I have thought of my paper mache-ing as a parallel practice. But perhaps it is tutoring the newer craft, writing. The messiness of it, the balance of water to flour, the width and length of torn paper, an excess paste on a stripe means a two-finger slide to recast paste to paper, a carelessly laid strip buckles or folds on a contour, tears upon removal, challenging a begin-again. Yes, to art being “. . . a lesson about words, structure, proportion, scene.” And yes to the possibility that less, which is compressed and well-placed, is more.
Beth, I don't think your posts can be made better, but I do ruminate-lol, and that is your fault because what is as beautiful as your morning musing, is the way you invite/entice us into conversing with you and each other, so that possibilities and challenges, hurts and hopes might be shared and held by more than one heart.
I consider myself art-impaired. You have given me hope. Your creativity is a tribute to the love you and your father shared, and a beautiful way to keep a connection.
Oh so inspiring. "and a torn edge is an extended thought," I love all the strange mismatched connections "certain kind of love with no where to go," silence of hands, not being an artist, and yet, making ...stuff. thank you, as always. (I am so glad I found you here on Substack)
Emily, the honor is mine. I am grateful that you are here. Sometimes I know what I want to say (not always, only sometimes). And so I come here, to this shared table.
I take a pause from practicing my instrument to read your words that describe to me in living color a road I’ve been down, with every leaf, every stone every ray of sunlight to hit the mountain peaks. And for all that comfort and rest that it brings. You are a glorious artist. Thank you.
Thank you, Beth. I'm lucky to have a lot of love in my life, but I think it was missing my parents that prompted me to start writing regularly again. It's mending a broken thread.
Art need not involve drawing. Your visual art has an assurance that suggests a practice much longer than four years. You are an artist. I can be wrong about many things, but not about who the artists are.
Rona, once, years ago, before my first book was published, I went to Bread Loaf and spent some time in the company of one whose first book had just been released. I kept calling myself someone who writes. He kept calling me a writer. Finally, I just accepted his words with grace. As I now accept yours.
I’m glad. Alice Munro, after achieving international fame, still didn’t call herself a writer for some time, nor did she ever have a room of her own to write in.
This is inspiring. I tend to get frustrated when I make artistic mistakes instead of trusting that I will learn from them and become better.I needed this reminder, Beth.
The way you write about grief and missing your father is profound. I lost both my beloved parents and became estranged from a beloved sister in the summer of 2022. How to stand beneath that grief? I literally doubled over with its weight. Thank goodness for my writing and Lexapro!
Stand beneath, stand beside, stand apart from — all these methods of seeing ourselves through. I'm sorry you went through such a terrible trifecta of losses, Marianna.
“There’s a certain kind of love that now has nowhere else to go.” I’ve never heard grief described this way and it’s resounding truth for me. The way you talk about art, the way your husband supports your journey, it is beautiful. As a writer for whom words are slippery right now, this is such a distillation of where I am in my own journey. Thank you.
C., I'm not sure I had articulated this loss in this way to myself until early this morning. And that is the reason to keep writing. Because when we do, when we keep trying, we discover something we did not know before. May your words grow less slippery. These are challenging times.
What I really want to say, to all of you here, that your presence here means an enormous amount to me, even more than ever. My very deepest gratitudes. And I do mean plural.
When you write about grief, you write for all of us.
When do I get to hug you in person, Judy Goldman?
Exactly. She's so specific that it becomes universal.
Thank you, Jennifer. I so appreciate this.
I also needed to read these words about grief and creativity today. Thank you.
I am so glad you are here today with us, Jennifer.
I have thought of my paper mache-ing as a parallel practice. But perhaps it is tutoring the newer craft, writing. The messiness of it, the balance of water to flour, the width and length of torn paper, an excess paste on a stripe means a two-finger slide to recast paste to paper, a carelessly laid strip buckles or folds on a contour, tears upon removal, challenging a begin-again. Yes, to art being “. . . a lesson about words, structure, proportion, scene.” And yes to the possibility that less, which is compressed and well-placed, is more.
