Things change...I never really know why. I am always so sure of what I need to do at the time...and so unsure a moment before and a moment after. I regret nothing except hurting people. I launch myself into everything without fear--sometimes fear would be a good thing.

It's the end of the year, I'm almost sure of that. The roller coaster is over and I am at peace for the moment. The words of a song come to mind but I can only remember "restless heart..."

"We work in the dark - we do what we can - we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art."
Henry James

Okay, I will admit my last entry was a bit "out there," but so was my entire past month. To translate in proper Queen's English: I fell in love in Flagstaff, had a predictable and wonderful meltdown, skipped the Park City show (although to my credit, I did drive there), decided to let myself fall in love properly, drove to Phoenix to see what the heck I was gettin' into, and here I stayed.

All that, of course, takes much less time to say than to do; I'm still sore from moving, there is cardboard everywhere in my life, my studio is ready but unused and nothing seems to be in the right place when I need it. But somehow the whole thing feels about as right as anything I have ever done in my life. So I'm going with it and am feeling happier and more settled every day.

The important thing, and usually the catalyst for a diary entry, is that I have a show coming up this weekend in the awesome redwoods just above the Bay Area a bit South of San Francisco. The familiar tasks of getting ready for a festival had the effect of getting me back on track, in fact, I thought I heard a huge CLANG! when I hit the track a couple of days ago while loading the trailer (could have been one of my iron weights hitting the back bumper of the trailer, but I reserve the right to interpret my clang any way I want to).

Another important development is that Phoenix is full of festivals, full of people that love art and seemingly awaiting with opportunity for those artists that enjoy rolling up their sleeves and working hard. Probably the most exciting art related development is that I have been offered gallery space in Scottsdale that is just awaiting my artwork and an opening bash.

It is now, I am here, the dog years have slowed down (mercifully so) to my usual normal hectic pace, although I plan on sneaking in a ton of relaxation love and nature into my life. We have 8 pets after all, not counting the fish; how much more love and nature can you get even when staying home!? Again, mountains await and pine needles are now a way of life. Off to the festival.

All of this started, I believe, because of a late night hike and the fresh smell of newborn pine needles (which I always took for the essential perfume of life itself). But "this" requires explanation, I suppose, so here it goes: a surreal tale told to the best of my abilities, which, after all, is the very best I can do to understand the events that transpired after a breathtaking rainy summer night.

To my defense, I had all best intentions to be a good citizen and fulfill all my worldly obligations...but destiny had a different path for me. I was suddenly, as life dictated I should be, in Park City, Utah, among absolutely gorgeous mountains and the freshest air lungs can breathe. I felt high and energized after a dreamy Flagstaff show, although I felt a storm--perhaps as large as a category 46--a'brewin' nearby. Sleep had evaded me for nights now and I was perhaps seeking terra firma after a dream had stolen me for a fantastic and wonderful flight with the stars. Apologies for the continuing elusive metaphors, but I can only dream now and forever, and, at least momentarily, reality continues to (fortunately) elude me.

Nevertheless, I arrived at Park City, Utah with good intentions and the underlying obligation to do my chosen duty of completing a commitment. After an invigorating solo evening walk upon arrival, my thoughts drifted to the new development in my life but I felt sure that I could complete the task at hand, as I always had before. Little did I know that the universe would turn upside down on me, or, better put, that even the lowly simple alphabet no longer made sense.

So it was check-in morning now and good citizens check in as prescribed. There I was, surrounded by lofty egos talking about six figure incomes and two-loft condos in the mountain. We (artists, that is) waited well past "official" check-in time. Eventually, feeling like a mutt puppy surrounded by pure bred stallions, I got in the door of the "official" check-in place. All was well so far. Then there was the alphabetical maelstrom. You see, usually, when the world makes sense, there are several check-in lines: A-E, F-K, and so on...and sure enough, there they were as clear as sunshine and fresh air and pine needles, the customary signs. But there was a trick...

Suddenly, it happened. A nice enough little "official" girl (oh, alright, she was in her twenties but looked SO young), albeit a bit frustrated, told everyone standing in line that--wait for it-->>the artists check-in packets were alphabetized by FIRST name<<.

Holy mackerel! You would think the world had come to an end, and in a very real sense, it did. Alphabetical order by first name seemed so frustrating at first to all the artists and I sat back and watched as all these perfectly reasonable people were completely thrown off kilter by this radical new system. Artists scrambled back and forth, changing lines the way bees change flight paths when near a hive...and other bees. A bag of worms, aquarium full of horny guppies, I don't know exactly how to explain it, but you would thing that the entire universe was scrambling, looking for the "right" line. I guess I was thrown off guard too and started thinking that, if the alphabet wasn't what it had been all this time, then nothing made sense at all any more. Meantime, I wasn't sure what my first name was and, after repeating to myself (in two languages, no less) l m n o, l m n o, l m n o, several times I repressed a hysterical laugh and tried hard to make no comment on the scrambled universe issue.

"Maria" I said to the girlie in front of me. I checked in; I was a good citizen despite the very obvious fact that the world was now an alien galaxy, that the system and the anchors I had known all my life had just been tossed to the winds by a capricious new creative whim. At that point, nothing made sense anymore and there was nothing that could stop what I was about to do: not the perfect double space by the busiest coffee shop in the entire state of Utah, not the promise of a great festival with a great reputation, not the fact that I had been accepted the first time applying ...nothing made sense, except for a good hard run through my beloved desert lands with a destination so unknown that I both yearned and feared to reach it with a perfectly insane mixture of pleasure and pain.

At that time the only thing I saw was a small sliver of clarity. The world turned dark and even the alphabet felt wrong. All I saw was that sliver, a small opening and one fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second to make a decision in both time and space. Well, a hesitant coward I have never been and this was certainly no time to start, not when the alphabet itself had failed reason. So I took the biggest leap of faith of my entire life.

As a good catholic, I had to suffer through a lonely and desperate journey of pain. After leaving the mountains and the road more traveled, I took the thorny path of self-discovery through a valley of desolation ...a trail of tears, if you will. Desperate and alone, I saw only one path. Funny thing was, as I banked a curve I started to see another. A steep hill led to the inevitable easy downhill and a storm was always followed by clear blue skies and the powerful and revitalizing energy of the shining new sun.

