Creative Sanctuary

Explore

Our Imperative

By Allison

During my last visit to Paris, I spied a few of these messages of love, all sprayed by the same hand.  They delighted me.  Moving about Paris can be stressful, especially given the security measures of recent years—more soldiers, more police vehicles, more security checks.  In short, more fear.

The unexpected love signs were an antidote to the tensions.  They brought a pause, a smile, and a reminder of loving kindness.  This week, in the wake of mind-numbing violence in my own country, people are grasping for words.  I have not pieced together my own thoughts, and I don’t know that I will.  Yet the Paris love graffiti wells up in me.  Its clear, direct message resonates.  Love is an imperative.  Love is our duty, our privilege, and our pleasure.  And this week, it is our balm.

Embroidery

By Allison

Flea markets are therapeutic.  My eyes do the initial sifting as I make my way down the aisles and through the booths.  When I am drawn to an object—a hand-painted tray, a copper planter, a Limoges teacup—I approach for a closer look.  Where was it made?  What is its story?  Can I make space for this object in my little house?

The visual and tactile experience of an overflowing flea market allows me to move beyond my internal, distracting chatter.  Yesterday, in the company of a friend, this dainty needlepoint purse found me.  The handwork is intricate—much care and concentration went into this old-fashioned piece.  I wonder who made it and who carried it…

Embroidery has long been a form of feminine expression.  My self-taught needlework is precise but sporadic.  Usually, I choose to embroider through language.  Both written and spoken, words form my stitches.  Clean, fumbling, or elegant they lend texture to my creative work.  Pauses are perhaps more important than words.  Spaces of silence, they allow my chains of words to function as thoughts.  At the flea market, I sometimes find myself existing in the spaces between the stitches of everyday life.  The precious pause leads me to small treasures, sharpens my curiosity about their pasts, and inspires me to imagine new places and purposes for them.

Slow Looking

By Allison

The painting unfolded before me and in me.

I’d spent years looking at art, then promptly filing away the images.  Wandering through museums, I encountered works by Rothko, Brancusi, and Degas.  Often, they moved me.  Yet I never lingered.  There was so much art to take in, so I “stacked” the images in my mind, sometimes retrieving them in conversation, in my studies, or in subsequent museum visits.  Mary Cassatt’s portraits of children sprung up in tender moments; Malevich’s White on White stumped my students; I sought and found Camille Claudel’s love story in her sculptures at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C.

Yet somehow, I never allowed myself to sit with these works.  After so much study and so many museum visits, I found myself in the National Galleries of Scotland in front of Van Gogh’s The Plains near Auvers.  For once, I wasn’t prone to move efficiently through a museum.  Rather, that dreary afternoon I planted myself in front of the piece that beckoned.  Van Gogh’s green and gold fields seemed to move on the canvas.  The grasses in the foreground swayed from side to side, and successive fields opened back toward the horizon, one after the other.  I sensed that I was in the painting and that the painting was in me.  My altered perception of space left me feeling a bit wobbly, but I remained “inside” the image, allowing my mind to move farther into the fields. By engaging in “slow looking”, I connected to an artist and his chosen landscape in a startling, deep way.

The Plains near Auvers still moves about in me.  Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I inhale and summon the haphazard rectangles, the swirly sky, and the dabbed red flowers.  Other times, the painting wells up, catching me off guard.  I am glad to have my tall, orderly stores of images, gathered over years of museum time.  They are my foundation and springboard.  Now I know to be still with them, attuning myself to their quiet language of color, line, and shape.

 

Inspirations

Inspiring Impressionism:  Daubigny, Monet, Van Gogh, National Galleries of Scotland

The Art of Slowing Down in a Museum, New York Times

Slow Art Day

 

Cicada Song

By Allison

Then each one of us, […] will move back out on the pitch-black porch and let the body heat of the day leech from the house and our own bodies out onto the night, its billion singers—tree frogs, cicadas, the deathless crickets, the high whine of bats–” Renyolds Price, Outdoor on the Porch

This bean has recently fallen under the spell of cicada music.  As the day’s last light falls, she wanders from Grandma’s porch into the front yard to explore the emerging sights and sounds of twilight…  she seems most intrigued by cicadas, which the Bean Girl sometimes refers to as bicadies.

