The Morning After
Beginning a New Creative Season
Waking up the morning of the day after is always such a strange experience. The day after an important day would seem to be the day to go back to everything as usual. But because of the important day, we can't. The day after the first day of school, we can't go back to being summer. The day after the wedding, we can't go back to being single. The day after, things happen, just like they always do. Breakfast needs to be made. Our bed needs to be made. Dirty dishes need to be done. A little dog needs to be walked. But somehow, everything is different.
Yesterday, I was supposed to travel over to Seguin for the opening reception of my first solo exhibition. Instead, I watched the weather reports as the rainstorm stalled over our region, threatening to add even more to the surging Guadalupe River, that also flows through Seguin. It was so tough, deciding that the weather was making it unsafe to ask people to drive to the hospital. The cookies sit uneaten in my freezer. The celebration I'd imagined with local supporters, hospital staff, out-of-town friends all gathering to look at the art and ask questions will have to wait until September, when we'll hold a closing reception instead.
When I went over last Monday to do the installation, I asked the facilities manager who was helping me install my Groundwork series in their River of Life Gallery, what made the hospital special. What made it different from other hospitals nearby? Why it was that I had encountered so many people, even a whole other county over, that were familiar with this hospital, that had been there, that knew exactly where my exhibition was going to be. The facilities manager explained to me that, unlike other hospitals in the area, this hospital was community-owned and nonprofit. And that this fostered a certain feeling in the hospital, and that this feeling meant that the hospital was among the top 100 places to work in hospitals in the country, and that the hospital was very proud of being part of the community, and the community was very proud of the hospital.
Of course, that I was putting up my gallery installation in this hospital and not another, is a sign of the relationship between this hospital and its community. The number of people that walked by during installation and made comments on the art, that was very gratifying. I am not surprised that my piece, "Poppy's Blow Between," that features bones of World War I veterans, was a favorite among a particular group of the staff, in orthopedics and radiology. The location of the gallery, right next to the exit to imaging, means that this staff will enjoy an artistic depiction of their... one of their chief concerns…for the three months that the installation will be there in the hospital.
But today, today, I start a new season. Standing here on the threshold of a new creative season, I have completed the work of more than a year and a half. And, because of the abrupt end, I am swept with a feeling of disorientation and bittersweetness. My banners hang in the gallery, seen by patients and staff, but without the ceremonial marking I had planned. I am left to celebrate alone. My studio is so clean and empty feeling. I don’t have the heart to go into my sketchbook and look for details I forgot to record (although I know this needs to be done). When I close my eyes and reach my awareness down to my core, I can feel the echoing chamber that just last week was churning with activity, with doubts and fears.
When I open my eyes, I see my cloth covered dye bottles, protected against the expected dust of a period of inactivity. But in my mind’s eye, I still see my banners, hanging one after another, repeating in a solid line, proclaiming my vision over and over. I've had the satisfaction of standing and looking at all of my pieces, hung respectfully and well lighted in a beautiful location where it can be appreciated and provide joy and comfort to many people. I can travel both up and downstream, gazing at the work and feeling the flood of joy that “I made that”, that “I am capable of that”.
In this threshold between my life’s only “first solo show” and the rest of my creative life, I want to take a pause. But, likely, I won’t be able to stay still. My reminders list will call to me, begging to be filled with new tasks and I will feed it a reminder to move on.
So when you wake up in the morning after the wedding, you begin the marriage; you plan a life as a new person. And so today, this week, I am beginning this new season. In my personal seasonal creative mythology, this time of year marks the shift from early summer to late summer. There's a phase in the middle that's more like high summer. And I'll know the shift has taken place when I see the signs of stress on the trees. We’ll begin to long for cooler vistas, seeking the least little breeze. And we'll move into the season of the mistress of animals and again, seek the high places and watch the birds rising on the vortices of air, capturing flight. The towering clouds, promising rain but delivering floods, will pull us from our grounding for a quick break, a summer vacation.
If there is a metaphor that I could share with you this week, it's that the seasons always turn. The shade that was provided so luxuriously in the forest thins as the planet turns towards the sun, and we move on to whatever is next, knowing with absolute confidence that the winter is coming, that our time of play in the open air will change to a time of deep contemplation as the darkness begins. I'll enjoy this time, this day after when I am a woman with a solo exhibition. But in no time, I’ll look around for the hidden signs that will lead me towards my next adventure. Don’t worry, I have some ideas and if I get enough rest this week, I’ll be back to share them. If not, if I am seduced by the lazy heat, I’ll post a “gone fishing” sign on the blog and check back in a few weeks to show you what fresh, wriggling ideas I’ve caught.
Thank you for reading what emerges from my process.
Gwendolyn
P.S. Stay tuned for the details of a closing reception in September.