Well, as you might have guessed, all that was a metaphor for something else but rather than explain everything in real terms, here is another metaphor. I found, this last weekend, that I needed to change my life; that I needed to get back to a life where I enjoy hummingbirds fluttering in the early morning and the lick of an overgrown puppy is the most delicious breakfast to be had. I suddenly felt strong and true and I knew that this strange destiny had saved me from myself. I have for a long time wanted to climb mountains again, like when I was young and didn't think of them as mountains. I again found there are mountains all around me and I also found that I am--really always was--a mountain climber.

Perhaps my next diary entry will make more sense. Right now I'm living so fast it feels like dog years, just let me enjoy the blissful moment (in dog years, that is), will you?

I'm enjoying a rare lull before a show. Two weeks ago I had a list of things to do so long, I panicked and cranked up the energy until my list was all crossed off...about a week earlier than expected. I would rejoice except that I am now making another list of things I've meant to do for a long time and this one seems to contain more, and longer, projects. But that's how I get things done and keep myself doing. I've been told to slow down, but when I do I just start scheming bigger projects. Getting things done relaxes me, not having anything to do just seems so...boring.

I get asked a lot through visitors of my website what I do on a "typical" day. If there were such a thing, I assume it would be one of those days when I'm at home (rather than at a festival, even less typical) working on my list of things to do, which seems to keep things more organized than not. Incidentally, my list is in electronic form, an ePostIt pasted on my computer screen.
Artist's typical day in a small nutshell:
-Up between 5:30 am and 6:30 depending on how late I stayed up the prior night
-Walk for roughly an hour or 4 miles
-7:00 am - Have coffee and breakfast with my husband, just prior to him departing for work
-Read email (mostly delete 500 spam messages neatly caught in my junk folder)
-8:00 am - In studio to draw, print, carve, dampen paper or whatever I left to do prior day
-12:ish pm - Blood sugar way down, eat something and check email again
-12:20 pm - Back to studio tasks, printing usually occurs now, otherwise, whatever is on my list. Also at this time I run errands while the cats are asleep (have to close the kitty door with all cats accounted for inside the house)
-3:00 pm - Keep going, you're not done yet
-5:30 pm - Too hot in the studio, dip/swim in pool for about 30 mins
-6:00 pm - Husband back, have dinner, watch news (yet another insurgent attack, surprise, blah blah)
-7:00 pm - Office work, mostly. Finish up in the studio/work on website/apply for shows/check web for new shows or apps popping up/work on art festival book/update database/send mailings when appropriate/and a big long etcetera
-8:30 pm - Ride indoor bike or walk (trying to lose weight this year) if there's any energy left
-9:00 pm - 9:30 - Read art magazines or books or watch TV
-10:ish pm - Over and out
(What a geek, huh?)

So, my recent list: I finished a little print for a printmaker's exchange and will promptly mail today, finished framing 18 pieces for an upcoming gallery show (officially, my first solo), finished framing and matting pieces for two upcoming back to back festivals, fixed some display problems, put wheels on two more storage/display boxes (nearly every piece of my display now has wheels; little tiny motors are next, then I can just sit in my vehicle while I direct all my stock to the booth space by remote control), washed a coating of yellow pollen off my walls and canopy top (love those forested festivals in the summer), cleaned and oiled my mountain bike, loaded for the first festival and cleaned the studio.

On the pure art tasks, I finished two more prints which gave birth in my head to about 12 others, sketched those 12 on random pieces of paper which the cats will soon chase under my studio shelves, sanded several cherry boards, sharpened my "road knives", put together my "road demo kit", drew a series of new woodpeople prints, took digital photos and slides of my latest works and cleaned the studio.

An artist's work is never done...off to a festival in two days, then two days off and off to another festival.

I learned a life lesson from the catclaws this summer, a sturdy and stubborn plant of the acacia family that grows (and grows) naturally all over the Mojave. As to why they call it "catclaw" you need only walk amongst them once, preferrably wearing shorts, to figure it out.

In any case, the sturdy and stubborn thing multiplies like crazy, grows without water, resists 115 F temperatures and pretty much just sits there. It blooms late and smells sweet. At some point I tried to get rid of them and one fine morning I set out (without breakfast) and spent the better of the morning hacking at them with trimmer and pick, as the roots of a 4-foot plant are sometimes 5 inches in diameter and hard as the maple I engrave on. As the temperature rose my will diminished and my blood sugar plummeted suddenly. I sat in the shade on my sweaty behind, defeated and exhausted still contemplating a veritable forest of the darned things.

At that moment, while I recovered enough to walk back to the house, I remembered when I was very "catclaw-like" in my youth and nothing seem to faze me or defeat me. Down I would go and up I would rise again, dust off, patch up, recover and renew the voyage (life-voyage, that is). I decided that if the catclaws could take the whacks of my pick for an entire morning and survive...well, long story but short moral, I renamed the area Catclaw Alley and started watering them.

Next day I went back there again in peace mode and saw that there were dozens of birds nesting in and under the prickly bushes. I had not noticed before. Make that two life-lessons: one, that sturdy and stubborn are good things to be when life throws whacks at you; two, that amongst the spines sometimes there might just be a few newborn chicks waiting to take flight.

I'm on the road in the early morning.

I'm working on an image called "roller coaster," a maze like woodpeople image of ups and downs and all arounds...a la Maria of course. Occurred to me while on a "down" right after an "up," which is the way the artist's life is. Seems I'm never quite ready for the ups, so they feel good but they are stressful. And I think that's why the downs come next. I'm ready for the downs and I know they will come.

It is during those low energy times that creativity awakes, as if adrenaline had been an obstacle to unleashing the stuff of the right brain. Problem is during the downs it's tough to get into the productive mode, so while ideas are flowing like rivers, the body is still. I believe it's probably all physiology, then again, I believe everything is based on physiology. Ups are forced by the situation, a festival, a commission, a prize, a flurry of sales or exhibits, adrenaline flows, things have to get done now; invariably will come the downs, a time to recover and a time to rest.

