Epiphany...

... is one of my favorite words, and which the dictionary explains as "a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience." I had one yesterday evening, but it was too late to put it in writing. It's about writing too.

For you who read this blog it's quite obvious I like to write, something I even need to do. This isn't something new, way back when I was a kid it was my absolute favorite subject. I didn't have much problem with any subjects really, but as soon as our teacher handed out blank papers I was thrilled. And gone. While I was writing I was in another world, a world where everything was possible. For some reason though that stopped, sometimes during my teenage years. For some reason? In fact I remember a very specific episode that changed the way I felt about writing, and it happened at such a vulnerable period as well. I was 17.

I can't remember what the topic was, but I do remember the feeling I tried to create. It was a story set in a different time, maybe the 19th century? If the story was any good is not the point, but that uninspired teacher I had criticized me for something I knew wasn't wrong. A syntax "error". In a way she was right, the most common way to write that sentence was her way, but in order to set that scenery right I felt my way was better. The problem was she wouldn't think of the possibility that we both could be right. Anyway, a small thing like that shouldn't be significant for me writing or not, but I think it contributed to make me aware of the fact that writing can be criticized at all. I wasn't prepared for that. Suddenly I was conscious about being understood; if she didn't "get" my meaning maybe no one would? Of course there are many other reasons as well for not writing any longer, but I think something changed there.

It's hard to recollect what you actually thought at some point in your life, after 20 or so years you can't be sure if that thought really occurred or if you just construct it afterwards to make fit into your explanations. I mean, I couldn't swear I thought that much about writing when I was younger. Sometimes I feel I didn't have any dreams at all of my future life, like I never had a plan. But if I once did think I'd like to be writer, I soon rejected that idea as impossible. Maybe I was caught up in that 150 year old romantic idea that the Artist's inspiration is divine and nothing that could be taught. Either you got or you don't, and if you do got it you simply live it out. Me not doing anything out of my creative skills was for me a proof it wasn't meant to be.

My perspective is a little different now, and I have over the last years been thinking a lot about "the Creative Artist" in general, how he works, why, when , if, and so on. I'm lucky enough to know a few specimen in person so I can study them closely. And they are as different, as people in general are. And they all have very different stories of how they came to their profession. One I know, has always known, there was simply no other option for her but the Academy of Arts, and she's been doing her thing for all her life. Nothing else, and no buts. Another walked various paths first, tried to fit in to the expectations, and he also holds a university degree in something very different. But to me I think that actually is what makes this artist so brilliant, his experience and knowledge from other areas clearly has an imprint on his art now.

I don't know if you noticed, but so far I haven't told you anything about my epiphany. Sorry. I'm so tedious I even exhaust myself! Let's go.

It's about imagination. And that's something a writer needs. I don't know if you have the same feeling I do about that word, but for me has so far been closely connected to fantasy - things that don't happen. Until now I haven't thought I could write anything without some sort of personal experience. But something a friend said to me yesterday on the phone changed that. The day before I had given her a piece of advice, a sudden thought that struck my mind regarding something she's involved with at the moment. Well, on the phone yesterday she said she was so glad for those words, it had really helped seeing herself. And I guess that's imagination. Seeing something that's possible in any world, something that could happen, even if it won't apply to me right then. I have until now been very conscious about everything being true when I write, but I think everything you can imagine is true. On an universal level.

Little Princess

I have a friend who treats me like a princess, and last night I went for a sleepover there. We had a double feature watching two nice movies about life, death and everything in between. And beyond. A few glasses of red wine was also consumed, along with some chocolate. It was a very nice evening indeed, and after a good night's sleep I even got breakfast in bed! Sunday was lazy; we had leftovers for hot lunch and later I got a blanket pulled over me and I fell asleep on the sofa. And I must have been an inspiration of some sort, just look here:





Thank you, my dear Hannah! You really are a good friend, and I'm glad whenever I can help you.

Body Control

This is a work of my talented daughter, modeled in clay.

Posted from my Sony Ericsson

Rooster

An old farmer decided it was time to get a new rooster for his hens. The current rooster was still doing an okay job, but he was getting on in years. And the farmer figured getting a new rooster couldn't hurt anything. So he buys a young cock from the local rooster emporium, and turns him loose in the barnyard.

