Paying Attention

Eyes glazed
In a daze
She gazes
Outside the classroom window
Where she effortlessly translates
The language of blue jays who explain
The simple science of feathered flight
For her to comprehend
And explore.
Sporadically she drifts back inside
The cinder block prison
With cursive letters in alphabetical order
Making eager eye contact
With the warden
At the chalkboard
Feigning a cursory nod
With her most genuine masquerade
Confident
Of audience approval.
Pen in hand, she doodles maps
In the white spaces of her speckled
Composition book
That lead her to far away forests
Thick with fragrant earth and trees
Sailing ships afloat in mist
Of alluring distant seas
Where her tender heart yearns to be
Creating the illusion
Of copiously copying useless notes
The pointless facts she will memorize with ease
And faithfully regurgitate
Without ever having tasted
Their splendor first
Wearing the uniform of contentment
Like a grandiose costume on stage
Convincing viewers of her character
Suspending disbelief
Like the insect suddenly snatched
In the extravagantly spun web
Outside the window
Where she instantly
Recognizes her reflection.

By Susan Oscilowski
5/14/16

                                  Apparition

He reeks
Of age and stale booze;
She fights her gag reflex,
Appearing not to notice.

His face,
As rough as the glass-strewn sidewalk
Where he lays,
Scratches her delicate palm
As she strokes

Undaunted she remains

He sputters
Wracked with convulsions
She dares not wipe from her lovely face
The spit and sweat of his frenzy

His fingers
caked with grime
yellow-stained from borrowed cigarettes
cracked from cold and neglect
bowed; joints stiff and swollen
She caresses the stone-cold hands in hers.

His eyes bloodshot
and devoid of lustre
Fight hard
to focus on her gaze
The pity he sees there
Stirs in him
The hint of a smile

Before sleep captures him,
A fleeting memory flashes
of bedtime prayers recited
decades ago
A sparkle dances
In a tear he sheds

Wrapped in her embrace.

(Is it really 2 years since I added anything to this blog? I guess because all of my writing has been entered into my personal, hand-written journals where it happily co-exists with my art madness. OK. These are not new; however, they represent my passion for writing. --SuzyOzone)

Larval Compositions  

When you hear the distant song
Of naked cicadas composing
Beneath cold, dark rock of December,
Fly/flee at once to the refuge of your pen
Let their melodies echo in your ink
Warming the notes to a thaw.
Here upon the rough, lined bark
Your soul emerges, where
You, too, must discard your shell
And climb to chant a summer's eve
Across Eternity
            Beyond Mortality.

(SPOZ-12/2002-from the inside cover of a new journal)

Misplaced Muse

(The irony of this one's title is that I only found page One (of 2?) in my mammoth collection of saved papers; a date printed on the back is April 2007, but who knows if it has anything to do with when I printed the poem on the other side in my feeble attempt to save the Rainforest by conserving paper.)

I've misplaced my Muse once more.
Cleared clutter from my closets
De-junked demons and dumpster dives
Shredded reams of scribbled papers
---she never showed up.

I folded a heap of laundry
As deep as a sigh
But she didn't dance from inside the basket
Of forlorn, un-mated socks.

The sink, piled to the window ledge
With dirty dinner dishes
Didn't disclose the muse
Under the muck covering the counter top.

As I bleached the basin to beaming,
And moisturized my hands,
I wondered why no rhymes had come;
No imagery; neither metaphor or similie;
Not a peep of onomatopoeia, or even
A little alliteration.

In the grumbling hum of the garbage disposal,
I thought I heard her groan to me
Perhaps she's sliding through sewers,
Searching through slimy sludge,
Seeking a spark of inspiration
To share with me.

Maybe not.

The last time I remember playing with her
(and I SHOULD have put her back where she belongs)
I cannot recall--
Was I stewing in a seething saucepan of solitude,
Icy in my isolation,
Frozen in fear?