To avoid slipping too deep into a "down" and get the engine cranked up again I clean my studio, which most of the time gets things going again for me. The sight of a piece of cherry is a big turn on. The past few days I wrapped up the loose ends from my last festival in California and got some blocks ready to start. I also finished a block that I had left uncarved on purpose, so I would have something mindless to do when I got back (I'm such a trickster). I really don't like the downs, even when I'm ready for them; I tend to think too much.

Roller Coaster is in the works, as is a series on Seeds to compliment my series on Life of a Tree.

Once upon a time, the show Crafters Coast to Coast from the Home & Garden Television Network (HGTV http://www.hgtv.com) came "casting" to Las Vegas and I inadvertendly raised my hand (I think I was pointing to a sparrow hawk at the time). In any case, they liked the idea of a puzzle color woodcut and a few emails later...the filming was yesterday.
I'm exhausted and with renewed respect for everyone out there who makes their living behind TV cameras.
The camera and lights/sound men, showed up early (8:00am) and started dismanteling my studio to suit their lighting and filming conditions. At this point the cats bolted and have not been heard or seen since...

Producers of the show came a bit later. By 8:30ish, almost all was set. As the show dictates, first I have to act foolish in preparation for the making of my craft. So they liked the flowering hollyhocks, which are absolutely gorgeous this time of year, and we filmed out in the garden for a while. I had to walk amongst the hollyhocks, talk to the hollyhocks, peek from in between the hollyhocks...I acted pretty goofy and they seemed pleased. The hollyhock episode took about an hour or so. Everything has to be filmed twice or three times. All close up camera shots and my lines are at least two takes, more commonly three, even if they are perfect the first time.

Now in the studio the real fun begins. I actually have to talk now, no more one liners (like, "I am Maria Arango", "I live in Las Vegas, Nevada", "I loooooooove color!!!". We begin by clearing out my tables, taping all over everything that is showing a brand name or logo, and taking down or covering any picture on the wall that is not specifically mine.
Every step of the process has to be detailed and I have to explain in a couple of sentences or less how and why I am doing what I am doing. The hardest part to remember is to speak in "I" mode: "Now, I take my pencil and draw" "Here is a perfect piece of wood, I am going to use it" "I like to use my black ink to draw". It's harder than you think, especially if you have taught classes because you tend to speak to your audience and tell them how "they" can do this and that. The other tough thing was to remember to pause whatever I was doing when I talk and look straight into the camera. Rolling out ink makes noise that I didn't realize and interferes with sound, as do traffic helicopters, the wind, the neighbor's dogs, my neckless banging against the microphone...

So we proceed like that, with the producer stopping the action here and there: "Perfect!!! Let's do it twice more" or "Awesome!! Stop and say that exact thing again" Like I remember what the heck I'm saying...
If you think about the steps involved in making a woodcut, you have an idea what I went through. I had to "find" an idea, draw it, draw it again in ink, cover my block with brown ink, oil the block, carve the block, scroll saw the block, lay out my inks ("my" inks, agh), roll up the block, and finally print. Each one of those steps took about 20 minutes or more and I had several blocks at different stages to swap out. I had to not only explain every step but also say interesting things about me or my craft while the "action" was boring.
Their main concern was to show the entire process without spending three days in my studio. So I would begin carving and, once they had filmed enough wood chips flying, I would swap out the block to a half carved block, then same thing and swap to a fully carved block. All the in between steps have to be ready prior to filming, of course, and the blocks had to be identical enough to be able to swap without noticing that the "cake had been baked prior to filming".

Between the actual filming, swaps and the transitions they filmed for 6 hours straight with several breaks. Transitions were the toughest because they had to change the position of the lighting, rearrange yet another part of my studio, etc. "I'm all done carving! Now I get to cut my block into pieces. THAT is my favorite part!" [walk to scroll saw with block] [Do it again with camera man on other side] [Do it again with cameraman following], etc.

All in all, it went pretty smoothly. They were pleased and I was pleased...exhaustedly pleased. I made them laugh, of courser. Having seen the show, mostly I acted like I was entertaining first graders, which they liked a whole lot and I enjoyed. "Ohhhhh boooooy!!! Now I get to print!!! THAT is my favorite part!!!" [smile, grin, make funny face]. Way too much fun, now I know why Bob Ross had a show.

I'm ready for a six hour nap...it was a load of fun but I'm happy it's over.

The "episode" will air sometime in October; I have to call the studio in September and try to find out when air times are likely to be. Should be fun, they made me do a whole lot of crazy stuff (if you watch the show you will see) like karate chop my block into pieces after I say "now it's time to cut my block into pieces" [POW!!!]. All those funny parts are filmed at the end once they have enough material for the actual show.

Now, to find the cats...and where's my agent, dammit---maaaaaaake uuuuuuup!!! my eyebrows are blurring againnnnnnn....

I am still somewhat in shock over the last festival, I never really knew peddlin' art on the street could be so rewarding in so many ways. Someone should have told me about 15 years ago I could make a living this way. But as in all else in life, we live and learn.

This festival was especially rewarding because something made me realize how much I enjoy the humble folk in life. I don't keep many friends (always forget to water the darned things) but the ones who can count on me and that I count on over the years are all humble "real" people. Many of my customers are that way and I love when my art ends up hanging in their homes. This time around I had old friends come by just to say hello and I realized the value of a good friendship, even the far away ones (both in time and space).

This festival was also rewarding because it reminded me that there was a time when I didn't have such a good time. Four short years ago this was my first big festival; I didn't make any money and I found my "peers" to be very rude people, mostly selfish, grumpy and full of bologna. But I stuck it out and just when I was about to decide this life was not for me, the promoters came by and gave me my first art festival prize. I hope I didn't cry, I really don't remember, but I think that moment might have changed a lot of things for me. I also found out that maybe just as many other artists out there are true, in today's lingo, and I feel lucky to have met and continue to meet many of them.

Seems like a long time has passed in those four years and today I feel lucky to be...well, that's it. I found this quote some other place in my website and I just had to bring it back to life. It's how I hope to approach all that life has to give: "Heart, humor and humility lightens up a heavy load." -- Joni Mitchell
Gotta keep moving, more art awaits.

