Tag Archives: art

Leaves of Grass: Water, Field, Canyon, Cattail

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One hour to madness and joy! O furious! O confine me not!
(What is this that frees me so in storms?
What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)


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O the puzzle, the thrice-tied knot, the deep and dark pool, all
untied and illumin’d!
O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
To be absolv’d from previous ties and conventions, I from mine and
you from yours!

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To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!
To have the gag remov’d from one’s mouth!
To have the feeling to-day or any day I am sufficient as I am.

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O something unprov’d! something in a trance!
To escape utterly from others’ anchors and holds!
To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!
To court destruction with taunts, with invitations!
To ascend, to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!

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To rise thither with my inebriate soul!
To be lost if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy.

Walt Whitman (condensed version)

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She stood in the arroyo and cried.

Sat on the long bench overlooking her childhood –so much memory in rural

in field

the early desert days 17 years ago + 15 before that and who she was then

in canyon

the map rolled open before her

the mountains

the men

the fork in the road

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the hummingbird demands attention and why not . . .

such beauty in flutter

the hike the pond the bath

flow together weave and stitch and surrender

a dive into water  opens the heart

and when the head rests floating the body floating the sound of bullfrog croak

a duck a bird a wind through long grass and cattail

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a life –and lichen

Cliff River Springs

Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet currently living in Santa Fe, NM.  Her piece: Beauty Betty Bingo: Still Developing is part of an invitational group exhibition opening at the International Gallery of Contemporary Art (IGCA) in Anchorage, Alaska on September 4th.

Posted in Brenda Roper, Studio Art Also tagged , , , , , , |

Visionomatic & other Artful Images

Visionomatic

VISIONOMATIC by Roger Evans

A few notes from an artful weekend. It began with wine & roses at Casa Rondena in honor of a graduate (thank you Kate & congratulations!!), an overnight retreat at a cheerful Victoria airbnb (with a pink claw foot tub –yes fabulous) in a historic downtown ABQ neighbor –walking distance to the famed Artichoke Café and the Grove Café & Market. I enjoyed them both immensely. One in the company of a dear friend and one in my own good company.

Beauty Betty & Bingo

Beauty Betty & Bingo

New territory and exactly what was needed, apparently, to jump start my “mother” project for upcoming exhibit in Alaska.

Happy Mother’s Day too!!  Love you Mom.

A change of scenery. A gathering with friends. Good food. A little shopping. A lot of art. Big skies and blustery weather with swirling clouds that only caused to invigorate the spirit. Especially after a “happen upon” #34 at the Placitas Studio Tour. Roger Evans. The imagination of a visionary with wild abandon, and Barnum too, right out of the (animal) cracker box. That experience filled me with such heart and possibility I thought I might fly away. . . with the pig. Or the aliens.  He offers the option of both. And a snapdragon for the ladies. Thank you. If you haven’t been you can visit by appointment. I wouldn’t wait. Go NOW.  A few images to tease you. I might add there was a moment of snow falling (though no accummulation).  It only heightened the joy.

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the vision of Roger Evans:  art, life, living, sculpture, imagination

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If you haven’t been to Metallo Gallery in Madrid please do that too. The fifth annual miniature exhibit is up through May. Fun stuff and much of it under $100. All work is 6”x6” or under and represents emerging to well-known New Mexican artists. Here’s a glimpse. . .

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And of course a trip to Madrid is always a treat.

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See you later. . .

Brenda is an artist and occasional poet who lives on a one-way alley in a historic neighborhood in downtown Santa Fe.  She continues work on her Primitive Seamstress Series in between walking dogs, wine tasting, and travel.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.

Posted in Blog, Studio Art Also tagged , , |

The Path of Finding Your True Nature

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I recently read a blog by a writer, a kindred spirit, on a DIY Retreat. Do it yourself.  She mentions solitude.  How it can suck you into a place so deep you blink when you come back, face to face with a real person.  The point when one goes away for a month is generally to focus uninterrupted into a deeper level of creativity.  A time to reflect and walk or run and write or art.  To swim and dream and grieve.  To feel. To find yourself flowing in the current of a project from your heart, or simply free yourself from the day to day routine, to allow access to the deeper parts of language.  To beginnings and prompts and pay attention.

