Category: Art


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Our Dancing Daughters

I was in a music video!!!

Hey, folks! I was in a music video!!!! Check it out!
I’m pretty excited about this; it was my first time (ever) being on film.

Everyone I worked with was pretty amazing – Tana is one of the coolest women I have ever met.

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/110668594″>KATANA DA DON – GRIM</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/lkhllywd”>Marlee MacLeod</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Director – Paul von Stoetzel
Producers – Paul von Stoetzel/Killing Joke Films & Bridget Cronin/Pounding Heart Multimedia
Editing & FX – Marlee MacLeod/HyperFocus Productions

BadAsses

D&T

Dance

Dead

Headshot

Shot

Surrounded

zombies

The Type – Sarah Kay

There is power in words.
And thoughts.
And actions.
We are power.
We are women.

The Muse & Her Demons

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,
you can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands.

Or windows.
Or mirrors.

Let them see what a woman looks like.
They may not have ever seen one before.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
you can let them touch you.

Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman.

But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian.
Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack.

You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat.
You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,
you can let…

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The Ancient Greeks’ 6 Words for Love

“Looking for an antidote to modern culture’s emphasis on romantic love? Perhaps we can learn from the diverse forms of emotional attachment prized by the ancient Greeks.”

Under the Big Tree

A little dream, one that wasn’t quite so violent as the others that I’ve had lately.

The Muse & Her Demons

I danced under the big Willow while you watched.

I felt safe, and loved, and admired.
I felt all the things a dancer, a woman, should feel in a moment such as this.

Your eyes followed my lines.
I was fire and water and wind. I was poised chaos.

You watched me, like someone who had just regained their sight, with such passion, that I felt naked and powerful.

I was stripped of all my doubt.
All my fears and worries melted into the dirt with every turn and glide.

The Willow was my theater. Her branches swayed with my music, caressing and kissing me as I spun around.

I danced under the big Willow while you watched.

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Some Day

Inspired by a recent dream… about a trip to a museum that happened over a decade ago.

The Muse & Her Demons

She watched the men and women around her staring, judging, taking in the museum’s many pieces.

The paintings and statues, photos and furniture; it all had to mean something. They were looking for that hidden thing, whatever the artists was feeling when they created it. Some of them were smug, thinking that they had uncovered some conspiracy or another, and lording over the poor masses that couldn’t see it.

She never got it… whatever “it” was. Some things were just pretty, and that was enough.

The Degas exhibit was extraordinary. The detail in the lack of detail. Rough brush strokes and vibrant colors. She was particularly fond of the nude portraits. They were full of life and warmth.

While everyone else swarmed around the bronze ballerina – which she did find quite beautiful – she stayed back, watching them.

Oh, how they ogled and fawned over the little girl. And how…

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A Short Story

Fawn sat in her rocker, sipping the lavender tea that Mazarine so diligently whipped up.

“A good herbal shouldn’t be too hot, nor should it be too cold.”
Mazarine scrunched her nose at the quip, as Fawn had often repeated it.

As Mazarine took her seat on the front porch of the cottage in the woods,  broke through the trees, sailing so quickly on the air that the flowers bent to the ground and leaves were ripped from their branches. She rushed into the cottage, a blur of pink. Mazarine and Cora worried that she may break the door again.

“What do you suppose has her worked up again, Mazzie?” Asked Fawn.

“Probably another dead-end prophecy. You know, sometimes I feel like she’s not happy unless the end of the kingdom is upon us.”

“I suppose there may be truth to that…. So many prophecies, it’s hard to know if any of them will come about in our lifetimes.”

Cora could be heard in the study, rifling through pages of tomes older than this forest – the women had seen this kingdom grow from seedlings, seedlings that they had planted.

“How long before she comes to sqwak at us?” Mazarine adjusted her shawl. It had been a gift from the land’s first queen, though she couldn’t remember her name. Oh, but she was quite talented with wool and dyes. The green was as vibrant as the day she was given it.

