Refugee Mother and Child, a poem by Chinua Achebe

Mother and Child (Stacy Wills, 2014)

alcohol ink on yupo + sacred altering

Refugee Mother and Child

No Madonna and Child could touch

that picture of a mother's tenderness

for a son she soon will have to forget.

The air was heavy with odors 

of diarrhea of unwashed children 

with washed-out ribs and  dried up 

bottoms struggling in labored 

steps behind blown empty bellies.

Most mothers there had long ceased

to care but not this one; she held

a ghost smile between her teeth

and in her eyes the ghost of a mother's

pride as she combed the rust-colored

hair left on his skull and then -

singing in her eyes - began carefully

to part it... In another life 

this would have been a little daily 

act of no consequence before his

 breakfast and school; now she 

did it like putting flowers

on a tiny grave.

-Chinua Achebe (1930 - 2013)

Creation Song

Womb of Creation (Stacy Wills, 2014)

alcohol inks on yupo + sacred altering

Creation Song

What did

 you know 

of me

before you 

formed me

 in the womb?

What dreams

 did you dream

 for me?

What plans

 did you make

 for me?

What song

 were you singing

while knitting

 my bones?

-Stacy Wills (12/17/10)

Dove that ventured outside…a poem by Rilke

The Dove that Ventured Outside (Stacy Wills, 2014)

alcohol ink on yupo  4" x 6"

Dove that ventured outside, 

flying far from the dovecote:

housed and protected again,

one with the day, the night,

knows what serenity is,

for she has felt her wings

pass through all distance and fear

in the course of her wanderings.

The doves that remained at home,

never exposed to loss,

innocent and secure, 

cannot know tenderness;

only the won-back heart 

can ever be satisfied:  free,

through all it has given up,

to rejoice in its mastery.

Being arches itself

over the vast abyss.

Ah the ball that we dared,

that we hurled into infinite space,

doesn't it fill our hands

differently with its return:

heavier by the weight 

of where it has been.

-Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 - 1926)

Scraps of Moon - A Poem by Denise Levertov

Moon River (Stacy Wills, 2014)

alcohol inks on yupo + sacred altering

Scraps of Moon

Scraps of moon

bobbing discarded 

on broken water

but sky-moon

complete, transcending

all violation

Here she seems to be

 talking to herself about

the shape of a life:

Only Once

All which, because it was

flame and song 

and granted us joy,

we thought we'd do, be, revisit,

turns out to have been what it was

that once, only;

every invitation did not begin

a series, a build-up:

the marvelous did not happen

in our lives, our stories

are not drab with its absence:

but don't expect to return

for more.  Whatever more

there will be will be

unique as those were unique. 

Try to acknowledge the next song

 in its body-halo of flames

 as utterly present,

as now or never.

-from The Great Unknowing:  Last Poems

by Denise Levertov (1923 - 1997)

Evolution of a Touch Drawing

I have recently been exploring an intuitive painting process developed by Deborah Koff-Chapin called "Touch Drawing" - which you can learn about here.  As I'm learning it, I am also finding my own approach to the process...and that is, I like to add color to my drawings.  Color has always been a prevalent and important element in my artwork, so I'm not surprised that I feel pulled in that direction.

The initial drawings are done in rapid succession and laid aside for further review and contemplation.  After choosing one drawing to work with,  I begin to add color, all the while   listening to what the picture is telling me.  It's  a bit like dream work, in that one image...or even part of an image has multiple layers of meaning.  Today I wanted to try and  document  my process from the initial touch drawing to the completed piece. 

 My touch drawing is done on tracing paper which I then mounted onto foam core.   

I used alcohol inks to color in the face.

 Slowly adding more color...

 Details becoming more defined...until my drawing feels complete.

 Touch Drawing #2 (Stacy Wills, 2014)

mixed media on tracing paper

Saints Preserve Us!

So I made some new Citra Solv pages to play with this week.  As I looked through the transformed papers there were several photographs that  caught my eye which  had been featured in an article about Europe's "Wild Men."  According to the  article's author,  Rachel Hartigan Shea, "Men...don costumes that hide their faces and conceal their true forms.  Then they take to the streets, where their disguises allow them to cross the line between human and animal, real and spiritual, civilization and wilderness, death and rebirth.  A man assumes a dual personality...He becomes something mysterious."  

For me, working with Citra Solv pages is all about mystery and seeing...seeing what is left on the page once the Citra Solv works its magic...seeing shapes and blobs and colors...faint images that hint at what could be...what can be developed...or transformed...into something new.  It occurred to me that these "Wild Men" (well, what was left of them!) looked like saints; so now I'm in the process of creating a series  called "Saints Preserve Us!"   I'm having fun with it...taking a lot of liberty...and basically making them up as I go.  I'm still  waiting for these saints to tell me their names, but as you can see, they already have their own distinct personalities...much like the "Wild Men" from whence they came. 

"Saints Preserve Us!" #1 (Stacy Wills, 2014)

Citra Solv, alcohol inks on National Geographic page

+sacred altering

"Saints Preserve Us!" #2 (Stacy Wills, 2014)

Citra Solv, alcohol inks on National Geographic page

+sacred altering

The Tree's Prayer - a poem by George MacDonald

  "Tree of the Field" (Stacy Wills, 2014)

alcohol ink on ceramic tile, 6" x 6"

The Tree's Prayer

Alas! 'tis cold and dark;

The wind all night has sung a wintry tune;

Hail from black clouds that swallowed up the moon

Has beat against my bark.

Oh! when will it be spring?

The sap moves not within my withered veins;

Through all my frozen roots creep numbing pains,

That they can hardly cling.

The sun shone out last morn;

I felt the warmth through every fibre float;

I thought I heard a thrush's piping note,

Of hope and sadness born.

Then came the sea-cloud driven;

The tempest hissed through all my outstretched boughs,

Hither and thither tossed me in its snows,

Beneath the joyless heaven.

O for the sunny leaves!

Almost I have forgot the breath of June!

Forgot the feathery light-flakes from the moon!

The praying summer-eves!

O for the joyous birds,

Which are the tongues of us, mute, longing trees!

O for the billowy odours, and the bees

Abroad in scattered herds!

The blessing of cool showers!

The gratefulness that thrills through every shoot!

The children playing round my deep-sunk root,

Shadowed in hot noon hours!

Alas! the cold clear dawn

Through the bare lattice-work of twigs around!

Another weary day of moaning sound

On the thin-shadowed lawn!

Yet winter's noon is past:

I'll stretch my arms all night into the wind,

Endure all day the chill air and unkind;

My leaves will come at last.

- George MacDonald (1824-1905)