Hola amigos. Here are a few samples of the things I've written in the past two weeks. Just a few thoughts rolling around inside me. Disfruta.
February 6, 2009
It’s been a while since I’ve written much about my life here in Madrid, or inside my head for that matter. School and wild dreams with a touch of exhaustion have claimed my full attention for several months. There is so much to say that I’m tempted to say nothing of importance at all.
I just returned from a concert near Plaza de Oriente. The performers were students of Istituto Internacional de Musica De Camera de Madrid. The music was so beautiful and the acoustics of the hall so divine, I was kept at rapt attention. This is rare for me. Even during the most beautiful classical performances of my life I’ve had trouble keeping my mind on the music; my hands are usually occupied by note taking or sketching to keep me awake and focused. But tonight I was in full appreciation. Perhaps it was due to the ages of the performers: they were all my peers. It made me ache for all my musician friends: their loyalty, their passion, and their talent. I often wonder what music they’re studying and how much they’ve grown musically.
I did end up sketching a bit during the concert. I brought out my little green book during a Roberto Gerhard trio for violin, ‘cello, and piano. It feels good to sketch clumsily with my black pen again. My little sketch is incomplete and imbalanced but the fact that I was unafraid (especially with the musicians from the first half sitting directly behind me) is such a big step for me. I’m feeling a wave of artistic confidence lately and I should take advantage of that feeling as much as possible.
Speaking of which, I’ve decided to come home to Bellingham this summer. I’ll be living with my parents in beautiful Sudden Valley. Hopefully the seclusion and the change in atmosphere will spur more artistic fervor, but I fear that being near friends and family again will distract me. Sigh… I often wonder if I’m too boring to be an artist. Thus the travel: the more I experience, the more I’ll have to express. Bring on the tragic love affairs! Bring on the strife! Haha….
That’s really not the point for me. Though I’m drawn to dramatic and vibrant art full of emotion and symbolism, I don’t want to create art that reminds people of life’s tragedies. I subscribe to Matisse’s school of thought: Matisse likened his paintings to sinking back into a comfortable chair. He wanted to remind his viewers of all that is beautiful in this world. He painted with light and air—often without any gravity at all.
Today I read a story to my second graders, “Miss Rumphius.” The tale was about a woman’s life, from little girl to old woman. As a little girl, her grandfather asked what she wanted to do with her life. She said that she wanted to see far off places, to meet strange and interesting friends. And when she grew old, she wanted to live out her days by the sea, just like her grandfather. Her grandfather said, “That’s all well and good, but you must promise me one thing. You must also give something beautiful to the world.” That’s how I feel about my life (including living by the sea!).
I want to celebrate the world’s beauty. I want to remind people of all the wonderful feelings and sights they’ve experienced. I want people to challenge their definition of beauty and begin to recognize beauty in the smallest gestures, the most subtle moments. That’s why I want to be an artist.
At the end of the story, the woman returns from her travels with gray hair and an aching back. She breathes in the salty air and plants a beautiful garden. She still hasn’t given her beautiful thing yet. One day she walks all over the island spreading lupine seeds. In the spring when the flowers bloom, the entire island is a beautiful palette of purples and pinks. Perhaps my contribution of beauty in this world will be small, but I hope that like the lupines in the story, the seeds I sow will reseed on the wind every year until the Lupine Lady and I are distant memories.
February 15, 2009
A question has been rumbling around inside me for a while. It seems like such a trivial question. Inspired by new friends, new feelings, and new experiences, it rears its head after long nights out and difficult days at work:
What is age?
A silly question, yet those three words do not accurately describe the question that swells within me. Let me explain further.
Yesterday I went to a Valentine’s party. All week I had expected to wear a slim fitting dress to the party. At the last moment I felt my body contort into a shell of discomfort and shyness. I saw my modest and “cute” body as a child’s body. I saw the dress as an affectation. I was posing, pretending to be sexy. I was pretty, yes, even with my little belly pushing at the middle of the dress; the little black dress suits my body well. But my shoulders rose to shrug in protection of my neck, my back stiff, my legs feeling utterly naked. I felt like I was the little girl in my parent’s bathroom sneaking bits of my mother’s makeup.