They both sipped their tea and rocked a bit, taking in the sounds of the birds and bugs and branches of their little homestead. At a glance, the cottage was much like any other – lumber and thatch and mud. A close look, though, would show that the cottage was not cut lumber, but was actually a hedge of bushes, grown so tightly together that the had woven themselves into walls, and the roof was a thick patch of mosses and mushrooms.

Cora burst out of the door, red-faced and panting, holding an aged book encased in a glass box.

“Do either of you remember how to open this damnable thing?!”

Fawn and Mazarine looked at each other, quite worried. That book was the oldest, most powerful, and serious in the collection. Even at her most panicked, Cora would NEVER reach for it.

Her voice shaking, Mazarine answered, “All three of us need to open it.”

“You better come inside.” Cora wiped the sweat from her brow – which was still quite furrowed. Fawn had often cautioned her that wrinkles would stick if she kept making that face, but today was not the day to warn Cora about her aging.

“Cora, dear, what is going on?” Fawn set her teacup down on a small stump that doubled as a side table. Mazarine did the same, and smoothed out her dress as they all walked into the drawing room.

“Ladies, we have a situation.
The darkness that we have feared has grown and is about to rear it’s ugly head.
We’ve known this day would come, but Heavens help me, I never thought it would happen so soon.”

Still a bit dazed, each woman set a hand on the glass case, focusing their special “talents”, as they liked to call it. Soft lights emanated from them – green, red, and blue – and the case seemed to melt away.

They looked at the book, sitting there on table. It was just so….  unobtrusive. There was nothing on the cover, no title on the spine. It was brown (which, frankly, they all agreed was an ugly color when it wasn’t out in the woods) and boring.

They all took a deep breath, hoping that which they feared would not come to be.

After a moment, they looked at each other, slightly relieved. The book just sat there.
Doing nothing.

“Well,” said Mazarine, “all that for nothing. You need to learn to rela—-”

A gust of wind blew through the cottage, flipping the pages of the book. When it stopped, Fawn’s heart sank.
Mazarine crinkled her nose, upset that she had spoken too soon.
And Cora…

Cora stared down at the page, a tear rolling down her cheek. It is as we have feared.

Before them was what amounted to a yearbook. Every witch, magician, wizard, and warlock to ever live would have a portion in the book. Some would have a paragraph, others a chapter. As new mages were born, pages were entered into the book.

This page was one of many; it was filled with legends, stories from around the world, of great evils. It hadn’t always been this way, there were many pages of wonderful things.
Melody had such promise. She could speak to the wind and rain; she could heal the land and help crops grow.
She had helped create this kingdom.

The fairies recalled the dark day when things changed.

A wizard, quite mad, had come upon their little cottage. He demanded that they teach him how to manipulate the Earth.
Trying to explain to a madman that you do not manipulate, but simply ask nicely, was impossible.

So he burned it to the ground – all of it.
Cora guessed it was because he wanted to see a new cottage spring forth from the remains or some such nonsense.

Melody was devastated. She had spoken to the walls. She knew every animal and insect that burrowed within the walls and floors and roof.
She could feel the ones that did not make it out. She tended the ones that barely did.

And then she tracked him down.
The forest was angry, and she began to feed off that anger.

Rage boiled in her blood.

Her once shimmery, lavender aura blackened. Her hair twisted and knotted as burnt branches.

And when she found him, she devoured his magic – which she found quite appealing. The power flowed through her, and she could harness it.
He was a shape-shifter…. dragonkind.

She gave his wasted body to the ground, where a small rose bush rose up. The thorns were quite large and very sharp.
Here, she grew her fortress.
Never again would the forest, her forest, be ravaged by men.

Cora, Fawn, and Mazarine had tracked her for months; the tower of thorns had become impressive.

They found her, dirtied and bloodied and burned. Tears had caked the mud to her face.
Fawn tried to hug her, to heal her, but she recoiled.

“Don’t come near me; I fear I will devour you, too.”

“Let us help you.” Fawn sang gently.
“We’ll get you cleaned up and back home.” Whispered Cora.

Before Mazarine could speak, Melody stood up.