(To be continued if I can find the next page of this poem; but not right now; I have chores to do first!)
SPOZ

Indian Summer Again

 

        Indian Summer Again
                  I
My favorite month of jeweled hue
Crept unnoticed in solemn debut
But homesick summer  meandered by
Visiting long after we said goodbye
Flirting with a show of lush memories
Teasing and soothing with caressing breeze
I couldn't explain the lump in my throat
Resisting some tears as I rigged my boat
The blue and white sail blended with sky
I studied the clouds and let out a sigh
Carillon bells sang a vespers prayer
Notes like golden leaves danced through the air
Sun set too soon past equinox's theft
Trickles of purple faded, then left
Squinting in twilight, approaching land
The vessel now quietly resting in sand
Headed home grateful for time on the lake
Celebrating the last trip this season I'd make
Trying to savor this most splendid day
Wishing October would not fade to grey

           II
Ignoring remaining chores on my list
I dashed out the door; I couldn't resist
The Indian Summer, so tempting and sweet
Invited me to an exclusive retreat
Of sailing at Gifford Pinchot State Park
With just a few hours until it got dark
The surface of lake near-perfectly still
Save for the leaping of bass; yet the thrill
Of setting my sail and tacking away
Knowing how much I needed to play
Glad for the solitude but wishing as well
For someone to share this passionate spell.

Mermaid & Bluebird

Spending a weekend in Newburyport, MA always stirs my love of all things nautical. My college roommates & I toured the Lowell Boat Shop in Amesbury and took a boat ride along the Merrimac River. That was all I needed.
Trips to the many shops in town also sparked my creativity, and since I had my usual art gear with me (as always), a project had to happen.
The local Starbucks there had an art wall with a mermaid theme, thus my inspiration.
Maybe I'll share more pictures and story of her creation later, but it's a gorgeous October day, and I have yard work awaiting.      
She's a work in progress, and the mixed media is on a roughly constructed substrate of ticking fabric- covered cardboard. The background colors were dyed paper towels I had in my emergency art first aid kit. The netting used for her body and the sea were colored burlap-type ribbon I bought in a thrift store. The sequins came from my home stash and had been used to make a dance costume shirt.
Here she is:

1st draft

  I added a pencil drawing of a bluebird made before the mermaid .

with added bling

Bluebird--Prismacolor pencils

Mural Update

   We are making progress...a few more artists have joined the fun, and I'm about ready to step away from the ever-changing landscape. Sorry, but there will be no metaphorical tangents at this point about the ever-changing landscape of my life. Maybe in another blog; later. John Paul & Maria joined Teresa and me to see how they could contribute to the project, and in the hours we worked yesterday, the difference was obvious on the canvas:

   In spite of the challenges of artistic collaboration, the trio worked well, respecting the opinions and suggestions of Teresa who had already spent much time laboring on making the stones three-dimensional.

   At the conclusion of the session, the artists were pleased with the results.

******************************************************





   A major flaw in the canvas has driven me to distraction. The three flats are joined after they were connected/secured to the viewing area. A fabric tape of some sort joins the pieces in the front while the framing pieces are linked with screwed-in blocks of wood or metal strips. One of these--after years of use and abuse--is warped, so a large gap had created a vertical strip which cannot be obscured. Whatever we try to paint on it still betrays the imperfect substrate. From a distance, the view is painful for those of us who obsess about such things.
  
   My remedy for this took at least an hour of my time when I returned today alone. First, I drilled holes into more metal connectors and scrap wood to pull the warped board in line with its neighbor. Then, I experimented with Plaster of Paris to fill in the gap on the front surface--over the area already painted. I covered about 80% of the offending opening, creating a stark white strip over the masterpiece.  In my experiment, I learned how quickly the powdered plaster sets when added to water and stirred. It took about three minutes before the mixture hardened to stone, requiring I make many small batches until I finished.

   Ouch! The worse part was that the strip ran right through the beautiful masonry the kids had labored to create. Guilt swamped my being. I attempted to paint over the drying plaster, but the instructions said to wait 24 hours before painting, and I didn't want it to be seen by anyone who happened to walk in on it. An hour later, I stripped it bare, and swept the white mess from the floor. I went behind the canvas and filled in the gap between the wooden vertical braces, stuffing it with a strip of black foam insulation with adhesive backing. The re-paint afterwards hid more of the seam as I blended it into the scenery.

