tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81885330553788831132024-03-18T20:07:29.311-07:00Studio PardesPat Allen's reflections on art, spirit, and community.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-74877183635690628872012-10-01T13:26:00.000-07:002012-10-01T13:26:06.454-07:00Group Intention: A New Way to Work TogetherThis is the first in a series of posts exploring new developments in the <a href="http://www.patballen.com/pages/process.html">Open Studio Process</a>. The power of intention as a personal practice to guide art making and as a means of navigating our reality is well known to those of us who have made the practice a part of our lives. The OSP holds that intention is the way we connect to the Creative Source. What does this mean? Beyond our individual rational mind is what I call the "place of all possibility," the quantum space where all the possible choices in any given moment reside. In every moment we call forth a particular reality and collapse the infinite possibilities into one. This goes on below the threshold of awareness most of the time. We are rarely aware that choices are being made; we simply think we see "reality." The Open Studio Process challenges us to look at our closely held views and ask "What else can this be? Is there another way to understand this?" Recognizing that our consciousness is by definition limited, working with intention challenges us to carefully examine our thoughts in order to bring into being the reality which meets our highest ideals.<br />
Groups working together are often unaware that as individuals they may hold differing and even contradictory intentions for their work together. I have been experimenting with group intention, which is simply working toward a shared language about what is to be called into being, making art to access that place of possibility and then receiving through witness new information and clarity of purpose.<br />
I'd like to share an example of an experience of shared intention and some observations about how this works.<br />
I recently attended a strategic planning meeting of the<a href="http://www.openstudioproject.org/"> Open Studio Project,</a> the community space in Evanston, IL that provides the Open Studio Process and facilitator training programs along with a host of special community groups. Those present included past and present staff, board members, and me. I am a co-founder of the Open Studio Project, but I do not have a formal role in the structure presently. I often help teach in the facilitator training program and go there to make art when I am in town. I am a compassionately interested outsider.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soul of the Open Studio Project</td></tr>
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After a discussion of issues and challenges facing the studio we were left with about 30 minutes of meeting time. Some present had stated initially the wish to have art making as part of the meeting but here we were with a practical need to identify next steps for the strategic process of running the business of the studio and not much time. I think it is fair to say that even in this group of folks experienced with the Open Studio Process it felt at that moment like an "either-or" situation. Either we do the hard work of articulating work steps or the pleasurable activity of making art.<br />
I suggested we use identifying next steps as a group intention, make art, witness and see what happens, essentially employing the Open Studio Process to access answers from the Creative Source. This suggestion was embraced. Because of my particular role, I stated my intention thusly : "I receive clarity about next steps for the OSP and how I am involved in that." My image came quickly. An excerpt from the witness said: "..the plant is a reminder that all growth is organic and the white is the spirit that remains alive." The spirit identified itself as the soul of the OSP "Just show up together and I show up too" the image said. All well and good but what about the nitty gritty of specific steps? I wanted to know. The image then suggested we reverse the order of the meeting next time and make art before engaging in the discussion. "Let yourselves feel me and dissolve a bit in me; then the nitty gritty isn't so tedious."<br />
Someone mentioned they had tried making art first at a meeting but everyone got off on their own tangents. The key here is the joint intention. We all enter any group endeavor with varying degrees of focus and energy on any given day. The art process can contain us as individuals or as a group entity depending on what we are trying to accomplish. Having a shared group intention to serve the needs of the studio allows each person to show up at the level they can that day in service to something larger than themselves. By contrast, making an individual intention about whatever is most urgent in one's own life means we are very likely to be pulled more deeply into our own process which will not shed light on ways to serve the larger goal of the running of the studio.<br />
What was also striking to me was that I did not receive an answer about next steps. That answer came to others present who are more central to the day to day working of the studio. It is not my place to guide the strategic plan but rather to offer the perspective of an engaged outsider, a useful perspective but different from that of a key staff member or board member. This was a great lesson to me.<br />
I would love to hear from anyone who tries this out. Are you part of a group that might benefit from forming a group intention to guide their process? Please let me know your experience and share in honing this new edge of the Open Studio Process.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-1752468273770093582011-09-08T22:29:00.000-07:002011-09-08T22:29:42.393-07:00It's All About the PracticeAs storms dissolve our roads and bridges and chaos dissolves our sense of an orderly life, the obstacles to creativity are dissolving too. This is a theme that has surfaced in conversations with a number of friends lately. This is a good thing, right? Things that have before seemed difficult or out of reach are flowing with ease. The time between stating a clear intention and having it manifest is becoming shorter and shorter. An example from my experience is a show of works I made this summer that currently hangs in the Farmer and the Cook, an Ojai, CA cafe. I decided to follow the advice I give others and go into my studio every day and just make work. For some time I had been collecting phrases from the daily newspaper that struck me. No criteria except that visceral 'hit' that a combination of words taken out of context can sometimes deliver, a sort of found poetry or enigmatic fragment. I wrote these down on index cards without a plan. In the studio it occurred to me to paint the words onto colored backgrounds just really as an exercise, something to do. I love mixing colors and painting them over old canvases or over failed watercolors on heavy Arches paper, paper too good to throw away. In a sense it was all a recycling project. Collecting bits of text, discarding the sense or meaning, covering over old tentative marks, lining up the index cards to see which ones still gave me that 'hit.' These elements constitute art making as practice. It doesn't matter exactly what the actions are, it matters that actions are performed regulary. Like warm-up stretches for dancers or scales played by musicians, art practice is done out of faith in the process of creativity. Practice is relational, it is about showing up to play with the Creative Source. Then at some point, pleasure happens, that thrilling moment when the mark is simply exquisite and what was rote reveals beauty. Beauty causes sensation to reverberate in the body, it echoes up and down the spine, it sends a tingle in the hands, the feet, the groin, sometimes even a tear to the eye. Such a moment is sublime and it is dangerous. Most of us are unschooled in how to appreciate pleasure. Pleasure rocks the boat. The mind which had been lulled into quiet by the repetitive action of the practice is suddenly roused and feels compelled to name that sensation. Oh the mind, the dear, dear mind! It doesn't matter what name the mind assigns: "success", "fluke", "breakthrough", "accident", the pleasure of the bodily sensation has fled, replaced by a feeling of disorientation that many of us quell by reaching for substances: food, drink, drugs or distractions of phone, internet, email. I told my friend Jon today when we were discussing these weighty issues that the thing to do in those moments of grace when art happens is to stop and say thank you. The Jews, as always, have a special blessing for such things called the Shehekianu, which blesses the Divine for bringing us to this particular moment of existence, but a simple, heartfelt "Thank you" can do the trick. Then, sit and breathe, in and out until the sensation, that thrill of discovery or shiver of brilliance, is fully distributed throughout your whole being. Relax into it, breathe in deeply this tonic because that is how we evolve in complexity and beauty, how we become skilled and disciplined in our art. We are building our tolerance for pleasure. <br />
