My hair (and yours) is getting longer, the days are getting shorter, September is just around the bend. Always ambitious in my mind and sometimes not as much with my actions, Moving Pictures gallery wont' be ready until October, for a premiere in Philadelphia's art district. September will be a busy month, and by busy, picture this - managing three kids in three different schools, taking online courses, working a new job (or two), training for a half-marathon when the first mile you've ever run in your entire life was two months ago (just had to throw that in there), and completing construction, advertisement, and media coverage for a school bus gallery. . .all tastefully done zen-like.
But I've got a lot of help. My good college pal, Ryan, has taken it upon himself, on behalf of his new lighting company, to design and install a sweet lighting system that'll work better than flashlights handed out at the entrance (hey - it was Plan A). I've also had a generous donation from my friend Harry Hutchinson that paid for skylights (to be installed, still), and not to mention he completed the remainder (and surplus) of curtains, enabling me and others to sometimes catch some sleep out here. . . Also, my ex-boss (yes, haters - I WORK) Peter Daley, has provided the missing link to the electric system - a powerful inverter that will provide all the electrons needed to power lights so you can see when the earth is tilted in a position not so good for seeing, naturally. After the electric is wired up real nice, we'll cut up some better walls, get these daggum skylights installed, and be showcasing the first show - Daniel Jones. I'll write about him in a little post right after this one. . .
Also, a talented artist in Queens has shown interest in painting the exterior of Sirius. I'm very excited about this. We haven't worked out details, so I won't post any (since they don't exist) but you'll be seeing his work either outside or inside these walls soon.
The list is getting smaller, like the days, and I'm working up a momentum that ebbs and flows like the days on Mercury (look it up - it's epic). Life is grand. See you on the streets.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
RE: RE-awakening
A good parent teaches what is right. A great parent brainwashes. Ok, now that I have your attention, I have been dabbling A LOT in philosophy. . .came recently down a looonnggg tunnel of seemingly endless imputations and considerations and just plain thoughts to this ugly mess - nothing is wrong. Brainwashing, leeching, becoming a vegetable or letting others do the same. . .yeah, well, now that I REALLY have your attention. . .
It's time to completely reconstruct this blog. I have realized that my initial endeavor was, in most part, selfish. I was so wrapped up in borderline brainwashing my kids and forcing epiphanies it took decades for me to meet, that I over-rode their needs. Well, at least one of them - my boys are total gypsies and thrive out-of-place. Mercury is a stubborn one, but in the last almost-two-years, I've set aside my dream of touring intentional communities and showing them that this is the way to live. . .instead I've been attending graduate school for a year and a half, working jobs while they are in school or with their dad every other weekend (now that we live close), but still spending too much time philosophizing. I've been trying (and taking breaks from trying, and just crying) to live the life I want to show them, and myself, and the world, that is right. That brings me back to what is right? Digression - this blog is about a bus, and I will strive to keep it at such, tho' it is impossible to compartmentalize facets of your life, my life, that are so richly embedded in your soul, your very nature and presence. . .
The bus is coming along. The trip to Massachusetts was amazing. It was a week of record highs in the Northeast, as we ambled up through New York City, getting lost in Harlem with some wrong turns. Four kids took turns waving out the windows and securing and re-securing all the stuff we had packed into the now-empty-save-for-the-loft bus. We ambled up to a most beautiful road, the Taconic Parkway. The 36' dirty white bus was having a great go at the ride, loving the open road and magnificent views, the stone bridges, the minimal traffic. . .hey, come to think of the traffic, there were no buses, trucks, big-rigs - nothing - just us and a handful of passenger vehicles. Guess those truckers didn't know about this gem of a road. . .then we pulled off on a ramp so I could pee, getting back onto the highway, a sign politely informed us "passenger vehicles only." I said, hmm. Well, turns out the sign was being truthful. We exited soon after sans ticket and a little wiser to the regulations of the Taconic Parkway, got directions from several friendly folks, and took a truckers advice for the secondary highway that led straight into Great Barrington, the address of Alice's church (Guthrie Center). The further north we traveled the nicer and more relaxed people and the land seemed. A big ugly bus full of people and empty of seats wasn't such an anomaly. Oh, did I mention the George Washington Bridge? No.
Toll Booth Collector: "Is this a bus?"
me: "yes"
TBC: "how many seats does it have?"
me: "one"
TBC: "then it's $30"
me: "well, technically it's an RV"
TBC: "It's $30"
me: "actually, it is a bus, and we have folding chairs and some oak school desks"
TBC: "that doesn't count - if it has seats it's a bus. That's $30."
Ended up we never needed to cross that bridge, but no, I didn't burn it - it's still there ready and willing to be crossed. . .
