replicating Beatrice

photo by William Gray Harris

I first heard of Beatrice Wood ("Beato") after buying Chris Casson Madden's 1997 book A Room of Her Own (about women's personal spaces). I fell in love with her and her work from seeing this self-sculpture, shown in the book's photo, below. Such ingenuity of the artist to have her face and hands coming out of the wall!



It's impossible to summarize her - thinker, potter, sculptor, artist, writer, lover. If you don't yet know her, think of this as an introduction only. You can explore the web site embedded in her name, above, to learn about her story and her earthy art.

Beatrice lived to be 105 years old (b. March 3, 1893 - d. March 12,1998).

She was called "The Mama of Dada" because of her participation in the Dada movement in New York, which rejected conventions in art and thought. When asked what Dadaism is, she replied:

"What is Dada is that I know nothing about what is Dada."

I know less than that obviously, but one thing I like about the Dada movement is that it began in protest of WWI and its stupidities. Below is a litho she made for an avant garde journal Blindman's Ball she helped edit. It's a guy thumbing his nose. Maybe "Blindman's Ball" is a good name for the days in which we live, and maybe it's time to start a national "Thumb Your Nose" day. Thumb your nose and say dada.

Beato was influenced by Eastern thought, she was a follower of Krishnamurti - so much so that she followed him to Ojai, California and set up residence there. You can see her in a sari, below. She always wore saris.




photo by William Gray Harris
She said:

"Women are the strength of the world."

And: "to women who have diamonds – it can’t touch the joy of opening a kiln.”

Her pottery was what she spent her last 50 years doing. Incredible! She created her own glaze recipes, making such play with light that the luster becomes ethereal.

“I never meant to become a potter,” Beatrice later offered. “It happened very accidentally… I could sell pottery because when I ran away from home I was without any money. And so I became a potter.”

Drinking vessels like this are hallmarks of Beato's work:



Her art, she said, was not replicating nature, but "replicating Beatrice."
She died just after turning 105, in 1998. She had said:

"In Heaven, I’m going to be married to five wonderful men: Gorbachev, Prince Albert, Bill Moyers, Charlie Chaplin, and Trader Joe.”

I think she would be woman enough for that. I guess she's in training for it, as she's still waiting for Gorbachev, Moyers and "Trader" Joe Coulombe. Can you picture her and her studio apprentices Prince Albert and Charlie in the meantime? "A little more cobalt, Al!" - "Charlie, quit drinking the barium!"

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letting out a sigh for these centuries

“We ain’t what we ought to be, and we ain’t what we want to be and we ain’t what we’re going to be. But thank God, we ain’t what we was.”

- Martin Luther King, Jr., quoting a former slave, as quoted in Kristof's piece last night

This election was not about race for me, but today, this is what I'm relishing and crying and gushing about. I'm not blind, I know he isn't perfect, and I know the ship of our country might have only turned a degree or two last night. But it's an incredible moment that I have to mark here, almost 400 years after a Dutch slave trader exchanged his cargo of Africans for food on our shore in 1619, and I can't help but weep, along with ". . . the souls of black folk, living and dead, [who] wept – and laughed, screamed and danced – releasing 400 years of pent up emotion."

From his victory speech last night:

That’s the true genius of America: that America can change. Our union can be perfected. What we’ve already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight’s about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She’s a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons — because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she’s seen throughout her century in America — the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can’t, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

AUDIENCE: Yes we can.

OBAMA: When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

AUDIENCE: Yes we can.

OBAMA: She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that We Shall Overcome. Yes we can.

AUDIENCE: Yes we can.

OBAMA: A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

AUDIENCE: Yes we can.

You can read his whole speech here.

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starling symphony

Serendipity led me out to the garage to fetch my camera from the car. I was going to take an indoor photo for this blog, so I slid open the deck door and was immediately amazed by a phenomenal sound: a starling symphony. Not a startling symphony, although I guess you'd have to call it that too.

Once before, Don and I heard the starlings flock and gather in the trees around the farm. The blended assortment of squeaks, whistles and squawks is unlike anything else I've experienced. As wiki says, their song is a mix of "mimicry, clicks, wheezes, chattering, whistles, rattles, and piping notes." Imagine that times a thousand.


Starlings are famous for traveling in flocks, even when they're not migrating. They are not native to North America, and my father-in-law tells me they are a problem because they have few predators. Apparently they don't taste good, and hawks don't like eating them. So their numbers continue to grow, making these flocks more and more vast.

click on the photos to enlarge and see the birds just a little bit better

Within five minutes they were ready to leave. I'm assuming they were migrating south, although they disappeared into the northeast when they flew away beyond the poplars.

