that's mrs. mediocrity to you

tries her hand

at abstract

art.

::

on this night of full moon and cold rain and extra innings, cozy on the couch in wool socks with a book in my hand and a mind that keeps floating to other places.

i let it float and breathe in the quiet, the quiet that is never really soundless, because silence always has something to say, especially just exactly when you think it has finally fallen asleep. there will be a murmur, a sigh.

a question will come creeping up to tug on your sleeve and invite itself to the party. and how can you refuse a question? and then before you know it, the room is full of them, huddled in groups or standing alone, some sitting on the floor just looking at you, others mumbling in voices barely audible.

it’s okay though, because lately, i’m just plain tired of all the answers. everyone’s got one, or two, or four or seventeen. all jumping up and down with their hand raised high in the air and shouting, “pick me, pick me!” it really starts to wear a girl out.

and so i am content just to sit here, pondering, wondering, wandering. listening to whispers.

a little while ago, i went to the back door and smiled up at the moon. i turned and walked back to where i was sitting, and for a second, i thought she might follow me inside. i see her there now, hovering just outside the window.

but we both know that she’s not here to see me. we both know that she lives on questions.

i’ll send them all out to her in a little bit, just as soon as silence stops with the heavy sighs and the pouting.

and then i’ll give it a hug and tuck it in for the night,
with a kiss on the forehead for good measure.

because that moon looks really hungry.

for days now i’ve thought of almost nothing else
words swim across the page in gently flowing rivers
the sun bleeds itself dry as it vies for my attention

a pebble in my shoe strives to become a nuisance
minutes and hours unfold themselves and flatten
a penny rolls across the floor and lies there

still

everything i’ve ever felt rises to the surface
i seek out stars and find nothing but glitter
a flower in a purple vase begins to wilt

vines grow through the wall that acts as support
a green leaf turns crimson and spins to the ground
water laps at the shores of forgiveness

quiet

from directly above, the peak of a mountain
is only one shade lighter than the valley

:

::

this post is part of dVerse poets OpenLinkNight join us!

This is a story of art vs. artist, forgiveness vs. accountability.

I don’t usually talk about things like this here, but I am so angry that I have to get it off my chest. I have to rant. And I’m interested to see what you have to say about it.

Yesterday I received a letter from the local art gallery, the big, institutional, owned by a large university art gallery. I received the letter because I am a member. This is the gallery that hosts the biggest/best art festival of the year, in which I participate.

The letter was sent as an explanation for the fact that the gallery is installing the work of Tom Otterness in its latest large project, an outdoor sculpture park. The letter was not sent as an apology, only as an explanation for their decision.

But now, in case you have no idea who Tom Otterness is or why they need to send such a letter, let me stop right here and explain.

He is, according to the letter, “one of the notable sculptors of public art in America and abroad.” He is “internationally renowned.” He is “an artist who is probably the most responsive to community of any artist in America.”

He is also a dog murderer.

Before he was all of those other things, back when he was 25, Tom Otterness made a plan and went to an animal shelter, adopted a dog, tied it to a fence so there was no chance of escape, shot it, and then filmed it as it died. He called this an art film.

I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

… … …

This all came out a few years back, after he was already famous and celebrated and “renowned” for his cutesy, whimsical work. Which in my opinion, is the most twisted thing of all.

When it came out, and people started to protest the very large sums of public money he was being paid for his art, this is the apology he offered:

“Thirty years ago when I was 25 years old, I made a film in which I shot a dog. It was an indefensible act that I am deeply sorry for. Many of us have experienced profound emotional turmoil and despair. Few have made the mistake I made. I hope people can find it in their hearts to forgive me — Tom Otterness.”

And I should add that as far as I can find out, he has made no attempt to do anything beyond that to show the sincerity of his regret. Many people have stated that the least he could or should do is donate a large portion of the huge commissions he makes to animal shelters. It wouldn’t in any way erase what he did, but at the very least he could put his money where his mouth is.

The letter I received goes on to state that the gallery feels it would be unfair to hold this act (which is described almost as the prank of a foolish youth) against him after a lifetime of (what they consider to be) important work.

I don’t think it is fair to call an act like that a “mistake.” It was quite intentional.

I am angry. Appalled. Disheartened.

… … …

I recently (before this happened) had a conversation with my son about art vs. artist, we were actually talking about Hemingway, and how so many people don’t really like who he was as a person, and whether or not that affects the way they do or do not appreciate his art. And whether or not that should or should not be the case.

Does an artist’s work stand separate from who he is and what he does as a person? In general, it’s a tough question to answer. In the case of Tom Otterness, for me, it turns his work into a sham.

I don’t see sweet and whimsical, fun, family-oriented art. I see a dog, who must have been inwardly jumping for joy to know that he had been rescued from a shelter, being led to a fence and tied in place to prepare for what can only be called an execution. A worse death than the one he had been rescued from.

I cannot reconcile this image with the cutesy work I see. The bloodstains taint my vision.

