Here, There and Everywhere

Posts tagged ‘black’

Black Fish Out Of Water

Here’s a piece I created from a Portoro marble block which came from an island near Carrara, Italy.

This is the first marble I’ve attempted, which is the hardest stone. I was told that black is the most difficult, as it tends to crack easily. I guess I was lucky, as this one had no problems.

It is also one of the first I’ve done that attempted to actually look like something specific and not just go with the flow of the stone and what came as it was happening.

I tried to drill a hole in the bottom and place it on another piece of marble and a different stone, as the base, but I don’t have tools to make a deep enough hole and I was afraid it would crack. I tried using glue, but it didn’t hold and came apart. When all is said and done, it looks better by itself anyway.

Hope you enjoy this latest attempt. I’m getting a little better each time. It’s called Black Fish Out of Water.

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Glacier

Glacier

I’m really happy with my latest stone creation. Of course, it’s not really “mine”, as the materials are all gifts from the earth. I just shaped it in a particular way from a rectangular slab.

I’ve titled it Glacier. A variety of images can be seen within the various shapes, strands and brown veins inside.

It took about two months to carve, sand and polish. It is made from Italian ice alabaster.

Still looking for an inexpensive black stand to place it on.

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Easter Island’s Baby

Easter Island’s Baby

This is a piece I just finished from a block of Mongolian black marble. It was the most difficult of anything I’ve done so far, in reference to sanding and getting all the nicks and scratches out of it. I’ve dubbed it Easter Island’s Baby.

Originally, I was going to have it coming out of the ground, like the sculptures on Easter Island, but it worked better and was more secure, springing forth from the pieces of white alabaster. I love the dark black contrasted with the white stone and the dark green pot.

The next carving is with some Italian white ice alabaster.

Hope these photos do this justice. I’m getting a little better with each stone.

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The Galaxy Stone

The Galaxy

Here are a few views of my latest stone carving.

It is from a block of black Mongolian marble.

It’s getting better all the time.

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Dressed In Black

Excerpt from Saint Catherine’s Baby – Stories.

Dressed In Black

Stephanie came every day. She came without presumptions, ulterior motives or expectations of exalted visions or transcendent love. She came out of habit. She came because of a promise.

She arrived promptly at six in the evening, in stormy or serene skies and sat on her cushion of leaves inside the hollow of a burned out stump, protected from the weather by a neighboring family of Ponderosa Pines.

She never faltered or dozed. Her vigilant eyes were fixed upon the lush meadow before her; the meadow that transformed from dry golden browns in the summer to sparkling sheaths of undulating greens arching towards the fall and spring skies, enticing the wet rains to provide them their full desire of liquid fuel.

She didn’t meditate on the present, reminisce about the past or worry about the future. She remained on duty like a royal guard. Nothing could distract her from catching a glimpse of her departed father.

Stephanie was thirty-four; old enough to know the difference between reality and fantasy; old enough to have been cut and burned by men’s’ promises and women’s’ expectations; old enough to have married, miscarried, divorced and buried a friend.

She had lived at three diverse locations in her parents’ province; by the river, in the valley and most recently in the mountains. The total population of the area was less than a cord of wood and spread east to west like an open picture book.

Each of her previous living quarters had been to her liking, simple, adequate: free of pretense or superficiality. The two-bedroom home she presently rented, after her divorce from Marty “meticulous” Johnson, was far more space than she needed, but it would suffice. It held her few belongings in the comfort of its wooden walls, greeted her at night when she returned and warmed her breakfast on its four-burner gas range before she left at sunrise to make her rounds.

Stephanie would faithfully sit in the tree stump every day of the year. Her frizzy red hair was stuffed inside her pale leaf-green forester’s cap. Her short, strong legs crossed lazily in front of her ample hips, as her camouflaged gloves held the binoculars up to her sharp hazel eyes or rested comfortably on her lap.

Marty, her ex-husband, had always called her Cinderella. No matter where they were or what they were doing, she would run off in the early evening to her spot in the woods. She wasn’t afraid her car would turn into a pumpkin or her gown into rags. She was afraid she would miss seeing the form of her father when he reappeared.

When Stephanie was a young girl and she and her father had been sitting at dusk, in the very hollow she now visited, he had once said, “If reincarnation is real, which is highly unlikely.” He worked at the university and despised shallow religious dogma or superstitions. “But, if it is,” he had said seriously, “by some remote possibility true, then I want to return like that.” He had pointed at the magnificent creatures grazing in the meadow before them. “I want to be as big and black as the one I saw when I was a kid camping with my dad.” He had turned his endearing gaze upon his precious offspring, his only child and confessed, “I’ve never seen anything like it since.”

