Before I forget

A quick word on art, museums and the power thereof! Something recognizable, something unfamiliar; something that puts your soul at ease, something that gives you a jolt. What art and museums have to offer. A connection to the past, present, possible futures, and yourself.

If you happen to be in/coming to Scandinavia, visit Amos Rex in Helsinki for The Quiet Parade. I went round and round, walking through a dreamscape, an ashen landscape beyond time but anchored in our world. Ah, Helsinki. The city that said no to Guggenheim. I admire their chutzpah. (And they must be sooo glad they did, the Covid closures would have cost them an arm and a leg and who knows which additional appendages.) Two exhibitions to look forward to: Albert Edelfelt is coming home in April, and Tom of Finland will be parking in Kiasma for a six-month visit.

And let's not forget Fotografiska in Stockholm and Tallinn. (Yes, I know, Estonia is not geographically part of Scandinavia, but Tallinn, Helsinki and Stockholm are great friends and a ferry ride away from one another.) No matter which Fotografiska (more than those two, mind you), no matter the exhibition, you are never disappointed. Seriously, no need to know, just go.

What do museums have to do with love? If it puts your soul at ease and/or gives you a jolt, it must be good for you, an act of self-care. (Still oddly uncomfortable with that word.)

[The news, though! He could have been a white hat. He chose to be an asshat instead.]

Omnia vincit amor

 ...et nos cedamus amori. 

Love conquers all things, so we too shall yield to love.
― Virgil, Eclogues 10.69

For Caravaggio's painting, visit Berlin.

A midsummer night's dream

I dreamed I wrote a rather long and rambling essay on the economy, ecology and equality. Long because of the amounts of cause and effect and problems and solutions I managed to cram into that one piece, rambling because of the myriad associations, the links and bridges I managed to build. Full of pathos, I went from global warming to refugees to immigration, from nationalism to fascism to racism, from global trade to global warming and back to refugees again. My theory of everything.

Too bad I don't remember half of it but I do remember feeling a strange but strong sort of relief getting it all down in writing, as if I hadn't quite known what I thought on the subject before I wrote about it and had now laid down a burden, the anxiety that comes with the feeling you don't understand the world around you, the hows and whys, the implications, the consequences. In my dream I had managed to collect my thoughts, observations and opinions, arrange them in a well-structured manner and lay them out coherently and elegantly. (One can dream, right?)

He built this garden for us, they were called, my nocturnal notes, a slight but quite deliberate misquote of a Lenny Kravitz song, I presume, since I opened with a picture of our garden, a garden I gladly work on but one my husband has had a heavy hand in creating. So he doesn't bring me flowers every day. He built me a garden. I realized this is the longest I've stayed put, and not the least because of the garden that grows around me, a house that's like the tropics in the arctic, the peace and happiness I feel in both.

Who has the right to peace and happiness, or prosperity? On what terms? On whose terms? Who promised life would be easy, fair or happy, a man once asked when the question came up, a man who'd never suffered or struggled, who'd never been and never would be any type of minority, an outcast, disenfranchised, displaced, the underdog. No one had ever denied him, crossed him, belittled him, stomped on him or stood up to him. I understood his question. I just don't think he did. I don't think he gave a second thought to where his wealth came from, to whom or what he owed it to.

Taking a close, critical, honest look at most anything usually makes you focus on the flaws and the problems in something, then promptly sign up for a transcendental meditation class, learn mindfulness, go buy one of those adult coloring books, whatever takes your mind off the fact the world is a pretty fucked up place getting worse by the second, now that you really look at it and think about it, so better not look too closely, better concentrate on things closer to home such as you, yourself and, well, you, Jon Lajoie was right: Fuck Everything. Wait, what?

One of my university professors believed cultures evolved in cycles, all cultures following the same cycle but at a different pace. All clashes between nations, cultures, creeds and even individuals stemmed from our conflicting values and views, our place on the cycle, and our need to impose those values and views, our will, on others. I've seen such forces in action, determinism, relativism and entitlement at its worst. I've seen evidence to the contrary, kindness and compassion and selflessness at its best.

Maybe authors and artists can't change the world but they show us what it's like to live in it, what it feels like to be human, living under the same sun and moon but very different stars.

Love actually

I attended the best kind of wedding last weekend, one that looked exactly like the happy couple; it could not have been anyone else's ceremony. It was a large gathering of family and friends ages zero to eighty something, and not a stiff upper lip in the house, just a sweet day that had us sighing and crying and a fun night that saw us laughing and smiling.

I've known the groom for twenty years, watched him grow from where-shall-I go-what-shall-I-do to a seaman to the dashing sea captain he is today. (I kid you not, even the guys had to admit he looked awesome in that uniform.) I've known the bride for far less than that, but one thing is evident and makes me sooo happy for him: a fun-loving, life-loving, adventurous man has found someone who'll have no trouble keeping up with him. Alas, the last of the Mohicans has been tamed. Actually, his friends could not be happier that it is so.