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I think back to my own DIY Art Retreat.  The joy of waking each day into one of my own making.  It felt simple.  Though I had no income I did not worry.  My work before me.  My focus.  My abundance on the table.  It was there and rising like homemade bread.  The beauty of being present in each moment.  In the stitch and the idea.  In the walk on the beach.  In the reflection of the cypress.  Sometimes the phone call from a friend felt intrusive as I made my way back to the surface to engage in that voice to voice world.  Emerging from deeper and further and far.

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Since I’ve returned I write a poem entitled “Missing January” as the world runs forward and I scramble to catch up.  Already March.  Spring is coming.  Daylight has sprung forward. Rain in the forecast.  Lovely all and despite the 7 inches of snow on Friday the ground outside my window is already bare.  Warmed by the sun. The snow melt deeply inhaled by the shallow roots of the high desert.

his Solitude (underpinning) --detail

But it is the significance of solitude. How easy to slip into that place devoid of interaction with others.  Face to face. During my retreat there were times I asked myself did I speak to another person today, out loud, or only respond to the thoughts inside my head? I asked myself this nearly everyday for 30 days — though there were interactions. In passing with my respectful host or the cashier at the grocery store or an exchange at the Farmer’s Market. A nod to a person on the path and once a real conversation with a woman at a florist setting out pots of pansies.  She had moved from Michigan and warned me against the road south to Apalachicola and the high crime in St. Pete. Though I went anyway and loved them both.

winterchairsnowInteraction can be dangerous.  The fear and opinions of others can sway or change your mood entirely.  Take you out and away and far, or it can circle back to self-reflection.  That is what I’m learning.  About myself.  The importance to socialize or engage with people; friends or strangers or within a community, is to spring yourself into the battle zone.  Often there is reward.  I am learning who I am through my ability, or lack of, this face to face blink in the sunlight interaction with other people.  It can be painful, tight-in-the-chest want to control anxiety, or equally delightful. An indicator to the better path.  The most true.  The joy of easy friendship and mutual admiration and connection. And to the discomfort of standing up, taking charge, saying no or redirecting and breaking the pattern that leads to nowhere new.  The guilt and letting go and acceptance.

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A friend of mine wrote this line:  the birds are still enthusiastic in spring.  I hear them now this sunny morning.  Monday.  The opportunities are mine for the taking if only I value myself. Enough. Know my heart and honor my true nature: art, writing, photography, walking, wine and travel.  Quietude and ocean and family and friendship.  The occasional roasted chicken.  The possibility of direction becomes obvious.  Trusting that it will.  And always imagination.  To color outside the lines and take the path less traveled by — if that be yours.  Go now.

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Brenda lives in a small casita in Santa Fe, NM where she continues to work on her Primitive Seamstress series. Watch for her work in the upcoming miniatures show at Metallo Gallery in Madrid.  Dates TBA.

 

 

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Primitive Seamstress: Last week of the Artist Retreat

alice

Firstly I want to thank those of you that recognize and honor this month away from my day job: Personal Assistant (that has me schlepping from housesit to dog walk, from Point A to Point B,  to the P.O or shoe repair to consignment shop or up the down staircase and no guarantee of income except the consistent 12 hours M/W/F afternoons) that this is an Artist Retreat. It is not a vacation.

Vacation conjures up dinners on foreign sidewalks, frolic in the ocean and the chance for intimate encounter, hmmm maybe an Italian chef who sings and plays guitar.  Paid time off (gasp)! –That is not this.  In the corporate world this might be a business trip with reimbursement and expense account.  Not that either.

This is beautiful.  Perfect.  Present.  — except these brief distractions of explanation–forgive me.  So now I’ve said it.

This is an ARTIST RETREAT.

Granted there are vacation similarities and the possibility of most of the above. Maybe just semantics but still. The Artist Retreat comes with intention and a whole lot of solitude (which is the point).

A time to focus on the pursuit of the Primitive Seamstress, long walks on a long beach, and to thrive in the salt air that is too cold for swimming, in its perfect off-season bursts of fog and red flag days to amazing emerald calm and too early for tourists. This is gifted time away from the demands of daily life. Time to indulge in the creative process uninterrupted by obligation to others, though not completely cut off of course. There is wifi and I partook in the recent Facebook Artist Challenge. Thank you Katherine Coons for the nomination.

True it is of my own making. Thank you Brenda. Best gift I’ve ever given myself.  No Creative Capital or Lannan Foundation funding though I am grateful for the generosity of a few who bought into the art exchange/donation that helped with gas money for the 4 day road trip from Santa Fe to Santa Rosa Beach (1400 miles +).