Well, the old rooster sees the young one strutting around and he gets a little worried. 'So, they're trying to replace me, thinks the old rooster. I've got to do something about this.' He walks up to the new bird and says, "So you're the new stud in town? I bet you really think you're hot stuff, don't you? Well, I'm not ready for the chopping block yet. I'll bet I'm still the better bird. And to prove it, I challenge you to a race around that hen house over there. We'll run around it ten times and whoever finish's first gets to have all the hens for himself."

Well, the young rooster was a proud sort, and he definitely thought he was more than a match for the old guy. "You're on," said the young rooster. "And since I know I'm so great, I'll even give you a head start of half a lap. I'll still win easy," said the young rooster.

So the two roosters go over to the hen house to start the race with all the hens gathering around to watch. The race begins and all the hens start cheering the roosters on. After the first lap, the old rooster is still maintaining his lead. After the second lap, the old guy's lead has slipped a little but he's still hanging in there. Unfortunately the old rooster's lead continues to slip each time around, and by the fifth lap he's just barely in front of the young rooster.

By now the farmer has heard all the commotion. He runs into the house, gets his shotgun, and runs out to the barnyard figuring a fox or something is after his chickens. When he gets there, he sees the two roosters running around the hen house, with the old rooster still slightly in the lead. He immediately takes his shotgun, aims, fires, and blows the young rooster away.

As he walks away slowly, he says to himself . . . "Damn, that's the third gay rooster I've bought this month."

(Image from The American Rag)

In Space No One Can Hear You Scream

In 1979 I was 13, and not the least bit interested in horror movies. But I was interested in a boy, and when he suggested we'd go see Alien I "happily" followed along. I didn't see much of the movie though; after that first jump in the chair when the "egg" cracked and that crablike creature threw itself at Kane's face, I pretty much buried my head in my boyfriends sweater. Tried a few glimpses now and then, but when that slimy eel-creature chewed his way through Kane's stomach from within, I don't think I saw one bit more. Have a very vague memory of the actual full grown alien, black and shiny, with its hideous extending mouth, but that's it. From back then though. As you might understand I have watched the movie more closely later. I still can't say I like horror movies, but I can appreciate the art behind a film like Alien.

Ridley Scott is a very thorough director and producer, and maybe that's why movies like Blade runner, Thelma & Louise and Gladiator, besides Alien, have so many fans. And in this thoroughness he obviously employs highly qualified professionals at all levels, such as the Swiss artist H. R. Giger for creating the monster.

But how can this almost 30 year old Hollywood movie have anything to do with my temporary trainee position at the Institute of Marine Research where I am now? A lot actually. Browsing through last month's news articles I came across this one. The very source of inspiration for that terrifying Xenomorph. Maybe not so scary though, only 30 mm long...

Handy Work

My brother is constantly providing me with more or less amusing stuff. A lot of it is rather raunchy, and not suitable for public view, but this one is absolutely beautiful.

Disclosure

If things go well, I'll reveal "the secret" on Friday...

Nothing To Do?

Maybe you'll get some ideas from this slideshow.

Convergence

I think it's about time to promote one of my favorite sites again, Blatte's Fractals. And why? Because it makes me happy, art and science in perfect harmony. This it's not a discussion about a definition of art, I could do that too if you want me to, but not now. It's a simple declaration of love for the poetry in science.

This One Isn't Red...

...but it will hopefully capture that colour correctly. My new toy. Don't you just love it when work is fun?

The Green Monster

This one's only because I promised you, Toril. And besides, I seem to have lost my inspiration today, so why not write about this dream I had? Lately I have been dreaming a lot, and very strange things too, but I think this one excels.

In the dream I moved back and forth into two different parts, seemingly without connection. Right now, and especially since I'm not attempting any interpretation of the dream, I'll only tell you about the freaky part.

"I was somewhere. I say somewhere because I can't recall anything about where or when or how. But in this somewhere there was a cactus in a pot, about half a meter tall, light green with two stems, and it had a lot of small sharp spines. It could have been a Saguaro. I looked at the base of the cactus and was suddenly terrified. There was a part of the cactus sticking out and it was shaped like a foot! It didn't just resemble a foot, but it was exactly like a foot. Except it was a part of the cactus, green with spines and everything. I think I then moved into the other part of the dream, and when I "got back" again the cactus had produced an arm too! In this manner the dream continued for a while, back and forth, each time with a new part developed on the cactus. In the end the whole thing detached from the cactus, and I held in my arms a baby! Now the baby looked normal, not like a cactus anymore, but I knew otherwise. It had this creepy Chucky feeling to it. Evil, sinister, only waiting to do something bad. What precisely, I couldn't imagine, I only knew I had to play along not to annoy it. I prattled and babbled, taking good care not to do anything to evoke the devil inside. I put on a diaper and some cloth. Guessed what I dressed him in? A little brown monks robe, with hood and all; had this feeling that it might "tame" the viciousness. Before anything really bad happened the alarm went off, I woke up and was rescued from this beast in disguise."

