"Nothing ever really attacks us except our own confusion. Perhaps there is no solid obstacle except our own need to protect ourselves from being touched. maybe the only enemy is that we don’t like the way reality is now and therefore wish it would go away fast, but what we find as practitioners is that nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know. If we run a hundred miles an hour to the other end of the continent in order to get away from the obstacle, we find the very same problem waiting for us when we arrive. It just keeps returning with new names, forms, manifestations until we learn whatever it has to teach us about where we are separating ourselves from reality, how we are pulling back instead of opening up, closing down instead of allowing ourselves to experience fully whatever we encounter, without hesitating or retreating into ourselves.”
-Pema Chodron
Sunday, June 9, 2013
I have come into this world to see this:
the sword drop from men's hands even at the height
of their arc of anger
because we have finally realized there is just one flesh to wound.
"It is painful to cast off our own scales, and the dragons guarding the way are fierce. It requires the inspiration of angels; it requires diving into the ocean of tears."
-Jack Kornfield
Almost halfway through a year that has been both astonishingly nourishing and incredibly difficult, I've remembered many things. Through loss and change, I remembered the omnipresent uncertainty of our lives and the precious fragility of all that surrounds us. By losing things I never wanted to lose, I was reminded to keep a light grip and approach my life with curiosity and trust, to look deeper to see the blessings that lie beyond my often limited scope. I remembered how things that can seem terrifying at first can often bring great gifts, and that fundamentally there is nothing wrong with the way all things arise and then fall away. I softened, and then softened again, remembering that above all I want to be kind in this world, and the importance of keeping that motivation in the forefront of my mind.
The piece below is a collection of these thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Technically, it marks my first foray into mixing my traditional pen and ink style with digital medium. Thematically, it touches on the opening that takes place through the journey of grieving. When we truly descend into our pain and meet it with bravery, when we allow ourselves to be dismantled by grief, we can emerge as changed people- more authentic, more integrated, and above all, more kind. Once we have made friends with our own suffering, compassion for that of others naturally arises- and that is the gift of grief.
Kindness
by Naomia Shihab Nye
Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say it is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you every where like a shadow or a friend.
I woke up this morning to discover that it had rained during the night while I slept. Stepping outside to breathe in the sweet scent of morning and rain, I watched as the pillows of grey fog rolled across the sky, revealing a blue the color of a robin's egg beneath them. The newly blossoming jasmine flowers in my backyard added their fragrance to the air, mixing with the bright chatter of birds as they greeted the day. As the sun stripped the sky of clouds and warmed my face, the morning felt quintessentially spring-like.
Today just happens to be Easter, a day that celebrates resurrection. In pre-Christian pagan tradition, feasts were held during this time of year to celebrate the goddess Ēostre, who became the namesake for the Easter holiday. It was a time to celebrate fertility, revitalization and revival, and the return of life that occurs during spring. In other words, resurrection.
In honor of the roots of this holiday, I'd like to share a piece titled "Pollination," a pen and ink drawing I completed during the winter. As is often the case with my work, I didn't realize the full meaning of this piece until it was complete. It began as a reworking of Leonardo Da Vinci's "Leda and the Swan," a theme that has been visited over and over by many artists since antiquity. It deals with a Greek myth in which a beautiful woman named Leda is seduced by Zeus in the form of a swan. He impregnates her, and she lays two eggs, from which her children hatch (one of the children grows up to be Helen of Troy- an interesting side fact).
Leonardo da Vinci
Paul Prosper Tillier
Paul C ézzane
Peter Paul Rubens
By the time I was done with the piece, I realized that it was about much more than Leda and the Swan. I saw that it had become a piece about fertility, sex, and death- the life cycle. The piece, beginning at the top, shows a halo chain of DNA encircling a baby as it passes through the pelvis of it's mother, entering the world. In the center is a robust female form, exuding sexuality and standing as the portal through which all life passes. Flowers burst forth on either side of her as pollinating insects and birds flock towards them (I didn't realize the fact that I had included "the birds and the bees" until long after completing this drawing- humorous.) The jellyfish that frame her seemed quite phallic once I had stepped back from the drawing, with subtle hints of female anatomy in the languid folds of their tentacles. Two swan skeletons flank the female figure, giving a nod to the Leda myth. Below her lies a bed of skulls and flowers, representing the death and decay, a return to the Earth, the completion of the life cycle. From conception to decomposition.