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And it has been fruitful.  The Primitive Seamstress Series well underway.

An honest beginning.

And the blog and the Thursday poem.

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BrecopperriverI think back to other times I’ve taken leaps of faith for adventure.  A 28 day backpacking trip through the Escalante canyons of Utah. In June. Bare bones. A blanket and a cup.  At 22.  I lost 13 pounds. Ten months later I quit school early to raft the Grand Canyon for 21 days.  1983. Again 8 years later. These were in a life long before I realized I was an artist. Since then there have been trips to Mexico for painting and poetry and Spanish lessons.  A bicycle tour in Tuscany. A month at the Vermont Studio Center and four years at El Zaguan on Canyon Road.

A friend posted a quote on FB recently (below).  Some might find it corny but it resonated with me in my forever search for purpose, identity, a safe place to reside, a creative balance — how to proceed toward ‘the dream’ if you don’t know what it is –and how does a person not know their dream?  Wow! that is the question.

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If you can’t figure out your purpose
figure out your passion.
For your passion will lead you
right into your purpose.
                   —Bishop T.D. Jakes
 

I know that travel is a passion.  Process my vehicle.  That the first step is to value yourself.  To create your own happiness.  To write your own dream. To let go of judgment (self and others) and to take a deep breath and open the door.  Who knows where it might lead you.

 

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Sometimes I dream of flying over the Chugach

Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet who lives in Santa Fe, NM.  She is currently at an Artist Retreat in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida.  Her work can be seen at the International Gallery of Contemporary Art (IGCA) in Anchorage in February 2015 or visit Art Happenings.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.

Posted in Artist retreat, Blog, Santa Rosa Beach, Travel Also tagged , , , |

From Cerrillos to South Capitol

Poet applause in my heart

I wake into a Sunday of NPR discussion of Evangelical adoptions and Irish music and texting about a new odd job —to add to the five I already have in that slow flexible climb to enough a month for living.   I wake from a dream that spews forth like the Pavlof volcano erupting in Alaska.  Percolating notions and stand-ins for something important all mixed together and exploding from my unconscious.  The most vivid: the boa constrictor emerging from the side of the yard that is really a bedroom who turns into an alligator at the curb and flies across the street to climb a concrete porch where it is now a psychedelic lion with pink and purple flowers all beautiful and strong on the stoop.  Whoa.  From fear to glory.  And I fly too.  On my back, levitating in a long hall while two men look on.  As if I have to prove myself.  To rise up from “the help” wiping the salad dressing off the floor.  Okay.  Enough.  But I find dreaming fascinating.  And at the end of it all 34A appears.  A long ago number on a hospital bracelet that belonged to my mother.  Her room.  I made art out of it 10 years ago.  What are these messages?  These stories unfolding?

 

On Thursday I take my car in for brakes and walk from Cerrillos to South Capitol.  It is morning and I walk in the shadow of the buildings on the East side of the street as if I am in a foreign country.  Alive and elated and joyful.  Where does that come from:  a walk outside the perimeter of our own lives?  A change of direction?  Graffiti and signage and the dishevelment of an old street.  Gritty.  I like gritty.  I take out my new smartphone to snap photos as I go.  It so thin and heavy and I fear I may drop it.  I feel a bit conspicuous but that doesn’t matter.  Really.  At Baca Street I push the button to cross and take myself to Counter Culture where I’ve not been and eat the best lemon poppyseed cake ever with an equally delicious latte at a table by the wall beneath the art of photographs for pets.  The phone rings.

I rise to the occasion of the question and outside find a path I did not know that carries me all the way to the Railyard Park in a matter of minutes.  Past the community garden.  The Rail Runner runs and I pause to take its picture.  On my way to work but I have a moment to spare.  And now I vow to do that weekly.  A walk from this neighborhood to that neighborhood on a path that will carry to coffee.  To rambling thoughts of possibility and a person I use to be — on other paths.  In other places.

In this slow coming spring the days pass without focus.  A blur of interview and company and shuttle here and there.   The Etsy site undone.  The blog unwritten.  No poetry for Wednesday.  But there has been art.  In Microscale in Madrid at Metallo Gallery and An Affair with the Muse at Kristin Johnson Fine Art in Santa Fe where my work shares the walls with other artists, known and emerging and the joy of friendship and good times and wine and food and walking beneath the stars of the New Mexico sky.  A glimpse at  “behind-the-scenes” of movie making on porches and side streets and vans with kitchens on Armijo.  Those yellow signs with letters sideways and upside down that instruct those in the know on where to go.

