What should a bio look like?

Writing my own "artist's biography" becomes something of an exploration of all I've forgotten, a journey highlighted by the must-have-beens and the stories others tell, as if to say they know me better than I know myself, rubbing in the forgotten-ness of it all, though I wish they'd tell me the bad stories too, where I feature as the self-focused depression I remember myself to have been too much of the time. However, in the end, there are elements of the past I do recall. So I will begin there until one of those who know me better come along to share the real story for me.

As a frame for the beginning, know that I generated from stacked generations of missionaries on both sides of my family. Most of my aunts and uncles worked in third-world countries, so it's not surprising I lived in one too. The family members who remained in the U.S. and Canada, ministering within their local churches and communities, seemed more foreign to me during the rare family reunion than those who lived in the jungles.

A possible beginning point--

I grew up amid the bold colors and distinct textures of Andean textiles, envying the bright, full skirts of the Quechua women, who walked the road with hand spindles, spinning wool from the sheep they herded before them. Patchwork fields, green and brown, dotted the sides of the local mountains in an irregular geometry, guided by the climbing ability of the oxen and the balance of earth and rock against the cutting strength of a wooden plow.

I vaguely remember walking the fresh-turned furrows behind the neighbor's oxen, dropping round red potatoes with his children. It was play for me, though for them it was daily life. I fondly recall in perfect detail the red bursting-out white, in melting flavor, of the fresh-harvested results after their tumble within boiling water. They would rest temporarily amid a melted pool of butter and salt, but never for long. No potato has ever tasted quite the same since leaving that world.

I played in clear rivers when sunlight glistened against the many-colored wet pebbles beneath the water's flow, then watched from a safe distance as raging chocolate water foamed and roared to tumble cottage-sized boulders after a rainstorm up the mountain.

Crisp-cool air slipped along my tongue on its way to fill lungs that had climbed far higher than the already exalted altitude of my home; while my skin reveled in the misty touch of the clouds, which hold a flavor all their own, filled with the scent of sky-touched plants and earth. The rainbows reigned in spectacular splendor over valleys spotted with thatch-roofed adobe homes, connected by roads cut into the sides of the mountains in brown or red zigzag lines.

Even the cities were brightly colored, painted walls of home beside home in random brilliance ... pink ... green ... blue ... with stair-stepped security walls lining uneven walkways that brought their own patterns from brick or stone paths to irregular cement alongside cracked foundations.

I climbed trees and read among the branches as they reached out to dangle leaves in living screens that highlighted the brightness of sunlight as they filtered its beams into a patchwork of bright blue and layered greens. In classrooms, the lurking dust would capture the sun along fairy-pathways, drawing my attention to the skies outside where clouds lived in ever-changing variety of form, demanding daydreams to fill the magnificent hallways of their turreted castles.

I'm only now learning how few have seen, though their eyes scan the same sights, and how few notice and revel in this beauty which seems so free and abundant. After living and breathing pattern, texture, and incredibly designed interactions of  form and color all my life, I hope it is no surprise to discover I want to share glimpses of their Creator and the joy I find in exploring them with you.

This is why I draw.

This is why I write.


---

As a side-note, I have sold three of my original drawings! *inner awe* This is why I'm doing my best to create the beginnings of an artist's bio and a portfolio to carry off to the local galleries in hopes of taking another step along the path of professional artistry.

---

The images above, in order from the top:
"Red Wind"
"Mountain Scape"
"Confusion"
All were drawn on 3x5" cards with pen.

Rain in the Street

Walking the streets of a city can feel like a loss to someone who can't breathe without a tree or some indication of greenery nearby. It was a pressing day, grey and cloudy, depressing to the many who complained to one another against the skies. The crowds were somewhat less than usual due to the predicted forecast of a heavy downpour. Those who considered themselves sensible remained inside, creating excuses for not moving on quite yet, enjoying longer conversations within the multitude of restaurants, from one of which we had just emerged.

Calling rain a miserable thing and avoiding it does not appeal to me. It seems, on those gusty grey days, that the green of the trees rests, open-mouthed, breathing deep in anticipation of the showers. I feel the same way. Why an umbrella, when I can play with the trees? And so my friend and I made our way along the sidewalks, he with care for his camera, ducking beneath the awnings when the mist gathered into droplets, even as he laughed in enjoyment of the weather with me.