SO! We arrived and I was shocked - I thought Great Barrington was as small as Stockbridge, our true destination. Not so - a bustling little artsy and organic town with the right balance of posh and expensive and the higher end of hippie living with a super great co-op. We spent lunch outside an abandoned middle school by the river and walking around. Samson found a perfect dobson fly body, I materialized a perfect hat, and all was well. We found a campground on a nearby mountain that could accomodate us and pursued that spot only to find ourselves on top of a mountain, running out of fuel, with night on our heels. We made camp in a field and built a fire, happily lost in the hills of western Mass. Woke with the dawn, and rolled out in first gear downhill. We toured the sights - trespassing onto the old train station with Sirius, trespassing at Stockbridge Bowl lake, and driving north to Springfield to sell lemonade and play music in the Wal-mart parking lot. With Tennessee tags still on the bus, we initiated some great conversations. We made it back for dinner at the former Alice's Restaurant where Samson busted his face pretty good leaving, then with blood everywhere, we marathoned it back to the church for an open mic through a massive storm complete with hail. Although I have skylights to replace the roof hatches, I have not yet done so, and we were all stumbling around trying to catch the leaking water in buckets with every turn or bump, Ezekiel nursing Samson's wounds and me taking roll as official defroster for the windshield. As we came upon the church, a woman at the mansion across the street from the church flagged us down - the railroad crossing had been struck by lightning and was stuck in the down position - she offered us to park in her amazingly accomodating driveway. We collected ourselves and as we exited the bus to walk across the tracks, the sun appeared and it was all so clearly perfect. Because of the storm, there was only a handful of people, and the sound guy didn't make it out, so we all performed acoustic. The nice folks there let the kids pick out some percussion items and my friend Tom sang one song solo, then I sang Lynyrd Skynyrd's Simple Man with him, then all the kids and us (sans wounded Samson) sang and played a song. My first open mic. In the church that for whatever reason has become to mean so much to me. . .
At the end, we had inspired another visitor to sing about New Jersey, and then a couple regulars invited us all to sing This Land is Your Land on stage together. Writing about it now, two weeks later, it was so much more perfect than I can explain. Through the storm we gained such beauty.
All this was initially a trip for networking with artists, visual in particular. But it really was an experience in a life where everything has implicit meaning, deep joy, and unbearable significance. I didn't meet any artist, or even anyone wildly curious about who we were. It seemed home.
We took the long way back in the middle of the night. Samson healed quickly without stitches, only a scar on his knee - an initiation into the 7th year as a boy. We ran out of fuel 5 miles from the house, but that, too, was perfect. I didn't come out of the two day trip with followers, or admirers - I came back knowing a little more of what I think is right. And no one can tell me a life like that is wrong.
And just to bring this around full circle, the bus is prepping to become a gallery for artists, new and old and young and bold. A place that is open to all, that is mobile enough (and has now more experienced drivers in turning around in small spaces) for all, willing to show and share, and most importantly, give. For all of you who are a little confused, it's ok, I am, too. But I do know that this is not my life, but my life is this. I have a somewhat conventional life for now - school, work, parenting to the best of my abilities, relaxing, being a cub scout leader and supporting my kids in ballet and baseball and church. . .and meditation and yoga and union songs and fermenting food and being weird. . .the bus, though. . .the bus. . .seems to echo and reflect. . .my friend Marcia Wickam named the gallery officially - "Moving Pictures". . . so forward we go, now looking at October to drive into Philly's art district with a show from my good friend in Tennessee - maybe no real walls, absolutely no wine at the opening, but a show - a real show - in a shell that has housed many a dream, selfish, selfless, or just neutral. I'll be there, changing inside it's casing, and outside as well. . .
It's time to completely reconstruct this blog. I have realized that my initial endeavor was, in most part, selfish. I was so wrapped up in borderline brainwashing my kids and forcing epiphanies it took decades for me to meet, that I over-rode their needs. Well, at least one of them - my boys are total gypsies and thrive out-of-place. Mercury is a stubborn one, but in the last almost-two-years, I've set aside my dream of touring intentional communities and showing them that this is the way to live. . .instead I've been attending graduate school for a year and a half, working jobs while they are in school or with their dad every other weekend (now that we live close), but still spending too much time philosophizing. I've been trying (and taking breaks from trying, and just crying) to live the life I want to show them, and myself, and the world, that is right. That brings me back to what is right? Digression - this blog is about a bus, and I will strive to keep it at such, tho' it is impossible to compartmentalize facets of your life, my life, that are so richly embedded in your soul, your very nature and presence. . .
The bus is coming along. The trip to Massachusetts was amazing. It was a week of record highs in the Northeast, as we ambled up through New York City, getting lost in Harlem with some wrong turns. Four kids took turns waving out the windows and securing and re-securing all the stuff we had packed into the now-empty-save-for-the-loft bus. We ambled up to a most beautiful road, the Taconic Parkway. The 36' dirty white bus was having a great go at the ride, loving the open road and magnificent views, the stone bridges, the minimal traffic. . .hey, come to think of the traffic, there were no buses, trucks, big-rigs - nothing - just us and a handful of passenger vehicles. Guess those truckers didn't know about this gem of a road. . .then we pulled off on a ramp so I could pee, getting back onto the highway, a sign politely informed us "passenger vehicles only." I said, hmm. Well, turns out the sign was being truthful. We exited soon after sans ticket and a little wiser to the regulations of the Taconic Parkway, got directions from several friendly folks, and took a truckers advice for the secondary highway that led straight into Great Barrington, the address of Alice's church (Guthrie Center). The further north we traveled the nicer and more relaxed people and the land seemed. A big ugly bus full of people and empty of seats wasn't such an anomaly. Oh, did I mention the George Washington Bridge? No.