… … …

And then we get to the part about forgiveness, which raises the question of what should or should not be, can or cannot be, forgiven. I don’t have the answer for that one.

Does one heinous act make you a horrible person forever?

Is it possible to atone for such an act?

Who gets to decide?

For that part of this story, ultimately I can only live with the questions.

… … …

But I can draw the line about whether or not I think his work should continued to be installed in public parks and places aimed mainly at children.

That just feels evil to me.

… … …

… … …

… … …

Note: after reading some of your thoughtful comments I wanted to add here that as far as I am concerned, my forgiveness of him matters not. My thinking out loud on this is aimed more to the question of whether or not society as a whole should forgive him, or others like him. And beyond that, even if we do forgive them, should we continue to reward them in the form of large amounts of money? Where do we draw the line? Food for thought…

This is the place I keep coming back to.

The first time was over 20 years ago, I drove to the Adirondacks alone with my notebooks and a weekend’s worth of soup and the vintage men’s overcoat that I practically lived in at the time. I rented the tiniest cabin available, and I only left once to drive up through the mountains, listening to Cowboy Junkies and Tom Petty and Bob Dylan as I went. I drove for hours and saw sights I have never forgotten.

The rest of the weekend I spent at a table in front of the wood stove, writing poetry and eating soup and perhaps, for a while, pretending that I actually was the writer I had always imagined myself to be. I was quite young, already a mother, already on my way to the end of my first marriage. In many ways, I was lost.

But I found myself here, several hundred miles away from home, up in these hills, found a place to leave my heart, nestled in the crook of an old pine tree, a place where it would always be whole and safe. A place where these mountains would always be watching over its beating claim to life.

I’m not sure why I became so attached to this place, why I had such a strong feeling that I belonged. But I did. And it’s that feeling that keeps me coming back. It’s that view and that lake and that call of loon in the earliest morning hours. And those stars at night that shine brighter and longer and seem close enough that you could reach right out and pluck the one you want to wish on from the sky.

Years later, my husband and I came here on our first anniversary, and throughout the years, we brought our children here many times. Now that they are all grown, it is becoming a tradition for us all to make it here for a few days once a year.

There are plenty of other lakes in these mountains, plenty of higher mountains in this park, plenty of sights that are yet to be seen. But this is the place I keep coming back to.

Always, I find my heart again, covered in leaves and bits of moss.

Still beating out its beautiful song.

Here, in this place.

the hope is that life will get better

that change is something more than a word

that working my way through odd-shaped days

head down, back breaking

will be worth it, in the end.

only there is no end,

it’s all a circle

hamster wheel squeaking loudly

when all i want is to sleep

and i laugh at myself

as i pretend to know

to not know

everything that i know

which is nothing

or less than

today.

:

::

this post is part of dVerse poets OpenLinkNight join us!

::

she had

good bone

structure.

::

A good deal of the time, I am all over the place, at least inside my head. There is a ticker-tape list of things to be done always circling through my mind. As soon as one thing gets checked off, another takes its place. And then another, and then three more.

Most of the time, that’s where I keep it all, right up there in my head where I can see it, even when I close my eyes.

Some days, though, it all starts to spin out of control, going so fast that I can no longer read the words. Vowels and consonants start to fly out at me in bits and pieces, I will catch a phrase or two if I’m lucky, but for the most part, life is a blur.

I keep going because I must, but I am just feeling my way along, arms stretched out before me, fingers searching. I have lost my insight.

Lost the voice that tells me to take a break and sit in my garden. Or the one that says, “Just breathe.” Or the one that whispers bits of wisdom in my ear.

Sometimes, life is like that. Oh, I wish it were not, but the simple truth of it is that no one ever said it would always be easy. We get spoiled by our own assumptions. We see other people who look like they have it so much better than we do. So much easier.

But if we are paying attention, and sometimes, even if we are not, we will stumble across something that will make us understand that through it all, there is life. That most precious of gifts. The cycles that drag us down can also be the light that lifts us up. Life is always going on.

Leaves sprout, flowers blossom, seeds form and then scatter.

But when that happens, new life begins to grow.

Maybe being scattered isn’t so bad, after all.

so much resistance

always pressing up
against a sky
that refuses

to show us who we are

colorblind we rage

at impossible sunsets
and mercurial momentum

as inertia
holds us steady

in the knowledge
that a shadow
is incapable

of lies

:

::

this post is part of dVerse poets OpenLinkNight join us!

with a little help from my friends….

Not much time for writing this past week or so, my graphics work has been extremely busy, which is a good thing and I am grateful.

But today you can find out a little bit more about me over at Marcie Scudder’s place…

Image by Marcie Scudder

Marcie is one of those people who is good at everything, a real renaissance woman. Her photography amazes me every time I visit her site, and she is an absolute master at choosing titles for them!

Like me, she shares a desire to live in the moment and seek out the beauty in the everyday. Her nature photography is so unique and sublime, I am sure she must have infinite amounts of patience!

I am honored to be featured in an interview today on
her blog: www.marciescudderphotography.com.

Would so love it if you stopped over to say hello!