As I complimented an artful pillow my good friend Joy was repairing during a recent visit at her daughter’s home, I admired the patchwork of color, shape, and pattern. Joy, whose work is diverse, and can range from naïve to sophisticated, commented that she hasn’t made much art lately, that she hasn’t had anything to say. Her words caught my ear, reminding me that all art springs from the need to say something. I guess it doesn’t matter if the audience ends up being only the creator.
And so it is with words. I’ve read interviews with fiction writers who talk about their discipline, blocking out time for writing, maybe beginning early in the day, like going to the office for several hours. I marvel at the wellspring from which a piece of fiction takes life. I’ve read that the story and characters can just take charge, challenging the writer’s fingers to outrun his thoughts. To me it’s a miracle, and a gift I don’t have.
It’s been over a year since I’ve thought seriously about the discipline it takes to write something worthy. Most of us talk all the time about one thing or another, send all kinds of electronic communications, some protracted, others short and disjointed, lazy, incomplete sentences. We talk in our families, with intimate friends, with church friends, people in the grocery store. You name a place, we’re talking there, usually trying to make a point, or win an argument, or assure ourselves that someone else really understands what we mean.
Sometimes art takes form in seemingly simple human interaction. My friend Marlin is doing an internship at a geriatric facility in Miami to complete the requirements for a degree in music therapy. Marlin loves old people, and he’s spent significant time working as an aide in a nursing home and a geriatric hospital. Several months ago on a Sunday after church we took chocolate cake to one of his hospice patients at her nursing home. She was blind, virtually deaf, skin and bones really, a spider pawing the air from under her covers. She really didn’t understand who were, and she didn’t want to be bothered by us. I was touched and a little anxious as Marlin comforted this dying, 92-year-old woman. I watched him tenderly adjust the covers, reassuring “Miss Alma” that someone did care about her, even if only for a moment. It didn’t take long, and it didn’t take many words for him to say what was in his heart. He does this over and over in his work.
On this night, here in the middle of this rural Texas county, the only sounds I hear are the whirring of a ceiling fan, set to run counter-clockwise now that it is winter, an occasional bug cracking against the French doors, Casey the Blue Heeler barking at some distant, threatening sound that only a dog’s ear can sense, and now a neighbor dog answering her concern. There’s a hint of spent oak from last night’s fire in the wood stove, a satisfying smell, one not shared, however. I am with my thoughts, needing to say something, needing to say something a lot lately, and tired of arguing with myself. I practically burned up my keyboard earlier today sending the most important messages, prayers from the Book of Common Prayer; a sermon authored back in the 80s on homosexuality and Christianity, a sermon I visited again today in my continual struggle to understand exclusion, bigotry, and hate; a message to a friend lost who has suddenly become a connection to yet another loss. Oh, how fragile the web we climb on this journey to the heavens.
Today I made another bottle tree, one I’m planning to use in my booth at an antiques market I’m doing this weekend. The other day I harvested an unwanted Red Bud tree from the garden and planted it in an old galvanized bucket filled with mortar mix. I actually had to deal with three separate trunks because that’s how the tree had grown. It was a little tricky, and the mortar mix took much longer to set up than I had expected because I had weakened it with playground sand to make the mix go farther.
In southern Black folklore, the bottle tree was a means of protecting the home by trapping evil spirits within the colorful bottles. Though not so common today, bottle trees have become popular with some southerners who strive to create artful folk gardens. I have several planted around my garden. You never know when you might need to ward off an evil spirit. Bottle trees have been one of my passions of the past few years. They’re a fairly simple way to let loose some of my creative juices. Sometimes the words just aren’t there. Sometimes it’s just easier to juggle three trunks in compromised mortar—holding your mouth just right—toss in a few shards of rock to help keep it together, stand back with your hands poised, maybe mumble a prayer or a harmless curse, and just hope everything comes out all right.
Making Art
Harold Hollis (Normangee Texas – January 9, 2007)
And so it is with words. I’ve read interviews with fiction writers who talk about their discipline, blocking out time for writing, maybe beginning early in the day, like going to the office for several hours. I marvel at the wellspring from which a piece of fiction takes life. I’ve read that the story and characters can just take charge, challenging the writer’s fingers to outrun his thoughts. To me it’s a miracle, and a gift I don’t have.
It’s been over a year since I’ve thought seriously about the discipline it takes to write something worthy. Most of us talk all the time about one thing or another, send all kinds of electronic communications, some protracted, others short and disjointed, lazy, incomplete sentences. We talk in our families, with intimate friends, with church friends, people in the grocery store. You name a place, we’re talking there, usually trying to make a point, or win an argument, or assure ourselves that someone else really understands what we mean.
Sometimes art takes form in seemingly simple human interaction. My friend Marlin is doing an internship at a geriatric facility in Miami to complete the requirements for a degree in music therapy. Marlin loves old people, and he’s spent significant time working as an aide in a nursing home and a geriatric hospital. Several months ago on a Sunday after church we took chocolate cake to one of his hospice patients at her nursing home. She was blind, virtually deaf, skin and bones really, a spider pawing the air from under her covers. She really didn’t understand who were, and she didn’t want to be bothered by us. I was touched and a little anxious as Marlin comforted this dying, 92-year-old woman. I watched him tenderly adjust the covers, reassuring “Miss Alma” that someone did care about her, even if only for a moment. It didn’t take long, and it didn’t take many words for him to say what was in his heart. He does this over and over in his work.
On this night, here in the middle of this rural Texas county, the only sounds I hear are the whirring of a ceiling fan, set to run counter-clockwise now that it is winter, an occasional bug cracking against the French doors, Casey the Blue Heeler barking at some distant, threatening sound that only a dog’s ear can sense, and now a neighbor dog answering her concern. There’s a hint of spent oak from last night’s fire in the wood stove, a satisfying smell, one not shared, however. I am with my thoughts, needing to say something, needing to say something a lot lately, and tired of arguing with myself. I practically burned up my keyboard earlier today sending the most important messages, prayers from the Book of Common Prayer; a sermon authored back in the 80s on homosexuality and Christianity, a sermon I visited again today in my continual struggle to understand exclusion, bigotry, and hate; a message to a friend lost who has suddenly become a connection to yet another loss. Oh, how fragile the web we climb on this journey to the heavens.
Today I made another bottle tree, one I’m planning to use in my booth at an antiques market I’m doing this weekend. The other day I harvested an unwanted Red Bud tree from the garden and planted it in an old galvanized bucket filled with mortar mix. I actually had to deal with three separate trunks because that’s how the tree had grown. It was a little tricky, and the mortar mix took much longer to set up than I had expected because I had weakened it with playground sand to make the mix go farther.
In southern Black folklore, the bottle tree was a means of protecting the home by trapping evil spirits within the colorful bottles. Though not so common today, bottle trees have become popular with some southerners who strive to create artful folk gardens. I have several planted around my garden. You never know when you might need to ward off an evil spirit. Bottle trees have been one of my passions of the past few years. They’re a fairly simple way to let loose some of my creative juices. Sometimes the words just aren’t there. Sometimes it’s just easier to juggle three trunks in compromised mortar—holding your mouth just right—toss in a few shards of rock to help keep it together, stand back with your hands poised, maybe mumble a prayer or a harmless curse, and just hope everything comes out all right.
Making Art
Harold Hollis (Normangee Texas – January 9, 2007)
1 comment:
okay, your back posting and all is right in the world. i amgonna go clean on my craft room and take it back from the kitties.
love
fran
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