"Pollination," copyright Marisa Aragón Ware.
It seemed like an appropriate piece to share on a day like today, a holiday devoted to the persistence of life and the ever cycling wheel of birth and death. I'm reminded of how fleeting and precious this human life is... I think I'll get off the computer and go play in the sunshine.
I've sat down to write this post numerous times, my struggle to craft it and finish it pointing something out to me. It seems that, for me at least, the experiences in life which are most crucial to write about, the ones that call out for it the most, are also the ones which often stubbornly defy the reins of words. In January, my world changed, in so many ways. In that completely synchronistic way that spawned the old adage, "when it rains it pours," a storm of difficult circumstances manifested in my life, knocking me down, challenging me, breaking me, and setting flame to so many carefully constructed buttresses in my life. Luckily, I've experienced this before. I've come to learn that when everything goes wrong, when I feel the most vulnerable and devastated, is also when I'm the most ripe for transformation, growth, and change. The way I like to think of it is like a forest fire- during the conflagration of flames, the heat is painful, the destruction scary and saddening. But afterwards- there's so much space- space that can either be felt as frightening emptiness, or as liberating vastness. And from the charred earth and the ground made fertile by ashes, newness begins to stir. As contemporary author Mark Helprin writes, "Sometimes a storm rises and flattens the reeds to open the world to the sky."
Me as a reed, being flattened. A moment of surrender.
It was a sad month, very much so. I cried and wept and mourned fiercely; I became a priestess of tears. I watched as, with almost methodical accuracy, the ground beneath my feet was pulled away, my reference points removed. With more than just a little bit of awe, I observed as one of the most important relationships in my life ended abruptly, as travel plans that I had wholeheartedly been anticipating for half a year were canceled at the last minute, and as I learned of small yet painful deceptions and betrayal. I observed as illusions were shattered, as my grandmother died, as my own mortality was reflected to me with furious splendor. I surrendered as a nagging injury finally won over my willpower, putting me out of climbing for an undetermined amount of time, and then hundreds of dollars worth of sentimentally significant climbing gear was stolen from my car. The ground kept falling away. I dealt with the very real possibility of a major illness. I looked impermanence, death, and the fragility of human life directly in the face. Sometimes I couldn't muster the bravery to do so, and I had to run and hide. Other times I stayed in the fire, shaky and scared, until the flames released me. All within the brief span of a month. Despite the difficulties, in retrospect, January was a beautiful and entirely beneficial month. I found myself reminded of what is most important, reinspired to live more devoutely and definitely more kindly. The gratitude I have for the people who showed up for me during this challenging time is limitless- I was so thoroughly cared for, held, comforted, and supported by my friends and family- I couldn't ask for more loving reinforcements.
I also have tremendous gratitude for being able to witness my grandmother passing. My last remaining grandparent, Freda Copperthwaite Ware, was 96 years old, and had voiced on numerous occasions that she was ready to go (she often repeated to me in her very manner-of-fact way that in her opinion, no one should live past 90). She had survived and outlived all of her siblings, one of her children, nearly all of her friends, and her husband (who had died almost three decades ago of a heart attack, next to Freda in bed, as she performed CPR on him until the paramedics arrived). She was tough, generous, opinionated and resilient. I drove down to Los Angeles to say goodbye to her after learning that she had suffered a stroke and was fading. During the six hour drive, I told myself that I was prepared for what I was about to experience, that I didn't have expectations, that I would show up with curiosity, love, and awe. Upon arriving, I quickly realized that although I thought I had no expectations, I actually did. I expected her to be weak, to be foggy (I knew she was on morphine for the pain she was experiencing), and to not be able to move or speak very much. I had expected to sit by her bedside, quietly, in a measure of peace mixed with sadness. Although these things were true, it was completely different than I imagined. She was in incredible pain for the entire time I was with her. She was moaning, squeezing my hands with a strength that defied the weakened state she was in. Her suffering was so utter and intense that it baffled me, especially because there was nothing I could do to abate it. It felt to me like being in a storm.
