Open Studios for One More Weekend

Flood damage in Boulder Canyon has been somewhat repaired. At least the road is open again and we are all breathing a sigh of relief. Although one can get to my studio now, we (the Magnolia Artists) have committed to holding forth in our temporary location. Otherwise, it gets too confusing for people and everyone would end up in the wrong place. It isn't my studio, but it is a nice space and a nice location.



Come, if you can to:
2740 Canyon Blvd., Boulder, CO (the corner of 28th & Canyon)
Noon to 6pm, Saturday and Sunday- Oct 12 & 13th

Open Studios Without The Studio?

One of the main points of Open Studios is for people to be able to see the artist in that artist's studio. In that way the visitor hopes to gain some insight into how the work of art was created. You see the artist's magic wand, excuse me, brushes and other tools. What kind of surroundings do you need to give those creative juices a push? Maybe you will discover that when you visit. Cornered in his, or her studio the artist might divulge the secrets of art that will aid in unlocking the hidden meanings. Okay, you get the point.

So what happens when a flood prevents access to the studio? In this case we have moved the artist. This year, and we dearly hope it will only be this year, Open Arts has found a space in Boulder for the mountain artists to occupy for the duration of Open Studios. With the mountain community almost cut off from the flatland community, it was a hard decision to make - do we stay in our community with our friends and neighbors, or take a chance to make new friends in the larger community? With regrets, we decided to take the chance. Unfortunately, we couldn't take our studios with us. Outside of our studios, away from the protection of our brushes and magic paints, we will undoubtedly feel somewhat threatened, exposed, or even worse, panicked that no one will visit us. Please visit us and bring friendly faces with you. Our door will be open.

What: Open Studios, or in this case: Open un-Studios
When: October 5,6,12,& 13th from Noon to 6pm
Where: 2740 Canyon Boulevard (corner of Canyon & 28th), Boulder, CO.

Devastation and Resilience

As I write this, water is still pouring down the rivers and streams. The surrounding area has been hit hard by torrential floods. Homes have been washed away and many have been severely damaged, entire towns have been evacuated and stranded victims airlifted out. So far, thankfully, deaths have been minimal, especially compared to similar disasters in other parts of the world, nevertheless, many lives have been severely disrupted.

Luckily, people are resilient and so is their spirit. Some people will leave this community, saying "This is it- fires, floods, what's next: pestilence, brimstone?", but most will stay. They will pick up the pieces and rebuild their homes and lives. Business will be good for those working in construction and repair.  Artists will pick up the pieces and create art with them, literally. Artists are good at recycling.

 A woman was evacuated from Lyons just in time to give birth. So too will the devastation give birth to new works of art. Art will be created depicting the floods, the changed landscape, the new structures, people rebuilding & playing. Musicians will transform the sounds of the rain and rushing water into music. Stories will be told by writers more eloquent than I. Out of destruction comes beauty, as we endeavor to bring  meaning to our lives. Art helps to heal and rebuild the community as much as wood and nails do, because it embodies our resilience and uplifts our spirits.

My heart goes out to all, who have lost their homes and possessions and to those looking for loved ones. I hope you find them safe and sound.

Vivian Long

Bryan Long on "Art and Transience"

Once a year, I am an artist.  I transform large orange pumpkins into Halloween Jack-o-Lanterns.  The low-watt fluorescent bulbs inside them light up grotesques or careful portraits, sailing ships or zebras, or even the entire Earth, rotating slowly on its axis.  It usually takes me about four full days of scraping and carving to have them on display a day or two before October 31st.  For a few days, I am celebrated for my work. Hundreds of trick-or-treaters and parents marvel and comment, take pictures, and sometimes remember and comment on prior years’ work as well.  By the 2nd of November, the pumpkins are turning soft and mouldy, and are unceremoniously transferred to my compost bins.  

I do not mind.  If they lasted I would become bothered by the flaws, tired of their persistence.  All art is transient, of course.  Even the carefully preserved Rembrandt will not last forever. But there is something poignant to me in art that cannot be preserved, but lasts only a few hours or days, and then dissipates.  The amazing transient art of Andy Goldwater touches me deeply. It reminds me that my life is hardly different; I am born, I live and love, and die within a lifetime that is but an hour in the scope of human history, and but a nanosecond in the scope of life.  