Toll Booth Collector: "Is this a bus?"
me: "yes"
TBC: "how many seats does it have?"
me: "one"
TBC: "then it's $30"
me: "well, technically it's an RV"
TBC: "It's $30"
me: "actually, it is a bus, and we have folding chairs and some oak school desks"
TBC: "that doesn't count - if it has seats it's a bus. That's $30."
Ended up we never needed to cross that bridge, but no, I didn't burn it - it's still there ready and willing to be crossed. . .
SO! We arrived and I was shocked - I thought Great Barrington was as small as Stockbridge, our true destination. Not so - a bustling little artsy and organic town with the right balance of posh and expensive and the higher end of hippie living with a super great co-op. We spent lunch outside an abandoned middle school by the river and walking around. Samson found a perfect dobson fly body, I materialized a perfect hat, and all was well. We found a campground on a nearby mountain that could accomodate us and pursued that spot only to find ourselves on top of a mountain, running out of fuel, with night on our heels. We made camp in a field and built a fire, happily lost in the hills of western Mass. Woke with the dawn, and rolled out in first gear downhill. We toured the sights - trespassing onto the old train station with Sirius, trespassing at Stockbridge Bowl lake, and driving north to Springfield to sell lemonade and play music in the Wal-mart parking lot. With Tennessee tags still on the bus, we initiated some great conversations. We made it back for dinner at the former Alice's Restaurant where Samson busted his face pretty good leaving, then with blood everywhere, we marathoned it back to the church for an open mic through a massive storm complete with hail. Although I have skylights to replace the roof hatches, I have not yet done so, and we were all stumbling around trying to catch the leaking water in buckets with every turn or bump, Ezekiel nursing Samson's wounds and me taking roll as official defroster for the windshield. As we came upon the church, a woman at the mansion across the street from the church flagged us down - the railroad crossing had been struck by lightning and was stuck in the down position - she offered us to park in her amazingly accomodating driveway. We collected ourselves and as we exited the bus to walk across the tracks, the sun appeared and it was all so clearly perfect. Because of the storm, there was only a handful of people, and the sound guy didn't make it out, so we all performed acoustic. The nice folks there let the kids pick out some percussion items and my friend Tom sang one song solo, then I sang Lynyrd Skynyrd's Simple Man with him, then all the kids and us (sans wounded Samson) sang and played a song. My first open mic. In the church that for whatever reason has become to mean so much to me. . .
At the end, we had inspired another visitor to sing about New Jersey, and then a couple regulars invited us all to sing This Land is Your Land on stage together. Writing about it now, two weeks later, it was so much more perfect than I can explain. Through the storm we gained such beauty.
All this was initially a trip for networking with artists, visual in particular. But it really was an experience in a life where everything has implicit meaning, deep joy, and unbearable significance. I didn't meet any artist, or even anyone wildly curious about who we were. It seemed home.
We took the long way back in the middle of the night. Samson healed quickly without stitches, only a scar on his knee - an initiation into the 7th year as a boy. We ran out of fuel 5 miles from the house, but that, too, was perfect. I didn't come out of the two day trip with followers, or admirers - I came back knowing a little more of what I think is right. And no one can tell me a life like that is wrong.
And just to bring this around full circle, the bus is prepping to become a gallery for artists, new and old and young and bold. A place that is open to all, that is mobile enough (and has now more experienced drivers in turning around in small spaces) for all, willing to show and share, and most importantly, give. For all of you who are a little confused, it's ok, I am, too. But I do know that this is not my life, but my life is this. I have a somewhat conventional life for now - school, work, parenting to the best of my abilities, relaxing, being a cub scout leader and supporting my kids in ballet and baseball and church. . .and meditation and yoga and union songs and fermenting food and being weird. . .the bus, though. . .the bus. . .seems to echo and reflect. . .my friend Marcia Wickam named the gallery officially - "Moving Pictures". . . so forward we go, now looking at October to drive into Philly's art district with a show from my good friend in Tennessee - maybe no real walls, absolutely no wine at the opening, but a show - a real show - in a shell that has housed many a dream, selfish, selfless, or just neutral. I'll be there, changing inside it's casing, and outside as well. . .
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Looking for a way out of war via Arlo Guthrie storytelling trip
I know I've heard Arlo when I was a kid, and my mom sang us the likes of Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and her fav - Peter, Paul, and Mary, who sang many a well-repeated song with pacifist substance and immediate, calming yet raw sway for change. . .you know, the Gandhi-King-Lennon (John) approach. . .
But as I have written, never was I so borderline obsessed over any song since the Cure in 9th grade, Robert Smith's neon cherry painted lips mouthing Love Cats, and no war protest about it. . .
It all began with Alice's Restaurant, as it seemed to have begun with Arlo Guthrie himself. The son of Woody Guthrie, of This Land is Your Land fame - a song I believed was akin, equal, even more fitting than our national anthem when I was in elementary school - I believed we had to memorize it, and yes, had the concrete realization that such a lovely and catchy tune about sharing and being proud and honored to live in such a place that valued freedom and gratitude as our country - well, had the actual thought that it was a much more appropriate anthem then relating our entire existence solely on battle, on bombs, on icons like the flag. It seems to me that we are founded on good principles, but just like not seeing the forest for the trees, we lose track of them and focus instead on big bangs and big bucks. . .enough! This is by no means a political commentary space, I'm too far removed to make intelligent observations or opinions. . .
