Reaching into the Medicine Bag

What do you put in your medicine bag? Walking the dogs this morning (a crisp, clear, warm, and sunny morning), it occurred to me that I need to consider the kind of medicine that we give to one another and the kind we give to ourselves. 

Poison...We give to ourselves when we listen to the negative thoughts from an unsettled mind, from the unwarranted criticism of others, the result of our choices, or about art, and then act upon them.

Sustenance...Ah, this is what we give and receive when we count as legitimate the good comments and the healthy internal dialog that we speak out loud. We recognize the courage it takes to approach a canvas and to make a mark. We decide who we are. As we present ourselves to the world, it is not always possible to be received well. 

What will we do with those responses... I reached into my medicine bag today and found some healing medicine: 

My fellow artists: I'm fed by your work. You can do no wrong when you are authentic, and because of you, I am drawn to go forward. 

My artistic ancestors: How did Frida overcome? How did Joan Brown navigate a path with family and professional art? What did Georgia O'Keeffe say, and how powerfully did she dig in her heels for her own beliefs? How hard was it for Käthe Kollwitz to create uncomfortable works and thereby comfort us?

Words that comfort, in winter, in recession, in the face of an unpredictable future: "Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are pure....think on these things." 

Symbols: A leather medicine bag (drawing, 5 3/4" x 6") that I made for Ell before going off to college. Secret nourishment inside that I cannot reveal. 

But in mine: There is mesquite meal that always calms my tummy if I've waited too long to eat. Prickly pear fruit that reminds me that I am often hard to get close to, but I do have a colorful center that is not too sweet. A sacred rock that informs me that there are immutable things that cannot be traded for shifting sand. A feather telling me that my spirit soars like an eagle whenever I connect with paint---when I dream. A container of water like my body--changing as it moves through the landscape, yet forever able to erode that which seems to be more powerful than I. Water wins every time. May I always offer you good medicine as a fellow traveler.

What Kind of Artist are You Anyway?

A visit to the local independent video shop can be the art treat that sets the tone for the work week. Of course, Netflix can provide a similar result, but will lack the visceral enjoyment of the hunt for an art DVD accompanied by fresh popcorn from the in-store popcorn machine. I rented art:21 just because Susan Rothenberg was one of the featured artists. A few weeks ago I made a couple of monotypes of Thimble Peak from a photo I'd taken while on the Mt. Lemmon highway, thirty miles north of home. Today, I worked on the ghost image and played with print ink and oil paint. It occurred to me that I am about to find out what kind of artist I am. Actually. Really. Truly. Without Permission. This is the first monotype straight from the press with only the one pull. The second photo is the first layering and the third photo is the working of the ghost image that I may consider finished. When I took a photo of the second one, the lighting cast a kind of sepia tone on the image and I liked it so much that I went back and changed the sky color and scratched a little into the mountains with the end of a paint brush. (12 1/2" x 16 1/2") Usually, after such a venture, I would announce to myself (and anyone within bellowing distance) that I have no talent, that I have no idea what I'm doing, mostly because it doesn't look like the work of...insert favorite artists' names here. I didn't do that today. I decided that this is okay. Why do I love Grace Hartigan, Joan Brown, and Susan Rothenberg so much? I'm starting to see. Without angst, without fear, without apology.