And then the skies let go in a wave, a deluge that closed away the distance and brought with it the memories of waterfalls and deep chasms. Suddenly, the city felt far away--or purer. I thrust my purse into my friend's hands after snatching the all-important memory-chocolate from the niche where it had been waiting for me to find a treasure to relish.

"Wait for me!" I called, laughing at his camera-protective stance within a nearby doorway. My hair flattened against my forehead and I felt the cleansing flow of water rushing down my neck. "I need to breathe life, and this is the moment!"

I felt the sky lean down as if to kiss my forehead as the rich flavor of chocolate melted on my tongue. Closing my eyes to the world, I listened to the rain sing upon the pavement and dash against the textures and shapes of the city around me. Subtle warmth from the spices at the chocolate's center coiled with the delicate fresh scent of washed air, like an orchestra, embracing my form with relief and refreshment, until even the watery rush of an approaching car as it shoved pooled water from its path, melded into the tune in an ever-rising crescendo.

It was a completely peaceful thrill of joy, and I refused to release the feeling early, even as a too-late warning from my friend sharpened my anticipation of the end. The wall of street-water struck my back, breaking over my head with a complex alteration of the already present cold and wetness. I laughed, because it was a better finish than I could have hoped, and the words of the event were already rising against my throat in a song of poetry that might fly away if I couldn't capture it.

"A pen! Paper!" I ran toward my friend, who lowered his camera and proffered my purse without question. Rivulets of water streamed into the interior and I gasped in dismay as the notebook pages wrinkled beneath my fingers. "Please! You write?"

He finally let the camera rest upon its strap and took the proffered pen as the words tumbled out in confused profusion. It was different than writing it myself, than seeing what the words said coming back off the page, through my eyes with an audible echo even in silence, and I finally stumbled to an end, hoping I had caught it, and suddenly realizing there might be a need to stop in a store for a change of clothing. He lifted the camera with a grin. "They go together, you know. The poem and the photos."

---

A dose of reality: (Why this dream is labeled "possible")

I have this habit of tucking expensive chocolates away for certain moments, the sort of moments when flavor is needed to complete an already special occasion. Today I dreamed of such a moment,
...
because it rained,
because I was in the shower and wishing I were dancing in the rain instead,
because I had just been looking at the photography of a childhood friend, whose skill I admire,
because these types of moments appeal to me,
because I recently visited Chicago 
because I want to someday have a photograph of myself really enjoying life, instead of posing for the camera in hopes of giving a certain impression
... 
There are many reasons for this dream, but it's not one I can force to happen. Perhaps I shall have it in parts, some day. Photographers with the ability to capture the heart within motion and life, as my friend does, seem rare, but I hope to befriend more of them.

Of course, I also wrote a poem about this feeling, but it goes on my other blog, where it belongs.

Rain in the City

It came like an invasion,
the tears of the sky,
washing away the dust and grime
from angled branches
over-reaching their confined footprints
and breathing out freedom,
a better scent
than the walls and concrete usually inhale,
and rushing along like a melody
beneath hurried tires
that press it upward again
in a rainbow-arch
just waiting for
the sun to break through
and light up the air
where the trees breathe green
against the controlling lines
of construction and progress.

---

From a day-dream ...

The first poem was better, but I didn't have a pen, so this will have to do.

Sermon Notes and Fire

Once again, it is a call to holiness,
purity... of course, for it is written.

And the call raises the fire once again
from that smoldering state
where the wood has settled
but the coals are hot ...
and we roast marshmallows.
Easier to prevent accidental fires
in preference for golden brown,
melted upon chocolate and cracker,
but I digress.

Called away, separate, like the people of old...
Reminder, renewed
like stirring up coals.
And I know where the heat
of this burning began
outside of my heart
or the knowledge of man.
I know where the fuel comes
and all that are warmed
when a gust of wind blows
and bright sparks are formed.
I know.

And it's not here.

So, while I agree
that my effort is needed
submitted freely.

In the end,
all that burns,
all the heat,
all the flame,
every cookie
and marshmallow
that come near
are the same.

Brought by a hand
far greater than mine
who stirs up the fire,
sets the wood by design,
brings the pots
and the skewers ...
He cooks.
And he cleans.
I just burn till I'm gone,
glad he chose to use me.