 

And the trip to the Gulf Coast of Florida that blew open my closed perceptions has come and gone and my photos not posted or sent to friends, but still I keep the weather of St. Pete on my homepage.  Just in case.  I check rentals on craigslist and subscribe to a newsletter and the Warehouse Arts District but will the humidity be too big an obstacle? And my mom has gone into the hospital and is out again as I plan a trip back for the family reunion.  For my birthday.  To get together with sisters and brothers and cousins and those aunts and uncles that remains.  A hug to my dad and hopefully more than 30 minutes.  So hard to fit it all in.  A moment here and dashing off for a moment there.  Maybe a swim in a lake, a walk on the beach of Lake Michigan, wine tasting and a walk in the country but how to get from Detroit to Durand?  No public transportation that allows independence except a car I won’t really need and one might as well pay the difference to fly into the local airport.  For convenience but it is steep.  Pause.

Everything is changing.

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Today a poetry reading in Eldorado.  200 NM poems.  I will sit in the audience to applaud the poets.  Important to applaud the poets.

Go well into the tomato starts, the basil outside the door, the pots of pansies that make you smile.  Through whatever gate you walk into whatever street you travel onto that path that carries us forward.  To life without fear.  To love.  To ourselves in all our imperfect beauty and authenticity.

Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet who lives too far from the ocean but loves her new digs in South Capitol.  Her work can be seen at Kristin Johnson Fine Art or hereIn Microscale is up through the end of May at Metallo Gallery in Madrid.  Studio visits welcome and by appointment.

 

 

Posted in Dreams, Poetry, South Capitol, Travel Also tagged , , , , , , , |

March madness (not a shopping expedition)

March came on Friday.  Rabbit rabbit. A madness that blows in with the longing for spring.  The return of  light and warmth and hope for our weary winter souls.  Though we carry on.  Make our plans.  I felt disoriented.   Last week my balance off kilter.  Unsure where to be when, double booking.  Then pause.  Who’s on first?  Full moon.  A gentle interlude.  Obsession and isolation and be patient.  I feed myself movies and rice.  And today the sun shines so brilliant on flowers inside my house.  All the joy floods through the door.

Random thoughts from a weekend where winter reigned — beneath a full moon:

  • they call them “designer dogs” –crossing a Labrador with a standard poodle.  Labradoodle.  Originated in Australia. Love the Besa dog
  • to MAC or not to mac –and cheese.  PC?  These questions and iPhone or Droid and options and do I really need a smart phone?
  • I could run away my winter fat on the Dale Ball trails.  Or run away.
  • panic at being poor though not homeless and the perspective that brings it all back to grateful am I and so rich despite the bank balance and lucky too and talk to sisters and friends and take a bath and take a hike and maybe a walk on the wilder side of my nature.
  • Homeland has caught my attention and I cringe when Carrie goes through shock therapy thinking she’s wrong when she is the only one who has it right.  Still the label of crazy too convenient for dismissal in a world that does not allow for other. (I know it’s only sitcom).


And today the hope of spring prevails.  Fresh chard from the Farmer’s Market.  The mailman’s radio tuned to a ball game.  Bring me some peanuts and cracker jacks. . . permeated my sense of accomplishment at using day-glo zip ties to repair my dryer rack.  My version of duct tape.  I sat it in the yard feeling happy with laundry.  Sat in the sun talking on the phone to my big sister.  Chicken in the oven.  A glass of French pinot.

 


And I am painting.  Oil.  Glazing.  Small works on canvas.  Are they equations or villages or walls — or simply abstract shapes without narration?  Do I scribble more or less?  Excavate.  Smooth over.  Draw.  Then wipe it all away.  I am intuitive but the paintings do not feel intuitively painted.  Expressive yes but still I hold back.  Uncertain.  How to proceed.  When to stop?  Outline or blend?  What tool works best with oil?  I experiment. I am a trial and error artist.  Some call it process.  Not to be confused with progress though I believe I am making some.  Progress.

