Surface Tension

I work in a busy clinic. I live in the busiest part of my town. I've been known to go to sleep with pillows over my head. To escape, I walk. I walk miles and miles and then I walk more.

I rarely have music with me. No headphones. Oh, I have music playing in my head. I wish it was the last sweet song I heard on a long car ride home. More likely it's from some ridiculous commercial. I'd like to smack that Jack In The Box guy in the head. Just once. Jumbaca? Really? Of all the stupid jingles I've heard in my life, this one has convinced me more than any never to purchase anything from that company. Anyway...

I try to walk in relative silence: listening for my footsteps, for calling birds, for rustling leaves, for anything that signals life to me. It seems that when I attempt to listen past the cars and airplanes, past city noise and on to nature, I reach a point where I am no longer attempting. I move past reaching for soothing sound and I am open to receiving other calming sensation. Often it comes in the form of visual beauty. This feels like a form of disappearing and it feels marvelous.

I've found that I can disappear behind the lens of my camera easier than anywhere else. There (focused on something beautiful), I lose track of time. I don't hear inane commercials. I don't worry about what's for dinner later - when I'm most likely alone. My mind shuts down and I move in on one single object for as long as it takes.

I love to photograph water dropping off of almost any surface. I can't tell when the shot will "happen". It may never. Sometimes I stand up straight, look around and long to ask someone, "Do you see that?" Isn't it beautiful? The tension is almost as beautiful as the subject. Maybe you have to be there.









©Michelle Scofield, January 10, 2012 All Rights Reserved

A Letter to Granny (About a Mummy)

Dear Granny,

Today I fulfilled a promise I made to you sometime in the mid 1980’s. I’m a little late. I’ve been busy. The kids are wonderful, grown and on their own. Of course they're brilliant – you always knew they would be. I finished that pesky degree, I became the single woman I should have been all along. Oh, wait. I got divorced, remarried, and divorced again. NOW I’ve been single for almost nine years and I can’t believe it’s been that long. I established myself in a career that’s solid and stimulating, if at times exhausting. In short – I emulated you.

Back to the promise. Do you remember those days when I lived in Plano and you lived in Fort Worth and we’d spend lazy afternoons at your house going through your scrapbooks? Inevitably, we’d come across your tickets to museums: The Louvre, The Smithsonian. You’d tell me about what you saw there and encourage me to, “Go, Michelle. Go!”

You were especially excited after seeing the Treasures of Tutankhamen Exhibit. If I remember correctly, you boarded a tour bus and went all the way to New York City to see it. You were always traveling. Being alone didn’t stop you because you simply craved the adventure and the experience. I remember sitting on your bedroom floor, both of us cross-legged, as you paged through the glossy program and told me what you’d seen. You kept telling me about all the gold and how amazed you were by the sheer quantity of riches buried with the young King.

We spent so many days like that, Granny. As I look back it seems that you took me to all those places and I never felt rushed or pressured while we toured your memories. I cherish those days.

Today I bought a ticket to the King Tut exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston. I lined up for the 1 pm showing and stood patiently with about 40 other people. We watched a short introductory film, narrated by Harrison Ford. (I was happy the film was absent “Indiana Jones” music.) The doors to the exhibit swung open and we proceeded into about an hour’s worth of a lot of people standing in front of each other, many listening to audio guides, quite a few seeming to be frustrated with each other for blocking views. (Once inside the exhibit, it became clear that the introductory film was an attempt to space out the visitors into move-along-and-don’t-be-so-crowded order. It didn’t work all that great.)

The exhibit had the requisite educational placards giving brief explanations of the geographic, cultural and social aspects of the life of the Pharaohs, especially pertaining to funereal customs. I used the times when I couldn’t approach the displays of artifacts to read up on Hatsheput, Tutankhamen, and the artifacts that were found in the tomb of King Tut.