Each day I wake from unconsciousness, and my identity is reconstructed, my life remembered.  “Permanent” art helps to tie us to our personal and cultural past; it is a memory that helps us reconstruct ourselves in a continuum of culture, a context larger than our present existence, a meaning larger than ourselves.  Permanent art breaks our fixation on our small lives, and brings us into a larger scope of history and meaning.  Transient art slaps us back into the present moment, and reminds us that we have only this day in which to know and appreciate that larger context.  To be here now.  

Art is not for art’s sake, but for ours.  To know ourselves as larger than ourselves.

Bryan Long

www.econosystemics.com

I Bought a Book

 I bought a book.   Hardly worth mentioning?  Ah, but this is first step to opening up your mind.  What is a book?  The book I bought does not exist yet.  ‘What’ you may ask, an internet scam!  No but I was bamboozled….by an artist!  On a Thursday afternoon and without expectations I and three other artists ventured south to Colorado College in Colorado Springs.  We were going to an exhibition curated by my friend and colleague, Alicia Bailey titled ‘Book as Object’: An International Survey of Sculptural Book Works’.

 

 

 I knew Alicia was excited about hearing the artist Angela Lorenz speak about her work.  I had no idea who she was or the other artists, what kind of reputation they had or what exactly they did; I was along for the ride.

 

 

 The food was gone when we arrived.  I had been looking forward to the elaborate spread.  The students had sniffed out the free high class fare like pigs find truffles! Never mind, I was there to feed my soul and spirit.  Alicia gave her curatorial speech and then introduced Angela Lorenz.  I attentively listened to Angela without knowing what on earth she was going to talk about.  She talked about her work and her approach to her work. Then she specifically talked about two pieces she had brought with her that were part of the exhibition.  One book was a pack of gum, ‘Chewing Tzu’, and another was ‘Soap Story’ comprising of six small cubes of soap and a mini picture album without pictures.  She called for the audience to get up and come to the table beside her that had several bowls of water and the small cubes of soap.  I skipped the communal hand washing – I hate baths, too but that is another story – and when the soap was gone, we were summoned back to hear the results.  Angela then proceeded to read from the damp pieces of what looked like ripped rags made of linen that had emerged from the soap.   Even though she had given us background information on the story and paraphrased the story, I was still mesmerized and thrilled.  I could not explain this feeling.  I sat there on the floor with 20-something students, book art lovers, curators, artists, utterly transfixed and with a stupid grin on my face.    What moved me was how this puzzle came together.  Between Angela telling us about the story, the background that inspired it, the process of ten years she spent trying to figure out how she could communicate this story, the ‘soap stories’ she created in her life and the lives of others after publishing her book, it all seemed impossible yet it was true.  Here we were creating another chapter to be recorded in our memories and our feelings.  I had to have a piece of this.

 

 

 I settled for lingering over the table with items for sale.  Soon the satiated students dissipated and the ‘hardcore’ were left.  Alicia was talking amongst admirers and I eavesdropped at the ‘for sale table’.  Okay, I’ll buy this book, ‘The Theater of Nature or Curiosity Filled the Cabinet’ (trade edition) by Angela Lorenz.  I hung about catching snippets of comments from Angela and her admirers.  It reminded me of my years attending numerous pop concerts; hanging out hoping to talk to or see the band.  Eventually, Angela was surrounded by the curators of the gallery, Alicia and her entourage, which included me.  A discussion was going on about food, restaurants and directions.  While others fetched coats I spoke with the object of my growing admiration, the charming Angela Lorenz. 

 

 

 I was purchasing her book, when she told me I could buy an additional book about her work for half price.  Done.  I made some flattering comments about her presentation, her work, how inspired I was by her as an artist.  I told her how wonderful her soap story was.  She smiled, a sly smile if I recall, and produced the soap story piece she had opened during her talk, soaps intact, and offered it to me at a reduced price.  I tried a lame excuse about not having my business check book with me but I knew I wanted it.  Angela was a true artist and a saleswoman to boot!  She suggested that I send her a check.  I was warmed over with her trust in me and was sold!  Gosh, she’s good.  I felt a kinship with her, I am not a bad saleswoman myself, and quite frankly, wanted to be like her.