I chose instead an outfit I often wear to school—the low neckline of the sweater satisfyingly alluring and yet the color and cut much more appropriate for my second grade classroom than a Valentine’s party. The skirt long, only showing off a slight curve of my calves. But I was comfortable. In this armor I felt confident enough to flirt subtly with a gorgeous Atlanta banker, dance uninhibited in the living room and later the club…. Yet I still felt this lingering quake in my self-confidence, this fear that somehow my exterior will reveal a different person than I want to be.
“I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam and no one in her right mind would make my heart her home. My heart is an autoclave.” –Mountain Goats
This life here in Spain is a transient cycle of emotions and insecurities. One weekend I’ll spend immersed in the lives of my older friends, basking in their appreciation of my young energy and their praise of my maturity. One friend once described me as having a “40 year old soul.” The irony being that I probably don’t understand entirely what he means by that but will understand when I’m older. Another weekend I’ll exhaust myself by spending time among the tipsy and aching conversations of the younger groups. I am not quite comfortable with either world, though I enjoy both in varying degrees. I often wonder if I felt this feeling of displacement “back home” and the rose tinted lens through which I see that old life has made me forget. More likely the limiting social circles of expatriates amplify the feeling.
Does everyone feel this strange feeling of loneliness and affectation? Is this the human desperation that nurtures art, music, religion, and sex? The hope of making the fleeting moments of settled peace permanent is often the beginning of a work of art.
Sometimes I stubbornly seize this lonely feeling and want to conquer it, beat it back and transform it into a violent strength. These are the days that I walk heavily down the streets listening to powerful songs with my back straight and my love of Madrid casting all the rain and cold aside. I laugh at myself and grin foolishly—Madrileños staring after me. These are the days I feel ageless.
It’s been a while since I’ve written much about my life here in Madrid, or inside my head for that matter. School and wild dreams with a touch of exhaustion have claimed my full attention for several months. There is so much to say that I’m tempted to say nothing of importance at all.
I just returned from a concert near Plaza de Oriente. The performers were students of Istituto Internacional de Musica De Camera de Madrid. The music was so beautiful and the acoustics of the hall so divine, I was kept at rapt attention. This is rare for me. Even during the most beautiful classical performances of my life I’ve had trouble keeping my mind on the music; my hands are usually occupied by note taking or sketching to keep me awake and focused. But tonight I was in full appreciation. Perhaps it was due to the ages of the performers: they were all my peers. It made me ache for all my musician friends: their loyalty, their passion, and their talent. I often wonder what music they’re studying and how much they’ve grown musically.
I did end up sketching a bit during the concert. I brought out my little green book during a Roberto Gerhard trio for violin, ‘cello, and piano. It feels good to sketch clumsily with my black pen again. My little sketch is incomplete and imbalanced but the fact that I was unafraid (especially with the musicians from the first half sitting directly behind me) is such a big step for me. I’m feeling a wave of artistic confidence lately and I should take advantage of that feeling as much as possible.
Speaking of which, I’ve decided to come home to Bellingham this summer. I’ll be living with my parents in beautiful Sudden Valley. Hopefully the seclusion and the change in atmosphere will spur more artistic fervor, but I fear that being near friends and family again will distract me. Sigh… I often wonder if I’m too boring to be an artist. Thus the travel: the more I experience, the more I’ll have to express. Bring on the tragic love affairs! Bring on the strife! Haha….
That’s really not the point for me. Though I’m drawn to dramatic and vibrant art full of emotion and symbolism, I don’t want to create art that reminds people of life’s tragedies. I subscribe to Matisse’s school of thought: Matisse likened his paintings to sinking back into a comfortable chair. He wanted to remind his viewers of all that is beautiful in this world. He painted with light and air—often without any gravity at all.