Hmm... I had no idea that this would become a poem. I was going to write something boring ... I think. I don't remember what, really.

By the way, that is what my sermon notes look like on Sundays ... sometimes with more words. And I won't inflict that last line on Pastor's reputation, just in case it seems a little unbalanced. That was a side-thought.

The Dreamer

There once was a girl
who sang on the sidewalks
and hummed in the shower
then changed all the lyrics.

She laughed at tongue twisters
and wrapped words in tangles
to see what would happen
at different angles.

There was ink on her fingers
and some on the paper
written and shaped, playfully,
as it changed her.

From line to line
she adjusted her view
always looking to make
old ideas turn new.

Some found it offensive
seeing her gaze
off into the distance,
mysterious, amazed.

But somehow they could never
adjust what she saw;
she could see in the dark
if no light was the law,

and even without talent
for practical things,
she's the one they want near
when life crushes their dreams.

Phoenix Butterfly

Formed by flame
new dreams now rise
upon the wings
of butterflies.

---

8.5x11 pen and marker

Wedding Words to Art

Sometimes 

art exists on its own

calling the soul

to weep

to rest

to wonder

but 

more often

true

art begs for words

when the meaning it holds

is too large for the lines

that flow and shape

living ideas

that wrap themselves in color

and cling to pattern 

and form

to find completion

The Joy of Shaping

It isn't a mystery, this touching of pen to paper, though sometimes it feels like one when I am asked how I shape line to line. As I've thought of how to answer, the lines of thought twist and tangle from the simple joy of white paper and ink and into the more beautiful evolution of the thoughts invested into my work.

Or, rather, I hope they are more beautiful. This varies from moment to moment, I suppose. I'm just as capable of investing frustration or bitterness as joy, though usually a paper and pen become part of the path to dealing with these problems.

In general, though, my work is shaped by gratitude to the designer of grace and beauty, a tribute in some way to the natural patterns that surround us and a recognition of how much greater He is than any artist I could strive to emulate. I think of how He works His good in spite of our flaws and sin, as I wrap my art around the accidental and unexpected, since every touch creates a permanent mark that must be accepted. Very little of what you find in my work is planned, after the first few lines, and those are rarely left as they were when they permeated the paper.

Many lines are wrapped in prayers, thoughts set before God in expectation of His grace illuminating the hearts and minds of those dear to me ... or those who see my work. I pray for these unknown strangers too. Sometimes the lines are shaped by a wise saying or series of connected verses or stories, or a visual of a truth that I am being taught.

So often I have a visual connection to the lessons I've learned. It's amazing to me that it took so long for me to realize how much my hands long to shape the beauty I see, and to acknowledge the gift others so often informed me rested within. It is still a mystery to me when I find others are amazed by what God has given me.

For so long it felt useless, fit only to line the margins of pages in my boredom. That God might use the shaping of a page for His greater purposes seemed impossible and unreasonable. Now, I'm beginning to glimpse a new line drawn within my existence. Where it will lead, as I follow its path, is beyond knowing. And yet, the fact that it even exists within the pattern of my life gives me great joy--for what is more lovely than discovering a service for which God has both equipped and suited your heart and abilities?

---

Image:  "Fireworks" My first show-able photo manipulation/self portrait, created just after the 4th of July, 2009. It expresses how art feels to me, which is why I used it here, despite the many imperfections I could point out at a moment's notice, like the fact that I changed the photo so much you wouldn't recognize me. *grin*

P.S. --- I made my first "real" sale!... and enough money to actually re-invest in better markers and paper. I'm just saying miracles can happen. Isn't God amazing?

Beginning

Tendrils of truth from the beginning of time
coil through life with glowing reality,
persuasive beyond knowing,
of intangible wisdom.

---

Full-view is better.

Even in the Voice of Bitter

There is a threat
against all reason,
angered to the very core
and brought to bear
with little mercy,
good intentions just ignored.
It will hurt
more than a token
to take a blow
in all its might,
accepting pain
without reproaching
logs that block
the giver's sight.
Even in the voice of 
bitter
truth comes knocking
at the door
and letting in may be a battle
for a heart that's hurt and sore.
In the darkest
condemnation
truth must take its course
by right.
Accept correction

from the shadows

through a grace

that's filled with light.