Hands of two women, my grandmother and me, with 69 years of age difference between them.
Freda was my father's mother, and although I feel like my features are a pretty consistent blend of my father's genetics with my mother's, I could see my bone structure and features so clearly in her face as she lay dying. I could see myself as an old woman, on my own death bed, letting go of everything that I had lived, seen, experienced, and been. In her face, I could see my own, as it will be someday, when every moment of my life has already been lived and all that lies before me is the ultimate unknown. When I'll have to let go of everything, everyone, all of it. This reflection was so stark that I couldn't look away. Overwhelmed with compassion for my grandmother, for her pain and her passing, overwhelmed with the impermanence of life, both hers and my own, sad yet elated by the power of what I was witnessing, I sat and watched her die.
27 years. 96 years.
75 years. 6 years.
95 years. 25 years.
"Come back to square one, just the minimum bare bones. Relaxing with the present moment, relaxing with hopelessness, relaxing with death, not resisting the fact that things ends, that things pass, that things have no lasting substance, that everything is changing all the time- that is the basic message." -Pema Chodron My grandmother has given me a lot throughout my life, but undoubtedly the greatest gift she gave me was the experience of being with her as she was dying. One of her final lucid moments was when I arrived to see her and the nurse told her that her granddaughter was there. She opened her eyes, and when she saw me, a light shone in her eyes as she managed to say my name a few times. I could tell how much pure joy it brought her that I was there, and this touched me indelibly. This was the last moment I shared with her where I felt like she was completely aware. It's possible that seeing me was the last entirely clear image of her very long life on this Earth. What an absolute honor for me. I wasn't there for her very final moments, but her daughter, my aunt Mary Ann, flew in from Hawaii just in time to help send her on her way.
Goodbye, Grandma Freda. You are loved, missed, and remembered.
Leaving LA wrapped in the cloak of such a powerful experience, I drove in the opposite direction, towards the fog and old growth forests of Northern California. I stayed with a friend at his remote and utterly beautiful home surrounded by trees and mist. There, in the pristine serenity, I began to process what I had just witnessed and to reconnect with some integral parts of myself that have lain dormant for quite some time. While I was there, he took me to visit the Redwoods for the first time. Entering the primordial power of those forests, where life and decay share the space so symbiotically, felt like being washed clean. Again, I felt tremendous gratitude.
Driving into a sea of fog.
After Northern California, I flew to Boulder to reconnect with my roots. The plane ride there was without exaggeration the most beautiful one I've ever been on- perfectly clear skies the entire way, flying over the bay, then desert, mountains, and plains. As the sun began to set, we were flying over a mountain range blanketed with snow. The vivid reds and oranges were reflected as a glowing purple by the snow covered peaks, and I swear I could see the curvature of the Earth. It seems so obvious to state that we're on a planet- everyone knows that- but to really feel it on a visceral level is so humbling and awe inspiring. I was enraptured the entire flight.
Leaving the Bay.