Today I read a story to my second graders, “Miss Rumphius.” The tale was about a woman’s life, from little girl to old woman. As a little girl, her grandfather asked what she wanted to do with her life. She said that she wanted to see far off places, to meet strange and interesting friends. And when she grew old, she wanted to live out her days by the sea, just like her grandfather. Her grandfather said, “That’s all well and good, but you must promise me one thing. You must also give something beautiful to the world.” That’s how I feel about my life (including living by the sea!).
I want to celebrate the world’s beauty. I want to remind people of all the wonderful feelings and sights they’ve experienced. I want people to challenge their definition of beauty and begin to recognize beauty in the smallest gestures, the most subtle moments. That’s why I want to be an artist.
At the end of the story, the woman returns from her travels with gray hair and an aching back. She breathes in the salty air and plants a beautiful garden. She still hasn’t given her beautiful thing yet. One day she walks all over the island spreading lupine seeds. In the spring when the flowers bloom, the entire island is a beautiful palette of purples and pinks. Perhaps my contribution of beauty in this world will be small, but I hope that like the lupines in the story, the seeds I sow will reseed on the wind every year until the Lupine Lady and I are distant memories.
February 15, 2009
A question has been rumbling around inside me for a while. It seems like such a trivial question. Inspired by new friends, new feelings, and new experiences, it rears its head after long nights out and difficult days at work:
What is age?
A silly question, yet those three words do not accurately describe the question that swells within me. Let me explain further.
Yesterday I went to a Valentine’s party. All week I had expected to wear a slim fitting dress to the party. At the last moment I felt my body contort into a shell of discomfort and shyness. I saw my modest and “cute” body as a child’s body. I saw the dress as an affectation. I was posing, pretending to be sexy. I was pretty, yes, even with my little belly pushing at the middle of the dress; the little black dress suits my body well. But my shoulders rose to shrug in protection of my neck, my back stiff, my legs feeling utterly naked. I felt like I was the little girl in my parent’s bathroom sneaking bits of my mother’s makeup.
I chose instead an outfit I often wear to school—the low neckline of the sweater satisfyingly alluring and yet the color and cut much more appropriate for my second grade classroom than a Valentine’s party. The skirt long, only showing off a slight curve of my calves. But I was comfortable. In this armor I felt confident enough to flirt subtly with a gorgeous Atlanta banker, dance uninhibited in the living room and later the club…. Yet I still felt this lingering quake in my self-confidence, this fear that somehow my exterior will reveal a different person than I want to be.
“I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam and no one in her right mind would make my heart her home. My heart is an autoclave.” –Mountain Goats
This life here in Spain is a transient cycle of emotions and insecurities. One weekend I’ll spend immersed in the lives of my older friends, basking in their appreciation of my young energy and their praise of my maturity. One friend once described me as having a “40 year old soul.” The irony being that I probably don’t understand entirely what he means by that but will understand when I’m older. Another weekend I’ll exhaust myself by spending time among the tipsy and aching conversations of the younger groups. I am not quite comfortable with either world, though I enjoy both in varying degrees. I often wonder if I felt this feeling of displacement “back home” and the rose tinted lens through which I see that old life has made me forget. More likely the limiting social circles of expatriates amplify the feeling.
Does everyone feel this strange feeling of loneliness and affectation? Is this the human desperation that nurtures art, music, religion, and sex? The hope of making the fleeting moments of settled peace permanent is often the beginning of a work of art.
Sometimes I stubbornly seize this lonely feeling and want to conquer it, beat it back and transform it into a violent strength. These are the days that I walk heavily down the streets listening to powerful songs with my back straight and my love of Madrid casting all the rain and cold aside. I laugh at myself and grin foolishly—Madrileños staring after me. These are the days I feel ageless.
3 comments:
Is that my painting!!!???!?!?!
It sure is. Do you like it?
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