So those word paintings I made? I made enough of them that they felt like they constituted a body of work (which for me means there were enough so some were edited out of the final group). I thought, "Gee, it might be nice to actually show them." Having practiced at receiving pleasure with grace I was able to accept the offer to show them without my mind forming endless objections ("They aren't that good", "There aren't enough pieces", "What if nobody likes them"). Breath in, breath out, make the work, show the work, see the mind, quiet the mind, feel the body, hear the body. Work, play, say thank you. Enjoy. Repeat.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-34702462794333802862009-09-27T08:46:00.000-07:002009-09-27T09:09:02.999-07:00God the Mother<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm1wreaJZ4GxcHl1xLuA8D4bW3w5BjMweg-GbFyDdCAPxOW1G_AuFA2-RzjWVnyhNZMOciPUaMcpwBO10ssKb4iYd0YwrVNEDU3EdznkKOZfoHU9NAibCoO5RicAGyP9ZQdYrgHqPAebk/s1600-h/+tree+wounds+2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm1wreaJZ4GxcHl1xLuA8D4bW3w5BjMweg-GbFyDdCAPxOW1G_AuFA2-RzjWVnyhNZMOciPUaMcpwBO10ssKb4iYd0YwrVNEDU3EdznkKOZfoHU9NAibCoO5RicAGyP9ZQdYrgHqPAebk/s320/+tree+wounds+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386175619875114322" /></a><br />During a discussion about preparing for the High Holidays at my synagogue recently I made the vow to experience the season in relationship to the feminine, and especially mother, aspect of God. We had been discussing the nature of the holidays and I shared that I found the services performative in the extreme and frankly resented the idea that someone else, a religious professional, needed to do my praying for me. Our new rabbi, Max Weiss, in response to my comment said that the holidays are really ABOUT the religious professionals. The form harkens back to temple days when the priest did engage in the rituals on behalf of the community and these days of awe offered the priest an opportunity to demonstrate his humility to the community as well as to God, to petition that the community not be punished for his lapses, and to ask for forgiveness for any ways in which he failed the community. Put into this context I was able to feel more kindly to what I experience as a dissonant yearly charade of obeisance to God in the aspect I have spent a great deal of my life deconstructing: the harsh judge, the capricious, angry, jealous patriarch. Because I believe our words and actions create our reality I feel strongly about not wanting to add to the strength of an image of God that I find deforming of human potential to do good, be happy and love one another. I make every effort to operate from compassion and not from fear, which is the underlying message of the High Holiday God sealing in his big book who will live and who will die. <br /> As we were wrapping up our discussion of “Hineni,” which in our synagogue is recited dramatically by the cantor as she makes her way from the back of the hall to the bima, I asked the question, “What would this prayer mean if we experienced God as mother?” One of my fellow discussants said emphatically, “It would be completely unnecessary!” Her remark, like the rabbi’s, helped me see why my negative reaction to the services is so strong. The aspect of the Divine with whom I cultivate a relationship is speaking the words on the first page of the prayer book from Exodus Rabbah 19.4 “The Holy One does not reject a single creature. Rather, all are acceptable to God. The gates are open at all times, and all who wish may enter.” I grew up in the Roman Catholic faith and my mother died when I was quite young so I believe I took in the harshness of the patriarchal God who, I was told, ‘took those to himself who he most loved.” My character was formed by my loss and the deviant sentiment offered as comfort to a child whose mother suffers horribly and then dies. My conversion to Judaism was sparked by the need to argue with God, to object, to protest. I had no doubt of the existence of the Creative Source from which all things flow, that was obvious to me as a child. What I gained in Judaism is the understanding of the covenantal relationship in which God manifests through the words and acts of humans, not from some cloudy place in the sky.<br />My practice as a child was to leave my body whenever possible, theoretically because it was both the near occasion of sin and something that needed to be cast off before one can join the Divine. Really it was because it is in the body that we experience pain, both physical and emotional. The pain of my loss overwhelmed me and revealed the flaws in the God I had been taught. I lived deeply in my imagination and while I benefited from learning to dwell there, something also was lost. Without being fully embodied I lost the capacity for empathy, the capacity for relationship. <br />Judaism doesn’t perfectly teach its adherents to live fully embodied lives but the emphasis on our actions, on tzedakah as well as prayer, that avodah means both work and worship, and, especially the making of space for dissent as a practice of faith, all these allow the body to be present. My choice, because it is a choice, is to embody the ethic of care that calls for truth but with compassion, justice informed by generosity and worship that is alive, joyful and embodied. If this is the God we live, this is the God who manifests. This is God, the Mother, with whom life can be messy, imperfect, where food is prayer and touch is prayer and sitting under a tree and watching the light on the leaves is prayer where praise for Her every manifestation is the prayer that enlivens Her and us. My teshuvah is then a return to conscious awareness of deep gratitude for all that is, especially the body through which I experience all that is. <br />I will join my community tonight for kol nidre with more understanding and empathy for our religious professionals. Tomorrow, I will fast from food in order to come closer to appreciating the miracle of nourishment when I resume eating at sundown with friends. But I will spend the day with my feet on the earth, my eyes to the sky watching the sun filter through the leaves. I will spend time with my Mother and pray to learn how to manifest Her in the coming year in joy, for the highest good, embodied. For God, the Mother, not only are the gates open but so are Her arms, ready to enfold us in joy for our simply being.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-61008456445015911312009-09-01T18:36:00.000-07:002009-09-02T07:24:20.656-07:00The Joy of Movement<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzfbOnR-mvZuG1egIxQDPc_BDUCzecRcV7MZTCCA5w_YjY1Es2jXQejWnk4wMKgibb5zY0I53pKUtkBQJrhzlSG4blSHg_QEGieZiuFKmR1Iz6Gm56JWPZ2KLrbiBTcTnlyi1yaPH6Z0/s1600-h/aytz.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzfbOnR-mvZuG1egIxQDPc_BDUCzecRcV7MZTCCA5w_YjY1Es2jXQejWnk4wMKgibb5zY0I53pKUtkBQJrhzlSG4blSHg_QEGieZiuFKmR1Iz6Gm56JWPZ2KLrbiBTcTnlyi1yaPH6Z0/s320/aytz.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376678427556960066" /></a><br />I recently completed a White Belt Intensive, the first stage of training in the dance/movement technique called Nia. This seven-day experience was astonishing and continues to unfold learning that is really quite profound and made me want to dedicate myself to reflecting deeply, so I will be sharing what comes up both to chronicle it for myself and to deepen my learning as a potential teacher. Go on the Nia website to learn more about the technique, classes in your area and trainings.<br /> So far I have been concentrating on free dance, giving myself permission to move my body and experiment with intensity, ease and most of all, the #1 Nia principle: Joy of Movement. Every time I’ve put on a CD and danced to the music I get a great workout and end up feeling balanced, relaxed and centered. Yesterday, I planned to step it up a bit, and dance along with the instructional DVD where Debbie Rosas, Nia co-founder, leads a class in the routine she choreographed to the CD Sanjana. I have danced to this routine in classes and in the training but this was my first major effort to actually learn the choreographed moves. I knew I would be sacrificing the ease and pleasure of moving freely however I wanted for the challenge of learning a routine. I stumbled through trying to watch Debbie on the screen, stay in touch with my own body and remember to breathe. As usual, the actual steps, though simple, proved daunting. When taking movement direction I can usually either move my upper body with ease with a stationery base or do a step awkwardly and flail around with my arms. During the training I found that by imprinting on the instructors (the fabulous Winalee Zeeb and Caroline Kohles) and shutting off my thinking mind I did a little better. The support of the movement of my fellow students also allowed me to take a ride on that energy which enhanced my performance a bit. I should mention that the atmosphere of love and non-judgment prevails in Nia and that is crucial to the work.