“There will never be a home for us. These humans no longer revere us; they fear us. They attack for no reason, they kill without regard, they burn and chop and destroy. Just like the mad wizard.

Now leave, before I take your powers, too.”

“Take our powers?” Mazarine trembled, astonished at what she heard.

“I have been threatened, beaten, and bruised. But in the end, I am strong. Warlocks and druids have come to me, seeking to destroy me. I am a threat, they say!

And they are right. I drain them of their magic and throw their bodies to the rose bushes. My tower feeds and grows.”

Cora dropped her gaze a bit. “Sweetie, you know that it’s wrong to take another’s power.”

“I was defending myself!”

“It’s still wrong, and we can’t let you do it. Come home with us. The trees miss you. The chipmunks are in a tizzy.”

“NO! Now leave!”

Melody was so angry, so sad, so frightened, that she hadn’t noticed the three fairies weaving their spell. The faint lights from their hands wrapping the room like ribbons.
By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late – she was trapped.

Mazarine stepped forward.

“We took you in as a child because you had such potential, such love. We taught you everything we could about kindness and generosity.

You know this is wrong, and it is our duty to stopped you if you cannot stop yourself. You’ve lost control.”

She straightened her skirt and continued, “There will come a day when you are clearer in your head. When that day comes, you will free yourself from this prison. Until then, know that we love you, and always will.”

Fawn looked to her.
“The birds and animals will see to your well-being. Do not worry.”

They left, hearts filled with sadness and regret.

Looking in the book, Cora saw what they dreaded: A dragon, slain by a magic sword. They knew she had the power to free herself now, and they must put things in motion.

“Mazzie, you hop next door and make sure the blood line continues. We’re going to need a prince in a few years.

Fawn, get us an invite to the baby’s party.”

“What baby, what party?”

“Oh, I took care of that last night.” She smiled wryly. “Just get us in the good graces of Their Majesties. Now, go, the both of you! I have work to do.”

When Mazzie and Fawn had left the cottage, Cora got straight to work. This would be the most beautiful sword ever created. It’s powers would remain dormant until the right prince at the right time needed to battle a dragon.

“Maybe I should leave it lodged in a stone somewhere. Only he of pure heart can draw it or some such nonsense…. No, that’d never work.”

“Sleeping Beauty” by Thomas Spence

 

Holy. Crap.

I need to preface this by saying that I really do enjoy the holidays.
However….

I really hate the holidays.
I am exhausted. I can’t get normal, every day-type errands done because people at the malls and in the grocery stores are so damn angsty.
I just want to yell, “Chill the fuck out, dudes. It’s not that bad.” and “For the love of Pete, lady, put your child on a leash before it runs out into traffic and gets run over.” and “Young lady, I cannot imagine why on Earth you think it’s ok to speak to your mother like that, but I swear to gawd if you don’t stop I right now, I will find out how to get a hold of your Grandmother and I guarantee she will put a stop to this.”

What. Thefuck. Is wrong with people?

Another thing that I dislike about this time of year is that I always seem to be sick. And it’s not usually a stressed out kind of sick. Typically, it’s an allergy-based sick. All the scented candles and pinecones kill me (I am allergic to artificial fragrances, so yes, it could potentially kill me). Also, the cold weather makes people slather on cologne and perfume heavier than usual. Ick.

This year, though, for the first time in well over a decade, I have the flu. This wouldn’t be a problem, except that everyone else in my department (read: 2 of 3 people) was out Monday and today. That left me handling my job, some of my boss’s job and a part of the other gal’s job. Fortunately, it was slow-ish due to the holiday. But I’m already kind of busy, so throwing on even a bit is draining. Topping that with a pretty sweet, low and raspy voice and the occasionall oh-so-sexy sniffle and BAM! Worst Christmas Eve ever.

Thankfully, my office mates are amazing. They made me tea, steared clear of my office unless necessary, and pretty much left me alone.
Today was much the same: Tea in the morning, left alone all day. But I didn’t get to leave 2 hours early today – which was fine, I had shit to do.

I’m just tired and sore. And I feel like my throat is actually trying to escape.
Wow… I don’t think I’ve ever coughed so hard that I have simultaneously needed to puke AND pee at the same time (and almost did! Sorry, TMI, huh?)