It was good seeing people I don't see too often in person. As much as I appreciate modern technology (and a decent waterproof mascara) and all the ways in which I can keep up with friends all over the world (I wish I'd had that in my early youth) it will never ever be the same as hugging someone, sitting down for a chat, shimmying the night away on the dance floor, looking them in the eye and telling them I have truly missed you, kissing someone and wishing them every happiness.

All in all, it was a very life-affirming weekend, and the world being what it is, life being what it is, there are never enough of those. Then again, why should happiness be the anomaly and the rest the norm? Why is happiness so often followed by some measure of guilt, or fear? Survivor guilt, fear of loss. Because nothing lasts forever? What if you chose happiness, love, life, light? Because nothing lasts forever. Could you take it?

I saw the Carl Larsson exhibition at the Finnish National Gallery, a broad selection of definitive works and rare gems alike. I'd seen his art in books and posters and postcards, more often than not depictions of hearth and home, days in the sun, children at play, the great outdoors, flowers, self-portraits, his chin held high, a mischievous grin on his lips, light light light. What I didn't know was how much of a muse, how tremendous an enabler, how deeply loved and how talented in her own right his wife Karin was. I knew nothing about his humble beginnings or the defeats he encountered late in life and in his career. I hadn't seen the book illustrations he'd done, dark, detailed, morose even, so unlike anything he painted in his dear Sundborn, the images the mind's eye sees when you hear the name Carl Larsson.

I had no idea all that light came from a very dark place, a place his friend August Strindberg accused Larsson of turning his back on so he could paint travesties of life and living, an accusation that led to a falling out and left Larsson hurting. Because the man knew his shadows. They followed him all his life. They're all over his art, small details you catch on your tenth or twentieth viewing; when did that get there? But he made a conscious decision to stand with his face to the sun. The shadow still stood there. Of course he knew that, but turning his back on all that light would have left him with nothing but that shadow and that's where he would have disappeared, engulfed by things that were just as much a part of him as everything the sun had touched.

Why is it more honest, more true to life, more genuine to stand in the dark? Why is it naive, false, desperate, hopeless, to opt for the light? Because there are apt to be disappointments? Well, duh. I submit to you that it is much easier to give in to depressed thoughts, expect failure and fail yourself than to keep up hope, press on, and save yourself. So don't tell me to take off the rose-colored glasses. You first with the crap goggles.

Breathed upon

"A little less conversation, a little more action, please. All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me."

Where have I been? Each and every one of the two of you must have been beside yourselves with worry, n'est-ce pas? Tsk. Lemme tell ya. 

Playing the waiting game, always the hardest part. 

Acting the part, i.e. doing what writers are supposed to do, i.e. writing. 

Looking the part, studying and practicing the excruciating art of plotting (excruciating for me, not for you probably, you're smart, aren't you sweetie darlings, not creatures of instinct and intuition like...some people I know. They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but they, whoever the hell they are, say a lot of other stupid things this bitch has never bought so wuff, dawgs, just see if I don't).

Bushwhacking.

Daydreaming.

Feeding the soul. On the menu: photography, art, illustration, fiction and non-fiction, the music of Gotye and Mirel Wagner.

Enjoying the spring light, a natural high. So energizing it just makes me want to throw my arms around the world. And, the world being what it is, that is nothing short of amazing, but spring light will do that to you. Ooh, I feel another song coming my way. "I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. If you're inclined to disagree, sod off and leave me be."

That's my last two weeks in a nutty shell. Believe you me, revamping thoughts and ideas, purging the soul and inviting inspiration works wonders for creativity and productivity. At least it works for me. The tree may look barren after a long harsh winter, but the sprouts look lush and promising.

Photo credit

Surviving Picasso

I took a trip to Helsinki to see a man about a painting. And some sculptures, portraits, photographs, lithographs, sketches, still lifes... If you're anywhere in the vicinity, say a ferry away, get thee to the Finnish National Gallery. No, sorry, they're not coming to Oslo or Copenhagen or anywhere else in Scandinavia for that matter, and once the National Picasso Museum in Paris reopens, these babies aren't budging.

This is Picasso's own collection ranging from the late 1900's to the 1970's. You may not care for fine art. You may not like Picasso. You may say "My three-year-old can do better." Personal opinions aside, I linked my exhibition experience to my own craft and beyond and came up with

10 writing lessons by Picasso

1.) It's never too late to get the career you want or to do whatever it is you're postponing until the kids move out, you finally do switch jobs, go back to school, divorce, marry, the wind changes and humidity is optimal. In his sixties, Picasso was only getting started.

