Solace

The heaviest clouds are memories now,
and each thorn gives up its rain.
I dreamt I saw your shadow,
a flicker at the edge of the meadow.
Every step took me hours and hours,
and when I reached you you had gone.
In the trampled grass where the deer makes her bed,
a damp and budding bouquet: peony, lavender,
strawberry, thistle.
These are the flowers of my heart,
and in new sun they will bloom.




Written by: Kate Horowitz

Presence

I could be blind on this gold day,
not know the honest sun
save for its tender warmth.

I could be deaf as a desert stone,
not know the drowsing murmurs
of one lamb to another.

I could be mute and never tell
another soul the size and shape
of all these breathing beauties.

But I couldn't be here, in this sweet meadow,
and not know your love
by its scent. There is no life
without this bounty, there is
no day without fruit.

By Kate Horowitz

I got chills when I read Kate's poem. I made me see the painting differently, like I was looking at it not as the artist, but as an audience.

Lily of the Valley

I sleep late. The lawnmowers
do not wake me, nor the landlord's
angry wife. The light
finds my eyes gently,
as the rain begins. The house
is empty. The bright street,
deserted. The comforter
has been rejected, a cool white dog
at the foot of the bed.

All the clocks are wrong or gone,
I guess he took his with him. I force open
a window. It is time to start the day.

by Kate Horowitz

I'm glad for a little collaboration with Kate. It just makes everything more flavorful.

When Teen Kitten told me it was Joan of Arc's birthday today, I got that same feeling inside my chest that I do on the Fourth of July or when my middle kitten plays the violin. I felt all swelled up and proud. Her story is so brave and valiant. I think every time I do something that is beyond myself, it's very Joan of Arc. In heaven, I want to meet her. I could start a fan club, make t-shirts, buttons...cool! I wrote more about her here.
To my delight I was doing my daily check to see if Kate posted anything new on her blog and I found this:

A Reading from the letter of Joan of Arc to the Adolescents

for Sunshine

God knows it isn't easy
being fourteen. Breasts alone
are strange enough; don't get me started
on the tinny chorus of expectations,
the fire in your dreams. It has taken me
more than a little time to get it
but trust me, when you feel your heart thrum
strong and sure in your chest you will know
what breasts are for. When the king plants
an iris in the swollen dark earth, when your mother
lays your armor to sleep deep in the ground,
you will see how your brave bright love
was never the wrong choice.

Kate is magical with her words. I'm sure we could do a whole series of work from stemming from that poem. Thanks Kate. Teen Kitten loved it too.

I wrote a major essay about passion vs. frantic, time, teens and other important stuff, then I got side tracked and forgot to save it. The gist of it was that sometimes passion for life and all that it has to offer drives me into a state of frantic living. Frantic living time moves really fast. Knowing that my days are numbered for giving good night kisses to all three kittens, safe under the same roof has given me reason to want to slow time down. So maybe that's my theme for next year, no more frantic living. Maybe I'll start my day with some warm ups like sauntering. I'm going to go saunter down the hall now.

Re-post with Kate's poem

Your name is safe in my mouth--
your heart too, tendons twined around my tongue,
body cradled in the cage of my teeth.

I will lock you up tight, in the space above my throat
where even I
cannot get you.

Poem by Kate Horowitz

Last spring, Kate Horowitz and I collaborated on a show called, She Dreamed in Verse and Rhyme. We jumped at the chance to do it again, the first weekend in May of 2009 in Cannon Beach at Ernst and Ernst Collector's Gallery. So Kate came out to spend the best week ever with us to get started on our collaboration and play a little too.

Kate was only a little familiar with our Utah family culture and I'd venture to say that she got enough to last her a while. I'm happy to say that we got some work done, ideas are simmering. I think we are both excited to dive it and get to work.

Speaking of work...

I'm not sure why this photo is upsidedown but I think that sums up the feeling of work'n peaches on the conveyor belt. Kate's photo tag reads...Do we look like two hot chicks who got up early in the morning and put on blue eyeshadow and then burned rubber to the cannery while blasting Rancid to can peaches for welfare families? Cause that's what we are.

Kate's tag for this one was something about washing sins away.

I was humming... go'n to the county, gonna can a lot of peaches, over and over. I liked wearing the gear.

I also signed her up to work at the elementary school carnival...now that's some Utah fun.

I have to note that my dad and have enjoyed the cannery experience as well. I think I'm in that sad Bjork movie where she goes blind and the sounds of the machinery is music. It's pretty interesting and it's good to bust out of the studio once in a while.

Yesterday we got a package in the mail. Oh thank you Kate! These are the prettiest dresses ever! We love them!
I put one on right away and headed out to the garden.

