away from self

again the window is not her skull in white by the railroad yard forgetting how to eat fire eat the ageless bodies in alchemy waiting for the hunk iron bashed open sailor to relieve the tight sewn memory the skull is dense it traps sod the brain a little brown fruit & knows fully it is far way from the shape it was born

What we all hope in reaching for a book, is to meet a man of our own heart, to experience tragedies and delights which we ourselves lack the courage to invite, to dream dreams which will render life more hallucinating, perhaps also to discover a philosophy of life which will make us more adequate in meeting the trials and ordeals which beset us. To merely add to our store of knowledge or improve our culture, whatever that may mean, seems worthless to me. --Henry Miller

craft

The word craft is such a euphemism for what we actually are doing when we make decisions about our art. The limited definition of craft, in the way I understand it, is the choices an artist makes to shape or manifest their work. The things that they do, and the steps they take to do those things. There is also a critical flavor to this word because there seems to be more favorable choices and more favorable sequences in different genres of art (even though as Rilke has pointed out, we have to as a breed of artists (divided by our certain schools), manage to forget that our tastes are dependent on the time we live and the climate of the world). When thinking about the word craft, I imagine two young artists standing in front an iconic painting and agreeing strongly with each other that, “this piece indeed has been crafted.” But I think that we are looking over a big part of the artists’ process or their craft when we see it in this way. “This way” meaning that the artist is in total control of her craft. That she is the only source of vigor which directs the creation of her work. So much of what we do, whether it is creative or mundane, is driven by what is away from us: the wild jungle of our subconscious, our oppressive histories, our ghosts and traumas, our divinity. Our craft, like our lives, depends mostly on us but also depends on the weather and all uncontrollable forces of life. It’s a play between our mortality and our ability for transcendence. It’s a game between our fate and our will. Of course our choices, our techniques are an essential part and I want to acknowledge that. Here, I’ll try to qualify how I think craft can be developed, and why some art seems to be more crafted than others. If an artist can match the tone of the outside forces, (the element of chance) with their own voice, then you have harmony. When the artist is listening as much as she is expressing, then that is a crafted piece. In order to listen this way, we have to slough our fears and insecurities. We have to keep open by not clinging to ideals about art and allowing inspiration to be a primitive experience. A total unique experience. When the artist gets away from judgments and the idea that she control her art, then she can channel the wonderful, powerful wind with all the debris of life and the supernatural—straight into her work. This is where I am trying to live as a poet, somewhere between belief and humility. I am trying to speak, after a long period of listening. To be aware of the swerving nature of being alive and invite that in to my work. To know that although I have lots to do with the manifestation of my work, I also am guided by things that are unknowable, fantastic, and heartbreaking.

mom's bio

I work on smaller pieces one at a time, pouring into them what I know and love. But when I leave each of them alone together in my art room they secretly congregate. They build a culture, some of them find life partners, make laws, draw communities. When I come back to my art room, I find a whole planet of life, using only my subconscious and my deep love as its beginning cells. This is how this compilation grew; it has an anatomy of serendipity.