While in Boulder, towards the end of January, I was sitting in a doctor's office, stunned. I had just been told by two specialist doctors that I most likely had a tumor that would require immediate surgery- only to be told hours later that I was in fact, completely fine and healthy. Later, when the whole ordeal was over, in the parking lot of the doctor's office, I slipped on a banana peel and fell. After everything that had happened that month, all the devastation and collapse, all of the overwhelming seriousness, to actually slip on a banana peal seemed so completely ridiculous, so preposterous, that for a moment, I could no longer take myself seriously. I remembered the humor of the human situation, that, along with the fragility and preciousness of life, frames our lives. It may sound strange, but this was a moment of deep release, of surrender to the changing circumstances of my life, and the beginning of healing. Still, I couldn't undo the effect that this experience had impressed upon me. In the few hours that I sat and waited for test results, believing that I had a tumor that would require my body to be cut open within the next few days, something within me shifted. My mother, a breast cancer survivor, perceived the change, and likened it to something akin to a loss of innocence. I think she may be right, and that even though it turned out that thankfully I am healthy, the innocence that I lost was one of thinking that that kind of thing could never happen to me. It shocked me to the core. Especially after witnessing my grandmother die and having the reflections brought on by that experience only a week or two prior. More so than ever, the reality of my impermanence, my fragility, and that of all those around me, became blazingly clear. Later that day, it snowed, and I immersed myself in the quiet serenity of the mountains in white.
Oh how I've missed the snow.
Blue skies from the top of Bear Peak the next day. Classic Boulder weather.
Returning to Oakland, I managed to squeeze in some time for exploring the pockets of nature surrounding the Bay area. I'm always impressed by the array of the very California brand of beauty to be found around these parts. Starfish on jagged beach rocks, sunsets sinking beneath the level horizon of the ocean, eucalyptus trees with their cleansing scent, moss covered forests, and mushrooms peeking up through the detritus of leaves, bark and dirt... the myriad variety of appearance is mesmerizing.
Velvety tree fungus.
So now another semester has started, and I'm back in the often abrasive rush of the city, thrown back into the frenetic rush of things. I'm still processing everything that took place in January, still nursing a broken heart and metabolizing my grief. Still a little shaky, still tender and raw. It's something I work with and confront every day, and this, I believe, makes me kinder and softer, while simultaneously giving me strength.
I'm so utterly thankful. To be alive, to be healthy, to give and receive love.
Sunset in Marin.
Love wants to reach out and manhandle us, Break all our teacup talk of God.
If you had the courage and Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights, He would just drag you around the room By your hair, Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world That bring you no joy.
Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly And wants to rip to shreds All your erroneous notions of truth
That make you fight within yourself, dear one, And with others,
Causing the world to weep On too many fine days.
God wants to manhandle us, Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself And practice His dropkick.
The Beloved sometimes wants To do us a great favor:
Hold us upside down And shake all the nonsense out.
But when we hear He is in such a “playful drunken mood” Most everyone I know Quickly packs their bags and hightails it Out of town.
Since returning to California at the end of August and resuming classes at the Academy, time has been passing in a blur of charcoal and paint. This semester has brought the expected amount of challenge, yet has also surprised me by the bounty of breakthroughs it's offered as well.
But before I can go into that any further, I have to at least catch up through the end of summer. After spending a few weeks in the high country in Colorado, hiking Longs Peak and getting into tremendous cardio shape, I had the good fortune of getting to climb at the Monastery for a few days. The Monastery, an incredible crag near Estes Park, was bolted mostly by Tommy Caldwell, and the stiffness of the grades reflects their creators unbelievable strength. Up until this summer, I had only been strong enough to climb on the easier routes (which are still very hard for the grade!). It felt pretty exciting to finally get to try out some of the harder routes- or to be more precise, the easier of the harder routes- namely, Psychatomic, 12d, and The Quickening, 13c. I was able to send Psychatomic relatively quickly, but The Quickening still feels pretty far beyond my grasp. Maybe next summer... either way, Psychatomic is brilliant and it was a real joy to climb.
This is what happens when you try to climb Psychatomic three times on a hot day.
Next stop after Colorado was Idaho, a state I had only driven through on my way to other places. I quickly developed a sincere love for the place, especially the desolate, remote area we camped and climbed at for several weeks- The Fins.
Limestone! My favorite.
