Not much to say, except: things are moving along so beautifully out there in the beloved Meadow Studio, the knee still has its quirks but is better, and: I am staying at Ragdale for another three weeks, through December 11. Yes!


That was written last Thursday; I meant to post it Friday evening. Then, at dinner: the news of Paris and then the disturbing realization of the lack of coverage on the similar killings in Beirut. And then of course, the ridiculous anti-immigrant, pro-gun backlash, some from people I expected it from, some from others who deeply disappointed me.


I kept away from the social media screen as best I could, took refuge in the studio, worked well with swirling, streaming thoughts that offered no resolution coursing through my head. I thought of how I don’t really like us as a species. We are far, far from being the superior organisms on the planet that we believe ourselves to be. I thought about how many times I have been certain that we are on the brink of self-immolation in the 60+ years I have been alive. I thought about a great artists’ book I saw once, listing all the wars for each year in recorded in human history, and the terribly tiny amount of time when there weren’t any. I thought about how climate change, which contributed to the Syrian crisis, might actually, finally do it, allow us the annihilation we appear to crave. I thought about nature, going on about its business in spite of us, going through its cycles, its seasons of regeneration, fruition and decay that comprise its language. Plant researchers have revealed that not only do trees communicate with each other, they offer warnings freely to their species, regardless of type; a pine will help an oak. I thought about how I did my ‘duty’ to humans and allowed a young dog to be destroyed because he feared us, and in fearing us, was judged to be a threat. Was he not correct in his fear? I thought of so many things.


I made and installed new ears, thinking about them listening for just the slightest bit of sense from our species, for the recognition that we are not apart from the planet nor each other. On most of the projects I have going, I’m working with both raw and refined fiber in renewed, beautifully crude ways, taking it down to its essence. A tangled, complicated web, appearing so fragile, so ephemeral, yet tough and resilient in nature, because of its interlocking, its involvement: each strand dependent on the others.


That was written on Monday. And now, we’ve had the readings and the open studios and a “supper club” dinner with several interesting architects, and a fun group thrift store visit. People are beginning to trickle away as of tonight and early tomorrow. This was a lovely good solid group of women here. I’m looking forward to the next group too, even knowing that I’ll need to confront my deafness yet again as I (slowly) get to know them. I’ll go home this weekend, to exchange comfort with my small pack, to refresh.


I’ll be out in the world Saturday, when ZIA Gallery’s annual group show opens. It’s supposed to snow. I’m spending Thanksgiving here. On December 4, The Return of the Exquisite Corpse – the last exhibition of the year and for awhile – opens at Printworks in Chicago; and on December 6, I will be in residence for Ragdale’s holiday party, when some of the world comes here.


Shifting into Here and Now


It’s a new year for me, and I am back on the prairie (and in the beloved Meadow Studio, though without a functional toilet. Not to worry. I have strategies for that.) I am also attempting to come fully back into the present and this realm.


Thursday, I couldn’t stand it anymore; I’d done the 72 hours of rest, ice, and elevation and I had had it with sitting, and with getting little done. So I wrapped up the knee and set out to see how far towards the Meadow studio I could get. Though slow, I made it there and back with only a little difficulty. I was thrilled. Friday, Jack and David hauled all my stuff and me out there in a single trip on the trailer behind the tractor. Chef Linda had that day off, so I stayed out there till late evening. I got the studio set up (including building this year’s ‘refrigerator’) and set some fiber soaking. A very young, lone deer came by and peered in, as if to welcome me. And even before setting up, just sitting with my leg raised, I saw a new piece – really, a series – that wanted to be made.


Saturday was Halloween / Samhain, so before I went to the studio, I went in to Lake Forest and got what I needed for my annual ritual. I stayed out in the studio, working long peaceful hours on fiber prep, stretching and resting periodically, till about 10:30, then hobbled back to the (thankfully) deserted Barnhouse; the hearing residents had gathered in the Ragdale House earlier for games.


At midnight, I had an unexpectedly, overwhelmingly joyous celebration. The membrane between the worlds has never, ever seemed so porous as it was this year. Perhaps that was due to the very recent crossing of a young four-legged one. If any of the other residents had glanced in, they’d have seen a ridiculously smiling old-ish deaf woman sitting in front of three tiny place settings, gesturing and making toasts to no one visible.