There is a place somewhere along the road that calls me time and time again and I have not found yet the will to resist. It has no name, it has never been written about or immortalized by the illustrious artist or photographed by the crowds. The invitation beckons with a soft but irresistible call, like a furtive friend, not quite sacred but secret for sure and perhaps a bit mysterious and a whole lot foolish.
This place, a mere dry endless view like a thousand others by the side of a thousand desert roads, calls me with a soft call, a luring whisper, neither demanding nor timid: stop by if you can—knowing that I will.

Not this time, I think stubbornly, emphatically even, I have somewhere to get to; the call and the place will still be there next time and I can plan to stop then and maybe spend some time... A futile exercise in refusal, I let the place take over my senses and find myself not knowing what plan I will ever formulate or when the next occasion will be or the meaning of the word maybe. Suddenly there is only now and I watch myself deliberately veer off the road.
I am now aside myself and curiously notice my own glazed eyes, the heart beat in anticipation, the appearance of a resigned smile, that familiar and utterly exhilarating feeling—I must do this and I must do it right now. The original intent of my trip eludes me, there is no road, no deadlines, no rush, nowhere to get to, time stands still, there is only here and now...and the irrepressible force of the call.

I consciously let myself succumb without fear, nor a whit of rational regret. I have been here before and I want to get lost in this place and I want to do it now and again. I step outside and feel once more enamored by the sight. Enveloped in the soft shadows of this imaginary lover's arms, I do nothing, resting in the peace. The moment is dangerous as a real lover, deeply enrapturing and exciting, a tight grip in the gut that momentarily won't yield, an unbearable pain and unthinkable pleasure all at once. I do nothing but stand there in astonishment and bliss, wholly free and perfectly serene.
The disconcerting first moment of passion gone, I find myself surrounded by the affectionate embrace of a familiar friend. All around me a caress that barely touches yet leaves the hint of a lingering soft trace. A clear voice now, no longer a whisper that again calls to come inside, take refuge, stay a while, be in love in the sole company of the desert and its overpowering silence.

All around me there are mountains, always rows of mountains receding toward the distance in fading colors of lavender purple and blue, each layer a bit closer and surrounded, protected, by a warm ground-loving mist.
The distant blue mountains are the most beckoning, the most mystifying and the most dangerously calling. I can hardly distinguish their outlines against the sky yet I know that there must be beautiful and treacherous canyons through them and beyond; getting to them would be a journey to, and through, a complete and barren unknown. Closer lavender chains reveal more of their rugged structure and I can see myself climbing the rocks and scrambling where plants can barely get hold. Closer yet, red, umber and gold and I feel I am there, clawing upward to the summits only to gain access to the next. I could do this, you know, I could go there and climb through those mountains and reach the beyond, each time crossing the hazy mist that separates them, like a bird flying through the clouds.

Eventually I tire of seeking the delights of the horizon and my gaze is guided down the nearby hills and the desert in front of me. There are paths among the hardy desert vegetation and the bare black rocks; paths that aren't really there and that lead nowhere, labyrinths of paths that call me playfully and giggle when I follow. There is sand and compacted rock afoot and desert life everywhere, beaten and whipped by the wind, parched by the sun, alive and shining in a fresh breeze of early morning breath. Tracks of the nightlife on the fleeting sand read like an ancient papyrus of puzzling symbols. The air is cool and quiet and frolics all around me caressing everything with a feather like touch.
I inevitably walk toward the mountains, the first of them at least, the closest hills and rocks sitting like islands in a tranquil sand ocean bathed in gentle waves of creosote and sage. Behind me I notice my footprints and wonder whether I belong and whether I should, at all, be here and now, and whether the night creatures will find some use for the depressions left by my feet.
Sometimes I reach those first little rock islands and sit quietly like one of them and let the wind whip at my folded legs and cover them with sand. Sometimes I just think I have. Yet other times I decide to walk straight to the first peak and not stop until I reach its comforting skirt but often the unseen ravines and hidden washes slow my progress and distract my mind and I end up looking curiously at the relentless tracks of the water on a wash, a strange colorful multilayer rock, or a diminutive bright desert bloom hugging the rugged desert floor.

I'm afraid to get too close as the view changes and the mystical place begins to disappear. I am afraid if I venture into the mist that I will break it and never be awed by it again. I'm afraid to touch, to violate, to do anything that disturbs the peace, that alters the landscape, that steals the feeling, that satisfies the hunger or that squelches the love. I am afraid if I reach the mountains, which so desperately I want to do, that I will reveal their secret and they will never be mysterious again and that they will then cease to call.
I fear even to tell of the secret, to photograph and write it at all and I understand at this moment the way of the call: come get lost inside me but don’t come so close. Just come see what I see, come feel what I feel, come give yourself to me for a moment or more, but come give yourself freely and give yourself wholly. I understand myself just a bit better this time.

I never know if I spend a minute or an hour or a lifetime standing in the midst of this place. Sometimes I don't know how far I have walked in a lover's trance of if I took a step at all. I don't want it to be over, like the wait in anticipation for a love that resolves disappointingly with a first awkward kiss. I don't want the mystery to end; I never want to understand fully, to be deprived of the novelty, the childlike awe, the lover’s feeling, the unquenchable desire for more. There is a point where the call simply ends and I must once more leave the silence, lest it disappears. An unspoken promise lingers on my lips to venture farther next time, to play once more with temptation, to swim deeper in the mist and fly closer to the horizon and always always to answer the call.

Biting cold and howling wind awaken me. A cry in the sky, a dismantled rabbit on the road and the vultures circling softly overhead remind me of the perils, of venturing too far, of (purposely?) not finding my way out, the omnipresent danger of never returning. Once more I settle inside my head—a little ashamed by the encounter but knowing there is no point in resisting—and return to the world.

As I continually struggle with the falseness and entanglements of people and life I realize why I answer this call time and time again; it is the simple and honest way of the desert. It is the gift of a delicious lure without a line, the comfort of an ever-present call without demand, the unconditional devotion of a great unspoken love, the sweet surprise of an unexpected and undemanding gift, the filling warmth of a completely satisfying soft embrace, the comfort of a bid goodbye without a lingering question, and the solid promise to be there every time...until the end of time.