I was quite sad when I was looking at the display that showed the photographs of the mummy with finger protectors and sandals and some of the other jewelry that was on the body itself. I thought it didn’t belong in a museum. I’m not into curses nor do I have a strong belief in afterlife but I just felt that this person had been so disrupted. Yes, the treasures were all beautiful, and so very GOLD but I was sad as I walked through that part of the exhibit.

The final room had a film about a bone marrow test on King Tut’s femur and there was a replica of the mummy – of the dead Boy King. Granny, I’ve seen a lot of dead people in this job of mine and I’ve done enough bone marrow biopsies that if I never see another one, I’ll be just fine. I skipped that part. I figured I could read up on the DNA research to try to determine the royal line at a later date.

I also skipped the King Tut gift shop.

As I approached the museum exit, I reminded myself that I rarely get into Houston these days and I better see what else is going on at the MFAH. I ducked into “Gifts of the Sultan: The Arts of Giving at the Islamic Courts”. One word: Gorgeous.

There were sumptuous carpets like I’ve never seen before. The tapestry work was simply amazing. I also saw diamonds and emeralds worked into stunning pendants. There were fascinating books with the most intricate drawings and pictures. I’m so happy I stopped.

After a fairly morose encounter with a King, the Sultans lifted my spirits with color and vibrancy. I lingered and laughed. I appreciated.

So, Granny, that’s my day with King Tut. I’ve finally followed through as you asked. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about Paris. In time. In time.

Love,


Michelle




©Michelle Scofield, January 7, 2012 All Rights Reserved

Chasing the Light

I had a grand plan to catch some live music tonight and report back to you here. My grand plan gave way, instead, to the promise of combining my daily walk and catching a flaming sunset. There was a large grass fire in Galveston County and in looking over the horizon, it was obvious that particulate matter was heavy in the air. If I tucked my camera into my jacket pocket, I might get lucky and get a good capture. Besides, after the wild time I had on New Year's Eve, I decided more fresh air was better.

I wish I could say it was a pleasant scent that greeted me when I hit the street. It was reminiscent of campfires from my youth but that smell doesn't give me the warm fuzzies. It brings back memories of cold, damp nights sleeping in a trailer on the back of a pickup and of long days reaching into dark, murky water to pull up a basket of ugly, slimy fish to add "just one more". I went fishing almost every weekend when I was a little kid and I think I've had enough campfires to last a lifetime.

Soon into my walk I hit my stride and I put the heavy air out of my mind, keeping an eye out for that shimmer or glint of light that would cause me to slow down and take my camera out of my pocket. I walked a mile, two miles. Nothing.

I turned north toward home and crossed over long shadows and settled into what the walk seemed to be - just a good long walk at the end of a workday. As I turned to the east and put the setting sun behind me, I noticed warmth on my shoulders once again and smiled as I watched a line of trees come into my view about thirty yards ahead of me. Each seemed to be bowing and bending, folding and reaching. They were playing with the light even as the light played with them.

I stopped to take a few shots and - yes - I talked to the trees. I thanked them for being so beautiful. I turned and gave a quick nod in thanks to the sun. I waved to a couple of passing cars as they honked at me. I don't think my neighborhood sees a lot of people taking pictures of trees, let along talking to them.

When I arrived home I met a neighbor in the hallway and after we greeted each other, he asked if I am always in such a good mood. Of course I'm not. I think the thing is that he only sees me when I'm coming in from one of my walks. If you connect the dots, it only makes sense.




©Michelle Scofield, January 3, 2012 All Rights Reserved

Abstract

From The Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Abstract: “Using elements of form (as color, line, or texture) with little or no attempt at creating a realistic picture.”