So, it all began outside Stockbridge, MA. A sudden realization of the power to answer most questions or interests that pop into my head at any moment, I remembered the mystical and omnipotent powers of the internet and, in a moment of curiosity looked up the church from the song. Sure enough, by Jove - it stands, it lives, it breaths! They're even added to it. It's now a non-profit called the Guthrie Center, and tomorrow at 6am, we are taking the bus up for a visit to the legendary church, sleeping on the bus, talking with some friends we haven't seen yet.
This may not be anything to anyone, but it's terribly significant for me. Life is in a constant motion of change - you may think you are stable and even have a routine, most of us have jobs that have corralling effect, money that keeps our imagination in check, our spontaneity in a dusty lock-box at the bank, only available with apt notice and planning. . .some of us are impulsive in a positive way, of being un-scared, honest, epic, and completely optimistic. Don Quixotes of the world, let us never stop.
Even though the original plan for the bus is a plan of either the past or the distant future, another plan is formed. Alice's Restaurant, the song, is mainly re-telling the happenstance manner in which Guthrie avoided the Vietnam draft because of littering. . .the movie is about a time when being yourself was hard. Sound familiar? That's because it can always be difficult to be yourself, or rather, to recognize that others may be ok with you being yourself. And peaceful, and perhaps - diplomatically and respectfully - disagreeing with a stance of war that is, for some people. . .seen as needlessly violent or wasteful, negative, deleterious, fatalistic, self-defeating, and/or antipathetic. Seems like Guthrie, and an entire generation, got a whole lotta difficulties for exercising things like First Amendment rights and humanitarianism. Sometimes I feel like a bubble of glue-energy (that's static energy that just glues me stiller than a bowl of fruit in an oil painting from the black and white days), unable to let things move, to see the significance of things like pickles. . .uhoh, here I go again with references. Let's just say, that it can be easy to get stuck on an idea, let's say the idea of how things aren't working out. OR we can say, "I'll just step back a few paces to give myself, my ego, and my fear some breathing room" and wallah! we can see the significances, the connections, the why's. Not always mind you. Sometimes it's all such a reach it feels like you're lying to yourself.
"Yeah, Sabrina, I'm stoked on the bus concept completing morphing into something less adventurous and more local geographically, looking forward to art openings and acting cool." Um, no. I'm looking forward to introducing artists and concepts that may not be welcomed in the sleek and sterile environs of the galleries of So-Ho, Olde City, and geez, whatever Boston and Baltimore have, and G_d knows I'm taking Sirius down to Austin and Albuquerque and San Diego.
So. . .looking for a way out of patterns, holes, or repetitious thoughts that consume us, actions that form us without our full consent, lifestyles that are created through a false sense of urgency, of lack, of need for more. . .Guthrie wasn't particularly looking for a way out (the movie suggests he was, kinda) but look what happened. Well, listen to what happened. If you have no idea who or what I'm talking about, that's an opportunity for you to check out this.
So tomorrow, with 4 children and two adults, we will make our way to visit the church that held an infamous Thanksgiving Dinner, the cafe that sorta inspired the name of the song, and a nice place in the woods to park the bus, morphing into a gallery for all those incredible humans out there who I know would enjoy a nice, renegade showing of mobile art, versatile and slightly disruptive, passively awesome, rolling on wheels of imaginative solutions, and somehow - I'm working on this one - somehow making the world a better place. Sharing, acknowledging the beginning, middle, and now, and, allowing growth and directions to open up my mind.
See you in Massachusetts!
But as I have written, never was I so borderline obsessed over any song since the Cure in 9th grade, Robert Smith's neon cherry painted lips mouthing Love Cats, and no war protest about it. . .
It all began with Alice's Restaurant, as it seemed to have begun with Arlo Guthrie himself. The son of Woody Guthrie, of This Land is Your Land fame - a song I believed was akin, equal, even more fitting than our national anthem when I was in elementary school - I believed we had to memorize it, and yes, had the concrete realization that such a lovely and catchy tune about sharing and being proud and honored to live in such a place that valued freedom and gratitude as our country - well, had the actual thought that it was a much more appropriate anthem then relating our entire existence solely on battle, on bombs, on icons like the flag. It seems to me that we are founded on good principles, but just like not seeing the forest for the trees, we lose track of them and focus instead on big bangs and big bucks. . .enough! This is by no means a political commentary space, I'm too far removed to make intelligent observations or opinions. . .
So, it all began outside Stockbridge, MA. A sudden realization of the power to answer most questions or interests that pop into my head at any moment, I remembered the mystical and omnipotent powers of the internet and, in a moment of curiosity looked up the church from the song. Sure enough, by Jove - it stands, it lives, it breaths! They're even added to it. It's now a non-profit called the Guthrie Center, and tomorrow at 6am, we are taking the bus up for a visit to the legendary church, sleeping on the bus, talking with some friends we haven't seen yet.
This may not be anything to anyone, but it's terribly significant for me. Life is in a constant motion of change - you may think you are stable and even have a routine, most of us have jobs that have corralling effect, money that keeps our imagination in check, our spontaneity in a dusty lock-box at the bank, only available with apt notice and planning. . .some of us are impulsive in a positive way, of being un-scared, honest, epic, and completely optimistic. Don Quixotes of the world, let us never stop.