I leave smiling still, delirious still, happy to stop, happier to continue, always surprised at my own weakness and strength, knowing I will inevitably return. I hear myself whisper, I will be back...it seems to respond, I will be here. All along the little voice inside is reaffirming and giving me the confidence and the relentless energy to pursue more, to do more, to see more, to continue learning. This is why I seek solitude, why I must walk into nature, why I love a long drive, how I love others, why I make art, why I work hard, what my eyes see, how I live, why I live.

I pass by again on the return trip, full moon and ragged clouds illuminating the night. I stop again, helpless to deny the call. I sit this time inside the car and watch just for a moment as the darkness disappears and the mystery deepens. My strength is renewed, I can see in the dark. My drive has new impetus; I can feel its pull. I know the desert is there wishing me safe passage and to return—when I can, but soon—as it knows I will.

 

Finally on the last festival we enjoyed great weather, a healthy crowd and an overall awesome trip. On the way down to the Sonoran desert from the Mojave, I noticed that the desert was exploding with color, much more so than I ever remember. I made a mental note to stop on the way back and--well, smell the flowers!

I did just that, except desert flowers don't smell like much and every time you stoop down something pokes you, pinches you or bites you. But I dutifully left at the crack of dawn, as usual, and sat just North of Phoenix waiting for the sunrise. At first, the shy sunrise scarcely lights up the lightest blooms, but soon the warmth of the morning sun lit up the desert with the brightest multicolor carpet.

Screeching to a halt while pulling a loaded trailer isn't exactly all that safe I suppose, but when you see "that" spot, you have to stop! I stopped many many times, mostly to enjoy because the photos don't tell the whole story. A cropped still, no matter how big, cannot possibly show the vastness of the desert dressed in greens and yellows. A few blooms here in the corner of this photo don't show the rest of the magenta and purple carpet extending from my feet to the end of the horizon. Here a spot with white and yellow flowers so bright they looked like they were lit in a neon glow. There a cluster of orange globe mallow blooms surrounded by purple chia. Daisies everywhere...green carpet everywhere. You have to see the desert in its most driest summer day to fully appreciate the diminutive yellow creosote blooms, the soft lavender flowers of the sage and the tinsiest magenta blooms caressing the desert floor.

Almost too much to fully appreciate, I finally decided to get on and appreciate the scenery without stopping again (translation: I ran out of memory cards and batteries). The Joshuas had been blooming for two weeks now and were now competing for the largest cluster of yellow panaches. Lower lying yuccas also shooting up their stalks fully dressed in blooms. In various spots on the curving road, the red and black rocks surrounded by yellow blooms and carpeted in green and magenta spots. With the sun higher up in the sky, the effect was that of backlit color, almost too bright to believe.

Sigh...so here is my photo album from that trip home and another consequent adventure in which I kidnapped my husband and took him out for a little hike in the desert, near the Colorado river. I have lived in the desert since 1974 and I think this is the first time I have seen such colors, such an explosion of blooms. Oh, and to the truck driver who saw me flip a sudden u-turn in an unlikely curve on the road...sorry 'bout that buddy! It was a photo emergency, 100 year bloom, ya know.

My my...we're talkative this year, aren't we? Just got back from the last festival, a little gem in the midst of outrageously beautiful desert in Southern Utah. Easy festival, easy drive, easy set up...and yes, it did rain again off and on all weekend. I set up in the rain once more, with the experience of last weekend I seem to be getting pretty good at handling wet poles and canopies. I just spent my "spare time" today unloading the trailer, drying poles, canopy, walls and panels with the help of a bit of sun that poked shyly between the clouds and several dozen towels. I am also getting pretty good and unloading and loading the trailer (and some people pay to work out at a gym...).

The festival was great despite bitter cold (I had seven layers on one day and still felt myself shivering) and gentle and not-so-gentle sudden showers. Friendly folk all around and people in a shopping mood. But I decided to write a little something because I found myself again in a great mood. I sat surrounded by breathtaking desert, reds and greens highlighted by the filtered light and just screaming with wet color.

And there were rainbows every time the rain stopped and the sun came out, so many bright rainbows that on the last day we almost missed the best one of all. This parting shot offered us the gift of the full spectrum against the darkest sky of the weekend, it was almost surreal. I left my booth for a moment, camera in hand, and took photos of the bright red sandstone under the leaden sky. Upon returning I saw that my booth, in full rain gear, had been under the rainbows the entire time waiting for me.

Maybe it's an omen for the coming year...

Where did my time go? I thought I had almost three leisurely months to catch up on everything and get some serious work done? Now I'm scrambling again between festivals...must be spring! I have come to terms with the fact that I like to keep just a bit more busy than I can handle. Seems if I don't I feel like I am not driving myself hard enough, must be a Spanish thing. I make lists of things to do, usually on my electronic Post-It notes so I can throw them away at will without wasting paper. Most things on the list either get done or I get bored with the idea and toss it with a click of the mouse.

Today, in getting ready for a little festival, I decided it was okay to work harder. Working, like printmaking, is a process for me, not just merely a means to an end but a process to be enjoyed, every minute to be squeezed for all its rewards. Working is much like traveling also, there is a place to go, sure, but the time spent on the road is sure glorious. On that note, I better check the air pressure on those trailer tires.

Stinkin' rain again! What is this? The dry Southwest is going nuts this year and I have had more water than I can stand...not that I am complaining, mind you, the water is very good for the desert, we are in the middle of a quadrillion year drought and we do have a well in our back yard that could use a healthy aquifer. But could the heavens just please do their benevolence on week days and leave the weekends to the weekend artists?

Oh, all in jest, of course. I just got back from a festival and set up in the rain which goes something like this. First you take everything out of the trailer and cover it up with tent walls, then you build the blasted tent pole by wet slick pole, at which time you can take your wet walls off the (hopefully) dry art work and shove everything quickly inside the tent. On a positive note, the wind was not blowing, so the rain was faithfully obeying the law of gravity and coming straight down in a very well behaved manner.

Next, while stepping on boxes and straddling bags of bungee cords (which reminds me, I really have to sort out the bungee cord and clamp mess I have made over the years; I could build a mountain cabin from the sheer multitude of bungee cords and clamps that I carry)--sidetracked again...oh yeah, while stepping on stuff, I attempt to think of a pleasant yet rain safe set up for my gallery panels. Soon the panels are up and I am pondering about my sanity, which I do often, perhaps daily. Other artists have gone home and will not set up at all today (Thursday) or even Friday. No sense of adventure, I repeat, as I slip off my wet foldable ladder and about dislocate an ankle. Fortunately it is double jointed from my soccer days and I have no trouble at all popping it back in place. 11:00 PM comes quicker than usual and I decide to give it up and hang art tomorrow. I can show up late because nobody in Scottsdale comes out of the house in the rain. Should be a good "book-day."