2.) Passion. Picasso had a passion for art. It meant closing the door behind him and tuning out everyone and everything else. The idea of moving to some remote location to become a recluse be it ingenious hermit may not appeal to you. But could you carve space for what you are most passionate about? Sure you can, and no, it's not selfish or self-indulgent. If it's important to you, make it known and take the time. Don't wait for permission or validation. 

3.) There's no substitute for hard work. Picasso was always working, as many writers will attest they are. His work was an integral part of him. He breathed it, lived it, could not be separated from it. Most of us do need a break from whatever it is we consider or hope one day to be a livelihood just to be able to spend time with friends and family, but if your mind wanders, don't take out the ash and start sprinkling, you may have found your calling and hear its call.

4.) Inspiration. Picasso didn't sit around waiting for the muses to move him. His body of work consists of some 50,000 pieces. Ideas are everywhere. You only need one to get going.

5.) Influences. He was influenced by everything from a cobweb to his contemporaries. He stole from many, but he didn't do what they had done, he turned it into something all his own. Know your peers and predecessors, but avoid comparison.

6.) Free your mind. Picasso experimented, played with and tried out everything. He didn't limit himself and he defied being pigeon-holed. Maybe he was that multitalented because he kept in touch with the curiosity and open-mindedness of a child. You don't grow old, he believed, you ripen.

7.) Reinvention.  Picasso reinvented himself many times over. He'd take a technique apart, study it thoroughly, and then move on to something else, not because he was exhausted with it but because he had exhausted it. He carried what he'd learned with him, all the richer for it. If you feel stuck and ready to stuff it, it doesn't mean there's nowhere to go, it only means you've stopped looking.

8.) Integrity. Picasso was fearless in his art and his opinions, in expressing them and himself. He got in trouble for it, but he kept true to himself and his vision. Some parts of yourself you never sell. Only you know what those are. 

9.) The masters and critics of his time didn't care much for his art. Most simply didn't understand him. Picasso didn't care if they cared, or understood. He thought they were trying too hard, searching for meaning in the wrong places, not seeing beyond the lies art tells to tell the truth. The only question should have been: "Do I enjoy what I'm seeing?"

10.)  "Everything you can imagine is real." Joy and pain, bulls and bullfighting, war and peace, women, the Minotaur. These are some of the themes Picasso kept revisiting. Hundreds of variations could spring from any single theme. If there was only one truth, one answer to every question out there, we would have no use for art or stories. But art, or writing, isn't a science. People are complex, motivations vary. The arts deal in possibilities, in the "Why not?" and the "What if?". In that universe, there's plenty of room to move no matter what your story, theme, genre or technique happens to be. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

Thank you for the music

...the hypnotizing and the haunting, the cheesy and queasy, the infinitely memorable and the imminently forgettable (the latter amplifies the effect of the former, the former puts the latter to shame). Then again, taste is a subjective issue; my favorite band sucks, now so does yours.

Say what you want, think what you will, they're the best thing to hit a note (or graze it) while striking a chord within us since that first rhyme you ever beat into the ground and your family over the head with. You may have trouble remembering those all-important memos and messages, the birthdays of the near and dear, the text you'll be tested on tomorrow (and you've gone through that damned thing 27 times over the past 72 hours), but how many 80's (or, fill the blank) songs do you know by heart? Start counting... Uncanny, isn't it? Scary, actually. And only human.

Songs that make you happy to remember, tunes that make you wish you could forget. To dance, to play, to sing, even if only by yourself; think of it as a gift. It is a gift. Everyone on the planet does it different from you. Someone may even do it better than you (yeah, we really love to hate them). But no one in the universe does it exactly like you.

Thank you for the movies; the ones I watched only once and will never be able to watch again because I cried over whose brilliant script was tossed to make this mockery, or because they were so dead-on, true to life, painful and poignant I bawl my eyes out merely thinking about how they made me feel. And they made me Feel. Those I will carry with me always, like little jewels I found. You might look at those pebbles and shrug them off as fool's gold.

Thank you for the books; the disturbing and the inspiring, the uplifting and the mind boggling. So many beautiful languages and voices, some centuries old and indestructible, some young and formative and fragile. False friends, old friends, true blue friends. You wish you would have written them. You only wish no one would have come up with some of them. Where's a language policeman when you need one? But those that flow...they make your spirit sing.

Nature is perfunctory and evolution the ultimate in waste management. They are the final word and judgment on art: we need those chords, those images and words. They nourish us and console us. They bring us together just when we start to think it would be easier to let it all fall apart. They shake us up when we start to believe that maybe we won't get hurt if we sit tight and play dead.

They reach out and transcend all barriers. They remind us that we are not alone, that there is life out there. And that there is life and fight and laughter in us yet.