Teen kitten was already there! These dresses are way too magnificent for gardening.

They are much better for dancing.

My Wing Sailing

One of my favorite places, with a couple of my favorite people, doing what we love to do. My Wing Sailing is now on youtube. I used the music of one of my favorite bands, Air Traffic to accompany this little film. To read a little more see She Dreamed in Verse and Rhyme.

Photos by Stella

Stendhal Sydrome

Kate just sent me this. Psychosomatic? I don't think so! I totally have this. I'm going to call my mom right now and try to get some sympathy for my newly discovered condition.


Stendhal syndrome
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
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For the film, see The Stendhal Syndrome.

The Stendhal syndrome was named after Marie-Henri Beyle (January 23, 1783 – March 23, 1842), better known by his penname Stendhal
Stendhal syndrome or Stendhal's syndrome is a psychosomatic illness that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to art, usually when the art is particularly 'beautiful' or a large amount of art is in a single place. The term can also be used to describe a similar reaction to a surfeit of choice in other circumstances, e.g. when confronted with immense beauty in the natural world.
It is named after the famous 19th century French author Stendhal (pseudonym of Henri-Marie Beyle), who described his experience with the phenomenon during his 1817 visit to Florence, Italy in his book Naples and Florence: A Journey from Milan to Reggio.
Although there are many descriptions of people becoming dizzy and fainting while taking in Florentine art, especially at the Uffizi, dating from the early 19th century on, the syndrome was only named in 1979, when it was described by Italian psychiatrist Graziella Magherini, who observed and described more than 100 similar cases among tourists and visitors in Florence. The syndrome was first diagnosed in 1982.
The term is often used when describing the reactions of audiences to music of the Romantic period.

New video on youtube!

Episode 6, Discussing Collaboration with Kate is now available on youtube.
I'll be posting more about the Cannon Beach show on She Dreamed in Verse and Rhyme. My niece sometimes says, "that's magical." I'd say those words describe this weekend's show.

March

So much collides
In these small days. Today
Spring begins, and Purim at sundown:
The earth rolls sleepily into a patch
Of sunlight. We don masks
And crowns.

Tomorrow
Jesus will die,
And the moon will fill herself
Full. Sunday he will rise:

Small feet will shift
In ankle socks. We speak
Murder to one another;
Fertility, salvation. Birdsong.
We are wrapped
In the sky-blue skirts
Of holy women and heroines, and red forgiveness
Runs down the aisles. We will hide our faces
And plant eggs
Like they were seeds. We will all
Be reborn.

Poem by Kate Horowitz

The Letter "D"

The Alphabet Show

February 17-27

BF Larsen Gallery HFAC

Reception, Februaury 22, 8-10 p.m.

Deirdre

Darling, I told you already:

Don’t think of me leaving,

Don’t think of me going. Think,

Dear heart, of the staggering size of the world, the

Doors I have never even seen.

Today dawned bright blue and he appeared, a

Daedalus to take me to the sun. There was no

Decision, no breath of doubt. We are

Dizzy in the sky the night left behind;

Our hearts dart toward it, dancing, darling-

Don’t think of me leaving.

by Kate Horowitz

Thistle, a re-post with poem

T h i s t l e

Hard work, love that endures hardship, defiance, protection

I never saw my mama’s feet sleeping.

Mornings they trod a triangular path:

garden, fire, table.

Mid-day she walked in circles sewing,

mending our dresses as we read our lessons.

As the sun set she strode through the fields,

barefoot among the thistles to bring the cows in.

When the stars made pinpricks

in the black ocean above, her heels creaked

a half-moon of floorboards around our big bed.

I dreamt every night of fragrant weeds and grasses,

knew that when I woke

the footsteps below would always be hers.

by Kate Horowitz

I am so excited to be collaborating with Kate. Her poetry is astounds me...again. Here are two of my latest favorites. I could paint a whole show using just these two poems. Thanks Kate.

Kate Horowitz

Three Seeds (Perspehone)

"Before you go," he said, "Eat these."
His palm was rough, black with soot,
and three rubies glittered there, perfect drops
of blood.

He would not meet my round eyes.
I assumed grief and accepted his gift; the hot winds
of deceit had never known my petaled face.

The earth opened above us,
and a golden arm came through
to draw me up.

I closed my mouth, bit down
and felt all my convictions
running down my throat.
I swallowed.



Melodramatic Moon
(Library Parking Lot, January Fifteenth)

"You're how full?" I asked.
"Half," she said, "Half, I am half-
full." She turned away.
Snowflakes blew toward her face and,
reaching her cheek,
disappeared against the expanse of white.