Even though the original plan for the bus is a plan of either the past or the distant future, another plan is formed. Alice's Restaurant, the song, is mainly re-telling the happenstance manner in which Guthrie avoided the Vietnam draft because of littering. . .the movie is about a time when being yourself was hard. Sound familiar? That's because it can always be difficult to be yourself, or rather, to recognize that others may be ok with you being yourself. And peaceful, and perhaps - diplomatically and respectfully - disagreeing with a stance of war that is, for some people. . .seen as needlessly violent or wasteful, negative, deleterious, fatalistic, self-defeating, and/or antipathetic. Seems like Guthrie, and an entire generation, got a whole lotta difficulties for exercising things like First Amendment rights and humanitarianism. Sometimes I feel like a bubble of glue-energy (that's static energy that just glues me stiller than a bowl of fruit in an oil painting from the black and white days), unable to let things move, to see the significance of things like pickles. . .uhoh, here I go again with references. Let's just say, that it can be easy to get stuck on an idea, let's say the idea of how things aren't working out. OR we can say, "I'll just step back a few paces to give myself, my ego, and my fear some breathing room" and wallah! we can see the significances, the connections, the why's. Not always mind you. Sometimes it's all such a reach it feels like you're lying to yourself.
"Yeah, Sabrina, I'm stoked on the bus concept completing morphing into something less adventurous and more local geographically, looking forward to art openings and acting cool." Um, no. I'm looking forward to introducing artists and concepts that may not be welcomed in the sleek and sterile environs of the galleries of So-Ho, Olde City, and geez, whatever Boston and Baltimore have, and G_d knows I'm taking Sirius down to Austin and Albuquerque and San Diego.
So. . .looking for a way out of patterns, holes, or repetitious thoughts that consume us, actions that form us without our full consent, lifestyles that are created through a false sense of urgency, of lack, of need for more. . .Guthrie wasn't particularly looking for a way out (the movie suggests he was, kinda) but look what happened. Well, listen to what happened. If you have no idea who or what I'm talking about, that's an opportunity for you to check out this.
So tomorrow, with 4 children and two adults, we will make our way to visit the church that held an infamous Thanksgiving Dinner, the cafe that sorta inspired the name of the song, and a nice place in the woods to park the bus, morphing into a gallery for all those incredible humans out there who I know would enjoy a nice, renegade showing of mobile art, versatile and slightly disruptive, passively awesome, rolling on wheels of imaginative solutions, and somehow - I'm working on this one - somehow making the world a better place. Sharing, acknowledging the beginning, middle, and now, and, allowing growth and directions to open up my mind.
See you in Massachusetts!
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
To everything there is a time. . .
What have I been doing?
Tie-dyeing
Driving the bus up from North Carolina and touring New Jersey
Holding Chickens
Picking up cowboy hitch-hikers
Shameless blog advertising
Jawbones
Tearing out bunks and walls
Deconstructing
Riding Samson on my handlebars to get the bus
Letting children spray paint, power-wash, and cover up spray paint
In no particular order. . .
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
A New Twist for a Summer Drink
I like a good twist. A good twist in a story, a good twist of lime, a good twist from the chiropractor, a good twist on the dance floor, and most recently, Samson's good twist that took out his front tooth, giving him that adorable *lithsp* we all had when we lost our front teeth.
I guess this bus idea and the bus itself has gone through (is going through) a twist in its life. . .from a proposed documentary film and taking my kids on the road, to sitting in North Carolina for a year in a half and being home to at least three people up there (!) to becoming the proposed newest twist in the arts world (though not the first -Stunning bus gallery in the UK, an art bus that reaches children, a pretty interesting idea to bring art to the people, for free, and St Louis gave this project $50,000. . .).
A MOBILE ART GALLERY!
that supports community, sharing, creativity, social justice, human rights, and yes. . .art. . .
So. . .this is all in conjunction with the art gallery I've been managing in New Jersey since last year. I had originally asked the owner, who has a large enough space on his property, if I could park my bus there. I had all but given up on The Parting Family - knowing now I'm almost done with graduate school to be a teacher, and well, I need to use that degree to pay back my loans! Yikes! So, no traipsing around the world of intentional communities and monasteries and national parks. . .yet. . .
So. . .the owner says 'sure' to parking the bus there. I only knew if I didn't move it the 700 miles up here, it was just going to die, and with it, my dreams and ideals and visions of whatever I've written and spoken of in the last 4 or 5 or 6 years. It was in bad shape (visually). I'm not sure where the idea came from, but I believe it must have begun back in 1999 when I first moved to Philadelphia from a small Southern town, and thought I could just walk my portfolio into any old gallery and have them swooning. An acquaintance of mine, had been dealing with the same crap of cliques and select, tony, and mostly pretentious curators, artists, and art wizards closing doors in his face and generally making art into a popularity contest in which was reminscient of our presidential elections. It made no sense. I imagined a less 'cool' arts scene, or day-dreamed a room full of highly talented artists sharing cocktails, but all of them uber-introverted and ugly and dorky. Some of them may not even know the newest classifications of the genres of the newest music, or know what a fixie is, or eat the same bologna and mustard sandwich everyday for the last 23 years. I dunno. . .
So why not have a renegade art gallery, on wheels? Level the playing grounds. Why not an impetuous and genuine opening on the street, where perhaps everyone will have a chance. . .well, everyone without bumptiousness and conceit. . .those who want to support what I envision as pretty important electrons around an equally important nucleus (can't think of anything for the nucleus to represent right now). . .and we, the people, are exchanging electrons, making energy and explosions and stuff - in a good way.
