Writing From Art to Art
Last week my daughter, Grace, and I stopped by the local art museum to view a temporary watercolor exhibit. We entered the appropriate gallery just as a petite woman stepped into it from a back room. Recognition kindled genuine smiles on all three of our faces.
Bonnie Spangler Strauss. Is that an amazing name, or what? It suits her so well, you'd almost think a novelist dreamed her up and bestowed it upon her like a benediction. Dignified elegance just barely subdues the laughter dancing in her brown eyes. Soft sophistication speaks in a voice that is one part Eleanor Roosevelt and two parts Ella Fitzgerald. Velvet sand.
Bonnie walked us through the exhibit, introducing us to the artists, but mostly asking our impressions--absorbing them with a hungry expression of sincere interest and cherished fellowship--the company of artists loving art.
The museum officially closed, but she seemed in no hurry to usher us out. In fact, before we left, she'd introduced us to the museum director and recruited us to attend a writing workshop led by poet and storyteller, Anne McCrady, and built around the watercolor exhibit we'd just seen. Writing from Art to Art. We loved the concept and eagerly accepted.
Which brings me to yesterday morning. Grace and I returned to the museum and joined a small group (mostly secondary-level, fine arts teachers) assembled at tables in a back room. Anne introduced herself, read a few poems "written to" paintings, and then explained the process she wanted us to use. Observe only facts first, then make inferences based on those facts, and then interpret the visual art by filtering it through your own unique schema into words. She emphasized the value of using imagery--simile and metaphor--to replace abstract concepts. Familiar air. I longed to fill my lungs with it and plunge in.
We moved into the gallery and each selected a painting, taking notes based on the process described above. I chose a piece titled, Peaches, depicting a market scene with rows of colorful produce, hanging scales, hand-lettered signs--a feast of texture, smell, sound, and visual stimulation. Behind the produce display stood a lone, dark-skinned man--neither old nor young--black cap and downcast gaze casting him as a shadow in the midst of blazing bounty.
After a while Anne instructed us to take our notes back to the tables and compose a poem. She gave us only about fifteen minutes, and I'd jotted so many impressions for potential use. I wanted to play with them until they made music. Themes. Images. "Produce" as a noun and a verb. Ripeness. Age. Color and vision. Darkness and blindness. Scales and judgment. Meanwhile, Anne kept interjecting comments to encourage us. Several times I wanted to ask her for quiet--I don't think creatively when distracted by a voice cheering me on to think creatively--but I just tried to block her out and write. This is what I got:
Forgotten by Saint Jude
As a child he dreamed in color--
Fragrant, juicy visions
Ripening in the sun of youthful
Faith. "Be fruitful and multiply."
With every peach he sold
A piece of his peace
Wrapped in paper sacks,
Stacked in scales
Weighed, judged, meted out . . .
Eyes once lit, now--
Like blackened bottomless pits--
Swallow colors long forgotten.
So much more I wanted to do with that. But then again, poetry is about distilling down to the essence, no? Leaving a lot unsaid. I knew it wasn't great, but Anne asked for volunteers to read, so I read. "Bravo," she said. Bonnie whispered in my ear, "May I have a copy of that for the artist?"
Don't you just love artists who love artists?
We selected a second painting and wrote a short story. Mine was heart-wrenchingly tragic. :)
Afterward, the museum provided lunch in one of the main galleries. We sat around tables set with sparkling silver and shimmery white china. Surrounded by master works, we dined on a tongue-teasing, hint-o-citrus shrimp dish, tossed green salad, french bread with butter, and iced tea with a sprig of mint. Bonnie sat at our table, and we chatted about books and imagination. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought it was my birthday.
The conversation and setting alone would have sufficed as a perfect dessert, but the museum director had baked chocolate-pecan pie. She served the decadent wedges flanked by a dollop of whisper-light whipped cream. A ripe, red raspberry with bright green leaves crowned each tiny snow-mountain. Even lunch was art.
I suppose I should sum up with a profound conclusion of some sort. Or maybe I should just stop yammering so you can hear, taste, smell, and see the art all around you--a feast prepared and waiting. It calls to anyone who will listen, "Come one, come all!"
And come hungry.
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