Of course I am back at it at 7:00 AM, curse at the gentle incessant rain and hang my art and prep my little gallery by 8:30. I predict a rather slow day, although a good day to chat with my fellow artists and sip coffee. Still many artists, the ones without sense of stupi--I mean sense of adventure, have not set up. Sadly, this makes the few visitors that have ventured out into the festival think that the festival is rained out today. The few of us that have offerings sit and wait. I actually made a sale today, to someone from Vancouver...blessed are the travelers from far away lands!

I also could have sold several booths and some of my clear walls that keep the rain out while letting people still see the art. But having none extra in hand, I rather enjoyed the peace of John Muir's "My First Summer in the Sierra", which my restless mind eagerly swallowed by 4:00 PM. Saturday went by much the same, although not having to get up so early and full of instant oatmeal and strong coffee, it seemed much easier to bear (I still ponder about my sanity, in fact, today I decide I have none). Hopes were high for Sunday, when the clouds were supposed to lift and the sun shine and the festival run its happy course. And as advertised the sun shone and the crowds appeared and they were eager to buy.

As I made my last sale well past closing time, I found that people complain too much and whine excessively, as if whining in unison would somehow create a force to make the rain stop and the customers spend money. I had fun, started the season with a great festival run by great people and made enough to make it all worthwhile. I also had a visitor that made my whole weekend, a friend that I had met once before and "talked" with on the internet. She was quite peppy and I feared for my reputation as the peppiest person in the show. Truly made my day.

Mostly I had time to think about this coming year and about having found a life I love to live. I can't wait until I get those precious letters from shows I have not tried in places I have not yet visited. In talking with a new artist who was timidly thinking about trying some festivals I found that I truly love this crazy gipsy life.

Upon returning home I rediscovered some simple pleasures, like the trees and flowers think it's already spring and my father is well and it is great to get a good wet licking from dogs that miss me and take a few naps with purring cats. Rain? What rain? Let's get the festival year rolling...

Two more festivals to go and back to the world of the living. This past
weekend was an experiment that I will not conduct again regarding indoor
festivals. I had done the festival before and done fair but thought with
improvements in my display and an offering of little prints I could have
some fun. Well, I did make some money, barely, but 'twas no fun at all.
Overall people seemed much more fascinated with 4 flavors of toasted
soy-beans (in two different sizes!) than with woodcuts or photography (my
other lonely neighbor).
We squealed enough money to make it worth while when at about closing time
on Sunday...it started raining. Never stopped. Load in and out of an indoor
festival usually is a pain anyway because you have to haul everything from
the loading dock or curb to the recesses of your spot--NEVER seemingly
conveniently located anywhere...convenient. But with no tent to set up and
haul and no wind to spoil the soup, things are usually much calmer and
civilized.

Not this time. It was raining at break down, which meant hauling stuff in
the rain. The kicker was that there was some sort of a concert (local jazz
band) starting as we were trying to leave. By "we" I mean 250 artists, with
approximately 10% motor-homes pulling trailers, 30% other assorted vehicles
pulling trailers and other large vans and trucks. Since folks were coming in
to park for the concert, parking for those of us needing two spaces was
going to be hell. No problem, I broke down the booth in less than 45 minutes
(curse efficiency!) and waited patiently. Patience and adrenaline don't mix
well, the latter often winning out. After 30 minutes of sitting, I went and
retrieved my truck/trailer and by some sort of miracle, a van pulling a
trailer decided at that moment to leave. I pulled in quickly just missing
their back bumper in order to avoid the circling vehicles sneaking in front
of me. As I pulled through, a little Mercedes tried to muscle in front of me
but I just kept going and intimidated them into backing right back out. I
never heard a rich person curse so well, but there I had an advantage too
having worked in places she wouldn't even dare enter.

Now, with my trailer just 60 yards from the loading dock, it was a matter of
either starting to load out in the rain or waiting for a curb spot. Just
then, the security force decides that the loading dock and curb have to be
cleared because the situation is too dangerous. It was indeed dangerous:
cars were driving through, trailers being backed as children walked by to
the concert, vans squealing their tires as they tried to smart each other
and grab an empty spot...
Security calls the LV Police and they cleared the curb and dock, an action
that took an hour, included tow trucks and one arrest. By this time there is
nowhere to park at all in the parking lot. Most artists were about 500 yards
from the loading door. Did I mention it was raining?

So with the new developments, I called myself lucky (might get a tattoo that
says "lucky," still thinking about it) and started hauling my stuff out.
Takes 15 trips, in case anyone cares. I didn't have anything to cover my
boxes but they are mostly wood and they all have wheels so my work suffered
minimally. The river of water between the loading doors and the parking lot
was now about knee deep in several spots. I watched as artists lost their
entire loads as their carts collapsed when they hit a hole that was hidden
by the stream of water. Again, I was lucky to survive the 15 trips
unscathed, albeit completely soaked. I won't get into what it feels like to
load display and artwork into a trailer in pitch dark while raining. For the
two hours that it took me to walk and load everything, I just kept
repeating: "These are the times that try men's souls..."

Well, I should be tired and depressed and ready for the gallery scene, but
amazingly I seem to be perfectly fine. Recovery from such things is a
practiced skill (scotch and chinese food help, not necessarily in that
order). Once I got home and dried up, I was ready to stat matting stuff for
my next show. Which reminds me, I better take the display panels out of the
trailer and let them dry out a bit. The sun is out today!

August 31, 2004

A good friend of mine and superb NY artist wrote these about me. I just loved them so I'm uploading them on my diary to be in public view forever more. Enjoy!

There once was a carver of prints
Whose imagination evinced many a wince.
Her brain was so loaded
It nearly exploded.
She hasn't been heard from since.

There once was a worldwide quest
For a carver who was truly the best
Who takes all the medals
And bicycle pedals -
A virtual cyclone of zest.

