tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61435256994492288862024-03-12T21:19:45.665-07:00Annie TobinWe didn't need dialogue. We had faces!
--Norma DesmondANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-13654121073756035132022-01-11T07:07:00.000-08:002022-01-11T07:07:08.978-08:00<p>So many poems and books and films are about women finding their voices….</p><p>I’ve just reread for perhaps the 1000th time, Mary Oliver’s <i>The Journey</i>. I began reading this poem after my divorce in 2009 and especially after I moved back into my childhood house. Here, I live with my three dogs and the quiet is beautiful and velvety, especially in the morning. I wake every day grateful for the space (inside myself and in my environment) to hear my own voice. For so many years, I seemed to have perfected the ability to block the sound of my voice by focusing on everyone else’s. I printed Oliver’s poem in 2014 and since then it has hung on my fridge in the kitchen for me to reflect on most days.</p><p>This morning I reread and wrote the poem in my current journal (hard copy) so that I can re-feel the power off its words, of her words, reaching out to me. Thank you to Mary Oliver as she resides in peace wherever she may be. </p><p>“One day you finally knew/what you had to do, and began….”</p><p><br /></p>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-24483842587236129782017-03-12T09:01:00.002-07:002017-03-12T09:01:30.654-07:00Making Art......to counter the anxiety of the 45th administration as much as I can. Since the 2016 election I've had to double down on self-care as I send cards and letters to people in government leadership demanding of them. begging of them (and sometimes thanking them) that they do the right thing for our nation. Mostly it hasn't worked but, like teaching, maybe I rarely get to see the direct impact I've had on an outcome...even though it <i>is</i> there (I have faith!).<br />
<br />
So as an art teacher, I get to work on my own art as part of my job, a definite perk to my low-paying career choice. These little pieces are simple objects but they are touchstones for me to remember that "this too shall pass" and maybe in fewer than 4 years at the rate it's going. I'll be posting a few of those pieces here. And perhaps if I can bring myself to it, some of my poems.<br />
<br />
Be honest. Be kind. Be creative.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dJoFSdBQvh8/WMVvwWg6guI/AAAAAAAAARU/PHPPbtLeegYQHofjx57GTWVfCoK_buTrACLcB/s1600/IMG_1456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dJoFSdBQvh8/WMVvwWg6guI/AAAAAAAAARU/PHPPbtLeegYQHofjx57GTWVfCoK_buTrACLcB/s320/IMG_1456.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-37411639535972298792013-04-12T10:01:00.003-07:002013-04-25T15:35:12.932-07:00EarthboundIn Chinese Astrology I am an Earth Dog. Perhaps it is the reason for this recent Haiku:<br />
<br />
Earthbound, roots burrow.<br />
Cold crumbles of detritus <br />
cling like lost lovers<br />
<br />
ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-65945626451291900552013-03-27T23:15:00.001-07:002013-03-27T23:15:28.065-07:00asleep at the screen . . .Oh Good Heavens....It <em>has</em> been a while since I last posted. That's what happens with the ever-stampeding school year. Meetings after school with other teachers, administrators, parents, students, clubs, and then the school year flings itself past me. I just finished grading a pile too many of student projects in a rush to get them in the grade book before midnight, the hour that all the A grades turn to pumpkins, and the D grades turn into rats. Ever-mindful of schedules and deadlines, I like to sidle up against them (the deadlines and schedules) and dare them to cross the line.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the best thing about this time of the night is that the house is completely quiet, aside from the snoring bulldog next to me as I type. An occasional car rolls past out front, the grandpa clock chimes (although it's an hour off since the last time change) and I just finished a wee bit of red rye ale. I have a week of spring break to look forward to and all my students' projects are nestled close and soundly graded in their basket. Just wish I could be a little more awake to fully enjoy the sensations. <br />
<br />