Common Starling

Sturnus vulgaris

Please watch this five and a half minute video of starlings at Ot Moor, England, by Dylan Winter, in aerobatics in which they miraculously form a moving fabric of birds undulating and maneuvering without colliding. My experience this week did not quite get to this expanded dance:

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art: a gallery of favorites

I'm posting this mostly for myself, to document some favorites of the art works I've collected in computer files. If you're interested, please click on the collage to see them better, and then you can come back and browse the virtual museum, below, by clicking on the titles of these beautiful works to see them bigger and learn more about them. Also, click on the artist's name to find out more about her or him, or the link following their names to see more of their work.

Top row:

1. Succulent Eggplants, Beatriz Milhazes. See more of her work here.
2. Parrot Vase with Tulips, Gwen Buchanan. See more of her paintings here.
3. The Burning of the House of Lords and Commons, Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1835. The link in his name also shows more of his work.
4. Clouds and Water, Arthur Dove, 1930. The link in his name is his home page, showing more of his work.
5. The Siesta, Vincent van Gogh, 1889-90. A seemingly exhaustive catalog of his paintings is here.

Middle Row:

6. St. Mary Magdalen, Gregor Erhart, 1510, and at my Paris blog
7. Prelude to a Kiss 1, Denis Fremond and at my Paris blog * Please click on "Denis Fremond," and then click "Huile" to see more of his phenomenal paintings.
8. Portrait de Jacqueline Roque aux mains croisées, Pablo Picasso, 1954. At my Paris blog. Here is a comprehensive catalog of Picasso's work.
9. Peace: Burial at Sea, Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1842. The link in his name shows more of his work.
10. Jeanne Hébuterne in a Yellow Sweater, Amedeo Modigliani, 1918-19. See a gallery of his work here.

Bottom Row:

11. Keelman Heaving in Coals by Moonlight, Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1835. The link in his name shows more of his work.
12. Jean Monet, Claude Monet, 1880. Here is a searchable gallery database of 300 Monet paintings.
13. Le Lit, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, 1892. Pages and pages of Toulouse-Lautrec's paintings can be found here.
14. Woman Bathing in a Stream, modelled by Hendrickje Stoffels, Rembrandt van rijn, 1654. This site gives Rembrandt's biography and a complete catalog of his paintings.
15. Norham Castle, Sunrise, Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1845. The link in his name shows more of his work.

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Happy Halloween Oct. 31: spooky Dansville

When we moved to the farm in 2003 we didn't know about a certain local spooky story.



We had heard the true story of the Burning Bed, revealed to the world in a non-fiction book by Faith McNulty, and then made into a 1984 TV movie with Farrah Fawcett about Francine Hughes, the abused wife who set fire to her house in 1977, killing her husband, and getting away with it by "reason of insanity." I don't think she was insane, and I guess I'm glad she got away with it. I had seen the movie back in '84, but when we bought the farm I had to be reminded we were going to be living in the same town where the Burning Bed happened.

Well, one day after moving to the farm, I was browsing books at Schuler's, and there was a book of haunted stories from Michigan. Intrigued, I picked it up and leafed through, finding one from Dansville! The story goes like this (found here):

The Witch of Seven Gables Lane

"The adventurers who tread the back lane called Seven Gables near Dansville in Ingham County still sniff the air to see if they can smell the acrid, burning flesh of the witch who supposedly lived there in years past. . . .

. . . As the legend goes, local marauders locked the woman into her house, which was then set on fire. She perished in the flames, but the stories say she remains to wreak vengeance on those who still dare to venture near her property. . . .

. . . The place became such a teen mecca that a fence was erected to keep snoopers out of the area. The effort proved fruitless as thrill seekers still found their way back to the deceased woman's old place. But they didn't get away scot-free. It was said that the ghost would scream at trespassers and that the scream meant instant doom to its hearers if the premises weren't cleared immediately."

Every day on my country ride to town where I work, I used to drive by Seven Gables Road. It gave me the creeps, let me tell you, just seeing that name "Seven Gables" and remembering the story of that poor woman wreaking vengeance on anyone who goes near her property. But one day I worked up the courage to drive down Seven Gables Road and see if anything would happen. It is a very lonely, quiet dirt road with a few houses near the main road, but soon becomes abandoned and then a dead end. I parked my little Aveo and got out slowly with my camera. I looked across the fence where the house had been, toward the dead tree and cloud in the photo I took, above. Suddenly through the whispering wind someone yelled in the distance! It was a man's voice, not a woman's, but what did that matter! Heart thumping, I jumped in the car, turned it around and made dust fly as I tore back to the main road. I take a different route to work most of the time now, not that I'm afraid or anything. I just like driving through town.

One last eerie thing: Yesterday when I bravely changed my route to work again so I could stop and snap a photo of the Seven Gables Road sign, below, I was angling for a shot and suddenly there in the frame was "my tree" - the tree in my profile picture. I never noticed that it sits right at the foot of Seven Gables Road. You know I quickly scrambled back into my car this time too, my heart thumping again. Oh, and you know about The House of the Seven Gables too, right? Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel about a house haunted by witches and spirits? I mean, how much more spookiness do you want?

