Adventures in Art

Original sculpture "Politeness Counts" by Jonathan Seliger. 2004 (Auto body enamel on aluminum)

Last April, I featured a guest posting, Fly on Your Heavy Feet. The author, my older child and only daughter, does not have a public blog but continues to entertain and enlighten family and friends via her private Flickr account. She and I periodically share adventures, and this weekend we spent some time at the Tang, on the Skidmore College campus. With permission, I'm sharing her description of our visit to this gallery.


We were greeted outside the entryway by an enormous paper bag! ("Politeness Counts" by Jonathan Seliger) The draw for me and Mom had been William Blake's illustrations, on loan from the Special Collections of the library, but along our way to Blake we were knocked out/intrigued by Oliver Herring's Me Us Them exhibit and the Tim Rollins and KOS retrospective.

The first works we encountered in Oliver Herring's exhibit were knitted sculptures ("Queensize Bed with Coat") and wall hangings (“An Age for Hands”) made of shiny mylar. My eyes feasted, mom's fingers itched to touch - she being an accomplished knitter, me being a crow who likes shiny things, we had an equal, but right differently informed, appreciation of the art! There was a video piece on multiple TVs ("Little Dances of Misfortunes") - I saw passing moments of abstract art, wild shapes created from the play of green light on people moving and at rest - but liked the tinkling music best of all.

The rest of Herring's works sprung from photography. Me and Mom are both compulsive picture takers so we loved this. Herring made still images live, to me, by rearranging, embellishing and, most revelatory for me and Ladybird, bringing photos to the third dimension. So there were pictures painted over with vines, leaves and flowers; sets where a photo has an absence, like a cut-out eye, the eye reappearing pasted-over a different picture; photos where the careful use of cutting created designs from the absence, around the pic's subject.

But it was the photo sculptures which were undeniably our favorites. Taking untold amounts of cut-up photos, crafted onto a frame and sheets of styrofoam, Herring made life-size sculptures of a woman (”Gloria”), an eagle, and a naked man (made twice, facing himself). I have no idea how much planning and work this must be, because they were all wonderfully proportionate, and grew more beautiful under a hard stare, when you'd think they'd get more eerie and disjointed. Little details, like bits of picture of hair actually curling out from the head, or a necklace flat on the neck in one section of photo cut out and drawn from the body at another angle- done so seamlessly I didn't notice till Diane pointed it out - just filled me with a quiet amazement. I looked into the naked man's eyes for a while. I always think, when seeing figurative sculpture, that the people are a moment away from drawing in a breath - I guess a lot like thinking your dolls walk and talk when you're not looking, in childhood - so this combination of photography and sculpture was fascinating to take in.

Looking for Blake, we stumbled (down the rabbit hole) into the Tim Rollins and KOS (Kids of Survival) retrospective. Passing a table scattered with tasty books- Alice in Wonderland, Dracula, Kafka - seeing paintings of Frankenstein and Moby Dick, we quickly realized that all of the works were inspired by classic lit, and most used actual book pages as their canvas.

"In August 1981, Tim Rollins, then twenty-six years old, was recruited by George Gallego, principal of Intermediate School 52 in the South Bronx, to develop a curriculum that incorporated art-making with reading and writing lessons for students who had been classified as academically or emotionally 'at risk.' Together, Rollins and his students developed a collaborative strategy that combined lessons in reading and writing with the production of works of art. In a process they call 'jammin,' Rollins or one of the students reads aloud from the selected text while the other members draw and relate the stories to their own experiences. Their signature style was born as Rollins and K.O.S. began producing works of art on the pages of these books cut out and laid in a grid on canvas. Rollins and K.O.S. have produced paintings, prints, photographs, and sculpture based on literary texts such as Franz Kafka’s Amerika, Harriet Jacob's Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and musical scores, including The Creation by Franz Joseph Haydn. In 1985, they adopted the name 'Tim Rollins and Kids of Survival.'' -Tang calendar

In a little offshoot of a room, I was faced with a blank canvas and logs scattered on the floor. Just when my mind was about to shut itself against the impenetrability of this, I looked down at a log near my foot and saw eyes staring up at me. I was in love. While I read the sign and realized I'd just met Pinocchio, my mother walked towards the big blank canvas and told me I should, too. A few steps closer... and there was Alice! Somewhere, somehow, between the pages of Alice in Wonderland forming the background, and the gleaming white paint of the foreground, the artist had hidden Carrol's sketch of Alice, from the handwritten version of the story he first gave to Alice Pleasance Liddell. And I almost missed it by not seeking, by being closed minded!