Well, anyway--here's a picture of lately.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-54N2GohE0FY/UVPfnp9ch7I/AAAAAAAAAIo/PBpp4EOCu1Y/s1600/Mar+27,+2013+11:13:53+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-54N2GohE0FY/UVPfnp9ch7I/AAAAAAAAAIo/PBpp4EOCu1Y/s320/Mar+27,+2013+11:13:53+PM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">whoa--some specs there annie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-33052249737607175192012-05-14T09:56:00.000-07:002012-05-14T15:15:09.405-07:00Making Faces<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZN3J7MiGEIE/T7E2N6ud8hI/AAAAAAAAAGM/aI-cesa6abI/s1600/Picture+190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" dba="true" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZN3J7MiGEIE/T7E2N6ud8hI/AAAAAAAAAGM/aI-cesa6abI/s200/Picture+190.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Self portrait contour in baling wire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Talk about not being able to erase . . . . well, I was able to rebend, but you can only do that so many times with metal before it breaks on you. Unless you heat the metal with a torch, I think it's called annealing, to relax it enough to bend again. Kind of like working out, I guess. The warmer you are, the more flexible you can be. <br />
Dan Dwyer and I did a collaboration between his class (jewelry and small sculpture) and mine (drawing and painting) at the beginning of the year (maybe ten years ago?). I know, many of you think I've barely aged . . . well, that's the power of art. Anyway, we hung them at the Gavilan show--there must have been a couple of hundred of these--one for each student in our classes. Each so similar yet very different from each other. I also hung some pen and ink drawings that came from the process of creating the wire drawings, and some colored pencil drawings as well. I like the possibilities of sustained metaphor in a project--how far can you push an idea.<br />
I can't help but wonder if my obsession with drawing faces is contagious to any of my students. Wonder if they continue to look in mirrors to call upon their ever-present, and hopefully ever-willing, subjects. Some days my face is less than willing to be drawn. But maybe that reluctance only comes with age.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-60704199943133261472012-04-19T16:22:00.007-07:002012-04-19T16:42:02.606-07:00Getting grounded by the Pacific Ocean<div align="left">In one of our very favorite places. I wish that all people left behind <em>were</em> their shadows. Not exactly Carmel--but close . . .</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t8uHc7rFz4I/T5Cfg7DQ-2I/AAAAAAAAAGE/gwLpgrGvgzM/s1600/mini%2Bdogs%2B008.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733257713598659426" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t8uHc7rFz4I/T5Cfg7DQ-2I/AAAAAAAAAGE/gwLpgrGvgzM/s200/mini%2Bdogs%2B008.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="color:#330033;">Robinson Jeffers'</span> poem . . . </div><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="color:#3333ff;">Carmel Point<br /></span></strong><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span><span>The extraordinary patience of things!<br /><br />This beautiful place defaced with a crop of surburban houses-<br /><br />How beautiful when we first beheld it,<br /><br />Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;<br /><span></span><br />No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,<br /><br />Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rockheads-<br /><br />Now the spoiler has come: does it care?<br /><br />Not faintly. It has all time. It knows the people are a tide<br /><br />That swells and in time will ebb, and all<br /><br />Their works dissolve. Meanwhile the image of the pristine beauty<br /><br />Lives in the very grain of the granite,<br /><br />Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff.-As for us:<br /><br />We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;<br /><br />We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident<br /><br />As the rock and ocean that we were made from. </span></span></div>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-16307119381822473682012-01-20T10:36:00.000-08:002012-01-20T11:36:35.454-08:00Goodbye to Etta James<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nbEOieaNJGw/Txm1J4SUNDI/AAAAAAAAAF4/1lNCH0EJ0vE/s1600/etta_james1-225x300.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699785984746730546" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nbEOieaNJGw/Txm1J4SUNDI/AAAAAAAAAF4/1lNCH0EJ0vE/s200/etta_james1-225x300.jpg" /></a> When you're young, it seems like all the notes in a good song stick a little tighter to your soul and you end up carrying them with you for the rest of your life. Then, when you hear that song again, the notes kind of pull the old years forward with them--kind of like the memories are stuck on the little stems and flags of those particular notes. When I hear Etta James sing "At Last," the years of the early-sixties in Turlock start to accumulate around me. The most most clearly focused of those years hold a memory of me being baby-sat by my cousin Patsy (closer to the age of an aunt to me than a cousin). Patsy takes over for my mom for awhile while Mom is working some hundred miles away and has to leave my two brothers and me during the week. Somehow in my memory, the boys are barely there--probably in school, and mostly I'm hearing songs--songs playing on a record player, songs from Patsy's record collection.