Charlotte, my posts are always made so much better by your ruminations. Thank you.
Beth, I don't think your posts can be made better, but I do ruminate-lol, and that is your fault because what is as beautiful as your morning musing, is the way you invite/entice us into conversing with you and each other, so that possibilities and challenges, hurts and hopes might be shared and held by more than one heart.
“Parallel practice” what a beautiful idea. And also love that each practice is its own art as well.
C., I agree!
I consider myself art-impaired. You have given me hope. Your creativity is a tribute to the love you and your father shared, and a beautiful way to keep a connection.
Ginni, oh, but shall we compare our circles? Or squares? :) I am deeply appreciative of your words —
Oh so inspiring. "and a torn edge is an extended thought," I love all the strange mismatched connections "certain kind of love with no where to go," silence of hands, not being an artist, and yet, making ...stuff. thank you, as always. (I am so glad I found you here on Substack)
Emily, the honor is mine. I am grateful that you are here. Sometimes I know what I want to say (not always, only sometimes). And so I come here, to this shared table.
I take a pause from practicing my instrument to read your words that describe to me in living color a road I’ve been down, with every leaf, every stone every ray of sunlight to hit the mountain peaks. And for all that comfort and rest that it brings. You are a glorious artist. Thank you.
Georgetta: tears. Thank you.
Beth, I read what you wrote through a shroud of tears. It is beautiful.
"There’s a certain kind of love that now has nowhere else to go." Yes! (I feel that way since my parents died.)
I'm glad you have your room to create in.
Wendy, love to you —and to those whom you love and, I believe, love you still.
Thank you, Beth. I'm lucky to have a lot of love in my life, but I think it was missing my parents that prompted me to start writing regularly again. It's mending a broken thread.
I could see it all. I could feel you in that space. And Bill, quietly encouraging through action.🩵
Someday you will have to come visit!
Art need not involve drawing. Your visual art has an assurance that suggests a practice much longer than four years. You are an artist. I can be wrong about many things, but not about who the artists are.
Rona, once, years ago, before my first book was published, I went to Bread Loaf and spent some time in the company of one whose first book had just been released. I kept calling myself someone who writes. He kept calling me a writer. Finally, I just accepted his words with grace. As I now accept yours.
I’m glad. Alice Munro, after achieving international fame, still didn’t call herself a writer for some time, nor did she ever have a room of her own to write in.
This is inspiring. I tend to get frustrated when I make artistic mistakes instead of trusting that I will learn from them and become better.I needed this reminder, Beth.
Linda, no mistakes: Ever. Just lessons we learn from.
The way you write about grief and missing your father is profound. I lost both my beloved parents and became estranged from a beloved sister in the summer of 2022. How to stand beneath that grief? I literally doubled over with its weight. Thank goodness for my writing and Lexapro!
Stand beneath, stand beside, stand apart from — all these methods of seeing ourselves through. I'm sorry you went through such a terrible trifecta of losses, Marianna.
Love this unconditional support:
"I don’t deserve an entire room, I said. My husband was determined.
I’m not an artist, I said. He shrugged. He pounded in a nail. Another."
I count myself as extremely lucky.
Absolutely lovely. Your father must have been a wonderful dad. (((Hugs)))
Beth, thank you. And yes: I really do miss him.
“There’s a certain kind of love that now has nowhere else to go.” I’ve never heard grief described this way and it’s resounding truth for me. The way you talk about art, the way your husband supports your journey, it is beautiful. As a writer for whom words are slippery right now, this is such a distillation of where I am in my own journey. Thank you.
C., I'm not sure I had articulated this loss in this way to myself until early this morning. And that is the reason to keep writing. Because when we do, when we keep trying, we discover something we did not know before. May your words grow less slippery. These are challenging times.
What I really want to say, to all of you here, that your presence here means an enormous amount to me, even more than ever. My very deepest gratitudes. And I do mean plural.