Obscure and relatively unknown, The Fins is a gorgeous limestone crag located in the absolute middle of nowhere. The only man made structure you can see from the area is an old nuclear test site, which I believe is now home to Idaho National Laboratories. The landscape is barren in the beautiful style of the Western plains- sagebrush, dried grass, big skies. Due to the excess of wildfires this summer, the sky was more often than not clouded by a thick layer of white smoke, which provided a nice cover from the sun, made for some stunning sunsets, tinted the moon orange every night, and made everything smell like a campfire. It gave the crag and the surrounding plains a rather lonesome and mysterious feeling, and often times the smoke looked more like fog. I sometimes got the impression that I was standing on a seaside cliff looking off into mist rather than on a dusty hillside in Idaho. On some days, the smoke was so thick that it completely impaired the vista, encapsulating us climbers in a cocooned world of white. It was eerily beautiful and memorable.
Covered in smoke
Here's some thoughts I had while I was still there, back in September:
The hills here rise like small mountains
from the patchwork fields of verdant crops
so out of place here in the dry expanse
of scorched grass and sagebrush--
The arid, Western plains.
From this vantage, high in the hills,
the farmlands look like emeralds
cut square by a master jeweler
and I think--
this is what America means to so many.
But since this is the summer of wildfires
the sky hangs heavy with a haze so thick
it appears as mist,
as if I stood upon a seaside cliff
overlooking an ocean obscured by fog.
The thirsty hills,
dry and desolate and ready to burn
stand in the smoke with a lonesome air--
silent, still,
solitary-- I stand with them.
And the sky is like a fogged mirror
utterly bright and blank.
The black cliff birds dive into it
and get swallowed by the air
disappearing in the white, opalescent haze.
The scenery, which I was so fond of, was equaled in quality and beauty by the climbing. Tall, gorgeous swathes of vertical or slightly overhanging limestone house some very engaging and enjoyable routes of my favorite style of climbing- technical moves on small crimps and pockets.
Warming up on Yellow Man, 11a
Sending Pure Rock Fury, 13b
The mellow top section on Pure Rock Fury
The Fins still remains a relatively unknown crag, with most of the development having been done by local climbers. Traveling there with Jonathan meant that I got to witness a handful of new, impeccable lines go in. I also got to belay him on his first (lengthy) attempts on a few of the new routes, including Algorithm, 14d. Check out the video here:
On our very last day, I was lucky enough to receive a bolting tutorial from Jonathan. It ended up being one of the manlier few hours of my life, due to the number of tools I got to use and the amount of hammering I did. I even got to use the power drill.
Pretty serious.
The couple weeks I spent in Idaho were the perfect close to one of the best summers I've experienced thus far in my life. From climbing in France, dancing in the streets of Wyoming on Fourth of July, hiking in the alpine in Colorado, to climbing hard in Idaho, the summer was absolutely packed full of adventure, challenge, and growth. I got to spend most of my time outdoors in absolutely beautiful places... which prepared me to return to California and enter into another year of grad school, spending hour upon hour inside, huddled over drawings. While those experiences are certainly opposing, their juxtaposition offers me satisfaction and fulfillment on very different levels. I feel incredibly blessed to be able to pursue both aspects of my being so fully within the same year. Now, to return to the mounting pile of homework that stands between me and the end of the semester...
As I head back to my my second year of graduate school at the Academy of Art, I figure I better make good on the promise I've been making to friends and family for the past year and post some of my school work for them to see.
A year ago at this time, I had just driven from Colorado to California, my Subaru packed to the gills, to live in a city I had visited just once or twice in a house with people I had never met. I had never taken an art class before, never lived anywhere except for Boulder, and never done so many other things I was about to do. The newness and change of it all was overwhelming- but so very exciting at the same time.