<br /> I was doing poorly with the steps but able to stay in a no-judging state, after all, this was the first time I concentrated on dancing using the DVD. Following the class on the DVD, Debbie teaches a break down of all the moves for each song in the routine, giving the reason for each move while demonstrating. I did okay following the first few songs, even getting some insight into why I trip myself on the jazz square arggh! Then she says: “The next song deals with rhythm,” and before I knew what hit me, I was in tears. I was back in Our Lady of Lourdes Grammar School in West Orange, N.J. in a gym class in maybe the 4th or 5th grade. By that time I had become adept at leaving my body for long forays into my imagination. School was pretty boring but more than that, my mom was sick with cancer and I had lost faith not only in God; but in the corporeal world as well. That left the imagination as my daily destination of choice. <br />While I was great at leaving the body, I wasn’t always great at returning to it, especially in situations that aroused anxiety. Gym class was never a favorite of mine but by this time, terror about sweating, becoming smelly, wearing a bra, and being looked at by others, was magnified by the gym teacher, a towering ex-marine. Now, why the hell is an ex-marine teaching phys ed in a Catholic Grammar school, you might ask? I can only guess things hadn’t worked out too well for him in his life and that, plus basic training in the post WWII era Marines didn’t exactly teach him love, tolerance, non-judgment or insight into the emotions of a girl on the verge of puberty. He bellowed and yelled, sarcastically accused me of not competing and finally made me run alone in a relay race so as not to penalize my team for such an out of it runner. My memory is that I was awkward and slow and probably seemed to be willfully so since I was tall and thin and had no visible defects to give me an excuse. I hated this guy with a passion but using my trusty imagination, I could exit the premises leaving behind my body to fend for itself, pretty much bereft of mind and spirit. I know from other experiences with more compassionate teachers that my behavior mystified them; I seemed to be physically present and seemed calm as could be but the essential part of my being, that part with feelings, the part that could be hurt, was literally in another dimension.<br />So yesterday, forty-six years later, I stumbled on the emotions and the tears that were never felt or shed. In the safety of my living room, with only the video witness of Debbie Rosas, I am reminded that the body holds all and for as long as necessary. In college when I began therapy for the first time I brought a drawing to my therapist that expressed my felt reality: I roughly outlined a figure and inside it were a number of corked glass bottles that held feelings like the ones from gym class. By that time, there were hundreds of bottles, carefully corked and sorted by my soul, or my guardian angel or whatever higher part of self is charged with such duties. As therapy progressed, I drew those bottles breaking and the figure unable to walk or move for fear of being cut up alive from the inside by the shards of broken glass, IF I MOVED. I spent countless therapy sessions simply sitting and crying, never able to utter a word as the waves of the past simply washed over me on their way out of body to join, finally, the ocean of all human grief. Later, as the sharp edges wore away, the fragments became like sand in an oyster and gave birth to paintings, poems and books and afforded me the dignity of transformation through art and expression. <br />Why was this memory triggered by hearing the words: “this next song deals with rhythm?” More on that in the next post.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-42279168314352414782009-08-06T14:31:00.000-07:002009-08-06T16:55:47.967-07:00A Day at the Farm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Bcane2tisYncI5chXAKOmslNN69XkLkDYPNduNOimiQGc0YUIpK2kWTowjLiqJ9aaW6oWWcw-XYCWQH4KlHMEomK6DZnGhGLUXQopD7iZlrBEjcqKrsnJC55RS85eRUy16uWw91um2A/s1600-h/csa+mouse.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Bcane2tisYncI5chXAKOmslNN69XkLkDYPNduNOimiQGc0YUIpK2kWTowjLiqJ9aaW6oWWcw-XYCWQH4KlHMEomK6DZnGhGLUXQopD7iZlrBEjcqKrsnJC55RS85eRUy16uWw91um2A/s320/csa+mouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366967392497458770" /></a><br />Johanna and I were at the end of the field as Steve started the tractor and made a second pass down the row to turn up any last potatoes. He was pleased with the size and quantity of the spuds and we had all congratulated him on the good yield, due, he said, to the cover crop of peas that had been plowed under to fertilize the soil. John, Jeff and Francisco followed close behind the green tractor intent on the task at hand with white plastic buckets to hold the harvest. As the blade bit into the soil and cleaved a furrow something shot up into the air, thrown by the force of the metal pushing through the clods of earth. The men kept on moving forward. Johanna and I, our mouths agape, watched as a squealing grey field mouse catapulted through the air. But what the hell was that? A slender pink form was trailing the back of the mouse; at first I thought it was the guts, ripped out by the tractor blade. I blinked and stared and then realized the pink mass was a live creature. The mouse was giving birth at the very moment she’d been ripped from her nest. She landed on the ground and ran off with the half-born baby hanging out of her body. At our feet another new- born mouse, pink and mewing lay near the remnants of the nest. Johanna picked it up and it rooted about in the palm of her hand seeking a teat. Perfect, hairless, pink and doomed. We yelled to the guys but they were engrossed in their work and couldn’t hear us over the tractor noise. We both realized they probably weren’t going to be so…so… what were we feeling? <br />I’m not sure about Johanna but in a few seconds I cycled through feeling stunned, freaked out, helpless and awed. Then words and thoughts cascaded through my mind: ‘don’t be so sentimental,’ ‘that’s nature,’ ‘it’s the way of the world’, ‘that’s how it goes,’ but there was more that I couldn’t access in the moment. An incongruous word, “Darfur” floated up and I said it out loud and then immediately apologized. But Johanna said: “Yeah, somehow to these creatures we’re like that. Who knows how much else we kill with digging, but that’s agriculture…” I felt her mirroring the multiple voices in my own head. We did that thing that women friends do, we affirmed some common emotional experience in a shorthand of words that might seem excessive to someone overhearing. Johanna is no airy-fairy California “Dharma-squito” intent on saving the life of every ant that crosses the kitchen counter and neither am I. We both felt we had witnessed something profound and complicated, something that would require more attention. As I write this I am aware of a peculiar yet familiar sensation, a heaviness and itchiness in my breasts. It’s the way I felt twenty-six years ago when I was a nursing mother and stepped out for a break from child care to do a few errands. I was in a store and heard someone else’s baby cry. My milk let down and soaked through the front of my shirt even though my own baby was safe at home with her dad.<br />I admit, I wept for that mouse, stunned that the common thread of motherhood stitched me to her so intensely that my body cried out against her loss. The mind can run the gamut from a Cassandra-like drama equating an unfortunate mouse with a child bayoneted by janjaweed warriors in a far off place to a stern and philosophical farmer’s voice that says creatures die every day, hour and minute by the hand of man or a thousand other ways. Just a fact, Mam deal with it, no one and nothing gets out alive. Yet I am grateful to be reminded that the body flows toward feeling, toward caring, toward empathy. We shut these capacities off at our collective peril. The body suffers and by suffering deepens our connection to life. I am deeply grateful to the mouse.<br />Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-26189301938401341092008-04-24T13:23:00.000-07:002008-12-08T22:57:48.966-08:00Changing the World: The Suburban<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUr7JFiiH6y1aEAnLGhGdKRARqpYinzU99WJ61NPVoE45mpBmyPd18vsTQrZH2WElqZpf1nCSSEDfhDLyGISy9qjM9yfsWxguz7gzBSME3uv8_E96c-T2WnVdhJnvBa5VwIfewHPNVNO4/s1600-h/The+Suburban.