 

 

  I had the pleasure of dinning with Angela and company – all women.  Wonderful food and conversation: talk of our families, our history, and our work.  In less then five hours, I had made new friends, had an adventure, fallen in love, re-visited my past and considered my future.  I laughed, almost cried and arrived home to have a cup of tea and snuggle with my husband; a perfect ending to a soap story.

 

Kim Harrell

www.eastendarts.com

This experience took place in 2006.

Dina Bennett on the Mystery of Art

I have no understanding of the creative process that results in fine art.  As someone who, even with a ruler, cannot draw a straight line, I find myself particularly awed by painting and sculpture.  ‘How do you do that?’ I want to ask, every time I look at a finished work.  ‘How did you know that putting a dot of white right there, or carving away a bit of clay in that spot, would yield a sense of light or give a perception of shadow?’  

 We each look at things differently.  Standing at the Metropolitan Museum in front of a painting by Renoir or Manet (yes, I’m a sucker for Impressionists), I don’t know what that gentleman near me in the loose-fitting brown suit with too-long hair is thinking.  You know the one I’m mean...the one slouched into one hip, who was contemplating the painting when I arrived, hand on chin, eyes lost in the distance.  His stillness speaks of being engrossed, his crepe-soled shoes of a man who’s accustomed to contemplating art for hours.  I can create this myth about him from how he looks, but I can’t know what he sees.  We might nod to each other as presumed fellow aficionados, mutter “Beautiful,” or “Charming,” in a hushed tone.  Yet we just take it on faith that our common descriptive language works and that when we each say blue we’re identifying the same thing.  Yet what’s deep blue to me may be green blue to him.   We don’t really KNOW, do we?  And that’s where I lose it.  If I can’t even be sure that you’re seeing what I’m seeing, how can the artist know that what she’s creating will touch people, startle the viewer into thinking, looking, staying at least a minute or two to ponder the image.

That’s bafflement number one.  Bafflement number two stems for this:  Since I have no knowledge of what goes into painting or sculpting it appears to me that what I’m looking at has arrived fully formed.  One minute blank canvas, next minute sunny windowsill with cat dozing beside a pot of geraniums.  One day block of wood, next day woman combing snarls out of hair.  This creative process is such a mystery to me that it sparks a nearly insatiable craving which I keep at bay only because my mother taught me good manners.  What comes over me is an intense physical urge to touch the work, feel the oily sleekness of that wood, the rough surface of clay, the cool hardness of a bronze cast. I want to run my fingers over canvas like I did the cinder block wall of my elementary school corridor, when we marched single file from classroom to lunchroom. If no one’s looking I’d indulge my craving to push in those thick daubs of oil paint, the ones whose tough skin hide an interior as soft as buttercream frosting.  Perhaps by translating texture into words I’ll be able to discern method.

This craving to put words to the visual makes sense for me. I’m a writer, with a book out there on bookstore shelves and on people’s living room tables.  I've been asked the same questions about writing that I now pose about visual media:  “How did you do that?”  And I say “It took me years.  I studied and practiced. I went through lots of drafts.  I threw out thousands and thousands of words.  I got input from my readers and editors.  I read other books and parsed out what I liked about them, what they did well, what I found engaging.  Eventually the book was declared finished, and was printed, bound and sold.  But was it done?   Even now I can read through the manuscript and itch to change a sentence so the meaning is more precise, so the reader will have a clearer view of what I saw, and a finer sense of my emotions. 

When I read books I understand the process of creating them, because I’ve done it myself. Yet I never think about the craft of writing as I read.  I think only about whether the words on the page speak to me.   Ultimately it’s the same with art.  It doesn’t matter that I don’t understand the gift that allows an artist to transfer what they see in their mind to canvas via the medium of brush and paint.  And it doesn’t matter whether I am able to do the same thing.   What matters is if the piece I’m looking at moves me.  And it does.

Dina Bennett's memoir Peking to Paris:  Life and Love on a Short Drive Around Half the World is in bookstores now.

The Art Blog

Okay, I know everyone else has been blogging forever, but this is a new endeavor for me. This blog is about art: what we think about art, how we feel about art, the process of creating, experiencing & viewing art. Basically if it is about art, however remotely, it might be covered in this blog.

To go one step further, I decided that the blog shouldn’t be from one perspective. I will be inviting other visual artists, writers, intellectuals, and interesting people to share their thoughts, or experiences. Serious, funny, I hope they run the gamut. I hope to learn a lot and I hope you do too. Off we go…