Good for a chuckle, considering how over-played “Happy” has been, of late.
It’s a Wonderful Life/Happy mashup by Tough Poets Publishing (a.k.a Rick Schober) on youtube
We’d like to invite you to our garden-themed group exhibition, The Magic Garden. Hope to see you there!
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, excerpt from The Day Is Done
That my last post ended the way it did wasn’t meant to indicate despair or anything…I just realised as I was writing it that even that soul-baring post was a form of procrastination, another devious way of putting off the more important things that, unpleasant as they were, really had to be done. So I shut down and started the pack down.
I’m, oh, maybe 75% through it now…spent the last 3 days doing nothing but. I’m glad I did; it was a pretty big job. Until this morning, it didn’t even look like I had accomplished anything! I moved 13 cubic feet of books, 7 large storage chests of fabric, craft materials, and paper into storage, looked back into the ‘den’ they’d come from, and was confronted with overflowing shelves of stuff that didn’t seem to have thinned one bit. Seemed like it would never end!
I would have hated doing this in a mad rush, say, the weekend before departure! With 7 bags of rubbish taken ashore, and 50+ books put on the yacht club’s ‘library’ shelves, and all my books, paper, and fabric hoards put away, I am flooded with relief and calm, at last. I only stopped because I ran out of rubbish bags, cardboard boxes, and plastic storage boxes, but I don’t need too many more of these, and am confident that I’ll get the rest sorted next weekend. If I get everything done by next weekend, I’m going to play with some last few paintings and bookbinding projects, knowing that I can just throw these last few things into the hold, put the paints and other perishable things in a box for artist friends, and steal away.
The newfound calm allowed me to just sit, at daybreak, and watch these dolphins playing in the creek. There’s a mum and bub pair, and then a third adult dolphin, and they were hunting, but also stopping now and then to just slide over each other and…well, it looked like play to me. The little one sticks very close to his momma. They come lurching and blowing up the creek quite often, at night or very early in the mornings.
I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.
—Frank O’Hara, “To the Harbormaster” from Meditations in an Emergency
I have until late October to disentangle myself from this life I am living, and hie myself off to South Africa in time to sail with my beloved round the Cape of Good Hope, Brazil-bound. I wake into each new day with a sense of urgency, now. I have known for at least a year that this was coming, but recently caught myself sabotaging my own plans…living in complete denial, procrastinating, snuggling even deeper into my burrow, willing myself blind and senseless to the looming deadlines. Even after Kris sailed on ahead, and his absence brought our plans into sharp focus, I have managed to push them out of my mind for days, weeks, whole months at a time. I continued to make plans that contradicted The Big Plan. Instead of sloughing my life off, I took on more commitments, more projects, invested even more in my Darwin life. I signed up for craft markets, for exhibitions, agreed to a few commissioned bookbinding projects, bought more art materials, ordered prints of my work, on paper and fabric (that I will now have to try and sell). In a completely unrealistic fog I have managed to convince myself that I can get everything done before departure, orchestrate some kind of ‘closure’ to my Darwin life, and slip away cleanly, all my if-onlies fulfilled.
I will be gone for some years and, whatever I could, I packed and loaded onto the sailboat that left two months ago. What remains here, with me, will have to stay here: packed away, to age and rot or somehow survive until our return. This thought sends me into a panic of greed and attachment. Suddenly, my stuff has become this heady drug that I am convinced I will perish without…never mind that I have had most of this stuff around me for years and years, and never did anything with it; now I want to use it all, pursue all those projects, make all those ideas come to life! Some days I feel like I am drunk…flailing, grabbing mindlessly at the things around me, desperate to somehow consume, absorb, take it all into me. My ego has associated itself with The Things I Own and The Things I Do for such a long time, that leaving all this behind is threatening it with annihilation. Without my arsenal of art and craft materials, without the labels ‘bookbinder’, ‘artist’, ‘crafter’, do I continue to exist?
