THIS IS THE LIMIT!

I'm taking jazz piano lessons.

Twenty-five years ago, my two best friends and I quit smoking. We didn’t smoke to look cool or to follow the crowd or smoke with our spouses (our spouses were non-smokers.) We didn’t care that smoking was bad for us. We ignored Surgeon General’s Reports and public shaming. 

We had a few rules: I never smoked in the bedroom I shared with my husband. Another of us never smoked in the car. But one of us couldn’t get out of bed in the morning before having her first hit.

We smoked because we were addicts. We loved the smell. We loved the release — that pulling into our lungs the smoke and  — ahhhh, the release, blowing away all our tension, all our pent up rage. We liked the rituals. Talk on the phone, light up a cigarette. Begin painting — light up. THINK about something to paint (or write) — light up a Kent. Smoking unlocked the idea gates and lowered the self-enacted prohibitions. It was our best friend.

But we quit. It was hard. We got hypnotized. We went to “Cessation Clinics.” We got chewing gum and arm patches. We sucked on straws and hard candy. We invented reward and challenge games. We tapered off; we quit Cold Turkey. We finally made it across the finish line. We became reformed smokers.

A year later, we made a pledge. “When we get really REALLY old…so old that we have one foot in the grave anyway…we will take a carton of cigarettes into the woods and smoke until we pass out. We’ll do this when we get REALLY REALLY OLD…75!!!” 

Now what? I’m 75 and I don’t feel REALLY REALLY OLD. I don’t believe I have one foot in the grave. And I don’t want to smoke — at all!  

It’s hard escaping all the “when we get really old” stuff. In January, I convinced my husband that we really needed a brand new car — one with current safety features. We are not as agile as we once were. Our reaction time isn’t as sharp. We are the consumers for flashing lights and warning sounds that alert drivers about crossing lanes, and on-coming anything. 

And while we were talking “cars,” maybe it was time to become a single-car couple. Our schedules are self-made and therefore, adjustable. We don’t have jobs. We could live easily with one car. 

So we took the logical steps. We now have one vehicle with all the safety gadgets in the world. I hate the new car; the safety gadgets drive me insane. As I calmly drive down the street, the car begins tooting and flashing and I wonder “what the hell is going on and how can I save myself?” It’s taken me months to figure out that those warning screams are merely because I’ve crossed some insignificant line in the road.

And the one car life? I know I am spoiled. I get that most of the world is starving while I kvetch about having one car. Set that aside for a minute and examine the process that led to the decision. It was made on the basis of age. We’re “supposed” to lead quiet lives — we’re old. We’re “supposed” to have limited social engagements, limited volunteer obligations, limited …everything!  

Enough already! I accept some limits but not all. Give me a break. I’m only 75!

The new color - "Salvage" - dining room wall...just because

MAG FINGER LAKES EXHIBIT, 2019

John Elliott, Ithaca, American Elm

Here’s a math problem.

I moved to Rochester in 1969. The Memorial Art Gallery Finger Lakes Exhibition is held every other year. Assuming that I have seen every single Finger Lakes Exhibit, how many shows have I viewed? 

Did you get 25? You are more or less correct. Actually, the Finger Lakes has not always been a biannual. For a long time, it was held EVERY year. Then somebody had the bright idea to segregate “fine art” from “craft art” and tried to alternate the two from year to year. That didn’t work out so well.

Once or twice, the show was cancelled altogether for reasons I can’t recall and some of us gave it up for dead. But we were wrong and here it is again — crafts and non-crafts together in wedded bliss thanks in large part to this year’s judge. 

And therein tells the tale.  Any juried art exhibit is the direct subjective opinion of the juror — one person or sometimes a small group of people. If that person happens to know a lot about ceramics, sometimes there will be fewer ceramic pieces because he/she is a sterner critic. If that person loves, loves, loves all animals…well, I don’t know…they should walk down the road to the County Fair I guess.

You are all smart readers. You get the point! Art is personal. End of story — almost. Let’s assume that you are an electrical engineer. You’ve never taken a class in aesthetics — design or art. But you do see the beauty in circuitry. Does this qualify you to judge a major competitive art exhibition? Or you’re a security guard for Walmart. Same question. 

See where I’m going with this? The answer is “maybe.” Your opinion is actually important and you probably have great innate instincts. But this year’s actual juror was Marilyn Zapf, assistant director of the Center for Crafts in Asheville,North Carolina. She’s spent her adult life studying design. So she got the job of picking pieces for this show — approximately 75 from the 800 submissions.

Hard job, huh? So as you walk around the show, what you “get” is Marilyn Zapf. She likes near-obsessive repetition. She loves pieces made from many, many identical - or almost identical -  parts. She adores graphs - precisely drawn, cut, or folded. She also likes black and white photography of urban scenes and I can’t begin to explain that except maybe it’s the graphic nature of derelict streets and rusting signage that she likes. 

And you see what’s just happened? I begin explaining Marilyn Zapf based on what I suspect could be true. Dear readers, I’ve just cracked the case for you concerning “art criticism.” Any judged show reflects the eye of the beholder.  Like the old Tom Paxton song lyric: “I picked up a pickle and said ‘I don’t know much about art but I know what I like.’” 

Well, there it is. I did vote for my favorite piece in the show and I’ll share that with you. It’s John Elliott’s huge chunk of American Elm, doing a ballet on one smallish branch. This piece has guts! Presence! Tells me an entire story! Makes me want to know its story! Brings tears to my eyes! I love this piece. (Did I recommend you read “The Overstory”? I am steeped in tree lore this summer. There are worse things to be.) 

Let me know your pick.

OF IRISES AND FAIRIES

Siberian irises are blooming. Quick! Go see! There they are! Have you ever seen anything as beautiful as they are at this exact minute? They will last only a day or two. But until they wither, the structure, the color — they are the very definition of “perfect.” 

I look for words to explain this miracle but nothing comes. Then I remember a Bible reference about lilies: ‘Not even Solomon in all his glory was clothed as one of these.” And I know that I am not alone — that other writers struggled just as I am flailing around now, prodding my brain to find an adequate descriptive language of love and awe. 

Summer is just beginning. You don’t need to remind me that the extravagant burlesque of peonies, cone flowers, daisies, roses and sun flowers is right around the corner. Wait for your particular moment of zen. Mine is right now. 

You and I may not be around for the next cycle of these miracles. We all know that there are no guarantees. How do we cope with this reality? 

Before I reach the very bottom of despair, I remember. Slow down. Listen. Smell. Look more. LOOK MORE!

Chinese elm trees grow throughout the woods in the ravine behind my house. They release seeds this time of year.  Actually, the seed itself is tiny, cushioned in the middle of a diaphanous membrane almost like a round punched out, dried onion skin. The engineering of these little floaters allows them to skim across the slightest wind current, spreading the seeds — and trees — into new possibly fertile homes. 

As I walked Abbey and Lucy around our property today, I happened to glance into the woods. There’s a slight clearing in the middle of the trees — a space where sunlight coming down nearly reaches the ground unobstructed. Today, the air was full of elm tree seeds, free floating like dust motes. The sunlight caught each one. They glittered!  At first, I thought I was seeing lighting bugs — impossible in the middle of the day. The vision was so unusual — so magical! — that my internal computer scanned but had no reference. The closest I could come — tiny fairies! 

A numinous experience: “surpassing understanding” — “filled with a sense of supernatural presence.” 

As I review my picture library of past years, I notice that I photograph the Siberian irises every spring. I’ll undoubtedly photograph them again next spring if I am able. I’ll try to keep my eyes open for floating fairies.