She hears their song—verging on deafening—but she doesn’t see them.  Perplexed, she returns to the porch, peppering Uncle Jack and Aunt Allison with questions.  What are cicadas/bicadies? Where are they? Why do they make that noise?

We dig deep to share what we remember about the insect.  In the winter, they live underground.  After many years, they are ready to come up and spend time in the trees.  Cicadas have wings.  When Uncle Jack gets technical, Bean Girl makes her way back to the yard, swatting at oak and hickory trees with sticks.  She hopes to lay her eyes on a cicada.

Her precocious exploration sparks my own inquiry.  What do cicadas teach us?  I recall that they are a beloved symbol of Provence.  They spend years underground before seeking the sunlight.  19th century poet Frédéric Mistral even granted cicadas their own motto:  the sunlight makes me sing.

That light is slipping through our fingers.  The evening air is heavy, but we feel autumn coolness pushing up against these last days of summer.  As Bean Girl searches the yard, we settle deeper into our spots on the porch and sip the last of the rosé, engulfed in cicada song.

 

Inspirations

Out on The Porch

The Song of the Cicada

 

Le bon thé de Sahar

By Allison

Cardamom TeaMy friend Sahar is a cardamom tea connoisseur.  Milky and minty with a bold cardamom profile, her morning sips are robust and comforting.

On a recent visit to her home in Sydney, I studied her technique through my bleary morning fog. Her cardamom teabags are an easy reach from the electric kettle.  As the water comes to a boil, she places one or two teabags in her favorite mug.  She pulls fresh mint and milk from the refrigerator.  She places a small container of cardamom pods on the counter.

When the water reaches a rolling boil, Sahar pours it into her mug, leaving room for milk.  She brews a strong cardamom tea, sometimes boosting the flavor by dropping a cardamom pod in the mug.  She pinches three or four mint leaves from a branch and slips them into the mug.  The tea steeps for several minutes. Before drinking, she adds a splash of milk.

I was thrilled by her cardamom tea ritual, and she sent me home with cardamom teabags and loose tea.  Sahar shared Wagh Bakri, Ahmad, and Premier’s Cardamom Tea.  I have enjoyed preparing all of these teas à la Sahar.  When I make “her” cardamom tea, my mind drifts back to her warm welcome and gentle spirit.

I have made a small adjustment to Sahar’s morning cardamom tea, adding about ½ teaspoon honey to each serving.  Sometimes I zap the milk in the microwave for 15 seconds before adding it to the tea.  I have also used her method to prepare Masala Chai, a symphony of black tea ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, black and white pepper, clove, and nutmeg.  I find the fresh mint to be a lovely addition.  This fall, I plan to work up a caffeine-free Sahar tea with this Chai Rooibos Caffeine-Free Infusion.

…

Read More

Between, Within, Beneath

By Allison

<img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-768" src="https://www.creativesanctuary.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/collioure-succulents-water-300x300.jpg" alt="Collioure Succulents Water" width="300" height="300" />Life is lush in this Mediterranean village.  Located in the south of France mere miles from Spain, Catalan culture pervades Collioure.  Tapas, espadrilles, sunshiny wine…  People glide between French, Spanish, and Catalan.  Vivacious and expressive, they draw me in.

I initially came to Collioure to spend a few days on the water.  I discovered the light that moved Matisse, making way for Fauvism.  I ate fresh, briny anchovies.  I watched the sun rise over the medieval lighthouse-church sitting at the edge of the water.  This bright village of 3,000 gave me both solitude and company.  I made friends at every turn—at the hotel reception, walking along the jagged inlets, sipping Banyuls wine at a waterside café.

I also experienced the grace of stillness.  In “Song of the Reed,” mystic poet Rumi counsels,

Stay where you are
inside such a pure, hollow note 

I practiced inhabiting that hollowness.  Allowing my mind to settle beneath the buzz of the village, I connected to the minute elements of its landscape.  From that still, internal space, my attention moved to the generous succulents that dot the village, to the smooth, flat stones that make up the beach, and to the laundry artfully hung outside the windows of pink, yellow, and blue homes.  Inside my hollow note, the surrounding hills and massive château lost their grandeur.  The vividness of Collioure made its way to me through the secrets hidden within the notes of overlapping voices and juxtaposed colors.

 

Inspiration

Rumi’s “Song of the Reed”