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUr7JFiiH6y1aEAnLGhGdKRARqpYinzU99WJ61NPVoE45mpBmyPd18vsTQrZH2WElqZpf1nCSSEDfhDLyGISy9qjM9yfsWxguz7gzBSME3uv8_E96c-T2WnVdhJnvBa5VwIfewHPNVNO4/s320/The+Suburban.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192911238638862402" /></a><br />Recently I visited <a href="http://www.thesuburban.org">The Suburban:</a> <br />“…an independently run artist exhibition space” located at 125 N. Harvey in Oak Park, IL. run by artists Michelle Grabner and Brad Killan. On their website they say: “We give complete control to the artists in regards to what they choose to produce and exhibit. Thus it's a pro artist and anti curator site. The Suburban is not driven by commercial interests. It is funded within the economy of our household. Its success is not grounded in sales, press or the conventional measures set forth by the international art apparatus, but by the individual criteria set forth by the artists and their exhibitions. In this, The Suburban is more closely aligned with the idea of studio practice than that of the site of distribution.” <br />The Suburban has existed in Oak Park, where I live, for ten years. I have driven, walked and biked past the modest and anonymous building that houses this endeavor countless times. There is no signage indicating an art venue. I have vaguely known that ‘some artists run a gallery in their garage’ and for years had it on my mental list to find out exactly what this meant. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8cmM3SeW8NaDkVJcGWoEufywql2FYCb_TCdMwM73ou3ggqqT0Qz9kAnY-afb4hVMq5upfqo0IvUJnF18gfg_LU8TxkZDsxql5t1_dJmuvfLWMrXstX8IW8b-9BBDF8rkla9_3iIr-cAI/s1600-h/arts+district.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8cmM3SeW8NaDkVJcGWoEufywql2FYCb_TCdMwM73ou3ggqqT0Qz9kAnY-afb4hVMq5upfqo0IvUJnF18gfg_LU8TxkZDsxql5t1_dJmuvfLWMrXstX8IW8b-9BBDF8rkla9_3iIr-cAI/s320/arts+district.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192910839206903858" /></a><br />Ironically, in the last two days I have also witnessed the new objects announcing the “Arts District” in Oak Park, four large metal objects that look like ice scrapers that have been erected at the Harrison Ave. and Austin Blvd. and at Harrison St. and Ridgeland. I owned and operated Studio Pardes at the corner of Harrison and Ridgeland for five years in the euphemistic arts district. One of the factors that drove me from this enterprise was the weight of expectation of being in a public space in what was essentially a retail district masquerading as something to do with art. (Disclaimer: There are some actual artists surviving on Harrison, visit Sally Wolf’s <a href="http://www.salliewolf.com">Calypso Moon</a> for example). There was a sense of obligation to be “open” and available to a public and offering a product that was counter to the necessary solitude and self-regulation of art practice. Maybe I’m just too sensitive or easily pressured.<br />Both Michelle and Brad of the Suburban are art professors, Michelle at the School of the Art Institute and Brad at College of Dupage. They have consciously and deliberately created The Suburban as a site of resistance to the commercial art world while also participating in that world as gallery artists and art critics on their own terms. Milwaukee Museum of Art and the Chicago MCA have collected Michelle’s work and she is a contributing editor to X-TRA, a contemporary art journal published in Los Angeles. She is also currently completing a book about The Suburban. This is no outsider endeavor but instead a living counterpoint to global commercial art locating meaning in the site and the economy of everyday life. (See their <a href="http://www.thesuburban.org">website</a> for an engaging reflection by the couple’s son on what it means to have an art gallery as part of the family’s economy of everyday life.)<br />Michelle Grabner and her husband Brad Killam have solved the dilemma that I was defeated by: they have created a commerce-free zone for art. This is an essentially political and revolutionary or maybe evolutionary act in that the Suburban also influences the other institutions of the globalized art world since artists who participate in the Suburban also participate in the world of museums, galleries and international art fairs. Work sometimes travels from the Suburban to the MCA for example or from the Suburban to the major art fairs. Art journals recognize the space and the artists who show there. By stepping outside of the circle drawn by others: art as commodity, art as investment, art as another manifestation of celebrity culture, they reduce the crushing sense of monoculture that pervades our globalized world.<br /> I realize how powerful self-definition is. Where will the next free public art making space arise for creating culture and consciousness in community? I learned that the implicit expectation of a “storefront” had weightier implications than I realized when I signed my lease at Harrison and Ridgeland. I’ll be on the lookout for where the next opening presents itself for a meeting and mixing space where a little mess can be made and we can experiment together in making art and making life.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-29882168781337634702008-02-11T15:07:00.000-08:002008-12-08T22:57:49.128-08:00The Nuanced Language of ImageThis time last year I was engaged in a project I called the Pomegranate Exercise. I had begun finding hollowed out pomegranates on my walks in Ojai and the image of the empty fruit spoke to my imagination. I was (and am) working on a novel about an underground group of older women. The pomegranate, its lush innards gone, skin dried dark and leathery put me in mind of the Crone. After meditating on the fruits and on all the friends who were in various sorts of life transitions, I invited women I know to engage in a meditation on the topic of age, creativity, the pomegranate itself, whatever came up. I mailed the pomegranate shells to about twenty women friends and friends of friends who responded and asked them to create art about or with fruit. The resulting art and witness writing can be viewed on my website (click on collaborative projects). <br />Last year the pomegranate shells were few and far between, the scarcity contributed to my sense of their preciousness. My own intention was to feel less isolated as I engaged in my fiction writing as my primary form of expression during the winter months. I also sought to experiment with collaboration, a skill I would like to learn more about. Sallie Wolf, one of the artists, agreed to host a show of the actual objects in her studio and I committed to create an exhibit on my website. All of this transpired and was very fulfilling.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PdNW-StNlzkphgS84Cs3liWy87RfqzATrwoqoMwGOxyj7W64piwpqKyh7J5VLoBl4UmJzAq7teUEeKpPiMxxXy5PCDaajt6SMZLW3xLAGw0JQiLRc29vNAUfFXtTlQGiQdB6XaLY4qk/s1600-h/IMG_2183.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PdNW-StNlzkphgS84Cs3liWy87RfqzATrwoqoMwGOxyj7W64piwpqKyh7J5VLoBl4UmJzAq7teUEeKpPiMxxXy5PCDaajt6SMZLW3xLAGw0JQiLRc29vNAUfFXtTlQGiQdB6XaLY4qk/s320/IMG_2183.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165869100505348450" /></a><br /> <br />This season, the pomegranates appear very differently, many remain on the trees, eaten, but not as thoroughly eviscerated as last year. I suspect weather conditions made the fruit more abundant so the birds and animals didn’t have to do such a thorough job of cleaning them out. My association this year is that the fruits look like exploded grenades. (In Hebrew, the word ‘rimon’ is both pomegranate and grenade). I am offered an opportunity to consider that destruction is aspect of creation. Death, endings, finishing something -- all these are necessary for anything new to manifest. I have some resistance to this. There is some grief scratching at my door, just outside of my consciousness and I have been staying a little too busy to answer the door. Until I greet that guest I know that something else that is waiting cannot arrive. What’s keeping me? Do I need a suicide bomber to enter my space? What would such a being look like? The storms of the winter attempt to instruct me, tear off the roof, flood the living room, burn down the storage shed. But do I? <br /> It is something to do with just being, not doing, withstanding the winds of chaos, the explosions of things breaking down, with my eyes wide open and my heart wide open and my feet planted firmly on the earth. And this, strangely, feels like death.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-82912257844549549772007-11-02T09:24:00.000-07:002008-12-08T22:57:49.606-08:00All the Rules are Changing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicR82F1JVj9Ip9OcE6PDmYttRB8gdTnhrgQFJ8VkgWa4VCDRBK0SGi-epXkfKJqaB2JRct9f8YlGWI_S34160SwZStXLZISVywIgmuv9mnJmGH76zXGfowiImzCHlNLCfMatjsQT_LXJo/s1600-h/soldier+.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicR82F1JVj9Ip9OcE6PDmYttRB8gdTnhrgQFJ8VkgWa4VCDRBK0SGi-epXkfKJqaB2JRct9f8YlGWI_S34160SwZStXLZISVywIgmuv9mnJmGH76zXGfowiImzCHlNLCfMatjsQT_LXJo/s320/soldier+.