<br />And this song comes on and it's perfect, because even though the lyrics are about winning her love--at last--there's such a sadness to the music. The lyrics and the music counter each other. Like they should in this song. I don't know . . . it's as if once the loneliness gets into a person, it can never <em>really</em> leave. It becomes part of you--on a cellular level, forever.<br />It kind of feels like that. <br />And now Etta James has gone . . . and not exactly. . . because she's in our cells, together with the loneliness and joy and everything else stored up in the years.<br />I'll be celebrating my birthday this Wednesday--it appears she and I share the same date. This year it'll be a lot like that song.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-50018580078942315212011-12-02T10:58:00.000-08:002011-12-05T10:06:13.361-08:002 December 2011<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p13s1VJHi8k/TtkivuGwAoI/AAAAAAAAAFE/nWR2L3p1j3U/s1600/annie%2Bcontour.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 237px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681610608130130562" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p13s1VJHi8k/TtkivuGwAoI/AAAAAAAAAFE/nWR2L3p1j3U/s320/annie%2Bcontour.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Sure gets to feeling like this illustration . . .</div><br /><br /><br /><div>I guess I have so many of these modified contours because I make a new one , or a few new ones, every year that I demonstrate them to my students. I actually have a kerjillion of them that I haven't photographed, so maybe one day when I have a bit more time, I'll post them. And they aren't all of me, either. I'm not so narcissistic as that. But, boy, I have met quite a few of them along the way . . . .</div><br /><br /><br /><div>Anyway--writing again and it sure feels good. Guess that's why I'm back on the blog after a year and a half. Well, that and I couldn't figure out how to get here after I changed my email address--true to my semi-luddite tendencies. But once I managed that hurdle, I'm back in print, er, screen. Don't know if I'll post the new stuff for a while. Nothing has been critiqued yet, and I still need to find a good writing group to help with that. School is out for winter break in a couple of weeks, so I'll focus a bit more then. Will say that the new poems are art-based, almost primarily so. Except for a couple that slipped out about "the troubles" (divorce American style). But really, those are a little too personal and I've never been much for confessional anything. I'm waiting to get far enough away (emotionally) from certain crises that I can represent the universal in them, rather than the "all about me" side. But how does a person write about herself without it being about her? Layers, I suppose. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>Maybe it's true that here has to be a personal layer in a piece of art or writing, but that if that's all there is, it doesn't go to the deeper level. When I read something, like memoir or poetry, I really want to see the humanness in the writer. I guess I want to merge somewhat with that person, through their writing, so I can be bigger than myself--so my life can be fuller and richer than what it usually is. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>There's a poem by Joy Harjo, "Perhaps the World Ends Here,"about what goes on at the kitchen table. Births and deaths--the end of the world, eventually. That kitchen table connects my world to hers in a way that takes me back to my grandmother's chrome dinette, and back to the sounds of her shuffling in her leather slippers in the kitchen. That was the beginning of my world, and I expect something like it will be connected to the end of my world as well. I've written so many poems about that time and still return in my mind to that place, even though the house has been torn down for a few years now. I understand the world when I arrive at that sense of place such as we read in Harjo's poems. I'm also thinking of another poem called "The Song of the House in the House" and of course about the rememory of the main character in Morrison's Beloved.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>Art pieces provide that same connection for me when I write ekphrastic poetry. After I've fully experienced a painting or sculpture--even if it's on-line or in a book--I feel like I'm <em>in</em> that painting. This is similar to the character in Kurasawa's Dreams who walks through Van Gogh's paintings--well, essentially into Van Gogh's world. Walking along the ripples of paint, standing beneath towering sunflowers. And all that <em>without</em> drugs! Heh heh. Not a bad way to be.