Ten months later, while Stephanie’s mother was picking her up at school, her father had suffered a heart attack and dropped dead on the hard linoleum floor of his fluorescent light-filled laboratory.

Stephanie and her mother had rushed to the hospital, after returning home and hearing the frantic message from his long-time colleague on their answering machine. It took them two hours to get to the city.

Her mother had tried to prevent Stephanie from going behind the curtain in the emergency room, but a battalion of marines couldn’t have stopped her from seeing her beloved father.

She hadn’t shed a tear. She’d looked at his ashen face, felt his icy hand and said, “Don’t forget Daddy. I’ll wait for you.” She knew he hadn’t really died. He had just changed form. She knew it without a sliver of doubt. She knew it because if she had allowed her self to believe otherwise, the pain would have ripped her to shreds.

As she matured, studied mathematics, biology and physics, her faith in reincarnation was bolstered again and again. She had underlined statements that confirmed her belief. “Energy doesn’t disappear into a vacuum, it always has an equal and opposite reaction. Matter never dissipates, it simply changes form.”

Even when she attended medical school, at the same university her father had worked, she had kept her internal contract and driven two to three hours a day to sit at their spot in the woods. She was thrilled when, after graduation, she had been offered a position as her home districts medical officer, covering three sparsely populated counties on the Canadian border. The only condition she’d insisted upon and been granted, was being off-call between five and seven every evening.

She waited and waited and waited some more. Thousands of images had passed through her hungry mind. She knew when it happened it would fill the void, the pit in her heart that had been filled with despair over her father’s long absence. She knew it was the only sane thing that could give her peace. She couldn’t pretend, imagine or dream it into being. The large black moose had to be real. Its reality would let her know her Daddy wasn’t dead. It would confirm her belief in medicine, in science, in living. Its existence would bring order to chaos.

She had seen every shade of brown and tan; mothers, fathers, siblings and babes. She had watched several generations come and go, heard their mating calls and crashing clashes as they fought over the women of their species. But in the twenty-four years since her father’s death Stephanie had never seen a large pitch-black figure like the one her father had witnessed as a boy.

Winter had arrived early. Soft white freshly fallen snow covered what she now considered “her” meadow. The sun had gone down early. Her hands felt like ice cubes stuck inside a freezer. She rubbed them together under her father’s down jacket. Her heavy-duty flashlight stood on its end next to her aching knee. She silently stretched her legs and slowly refolded them, years of practice and patient persistence guiding them effortlessly back into position.

She heard branches snapping and loud snorting immediately to her left. She grabbed her flashlight and anxiously waited until the footsteps subsided. She flicked on the head lamp. Her hand shook as she found the silhouette of the towering Bull Moose against the white snow. Her heart leapt into her throat. The sudden gasp for air burned her lungs. The mammal with pitch-black fur raised its head, looked knowingly into her eyes and winked.

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Hard Times Require Furious Dancing

Hard Times Require Furious Dancing by Alice Walker (New World Library, 2011). Reviewed by Gabriel Constans.

Alice Walker’s collection of heartfelt poems range from the long thoughtful The Taste of Grudge, to the shortest of the lot called One Earth, which reads like a Reggae mantra, “One Earth. One People. One Love.”

The last lines in her poem Watching You Hold Your Hatred are truth incarnate. “There is no graceful way to carry hatred. While hidden it is everywhere.”

There is also a beautiful poem about Myanmar (Burma) democracy advocate Aun San Suu Ky (who was imprisoned and under house arrest for most of the last 20 years). It is titled Loving Humans.

This work, which combines Ms. Walker’s experiences, observations and insights from the last several years, in response to personal and social unrest and conflict, are honest, forthright and tend to resonate with one’s head, heart and gut.

Without further denigrating this collection with my meager and shortsighted words, it is probably best to let the author speak for her self and share some of her humanity and wisdom.

THIS ROOM

This room
Is very powerful:
Buddha, golden,
Holding down one side;
The primordial
Great Mother, black,
Offering her
Bead
Of mitochondria
Holding down
The other.
My meditation
Chairs
Are made of wicker
A miracle
Crafted by
Human hands.
Human being
May I not
Forget you
In all
This talk
Of God.

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Choosing To See Color

I grew up in the segregated North, in Redding California. Redding was mostly a lumber mill town when I was a child; a place people only saw on there way to somewhere else. My father worked in the lumber mill for over 40 years. Besides the Native American family from the Hoopa Tribe that lived across the street, white faces surrounded us, including our own when we looked in the mirror.