I bought what I consider to be my first real piece of art in May, 2010. I’d owned great furniture and prints, and an oil painting by my great-great-grandmother but nothing that I’d purchased myself to hang on a wall and look at. When I bought “Corteza” by Edgar Medina, it was as if I’d had a drink of the most delicious concoction on the planet. I wanted more. To my friends I’ve described the elation I felt when I made up my mind and said, “I’d like to have this” as a kind of high. I’ve felt it many times over since. It lasts for days and then – luckily – I don’t crash to a low, I enjoy the pleasant buzzing atmosphere bringing new art into my space creates.

I find myself drawn to abstract art more than figures or landscapes. I’m a photographer so I have a few of my owned framed pieces around to keep things real and I also own some portraits that seemed to ask me to take them home. I don’t know the subjects but the artists are charming.

Joan Miro was probably my first introduction to a “famous” artist’s work up close – as close as one could get to a Miro mural and appreciate it. In 1977 I went to the installation of "Personnages Oiseaux" on the campus of Wichita State University. I didn’t know the difference between strict surrealism and abstract art but Miro’s figures still struck me as quite random. My grandfather was enamored of Pablo Picasso and I knew enough to realize that this work was not the same but similar.

Over the last eighteen months, I’ve had the opportunity to watch a few artists paint abstract pieces (in studio) and the thing that impresses me the most is the building of the piece toward the finished product. As I’ve watched others work on their pieces, I’ve often thought of that Miro mural and how it was so very far from random.

I’ve also allowed myself the tiny fantasy (like the purchaser of a lottery ticket) to think that I might be that smart collector who has such a good eye that she has snapped up the right piece from an emerging artist. This will allow me to fund my ever-increasing art habit. From now until infinity.

The best thing about Abstract Art is that one doesn’t have to deal with reality. Please see my previous paragraph.



©Michelle Scofield, January 2, 2012 All Rights Reserved

Tracks

It's been a slow day for me. I admit that I rang the heck out of 2011 and after waking up at 7:30 this morning, I fixed coffee for my guest, made (hopefully) pleasant talk ("That air mattress was really comfortable? Wow!"), and fell back into bed after a hug goodbye. I felt much more alive when I woke the second time - a little after 1 pm.

Not wanting to leave my place, I was happy to have a RedBox movie to watch, "Margin Call", with Kevin Spacey. Detailed plot and great acting. Stanley Tucci has a small but intense part. I enjoy watching him in anything he's in. The dialogue is the thing in "Margin Call". I don't remember any music, not one song or note. Maybe it was there but the story was complex and required my rapt attention. I don't recall a sound track.

I'm a soundtrack junkie. I know I'll have some time to browse music stores tomorrow and I will head straight to that bin of CDs. I don't purchase soundtracks based on how I feel about the movie. I buy for the music itself. One of my favorites is from "Casino". It's jam-packed with everything from Hoagy Carmichael to Cream to Otis Redding. Admittedly, my tastes tend toward music my mom listened to while I was growing up so anything with a hint of nostalgia is attractive to me. If I can dance to it, all the better.

I found this list, from Entertainment Weekly, January, 2011. The authors count down 100 greatest movie soundtracks of all time. Certainly that's a subjective thought and I shuddered at some of the selections (Hi, I'm Michelle and I don't like Disney) but I agree with (and own) quite a few. I think I'm on my 3rd copy of "Purple Rain" and "Pulp Fiction" is my go-to for car trips. I canNOT sit still when music from "Saturday Night Fever" plays. It's my youth. I lived Saturday Night Fever every Friday and Saturday night for a couple years in the late 70's. The movie gave birth to disco and the music from the movie kept it alive on the dance floor.

Here's what's on my look-for list when I hit HalfPrice Books tomorrow: "Virgin Suicides", "The Graduate", "Waiting to Exhale", and "Jackie Brown." If I can find even one of them, I'll be a happy listener.

Three completely different soundtracks that weren't on the list that I think are very good: "Bridget Jones, The Edge of Reason", "A Knight's Tale", and "Father of the Bride".

Suggestions? Talk to me.






©Michelle Scofield, January 1, 2012 All Rights Reserved