Articles

New Possibilities

Even if I consider picking flowers off potted succulents gardening these days, I realize there are many others who do not. As one friend with a reputation for frankness said, “Succulents need no maintenance whatsoever.”

To which I replied, “Like people, we gravitate toward plants we like.”

“Still, it’s hardly gardening.” (She is one of those friends, and I have a few, who likes to give me a hard time about living in a condo.)

“This summer I’m teaching dance in two countries of the third world, so any more gardening is out of the question.” That silenced her.

After that, she invited me, along with four others, to drive up to the Skagit Valley, and everyone of us was excited about driving north until the miles canceled every guilty thought we had about taking a weekday off from work.

How is guilt like this even possible?

We were a month ahead of the blossoming, but, as my friend put it, “we’re anticipating the color.”

I loved how the wide open fields of imminent tulips and daffodils gave us something to marvel at. More than how six of us fit into a Mazda2.

“You’re riding shotgun,” she said.

“Sounds perfect,” I said. And off we went.

As for how I used to garden? Well, for starters, I’d scatter poppy and daisy seeds (sure bets) and plant every bulb I could buy.

Early into my marriage, I planted a container of Night Blooming Jasmine against Larry’s advice. “Let me tell you something,” he said in a bit of a huff, “I might not know much about living with a women, but frost I know. The minute I see a plant that isn’t indigenous, I know what’s going to happen, and it isn’t pretty.”

I told him I’d read that if I placed it close enough to the house it would absorb the reflected heat off the foundation and eventually trellis over the doorway. “I can show you examples all over the city,” I said. “And why would our neighbor’s frost be any warmer than ours?” The next day he bought a heater to install overhead to protect what he liked to call my “potted pipe-dream.”

Nasturtium seeds were strewn everywhere, too, because, to me, this is how to plant, a little recklessly. Because no matter how perfect I try and make things, weeds are still going to reverse roles with the flowers as soon as I turn my back.

I remember Larry saying some women are turned on by strong abs, others by wealth and power, and others by tiny seeds in a packet sold by a nursery most of us have never heard of. Will it ever be even remotely possible to smell spring in the air and not think of him saying that?

I used to take refuge in my garden and if I could have talked to my plants the way I can talk to Larry, I would have told them that in their company, I always felt a hundred percent like my best self.

One last: Gardening taught me a lot about silence, too, things I never thought about before. I learned when to listen, and when to ignore my beds when enough is enough. I learned about peaceful silence. But also about livid silence when deer munch seedlings to the ground which leads to frustrated silence; and admiring silence like when I passed my tomatoes doing a pretty good job of pretending they’d ripen; and the sympathetic silence I felt when I had to leave that garden behind in order to dig into new possibilities.

New possibilities. Luckily, it still satisfies just to say the words.

Mary Lou Sanelli

First published in City Living Seattle. For more information, visit Mary Lou Sanelli’s website at www.marylousanelli.com

Still Life in the Physical World

We desire this ripening — 

green pears in southern windows,

shiitake mushrooms nested in a basket

from the corner grocery —

all the abundance of duty

and want.

No, what I want is more.

How our lives collide

like strange sketches,

your small talk no different

than a woman’s.  You are

my double, the mirror

message I leave for

the visitor who pauses

in the hallway.

The mind creates the world,

but the body inhabits it,

draws all the edges we count,

such as index finger

tracing background air.

Or, say we walk beside the river

on this brilliant day.  How different

to have hair defined by tree,

clothes outlined by water.

Still, there is always the body

displayed against sheets — pale

green or deep lavender. And

there is this, the best

any artist could ever do:

the body outlined by body —

arm across thigh, head

to belly; this is the portrait

we most desire, each of us

separate, revealed

by the other.

Gayle Kaune

First published in Still Life in the Physical World, Blue Begonia Press

The Day the Plein Air Painting

class met it was hot,

exuberant, after months

of gray. I turned left

at the Jesus is Lord sign

and met six women,

at the Jesus is Lord beach.

Vermilion, orchre, cerulean blue,

the colors were all out that day,

and we learned to create

the palest wash, search the horizon

for light and shadow.

We painted on the muddy banks

of Chimacum creek, while heron

kept watch and eagles circled.

And we worked all afternoon

until the tide filled the creek

to overflowing.

Then we stripped off our clothes

and entered the water undefined

left the shadows of the trees

to become the light

in our very own landscape.