Interpretation? No thanks, not today.

But take a look at the picture here, I found it when I Googled for images on "cactus". It came up as one of the first hits, and it immediately caught my attention for obvious reasons. I clicked on it, and was almost as spooked as in the dream, when I found out who the painter was. Odilon Redon, whom I basically know very little about, but it is the second time I unknowingly choose one of his works to accompany a blogpost. And these two are very different as well.

If nothing else, I know now that so many significant moments in my life have a deep connection with art. In some way or the other. Or is it that art is connected to everything anyway? In some way or the other?

Diversion

Last night I finished, if not exactly to my satisfaction, my latest project, and it will hopefully work sufficiently until I have more time to look at it. Last year during the webdesign-course here at the university I made a website for a friend of mine. As gallery owners and alikes constantly asks for his webadress, we thought it was about time to get his own domain. Fancy indeed, and I feel a strong pressure to fulfill the expactations. As long as this was sort of a studentproject, I could hide beneath that, but from now on there's just me. A disclaimer maybe, on the site itself?

Now I have to dash, got business to do at the policestation. I didn't loose my license, and accordingly to their records I don't even have one. I do, but it's Swedish, and it has worked perfectly fine for all these years. Better go down and show it to them...

And maybe a quick coffe, Toril, while I'm downtown?

It Runs In The Family

Although some things ran through me. But here's what my talanted daughter is doing in her spare time:



She's got her own place at the Science Fiction and Fantasy Art site Elfwood

Retreat

A woman with sore feet is no joke, and now I'm taking the train home to mom. These are the words I sent to my brother when I decided I was too tired to do anything with him later in the afternoon. Once again I had let vanity defeat practicality and wore high heals for my day in town. Stupid? You could say that.

Before I got tired I had lunch with my brother at the largest indoor market we have here in Gothenburg, and that was very nice and also very suitable for a students wallet. Not only because he was buying, even the poorest could afford a meal there. 30-40 SEK (4-5 USD) for a bowl of your favourite soup, including bread roll and refill! We then had a great dobbel lungo at one of the innumerous coffeeplaces around and after that my brother returned to work. Rejuvinated with caffeine I went on my own to Lerverk, a ceramics cooperative, and did a little promoting. That could turn out to be interesting.

And then I did all this walking. Up and down, from bookstore to bookstore, and the rain kept pouring. (I got one book though, Russels Turkey. It's not yet translated into English, but it might very well be, I have a feeling this is a good one. Poirier is a philosopher who here writes about science as a phenomenon constructed by humans, sometimes driven by single geniuses and at other times by broad researchprograms. As it says on the back of the cover "Russels Turkey becomes a intellectual toolbox, for use at keeping science, religion, culture and individual peoples ideas apart - as far as this is possible.")

In the end all I wanted was a hug, it's kind of miserable to be alone when I want to share this beautiful town with someone I care for. Oops, enough. So I took the the train home...

Dreamy Painting

Déjà vu? No, not really. I did blog this image only a few days ago, but that time I just wanted to accompany the post with a nice and suitable picture. This time it's about the picture.

My youngest daughter came home today, after having spent the weekend with her father. The computer was on, with my blog on top, and the 13-year old sat down and read some. She said:

"Mum, this is really weird. I dreamt about this painting tonight, and I know I haven't seen it before. In my dream I was standing somewhere with a lot of people hurrying by, and silently watched the painting. What's even more odd is that I felt something was missing, 'cause these two weren't there!"

She pointed at the Philosopher and the Woman.

Another Late Night Posting

It's late,and I don't have that much to say really, but I do have a funny picture that I got via e-mail. Thanks!

I guess it could mean that it's never too late to stop the ones that are trying to swollow you.