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128280198363911282" /></a>Last year I discovered this wounded soldier in myself. I was surprised to meet him because I was writing about how the term ‘spiritual warrior’ was incorrect. I never expected to see a soldier of any kind show up in my own work. Yet there he was. My intention was to understand what is happening in the world and what is the right response, the right attitude, the right action? Are we on a sinking ship? Is it hopeless? I had just returned from a leadership training with the <a href="http://spiritualprogressives.org">Network of Spiritual Progressives</a>. I created this piece in the class I teach on the Creative Process at the School of the Art Institute. <br />I wrote in my witness: “The lone individual defending himself yet scarily, tentatively extending his heart out into the world? The black sequined and netted material felt to me like the Shadow, dark, mysterious with beauty encoded in the sequins but it also needed red because pain and passion are so tangled up in the Shadow and our Shadow flows out into the world and affects how we are in the world. But the beautiful dark rose also flows from the Shadow stream within us. <br /><br />I revisited the image this week, a year later. Everything calls me to pay attention to light yet these dark images come up. I try a method that Galit, one of my students is using. She is taking words and giving them definitions based on her felt sense, her intuition. I write, “discover”- reaching into the dark with faith. Then “teaching”- collapsing my telescope and seeing what others have in their hands. I feel like an anthropologist of wound technology. I can tell with my eyes closed how the wound occurred and if I can conjure light I can heal it. Are we supposed to be wandering like this? Is this the work? <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuplh5f-l5IsdgL73Usi3dXLBYcoct5OTGkUPMPKkk_G7NWs1KzDYwwtOr2Ixa9Wr1npaJ7mCYUmGTwDrEUUFpEt1volrfUKA1zAtb44Ca0IhkNIMD7ytzpNoNQNvpWjLdwqI6Z89g14/s1600-h/IMG_1982.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuplh5f-l5IsdgL73Usi3dXLBYcoct5OTGkUPMPKkk_G7NWs1KzDYwwtOr2Ixa9Wr1npaJ7mCYUmGTwDrEUUFpEt1volrfUKA1zAtb44Ca0IhkNIMD7ytzpNoNQNvpWjLdwqI6Z89g14/s320/IMG_1982.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128280589205935234" /></a><br />I added the mask and ‘red badge of courage’ to the soldier piece. All of it feels old and incorrect, not what’s called for. I wrote in my witness: “My shadow is the heroic guy against the world, even as I have taught others to follow their pleasure through the creative process and trust where they are led…why is this wounded place of red and black asserting itself so strongly? I’ve done the dark; I’m done with the dark. I know it’s time for light, to follow bliss. The piece answers me: “Don’t pretend you are ready.” But I am, I protest. “No, you still prize your dark credentials, you all do who earned them. It’s hard to give them up. The world no longer needs your dark roses, it needs light and you resist that and it is mostly unconscious be cause you say YES, but your body knows you lie.” So I say, “I make a new intention: I see the light, I be the light, I am the light, I love the light.” The piece says: “Let those who have genuine darkness that hasn’t reached its expiration date come to you and give them light. Your darkness is over; funny thing to mourn, but its so.” What does it mean to mourn the dark? I don’t exactly know yet but it has something to do with giving up all the well-earned credentials and meeting the world with an empty bowl. More on that later.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-52668579841544197812007-10-05T13:25:00.000-07:002008-12-08T22:57:49.847-08:00Happy Birthday to the Fool<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxonH2zFeOkWUmW0YxYKRD6N-3D9LFYveo_5dphoG7BGFUtGNZuahhO31Q-uaxrPuS8K04JSWMfKrbaLefK8hoiYfmClzXA9kqgOqy9X8A-vxi0dSUtkRe9no6dE7Ffw0F28G8v2k2xM/s1600-h/The+Fool.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxonH2zFeOkWUmW0YxYKRD6N-3D9LFYveo_5dphoG7BGFUtGNZuahhO31Q-uaxrPuS8K04JSWMfKrbaLefK8hoiYfmClzXA9kqgOqy9X8A-vxi0dSUtkRe9no6dE7Ffw0F28G8v2k2xM/s320/The+Fool.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117960457747173282" border="0"></a><br />So today is my birthday, number 55. Of all the experiences I've had this year, I am most pleased with having made the film The Fool. <br />Completing The Fool is an accomplishment for a number of reasons which I will now list as a birthday gift to myself to offset the weird sort of shaky feeling I've had since I woke up this morning. <br />1. The film represents a successful collaboration of a very close kind, working with another person to create and express my own vision without knowing exactly how it would turn out.<br />2. I collaborated with my husband, John. We have very different styles and even though we screamed at each other from time to time, I am completely sure the film would not have been finished without him and is better for his involvement. He is a "Point A to Point B" kind of guy and I am a "I need a shot of those white birds even though I don't know how it fits in the film yet"kind of gal.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FO5NWrL7ink4b1WFf9K9WwvpBN5WbGKW-3KiuyQ91BYELtzrI5q6T1qabsSekkXNUk7JgUcn4LiRpawEDEyRCK-hPfHA-Nk8hsx3MuVXFv8bjS3Ufu7fzhajkofb6b1E92ttks5hsfc/s1600-h/JTA.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FO5NWrL7ink4b1WFf9K9WwvpBN5WbGKW-3KiuyQ91BYELtzrI5q6T1qabsSekkXNUk7JgUcn4LiRpawEDEyRCK-hPfHA-Nk8hsx3MuVXFv8bjS3Ufu7fzhajkofb6b1E92ttks5hsfc/s320/JTA.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117960663905603506" border="0"></a><br /><br />3. Technology was involved. Although even a slightly dyslexic chimp could probably successfully make a film using a Mac with IMovie, the fact that we both(John and me, not the chimp) feel competent and comfortable using the editing program is an achievement.<br />4. I feel like this isn't a one-time thing, I think I could be endlessly fascinated making films with John about all sorts of things indefinitely and that sort of takes my breath away. Talk about a birthday gift!<br />Last but not least, the film has enabled me embrace being The Fool, which if you aren't familiar with the Fool's symbolic meaning: "The Fool represents the essence of what we are: whole, healthy and without fear...that spirit so often expressed and experienced in those states of wonder, awe, curiosity and anticipation." (from The Tarot handbook, by Angeles Arriens)<br />Now to push my personal envelope with technology, I am going to add a clip from the film, which premiered September 22, 2007 at the Third Annual Oak Park International Film Festival.<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzJitMW4JmEvRce2dm6mNEHg9dKfYloY2_VJDRHiVlcLzDlioCJ-nL8qMXHfQVbNSwGjfJ_LGbkmJF-bKpCOQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />ENJOY!Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-22381148527453016132007-09-14T12:18:00.001-07:002008-12-08T22:57:49.980-08:00I See Dick Cheney<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2214yMIV_C3IEzTnVdxF_Sf6iSple75Yet6aI68ArhREc7QqxoIklqGK_pch7vcyT9-7vyJSOfPRR8sM7mJoktJWWjuWNInEV7KR19Sjvn33CUIxnyeQGsFKFMI9iKVceDp0U7GmkLw/s1600-h/dick_cheney.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2214yMIV_C3IEzTnVdxF_Sf6iSple75Yet6aI68ArhREc7QqxoIklqGK_pch7vcyT9-7vyJSOfPRR8sM7mJoktJWWjuWNInEV7KR19Sjvn33CUIxnyeQGsFKFMI9iKVceDp0U7GmkLw/s320/dick_cheney.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110141532101178562" /></a><br />I keep seeing Dick Cheney. Well, not exactly. I keep seeing balding white men with glasses, a curled lip and an expression of smoldering dissatisfaction. I saw the first one in a restaurant called Suzanne’s in Ojai, California. He was ignoring a woman I took to be his wife in the outdoor patio facing a lush garden replete with pale pink roses and a stone fountain. It was a beautiful mid-August night. Many couples seemed to be celebrating some occasion, as we were, chatting and smiling, sharing bites of their meals with one another. Dick Cheney’s wife seemed to tolerate his gradual retreat into glacial remoteness with calm resignation. Maybe he had a legitimate beef. Maybe the service was slow or the food not up to his expectations.<br />Why did I even notice him? We were having a lively discussion, enjoying the ambience, the unusual appetizers, the celebration of our 28th wedding anniversary. I noticed because one of the elements that make a restaurants a fun place to celebrate is the energy of others, the general good will and happiness, the sense of sharing at a little distance with others through a smile, an acknowledgement. Seeing and being with others who are in a state of pleasure and enjoyment amplifies my own. The warmth that emanates from other people in such a public setting is something we take for granted but it is important. It is a way we each can contribute to the common good in a simple and modest way. Sometimes we take it further, when eyes meet or by an appreciate glance. Sometimes a compliment or comment of recognition: “Oh, that entrée looks great, which one is it?”