Squeal

My daughter called me a pig last night.

But it's not as bad as it sounds.  

She unrolled the print of Michael Sowa's "Kholer's Pig" she'd found tucked away in a dark basement corner.
 

"Mom, you are this pig," she said.  "You've been pushed off the dock.  But you're going to land in that water and it's going to be really refreshing." 

She's right.  A lake lush with trees, reeds and lily pads.  Humidity softening the horizon.  It's gotta feel great in the water.  That pig's no fool.


Leave it God to use my love of whimsy, plus my tendency to procrastinate (never did get around to framing the print for my office), plus my teenage daughter's wise insight to speak a recurring theme to me.

Freedom.

I wrote about freedom here, but I'm feeling it more and more these days.  Maybe it's the early spring with new flowers emerging by the minute and grass so green it makes the heart ache.  Windows open, verdant evening air, coats left in closets.  The sheer pleasantness of it all.

Hope springs.  Possibilities sprout.  Enthusiasm flourishes.

My husband and I have mostly tried to buffer our kids from the recent painful events.  We've shared a few details with them, but not a lot.  They know we've been disappointed and sad, and they too have experienced transition pains.  But we've tried to shelter them from the brunt of it all.  We don't need them to carry the load for us, or even with us. 

Still, they're rooting for me.  Sweet, kind, encouraging comments.     Like calling me a pig.


It's true.  I am that pig.  I recognize the initial shock, fear, panic of the jump.  The increasing exuberance of flying through the air, weightless, worry-free for the moment.  The anticipation of entering the water, slightly anxious while also hoping to make a big glorious splash.  

Yes, the water is indeed refreshing.

And if you listen closely, you might just hear me suppressing a squeal.

Poetry of Empty Space

Our local art museum, The Nelson-Atkins, is hosting a George Ault exhibit, complete with WWII era paintings like this: 

Bright Light at Russel's Corners, 1946

And this one:

January Full Moon, 1941

The gallery's promotional materials included that second painting on the cover, and though I don't make it to the visiting exhibits as often as I'd like, something about that painting compelled me to go.  

The peace.  Solitude.  Fresh bracing air.  

Apparently, Ault was stylizing a world of order and calm to contrast the uncertain turbulence of the age.  He created an idealized, almost eerie, peace.

Just looking at these Ault creations, I can hear the quiet.  A part of my soul relaxes, loosens its white-knuckled grip. I crave that peace, however idealized it may be.  

Accompanying the Ault paintings, were works by several of his contemporaries.  One artist, Charles Sheeler, was described as a "poet of empty places."

That's it!  That's what I love about these paintings, the poetic expression of empty space.  And that's what I'm looking for.  Empty space.  Room to be and to breathe.

This is perhaps why I've become a big Andrew Wyeth fan these past few years.  I love the spareness and simplicity of his paintings. 

Long Limb

Fence Line, 1976

Turkey Pond, 1944

Even his face was exquisite:

Andrew Wyeth, 1917-2009

Amidst all the clutter and obligations and hurry of my life, I look at Wyeth's work and feel the capacity, the poetry, of empty space.


Surprisingly, I feel a similar poetic feeling as I drive the middle school carpool -- a van-load of chatty, energetic teenagers-- home each day.  The route home takes me through broad stretches of countryside.  Soybean fields.  Cow pastures.  Sod farms.  


To most, the "beauty" would be easy to overlook.  It's scenic, but not that scenic, even for our area.  It's just ordinary countryside, with houses and fields and roads where people carry out their everyday lives.  


But despite the loquacious exuberance filling my van while I drive (perhaps even because of it), I can savor the space.  I can hear the poetry.  And my soul drinks deeply and breathes.




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One of my favorite albums this past year has been Brandon Flowers' "Flamingo."  It's on my list of top ten all-time favorite albums.  My favorite song on the album, "Playing with Fire," brings to mind country drives and Andrew Wyeth paintings.  In some inexplicable own way, it's a poem of empty spaces for me.  
  

(I suppose I should find it humorous rather than frustrating that this blog placed big empty spaces between the pictures.   I did not intend for those big blanks to be there and I cannot seem to correct them.  Oh the irony!)