Tend to the small fires

Awake in the dark, the screen illuminates my fingers as a cup of coffee balances on the arm of the sofa. Flames of dancing light from my electric fire pretend to lap the air. Kodomotachi by Susumu Yokota plays on my big headphones.

It's Friday morning; the work week is behind me once again. This is a strange way for me to think about time. When one is self-employed (as I have been for much of my life), the work week is never behind you. Time has been bending in on itself, forward and then back. I am somewhere in between - my dreams vivid, the subconscious hard at work.

I didn't "make art" this past Sunday but I reflected on it and discussed these thoughts with my mother. We felt that this counted as a "sunday session." I hope to return to making art this weekend.

Last Sunday, I attended a cultural event, which is perhaps even better than making art, due to the energy exchange that comes from being around like-minded people with a singular focus. 

I was fortunate to see Stewart Copeland (the brilliant drummer of The Police and a gifted composer) speak about his life and work at The Queen's Hall. He was always my favourite member of the band. I still vividly recall the pride I felt as I wore my new Ghost in the Machine Tour t-shirt (a gift from my brothers who had actually seen the tour) to elementary school when I was barely ten. Years later, I wore that same shirt to a Black Flag show in 1986; at fourteen, though, I remember feeling pretty square in it. Needless to say, I left that gig wearing a different band's name. 

Anyway, I loved The Police, and Stewart Copeland was the best, so seeing him tell his stories about it all was a delight. Beyond his obvious talents, he is funny, irreverent, whip smart, and is an expert storyteller. Laughing at his antics as part of an audience of his admirers felt good and warm. 

On Monday, I met up with my good pal, Ever Dundas for a return visit to the secret garden in the city centre. With our hot chocolates, we enjoyed talking about all things music while sitting in the garden on a bench in the sun. It was a lovely outing. Music and friends make the world go round. 

Before I met up with Ever, I popped into Edinburgh Central Library to visit the Art & Design Library housed upstairs. I was short on time, but it was good to peruse a few art books and to just see what they had on offer.

Tuesday was a grey day of rain and remembrance, tears, and smiles.

Wednesday and Thursday were filled with work and meetings, and now here we are.
I am not sure what this weekend and week ahead holds. 

I'll leave you with my cheeky visage just to show off my latest charity shop acquisition (the necklace) because I love it and finding such treasures brings me joy. And we can all use a bit more of that.

Thank you for spending some of your precious time with me. Until next week, keep fighting for good, take care, and stay warm.

Messages on the wind

to the weir

Dear Reader,

I hope you are okay. Before I sat down to write to you, I opened the window to let in the crisp morning air and I said good morning to the moon.

Earlier this week, I walked by the water of Leith on slick yellow leaves, mud, and cobbles, and found myself at the foot of my favourite tree, seeking refuge. I breathed in the damp earth and sent messages on the wind.

process

Last weekend, I managed to paint, but I couldn't focus. I washed my brushes, looked at my previous work, and pushed some paint around. It's all part of the process and practice. I am reminded of this repeatedly.

On a rare Wednesday off work, I met my friend Julia for a day of art in the city. We saw the following exhibitions: * = personal highlights

RSA Academicians Gallery: Toby Paterson RSA

Scottish Gallery: *Modern Masters XIX, *Rachel Larkins - Raising Ghosts, Lachlan Goudie - From the Forest to the Forge

Open Eye Gallery: Adrian Wiszniewski RSA, Jonathan Gibbs, Alex Malcolmson and select artists from the gallery (*David Schofield RGI)

Graystone Gallery: Boundless Motion: Land & Form - Astrid Leeson & Sophia Pauley and select artists from the gallery

Rachel Larkins' jewellery exhibition at the Scottish Gallery was magical and enchanting, with plenty of favourite pieces. The Modern Masters XIX exhibition has some wonderful Joan Eardley pieces among other standouts.

At the Open Eye Gallery, David Schofield's piece, This Mortal City, appeared illuminated from within and was captivating with its dreamlike narrative.

down stockbridge way

Thursday was mostly a blur, but that brings us to today's exhibition, or rather, experience.

Leith School of Art: *Jessica Wolfson - Rain, I don't mind

On my way home this afternoon, I popped into Leith School of Art. And by popped in, I mean I interrupted a group of women chatting in front of the school, and asked if I could go inside to see the exhibition advertised on the fence. They buzzed me in and then left me to it.

Once I entered the space, the familiar art school smell overwhelmed me in the best way. The natural light, white walls, and spareness of it all felt like home. I continued through the space following Wolfson's paintings through an entryway to the school's small library as the exhibition continued. I turned to look at the wall of art books and felt a catch in my throat as a beautiful stained glass window caught my eye. I took a postcard with course offerings and then let myself out. I waved my thanks to the group as I made my way off the small campus.

Back on the road, my soul absolutely ached - it had recognised itself within those walls. The old Norwegian Seaman's church turned art school was calling after me, "come back... you've lost your way - please, come back..."

