Aeschere's Echo

Or, "Field of Confusion"?

Or, "The Woodman's Spectre" or "What the Wolf Left"?

Originally, I called this entry "Who? What? Where?" to highlight the odd camouflaging quality of the shots, and then a number of alternative titles came to mind, as you can see. Finally, on reflection, I am recalling a poignant passage from a favorite medieval poem, Beowulf.

Aeschere, the beloved advisor of King Hrothgar of the Danes, loses his head, literally, and his life, of course, as Grendel's mother's victim in revenge for the brutal slaying of her son. The vicious mere-creature (or devoted, though monstrous mother) mounts the Dane's head on a stake beside the mere in which she lairs, the mere into which Beowulf, the Geatish warrior, must dive to gain vengeance in turn.

I recommend reading the poem in the original Anglo-Saxon, but if that's not possible, why not pick up Seamus Heaney's wonderful translation of the poem?

Shoulders (Brown & White): brown clay; white slip, applied and scored; clear glaze.

I'm not sure what I was trying to do, originally. I probably started making the base for a full bust and stopped at the shoulders. I like that form, not sure why (or, the subject of past and future blogs), whereas I've found that making a full bust puts the emphasis on the head rather than the shoulders. As to the glazing, maybe I thought the scoring would look tribal or would draw some sort of proper attention to the curves of the form. That didn't work out, but now that I'm moved the piece onto this mulch, I am seeing possibilities for future projects.

There's life even in our mistakes, if you keep your eyes open and move stuff around. Now I'm glad I didn't trash these "shoulders" when I was tempted too.

No Risk No Reward

Yet risk doesn't determine or guarantee reward either.

All we can do is try.

Failure to act far worse than action that fails: true or false?

__________________________________

Thinking about time-machines and dreams.

Projects and paths started, pursued, but not finished, not followed through on.

Those books I've meant to write--

I should be smart enough to solve my own problems: there's a sentiment to carve into stone on the path to folly. If we were really that smart, where would the problems come from anyway? Sometimes, you've got to ask for help. More importantly, you've got to know when to accept it. I still prefer going it alone, pretty much, and my best advisor isn't around anyway.

A friend's chance remark reminds me of what I'm actually often best at, something to do with the reader's experience amidst the flow of story, the whirlpools and aqueducts of narrative structures and strategies, though how I could have translated that sense of readerly/writerly hydrodynamics into degree success still escapes me these too many years afterward anyway. I don't think this "best thing" is only related to stories and work; it's a version of attentiveness I hope I bring to everything. (I don't quite, but I hope I do.) Still, my friend did help me to notice something worthwhile; confirmation can be comforting, if we let it.

And yet just looking at this photo, making this quick post, puts me in the mood to get wet, to go swimming and diving, to slip into the art studio and make some more body parts, to pull out the camera and aim for better shots.

So, perhaps, the self-reflective mood that has me counting my regrets will work to produce further actions worth taking.

I hit the half-century in two weeks, so I'm neck-deep in second-guessing and hesitant appreciation. Wish me luck.

Sir Bertilak Sends His Best To The King

The Solstice is almost upon us.

I like to reread "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight" this time of year, for 'tis a Christmas story, a winter story, a challenge-and-change story. Young Sir Gawain stands up to defend the King's honor against the green-clothed, green-skinned, green-haired giant's insults and tests. What would you have done if a green giant offered you the chance to prove your mettle--yours, the court's, and the king's-- by taking a swipe at his neck in return for the opportunity to take a swipe at yours a year hence? Must be a trick?

Of course, but imagine when, despite your successful hack with the axe, the mysterious Green Knight catches up that rolling, bleeding head by the hair, and that detached head laughs and reminds you of the grim appointment, a year hence. Would that be a long year or a short year for you? Would you even set out to meet this giant maniac? Would you get lost on the way, particularly since you don't quite know where you are going anyway? (Finding the knight to honor your oath being part of the test.) And, oh, if you find a castle and a lovely lady offers you a magical belt of protection, would you accept it--and lie about taking it? Would . . . .

Where is my copy of this poem?

The original Middle English is wonderful, but more difficult without practice than Chaucer's pieces, so I tend to be a bit lazy and reach for Tolkien's translation. There are other fine ones, beside.

If you are looking for a good book for the autumn/winter evenings . . . .

Submariner, In Repose

Or, Garsecg: A Study in the Transmogrification of the Soul.

Studio 49

Works in progress: two views. The shift in perspective highlights the apparent relative sizes of the three pieces. Doesn't that smaller bust look larger in one shot than the other?

Navajo Wheel clay. The red sticks to your hands for days, despite scrubbing, and it's a soft clay, so building, building up, may take patience, but that clay comes out of the kiln so handsome, so deep-toned.

Next step: I make heads for at least two out of three. The largest is meant to be a self-portrait, either literally or figuratively so. "Just shoulders" or "lacking a head" feels appropriate, I must admit. Rough efforts spark rough thoughts, rough drafts.

Kitchen Mermaid

Summer 2009: Sculpture mix, glazed with stormy blue and celadon; pirate medallion.

Self-Portrait #47: Summer 2008

Work in Progress: Summer 2008