Earlier in the week, it had become apparent to me that though he was now happy and free of his fears, Chance could not or would not leave me, this innocent creature who was so utterly attached to me while he was in this life. Perhaps he simply did not know how to go on. I needed to show him a way.


Sunday, the Day of the Dead, was gorgeous. I ventured out onto the prairie for the first time since arriving, and walked much further than I intended. I was in search of a certain stone, and, I swear it, I was accompanied by a pack of boisterous, frolicking non-corporeal dogs: Chance, Face, all my dogs going back into childhood. I didn’t question it, just absolutely loved it, and reveled in the sense of them with me. I found the stone, we made our way slowly back to the studio, and I transformed it into Chance’s stone. Then dear (live) friend Linda met me, bearing gifts, and together we gave him to Ragdale, and Ragdale and the prairie to him, and set him free.


Monday, I drove back into the city, to take down my work from Words Matter. It was lovely to see Eileen, Audrey and Shawn, who all were there at the same time, and to easily slip back into a different world of old friends for a bit; both fun and reassuring after the all the otherworldliness. Then home to admire the very fast progress on the new back porch / deck that had begun with the demolition and hauling away of the old one early that morning. I took a long walk with Lupe who seemed impatient with my slow gait and my still-fresh memories of spirit dogs, when -hey!- here she was, The Real Beastie herself. I made much of her. Then a long, sweet whirlpool bath to soothe the day’s sore ladder-climbing knee, and a lovely evening with Paul and Lupe, who stayed by my side all night.


On Tuesday morning I packed more fiber and a few other forgotten items and returned to Ragdale, feeling oddly subdued and unfocused. It was a beautiful day, 70 degrees, so I gave up on the studio and went for a long prairie walk. I was definitely alone, no dogs of any kind. It made me a bit wistful. I walked too far and the knee began to throb so I stayed in after dinner, tried to write, gave up and had a restless night, reading until 3am.


This morning, I went ahead and had a second helpful massage, and then a good studio day, in spite of the still-painful knee. I refrained from a prairie walk because of it, went to two residents’ open studios, ate another delicious dinner with incomprehensible voices swirling all about me, and then came upstairs to write this. This afternoon, the same solitary young deer visited again, walking slowly past the studio, peering into the windows, unafraid, maybe welcoming me back again.


Ragdale, bit by care-full bit


I am very, very slowly settling in at Ragdale, in increments. I am not sure exactly what happened, but Sunday night, while coming downstairs after just finishing the packing, there was a sudden sharp stab of pain in my left knee, then another as I descended to the next step. So, I led with the right foot, brought the left foot down to the same stair, repeat, repeat. Monday morning, it was still that way, a nuisance but not a real problem. Paul kindly carried everything to the car while I loaded. Just as I was ready to leave, simply standing there, the knee completely gave out, felt like it wanted to bend the wrong way, swelled, and would not support my weight.


After a little while and a little testing, I knew it was a sprain; I’ve had too many of them, and know what they feel like and what to do. So I contacted Ragdale to ask which room I was sleeping in; having had an ankle sprain here, I knew I didn’t want to spend the next couple of days stuck in bed in the tiny Sewing room. Yep. It was. So I stayed home Monday, leg elevated and iced and arnica-slathered, while e-mails flew back and forth, and the Ragdale folks (Amy and Jeff) came up with a lovely solution. The Beech room and the little Barnhouse studio (just a few steps away from the house itself) were open for the first week; I could have them, and then move to the Sewing room and out to my beloved Meadow when I am able.


So I came up yesterday afternoon, hobbling and wearing two knee braces (one atop the other), and here I am. Since I have wireless and room to elevate the leg and (later) stretch in the Barnhouse studio, I moved into the Sewing room so as not to make extra work for housekeeper Martha, who I really like. Cheerful new resident liaison, Eddie, moved my stuff upstairs for me, and a single box of paper, small book-hulls and binding supplies into the studio; the rest is still in my car, waiting till I heal more. I brought hanji too; sitting and keeping the knee elevated seems like a good opportunity to do some joomchi. I had a great, sweet visit from my homie Chef Linda (who loves animals like I do, and loved Chance too.) So far I’ve done little but R.I.C.E., re-think, and today, I treated myself to an hour with Bonny, the excellent, strong-and-sensitive-handed massage therapist who visits when there are a group of residents who need her. It was wonderful, and she helped the knee and oh, all those other arthritic locations immensely. I’m very, very, very glad to be here and so grateful to Ragdale for always, always, always making it work, whatever happens…I’m sinking into its benevolence like you sink into a good pillow after a hard day, and I’ll truly be home when I’m out on the prairie. Soon!