As tears welled up in my eyes, I heard the old building loud and clear.
____________________

Until next week, keep listening.

With love and gratitude.

X.

The Small Furniture

a collection of weeks

I can't believe it's already Friday (says every older person everywhere). Time slides past at a rapid pace. Why do the first 18 years of life go at a snail's pace and then pick up speed steadily thereafter? Do our developing brains perceive time differently?

Regardless, here I am sitting in my favourite chair by the open window. Today's song endlessly loops on my headphones as I write. A strong matcha over ice in a tall blue handblown glass from Terra Studios in Arkansas will light the fire within. 

I am going to take a page out of my friend Julia's wonderful blog this week, and perhaps just share a few flashes from my week. 

You can see the paintings (above) in progress on my easel from the weekly prompted sessions with my mother. Last Sunday, I didn't have much in me, but I did work on two pieces rather than just one even if it was mostly just painting things black. Progress, not perfection, and all that. 

But I have gotten ahead of myself. On Saturday there was the Stop Trump Rally and demonstrations at various locations across Scotland. I went along with my neighbours and it was good to see so many people out and outraged.

Scots give good signage

On the way home, after the protest, I took a photo of the St. Columba's Charity Shop window as they do a good job of their display. It is always full of colour, pattern, and a sense of nostalgia. I needed and enjoyed the visual relief.

Charity shop vibes

On Monday, I took a bright neighbourhood walk around some of my favourite parts of the Water of Leith. I have been dealing with a random hip injury and haven't been walking quite as much this past month. The sun was bright and lovely and the sky was blue. I went to visit my Scottish friend tree (my original friend tree, was my childhood touchstone back in Arkansas). I was unnerved to find my local tree had been cut back significantly by the council. I hate that it has been disturbed but I also know it was diseased in parts and they seem to be doing a very careful job trimming it. I must have faith that it is being cared for and not that it is about to be destroyed - that would be too much for me to bear. I told it that it was strong and resilient, and to root down and resist if needed. I kissed its knobbly bark and thanked it for its grounding presence in my life. I have two wee branches of it now in my home - I love it so.

water of leith

Scottish friend tree

On Tuesday, I met my pal Julia in the city centre for lunch and a blether. We met on the steps of the National Museum of Scotland on Chambers Street. It was a strange thrill to sit on the big steps and wait for my pal. I have always liked sitting on the sidewalks/pavements and I used to say that anywhere I could do that, I felt at home.

School children waited in a line with their minders to go in and have a big adventure. It brought to mind field trips of my youth, and how exciting it felt to be somewhere new as a group - wild, free, and out of the classroom! 

Waiting on a friend

this must be the place

During our outing, I spied some handmade dollhouse furniture in the window of a charity shop in Morningside. I exclaimed when I saw it and had that instant rush of being pretty sure that I needed it in my life. My palms tingled - the same way they do when I see art that I resonate with - that "got to have it" energy flooded my system, worried someone might beat me to it. But it was doll house furniture... Did I really need it... What would I do with it? Why did I love it so much and what did it really represent?

I took a picture of it in the window and looked at the picture the whole time we were browsing inside. Never one to make a rash decision, we left the shop to look at a few others nearby, but I was distracted, still itchy and worried someone might get it. We walked back up the street and looked in at it one more time, and the tears came. I had to have it. It didn't matter if it didn't make sense; it made sense to me. It represented something important to me - it reminded me of home, my mother, and my brothers. It reminded me of the dollhouses and the furniture that they made together late at night for me after my mom had worked all day. It reminded me of all the love and care that goes into the making. It deserved a good home that would understand and love it the right way. I needed my mother to see it and to know that I was thinking of her.

When I walked in to buy it, the relief was immediate. The shop volunteer called out for an assistant to come and retrieve the pieces from the window. I caught the eye of a man who smiled at me knowingly regarding the handcrafted treasure I would be taking home. I was excited to unveil it to my mother over a video call a couple of hours later. She understood and appreciated it just like I did. It was worth every penny.

On Wednesday and Thursday, I was busily back at work, but rest assured, the small furniture was set up nearby so I could steal glances at it.

I am thankful for the moments of joy and the crashing waves of sadness. I am grateful that I feel big emotions and that I have friends and trees that I can share them with. I am grateful for the family that created me and shaped the things I value.

Here’s to the things that bring us joy and tears. Until next week, keep fighting for all your small furniture moments.

I kept all your letters

Sometimes I wonder if I should have a separate place to write things that aren't about art. I wonder if that would make it easier to always write "on time." But then if I was writing somewhere else there would be no exact time to do it and there would be nothing here on "Friday."