</div>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-27591130000267204622009-12-14T15:35:00.000-08:002009-12-14T16:10:05.102-08:00seven months in animated suspension. . . and the next thing you know, your entire world falls careening from the sky . . . or no, wait, maybe the perspective is completely upturned and your whole world rises gracefully spiraling upward. Sometimes, the way we look at the events in our life misleads us. Our focus is on what's missing rather than on what spaces have recently opened up around us, allowing new growth to occur. Sometimes we create the open spaces ourselves because the overgrowth, untended for so many years, has started to choke the life out of us, and our last resort is to clear it all away. <br /> . . . I guess in a way, that's been my process the last few months. Without mucking around in the dirt (-y details), I'll just say that my life has changed considerably in the last few months. My relationships have changed, my habits changed. My teaching is the same, though actually a little better since I am leaning so heavily these days on the familiarity of it, and the sense of confidence I get from it. But every other relationship has changed, as has my physical environment. <br /> . . . and I guess what I really want to write in this entry is a question. How do we remain tethered (and I mean the good kind of tethered, the grounded kind) to our identities, our true artistic and creative selves, our spiritual selves, when everything we are familiar with is gone? When all faces are new and we've put aside the comfort of the familiar in order to find something better for the second half of our lives--a truer sense of self, a clearer vision of what we've wanted for so many years, and the courage to take that path to find it? When an artist decides to walk away from her secure, familiar place because she has examined her life and sees that place as creatively oppressive and draining, and instead walks toward the unknown, the unpredictable, and the last thing she feels like doing is making art (because it's soul-baring--<em>soul-flaying</em>-- and fills her with <em>more</em> fear of the unknown), how does she get past that? <br /> . . . <em>nothing left to blame my reticence on now</em>. I've changed my world so that I can fully engage and explore my artist self. I can't very well say now that I can't engage and explore because I've changed my life. A bit too convenient, don't you think? And a bit cowardly.<br /> . . . so that's it for now. A question. A pause to consider parameters, or the lack of such.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-2323171413730817922009-05-04T18:25:00.000-07:002009-05-04T18:48:53.539-07:00. . . but we need poetrySomeone once said I should be careful about putting my unpublished poems on my blog. Yeah-so?<br /><br />Here's one for you, as I perceive it, because otherwise the world doesn't make any sense:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The Anatomies<br /><br />The possibility of a world without shadows<br />terrifies her. Trees floating without anchors,<br />the position of the sun persisting mysteriously.<br /><br />Ground was meant to bear weight, the heft of objects,<br />of oak, madrone, pickup trucks, oil rigs,<br />people maybe. The anatomy of shadow connects<br /><br />with the anatomy of light, two disciplines in her mind,<br />but of the same mother, like art and science<br />providing a strategy for the existence of things.<br /><br />Careful when she sketches the hemisphere’s curve,<br />the convergence of depth where orthagonals meet,<br />she arrests all points at the horizon.</span><br /><br /><br />Line is all-important to me, whether it be an orthogonal line or the turn of a line of poetry. Line is the boundary we create, a matter of form, or in the flatter sense of the word, shape.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-11373750817311062762009-04-26T21:22:00.000-07:002009-04-28T12:37:20.768-07:00And Then Came Maude<a href="http://popcornmuscles.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/bea_arthur.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 313px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 378px" alt="" src="http://popcornmuscles.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/bea_arthur.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Bea Arthur. That incredibly low voice . . ."Oh Walter," . . . that dry sense of humor . . . . . I always thought you had the coolest hair ever. In the 70's when I first saw Maude, I saw in you my mom and most of the women she worked with--strong and self-possessed. What an awesome role-model you were.</div><div>Thanks Bea Arthur . . . the world is soooo going to miss you.</div>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-76510293395516104332009-04-16T20:40:00.000-07:002009-04-16T20:53:03.314-07:00plugged back inIndeed. We gave the grand "internet-free home" experiment a hardy try. And now we're done with that and have re-entered the 21st century. For a while it wasn't too difficult to find access. Cafes, friends' homes, work. But I'm barely good at the internet here, readily accessible in my living room, let alone in places I need to get to. So, to all of you who expected responses to your emails, to facebook entries, etc. . . . lo siento. I can be better, faster, more in tune with the current! Talk to you soon.