Other then those two, which I loved with the religious-zest that sometimes comes upon me, there was a piece with ribbons, based on "Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl" I liked. I would've looked at that and others, like Midsummer Night's Dream, the Holy Bible tower and works sprung from Homer, Aeschylus, Aristophanes, if there hadn't been a particularly enthusiastic student docent expounding on everything to a tour group, at a volume so high I couldn't think straight to experience anything!

Me and Mom found quiet, and Blake, finally, in a little side hallway near the entrance, representing the Marriage of Heaven and Hell exhibition. I can't look at anything Blake without thinking of two things: the tree of angels he saw when he was a young boy,

"bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars"

and lines from Mary Oliver's poem The Swan,

"…Said Mrs Blake of the poet: /I miss my husband’s company/ He is so often in paradise."

Mom, while a student in London, saw the originals of Blake's art at the Tate. In the Tang we viewed prints from rare books, as opposed to actual woodcuts or sketches. The KOS take on Blake's poem The Sick Rose, from Songs of Experience, lined a wall facing a small book of his poems in a case. The KOS paintings were all little watercolors, reminding me of the insides of geodes Mom and I saw at Natural Stone Bridge and Caves last summer. We both enjoyed the way Blake made his Satan snake (just like Indiana, Mom, usually, hates snakes); thought the D'aulaires must have been very inspired by him, as his God and Job look a lot like their Zeus; saw illustrations from Night Thoughts, a book I'd just seen mentioned as reading material of Emily Dickinson's father, in the bio of her (My Wars are Laid Away in Books by Alfred Habegger) I began after me and Mom saw Belle of Amherst a few weeks ago, at the Charles R Wood Theater of Downtown GF, motherland!

On our way out we stopped to see if they had a catalog of Oliver Herring's exhibit; they didn't, but the lady told us that next week he was staging a participatory work of art in Saratoga, which we could sign up for if we wanted: TASK, an improv piece. The artist has said in an interview that TASK pieces, are

"...almost a game—a reality game. I set up basic rules, such as 'don't leave the parameters of the stage.' I provide a bunch of props. In the case of TASK, I write a bunch of simple tasks in order to get the performance going. Each one goes in an envelope and is put in a task pool, and the performance starts with each participant taking an envelope, opening it, and trying to fulfill that task. Once they’re done, they each write a new task, put it back in the task pool, grab a new task, and go on with business. After the first five or ten minutes, the performance is entirely self-perpetuating. You don’t know what’s going to happen. The rules that I start with are not binding. Anybody could just walk out, or break the rules. But that never really happens. I’m always surprised that there’s no real anarchy—only staged anarchy."

I was intrigued, but since it's an investment of at least 8 hour's time decided not to apply! On the way to the car I had that fun perception of everything as art - garbage on the melting snow, puddles, shouting rugby players. Art, art that engages, art that turns you off, what is it all really but looking and seeing whatever is appearing before you? And by seeing it from the eyes of your own little world, making it something more - art?

Fly on Your Heavy Feet

I've never had a guest blogger before, but I felt that this lyrical comment from a very gifted writer - my daughter - deserved to stand alone. [She doesn't have her own blog yet, but I'm trying to remedy that!]


Why would I want to ride my bike?

Most everyone I know had a bicycle at some point in their childhood. Your bike summed up freedom and adventure. Once you had learned to ride it- an accomplishment in and of itself- it was you and you alone who made it move, and you who chose where to go. On your bike, (individualized, most times, with a name, or a basket or streamers or horn or bell or plastic bits on the spokes to click or refract the sunshine), the wide world was even more open to exploration, in a mob or by yourself, with purpose or just fancy free. Being a child of the 80s- and a something of a grup - even now, when I throw a pack on my back and set off on some errand, I can’t help but think of the Goonies, racing away on their bikes to find the Rich Stuff. While we never found quite that much glory (not that we didn’t look), we did discover all sorts of nature’s treasures in odd nooks and wayside puddles; found ruins of the past that made us curious about our world; rode smack into unexpected moments, and love for our community. Chasing the silent magic of hot air balloons overhead. Bones in the gravel, abandoned houses, buying a May basket at the mom and pop down the road, reading in the park. Independence grew from the ground, sparked in the friction of your whirling wheels against the pavement, transferred up from your pedaling feet to your child heart- anything you wished to do, you could do. The simple self-sufficiency of riding to the store with loose change from the sidewalk to get yourself some candy, picking dandelions from cracks in the pavement, returning home sunburnt for dinner.

And someone, probably, and probably someone you loved, gave you that bike, and taught you to ride, releasing this taste of freedom in you, and allowing you to chase it. And, probably, that’s the someone who you returned home to, in the gloaming.

