Ah, April in Oakland! Tried Paris once and it was cold and rainy, but eight days of brilliant sunshine set the perfect stage for my venture cross-country for Laurel True’s Mosaic Mural Intensive at the Institute of Mosaic Art. Click here to see the completed mural for Kefa Coffee.
Steely cold in Charlotte, forecasts for five days of rat-wet rain in Miami, newly-planted palms shriveling on the porches, bikinis in iminent danger of being tossed from suitcases to allow room for more smalti and perhaps the far more practical Gryphon Grinder, where can I find even the tiniest hint of spring on this 30th day of March, wholly bereft of bunny clouds and beckoning starflowers? Continue reading
Ta Da! Just finished this one in time to pack up for Mosaic Wonderland in Miami. I didn’t enter a piece for Mosaic Arts International this year, but I did manage to complete a small work for the Mini Salon, where members and guests will have the opportunity to peruse and purchase each other’s art. Continue reading
I am not a speed artist. I don’t do anything in three hours, let alone a 9’x12′ wall. The great joy of this class for me was learning to work against my grain, with no time for obsessing, Continue reading
Love or hate The South, it just doesn’t get much lovelier (or haunting, haunted, seductive, or psychically altering) than this. I took the above photograph along a back road on Edisto Island. There’s no resort around the bend; in fact, Edisto Beach doesn’t boast a single hotel. Rent a cottage, a cabin in the woods, or snare a beachfront campsite and stare into these trees for an hour or a day, and tell me your soul hasn’t been abducted, pinned and wriggling to the wall.
Apathy Kills . What Does it Mean to Act like a Lady? . No Skin off my Back . Inhumanity . Drugged Up Food .
Silence will not Protect You . Blind Eye . Blatant Abuse . Guns in Schools . Poverty . Not My Problem .
Greed . Genocide . Out of Sight, Out of Mind
This mosaic was created in response to an art show at Ciel Gallery based on protest songs. I loved creating it, as it perfectly ties together my love of folk art and my ever-burgeoning social conscience.
You might notice a bit of errant red paint on the artwork. I could have cleaned it up and opted to leave it as a reminder of the many caught in the crossfire while working for peace.
Italian Smalti, Alphabet Millefiore, and Paua Shell under glass on Wedi Board, by Pam Goode
Continue readingAs we hobbled out of the Blumenthal in ill-advised but oh-so-lovely shoes, my 20-year-old daughter said, “I’ll never again in my life see such incredible bodies.”
I’m pretty sure she was right.
Leaving another fabulous Alvin Ailey performance, I couldn’t help feeling oddly surprised that we weren’t flying. After all, we’d just seen irrefutable evidence that humans do, indeed, take to the air in dizzying, boundless, lighter-than-air flight.
The highlight of the evening was Twyla Tharp’s frenetic choreography set to David Byrne’s score in The Golden Section. If you thought Talking Heads was a wet finger in the socket, wait til you see thirteen dancers moving together with exquisite precision, AND performing thirteen separate simultaneous dances. Premiered in 1983, the thrill and adrenaline rush of this piece is as addictive as Ben and Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide.
I was 28 when I finished my last dance class and switched to yoga, knowing that I was never going to be another Twyla Tharpe. Linda Celeste Sims, pictured above, danced ravenously for two hours, her own balls able to eject from the wood floor with muscles as powerful as a spring-loaded board. Me? I struggled to walk two blocks in heels. My wimp quotient is boggling.
Not only was I never going to be a dancer, but I was actually struggling to walk in shoes. And there we were — inching down from the sixth level of the parking garage with improper footwear, the balls of my feet straining in agony on the clutch.
But it was okay — it was temporary, and I had just spent an evening in paradise that I’ll never forget.
Oh yeah, and about those incredible bodies . . . .
I was six when I first slid my pinkies into the much-more-comfortable soft leather ballet flats and learned to lie on my tummy, arch my back, and touch my head to my toes.
I was a young teenager when Edward Villella made it clear that dancers were the most highly trained athletes, their own leaps and relevés far above the ball-tossing hordes.
I was seventeen when I saw Judith Jamison dance Cry, an exhausting and emotional fifteen minute solo that burned her mind-boggling image into the eyes of dancers worldwide.
I was twenty-something when Robert Blake (while he was still cute and crime-free), leaned over toward Johnny Carson and said, “Marry a dancer. Sex doesn’t get better than that.”
Apparently not.
Linda Celeste Sims had danced ravenously for two solid hours, her own balls apparently able to eject herself from the wood floor with muscles as powerful as a spring-loaded board. The best I did was walk two blocks in heels, and I whined.
My wimp quotient is boggling. But I will ALWAYS love to dance.
I’m using again the fabulously illustrative art of Patricia Helsing, because it so perfectly sums up my thoughts over the past week. No doubt it was inspired by John Donne’s famous quote written over 400 years ago, but in this age of Every Man for Himself, It’s All About Me, What About My Needs, and Dog Eat Dog, what is our current concept of the Self in relation to Others?
If you’re a Lostie, and I am, you know that Other is a synonym for Evil. Continue reading
Here’s to an artist whose wit and vision ran circles around my own, always nudging me to aim a little higher, Patricia Helsing. To see more of her work, look here, and nudge your own self a bit today.
. . . As they say. The Enormous Tiny Art Show was a smashing success, raising $3,000 for the Community Mosaic Project. The Project is coming along well, with about 25 artists submitting designs on Art in the Everyday. And the kitchen is about 85% done and totally, unconditionally fabulous. I will, I will be back. I hope to get back to mosaics soon, and will post some pics of all that you’ve missed in the time I’ve been curiously absent. Bad, bad me.
Pam Goode Writes 