The HUGE ice pack that Linda found in the freezer. She tucked that pillow under my leg yesterday (and suggested renting a golf cart if it doesn’t heal quickly!)

Interim (and out)

It is of course a strange time. I can appear to have crawled out from under the initial impact of Chance’s death: I get things done, but I am definitely not completely present yet. Some of the grief is still raw. Most is simply missing him, a constant ache. It is the same for Paul and Lupe as we slowly begin to mend our pack, tentatively creating the new pattern.


I will miss this lovely old weathered wood.

Movement seems to be what we all need. It’s good. Lupe wants to walk and walk and walk when we go out. I’m immersed in a new round of p/t. Indoors, we carry on with heavy cleaning, and outdoors we’ve cleared the way for builders; the back deck and front stairs have gotten too rickety and are being replaced, so we’ve radically chopped two tall, dense thickets of dogwood and moved everything that’s stored under the deck. We got the house plants in and the last of the garden harvested before an early freeze. I got winter clothes out, summer clothes put away, and so on. Tiring physical work that leaves the mind relatively free to wander where it needs to go: that’s good.

During the darkest time, I completed these…


…and sent them off. They’re collectively titled Liminal (Stage One) and they’ll be on view in Exceptional, which opens tomorrow.

Mostly I’m writing to say that Words | Matter is excellent, excellent, excellent. I got to see the completed library for the first time on the 6th, when there was a surprisingly large turnout for the Caxton Club event. On the 14th, I spent the afternoon looking and reading and touching, and then having light fun conversation with a few nice folks who were there, forgetting to even take out the camera. It was the best possible way to ease into the evening, when I got my fervent wish and had a lovely small talk with just seven people. It was like the ‘artist’s talk’ version of this past summer’s porch class: intimate, calm, good. I brought haptic-language book things and we read with our hands. As it was the day was perfect, surrounded by books to see and touch, pulling me gently and quietly into the infinite ways that books can cloak you in themselves. At the same time it was reminiscent of long lovely afternoons in the library as a child, with a comfortable dose of neighborhood coffee shop. If you are in town, it can do all that for you, too. Go!

Braithewaite Gallery / Southern Utah Museum of Art has published a video of the entire ABC exhibition here.


My Ragdale residency begins on Monday, so we’re steadily, quietly getting our tasks to a stopping point while I’m prepping materials and packing. I’m so looking forward to stepping out of time, onto the prairie, into the studio, and into the boundless embrace of that touchstone place.


Warning: this won’t be an easy read if you love dogs; you may just want to wait for the next post. On the other hand, if you’ve ever uttered the phrase, “It’s just a dog” – please go away. (And if you are a trainer, please don’t tell me what ‘should’ have happened. It’s done. I still trust our vet / animal behaviorist / trainer implicitly and I am very grateful to her.)


My beautiful boy Chance is dead. His life lasted just two weeks under two years. On Saturday morning, I nodded my head, crying too hard to say the words, and he died. I have to live with that.
I’ve written before that I’ve never known a dog like him. Terms we heard from different trainers and vets were reactive and fear-aggressive. When you look those terms up, they’re most often used to describe a single behavior: leash reactivity, dog on dog aggression, etcetera. Chance was that way about everything: food, other dogs, all humans besides Paul and me, large vehicles, me leaving, anything that moved suddenly, flashlight beams and reflected light. Even as a tiny pup, the sheer extremes of his reactive states were astounding; he’d fling himself through the air, shrieking, impervious to pain, to voices, to anything but his fear.
We loved him anyways, me all the more because I believed I could teach him that the world was not frightening. I believed in him. We joked a lot about him, called him our special needs boy (he was) and Paul, from early on, affectionally called him ‘broken.’
Clicker / positive reinforcement training was miraculous. It gave me a way to connect with him, to (often) distract him from fear. It ended his food aggression and let him calm most of his indoor fears. He loved it. It let him show us his happy, goofy, mischievous self, though I could only share my joy in that part of him through social media. In person, he barked and barked at people to make them go away. Last spring, he had a period of regression, and our vet recommended a calming drug. That also really seemed to help him. Just a month ago, he and I were enjoying perfect, calm short walks. He could watch people from a distance without reacting, and I truly believed he was nearing recovery.