A friend gifted me 6 inches of Art News.  I look through the pages.  Tear out an image.  The cat rolls on her back.  I tape up an abstract by Lillian Orlowsky (who studied with Hans Hoffman).  Her foundation PAAM offers a grant to painters over 45.  Check it out!

 

What do you think?

I’m hopeful the gallery might be interested.  For the May opening.  Small works.  And if not I am still having fun.  On my path.  Figuring it out — one painting at a time.

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Brenda is a visual artist and occasional poet who works as a Personal Assistant/Girl Friday to a variety of interesting people in Santa Fe, NM.  Please visit her website for more images of her work.  Studio visits welcome by appointment.

Posted in Blog, Studio Art Also tagged , , , |

endings, beginnings and 9 degrees. . .

I just finished the bag of sea salt & vinegar potato chips I purchased on Labor Day weekend –they expired at the end of the year.  Washed down with a bottle of winter brew dark beer still in my refrigerator from the holidays because everyone drinks wine instead.  Me too but today it felt right.  One beer.  Late afternoon.  Sunday football I do not watch though I know the Broncos lost and a friend is rooting for Seattle.  And though sunny outside it is well below freezing.  A day worthy of the bomber hat and big boots.  The beer, the salty potato chips, the rest of the Trader Joe’s chicken salad with cranberries and all those calories (justified) because I am moving.  Across town.

Pulling out the stove in one house to clean and pulling out the stove in the other.  To clean too.  Apparently something built a nest beneath the stove top, and between the wall and the oven since the last tenant.  Or maybe the last tenant never cooked and those curled up leaves are from a former former tenant who had a little grow operation.  This might explain the problem with the deadbolt on the front door and the reason it was not working yesterday.  Or the fact it was 9 degrees.  Or operator failure.  Or because the doorjamb has been pried open with a crow bar so many times the entire door is broken inside, but the landlord wants to make it right.  Has. Lovely people.  Thank you.  — still I’m pushing for a new door +  a screen door too.  With a little eye hook.  For summer.

It is a sweet little loft casita.  I will be happy there.  A gate for greeting.  A chile ristra against the adobe.  The light is fantastic and I have my own yard and coyote fence, for privacy and entertaining.  Don’t laugh.  I do occasionally invite friends over.  That said I like that it is on a one-way alley and not exactly easy to explain the exact location or how to drive to arrive.  The wall outside my kitchen window is built of stone.  Picturesque.  It feels country European to me. I  pretend I am near the vineyards of Tuscany though happily in Santa Fe.   South Capitol.  I will plant sunflowers and geraniums and sit beneath my umbrella to bask in their beauty.

Leaving El Zaguan is not without pangs of “will miss you” –the most charming apartment and compound ever, creative neighbors/friends, fantastic staff who leave little gifts outside my door:  firewood, rusty metal, boxes, a painted glass, vintage linens, donuts and books and clothes. . .good memories.  It has been fun and fruitful and I am happy for the experience(s).  Did I sit on the porch swing often enough on summer Sunday afternoons?  Walk around the garden?  Look at the stars?  For those creative types looking for an artful life in 500+ square feet I hope you consider applying to the Historic Santa Fe Foundation.

 

Life and the New Year are filled with a celebration of  endings and beginnings.  One job ends another door opens.  That kind of thing.  Change and poetry and art in new places.  Four of my 12”x12” oil on canvas will be part of the small works room at the new Kristin Johnson fine art gallery located at 323 East Palace in Santa Fe (across from La Posada).  I hope you can make the New Year’s Opening Reception this Friday January 18th from 5-8pm.  The gallery features a fantastic selection of contemporary fine art including abstract expressionism, encaustic and photography.  I am thrilled to be a part of this great addition to the Santa Fe art scene.

Transition

On the writing front I  rekindled a poetry group after a long hiatus.  Actually a resurgence of the one from Alaska.  Just Mike and I at the moment.  Trusted friends. We miss you Jim.  Perhaps inspired by the combining of art and poetry in the Odes & Offerings exhibition of last spring or the current Voice to Image exhibit at Vivo Contemporary where Mike (Burwell) responded to the work of Ro Calhoun and read his poem at the opening last week.  Or perhaps it was simply time to begin again.  The poem I brought to the table, begun in May 2011 and untouched until a few weeks ago, is a long two page ramble peppered with memory and lyricism, about meeting my biological father.  Maybe I’ll read it at the upcoming reading at El Zaguan –the 2nd in a series of on-going readings by writers/artists in residence.  Sunday afternoon January 27th, 2013.  545 Canyon Road, Santa Fe. Free and open to the public.  Time TBA.