Don't take me for a negative thinker - I love art galleries, and I may have it all wrong. But, you can't deny a 36' school bus rolling into a gallery district in Philly, NY, Baltimore, or DC isn't pretty interesting. . .
So right now, I'm working on a Kickstarted video to raise funds to complete the process, contacting potential sponsors - like the good folks and AS Hanging Systems that I contacted this morning about helping us out with a cable system to hang the work, and putting out the word for a collection of artists to be involved. I am also beginning to compile causes and projects in which I would like to sponsor from exhibit and sales proceeds. . .
Here's the transitioning interior. I'll be painting the walls a nice, calm grey, finish the curtains, and work on finding a good electrician to complete the circuits to the marine batteries I have.
Let the twisting commence!!
I guess this bus idea and the bus itself has gone through (is going through) a twist in its life. . .from a proposed documentary film and taking my kids on the road, to sitting in North Carolina for a year in a half and being home to at least three people up there (!) to becoming the proposed newest twist in the arts world (though not the first -Stunning bus gallery in the UK, an art bus that reaches children, a pretty interesting idea to bring art to the people, for free, and St Louis gave this project $50,000. . .).
A MOBILE ART GALLERY!
that supports community, sharing, creativity, social justice, human rights, and yes. . .art. . .
So. . .this is all in conjunction with the art gallery I've been managing in New Jersey since last year. I had originally asked the owner, who has a large enough space on his property, if I could park my bus there. I had all but given up on The Parting Family - knowing now I'm almost done with graduate school to be a teacher, and well, I need to use that degree to pay back my loans! Yikes! So, no traipsing around the world of intentional communities and monasteries and national parks. . .yet. . .
So. . .the owner says 'sure' to parking the bus there. I only knew if I didn't move it the 700 miles up here, it was just going to die, and with it, my dreams and ideals and visions of whatever I've written and spoken of in the last 4 or 5 or 6 years. It was in bad shape (visually). I'm not sure where the idea came from, but I believe it must have begun back in 1999 when I first moved to Philadelphia from a small Southern town, and thought I could just walk my portfolio into any old gallery and have them swooning. An acquaintance of mine, had been dealing with the same crap of cliques and select, tony, and mostly pretentious curators, artists, and art wizards closing doors in his face and generally making art into a popularity contest in which was reminscient of our presidential elections. It made no sense. I imagined a less 'cool' arts scene, or day-dreamed a room full of highly talented artists sharing cocktails, but all of them uber-introverted and ugly and dorky. Some of them may not even know the newest classifications of the genres of the newest music, or know what a fixie is, or eat the same bologna and mustard sandwich everyday for the last 23 years. I dunno. . .
So why not have a renegade art gallery, on wheels? Level the playing grounds. Why not an impetuous and genuine opening on the street, where perhaps everyone will have a chance. . .well, everyone without bumptiousness and conceit. . .those who want to support what I envision as pretty important electrons around an equally important nucleus (can't think of anything for the nucleus to represent right now). . .and we, the people, are exchanging electrons, making energy and explosions and stuff - in a good way.
Don't take me for a negative thinker - I love art galleries, and I may have it all wrong. But, you can't deny a 36' school bus rolling into a gallery district in Philly, NY, Baltimore, or DC isn't pretty interesting. . .
So right now, I'm working on a Kickstarted video to raise funds to complete the process, contacting potential sponsors - like the good folks and AS Hanging Systems that I contacted this morning about helping us out with a cable system to hang the work, and putting out the word for a collection of artists to be involved. I am also beginning to compile causes and projects in which I would like to sponsor from exhibit and sales proceeds. . .
Here's the transitioning interior. I'll be painting the walls a nice, calm grey, finish the curtains, and work on finding a good electrician to complete the circuits to the marine batteries I have.
Let the twisting commence!!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
The Great North
I think The Great North refers to places other than South Jersey, but the bus has never been north of the Mason Dixon line, so for Sirius, we'll keep it as such. We just arrived home about 30 minutes ago. Scratch that - we arrived about 6 hours ago - I just re-christened the bus with my friend Tom and a very early Mother's Day present - some good conversation and a couple tasteful beers. . .and a lesson on the gifts youtube has to give - Tom introduced me to Phillip DiFranco (I am guessing at spelling). I'm sold.
So! The bus is parked in what turns out to be a perfectly allowed space on our street, to be moved tomorrow once our things are sorted out. We stopped in Elizabethton to gather the remainder of our worldly belongings from storage. . .things such as toys and books and clothes all outgrown by the kids that haven't been seen in close to 2 years. But they traveled all the way up here - 700 miles actually - to be given to Goodwill in Jersey. That's cool. These Yankess could use some Southern flair.
It's almost dawn, the bus sits happy, tagged with red spray paint (a nice touch to accent its peeling paint and mildewed roof), awaiting the reactions of neighbors close, and probably town-wide. Good. Maybe you're a neighbor reading this because the blog address is painted on the driver's side. Maybe you're my best friend (I hope). Either way, please come back and read more about what is happening tomorrow, when I'm more lucid. . .