(I carved the two jack-o-lanterns in the photos, above, a couple years ago. I used to love carving different things every year when the kids were growing up. I remember doing Carebears one year. Unfortunately, my wrists are too weak to carve through that thick, hard pumpkin flesh now. Plus, we don't have kids at home any more, boohoo - BOO! hoo.)

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first Collage-o-holic meeting

left: my mom; bottom: my brothers John and Bennett at the Acropolis; right: my grandma's illustration in World Book encyclopedia; middle: old books of my dad's and a French clock I bought Don in Paris

My name is Ruth, and I'm a collage-o-holic.

I'm a normal person, really. I never realized this could happen to me. I am learning not to be in denial about it. Please help me. That's why I'm here.

I was looking for a little fun. I had seen a nice collage at someone else's blog as a header, so I Googled collage software, and found Picasa's site. I've downloaded Picasa before, and got rid of it without realizing its seductive pleasures. I should have left well enough alone.

After downloading the free software, I made my first collage, the one on my header. I was pleased. And then my friends started telling me they liked it, and that made it even more fun.

I decided I could have a different collage header for each season. So I pulled in my favorite winter photos to start creating the next one. Five sample winter collages later, I began to think what other collages I could make. That's when I made this one, of old photos and things.

My arm and wrist are killing me from so much mouse clicking. My arm is about to fall off actually. Yet I go on. My husband doesn't recognize me without the glow of the laptop on my face. We eat American cheese sandwiches, un-grilled. My mind is ever filled with new combinations. I don't read, I don't care about who wins the election. I cancelled dinner with friends this evening to make collages.

Don and the roosters finally had an intervention with me. Bob the Crèvecœur rooster attacked me, and I kicked back, my clog flying and missing him completely. They made me come to this meeting.

(By the way, if anyone is interested, here is the 12 Step Program for making a collage:

1. Download Picasa
2. Let it load all the photos from your computer
3. Organize photos into an album you want to draw from for the collage. Add more photos than you'll need since you have to play with them to see which look best together. I found it easier to organize an album into a file first in My Documents.
4. Find that album in Picasa, which will show you thumbnails of all the photos on the right.
5. Click on the little collage icon at the top to start a collage (next to Play - oh so exciting!). It will select all the photos in the album.
6. Now, Select All at the top, highlighting all the photos.
7. Click on Remove, sending the photos to the left side in a tab called "Clips."
8. Now click on the "Settings" tab and see the various patterns, grid spacing, layouts, etc., choose what you wish. You can change this any time, so don't worry.
9. Go back to "Clips" and start choosing photos and adding them to the work area on the right by clicking "Add." You can select and remove them any time.
10. You can go back and adjust your settings any time, and shuffle the photos until the arrangement pleases you. You'll notice that it tends to crop the photos in unpleasing ways at times, so just re-shuffle.
11. In "Settings" you can choose grid spacing, which creates borders around each photo, at whatever width you want, and you can choose any color you want! Wow!
12. Play with it until you love it, then click on "Create Collage" in the lower left, and voila! You have a collage of your favorite photos.)

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first awakening

Detroit's skyline from Windsor, Ontario (yeah, I know it isn't perfect with this post, but I don't have my own photo of Chicago or NYC at night)

When I was a young girl I was highly romantic. After watching movies I would act out the role of lead actress in front of the dresser mirror in my bedroom.

I didn't think the small Michigan town where I grew up was worthy of romance. My fantasies were in cities like Chicago or New York. In old movies I watched, everyone was rich, so city life took place in vast, glamorous apartments or penthouses, with skyline views through floor-to-ceiling walls of glass. Men wore tuxedoes and women wore evening gowns, even at home. And when they went out to clubs, the men wrapped mink coats around the women's shoulders.

Since my mom was from metro New York City, I also fantasized about her life before marrying my dad, the Baptist preacher, and wished she had played piano in a black satin dress at Carnegie instead of in a polyester dress at the Baptist church.

So when my oldest sister got married and lived in "Chicago" (it was really Skokie) in "an apartment" (I had never seen an apartment except in movies), you know what I was thinking: She had been transformed from an ordinary sister who wore simple straight skirts and cat-eye glasses, into Rita Hayworth (redhead, like my sister) in an evening gown; their apartment had a big, shiny, black grand piano, and there was a wall of easy-gliding drapes that opened with the push of a button looking out onto a fabulous Chicago skyline. And guess what, we were going to visit!

Well, after the five-hour drive, after Chicago skyscrapers and giant red neon Magikist lips, and on into the bland northern suburb of Skokie, when we walked up the short stairway and through the door to the modest, neat apartment with tweed furniture and four-foot windows with short insulating curtains looking out at a blonde brick neighborhood, as a shy nine-year-old you know I didn't give voice to my inner scream, "WHERE IS THE GRAND PIANO, WHERE ARE THE VASES OF ROSES, WHERE IS THE SEA OF TWINKLING CITY LIGHTS, AND WHERE THE HELL IS MY SISTER'S EVENING GOWN!"

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