 

Posted in Brenda Roper, Poetry, Studio Art Also tagged , , , , , , |

Out and about: the studio, the art and the neighborhood

Art and love and the luminosity of such things. . .

I enjoy snippets of my own apartment/studio as fodder for contemplation and inspiration –here a very cool wooden decoy duck yellow eye found object from the yard of a friend and on my chair often I find gifts, a vintage speedometer that I love (thank you. . .?), a paper bag filled with vintage doilies, a bucket of gesso, a copy of Blue Mesa and other literary magazines, and sometimes a note directing me to offerings of rusty wire and such, donuts and other treats. . .$20 in the handle of my door for the wifi we share.

Ahoy! there potential patrons and weary wanderers can we entice you in for cider and clementines. . .a nickel and we’ll tell your fortune or you can tell ours.  Happy Holidays!! Art for sell or for free (to look)  come in, have a seat, stay awhile tell your friends.  Pretty quiet on Canyon but a beautiful day.  We gather together in harmony. Patty Griffin making pies all day no one doing laundry.  Asti and chocolate and no snow falls. Still darkness comes early.

El Zaguan Holiday Exhibition 545 Canyon 12-4pm on Saturdays through December and most weekdays

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Up  the block I’m feeding the cat of a friend, and the pigeons, and really it is a bit of a backyard menagerie with the extremely social Polish chickens in feathers of  gray and white and black –with showy tufts on top. . .dancing madly across the yard to greet me at the gate.  Every time like the first. Time. What joy in their unconditional adoration.  Who knew? I smile just to think of them.  Their curiosity open and delightful and free from fear.  Peck peck nibble. Squawk.

Already December.  Narcissism on my mind and really it sounds like a new age ailment/affliction and too noble or needy or (really?  how did I get here –again?) to discuss though it is alive and well and sadly I bang my head against self-doubt and responsibility and action as I take steps to extract myself from the clutches of what is no longer benign. And remind myself:  It is okay to have an opinion.  To (agree to) disagree.  To be separate from your lover, boss, friend. . .etc.   I am not an appendage.  Not your appendage.  Enlightenment comes knocking knocking library books and conversation and a few tears on the walk this afternoon.  I use to cry everyday –my (ab)normal and now so seldom.  From one extreme to the other we go at times to find our way back to center. To balance.  To nature and hiking and phone calls to sisters. When one door closes another opens —they say.  A whole lifetime ahead of me.  Grandma lived to 96 and my mother just celebrated her 80th birthday.  Love those chickens.

Posted in Studio Art Also tagged , , , , |

Election Day: a walk to the polls

Election night after one of the most beautiful fall days in Santa Fe.  The first Tuesday after the first Monday in November.  2012.  Only one week ago Superstorm Sandy pummels the east coast and today New York votes Obama.  A million people still without power.  Is that possible?  The results are rolling in.  From East to West.  Florida and Ohio too close to call.  People still standing in line as the count rolls across the Mississippi.  NBC is calling Obama.  NPR too soon to tell.  The polls still open in Alaska though we all know where that will go.  . .Texas, Wyoming, North & South Dakota.  And how any woman can cast a vote for the Republican candidate is beyond me but still some do.

I am amazed at how close and opposing this country can be.  Do not insert here my opinion on how the 2nd time Bush was elected (excuse me as I clear my throat –I mean “stole” the election) . . .  Too much too easy too little choice.   Take the money out of the campaign.  Still the process is processing.  Hope is the new revival.  The votes are being tallied.  The good volunteers at election central earnest and friendly and helpful as they direct me to the 47 Precinct table where I give my name and it is found and I sign at the number indicated.  The ballot is given with easy to understand instructions as I’m directed to the booth in the corner.  No curtain.  No TSA asking for my photo ID.  I keep my shoes on.  Bottle water is permitted.  No x-ray when I pick up the pen and shade in the oval –all the ovals — regressing to kindergarten I try (really hard) to stay within the lines.  No one rushes.  No line out the door.  Only a sunflower at the fence and a man handing me  I voted  sticker when I slide my ballot into the machine.