There once was a carver of note
Who, when trying to carve out a goat,
Did such a good job,
She attracted a mob
That featured her on the 4th of July float.

Carol Lyons
Irvington, NY

July 6, 2004

By the time the sun peeks over the Eastern horizon I've been on the road an hour plus change. It's a habit; the day I go back home I like to be ahead of everyone, even the sun. Invariably I awake in the quiet, load up and head on home with a song in my head--only in my head, because at that time I dare not disturb the silence of the desert dawn.
At that early hour, there is no traffic, no trucks to contend with, no tourists, no lights to stop my steady progress. Later, the town awakes, but by then I'm between the unlikely towns of Yerington and Hawthorne enjoying the first shy light and the empty road; not a breeze blowing, not a bird singing, not yet a light shines in any house. In fact, if I may borrow the phrase, not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse.

But mice there are, as there are lizards and scorpions and toads and even lovely creatures like jackrabbits and roadrunners and the occasional coyote. By now, at first light, they have all abandoned their nightly busy lives and are tucked into their safe holes. Yet the other desert dwellers--humans--are not yet aware of the wonder outside.
Seemingly there is nothing to see, but I know better. I know there are cattle guards flanking dirt roads that lead to nowhere, up there into those nameless hills. There is that mountain, who would own a name in any other state, but here it is just another purple and red and black mountain with a dirt road maybe leading right to it, maybe not, without a name or a sign to tell me how far I must drive to lap at its fuzzy skirt. I'm sure it is beautiful up there between the craggy canyons, but I don't stop; not this time.
There is the light frosting the sandy tops of the buffalo grass clumps and lighting the olive leaves of the creosote, playing games of light and shadow with the tracks left on the white dunes by the desert life. There are the slate white spiny skeletons of the purple sage, now dormant until next spring when flowers will burst from the blue spines as if splattered by a crazy desert artist (no offense, Mr. Pollock). Another fleshy mauve mountain range in the distance, the tallest of them all, embarrassingly naked in the summer and anxiously awaiting its next winter white dress.

And then, of course, there is the road. That strange lined straight way that leads a willing adventurer to everywhere, a poet to write and an artist to paint. The road dutifully climbs every pass between mountains--and there are mountains everywhere in Nevada--and descends into every golden valley curving here, twisting there and yet always finding the straighter path. Sometimes it will tattle-tell how far the destinations with a green sign shot full of shotgun holes; sometimes it will keep quiet for miles and miles of enchanting landscape hypnotizing and beckoning to follow. Sometimes it plays hide and seek and disappears into a curve, just beyond the red rocky hills; yet others it seems to lead forever into the valleys to eventually disappear in the horizon, blending into a silvery shimmer with earth and sky.
As if guarding my drive, a row of electric poles, endless as the landscape itself--T----T----T----T----T--giving rhythm to my thoughts. I want to remember every detail of every color of every mountain and valley and the contrast of the shadows and the passing of the dancing soft light, yet know that words will be frustratingly inadequate to describe what I feel. I want to stop and perhaps try to capture the scenes with a still photo, yet know that pictures don't feel the vastness or taste the dry air and inevitably disappoint.

I stop at a rest stop, the only one outside a town in the 500 mile trip. The air feels warm and every living thing seeks the shade of the clump of trees fed by an unbelievable underground spring. I want to capture the scene again and remind myself that somewhere in my closet there are already photos of this spot. I give up and just look around, just beyond the rudimentary barbed wire fence and the sand dunes. Mountains surround me, mountains of every shape and color and arranged in layers like a theater set, except there are infinite layers of fading sands, reds, golds, purples and blues melting into the sky.

Yesterday in the pines surrounded by green and cool mountains and inches away from the bluest mountain lake; today magically in the rugged hot desert--500 miles away-- to sleep tonight in my own bed. And at the touch of a button I can share the whole thing with 1000 friends; tell me life isn't all about magic.

April 22, 2004

So there I was...
...sitting (where else!) at an art festival this past weekend, pondering about what would happen if there was ever REALLY world peace but mostly on whether I should re-tighten the straps that hold the weights on the corners of my booth. The wind was blowing pretty hard, probably gusting to 40 miles per hour although fortunately I enjoyed shelter from a nearby building.
The setting near darn idyllic as far as art festivals go. A little shopping village reminiscent of The Prisoner but without the eerie feel. My booth overlooked a view of the distant mountains and yet another one of those desert aberrations we call "artificial lake." But they're so pretty, these bodies of water in the midst of tumbleweed land. This one, get this, is purified drinking water; yes, I said purified drinking water artificial lake in the middle of the godforsaken desert surrounded by greenery which rightfully belongs a few parallels North of here. Just when I began really pondering about the surrealism of the whole thing...

...A young lady waltzes into my booth, glass of wine in hand. Never trust anyone that drinks white wine, says an old Spanish ditty (red is the thing over there, you see, because the French drink white wine and the Spaniards, red). I smirk a little and ask her if she had any questions--BIG MISTAKE.
"Yeah," this goddess with the perfect body in tights replies, "how do you do these exactly?"
Well, that's not an unusual question, but she had been looking at my nifty carved sign with print glued aside that explains the process in four simple steps: Design, Carve, Ink, Print (http://www.1000woodcuts.com/fullsize/artofthewoodcut.html)

But despite my teaching efforts, a lot of people still ask...mostly those under 9 years of age. The fact that she was taller than me meant little, since I'm short--maybe she was a very tall 9 year old with boobs and make-up. But never mind all that--dutifully, I said:
"I carve a block of wood, then I roll ink over the parts I didn't carve..." I'm going through the motions right on a partially carved block. When I finish explaining and "printing" my imaginary print she asks the next question.
"So what's this called?" Harder to keep a straight face now because I also have a sign right above me that says: Woodcut Prints.
"Woodcut Prints" I say.
"Woooooooow, these are beauuuutiful!" (Now we're getting somewhere,although I can tell by the tights there is no wallet and there is no cute little purse anywhere in sight).