We played frequently with the “Indian Kids” as people called them and often heard our “good” neighbors’ accusations and insinuations about “those kids” father having a “drinking problem”. “He is Indian after all,” they would say, as if that explained everything. As a child, I didn’t understand the bigotry or stereotyping that was occurring. All I knew was that their father was rarely home and if he was we had to be very quiet.

In the late fifties and early sixties, from the age of about six to nine, my mother started working part time and hired a woman named Alberta to watch my sister and I at her home. Alberta was black and her husband, Lemual, was a Baptist Minister. They had two children, Albert and Brenda. They were probably the first black people we had ever met in person, let alone seen. They lived in a small dilapidated home in a run down part of town. Later, as a teenager, I became aware that most of the black people in Redding lived in a poor section of town, literally on the other side of the railroad tracks.

Alberta was a big, dark brown woman whose loud strong voice could stop us in our tracks. If Candace (my sister), Albert and Brenda and I were outside playing tag or hide-an-seek and Alberta called for us to come in, we didn’t linger, but headed in as fast as our legs could carry us. She was strict, but caring. I remember her giving us big warm hugs that enveloped our little bodies, until it felt like we had disappeared.

Occasionally, Alberta would take us all to her husband’s church and we would play outside while she attended choir practice. We would all moan, along with the other black kids hanging around, about how boring it was and wondered when they would be done.

Albert and Brenda fought off and on, like brothers and sisters do, but never picked on Candace and I. It was in Brenda’s bedroom that I first heard soul music. I think it was The Supremes, The Miracles and “Little” Stevie Wonder. We would dance and sing and laugh at all our dancing and clowning around, until Alberta told us to “Quiet down in there!”.

After three or four years, when my mother had divorced and remarried, our family moved to a bigger home, farther out from town and we stopped going over to Alberta’s. Mom said they kept in touch with Alberta and her family for awhile, but they eventually moved out of the area and she hasn’t heard from them in decades.

In the late sixties, I “went with” a girl who was black in high school. It only lasted a few weeks. At first I just followed her around until she noticed me, then we talked on and off and held hands once or twice. She was easy to spot, because she had a gigantic Afro and was one of only four black kids at the entire school. At the time, I was doing everything I could think of “against the establishment” and this was simply another way to proclaim my independence and spit in the face of convention. It didn’t really mean much to her nor I and I doubt if she would even remember it today.

What strikes me about all these experiences of childhood, adolescents and as an adult, is that I, as a white man, have always had the choice of when and how I chose to interact with or befriend people of color or deal with race. Sometimes I have done so when it fulfills a need, is convenient, gives me a sense of having “helped” someone or fits my self-image of being an excepting, understanding person. It was for my benefit and I had control of if and when.

When I interviewed Lee Mun Wah, a well-known facilitator and videographer, for my book on transforming grief for social good, he said, “We don’t take the time to really look, to really experience. The American Indian is right when they say, ‘You want my customs, my rituals and my land, but you don’t want me.’ What we do is, we use people and cultures. We use them when it’s convenient, for a service, for artifacts. Rarely do we take the time to understand how we relate to each other.”

At times, I too, have not really looked or listened. I have put people in boxes and preconceived easily digestible categories that make life comfortable and lead me to believe that “everything is so much better nowadays than it used to be.” And it is, in some respects, but it shouldn’t stop me from looking honestly at myself and not minimizing or candy-coating another persons experience out of my own need for security.

In Notes of a Native Son (1953) James Baldwin wrote, “The black man insists that the white man cease to regard him as an exotic rarity and recognize him as a human being. This is a very charged and difficult moment, for there is a great deal of will power involved in the white man’s naivete. Most people are not naturally reflective any more than they are naturally malicious, and the white man prefers to keep the black man at a certain human remove because it is easier for him thus to preserve his simplicity.”

I wish things were simple. I wish just talking about race and prejudice was simple. I wish everybody was treated equally and had the same opportunities, but we’re not. The best I can do is not be afraid to look at myself and the person in front of me through rose-colored glasses and tell the truth as I see it, inside and out. Nowadays, my friends who are black or brown are my friends because they are simply my friends and the same is true for our children and their friends. I don’t try to pretend however, to my self or others, that everyone is now treated equally.

In our society (and most around the world), the color of your skin still matters. I’m not going to turn away from this reality and act like the privilege’s I have as a white man in America don’t exist. I’m choosing to look at this reality face to face and call other white men and women on it when they act as if everything has changed and they say things like “We’re all equal. It doesn’t matter what color someone is.”. Race matters. If you don’t think so, try walking around in brown or black skin for awhile and see how you’re treated.

We have to acknowledge and respect our differences and take off the blinders, before we can move beyond difference and see that there is only one of us here.

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