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-30022272844900668592009-02-08T13:46:00.000-08:002009-02-08T14:13:45.813-08:00a teasing taste of spring<div>Well . . . ? Is it spring or not? I have to ask myself when I ride my bike out in the country and notice blossoms drifting off trees in February and I can't help but wonder if all this warm weather is going to confuse the trees as much as it's confusing me? Will there be blossoms left when they're supposed to be here? In April/May? I haven't moved to another part of the country or world and I have certain expectations about what spring will bring here in California. So what? Is there nothing left to count on?</div><div> </div><div>What I can count on? Not so much, maybe--except that I've always gone back to one thing and it's always been there for me. Art. Or maybe I should say my relationship to art. Even if I'm not making art, I need it around me. Pictures satisfy me. Disturb me, yes, and they should. Inspire me, sometimes. When I look at certain drawings or paintings--and I mean really look at them and see them--it's like my soul exhales. Mostly it's powerful color combinations and interactions that do this, but <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SY9YfdGOsWI/AAAAAAAAAD0/bew-wwvbklU/s1600-h/benton.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300552583848309090" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 346px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 249px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SY9YfdGOsWI/AAAAAAAAAD0/bew-wwvbklU/s320/benton.bmp" border="0" /></a>here's a B&W picture by T.H.Benton that does it as well--both because of subject matter and composition. Sometimes when I look at his work I notice my body swaying with the movement of his lines. Pretty cool thing.</div><br /><div>So there's a constant.</div><br /><div></div><div>Another constant is the way I feel when I go into the woods to visit old crone redwoods. Pogonip in Santa Cruz . I suggest you try it sometime. There's a good path that takes you through redwoods, across a meadow and past an old polo ground. Not for bikes--only boots. And a walking stick if you're like me and your knees need a little support down the hills.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Or you can find your epicenter at Nicene Marks. Some places are for bikes and others are for boots. Who knows--a trip there might help if you have constancy issues. Maybe it'll feel okay that things aren't supposed to be constant.</div><br /><div></div>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-51973164648970800692008-10-25T17:49:00.000-07:002008-10-25T19:03:06.640-07:00This CAN'T Be It . . .I want to believe I live in an America that will not let the disease of a McPalin presidency spread. That the stunningly inane George W. Bush got into the White House in the first place was hard enough to swallow. That we ended up with John Kerry trying to displace him was another blow (sorry Senator Kerry--I voted for you but I didn't think you were the strongest candidate to go up against the Republican machine)--almost as big a blow as the resulting 4 more years. Even the idea that there are Americans that would choose McCain and Palin over two people who are as smart and compassionate as Barack Obama and Joe Biden is unthinkable. But I have seen and heard some of the people who will be voting for the McPalin ticket. Scary. Very scary.<br /><br />I am afraid and ashamed of America for allowing the Bush administration to take over--no, not just take over but rape our government and spit on us by spending our tax money on a war devised to make the rich richer at the cost of our priceless and irreplaceable soldiers' lives and the lives of innocent civilians in Iraq. Pro-Life means nothing to the McPalins of the world--only on their terms. Our country, pushed into areas of the world we have no business being in, has become, well, I was going to say a bully, but that's way too light a word. Our country has become a cruel and insane serial murderer. If Obama doesn't win--we'll only spiral further down.<br />Vote Obama. This could be it.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-72789493552888390462008-10-01T00:23:00.000-07:002008-10-01T00:43:30.110-07:00Hiking, reading, making stuffAfter two months of hiking 4-5 times a week this is the first week I spent without a day in the woods. Feels wrong. Very wrong. I guess the woods, especially the redwoods, have become kind of a sanctuary for me. With all the studying of Jeffers, Muir, the book I recently finished, <em>Grayson,</em> by Lynne Cox, and all the spiritual poetry I've been wading in (reading and writing), it's no wonder the woods are a sacred place for me. But I think nature has always has provided that for me. When I'm climbing up and down some mountain, I'm centered and can feel my breath. Trees don't care about time in the way that we do. They know what they're born to do and they do it without griping about it. I have a lot to learn from trees.