<br />So I noticed Dick Cheney because his light was out. I felt a chill. Not the feeling of annoyance that follows the ring of a cell phone and subsequent conversation. This was more a perception of absence. The look on his face convinced me that this man was in angry retreat from the human condition. His wife, abandoned, stared off into the distance.<br />Since that night I’ve seen Dick Cheney in a car stopped at a red light, hands clenching the wheel, eyes as flat as coins, mouth in a thin tight line. I saw him on Michigan Ave. in downtown Chicago striding along aggressively, crossing against the light as if daring someone to hit him.<br />I believe life is about call and response. The spark in each of us calls out to that in others to reassure us we are not alone, we are all together in the complicated mystery of life. I worry that if Dick Cheney multiplies, the world will grow too cold to sustain life. Each time I feel that chill, a sense of cold anger, I wonder if this is a trend, like the opposite of global warming, human tundra syndrome. I fear the simple glance or smile is not enough to bring Dick Cheney back. More desperate measures may be in order. Is this like the die off of the honeybees? I want to study this problem. Why is Dick Cheney multiplying? And, can anything be done?Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-18658428774522628932007-09-06T12:32:00.000-07:002008-12-08T22:57:50.105-08:00Creative Work is Not a Luxury<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix27AonYSKtia4sv7PSZ0HNAMAOI89u9eTRaSfpf78nZ3CYJZE8ZwqIEHaldsXuIiRQ5GxJiqp8a-sI80hOnaDJ11uAfqhFWPCNSYDi9YnufNd8qdif-_HgByVhZuEmvj2J-zdOC6j3B8/s1600-h/rainy+day.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix27AonYSKtia4sv7PSZ0HNAMAOI89u9eTRaSfpf78nZ3CYJZE8ZwqIEHaldsXuIiRQ5GxJiqp8a-sI80hOnaDJ11uAfqhFWPCNSYDi9YnufNd8qdif-_HgByVhZuEmvj2J-zdOC6j3B8/s320/rainy+day.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107178753240812402" border="0" /></a><br />Since I closed Studio Pardes about four years ago, my last foray into a public presence, I have accepted that writing is my primary work in the world and I have accepted that everything else, no matter how worthy, must arrange itself around that center for me to function well.<br />Today there is a mixture of cooler air beginning to infiltrate the muggy heaviness of Oak Park in August, the promise of sweaters just hinting. I have been writing every morning for three hours for about a year now, so I am able to keep some commitments, even if I can’t get myself to blog every week. That little bit of cool air started me thinking about my relationship to my creative work and the balance with other work in the world that we all try to do, whether its volunteering at a homeless shelter, picking up trash on a daily walk, or calling our congress people on a regular basis and participating in the democracy. It can sometimes seem like creative work is somehow an indulgence and work done directly in service to others or the world more ‘serious’ or important.<br /><a href="http://www.lisalongworth.com/">Lisa Longworth,</a> a fellow artist and writer and I have been sharing our reflections on the balance of work as ‘engaged artists’ (to borrow from the engaged Buddhists). Neither of us is content to be alone in our studios and feel no connection to the world but our efforts to be ‘activist artists’ have been less than satisfying. (I’ll speak for myself, if you want to learn more about what Lisa is thinking, visit her terrific website and <a href="http://www.drlisalongworth.wordpress.com/">blog.)</a><br />Here’s my thought of the day on the subject: without a strong anchor in my own creative work, the energy that belongs there, which is really powerful stuff, the white light-straight-from-the-Source, gets stuffed into whatever the vehicle at hand is, a committee meeting at my temple, a volunteer bake sale, or even a casual lunch with a friend.<br />At times when I have not been plugged into the creative work I am called to in a daily, disciplined way, the energy can also ‘leak’ into life in general and causes intensity, emotional drama, and unnecessary conflicts and struggles with those around me.<br />The problem with creative energy is that it requires transformation in order to be shared successfully and a little goes a long way. Creative work, in whatever form we are called to it, is not a luxury but is the basis of life. It constitutes my relationship with the Source and if that relationship is not in order, we tend to seek substitutes in people, substances, and things.<br />This may seem like a pretty basic insight from someone with, oh, I don’t know, about thirty-five years of experience and education in art therapy, but there you go.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-62801383363583402812007-08-10T18:26:00.000-07:002008-12-08T22:57:50.363-08:00The Fool<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXCEVrpzor5YBBwi6v2PIaHqS-yFoXB9io4jDNUo-arOpicc-gNDtp3dRtgPGNR_t_Mxje16uv9KIjCMQjvbPWTtu1H8z6CJafn3XJqfR8GC79hrMMTrmsz6plkGFPF-dW74k4bdfTs0/s1600-h/Fool+and+spirit.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXCEVrpzor5YBBwi6v2PIaHqS-yFoXB9io4jDNUo-arOpicc-gNDtp3dRtgPGNR_t_Mxje16uv9KIjCMQjvbPWTtu1H8z6CJafn3XJqfR8GC79hrMMTrmsz6plkGFPF-dW74k4bdfTs0/s320/Fool+and+spirit.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097244454851537410" border="0" /></a>So I haven't been doing very well with blogging every week, so here I go again, trying. I'm getting ready to leave <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ojai</span> and return to Oak Park after a time where I have done very little besides write and work on a little film called The Fool.<br /> The film is a collaboration with John (my husband) and working together has been an enlightening challenge. Without him I am sure the film would not have gotten finished. As in any involved project there is always something that could be improved or changed. Since this particular project is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">appallingly</span> self involved there have been endless things to get hooked on as being awful or not good enough. The premise of The Fool is that I am seeking to understand what it means to be an artist and through dreams become one of the images that I have painted. Self indulgent, you say? No kidding! Film seems a more indulgent medium for self-portraiture (even a surreal self portrait) since my actual self is on the screen. Still, it was fun to do and at least I'm getting practice with the software!<br />The film will be shown at the Second Annual Oak Park Film Festival to be held September 22 & 23 at the Oak Park Public Library. At least I hope it will once Stan West takes a look at it! For more info on the festival, contact Stan West at stanwest1@msn.com <a href="http://stanwest1@msn.com/"></a>for more information. At some point a version will be available on my website maybe? We'll see what the response is first!Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-18069540457364345382007-07-17T14:35:00.000-07:002008-12-08T22:57:50.731-08:00The Pomegranate Exercise<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwGUq2GBDrleDZCYh7bn6fMaH_1jCZw8401pLoGQWoo51-9zeBIPFA0XwmTsMbLQoZLaDuEGKkd1u8IJASw8wZzz1TK772OsfzI49wdEZ06tV_c6-K5RkMCb6GBYec5atw-S7nyKa9wM/s1600-h/new+pom.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwGUq2GBDrleDZCYh7bn6fMaH_1jCZw8401pLoGQWoo51-9zeBIPFA0XwmTsMbLQoZLaDuEGKkd1u8IJASw8wZzz1TK772OsfzI49wdEZ06tV_c6-K5RkMCb6GBYec5atw-S7nyKa9wM/s320/new+pom.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088551992130579362" /></a><br />So back in December I began a project that has just been completed. I found pomegranates on the ground here in Ojai that had been eaten out by birds and animals that looked just so beautiful to me that I began to collect them. Pomegranates, one of my favorite fruits, symbolize the womb and also the fruit of the tree of life. Since I am writing a novel about older women, Crones, saving the world through their creative endeavors, well one thing led to another and I decided to see if any of my friends would be inspired to meditate on a symbol of an empty womb. Twenty three women responded and each one transformed a pomegranate into an amazing work of art. You can see the results on my website<a href="http://www.patballen.com"> patballen.com</a><br />(Once on the website, click on 'collaborative projects') <br />Sallie Wolf hosted a show of the work at her place, Calypso Moon, in Oak Park for a month and then using all the photos, writings and documentation, Hannah Jennings put the show up on my website.