Tag: art

Houston exhibit and New Orleans Notes, No. 7

I’ll begin by telling you the truth. I was coming home from getting my hair cut a few weeks ago when I had an urgent need to go to the bathroom. So urgent that I called Tom and said shrieked, “CLEAR THE PATH TO THE BATHROOM BEFORE I GET HOME, AND WOE BE TO MAN OR BEAST WHO GETS IN MY WAY.”

It became apparent that Tom’s efforts would not be enough, and thank all that is Art that the Menil Museum was open with parking near the door, because I swear, no one is EVER in their restroom–perhaps the reason why it’s always clean. But once my urgent need was taken care of, I felt guilty. I couldn’t go to the Menil Museum to use the restroom and not visit my Rothkos. By “my” I mean the paintings that would adorn the walls of my home on The Compound were there any justice in the world. Stupid unjust world.

I never made it to my Rothkos because I stumbled over the Menil’s current exhibit: Marlene Dumas: Measuring Your Own Grave. This is its FINAL WEEKEND for any locals who might like to see this South African artist’s mid-career retrospective. Dumas’s paintings are made from photographs of people and have been described as “haunting images of sex, birth, death and political repression.” That quote is from Patricia Zohn’s excellent article for The Huffington Post, which explains it all better than I can. Dumas’s paintings are particularly timely considering the events of the past few days in Iran.

One reason the exhibit has stayed with me is that for months, while I’ve been washing dishes or watching TV or sewing doll clothes or sitting outside with the dogs or brushing my teeth or even sleeping, my mind has been grappling with the concept of art and its purpose(s). I have initiated conversations with other writers and just folks (i.e., sane people who are not writers) and strangers at the gym as I attempt to work this out in my head. Many thoughts have been triggered by recent novels I’ve read by Michael Thomas Ford and Scott Heim, as well as poetry Steven Reigns read at Saints and Sinners, and some discussions he and I had there and a message he sent me after the festival.

All I can say is that the topic hasn’t formed itself into a coherent diatribe from me. Yet. Aren’t you lucky?


Steven Reigns reading at Faubourg Marigny Art & Books.
Me with Steven in the lobby of the Bourbon Orleans.

As well as being a poet, Steven is an artist. Check out his his web site for more information about him and his work.

Today’s theme is: Blue

Bluesday is brought to you by:


My First Ken® from 1991 and Barbie circa 1997.


When I went walking the other day, I shot photos of some of my favorite buildings in the ‘hood. It’s disheartening to realize how many interesting buildings have been torn down to make room for the monolithic eyesores that brought in more traffic, more people who don’t appreciate the quirky, offbeat character of this little pocket of Midtown Houston, and more strain on our infrastructure. (I’m always marveling that a lot that once had to support one basic bathroom, one basic kitchen, and maybe a washing machine, now may serve nine-plus toilets and sinks, three or more dishwashers, three or more washing machines, an outdoor sprinkler system–need I continue?)


When Tom and I were traveling at Christmas, we found this book in the bargain section of a Barnes and Noble in Dayton. I LOVE THIS BOOK. A longtime admirer of Blue Dog, I couldn’t be more delighted with the hundreds of Blue Dog paintings it contains, more than 160 of which have never been previously published in book form. If you (or someone you know) like(s) George Rodrigue’s work in general, or his Blue Dog series specifically, find and buy this funny, haunting little book.


Finally thanks to several really generous and kind friends and family, I got my birthday present. And guess what? It’s NOT like riding a bicycle. Apparently, if you’ve ridden a bicycle for decades, you develop an instinctive sense of balance and movement when you’re turning or climbing or stopping. And that doesn’t translate to a trike. Who knew? So I’m learning again how to ride.

I love the trike; it’s very light and easy to propel. Going forward on a straight road is no big deal. But turns are dicey, and I’ve nearly tipped over a couple of times. I’m sure it’ll happen sooner or later, but I’d rather it be later if it can’t be never. Of course, all of this is complicated by the aforementioned increase in traffic in the ‘hood since I first began riding my bike here back in, I don’t know, ’96?

I promise to wear my helmet and watch for idiots on cell phones who run stop signs, speed through school zones, pull into crosswalks, and whip in and out of parking lots without paying attention to anything smaller than their bigass vehicles. It’ll be an adventure!

This nearly was mine

While mulling over ideas and possibilities and even some outlines of what I want to write next, I feel increased pressure to do something creative for my own well-being. I mentioned a project I’m working on, but I’m not ready to post photos of it yet (though I’m closer after getting some advice from Lindsey and Lynne last night).

I took my camera with me on a walk on Tuesday just in case I saw anything worth shooting. I took a lot of photos, finally realizing that I seemed more interested in textures than anything else. It’s been almost two years since I did any of my small paintings that I sell to give the proceeds to AIDS assistance organizations, and I’m hoping Tuesday’s photos will inspire more paintings.

I threw the photos into a Flickr set and kept it public, though I imagine the photos won’t be of much interest to anyone unless you, too, can be inspired by photos of not much more than texture or color.

The photo on the left is of part of a two-story duplex in the neighborhood. It was one of two places that Tom suggested I see after he did initial legwork when we were in the market for a house fourteen years ago. I never went inside it, because The Compound bungalow was my one-and-only. As soon as I stepped inside the front door, I knew it was meant to be mine. Still, even though I never looked at the duplex, my feelings for it remind me of certain flirtations from my long-ago past: enduring affection for what might have been mine.

I have to do this…

…it was the only way I could get something made by ‘Nathan.

So:

The first five people to respond to this post will get something made by me! My choice. For you.
This offer does have some restrictions and limitations:

I make no guarantees that you’ll like what I make.
What I create will be with you in mind.
It’ll be done this year.

You have no clue what it’s going to be. Right now, neither do I.
I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

The catch is that you put this in your journal as well. We all can make stuff.

ETA: Comments are now screened since I’ve gotten responses. And eventually you, my responders, will get your Becky-created items. Thanks for playing!

Art and writing

Artist Andrew Wyeth has just died at age 91. I was reading about his perspective on art a few months ago and stumbled over a quote that I wrote down:

You can lose the essence by detailing a lot of extraneous things.

I’ve always thought Wyeth’s paintings are the perfect illustration of a New England sensibility: spare, stark. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot going on. It’s the way I perceive that when someone from Maine answers a question with the affirmative “ayuh,” there’s a ton of unspoken (and intriguing) information behind it.

Contrast that to traditional Southern storytelling, which is rambling, expansive, with tons of details that seem relevant to only the speaker.

I struggle in my writing to retain the flavor of a Southern storyteller with at least a bit of a New Englander’s reticence. I can be the Queen of the Extraneous. I wish I could be a little more Andrew Wyeth.

I previously posted a picture of Andrew Wyeth’s painting Master Bedroom.

The dog in this painting looks like Rex, who’s currently on bed rest from a possible torn ligament (playing too hard with his foster brother, so at least he got it having fun). I think he may have gotten a pickle last night, along with his pain medication. I hope so.