<br /><br />Speaking of centering . . . I'm rereading <em>Centering</em> by M.C. Richards. All the poetry I've been reading and writing and I'm signed up for a pottery workshop at the end of this month, the book really has a lot to say to me. Funny how that book keeps making reappearances since the first time I read it. I think that was in Gabriele Rico's class. I remember how my creativity was so fired up. I was drawing and writing and I didn't know I had to pick either one. And, well, I don't. I guess I'm seduced by two muses and that's just how it's going to be.<br /><br />So tomorrow looks like I'll be breaking my hiking fast. A day off, coffee and a book in bed in the morning. And then I plan to be on "tree-time" maybe at Pogonip in Santa Cruz or Nicene Marks in Aptos. Maybe Villa Montalvo--all beautiful places. <br />CiaoANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-73394542553560486512008-08-15T11:26:00.000-07:002008-09-01T11:49:28.248-07:00"Buckskin Horse" finds a home<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SLw0xuTXPeI/AAAAAAAAADE/BJO9z0TwES4/s1600-h/CadenceCovers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241122095199895010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SLw0xuTXPeI/AAAAAAAAADE/BJO9z0TwES4/s320/CadenceCovers.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yeehaw!!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.yarrowaymountainpress.com/index.php">Yarroway Mountain Press </a>has just released a beautiful anthology of horse poetry called <em><a href="http://www.yarrowaymountainpress.com/projects/cadence.php">Cadence of Hooves</a></em>. They happen to have included one of my poems: "Buckskin Horse." I wrote the poem at a week-long poetry retreat in Marfa, Texas organized by the poet (and friend) <a href="http://www.dawntrook.com/">Dawn Trook</a>. I was lucky enough to work with both <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Cairns">Scott Cairns </a>and <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/53">Brigit Pegeen Kelly</a>. This particular poem came from Brigit's workshop, but Scott's workshop produced a poem called "Echo" that would later be reformed into a sonnet that won a Phelan award at San Jose State University.<br /><br />I'm kinda' liking this poetry stuff!<br /><div></div>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-78193349092263282422008-05-28T22:24:00.000-07:002008-05-28T22:39:32.681-07:00. . .and counting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SD5BQ6eI7GI/AAAAAAAAAC8/6GUoY2lT5TU/s1600-h/IMG_1038.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SD5BQ6eI7GI/AAAAAAAAAC8/6GUoY2lT5TU/s320/IMG_1038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205669978116254818" border="0" /></a><br />Not that I'm counting . . . but there are 12 more school days until summer. I think the kids are as ready as I am to have this time off. School is rough, although for a lot of kids there's not a lot other than school. This occurs to me occasionally as I'm racing from my classroom to the parking lot and I notice the same kid sitting at a picnic table on school grounds, day after day. I think I was that kid some thirty-forty years ago. I used to hang out near the art room at my junior high, hoping Mrs. Wright would show up and let me in to draw--or really just to keep company with her. She was this beautiful hippy artist teacher (it was the early 70's) who lived in Redwood Estates, drove a green Volvo station wagon with dog claw scratches on the passenger side. She showed us a a pen and ink drawing of her two dogs she'd drawn from a photo and we were in awe of her skills.<br />Well, she turned me on to art, but more than anything, she took time to listen to my teen-age angst (and I mean a lot of time--a lot of angst), made me feel valuable, both as an artist and a person. She meant a lot--no, she means a lot to me. How can I, now an art teacher myself, not think of her often?<br />So--Marilyn Wright--wherever you may be (hopefully it is in a magnificent, creative space): I get it! And I hope there might be a student out there who respects me/remembers me the same one day.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-46877642542293835672008-04-28T18:43:00.000-07:002011-12-02T10:57:56.383-08:004 months later<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SBaAIFeVqMI/AAAAAAAAACs/YXd9zqoPwIU/s1600-h/annie+and+kate.