<br /><br />My major creative work right now is writing, an every day endeavor that sometimes make me very lonely for the camaraderie of the studio and the touch of materials, so the Pomegranate Exercise served to connect me to other artists and friends (and friends of friends, since many women invited others). I loved all the organizational details, mailing out the poms, receiving them back transformed, and reading the wise words and reflections of other creative crones or, in some cases, crones-to-be. This project feels like a great experiment in 'virtual community' which I have been working towards since I closed Studio Pardes. <br /><br />I hope you'll go and visit the exercise and let me know what you think. My deepest thanks to all the artists and to Hannah Jennings of HJ Designs who put the pages up and made them beautiful and easy to navigate. Anyone with ideas for more collaborative projects is invited to get in touch, many of the Pomegranate artists are interested in participating in more such efforts.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0S3l4OW-hvaPLG7cFLTKKyrJFFYvDcqlyfwcL2kPw3jv9ckjN5JyZfb8aRn87cdtqNQFtZqLDJh3L_m51X_Lkp2_KBgzfZ6ADNXHgyxTt74l5l8tW4xfyMLGbll9o0P3XYatzR6NhdQ/s1600-h/Pomegranate+Invite.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0S3l4OW-hvaPLG7cFLTKKyrJFFYvDcqlyfwcL2kPw3jv9ckjN5JyZfb8aRn87cdtqNQFtZqLDJh3L_m51X_Lkp2_KBgzfZ6ADNXHgyxTt74l5l8tW4xfyMLGbll9o0P3XYatzR6NhdQ/s320/Pomegranate+Invite.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088283337631247250" /></a>Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-40272618117597259722007-03-05T17:15:00.000-08:002008-12-08T22:57:51.111-08:00Homage to my Mom<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJK_9ZxQZis7MmQcnsjuKbQZnAJ6HMowMLUx5T2ywbnZW_wMPDA6IV-Dcpu665LyW5d23AnwhWQNqqI_Sj8-PT3s8VMw5sDjAOcK1PmgUSe3x0d7b9iLJiO_25qBuxroTeIEh-0ULzit8/s1600-h/Mother+series+forty+years.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 20px 20px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJK_9ZxQZis7MmQcnsjuKbQZnAJ6HMowMLUx5T2ywbnZW_wMPDA6IV-Dcpu665LyW5d23AnwhWQNqqI_Sj8-PT3s8VMw5sDjAOcK1PmgUSe3x0d7b9iLJiO_25qBuxroTeIEh-0ULzit8/s320/Mother+series+forty+years.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5038614767790996322" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWViXI8vJRJhyphenhyphenfjjnKFCWDtD_pfB_2SWIYI86BvaOINuSbFGu8so3QhWsjFIricQlB1pd2r7K3OsRXRpQVuJ4xN8ZEiYUQ3iGWN6w7s7mMKhQkl20G09620F1DANsvBl2hDxXcTvc9Tmk/s1600-h/yarzheit+detail.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWViXI8vJRJhyphenhyphenfjjnKFCWDtD_pfB_2SWIYI86BvaOINuSbFGu8so3QhWsjFIricQlB1pd2r7K3OsRXRpQVuJ4xN8ZEiYUQ3iGWN6w7s7mMKhQkl20G09620F1DANsvBl2hDxXcTvc9Tmk/s320/yarzheit+detail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5038614303934528338" /></a>Forty years ago today my mom died. I created a little altar space this morning with food, flowers and a yarzheit candle and an image of her from a piece of art I made.<br />Even though I have been working on the art piece, and planning the commemoration, when I awoke this morning I forgot. I just felt this sense of frenzy, like I had to 'get to work' right away! I sat down and journaled and I remembered. Forty years is a long time, much longer than the amount of time 'my mother' existed in my life. Yet for those forty years the relationship has continued to unfold through images. These images do not erase grief, sometimes they magnify it, but they hold a reality that has no other place in a culture of work and future oriented progress. The images let me participate in the incomprehensible mystery of life. Throughout the day I ate some of the beautiful tangerine and drank some of the sherry wine from the offering. The tangerine was a gift from my friend Aviva who came to paint yesterday. This little ritual is in my diningroom, not in a church or synagogue. I pass the altar as I go to put in the laundry, get up from my writing to pee, make lunch, and write a check for the guy who fixed my irrigation to water my new trees.<br />Above the sideboard that holds the altar is a painting called the Sabbath Bride.<br />It is a huge story painting about the return of the Shekinah, the feminine aspect of God. I believe these acts of making space in my everyday life for grief and honoring, for love and ritual create the path She needs to return. I think She is calling us to undo the separation of sacred and profane and weave them back together, to weave ourselves back together, mystery with the rational, self with other, with nature. I am deeply grateful to my own mother for teaching me how to intertwine the body with the spirit by honoring the soul, the simple, the true, the everyday mystery.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mmyzRoG-GKhAE4hj8S9H1WJFydJmwuRq5itQPe5-SF0Sbvneo4-aBJ1RmcsNIdMUQTM6ba7owGRzFX444yjMaYReq51OcnqGpMtL9OplEjgAapjWpY9TF3bODFixAcG_q4aRXqzNTis/s1600-h/yarzheit+2007.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mmyzRoG-GKhAE4hj8S9H1WJFydJmwuRq5itQPe5-SF0Sbvneo4-aBJ1RmcsNIdMUQTM6ba7owGRzFX444yjMaYReq51OcnqGpMtL9OplEjgAapjWpY9TF3bODFixAcG_q4aRXqzNTis/s320/yarzheit+2007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5038620059190705010" /></a>Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-13640545286590270442007-02-21T18:36:00.000-08:002008-12-08T22:57:51.286-08:00Starbucks for the Soul on Every Corner?I presented the Studio Process workshop, "Energy Made Visible" this past Saturday at a conference sponsored by the Department of Arts and Consciousness at JFKU in Berkeley. The room was packed with more than fifty artists, art educators and a sprinkling of art therapists. There was a wonderful collection of people at this conference from all over, including Peter London (No More Second Hand Art and Drawing Closer to Nature) as well as Jonathan and Alice Milne from the Learnbing Connexion in New Zealand (Google their place for a wonderful model of arts education). I invited Elizabeth Benson-Udom, one of the amazing folk in attendance to post her art and witness here.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjioIF1UTZFpmYfjHKWp8fnWOK62yH4yf-1Rz-YucZKpdrJPPSzGAvoB0iEzEt7Bdg0rDlFdPmYz6RxIijuBKJU7Vy8yJv30Dow4qHUyT6EcSibZ-LQs0QkcfDF9i17IKJYiomXcHRLWps/s1600-h/Elizabeth+from+JFKU.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 20px 20px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjioIF1UTZFpmYfjHKWp8fnWOK62yH4yf-1Rz-YucZKpdrJPPSzGAvoB0iEzEt7Bdg0rDlFdPmYz6RxIijuBKJU7Vy8yJv30Dow4qHUyT6EcSibZ-LQs0QkcfDF9i17IKJYiomXcHRLWps/s320/Elizabeth+from+JFKU.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034188785032717394" /></a><br /><br />a black form torn from<br />wholeness<br />a hand outstretched with my<br />little piece of yes<br />an active bit of movement<br />finally<br />legs running-<br />TOWARD MY JOY!<br />i am she she is me coming<br />from my darkness<br />i claim her<br />torn joy<br />and<br />T R A N S F O R M<br />i raise my tentative hand<br />higher and higher toward<br />ability<br />toward possibility<br />toward peace<br />carved from pieces of<br />myself<br />i see her, she, *it*, and<br />finally me<br />and when i want to<br />i tear the stitches <br />from my own heart<br />and begin<br />again to<br />think my<br />yes yes yes<br />crowned again<br />with yes<br />i begin<br />this knowing<br />of the dark parts<br />of my happy self<br />offering chalkboard<br />witness<br />to that which<br />i must continue<br />to do<br />be <br />move through<br />i keep showing up<br />with raised hand and<br />extended bits of <br />yellow yes<br />i bring my valentine<br />into being<br />to try<br />again and again<br />to run<br />to stand<br />to move<br />to see<br />to allow<br />to continue<br />to be<br /><br />yes-with the invitation <br />to dialogue i see<br /><br />begin again<br />keep showing up<br />try again and again<br />run toward<br />your exalted yes<br /><br />it is your royalty<br />your legacy<br />your heritage<br />all impulses and <br />synapses and <br />histories of <br />herstorys<br />before you<br />sit with <br />you in<br />this classroom <br />YOU<br />have been<br />given you<br />birthright<br /><br />THIS IS THE <br />HOME WE'VE <br />BEEN CALLING <br />YOU TO--<br /><br />keep showing up<br />the chalkboard <br />miracles are on their way<br /><br />and you 2<br />and you 2<br />and you 2<br />and you 2<br />and you 2<br />and you 2<br />YES!<br />Still!<br />Yes!<br />Always YES<br />YES<br />YES<br />YES<br />when you want to<br />it's okay to<br />try again and <br />again<br />again<br />YES!