Gayle Kaune

First published in All the Birds Awake, Tebot Bach.

Gayle Kaune is widely published in literary magazines. Her chapbooks include, Concentric Circles, winner of the Flume Press Award and N’Sid-Sen-Star. Her books are Still Life in the Physical World, published by Blue Begonia Press and her latest, All the Birds Awake published by Tebot Bach. She lives in Port Townsend with her husband and a ghost dog. She paints occasionally, when she gets up the courage.

Back in November of 2009, Congresswoman Sheila Jackson-Lee, a Texas Democrat (which has got to be a pretty sticky thing right there), echoed the point that it was funny to call health-care reform rushed, "America has been working on providing access to health care for all Americans since the nineteen-thirties."

I have often felt the same way about writing.

Not that I, for a minute, compare writing, mine or anyone's, to the crucial issue of health care. I'm just struck by how often there is this misconception of time, how long it takes to accomplish certain things, how slow and arduous hard work really is.

For instance, you might think all my thoughts come to me as I write this, and in one sense, they do.

In another, they've taken all my life to uncover.

All that comes to me now is an intensified need to meet my deadline.

I’ll say this though, when I first began to write for you, I was determined.

But some of my earlier columns, well, kind readers, thank you for not pointing out how naive I was.

Well, actually, a few of you did.

In my defense, I was writing from a younger perspective. A glorious deficit, yes.

Still, I had to learn to surrender (and "surrender" is the only word) to the other - the smarter, more sure-of-herself other - within. And come on, surrender takes time.

Every writer talks about this "otherness," this voice inside that just knows.

Then comes the moment when there might be another way of saying something and I agonize, because I should. . .I shouldn't. . .should. . .shouldn't submit this to my editor.

But it’s only when this “other” insists, that I know it’s over.

"It's time," she will say. "Press SEND!" So, first and foremost, in my annual post-holidaze, which always make me overly sentimental, I want thank her. Our relationship has evolved nicely through the years. Though, like most couples, we still bicker about a thousand little things.

For instance, right now she reminds me that I've written a lot over the years about this end of the year transition that always feels monumental. . .maybe because columnists are always writing about it with a much broader brush than it really deserves, I don't know.

Still, I know that you don't necessarily have to be a writer to want to try, at least, to pinpoint why December is such a mixed bag of emotions.

2013 finished? It's impossible!

Eventually, though, it sinks in.

What next?

Out of the corner of my eye, the morning sun creeps across my carpet and everything about the way the sunlight stirs me.

"Spring is next," my otherness will say, "that’'s what. We just have to get through the longest, bleakest months, that's all."

To which I will answer, "Not a problem. Piece of cake."

On the bright side, there are things that can help. My new favorite is the spa at downtown's Olive 8. Oh my God, for the price of a manicure you can use the steam room, Jacuzzi, heated saline pool, and sauna. Plus, cocktails are served to you while you lounge in a terry cloth robe!

I was waiting for something dramatically warm to pop up in my neighborhood. It fills me with hope I can hardly wait to air. And I have a sneaking suspicion this will always be so.

This month, well, it's going to be merry, sure, why not? But it's still going to be winter raining down.

So why not think about steamy warmth and a well-stocked bar by the pool? Because there is nothing wrong with having a little of both.

It was a bright and beautiful day in the rainy city. And it had been nearly two weeks since the last First Thursday so I was feeling a little art starved. Since NYC is crawling with tourists this time of year, not to mention the heat, humidity, and invasion of baby strollers from Brooklyn, I did what any other sensible art seeker in my shoes would do. I hopped a ferry and went to Winslow.

What? Okay, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but very soon, that's exactly what sensible art seekers are going to be doing now that the Bainbridge Island Museum of Art is open.

At the risk of giving you the impression that all the sophisticated art-crit vocabulary got knocked out of my head the moment I walked into this place, I just need to say that BIMA is so totally cool. Honestly, I tried to maintain my visitor-from-the-big-city demeanor but this place is hard to resist. The curved concrete, glass, and steel building designed by architect Matthew Coates is big and handsome - it kind of dares you to walk by - it's walking distance from the ferry. Take the first left turn and you're there.