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 6px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 11px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194480096615180482" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/SBaAIFeVqMI/AAAAAAAAACs/YXd9zqoPwIU/s320/annie+and+kate.jpg" width="322" height="245" /></a><br /><br /><div>Okay--short and sweet. School is almost over for the year. Summer approaches as I (feel the need to) retreat. I have to say, being both a teacher and a student is engulfing, overwhelming . . . yet satisfying. I'm taking two grad classes in the MFA program at SJSU, both are poetry seminars, and both require large amounts of reading and writing. O the responsibility of deadlines! But I think I'm doing alright and after having taken some time off to deal with issues in my personal life, I'm making a steady comeback. Steady is not a bad thing and certainly more my style than splashy would be. Unfortunately, no self-portraits for now, but I intend to make more pictures this summer. I feel there may be a summer writing/illustrating project in the works. More about that later--hopefully before the end of summer. I have a feeling this blogging business will be easier while I'm reaping the benefits of teaching . . . time for art and writing!</div>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-92045007353385865892007-12-23T12:30:00.000-08:002007-12-23T13:04:13.606-08:00Winter Break<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/R27HHWSeXQI/AAAAAAAAABI/Kma9fU2GFaI/s1600-h/IMG_1027.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147270353187134722" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 272px" height="272" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eQw2mtFOwn0/R27HHWSeXQI/AAAAAAAAABI/Kma9fU2GFaI/s320/IMG_1027.JPG" width="240" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>The best thing about winter . . . bare trees, clean air after a rain, mashing duff (a mix of flora decomp and packed dirt) under your boots on a hike, hot soup, mini mince pies with brandy butter, colored lights, and finally, the time away from the job--2 weeks if you're a high school teacher--to notice things like bare trees, duff, and colored lights. <br /><br /></div><div></div><div>Anyway, here is my latest picture. Not my latest to draw, but latest to make it onto the computer. I'm pretty lame when it comes to this technology thing. Okay, maybe not lame, but definitely lazy. Try not to notice the great gaps of time between posts--but hey, things happen.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>Are you wondering if I actually have fiery red hair these days? <br /><br /></div><div></div><div>One of the great things about art is the recreation involved in the creation. I get to make images the way they could be if only (--fill in the blank with any alternate experience--). We can be as free as we imagine, at least within the products of our imagination. Then the phrase "I can only imagine" takes on new meaning and value. Image+imagination. Imagine that.</div></div>ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-41084220373513546142007-10-06T17:29:00.000-07:002007-10-07T09:51:26.190-07:00a small yet significant collection of faces . . .. . . I shall be creating and attempting to record on this blog. The drawing technique is modified contour. The rules for this type of drawing are: never look at your hand as it draws, but only at the subject. If you get lost or want to check on your progress, stop drawing and look, find your place or move to another place on the paper, but look back at the subject before resuming the drawing. If you need to lift your drawing instrument, replace it on a line you've already drawn so as to keep the appearance of a continual line.<br /><br />I don't know why these are the rules, they just are and I like them.<br /><br />After the line drawing is complete, color your picture with color pencil in layers. At this point you should look at your paper when you draw. Berol Prismacolors are creamy and lay down smooth. Try them and your drawings will be molto bene.<br /><br />Draw anything you like, your face, your friends' faces, even your feet, especially if they are very wrinkly. You might soak your feet first to get an ample supply of wrinkleage . Wrinkles and folds are an artist's friends. They respond well in controlled lighting conditions and provide opportunity to practice shading. As far as models go, the older and fatter the better, I always say. Not always.<br /><br />I believe these drawings are best done in a sketchbook while sipping cappucinos at Peet's--especially the Peet's on The Alameda. If it's too busy there, Peet's on Lincoln is a good substitute. Take a friend as a model. You should buy them a cappucino too, although it might make them a bit figditty. Perhaps a decaf, but what's the point?<br />Try putting a bit of honey in your cappucino. It's heavier than sugar and drops below the foam layer into the coffee below; it'll feel better in your mouth.ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6143525699449228886.post-33426133467576451652007-08-10T21:07:00.000-07:002024-01-21T09:00:39.540-08:00school-start is just over a week away . . .Whoa!