It is a lovely walk.  Everything is yellow.  Brass like a trumpet blasting hope up the scales and back.  In tune.  I buy a donut in celebration.  Thrilled to walk home just around the block.  I love my neighborhood.  No interference.  Sunshine and silence.  Not even 8am. A man walks his dog.  Yesterday I had a red head moment all juicy and bold but really I’m a blonde.  Not the dumb kind.  But the midwest good girl believe in the possible.  I set aside my own cynicism and the visible violent bully militant mentality too prevalent in this America to ride a wave of hopefulness on this election day.

 

 

Brenda is a socialist at heart and an artist currently living at El Zaguan, the oldest artist colony on Canyon Road.  Today she cast her vote for Obama.  This weekend her art was one of 32 works featured in the Juried Exhibit at Recycle Santa Fe where she met some very nice people and helped sell the #1 juried piece (very cool) to a very excited patron.  It was all very sweet.  The focus on reduce/reuse/recycle a lesson to carry inside and outside the home and studio.

 Go ART.  Go Obama.  Go well into this good election night.

 

 

 

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A morsel of happiness. . .

Sound bites from the weekend:  Bowling is a working class sport  and I wonder why the uptown girl is hanging with the Bud Light guy but then realize neither are living up to their potential.  Like a magnet.  And I associate “meek” with STUPID because isn’t that what people mean when they think it?  Some even say it aloud Meek. Cringe. Because you are quiet logical pragmatic you don’t have a personality, or the capacity to think, or much to offer the plugged in party down hoe hum don’t sweat the small stuff no consequence mentality.  Okay.  Fair is fair.  Fuck you.

Potential –yes! always inspiration for the possible.

 

 

The pull of the moon.

Gravity.

Let us walk on water.

 

On the bright side I sold a piece of art this weekend.  Thank you EAI.  The Visa appreciates it too.  The other small art kudo is getting a piece accepted into the Recycle Santa Fe Juried Exhibition that opens November 2, 2012 at the Santa Fe Convention Center on Marcy Street.  Oh and the beauty of moon rise over the Sangre de Cristos with a lavender fade over autumn in the river down the block with no water.  Six (6) inches of snow in Montana as the east coast prepares for Hurricane Sandra and I long to be entertained. Escape.  Thank you Gwarlingo for poetry that spikes the senses.  James Arthur. Has won every fellowship I’ve ever dreamed of.  He looks young but obviously that is unimportant.  My friend Mike is a poet.  Sometimes me too.  The part-time poet.  Ha.

Started a fire with one match and I’m a water sign.  That is supposed to matter so quite a feat I suppose and I love the ambiance.  Lists are made and doilies discussed in great detail.  How to stiffen. Kept me busy on Saturday.  Research. Wallpaper paste still a favorite but I Google options and really the cornstarch and distilled water is a bust without the addition of glue. Spray starch on the ironing board for next time.  Or nada.  The 2 cups boiled water with sugar seemed too sticky before Christmas– but I have an idea.  The shopping carts filled then emptied.  Like the tide.  Pearl iridescent.  Jog bra.  I dream of money and horses and coffee.  Sleep is good.  An old friend flew to Cuba.  Today. Bon voyage.  He suggests a dremel with a fine tip for signing the bronze.  Signatures are important.  Picasso.  Sotheby’s.  Brenda Roper apparently.

Nothing remarkable still there is happiness.  My mother turns 80 a month from tomorrow (which is quite remarkable).  Go mom.  Happy Birthday.  She likes Bingo.  Dancing. Cards. Staying up late to watch the news.  Spanish rice, pork chops, meatloaf, baked beans with bacon on top, boiled dinner, Swiss steak on Sundays, scalloped potatoes (my favorite), chocolate cake with melted frosting.  Milk in our glasses and may I please be excused? No bake cookies. My sister always burnt the last batch. . . but she could pop corn like a queen.  Sea salt caramel gelato was not in my childhood freezer.  Think I’ll go have a spoon.  Or save it.  For later.  But than again why wait.  A storm is coming and all the stars are singing.  Twinkle like a prayer. . .

 

This blog is a creative ramble.  An exercise in the practice of expression without censor though I do.  A one year ambition of discipline like a script out of context though not without intention.  A road construction detour not coherent to a wide audience but that is not the point.  The success is in the practice.  The I do did fairly consistently.  Perhaps next year a new vision.  Theme.  Focus.  Direction.   For now a meander.  Thank you.

Brenda Roper is currently an artist in residence at El Zaguan in Santa Fe, NM.

 

 

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