I think that the best and most surprising thing about being inside BIMA is all the natural light that pours in everywhere. If you're one of those people who gets gallery fatigue from the lack of light and air in those cloistered spaces where art usually lives, then you’ll be pleasantly surprised by all the views of the outside world. If there ever was a museum that's ideal for seeing and being seen at the same time, this is it. A good place for both of those pastimes is the John and Lillian Lovelace Gallery on the first floor. It's a rare and delightful experience to be wandering through selections of Northwest art from BIMA's permanent collection while ferryboats float in and out of view and people stroll the streets of Winslow just outside the window. Especially when the collection is as much fun as this one is.

I like the pair of elegant but cheeky Philip McCracken sculptures - different versions of eternally suspended tension - that are sitting right next to each other. In one, a dangling stack of scissors, pliers, and a wrecking ball threaten the structural integrity of a delicate china plate; in the other, a drawn steel bow is loaded up with an arrow that's ready to fire but never does. There's also a painting by Max Grover ("Red Car Trip at Dusk"), a serene Harold Balazs steel sculpture, and Karen Hackenberg's incendiary "American Pie." I love the fact that many of the pieces in this disparate collection are staged in clever little narrative vignettes, like the Patty Rogers painting "Each in the Other's Heart" that hangs above Robert Spangler's chair that sits between a Philip Levine sculpture and a wedding crown by Hekki Seppa.

Upstairs in the Rachel Feferman Gallery you'll find "First Light," a regional group exhibition that's wild and wonderful, which is not surprising since it was assembled by BIMA Executive Director Greg Robinson, with the expert assistance a stellar list of Pacific Northwest curators that he rounded up for the occasion: Max Grover, Norie Sato, Cynthia Sears, Jake Seniuk, Janice Shaw, and Barbara Earl Thomas. If you recognize any of those names, I don't have to tell you any more. If you don't, then just trust me when I say that you’ll wander happily through this show with your eyes wide open and your brain buzzing.

It includes more than 50 artists, established and upcoming, from all over the Northwest, working in every possible medium. You should go to the BIMA website for the complete list (http://www.biartmuseum.org/exhibitions/first-light-regional-group-exhibition/), but I want to list a few of my favorites: Lucy Congdon Hanson's big kinetic "Spoon"; Chris Jordan's "Oil Barrels," a hypnotic modern mandala with a rusted oil barrel at the center looking for all the world like our poor planet Earth, which is hung next to David Kroll's haunting "Koi and Blue Flower Vase;" a drawing and dry-point etching by the endlessly amazing Carl Chew; Allen Moe's elegant pottery vessels that are startlingly enhanced by what I will only describe as unexpected accouterments; Steve Einhorn's timely Peace Piece ("Guns Into Ukes") musical contraptions (look for the vintage Packard hubcap); and "Fire Inside the Heart," a big, sexy painting by Linda Okazaki that's full of secret symbols. If you ever find yourself regretting your decision to skip the NYC art scene, sit down in front of "Roundelay," Heather Dew Oaksen's video installation and watch the subway cars shoot by for a while.

The views from the second-floor Beacon Gallery (or as I call it, the prow; sometimes I can't tell if this a museum or a luxury yacht) are even better than those on the first, but you’ll find yourself distracted from all that natural beauty by the unnatural beauty of "Sea 'scape" an installation by Port Townsend artist Margie McDonald. It's an invasion of fanciful and delicate marine creatures, made from recycled copper, yacht rigging wire, and fishing line, that look like the merging of sea-life and neural synapses. On opening day, this was still a work in progress so it's impossible to say what it will eventually look like, but McDonald definitely won my award for most creative use of gallery space thanks to the spidery sea stars that cling to and crawl out from the crevices in the glass wall panels.

On the ferry ride back to Seattle I felt a little turned around, like I was returning to the quiet island from an art adventure in the big city. That alone was worth the trip. And given how easy it is to walk on the ferry downtown and walk off the boat at BIMA’s front door, I’ll be doing it again soon because there’s still plenty more to see.

Kathy Cain

Kathleen Cain is a Seattle-based writer who has been spending an inordinate amount of time on the Bainbridge Island ferry lately.

Bainbridge Island Museum of Art is located at 550 Winslow Way East on Bainbridge Island Washington and is open dailty 10 A.M. to 6 P.M. Admission is free. For more information, visit www.biartmuseum.org.

Soon after their 1958 wedding Lucy and Herb Pruzan wanted to do something to make their house a home. The answer was artwork and their first acquisition as a couple was a 1959 abstract painting by C. Louis Hafermehl purchased at the Bellevue Arts and Crafts Fair. This was the start of something big, the beginnings of a stellar collection of regional artworks that the Pruzans are still adding acquisitions to.