Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Longing



In these hours,
Working the plow in straight furrows,
I doggedly seek mastery,
Yet long for beginner's mind.
Every task then was a leap of faith,
And every step a treasure.
I long to hear my Muses again, whispering
See their parade, hear their voices.
Their sense filled my heart, their peace prevailed,
These days such gifts are so rare . . .

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

So You Talk of Music



Gulag hands haven’t hurt her.
Our master, please, model always above, see romance.
Look sharp, on Crete a mother of film wants luscious delusions.

Come, you and I . . .
Get how a baby's green harmony,
This mare above him, was caught.

Smother us in a black limpid experiment.
Joy is about canvas, young-headed, sleep.
My mate, such a wild chant is Music.

Heal, have control over us! Patience! 
No time to tell about more glorious endeavors.
If Time could think . . . our anger would have every faithful share.

Balance, cuddle with empty color. Did you die?
Shimmer about rain,
Start weak sweet Daughter, choose your subject.

A fire-eye filled in light, symbols I see, offer unity,
They wasted my other canvas.
Film my aesthetic, you can use it 'till he creeps around babbling.

Choose an old soft ritual about fresh life.
Model, play your companion hard -here howls a beautiful language,
A liar's metal instrument, is totally afraid.

May you please comfort us, you won't cover all love!
Seek your last thought in Beauty
All motion starts me questioning . . .

Sculpt Angel, fill a glorious missive . . .


March 1, 2012 w/ Kerri Taylor, 
3, 4, 4-2, 5

The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Monday, October 21, 2013

Fall Chaga



Autumn comes, the leaves fall off the hardwoods, the forest opens up. One can see distant hills and mountains, and the rays of the setting sun penetrate the bare branches near sunset and scour the back of the eyes with a deep orange.

Perfect time to gather Chaga. I say 'gather' but it's more involved than that. The Chaga polypore fungus is actually a very sturdy mushroom growing like a lump of black sclerotic cork out of the side of a birch tree. It seems to take hold where the tree has been injured, bruised, or lost a branch. The Chaga fills up the void. Sometimes a Chaga mushroom can get very large. I've cut some down that weigh nearly forty pounds.

Doing this is not always easy. Most of the time, it will be within reach of my pruning saw, but not always. I've seen them a full thirty feet up. To get these monsters, I have to construct a ladder of saplings in the forest, lashing together small pieces of beech with clothesline, and lean it securely against the trunk of the birch. Hopefully this extends the reach of my saw just enough so that I can, on tiptoe, reach the sacred mushroom.

And then establishing a sawing action by activating the calves, and feet, . . . up, down, up down.

Soon I'm dusted with a fine Chaga rain. I've worked on some that have taken three sessions to get down, the first to establish a platform to cut from, and the second to do the cutting. It's an incredible strain on the neck, looking up and working the arms or feet up and down.

Eventually the big mushroom comes off, and if it is over a few pounds, you want to be well out of the way.

Boom!

Usually it takes me two or three hours of looking to find the first Chaga, then, as if they were in touch with each other, I find seven or eight in a row. Even a random walk into a new section of woods five minutes before sunset leads me right to a monster Chaga.

I always wonder about this. My cousin Wyeth spent all summer searching a section of state forest for Chaga, and had no luck. Then one morning he leaned his bicycle against a healthy birch with no Chaga growing out of it, and went for a long hike.

When he returned, the largest Chaga mushroom he had ever seen was growing right out of the tree above his bicycle. He swears to this.

Perhaps Chaga is a master of camouflage, and can trigger neuronal activity in the brain, thus hiding itself. The Siberians consider Chaga a god, hence the capitalization. Chaga is a King, who marries the princess Birch tree. Like Raven, another deity of the north, Chaga seems to control what you see and hear.

Done right, both the Chaga, and the birch tree, will take no notice of the harvesting. The sclerotium will continue to grow in size provided the base is left intact.

Chaga culture has spread through our little community in the Adirondacks like wildfire. Everyone's drinking it, brewing it in different ways, making alcohol extractions, serving it hot and nutty flavored with maple syrup and raw milk, or cold and thin like ice coffee in the summertime.