Thank you I-81, thank you highway 66, thank you 495, 895, 295, and I-95. Thank you Delaware memorial bridge. Thank you weather. Thank you for facilitating an awesome move. I hope by September the mobile art gallery is in place and Sirius will be treading lightly all the way to your neighborhood, with something BIG to offer.
So! The bus is parked in what turns out to be a perfectly allowed space on our street, to be moved tomorrow once our things are sorted out. We stopped in Elizabethton to gather the remainder of our worldly belongings from storage. . .things such as toys and books and clothes all outgrown by the kids that haven't been seen in close to 2 years. But they traveled all the way up here - 700 miles actually - to be given to Goodwill in Jersey. That's cool. These Yankess could use some Southern flair.
It's almost dawn, the bus sits happy, tagged with red spray paint (a nice touch to accent its peeling paint and mildewed roof), awaiting the reactions of neighbors close, and probably town-wide. Good. Maybe you're a neighbor reading this because the blog address is painted on the driver's side. Maybe you're my best friend (I hope). Either way, please come back and read more about what is happening tomorrow, when I'm more lucid. . .
Thank you I-81, thank you highway 66, thank you 495, 895, 295, and I-95. Thank you Delaware memorial bridge. Thank you weather. Thank you for facilitating an awesome move. I hope by September the mobile art gallery is in place and Sirius will be treading lightly all the way to your neighborhood, with something BIG to offer.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Highway in the Wind
One thing that has kept me from becoming, or even attempting to become, a successful artist is the discrepancy between meaning and meaningless. Sometimes it's a difficult line to see. Art can, by the cynic, be seen as petty. But then take Banksy's political and social commentaries, so in depth and thought-provoking. Take that artist in O'Henry's The Last Leaf, a story (you should read) in which a painting literally gives enough meaning to a woman that she chooses Life. Look at any artwork, and by artwork, I mean anything, because the definition of art basically encompasses everything. . .
So, thank God for Arlo Guthrie, as I've been obsessed with him lately. Thank God for these songs and voices, sounds, colors, shapes, and actions that can inspire us to get up and go. Thank God for writing that has nothing to do with anything sometimes other than looking at our own lives and deciding that if that person there can write a short story (thanks Vonnegut), that by God, I should be doing something.
And so we leave today, my ex-mother-in-law and my three children, to drive all afternoon and night to the Bus, in Marshall, North Carolina. We drive with new leaves on the trees, through DC and its cherry blossoms, through country that Pete Seeger sang to and of, past mountains that have been topped and across borders, down to the town where Amanda Barry's father lives, over and in and through Appalachia. . .
The bus is something more than steel and oak (!) and wishes. It's a movement both literally and figuratively. I will be driving it up with kids bouncing in the bunks and playing cards on the floors, back the poetic way we will ramble down. Through the thunderstorms they are forecasting, through all sorts of wonderful surprises. It will be parked somewhere in New Jersey, a location not yet disclosed to even me, arriving on Mother's Day, a significant day for me. . .and my mother. . .and against all odds, it will prevail as something good, meaningful, pertinent, positive. . .like the art I struggle with to find meaning in often.
The worst news to come of the bus, after I traveled down 3 weeks ago to clean it out and move it to a garage to prepare for the 600 mile trek, was that the veggie conversion done in 2011 is, in diesel mechanic Tim McGee's valued opinion, is "all gummed up." This translates to it is the worst attempt at a conversion he's seen in his thirty years working on diesels, buses to be specific. We're talking next door to Asheville, North Carolina - a convergence point for every type of progressive person, group, movement, and order in the nation - a place where those in San Francisco and Portland, Oregon go when they need something more progressive. . .so Tim has seen his fair share of converted buses. In his opinion, he could not let me drive at all with a clean conscious with the fuel system intact. . .not only was it installed terribly in-efficiently, but it was dangerous!! Wow, so, being the woman I am, with karma in tow, I have let any feelings of resentment or anger pass me by and have chosen to view this set-back as a learning opportunity. Not doubt or mistrust in people, but a chance for me to perhaps learn to speak with many different people, to take my time with big endeavors, and to. . .well, to enjoy some Alice's Restaurant when it all falls to pieces. . .
So, thank God for Arlo Guthrie, as I've been obsessed with him lately. Thank God for these songs and voices, sounds, colors, shapes, and actions that can inspire us to get up and go. Thank God for writing that has nothing to do with anything sometimes other than looking at our own lives and deciding that if that person there can write a short story (thanks Vonnegut), that by God, I should be doing something.
And so we leave today, my ex-mother-in-law and my three children, to drive all afternoon and night to the Bus, in Marshall, North Carolina. We drive with new leaves on the trees, through DC and its cherry blossoms, through country that Pete Seeger sang to and of, past mountains that have been topped and across borders, down to the town where Amanda Barry's father lives, over and in and through Appalachia. . .
The bus is something more than steel and oak (!) and wishes. It's a movement both literally and figuratively. I will be driving it up with kids bouncing in the bunks and playing cards on the floors, back the poetic way we will ramble down. Through the thunderstorms they are forecasting, through all sorts of wonderful surprises. It will be parked somewhere in New Jersey, a location not yet disclosed to even me, arriving on Mother's Day, a significant day for me. . .and my mother. . .and against all odds, it will prevail as something good, meaningful, pertinent, positive. . .like the art I struggle with to find meaning in often.