So here I am, not exactly wanting to write about art. There are two things I sort of want to write about. The first is that I picked through someone's flat moving remnants outside their building. They were kind enough to take a photo and share it online - a community offering before it would be taken to a charity shop. I picked up 2 bags of castoffs. I took photos of my haul and shared it with friends and family. I tallied up its retail value. I commented that it was obviously the possessions of a much younger woman but with the taste of my inner child. I even took a stack of her hot pink and yellow coloured paperbacks - 8 of them in the pile. And this is maybe where it ventures into art. The concept around methodically reading another person's books, void of choice - like a street assigned reading list.

I get a bit excited by limitations.

I get overwhelmed by all the choices at the grocery store or in shops. But, I love the treasures left on the street or in the racks of the charity shop. I love the fated aspect of it. I usually find exactly what I need and when I need it. I needed a boost and I got a second Christmas from her leaving offerings, complete with mustard yellow low top Converse All Stars exactly in my size. She wrote on the toes of both shoes, "life's too short to waste" in black pen. 

I noticed the faded mantra the next day. 

I feel like I have wasted my fair share of life but I also feel we are probably meant to or maybe there is no way to actually waste it. I hope that's the case. However it all works out, I was glad to receive her message.

So I am reading her books and living with her things and wishing her well on her move. 

The second thing I sort of wanted to write about was some local genealogy research I have been doing but I can't write about it poetically. Genealogy is mostly frustrating, with flashes of magic here and there - stories and family ghosts pulling me along into a puzzle of history and dumb luck. An hour becomes a whole day and I can't look away. It all points back to the tip of my new shoes. Am I wasting my life? Surely not.

I like to think the ancient family knows I am looking for them and that they are glad I am here. They are as curious about me as I am of them. 

They whisper, there is art in all of this.

It's a found life for the pack of us

Book. 2019. Available £150

As I mentioned last week, this month I am focussing on my Book Series. The book series was created in 2019 as a follow-up to the original books that I created to earn my BFA in Painting and Drawing from the University of Oregon in 1999. 

I thought it would be fun to share the following review of my exhibition from back then. The last time I shared this was in 2008, so seems like it is time again. 

What follows is a spontaneous review of my show I found inside my comment book, written by my old friend Hayyim (Howard) Cohen. We worked together side by side in little cubicles selling the newspaper in a tiny downtown office and became fast friends in the 90s in Eugene, Oregon. He would share his New York Times Arts section with me during breaks.



Megan by Hayyim Cohen (written in 1999)

"Combining subversive parody, red (life), black (nothingness) and white (blinding light), duct tape to shut out the noisy excess, upholstery tacks, and the dead bodies of obsolete technical books, Megan Chapman (see your dictionary- "Chapman" means seller) creates lyrical southern "talkin' blues" between the pages of discards (found objects) she collects from the free bins of the Smith Family bookstore in Eugene Oregon.

Providing at her B.F.A. commencement (the beginning of her life as an artist) a comfortable pink sofa with fresh green throw pillows, a little Gene Autry and "A Sunday Kind of Love" musical background for a gathering of "found" people who "read" her books often with whimsical smiling faces.

Megan nails the defunct corpses of old books (now frames for her poems and designs) on the gallery walls with the tacks she loves, this is interspersed with machine blowups of her photographs, which add a nice contrapuntal theme to the shards of books behind the sofa and on the coffee table. Megan is a southern woman and now she has a B.F.A. to nail to the wall when she goes home (tell your Maw, tell your Paw I'm gonna send you back to Arkansas - population 40,002). It is all here in the art, the depths of introspective experience, from one who knows how it all fits together in the package. It's a "found" life for the pack of us, don't you think? Megan has definitely found something...to do and to make a difference, and she does it all with southern hospitality to boot!"

I am so fortunate to have this nugget, and like the art closed up in those old altered books, I thought this needed to be aired out and shared. My friend, Howard did this on his own accord, and I am grateful for his tangents and details; his writing helps me to remember myself at that time, as well as the show and the atmosphere.

Hope you enjoyed this review from the past. Have a lovely weekend. 

Book. 2019. £150

The embarrassment is not mine

I like to listen to music that embarrasses me. 

I know the embarrassment is not mine but society's, so I disregard it and power through but this is still harder than you might think. 

I am "rocking out" in the sun of this spring day to a song from 1987 if I remember correctly but the band has been shunned by those in the know due to the singer's perceived massive ego and god complex. Fair enough, but the song while cringey, delights me. I won't listen to the album but I will listen to this song on repeat. 

I am young again and I can remember wanting certain things in my life and yet not knowing much at all about living. 

I am trying to remember what I want again and I still feel like I know nothing much at all. But the sun is in my eyes and the guitar slices through the air bringing with it momentary empowerment and dare I say hope. 

That's what "good" and "bad" art can do - it can change us, it can shake us and make us remember. Art wears a groove so deeply while it partners with our memories and melds with our emotions, that perhaps we can no longer watch that film, read that book, hang that painting, or listen to that album - it's like sad time travel. 

But sometimes, we can delve into the magic and feel better for it. It opens the door and welcomes us home.