I have some cousins that are roaming the woods marking the location of every Chaga they see on their GPS.

I never seem to remember my camera when I go Chaga hunting, perhaps because the added weight makes carrying the Chagas, and the pruning saw out of the woods that much more difficult. But a harvest of Chaga is a thing of beauty, like a bucket full of blueberries, or a creel full of trout. I'll wrap them all up in an old sheet and carry them out like Santa's sack, over one shoulder.

More hard work comes after I get them home. They have to be cut into small pieces, though lately I've been keeping one or two larger chunks to use directly in the kitchen with a wood rasp to make a quick expresso-like infusion.

Busting it up into chunks is hard. It doesn't respond well to sawing unless bolted down or held in a vise. Some chop it up with an axe, but that sends pieces flying everywhere. The best way is to get to it quickly with a butcher's cleaver or a chisel. This year I used a pile of boards set on a thick carpet covered with a sheet to catch the dust and smaller bits, and a heavy mallet and old broad wood chisel to do the breaking. It took about two hours to chop up the load pictured here into one inch chunks.

Chaga has an interesting structure. The inside is laced with whitish veins that connect to the tubules in the birch tree bark. From this it gets the sap. The very base is circled usually with a few spirals of birch bark, the result of the Chaga growing and expanding inside the hole made by the downed branch. Most of the polypore structure is orange-brown and cork-like. The outside is covered by a thick black very porous layer rich in melanin. I believe this layer evaporates water constantly, acting like the leaves of the branch that fell off. This preserves the roots assigned to that branch, keeping the anchorage for the birch, and at the same time, ensuring the Chaga's supply of sap.

While cutting it apart I notice more Chaga rain all over my clothes, dust that flies off with each blow of the mallet. The powder makes an excellent super strong drink, great for brewing right away.

Language on Pots

My pottery has hit a new obsession - language.

Drawing and writing seem to be merging onto ceramic form.

I can't let the figure alone! Drawings are starting to morph into a kind of shorthand, the figure becomes a kind of pictographic script.

A starting point for the evolution of a new kind of thinking.

A graffiti, or scrawl of a Buddhist poet.

Figure drawing is the departure point. It has nothing to do with taste. I haven't made ten thousand brush strokes of pine or bamboo with a brush made from the tail of a dog. I haven't mastered 10,000 Kanji characters or practiced the English calligraphy with the broad quill of a turkey.

But I have drawn, from life, and from my imagination, with my life. I'll take the reflexes learned from that kind of drawing, and turn it into a kind of shorthand, a code if you like, that reduces the language of the figure, and turns it towards writing. Towards sense . . . towards commentary.

My goal is to do this in ceramic where another force enters the picture, fire and fusion of glazes and oxides on the surface of the pot. This radically changes the outcome.

On some of my tea-bowls I'll do a quick landscape and then subject that bit of study to the blasting of a wood-fire  where the ash runs, and drips and destroys half of what I've drawn or written.



In such bowls my attempt at landscape are minimal, a dash for a horizon, a slash for a tree, a scribble for a bush, a sloping line for a roof.

The fire transforms the statement.

So lately I've been experimenting with ways the fire can transform the language of the figure. Here's an example:


But what about using the reflexes of the hand, the brush, to simplify and reduce the language of the figure?



So I began to think of the figure as a kind of package of options. What sort of hat, what sort of face, what sort of belly, pose, etc. . .  and then how, in a brief shorthand, can this be put into almost comic strip form.

Doing this requires suspending conscious thought and instead drawing instinctively. I'll think in advance generally about each drawing . . . for instance a few days before I glaze I'll say to myself, "I'll put witches hats on some women, and fancy wide brim hats on others . . " but then when the brush is in my hand I'll draw without even thinking of hats or breasts or bodies at all. I scribble literally, and let the brush run wild. . . . 




As one interested in language, poetry and coding, How much I can put into this script? 

Actions carry content, but some actions contain a muddle of inputs, and the result is not decipherable. The problem of language is one of efficiency. How much meaning can be encoded into a single brushstroke? What is the depth of culture that can fit into a single action or movement?

Letting the subconscious mind turn drawings into letters was a process that mankind achieved over a period of at least ten thousand years. From cave paintings to the Phoenician aleph is a long journey.