The worst news to come of the bus, after I traveled down 3 weeks ago to clean it out and move it to a garage to prepare for the 600 mile trek, was that the veggie conversion done in 2011 is, in diesel mechanic Tim McGee's valued opinion, is "all gummed up." This translates to it is the worst attempt at a conversion he's seen in his thirty years working on diesels, buses to be specific. We're talking next door to Asheville, North Carolina - a convergence point for every type of progressive person, group, movement, and order in the nation - a place where those in San Francisco and Portland, Oregon go when they need something more progressive. . .so Tim has seen his fair share of converted buses. In his opinion, he could not let me drive at all with a clean conscious with the fuel system intact. . .not only was it installed terribly in-efficiently, but it was dangerous!! Wow, so, being the woman I am, with karma in tow, I have let any feelings of resentment or anger pass me by and have chosen to view this set-back as a learning opportunity. Not doubt or mistrust in people, but a chance for me to perhaps learn to speak with many different people, to take my time with big endeavors, and to. . .well, to enjoy some Alice's Restaurant when it all falls to pieces. . .
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Back In Business
The business of starting over. Everyday. Like 12-steppers. . .maybe?
It's been a year since I've posted anything. Close friends can tell you the round-about journey I've taken, the road I've driven down, backed up, driven backwards, and parked on for a year, longer.
Skipping the details, the kids and I are living in New Jersey. I am managing (for the lack of a more intricate description) an art gallery/framing store. I'm having my first solo show this Friday after almost 2 years without showing any photographs anywhere. I'm nearly through a graduate degree in elementary education. . .a late-night decision I made a year ago because, well, I'm a single parent of three kids - teaching = aligned schedules with my kids and perhaps some viable income, especially up here in the northeast. But do I really want to teach? Did I ever dream of being a teacher? NO! A resounding NO! Sure, after college I thought it would be great to teach. . .college. . .not 3rd graders. And sure, I've home-schooled for a couple of years, but that was a totally lax approach, myself to answer to. But, nevertheless, here I am, with three kids in three different schools, working while they're in school, taking online courses, and, wait for it. . .driving the bus up to Jersey in April.
Yes, through a pyramid of rationalities, I will be flying into Asheville, North Carolina, to retrieve my long, long lost love and drive it to a farm around the corner from me, to re-paint, to complete, to usher the Idea long ago into a new phase, a New Testament.
As tempting as running away again is, and as much as I day-dream about taking my student loan and ditching it all for a long drive west and entertaining a story-book escape story, I have come to honor the journey, the renewal, the glory of keeping in touch with dreams, with ideals, with passions. Though they change (thank God) and morph and mature, the ones that remain must be spoken to.
Is it self-defeating to write in this space as if it's a diary, a journal for a therapist to search over, revealing weakness and confusion? I should be confident in my answer - NO - and I am. I have no idea what this bus will become. This bus as a concept, is far greater than a road-side restaurant; yet, I'm ok with that, too. . .for now.
After visiting my oldest and dearest friend in Honduras this summer, we entertained the idea of having a bus service in Central America. Why not? The ideas go on and on. The reality is simple. The reality is complex. The reality can be relieving or hindering. The process is the real Savior.
Oh yeah, and holding true to that which you believe. Which begins with, Belief.
It's been a year since I've posted anything. Close friends can tell you the round-about journey I've taken, the road I've driven down, backed up, driven backwards, and parked on for a year, longer.
Skipping the details, the kids and I are living in New Jersey. I am managing (for the lack of a more intricate description) an art gallery/framing store. I'm having my first solo show this Friday after almost 2 years without showing any photographs anywhere. I'm nearly through a graduate degree in elementary education. . .a late-night decision I made a year ago because, well, I'm a single parent of three kids - teaching = aligned schedules with my kids and perhaps some viable income, especially up here in the northeast. But do I really want to teach? Did I ever dream of being a teacher? NO! A resounding NO! Sure, after college I thought it would be great to teach. . .college. . .not 3rd graders. And sure, I've home-schooled for a couple of years, but that was a totally lax approach, myself to answer to. But, nevertheless, here I am, with three kids in three different schools, working while they're in school, taking online courses, and, wait for it. . .driving the bus up to Jersey in April.
Yes, through a pyramid of rationalities, I will be flying into Asheville, North Carolina, to retrieve my long, long lost love and drive it to a farm around the corner from me, to re-paint, to complete, to usher the Idea long ago into a new phase, a New Testament.
As tempting as running away again is, and as much as I day-dream about taking my student loan and ditching it all for a long drive west and entertaining a story-book escape story, I have come to honor the journey, the renewal, the glory of keeping in touch with dreams, with ideals, with passions. Though they change (thank God) and morph and mature, the ones that remain must be spoken to.
Is it self-defeating to write in this space as if it's a diary, a journal for a therapist to search over, revealing weakness and confusion? I should be confident in my answer - NO - and I am. I have no idea what this bus will become. This bus as a concept, is far greater than a road-side restaurant; yet, I'm ok with that, too. . .for now.
After visiting my oldest and dearest friend in Honduras this summer, we entertained the idea of having a bus service in Central America. Why not? The ideas go on and on. The reality is simple. The reality is complex. The reality can be relieving or hindering. The process is the real Savior.
Oh yeah, and holding true to that which you believe. Which begins with, Belief.
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