She looks around for a while, going back and forth between the above mentioned explanatory sign and the prints. I know I'm in trouble when a little pouty frown appears on her face.
"So then how do you get the blocks so thin?"
(huh?) "You are looking at the print. It's ink on paper. I carve the block, but then the ink is pressed on to a piece of paper; like a stamp." I say, with a sigh. I hate to use the stamp analogy, but it works with 9 year olds.
"Wwwwwooooooooooowwwww, they are reeeeally beauuutiful." Pause.
Pouty frown. Pause...frown...pause...frown...
"And then you slice the blocks real thin so they fit in the frames? Wow, how do you do that?"
(I give up)
"With a laser saw" I say before I could help myself.
"Woooww, really? A laser saw!"
There was a chance here for me to come back to reality and fess up and try to explain a little better, but I had stepped into the world of this nice lady's brain and there was no turning back.

"So then once you slice the wood with the laser you paste it onto the paper?"
(The saw or the wood? I almost asked but thought that might be confusing)
"That's right, it's very tedious because sometimes the wood slices break, they are very delicate" Here I thought I heard a di-du di-du di-du di-du...you know, the sound that you hear when you enter the twilight zone?
Through a thick fog of surrealism I thought I still heard a few more wooooowwwwwww, beauuuuuutifullll...but by now I was in need of a glass of wine and wondering how to get out of this self-created vortex.
No time.
"I get it! you paste them backwards on the paper to make sure you can tell them apart, right?" (I nodded, a little scared now...was she toying with me?) "You should call them wood slices," she said. "Then people could understand...you are sooooooo talented!"
(I sat there helpless trying to get back to reality for a moment, decided against it. There was more to the conversation, about leaving some slices thicker than others and painting some slices with paint so they would show better against the paper...)

Then the unthinkable happened.
"I think I want one of the thick slices," she said pointing at an original block tagged at $975.
I felt a little like I was in a deli counter and almost asked her if she wanted tomatoes with her slice. But I refrained just as a credit card appeared out of the tights and she grabbed her "slice" right off the wall.
"Some people take the thin slice with the thick slice so that others can see how they are done," I heard myself saying. It's called suggestive selling, I learned at McDonald's...would you like some fries with that?
"The art becomes a conversation piece," I added for good measure.
"Thanks! That's a greeeaaaat idea!" she smiled brightly thanking me for helping her with that decision, I assume. "I'll take the thin slice too, then. That's a great idea..."

Well, all's well that ends well I suppose. I actually wrote down thick-slice and thin-slice on the receipt, instead of block and print...you gotta have some fun. But I also snuck in some of my woodcut propaganda in there. Maybe someday she will read it.

It took me quite a while to get back to the real world; the drinking water lake behind me didn't help much. And every time I think about the "conversations" that will go on under the "slices" in this woman's home...I just have to shake my head and smile.

Where am I?

March 24, 2004

Back from the road again. I think about a lot of things during the drives, but then I forget; seemingly, all the little things that bother or excite us aren't all that memorable. Perhaps that is what I noticed this spring, how life just keeps churning along with or without us. People like me wonder if I will get to do everything I want to do, see all I want to see. I also noticed the stars!

Now I remember! I usually drive so early that the stars are still up and shining bright. And this time I drove in the evening, getting home just after midnight. I noticed, once out of the bright lights of the city, particularly bright stars; the milky way visible across the sky. Thousands? of stars just up there. They made me think of many things, mostly that there are so many! It was comforting to have them up there, like the rainbows; an awesome spectacle that we miss when in the city.

I stopped often, just to look at them and because stopping keeps me fresh. The air was cool and the road quiet. Just me and the stars in their capricious configurations while I walked in the desert to stay alert. I was reminded once more that I must learn their names, maybe not all of them, but surely I can learn a few! And that brought thoughts of all the things I want to get done, not today or tomorrow, but in life. I have a lifetime, a galaxy full of minutes...but there are also a gazillion things I need to get done...

Maybe I should write my to-do list on the stars; then I could check one off for every art piece done, one for every town I see, one for every home improvement project, one for every friend met, one for every book read, one for every skill learned, one for every song heard... Mostly I guess I want to learn as much as there are stars, if I had to prioritize my star-to-do list. Mostly I want to keep doing things, art things preferably. In any case, I was mesmerized by them on this trip and promised to learned their names and to notice them more; after all, they shone on me for free all through the night.

So there I was, with my neck out the window and Orion over my shoulder, when the city lights magically dispersed all the stars away. Maybe once we get home we don't need the stars so much anymore, that's why they shine on us on the road and go shine on someone else once we get home. Maybe they comfort and guide while we are alone in the dark and save their millions of twinkling happy lights for when we really need them. What a treat, the stars!

 

January, 2004

During my latest travels I noticed that I see many sunrises and sunsets. I don't know their significance but sunrises and sunsets make me feel good for different reasons and most importantly, give me a sense of continuity. Seeing them also tells me that being an artist means working long days and sometimes long nights, but being of Spanish character, working is where I feel most "right" about myself.

But back to the sunrises and sunsets, they intrigued me because after three years I was really looking at them and wondering what it is about these two events that is so satisfying. Sunrises and their tingling soft colors, like the beginning of a new year, tell me about opportunity and wonder. They are a chance to start anew, to repair mistakes and refresh friendships and redefine goals and countless other beginnings. Sunrises give us a fresh new start...every single day.
Sunsets give us rest, marking the end of good and bad days alike, giving their own opportunity to stop and renew. At sunset and beyond we can wipe off the day's messes, rest weary bones, rethink our whole existence or just lay down and drift off to sleep knowing that we got through whatever the day brought and we deserve a quiet night.

But the most intriguing thing about sunrises and sunsets is that they continue to come and go, giving us opportunities and giving us rest, assuredly so, every day and every night. Matters not how good or how bad things have been or might be, there are new beginnings and new ends daily. And as much as I look forward to the peaceful sunset of a cold windy day, I also look for the moment, during a drive in the desert, when the new sun will just peek above the horizon in the tinted sky and give the land a bath of new warmth and new energy. I guess all this came about because the beginning of the year can be the ultimate sunrise, the ultimate opportunity. And while the continuity from year to year and day to day is most important, sunsets and sunrises also give us a moment in time, a still instant in which to pause and...then move along.

Well, again, I don't know exactly what all that means...only that there is a delicious secret to sunrises and sunsets and that I want to see many many more and keep rolling along.

---

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