It feels a lot like dying. When my best friend was diagnosed with cancer at 21, and given 6 months, at most, to live, her family and friends flew into action: suddenly she was getting guitar lessons and art lessons, lavished with new experiences, surrounded by doting relatives and friends. She, and everyone that loved her, was trying to make up for lost time, and cram as much of a rich, colourful, idyllic life into her last days. Not the grey, dreary stuff that she—like the rest of us—had been caught up with for 20 years: university, the struggle to stay afloat in the world, the little projects to generate some spending money, the daily stresses of rent, family troubles, relationships. In the end the Self reached out, at last, for those untouched dreams that had been locked down, kept in storage, awaiting a better, more opportune time, and brought them all out into the light. Desperately, greedily, fearfully—with death no longer just an abstract idea, but something close and palpable and very, very real—we finally find the courage, the focus, the desire to drop everything but the few things that our hearts, kept on a metaphorical diet of bread and water, have hungered for all their sad lives. Perhaps a little too late…and yet, not really too late. Even those things: the beloved, longed-for, dreamed-of things—even the joys of a Perfect Life spent only doing the Things That You Love—fall away, reveal themselves as unimportant, as inessential, as mere add-ons to a person’s true essence. “No regrets,” she said, over and over, the last time we could be alone together (and she not drugged up to the eyeballs nor in debilitating pain). “Today. I have today..”
When I say that packing up and leaving my home for I-know-not-what-lies-ahead is like dying, I am not trying to trivialise dying, but point out that there are lessons for living that can be learned from dying. There are lessons I come back to, over and over, from the way G. lived, and the way she died. I lose track of them often, dazzled by the color and variety of the world of form. I become attached to things, to situations, to ideas about myself or about anything else, that I then fight to preserve and hang on to, even when they are doing more damage than good to my life as a whole.
But sometimes, by grace, I am granted a moment of lucidity, and catch sight of myself scrabbling to hold on to shadows like a madwoman, hoarding and coveting imaginary treasures, fully caught up in the illusions. Sometimes the illusions are like Russian matryoshka dolls…one nesting within the other, so that I think I have popped a bubble of unreality and all is well, only to find out later that I and the first bubble were simply inside a bigger bubble.
Two weeks ago I was so sure that I had finally broken out of all bubbles when my job went back to just three days a week, and I had four whole days every week to throw myself into art-making and bookbinding and self-expression and all those things that I love and enjoy and associate with Who I Am. I could finally get down to tackling all those projects: each one hugely vital to my life, each one an absolute Must-Do on the list of Things To Do before I leave Darwin. I was going to use up all my Spoonflower fabric as well as paper and make 40+ hand-bound journals, that I would then sell at craft markets and in my ETSY shop over the next two months…along with some 500 postcards of various designs that I still have, and 50-60 giclée fine art prints of my work. I was going to try and produce another 6 paintings or so for the group exhibition “The Magic Garden” that is opening at the end of this month, as well as stitch half a dozen art dolls for another group exhibition happening in September. On top of that I was going to squeeze in some brilliant little earthenware and porcelain sculptures (to use up 45 kilos of clay, along with jars of underglazes and glazes, that I bought over the year…before it all dries out and goes hard as rock) that I have been dreaming up, plus make some one-off artist books…with lino printing, pop-ups, painting, embroidery, and mixed-media covers in high relief. I hadn’t even started to think about the time I would need to clean the houseboat and move my stuff into storag,e to make it liveable for the friend who will be moving aboard and looking after the place for us while we’re away!
Completely in denial, as I said, of what is possible, what is coming, and how much time I have left. Convinced that I don’t have to give up anything, that I can have it all, get it all done, use it all, somehow incorporate it all into my sense of Self, into a monument in honour of my talents, my aspirations, my ideas. Hubris, in other words. Not just any inflated ego…Egozilla.
