Monday, April 30, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
The collage contains a large scrap of a business-reply envelope, and Pluto is torn from a magazine page. The colour comes from pencil crayons and wax crayons.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
The blue paper in this collage came from a concert program that had featured my singing teacher in London, Ontario. After pasting it on the page I wrote a journal entry in pencil, and then added the crayon. The blobs of colour were chosen instinctively. This is one of my favorite ways to work - not knowing ahead of time what I will create. I let the process unfold the way it wants to. Sometimes something really striking results.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Monday, April 9, 2007
Saturday, April 7, 2007
I arrived at the store about eight minutes before they officially opened, and when I saw other customers walking in the main entrance, I followed suit. I didn't want to browse through the showroom - I was on a mission to get a new plunge-pot coffee maker - so I headed straight for the Marketplace. Nobody stopped me.
It was amazing - so empty of people, so full of all the beautiful, simple IKEA things - I felt like I was in heaven. I picked up my coffee pot and then wandered through the rest of the Marketplace all alone, enjoying the absence of crowds. In the rug section I stopped to look at some merchandize, and an IKEA employee called over to me as he passed by with a huge cart of goods.
"Ma'am, how did you get in here? We don't open for five more minutes."
"I walked through the door."
He shook his head and continued on his way as I laughed to myself. How did I get in, indeed? If they didn't want me in the Marketplace, they should have somehow prevented me from getting in there...
The drawing is a page from one of my art journals from last October. It didn't scan very well - the colours are much more saturated in the original, and there were some gorgeous pinks that didn't show up at all. (I tried to fix it in Photoshop, but that didn't help much.) I often make notes to myself on yellow Post-it notes, and I love putting the used Post-its in my collages.
The drawing is from my art journal sometime in March. I paste collage elements on the blank pages of a book, several pages at a time, and then later go back and write, draw, and colour over the pages - usually with children's wax crayons. This page includes a scrap from a bill envelope, and a bunch of doodled circles in pencil. The embossed rectangles are the impressions from collaged papers on the reverse side of this page.
I have frequent insomnia, and I often think up blog entries when I'm lying awake in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, many of those ideas have nothing to do with professional organizing, and then I realize I have no forum in which to share my nocturnal inspirations.
So I've started this blog as a repository of everything that won't fit in either of my other two blogs (the second one, tell it well, showcases my professional writing samples). I thought the following post would be a great place to start, since when I wrote it, I almost didn't post it to an organized existence - it's so personal.
The illustration is from one of my art journals, and it dovetails with the post because all of the collage elements have something to do with the Gilbert and Sullivan show, The Gondoliers, where my relationship with my ex-boyfriend began one year ago.
If you've read some of my earlier posts (look here, here, and here for some examples), you'll know that I encourage people to get in touch with their deepest dreams and desires. Sometimes it's not until we know what we truly want that we can make decisions about which direction to take in our lives.
The cyclical nature of life means that for every birth there is a death - but also for every death, there is a birth. It's no mistake that Christians, for example, celebrate Jesus' birth in the winter (when everything in nature seems to have died), or his death in the spring (when everything in nature seems to be coming back to life). When we live our lives in sync with these natural rhythms, the pain of loss can lose some of its sting.
My boyfriend and I just broke up. We remain great friends, and love each other deeply, but we are moving in different directions. For either of us to give up our dreams for the sake of the other would mean a loss of something so intrinsic to ourselves that it's unimaginable.
And yet I am almost paralyzed as I sit between two extremes: the pain of losing him, and the joy of finding myself.
I thought I knew what I wanted, but what if what I wanted isn't what I really want? (And I just went looking for some food to stuff into my mouth, which you KNOW can't be a good sign.)
Sometimes we can't know. Sometimes we're walking blind, and when we hold out our hand to find a wall or a piece of furniture to orient ourselves in the blackness, we hit instead a knife blade that slices deep.
But what if the blade cuts things not apart, but together?
I am in the first year of a kind of bodywork training called the Alexander Technique. Without getting too esoteric, the technique is about becoming aware of your habits of poor psycho-physical use, and replacing those habits with better use.
I've discovered that letting go of old habits and discovering something new is very frightening and disorienting. One of my instructor's favorite commands is to "not know."
"Don't KNOW," she intones with discouraging frequency as she works on me with her hands. (Discouraging only because it means that for the millionth time I've been trying too hard, and cutting myself off from true knowing in the process.)
"Don't know, don't know, don't know," I direct myself with fathomless panic inside my head, until suddenly her hands, in cooperation with my open mind, find new freedom and release within my body.
It reminds me of the Rainer Maria Rilke quote from Letters to a Young Poet, where Rilke says:
"...have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language.
"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything.
"Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."
Loss, and freedom. Perhaps deep down, they are really the same thing...