The first semester was a complete emotional roller-coaster as I adjusted to the demands of art school, slowly figuring out that I couldn't make every assignment perfect, that I could only do my best and try my hardest. Oftentimes, I felt like that wasn't enough, and I constantly compared myself and my work to that of my peers, many of which have been studying art devoutly since high school or younger. My pride and ego swung between feeling very affirmed and on the right track at times, then completely out of place and inferior at other times. I learned so much that semester, not only academically, but also personally. The biggest lesson that I took away was just to stay true to my own artistic impulse, to not question it, try to filter it or reshape it to fit what I think others are expecting or wanting. Anytime I strayed from this, my work suffered and came out tepid and lifeless. Whenever I followed my inner vision, the work stood on its own and spoke for itself.
Here are some photos from Semester 1, from my Chiaroscuro class and my Concept, Technique and Illustration class.
Charcoal on paper, Chiaroscuro class.
Drapery study for Chiaroscuro class.
Study of a plaster cast torso for Chiaroscuro class.
My teacher, Jun's, drawing. Charcoal on paper.
Still life study for Chiaroscuro class.
This is what the teacher's notes on chalkboards look like at art school. Chiaroscuro class- all about light and shadow.
Figure drawing in Chiaroscuro.
Jun's sketch of the model, which took under ten minutes.
One of Jun's paintings. The instructors at the Academy are all phenomenal artists.
Children's book illustration, "Night." For Concept, Technique and Illustration class.
Children's book illustration, "Day" For Concept, Technique and Illustration class.
In progress...
"Eclipse," for Concept, Technique and Illustration.
After a much needed month in the desert of Las Vegas over my winter break, I returned to California to take on my second semester. While it was still very challenging, the intense ups and downs of the previous semester had mostly mellowed out, and I got to spend more of that energy on practicing my skills and trying to improve. It became somewhat of an obsession, and many nights I found myself dreaming of drawing or painting, or walking through vast halls of art museums, looking at master paintings that don't exist in real life. During this semester I also started to notice a direct improvement in my art, and it became very evident that this pursuit of going to school was incredibly worthwhile and exactly where I needed to be. I stopped doubting whether or not I would ever achieve the level of mastery that I so badly desire; instead I just committed fully to the endless hours of work and practice that it will take me to reach that place. My doubt in myself was replaced with resolve. Now I feel like it's just a question of hard work, patience, diligence, discipline, and dedication. I have a lifetime of learning to do, but I'm excited to do it.
Here's some of my work from the second semester, from Sustained Figurative Concepts class and Head Drawing class.
Sustained Figurative Concepts Class, pastel.
Sustained Figurative Concepts Class, pastel.
My teacher, Bill Maughn's, drawing.
My teacher, Bill Maughn's, drawing.
Skull study for Head Drawing class, charcoal on paper.
Skull study for Head Drawing class, charcoal on paper.
Skull study for Head Drawing class, charcoal on paper.
Ears and eyes studies for Head Drawing class, charcoal on paper.
Nose and mouth studies for Head Drawing class, charcoal on paper.
In class oil study of a model. Head Drawing class.
Oil painting of my classmate for Head Drawing class.
Self portrait in progress.
Self portrait, charcoal on paper. Head Drawing Class.
During last year, I also had the opportunity to show my work in several group shows at Modern Eden Gallery in San Francisco. Between the techniques I learned in class, the inspiration gained from my teachers and fellow students, and the exposure to the vibrant art scene here in the Bay Area, I had the most artistically stimulating year of my life so far.
"Eclipse" for Modern Eden Gallery's group show "Woodland"
"Thanatopsis" for Modern Eden Gallery's group show "Dark Art: A Tribute to Metal"
"Embryo," for Modern Eden Gallery's group show "Menagerie"
As my second year at school begins, I find myself incredibly motivated and aware of the extreme amount of work I have ahead of me on my path as an artist. I have so much to learn.
To close, I'll leave you with a quote from Ira Glass which resounds heavily with this very novice artist. As always, thanks for reading.
"Nobody tells this to people who are beginners. I wish someone had told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it's just not that good. It's trying to be good, it has potential. but it's not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase; they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn't have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know that it's normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you finish one piece. It's only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I've ever met. It's gonna take a while. It's normal to take awhile. You just gotta fight your way through."
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