This morning I got up and, filled with energy and ambition, primed new canvases to paint. While they were drying I folded and punched enough paper to make a dozen books. I started to stitch, calculating that it would take me a mere 8 hours to stitch up all 40 small book blocks. Then the thread snapped. It snapped again. And again. I spent half an hour splicing threads on just one book block. I looked for more thread and found that I have enough linen, here on the boat, to make just four books. Add to the To Do List: go ashore, cycle to Spotlight, buy 5 spools of linen thread for $70. I make a pot of coffee, discover that my stove gas is out. “Get LPG,” I add to the list. Lunchtime comes around, I only have 4 books stitched, I am out of thread, I’m starving but don’t have gas to cook lunch on. I have a headache. A guy who wanted me to make a huge 9 x 12 inch full-leather guest book for $70 dollars has told me he’d like to double the number of pages (from 100 leaves to 200 leaves) and wants me to throw in embroidering the title “just in some pretty, curly lettering” in gold thread on the leather covers…like this is just a little extra eye-candy that I should be able to manage without dramas. I send him a message saying I want $120 for the book, now, because it is heavier, will need to be made stronger, will prove difficult to fit all on one little piece of kidskin leather, adding that I have to embroider fancy letters through the rubbery skin of a dead animal with a needle and get it all positioned and centered perfectly for when the covers are made…all-in-all, a job that wouldn’t attract a sane person if she was charging even $350 for it, bearing in mind that this is starting to look like a 12-hour job, and I can earn $140 in 8 hours at Jacksons, putting tubes of paint in paper bags, smiling, and ringing them up on the register for customers. I’ve had no reply. Yet. The day gets old, the sun is on its way down the sky, now. I needed THAT commission like a hole in the head!
Like the linen bookbinding thread, something in me snaps. What am I doing this…ANY OF THIS…for? My beloved is in Africa, “living for a living”, while I try to plough my way through all my art materials and bookbinding stock so that I can maybe sell some at a craft market and be, at the most optimistic, a thousand dollars richer before I leave this place? In the meantime things run out and more spending is required simply to keep going, to keep getting up on free days in order to paint more things that may or may not sell at exhibitions? I’d have more money if I just stopped trying to make money and sat here, watching the dolphins hunt in the shallows for shadowy barramundi…
How could I have deceived myself like this for so long? What did I think lay in these last few months in Darwin that was so damn precious that I had to stay behind for it? Was it just the ego-fest of being included in a couple of group exhibitions (where you make 8 paintings in the hopes of selling two)? Was it fear of the unknown, and of going into it with very little material possessions? Was it the smug satisfaction of loading table, chair, boxes into the dinghy and then paying a taxi $40 to get it all to the craft fair, where you stand on your tired feet as idle shoppers drift by, touch everything you make with hands that were, moments before, engaged in the eating of ice-cream or cupcakes, then toss you the ego-stroking (but otherwise worthless coin) of a compliment before moving on to the next stall (because they are just bored and have come—with their prams and their rugrats and their grumpy husbands—to be entertained, but don’t actually want to pay the money that someone—who punches and sews sheets of paper together by hand—is asking?
Day Two of this painting. Still very much a Work In Progress. And yes, it is very pink, isn’t it? Maybe it should be called “Portuguese Arriving to Sack Electric Ladyland”. I had a lot of fun when I started, which is why so much got done in just two days. But I sort of hit a wall this afternoon, and now I don’t know what to do with it.
As usual, I like parts of what I’ve done…but not the painting as a whole. Not sure what’s bugging me about it, but I suspect the whole painting should be flipped to its mirror image, so that the boat is entering the scene from the left (forget about it, easier to paint a new painting!) Also, I think the sea should be a reddish purple (I thought of Homer’s “wine-dark sea”) and the ship should be something really goofy…not just some dwarf version of a real caravel…
…but god, I am so tired of wrestling with it—it measures 2′ x 3′ and I have been standing in front of it all day—and I don’t know if I will ever get around to making such big changes. Right now, I can’t LOOK at it any longer, I am so tired of staring at it that it all dissolves into puddles of colorful mud when I try. I think I’ll just turn it to face the wall for a while, and see what I think of it in a week or two.
I did learn something new, exciting and funky on this painting: A fine-tipped Posca paint marker (1-MR) will fit in the holes of a Spirograph! This means a lot to me. At last, I can use my Spirograph with more than black drawing pens or ballpoints! I am besotted with Posca pens, anyway, because they are water-based acrylic paint pens, and they draw a rich, opaque line, and they glide over any surface like an oil slick; knowing I can use them to draw Spirographs just means that I love them more than ever.
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
I came home last Wednesday night to the best thing possible: four long letters from Kris in my Inbox! Forty-five days after leaving Darwin, he was in Pemba, Mozambique.
My heart is singing, morning and night.