    The trunk of the tree to the right of center follows the track of the former gully. The image is blurry, but it's difficult to detect the flaw in the backdrop.

   



When viewed through French doors leading out the the balcony, the landscape is not overpowering, but lends itself to the air of elegance I was attempting to re-create.

       
   A small stream has been added to the left side of the scene, and a barely noticeable line of trees on the horizon line.



   I may put in a few more highlights tomorrow (and take a better camera)--then I will walk away and declare it finished. I am quite confident I would make changes to it on a daily basis if it were here in my home studio, but since it is not, and because it was commissioned---so technically I cannot claim ownership, I will abandon it to its new home, allowing the imperfections to remain. The artistic process matters more than the (un)finished product, and I feel so fortunate to have been able to create a landscape that I'd surely enjoy if it was outside of my veranda.  

Ozone Studio on the Road

   Sometimes it's more fun to play at a friend's house than make a mess in my own studio. I can't say yet where the "friend" is to be found, as I think the artwork is supposed to be held in secret until a later date. I can only give a hint: the name Agatha....

   Teresa, my youngest child, has taken a brief break from her passion for American Girl dolls: sewing their clothing, and crafting every possible accessory for them. She does her research online at a favorite crafting site.  A few days ago, she accompanied me on a journey to create a large piece of creative expression. Some of our collaborations in the past have ended badly...sad to say, she's not always comfortable sharing adjoining pages in one of my art journals side by side on my bed. It leads to comparison, and all my attempts to remind her that art is for fun, that I've had four decades more to experiment with it, and whatever other psychology I can pull from remnants of my college days---falls short. She's left those sessions in tears, leaving me to wallow in needless guilt. Perhaps I should avoid doing art with her when it's past both our bedtimes.

   In spite of my concerns, she's coming along for the ride on this one. The subject in question is a rather large mural with a stone wall, meadow, woods, and sky in the background. The medium is acrylic paint. The location is a secret. For a few weeks. I am hoping I can give a peek without ruining the fun for others who will get to see the results. It is possible the finished result will be viewed by 1,000 people. (That's more than a little scary!)

   For research, I drove around, looking for old stone walls. Teresa actually pointed this one out to me, and it's one I've passed several times a week for years, but hardly noticed. I used it as my model to practice drawing the subject. It's on Market Street in Camp Hill, PA:

    I suspect it has been painted often by plein air enthusiasts, as we have some talented artists sketch during festivals in the area.

   Before finding the wall, I sketched out a rough idea of what the whole picture might look like. I tried one in  pastels and another in oils. The second one was an evening view, but too dark and in the wrong orientation for the person who commissioned the work. I'm still using my cellphone camera, so the colors don't translate very well, but it's the idea of the process I'm trying to convey here:

   When we started on the large canvas, I suggested how we might try to make the stones look realistic--but let Teresa discover how that would work. She quickly got a handle on it.

   The three stones to the left of her hand were her first attempts at creating a 3-dimensional view.  From a distance, they really popped!  Maria came today and added some green tints to the grout--which may have aged with the help of moss and other organic agents. She spent an hour working before she headed off to another activity. Over two days (not counting many hours of research and preliminary sketching) and more than 10 hours with Teresa, the picture is emerging:

   The grout appears yellow--but that's my camera's exaggeration. It's more of a baby-poop green. I added the upright stones to the ledge, trying to incorporate shadow and depth, ignoring the fact that I never paid attention when studying perspective in the classes I took and the myriad of drawing books I've used in self-study for more than three decades of art exploration. I wasn't able to get a good photo of the meadows and trees because we had to leave before others invaded our space. I'll do that the next time we get in.

   So far, Teresa is doing marvelous work! I keep standing back to admire it, and taking photos as the magic unfolds. She, in turn, scolds me to to stop playing and get back to painting. She suggests which areas I should be focusing on. The best part is watching her lose herself in the effort, and chip away at the self-conscious worries about the imperfections. Several people have been around while we're at the project, and all have commented on her part. It couldn't make me happier.

   We have to keep bopping our own little critics like Whack-a-Mole critters at an arcade as they surface from their burrows, but so far, we're winning.