<br /><br />and from that thing that is your<br />empty center of<br />connection--<br />the vessel and <br />chords through<br />which you<br />have been<br />nourished<br />and passed<br />know--<br />we will meet <br />you there--<br /><br />we will always<br />call you home<br />(for dinner)<br /><br />Elizabeth wants to create little soul stations on every corner. She lives in the suburbs and she sees women carrying out transformative work on their own bodies via plastic surgery and thinks there is a better way. She aspires to be your local neighborhood shaman, your artista instead of your barrista, helping you jolt your soul with the wake up drink of Creativity. She imagines a commercially viable, local, friendly meeting spot. My only caveat is this: the neighborhood soccer moms ought to mix with the guy who collects tin cans, they have a lot to teach each other. It will take a wide open heart to make a space that will hold the mix that needs holding. You can check out more of what Elizabeth is up to at www.writressworder.com.Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-43628496187409656452007-01-24T16:54:00.000-08:002008-12-08T22:57:51.703-08:00The Archetype of the Death Mother<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROl7YUINJOHNDUMvm7TvRePPXdr1Tnl5HYKrtof_i9DI9hd3enkrWFLrGfh8B9zbMC0XEQbP8QP4DRdpx0bfQY5CvOStJF5cpK8qkQUo6m9w4SzAjJ4G5Fv0G3m_YcmtpgyaznDnalrQ/s1600-h/studio+mandala.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROl7YUINJOHNDUMvm7TvRePPXdr1Tnl5HYKrtof_i9DI9hd3enkrWFLrGfh8B9zbMC0XEQbP8QP4DRdpx0bfQY5CvOStJF5cpK8qkQUo6m9w4SzAjJ4G5Fv0G3m_YcmtpgyaznDnalrQ/s320/studio+mandala.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5023768533888772082" /></a><br />There are fine lines these days between doing nothing, doing anything, and proceeding mindfully along the path of compassionate disinterest doing the next right thing with intention. As I sit at my writing table and gaze out on the Los Padres foothills, I have lots of mentors for the path of compassionate disinterest. The trees keep growing, the birds keep lighting on the branches, the late afternoon sunlight falls across the hills defining them in light and dark. Soon the sun with throw up the pink glow of the end of the day and I will feel fully instructed in the art of personal smallness in the big picture. <br /><br />I finished painting the mandala on my studio floor. Really, what's the point? It's an act of faith in the Creative Process, the idea for the mandala came to me and I followed through. So what does this have to do with the Death Mother? She is an archetype that whispers to us "What's the use?" Why paint the floor? There's a war in Iraq. Why write stuff in a blog? maybe I'm only talking to myself. That, I have decided, is actually enough. If I have a place to wrangle my thoughts and feelings into consciousness and don't tar others with the brush of my unresolved anxiety, yes, that is definitely worth the effort. As it turns out, there are other amazing benefits. People write to me and commiserate from all over the globe. Another wonderful lesson of the art of personal smallness.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUZtvA0bs_Kru_sVRPSvXQMr6ezz6yTaG52NRo8pnYMHYdAY5D8wQvq1aMytBUGq5-i9IpPRhvTXiq3UCaGyFda4kZS3QVagDUR9GgDv0T8hSe99wzbRJC-E61mksakR6XQxKhXrYPQg/s1600-h/Death+Mother.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 20px 20px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUZtvA0bs_Kru_sVRPSvXQMr6ezz6yTaG52NRo8pnYMHYdAY5D8wQvq1aMytBUGq5-i9IpPRhvTXiq3UCaGyFda4kZS3QVagDUR9GgDv0T8hSe99wzbRJC-E61mksakR6XQxKhXrYPQg/s320/Death+Mother.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5023772992064825362" /></a>But, the Death Mother also lives in me and made a recent appearance. Her image was my fairly constant companion at the AATA (American Art Therapy Association) conference in New Orleans in November. She had a lot to say about trauma If you'd like to read more about that, go to the 'Writings' section of the website or click on http://www.patballen.com/pages/write.html<br /><br /><br />I'd love to hear your thoughts. Finally, the Creative Source has a great sense of humor. Here is a photo of the blossoming agave plants in my backyard. This is the plant that tequila is made from.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWgWKhvlx3QGHS4DjXvJUoH5TBCNFpuelWkU7JHJsr408UvxBc7VlTKc7p6n2Q8JGZl3-LJ3dj3qRMEOmKAItHv258HgRe0EdAdVzs4vu0wfEjQfZP5uI-VcNRiRXpvCE1sxYaPBSZ64/s1600-h/agave+blooming.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWgWKhvlx3QGHS4DjXvJUoH5TBCNFpuelWkU7JHJsr408UvxBc7VlTKc7p6n2Q8JGZl3-LJ3dj3qRMEOmKAItHv258HgRe0EdAdVzs4vu0wfEjQfZP5uI-VcNRiRXpvCE1sxYaPBSZ64/s320/agave+blooming.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5023778274874599458" /></a>Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-12727991169968167822007-01-09T18:15:00.000-08:002008-12-08T22:57:52.179-08:00Getting my Studio Ready for What?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Rlj7JcQUdgK8SC_IRCTd1e-LP5J1P-5Ol1Tv8388bEN9hbtVhp3E5BhNF55e11IJbSsQUyJp2M-jufrcjA6MaEw0swLQVti6V5uIi-mv-4y-HHz3CE1ysl-cRVBXc55osIfb02a8riM/s1600-h/studio+altar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Rlj7JcQUdgK8SC_IRCTd1e-LP5J1P-5Ol1Tv8388bEN9hbtVhp3E5BhNF55e11IJbSsQUyJp2M-jufrcjA6MaEw0swLQVti6V5uIi-mv-4y-HHz3CE1ysl-cRVBXc55osIfb02a8riM/s320/studio+altar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5018558296177092546" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_jvs3gTDGWBxfGQpZtuAOkln6DwH_S5dgEk0eOgrsepX3Rahr8bRpjAP82cJOC3NBmT0nQzKL60vTcz3ckmdqSXvGnrhpOJdk3z_gQ8f4fpq-RXV0YSsik3idgoekf7ezQlQIlm79nc/s1600-h/studio.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_jvs3gTDGWBxfGQpZtuAOkln6DwH_S5dgEk0eOgrsepX3Rahr8bRpjAP82cJOC3NBmT0nQzKL60vTcz3ckmdqSXvGnrhpOJdk3z_gQ8f4fpq-RXV0YSsik3idgoekf7ezQlQIlm79nc/s320/studio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5018558300472059858" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2L2RN9jdVwVxwio7B-y-NelDmK0DwyRmHjCtUx8HltYr3YF1phSLGXc3poZOp3Y4fcpjX4DAV_frwm3FDMDwfF6X2RFK8xbyfrXFm69aFAVd_FHwGA8uKNK5_AR4mhEg9LVShmQIaeE/s1600-h/pomegranates+and+stencil.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2L2RN9jdVwVxwio7B-y-NelDmK0DwyRmHjCtUx8HltYr3YF1phSLGXc3poZOp3Y4fcpjX4DAV_frwm3FDMDwfF6X2RFK8xbyfrXFm69aFAVd_FHwGA8uKNK5_AR4mhEg9LVShmQIaeE/s320/pomegranates+and+stencil.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5018558300472059874" /></a><br />So I've been in California since Dec. 21 and now the holidays are well past and I am settling down to WORK. The CHASM (Community Health Art Studio Methods) class that Janis Timm-Bottos and I were planning to do did not fill up with folks and so we are off the hook. And yes, that is exactly how it feels. We were conceiving if this as a 5-day retreat for people involved in community building through the arts to come together. I was planning on reorganizing my studio here to welcome folks or maybe that was just an excuse to make the space (a three car garage attached to our house in Ojai) more habitable. So I went ahead and had the floor painted red, moved the furniture around, set up my altar space and began to stencil a mandala on the floor. Why? The two projects I have committed myself to for this stint in Ojai are 1. finishing a novel and 2. finishing a surrealistic film. Neither of these projects require the huge space or materials that the garage holds. Nevertheless, I am following the energy I feel such as picking up a leaf from my neighbor's grapevines and making a stencil for the mandala, gathering chewed out pomegrantes and imagining furnishing the interior spaces with little scenes. The spaciousness, both literal and figurative, that I feel in this landscape encourages me to trust the Creative Source and follow the clues. If I make the space ready, the work will appear? What about community? Maybe it's just me and Bina and the neighborhood dogs? If I choose solitary art like writing a book and making a film, what does community mean?Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8188533055378883113.post-61560327428114688042006-12-27T07:36:00.000-08:002006-12-27T07:48:44.474-08:00First Post - WelcomeWelcome to Pat Allen's Studio Pardes Online Community. This blog is a continuation and an expansion of Pat's work. She and her associates developed the Studio Process of art making guided by intention and witness in 1995.<br /><br />In 2000, she brought this process to her home community of Oak Park, IL and founded the initial version of Studio Pardes in a storefront in the Harrison St. Arts District. For four years she taught the Studio Process and experimented with community art projects with much joy and many wonderful fellow artists. Examples of this work are described in her book <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Art is a spiritual path</span> (Shambhala, 2005) and on her website, www.patballen.com.<br /><br />After much soul searching, Pat closed the space in 2004 to spend more time creating her own art, learning video, writing and thinking about the Studio Process, and traveling to teach it in retreats and intensive workshops in diverse locations. <br /><br />This blog is an attempt to recreate the excitment of Pat's bricks and mortar Studio Pardes by creating a virtual community of artists, thinkers and explorers.<br /><br />Please join her!Pat B Allenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334534037282700357noreply@blogger.com2