<br /><br />And what the hell happened to the summer? For teachers, this is a time to recover from the challenges of the the previous school year, to regenerate, to recharge, all that. I'm sure there's been some bizarre mistake, some awful tripping over a wrinkle in time from June to August. Did July even happen? I didn't see a single firework on the 4th (we live in the city and aren't supposed to see them), so I'm not convinced it's actually passed yet. And if I could check my battery the way I check the one on this laptop, I know it would tell me there's a plug unplugged, I'm running on 8% power, and I better switch to a power source because I'm about to shut down and lose all my data.<br /><br />But summer is almost over and my brain is already switching over to high school art teacher mode. What changes will I make to the assignments, to my teaching methods, to the way I relate to the administration? I'm not worried how I relate to the kids. I think I was born with a gene that makes me automatically care about the kids. I'm always optimystic (odd spelling intentional. It's good to make up words when you need them). But administrators and teachers often experience and move through the world differently. At least it seems that way when I try to compare--which may be a bad idea anyway.<br /><br />You know, the apples and oranges thing.<br /><br />We teachers, if we care about what we're doing, are constantly figuring new ways to "get the kids", and by that I mean understand and reach them, as well as snag them into wanting to learn from us and be in our classroom, and be happy their counselors put them there even though they didn't sign up for us.I'm a high school art teacher who teaches drawing and painting to beginning artists as well as more advanced artists (between the ages of 13 and 18). I used to really resist the idea that I could be a high school teacher for life. The first few years I promised myself and everyone near me that "this year is my last year of teaching, I swear to god!" Then summer would happen and I'd relax and somehow convince myself that I should try maybe just one more year. I mean (I'd rationalize), "I spent all that time and money on credentials and all" Somehow I've made it to my 10th year and I've noticed that for the last couple of years I've been making the promise to quit less and less often.<br /><br />And it's for one reason.<br /><br />Young people amaze me. And they kick my butt. They are thinking, creative people with phenomenal energy and good will. They make me think, they make me laugh, they make me be creative. I suppose there are other jobs that could do that for me (and plenty that wouldn't), but the fates have given me this one. I'm a lucky woman. Mostly.<br /><br />Still, with all that said, there is also a lot to say about the educational system and American society as a whole. Right now I guess I'll say a little and later, a lot more.<br /><br />When I walk into my classroom on August 20th, I walk into the beginning of a year filled with joy and learning, yes, but it's a year guaranteed to be filled with difficult situations, students who don't trust the world (especially the adults in it), students who will bug the shit out of me, and who I will bug the shit out of. I'll meet students who check out of school because they don't "fit in", some who spend most of their time high or escaping into video games, who believe school is "gay" and will be shocked (or not) when they find out that I am. That will no doubt be fodder for this blog later, as the issue comes up (and out!) every year. There will be students who I will be successful with and students who I will be unsuccessful with. But I may never know which are which (I try not to pretend I do). My high school teachers most likely had no idea if they were successful with me or not--oh, but that's another story for later. Some students will be surprised when they find out the "easy art class" they signed up for requires them to read and write and think about art, along with actually learning to draw, and they will push against it. And I'll let them lean on me a little, then give them a gentle, yet firm, nudge, because I want them to know what art can do.<br /><br />It's an optimystical thing. Making art is an optimistic act. Which writer was it that said that about writing?<br /><br />So, my hope for this blog is to share some of my teaching year with you all.<br /><br />Each year teaching changes me a bit more, some years more than others, and I hope I can relate some of the process that occurs this year. High school teaching can be creatively draining, so I'll give this my best effort--which I actually have worked into my grading criteria because in art class anyway, effort counts.<br /><br /><br />ANNIEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16522196266957264402noreply@blogger.com6