And the feeling of riding your bike. The melding of machines, your body and your bike working in harmony to go go go. Fast or slow, forgetting that you’re riding at all and you feel like you’re floating, or remembering and doing cool jumps, graceful swoops. The burning in your legs up the hill, the exhilaration of coasting down, your lungs filled with rushing wind and your skin tingling with the sensation of soaring. Alert and dreaming, in sunny skies or gray, racing by the houses and trees or stopping to search out a singing bird in the branches. Your back hot and sweaty with lunch in a pack on your back, and a good book, looking for a sunny spot to think, or on your way to work, or to name the wildflowers to yourself, or to see a friend, smelling the clean breeze and the spicy weeds and the sweet lake water, hearing the insects buzz as the sun blazed down, feeling the wind of cars rushing past, dinosaur growls from their fossil fueled engines.

Last spring my (now) husband bought me a bike.

I began taking little rides in the morning, getting up early to birdsong, finding the flowering trees of the neighborhood, seeing deer in the park, buying groceries for dinner. I picked up a free bike trail map. On the weekends I’d plan little adventures, everything I needed in a snail shell on my back: book, phone, scraps of paper and pen, lunch and my camera. Keep your overhead low, as Kerouac said. Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but tire marks. Spring, Summer, Autumn, I rode every extremity of the trail, which spans seven towns. Three I’ve lived in, one I work in, one I was married in, one I hike in, and all I got to know better.

It’s a funny thing, to find yourself living in the same town that you were born and raised in. Everywhere you go your memories wave at you. And sometimes you’ve grown so accustomed to what surrounds you that you’ve become blind to its delights. On my bike, I made friends with home.

Saturday mornings I had a little routine around town. Farmer’s market, starting first with the coffee man, who’d hand me a little cup black and sell me another sack of coffee, so good that I went through it in exactly one week. Then veggies galore by the season, and maybe a sunflower from the flower lady, who provided the bouquets for our wedding, and wildflowers at the tables. Then the bookstore, the library; maybe a museum exhibit, peach champagne from the new wine store, grocery shopping, a yard sale around the corner. I’d run into people, meet people, come across little shops tucked onto streets I’d never been down. Read the historical markers that blur from the car. Asked a farmer how to prepare a beet, discussed violence in the schools at the thrift store, heard about a good book I’d like.

I began to search out local events, find places I’d like to visit, things I’d like to try. I started thinking of the local spots and people as friends, no need for reciprocation. I saw garbage on the trails and grew my own sense of conservationism, weaned myself off plastic bags and unnecessary waste. I grew some pride in my community. I learned that I had stamina. Off my bike, I started hiking with my sister (in law) and loved it; we’ve joined a mountain club and are off on all sorts of adventures now! Assumptions about my own limitations fell off, not to make too cute an analogy, like training wheels. I lost a little shyness, and I learned to love feeling like a creature, dirty and sweaty and wheeling my way down an old canal towline, taking lots of pictures, looking up the history online when I returned home, checking out books from the library about our little patch of world.

When Husband wasn’t working we’d sometimes take bike rides together. We’d explore dirt paths, and find new launch sites to try in our canoe, and fly his toy helicopter, or swim in the public pool. Last autumn we rode our bikes to the little airport to see the hot air balloons going up. Down a big hill, in twilight, suddenly there was a strawberry floating by overhead.

Last summer I often rode my bike to some quiet spot, to think, and work on wedding planning- or, better, to not think or wedding plan at all. On a solo journey to a new avenue of the bike trail that Husband had told me about, I suddenly recognized where I was: riding past the backyard of the house I’d grown up in. The past and present seemed to hum in alignment- here I was, on my bike, and twenty years ago here I was, on my bike. The intervening years flashed by, I saw all sorts of interweavings and funny coincidi, which brought me to the conclusion that, simply, in a nutshell, being grown up is the bee’s knees. And life’s been very good to me.

A few weekends ago Husband and I rode our bikes down that path together, to a big park that is my favorite destination, a beautiful place with a fascinating history. We sat on the benches and shared a sandwich and I mentioned to him that there was a cleanup of the bike trail scheduled, and asked if he’d volunteer with me. Afterwards we went and visited the letterbox hidden in the park. I updated my last entry- which I’d made one week before our wedding.

This weekend, in honor of Earth Day, me and Husband got up bright and early and registered to help with the trail cleanup. It just so happened that we were assigned to that park- and began our work at the benches we’d been sitting on when I mentioned the idea. 6 hours and 16 bags of leaves latter, we’d grown blisters, sunburns, new friends, new plans, and came home feeling good and filthy dirty. I’m pretty sure that I have the best husband in the world.

All this and more came from the bike my husband bought me, that my parents taught me to ride way back.

Why would I want to ride my bike? Hop on one and you’ll know!!

“…Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then - open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.”

-Mary Oliver, ‘Such Singing in the Wild Branches’, from Owl and Other Fantasies


Photo of Bike and guest posting by Daughter of Diane