Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
M.F.A. Thesis Statement:
Ancient humans gave great importance to their objects and the ordinary acts that put them to use. The things they made and gathered were precious and many were used for sacred purposes.So much of life was sacred: eating, hunting and perhaps all daily activities were consecrated to the gods. In traditional cultures, at least until recently, some of these ancient beliefs have maintained their power. We perpetuate them by celebrating our seasonal holidays, blowing out candles, and toasting the new year.
No matter how simple, to make art is to make a sacred space. I find myself turning for comfort and stability to the power of the one-of-a-kind objects that I create with my own hands. These things represent my triumphs, my epiphanies, my tragic losses; I cherish them, display them, and recognize their magic. Making art is a mysterious thing–you don't always know what direction the light is coming from. For me, it has become a way to express and experience my spirituality.
Maintaining both a spiritual and an artistic practice is an ordeal that demands commitment, discipline, endurance, focus and awareness. There is a fundamental difference between the creative practice and other conventional spiritual disciplines. Following the creative takes one down an unknown path. One that has to be discovered and mapped by each individual. Techniques can be taught, but the application has to be a very personal journey for each person. Of course, not every person looks at creativity as a spiritual discipline, and indeed, not every person or artist is interested in such a practice. Paradox and contradiction mark this path. Although I speak of this activity as an ordeal, often as not, it is accomplished by the simple act of being still and attentive. Focusing on the metal, paper, or fiber and understanding what it wants to be, what is at it's core and then proceeding in that direction.
When one becomes willing to see and then believe what one sees, the creative can bridge the gap between the inner spiritual life and the daily public world. And if one becomes open to the natural world, to wonder and awe and to the possibility of magic–then the idea and the work of art may appear in that flash of light, the moment of kensho. After several months of failed designs and frustrating work, I opened my "eye" to what the silver chalice called "Merlyn" knew it's stem was to be, and it came quickly to fruition.
Often, inspiration comes in silence. A tree can be inspiring, as it was for "Merlyn." I may be influenced by something I read or by something someone has said or done. Motivation may not come from the outside at all–it may be the consequence of my ability to open an inner door. One can make a serious practice of perceiving beauty wherever it exists. With a certain awareness and concentration I can open myself to the presence of beauty. Divine beauty often appears where one would not normally expect it–in the twisted, lined, and old, in the unadorned, uncultivated, odd and humble, as well as in the most perfect ornament or the most elegant and refined silver vessel. An abandoned nest, a weaving unfinished, eggs left to rot amid wilted leaves become a complex design in "Abandonment Issues." There are moments when an object, a person, a living creature is utterly present and naked; it is completely itself. This startling moment can only be called "beauty."
This nakedness, this presence of the thing-in-itself, this unmodified confrontation with reality, does more than please the senses. This presence of beauty heals. When I am desperate, that is where I take myself. Sometimes that is a garden, sometimes the woods, often the library. It is not only beauty I am seeking but silence. For me, silence is something as powerful as stark uncovered reality–that is, something as searing as the presence of the Goddess herself. Therefore, the pursuit of beauty through my art is a spiritual act. I believe it is honorable to strive to incorporate beauty into one's work.
Sometimes I create out of rage or pain, desperate to reveal an injustice, to awaken the world, or to express the agony of my life or of others. Two of my pieces were created as acts of closure after the deaths of my father and my uncle. One a poignant story of "Me and My Dad" and the other a sculptural artist's book entitled "Grief." A small book about the loss of pieces of myself was one of the most difficult of tasks to finish. "Missing Pieces" became a validation of myself as "complete" after surgery.
Joy, as private as pain, also wants expression.Joy and appreciation can be the keys that open the door for the creative to enter. The two spoons, one silver and one of Merlyn's gold, are a celebration of the birth of my twin grandchildren. I plan to do more in anticipation of future grandchildren.
For me, the importance of art has become something beyond the product–the finished piece– or the consequences–accomplishment, recognition, remuneration–but upon the creative process pursued. For me, much of the magic in smithing is in the lengthy process of forcing an intractable piece of metal into the form that I want it to be. I am also enthralled by the idea of weaving two totally opposite things into one harmonious design–a bit of magic to trick the eye. "Mabinogian," a bowl that appears to be woven of paper, starts out as metal.
The Jewish tradition, among others, has legends about a disagreeable beggar who comes to the door at an awkward time. Sometimes the beggar is dangerous, but sometimes the beggar is an angel. The task is to discern which is which. We define ourselves by our errors , what we are willing and able to risk. Making art that is inspired by or directed to my spirituality has given me strength and comfort. The birth of my grandchildren was an especially fearful time, and I received great comfort from the smithed silver and copper beetle that is a "Supplication to the Goddess, Neith." My daughter-in-law kept it at her bedside during a difficult childbirth and it gave us both strength and courage. In southeastern Borneo, upon the birth of a child, the medicine man would be summoned to transfer the soul of the newborn into half a coconut for safekeeping. The monthly ritual performed for the first year of life would presumably provide a safer place in which to keep the soul of the child than in an infant's frail body.
There is a tradition of inanimate objects and transference. In "The Golden Bough" J.G. Frazier details how different "savage" cultures believed that one could transfer evil into inanimate objects in order to cast one's burdens off–much as one could likewise transfer a burden of evil into something else in order to be rid of it. This is so in the container that resembles leather and looks soft to the touch but is really of metal and holds a poisonous scorpion. "Hidden Agenda" is about betrayal by those we believed to be friends. It is the act of transferring something into the objects for the purpose of dispelling it, preserving it, or having dominion over it. Exalting or debasing something through visual representation is what people who make art but don't practice magic do, I suppose. That, I think, is the significance of sacred objects as form and the "spaces" they contain. A sacred space suggests a center of something, a dwelling, doorway, or perhaps a place of meditation.
In Western Timor, people undertaking a long journey would fan themselves with leaves along their travels.At the end of the sojourn, the fan would be deposited ritually (more location than ceremony) in a space where such things had always been cast by one's ancestors. This was an effort to transfer the fatigue of travel into the fan so that the traveler, having arrived, would be able to leave behind the ill effects of such an arduous experience. This wasn't religious ritual so much as simple magic. Sending evil into a thing so that it may be thrown away.
Finally, there is the concept of power (both good and evil) being contained in objects that can be taken away in order to render the bearer impotent. Medieval inquisitors would shave the entire bodies of accused witches in order to dispossess them of their maleficent powers. The inquisitors believed that the powers of witches and sorcerers resided not just in long tresses, but in hair. Period. Despite having endured countless other tortures, once completely shorn and powerless, many accused would confess–committing themselves to flame.
Art is not just what I do but more an explanation of who I am. It is the visual representation of my spirituality. It is an ongoing ritual. Each finished piece has performed some function, often unknown to anyone but myself. A goblet inspired by a flower toasts the beauty of my daughter Lenore. Of course there are those avenues which will appear unbidden as well.
There is a place of heartbreak toward which the creative process ultimately draws me, a place where I understand my glory and failure, my hope and desperation, the beauty and the suffering, and from this understanding some miracle of acceptance and identity occurs.
Sometimes it comes from falling in love with an image or with an idea I barely understood a moment before or from watching what was flat and impenetrable round into a vessel.It comes from the appearance within me of ideas, feelings, pieces of myself that I disdain or fear, yet still must accept as being me. These moments, if I allow them, become struggle to discover the shape that will reveal them. Then the intellectual struggle is one with the heart, striving to see and accept and bring me to understanding. In the end that is ultimately what it is about: understanding.