Is it possible to create a personal language based on drawn forms and accomplish that process in one lifetime?

If so, then the fire that is making the transformation is not kiln fire, but fire of the mind.


Thursday, October 17, 2013

A Boat in the Sky



Each fall it's time to drain the pipes, put antifreeze in the traps, clean out the fridge, fold up the dirty linen, and wash all the dishes carefully and cover them with tin foil (a vain attempt to foil the winter frolics of mice).

My daughter's red plastic kayak, which sits on the porch most of the summer, must be brought in. Don't get me wrong. She paddles beautifully, and for fishing, cannot be beat. Her form is sculptural, even seductive. Her hips are ample, her beam broad enough to support the stoutest person in comfort, or a young girl with a swift paddle in water skimming ecstasy.

Being a plastic boat she does not measure for a prestigious slot in the boathouse, where the family's guide-boats sit mustily all winter, gleaming in their spruce and cedar perfection, hewed of micro-thin lapped boards that match perfectly, laced together with thousands of small copper tacks.

She is not that. Yet some craftsman and boat-maker did labor long and hard at her form. Tested her in the water, approved her for use by children, as well as experienced adult paddlers. Then kicked out by the thousands from a mold.

My first boat lives in that family boathouse, one that my grandfather offered to me in his declining years, if I would carry it in from a far flung location on the property, then restore it lovingly. For decades, it had resisted the incisors of porcupines gnawing its oar handles for the salt, and the occasional whack from a black bear, albeit from the outside. For a decade after moving it out of the wet and away from animal predations, it followed me, like a loyal beast, in various turns, living with me in my New York apartment, in a loft on Greene Street, and in my parent's basement in Connecticut.

My grandfather called it a 'stream-boat', at fourteen feet it could handle two men and a deer easily, on the lower reaches of the Shingle Shanty. It was drawn to turn effortlessly, yet glide straight as a scull across the smooth ripples of the stream. Rowing her in dry times took skill, but with a draft of barely an inch with one passenger, she could be run up over the top of a beaver dam, allow the passengers out, and then a moment to tow her over the other side. The speed and carrying capability of a guide-boat far outstripped the canoes of Maine design brought to the region later by sportsmen.

Her ribs were of impeccably bent spruce roots, with bottom board of cedar, the very highest degree of wood craftsmanship in any culture, during any period.

How many family histories might be told through boats? This I wonder bemusedly, as I haul our little pudgy plastic kayak indoors each fall, into the living room of our little cottage, named 'Meadow's Edge' by my father. Then, huffing and grunting, I lift her bow up into a strap loop which I've thrown over the rafter above. Then the stern. Then moving a chair between bow and stern, I cinch her up closer and closer to the single rough hewn rafter above, until her keel almost touches. She is upside down, hanging in the air, and so will remain all winter.

Night falls, I relax on the floor, for some yoga, only the flicker from the wood-stove to illuminate the little dark cavern of this cottage. I gaze up at Maya's kayak, upside down, ready to embark upon a journey through the heavens, an upside down journey . . . to where?

In the haze of the yellow embers of the fire, the logo "Old Town" reads like a palindromic reflection of a logo for "Coca-Cola". I yoga my way downstream afloat on an oversized red bottle of Coke. I ride into the underworld and cross the river Styx.

The fire in the stove surges, wind picking up outside. My sky vessel spins like a compass needle upon the magnetic currents of an aery void. It leaps and swings to the rhythm of rapids in another world.

I launch upon a series of inverted yoga poses. Head bent back in shoulder stand I play with my feet against the outline of my craft in the sky. I surf the bream of the heavens. I am 'Dead Man' about to be put adrift in the Pacific with all my earthly belongings, sent to a sea burial in the West.

Somehow I transition from yoga into bed. Dawn arrives. The ritual continues, mop the floor, clean under the disk drain. Sweep the back porch. Unload the fridge. Turn off the gas. Prop the refrigerator door open. A last look.

Maya's kayak swings in the breeze of the open door. Is that a goodbye? She will be here in the spring.

Is the world that we inhabit, all floating in a boat that is upside down?

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