aafall1 Then something happened. Not a single incident, but a spiraling. First, there was a sort of limbo period when he could’t seem to learn anything new, though he was still eager for ‘school.’ Then, he began to refuse to leave the yard, then to refuse all training. Then, he attacked a friend who was visiting my studio: he burst through a door that was not quite closed and went straight for her. I got between them and was bitten (not the first time, not the worst bite, and not something I couldn’t deal with, except for the fact that the bite was undeniably meant for her.) After that, though there were still lucid periods, it got worse and worse. He obsessively clung to me more than ever, stopped going outside unless I was there, wouldn’t let Lupe or Paul near me, and tried to attack every human he saw, not just barking anymore, but with teeth bared. Our vet said there were only two options remaining at this point: to put him on heavy drugs and keep him indoors, or euthanasia.

aafall3 Even though I truly respect her, even though every trainer I’d spoken with from the beginning warned me that what was happening was indeed a possible outcome, I just could not accept it.
So, as a last resort, I contacted the excellent no-kill shelter he was adopted from, prepared to surrender him. I told myself they would rehabilitate him; he would go on to a good life with someone who was a much better trainer than me. The shelter referred us to their trainer, who specializes in reactive dogs. We took him in. I won’t describe the horrible scene. The sweet goofy boy I knew doesn’t deserve to be remembered that way. The trainer gently but firmly told us what I refused to hear before: his behavior was not simply due to some early bad experience. It was a mental issue, something in his brain. He would never be able to be fully rehabilitated, he would always be a danger. She said she had helped hundreds of dogs and that this was only the third time she’d had to say it, but she couldn’t even recommend the drugs as an option. He was broken. I nodded my head, and he was killed at the no-kill shelter.

aafall4 I grew up with stories about noble collies who went mad, whose owners had to shoot their beloved beasties themselves, with Old Yeller, with romantic sad tales that tug at the heart, elicit poignant tears. There is not one redeeming shred in the reality. It is shattering. It is impossible to reconcile the sweet being who once slept on your lap, who joyfully, playfully woke you every morning, who gazed lovingly into your eyes, with the raging, mouth-foaming, unreachable embodiment of pain you see before you. Underneath the horror and denial beats the dull, inescapable voice of the law: dogs cannot harm people. Dogs cannot harm people. You nod your head. Then you break too.


Now showing…

Out in the world are shows and shows and shows…first, here are some views of my part of Embarrassment of Riches at the NIU Art Museum:



And some shots of this innovative installation of a single copy of (S)Edition (OK, a bookshroom) installed at Structures and Stories in the Bucks County Community College (Pennsylvania) Artmobile. I usually don’t like my work to be in cases, but of course this show literally moves, on wheels. I kind of love that the case itself is floating above the empty pedestal. It’s difficult to believe that this pristine space is the inside of a trailer.

aaMJC_mobileaaMJC_mobile1The Guenzel Gallery at Peninsula School of Art in Wisconsin hasn’t sent images, but they’ve published a wee slideshow of Unusually Natural on this page. The Braithewaite Gallery at the Southern Utah Museum of Art has not updated its website, but here’s what I am exhibiting in that show; and info about this upcoming exhibition in Minneapolis will soon be available.

(Bookshrooms are of the proletariat, the 99%; they don’t care about no stinkin’ air conditioners or cords when they gather for their subversive conversations.)

And above is a sneak preview of my installation, which was the first to go up at Words | Matter, which opens tomorrow! It is in a lovely warm shared studio space; the library will take up a number of its many rooms. I loved the idea as soon as I was asked about it; I also truly love (and miss) “neighborhood” spaces. Huge, huge kudos to Eileen Madden (whose excellent printshop is located in the space) for her vision and hard work in bringing this together. Here she is, surrounded by just a small portion of book deliveries.  Aside from viewing works on the walls, you’ll be able to sit in the comfortable space and have any of the over 80 books brought to you, to handle, to read, to interact with: marvelous! I can’t wait.


