visit this again to find the essence of the work. Its always a bloody event, visceral and real, takes me down to a bare bones emptiness. Yet out of it comes something so clear and pristine that I gasp as I feel the new power surge through me.
I never knew what was missing, an imperceptible feeling of some little chink out of my metal, a small scaley plate-like chip was blown off like a shingle from a roof-top in the winter howling. Asking for resolution brought solutions and people and ideas then no people and the essence of the art changed as it happened. it all just evolved, adapted together but seeing the evidence of it as i was full of living and not noticing was the real challenge. all at once the concept was so evident at the forefront of my mind, I came to see that i just knew, knew the history, the future and everything in between. Almost like the Bene Gesserit women of Herbert’s Dune novel, they inherited the information from all those who came before them. My work I feel//think embodies that often. All the abstract work of the people that are my tribe exists in me, like all other parts of my mitochondrial DNA, it blasts through no matter what I do.
As an artist, I often find people do not understand what I do and why I would do it. To learn to create in different mediums thrills me. But today a friend from my past appeared with a kindness, a few words; it was so sincere but without the appearance of any motive. Truly a person with a golden heart. This is the kind of stuff that makes me feel like painting or creating, an uplifting of my moral spirit to a higher good–its lofty, noble even and I love it. Thank you and you know who you are and I will be painting for me. But for now here is one from the recent archive.