Crackin' Up

I noticed the crack in my coffeecup a little while ago. A very fine line only noticeble from the inside. This cup was already my favourite, a quite rough colorful outside surface, contrasted with a shiny white inside glaze. The shape was perfectly rounded and the handle comfortable to hold.

At first I really wouldn't belive it, I always tried to be so careful when handling the cup, always made sure it was on top after washing up. I held the cup and cautiously tapped it with my finger, and the dull sound told me the truth; this cup would eventually split into pieces and it was nothing I could do about it.

After this I've treasured the cup even more, it's still my favourite despite its flaw, and I try the best I can to prolong its life. It's kind of sad really, there's no hope for this cup, but I cling to it desperately. Each coffee I pour into the cup makes the crack more visible, darker for every day. The question I keep asking myself is: did I do something wrong? Perhaps not, I'm also told that sometimes the reason for this kind of defect can be traced much further back. There might have been a tension already from beginning, within the cup itself, that made it crack. We'll never know.



This picture is "stolen" from Shiro Otani

Grey Sky

The picture in last post was pretty ugly, I'm sure you agree. I won't brag and say this one is pretty, but it looks a little better than the previous at least. So here goes, another PhotoShop experiment:

Concentration

"In the fourteenth century Pope Benedictus XII was selecting artists to work for the Vatican, requesting from each applicant a sample of his ability. Although the Florentines painter Giotto (1266-1337) was known as a master of design and composition, he submitted only a circle drawn freehand, the famous "0 of Giotto." Yet he was awarded the commission. Why? What's so impressive about a simple circle?"
[...]
"Our deepest awareness, the power that motivates all awareness, which we can call the "Power to Be Conscious," of which we are not ordinarily cognizant, recognizes its own transcendental nature in the geometry of the circle. For this reason the circle has been a universal symbol of an ideal perfection and divine state that always exists around and within us whether we acknowledge it or not. Religious art has traditionally turned to the circle to symbolize this state of divinity as "heaven," "paradise," "eternity," and"enlightenment."

Giotto's perfectly drawn circle communicated this universal ideal."

(Excerpt from chapter one in Michael S. Schneiders book A Beginner's Guide to Constructing the Universe - The Mathematical Archetypes of Nature, Art and Science)


It's a more or less wellknown fact that it's very hard to draw a perfect circle freehand, but just the other day it occured to me that I really hadn't tried. Not really I mean. I think sometimes you just accept certain thing as prevailing facts, without trying to prove them otherwise.

It started with a line, that's quite hard too. Everytime I sit at a lecture I write a heading or some suitable description on top of the paper, and then I try to underline it. And everytime it strikes me how ridiculously imperfect it is, wobbly and unruly. Until the day I realized it could have something to do with the actual approach. I guess I previously only delegated the job to the hand, and if the hand couldn't do it, it meant I couldn't either. The new approach would be to keep thinking, keep concentrating, never disconnect the brain from the drawingprocess, and 'Voilà!' - there it was! An almost perfect line.

But why stop at lines? Why couldn't I try a circle now? I did, and that worked too. The circle was of course not as perfect as the great masters Da Vinci and Raphael could do, but at least I managed to get the ends to meet quite nicely. It didn't look like a cracked egg anymore, so to speak.

Is there a point or moral to this story as well? Maybe a few even. Investigate. Don't settle for others truths. You could do anything if you set your mind to it. If you're delegating jobs - make sure they have the brains for it. And most important, please concentrate!

The Art Of Acting

Late nights seem to work wonders for philosophical elaborations. Earlier this evening I got a phonecall from a friend of mine, and we talked about exes, friends and human behaviour in general. The issue here isn't who we discussed, but in some context I said something like "You see, he really isn't all that bad, he just doesn't know how to act. He did in fact use to tell me that his problem was that he thought and felt too much, and to protect himself he chose not to show any emotions at all." Just as I uttered these words it dawned on me that we should never be making excuses for people who don't do the right thing, and get away with it just because they're "good, deep down inside"! Let's put it this way: In my mind I can actually see paintings that haven't been painted yet, and I know that they would be really good if they only were. But they're not, and I certainly don't expect to get credit for a picture in my mind, even less call my self an artist. First I have to bring it to life in oil on canvas. And the music I hear isn't worth a thing to others if it's only in my head, even though the sax and the piano are playing in perfect disharmony. And as not all of us are true artists, not all people have the gift of acting accordingly to their intensions, and therefore shouldn't get acknowledged as an "acting artist" either.