New moves, letting go.


(I’ve been writing this in wee bits, off and on during breaks, for well over a week, then vacillating about publishing.)

Last week, I turned down three more teaching-related things (one even had a residency attached.) It’s a little odd still. I’ve traversed the better part of the past five years by swinging from lovely offer to lovely offer as if from vine to vine, only rarely interrupted by application processes. It’s been grand, and I’m very grateful.

Even though I’ve been fortunate to be able to detach from the application-oriented push push push and the cult of busyness that is standard in the arts, it’s still become too much. As we head into fall, only the work for two more exhibitions needs to be ironed out (and finished), two public talks, four openings, and then: I let go.


Indigo sprouting future indigo.

There is some sadness, because I do love much of that life. Will I return? Retire? At the same time, there’s a feeling of elated anticipation each time I say, “thank you, not this year.” I’m not sure where I’m headed. I think of the Smiths’ observation as they left the U.S. to travel at random: “spiders fall to float – they start a strand of web, then jump into the void hoping the air currents will carry them to the other side. If they don’t, they crawl back up the web and fall again and again until they reach the other side.” I’m ready to float, and it’s not necessary to know exactly where the other side is. I’m most interested in what I might discover on my way there.


Not-knowing has made blogging problematic. What’s ‘worth’ sharing while floating? Then I read this fine interview with Regin Igloria. Particularly the section on walking, but also the whole, resonated with my current questioning and challenges like the remembered hearing of a gong. Following the project on social media extended the vibrations. So, I decided to write:

Since I came home in late August, there’s been another arthritis flare, in a new place. I’ve been prescribed another round of p/t soon (well, in HMO time.) But p/t alone isn’t enough now. This year, I need to learn to move in new ways, until those ways become ingrained, my default mode. When I’m focused on  deadlines, on teaching, when I’m hurrying, I’ve had a lifelong tendency to completely forget my body even as I zip around, totally dependent on its capabilities, particularly its flexibility. As that keeps changing, I no longer know my body. I know I can do the un-learning and re-learning, but it’s a long process. When arthritis first arrived, it took a full year to learn to walk without turning my feet out without thinking about it. Now, I need to do all that I do without twisting my spine: all day, every day, every activity.


Ragdale ear down, the original; it lasted two years, and it will regenerate.

For awhile, I despaired of this year’s milkweed harvest. It takes at least a month to get into p/t. Then I decided to rehearse / train for the harvest on my own. It feels a bit like doing a perpetual robot dance, turning my entire body with my feet before bending forward, instead of swiveling at my waist, all the while working to override a lifetime’s physical instinct. I slowly worked up to moving mindfully while bending and bending to weed the garden: the dress rehearsal. Wednesday, on the equinox, I drove up to Ragdale and went for it.

It was slow, slow: gazing around, planning my path, wading through the towering dense bluestem, pausing and plotting each move. I fell once, early, afterwards remembering to stop, breathe, look, enjoy. Walking round the meadow, gathering up the small piles into one huge one, then carrying that to the shade of the Meadow Studio porch was the roughest patch. On the porch, I accommodated my skeleton with a bucket to sit on (and one to collect the trimmed leaves) and a sequence that let me work by bending only forward or side to side (which is still ok to do.) I paced myself, and got the job done with only a small amount of residual stiffness the next day. I feel absurdly proud and pleased, as if I were a beginning athlete, a casual jogger who’s just run in her first race and completed the distance. (My reward was an absolutely perfect long, paced studio day the next day.)


Out in the world:

Here is a radio broadcast, with an article and images of the Embarrassment of Riches show. I can’t hear it, but the images make me even sadder to have had to miss the reception and panel. The fabulous Chicago Artists’ Month exhibition Words | Matter is heating up! The website is still-expanding (eventually all the artists will have a dedicated page) but it’s live. This and this are two events I’m participating in. I particularly like the Toni Morrison quote in Eileen’s description of my talk. There’s more coming up, but not online yet. Neither is the exhibition in Utah, but the print catalog arrived, and it’s a nice show.


Last but not least, hooray for just one of Aimee Lee’s many fall undertakings! I’m impressed. Happy super moon eclipse to all.