Well…
Onwards and upwards!

I got a new vendor to sign on for Something Tribal, which is super exciting. I would really have like to get more – or some sponsors.
If any of you want to ride the awesome Tribal train that is Something Tribal This Way Comes, we have a few days left for vending, advertising, and sponsorship registration. There are also a few days left to get in on the early bird workshop pricing. It’s going to be a super time, and I am SO STOKED to meet Wendy Allen.

 

Art I Love

Here are a couple of pieces that have inspired me. I own prints of some, others I wish I could afford or find them. I hope you enjoy these as much as I do.

This is the very piece that got me into collecting fine art. I had the opportunity to actually meet the artist.


I was at a seminar in Scottsdale, AZ. I got to meet so many amazing artists.
The piece above, “Sleeper, Lost in Dreams” had only recently been made into a bronze sculpture. It was breathtaking. There I stood, almost crying over how beautiful it was, when a young woman came up and asked what I thought.
“This is the reason why I collect art. This is why I am a huge fan of Christensen’s work.”
I don’t recall her exact words, but it was something along the lines of,  “He’s my dad; you should tell him that.”
Totally AMAZEBAWLZ.

I could probably do an entire post about how awesome James Christensen’s art is, but I’m going to let you click on the picture and get directed to his portfolio. I own 8 or 10 of his pieces, including an original sketch in my D&D spell-book (yeah, you read that right).


Bradlt Bralds was another artist that I got to meet. He is a pretty chill guy, and his wife is super sweet.
Also, he wore a bright blue speedo that day. Seriously chill.
I bought this piece shortly after I had a charity art show to raise money for Animal Ark Shelter. It reminded me of my Peanut. Now that she’s gone, I keep looking for a place to hang it.

I really, really wish I could get my hands on this one. Every time I see the image, I feel so calm.

And just so you don’t think that all I like is deep, broody, semi-religious art:

Really, though. Click the picture and go to his website.
I double-dog dare you not to smile.

There are many, many more pieces that I could put on here, but I was up super late last night and I’m tired.
So I’m going back to bed.
But I know you’ll enjoy some of these.

Merry Meet!

Day One.
::sigh::

I cannot begin to put to words the immense pain in my heart. I’ve been on the verge of tears so many times today (and have cried twice).
It is a little easier, though.

I have tried to be rational about the whole thing. She’s in a much better place; out of the pain and suffering she was experiencing.

Could she have lived longer? Yes, probably. Would she be happy that way – with a permanent/semi-permanent feeding tube, anti-inflammatory and anti-nausea drugs, pain-killers, and liquid foods? No, I don’t believe she’d be ok with that.
If there is one thing I know about my Peanut, it’s that she loved food. You don’t get to be a 16 lb. fluff-ball by not enjoying food.

So it is getting easier. But when I’m alone and it’s quiet, I begin to doubt myself.
Did I make the right decision? Was she really ready? Was there something more I could have done?
I wish I knew the answers.

I danced tonight. It was wonderfully therapeutic. It took my mind off my troubles.
Peanut always sat and watched me dance. I could tell there were certain songs she preferred, so I would dance to those. I’m sure she was more interested in the tassels and shiny bits on my hip scarves, but I always felt like I had a fan.
So now, I dance for Peanut in a different way.

I don’t know if I believe in the kind of afterlife that involves spirits of loved ones looking after you. Or if I really believe in an afterlife.
I was raised Catholic, so reconciling human spirits and animal spirits and what happens to them is difficult. I learned at a young age that after death, there are 3 options: Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. No matter where you ended up, though, your soul has no actual memory of the life you left behind. There was no romantic love in Heaven. You didn’t actually meet your grandparents and live happily with Scruffy on a cloud (because, you see, animals don’t have souls). There was only a general “love” feeling for the other souls around you.

I don’t prescribe to that notion at all.

I haven’t really figured out if I believe in reincarnation, or past-lives and whatnot. I’m still kind of searching for that. Maybe I’ll ask her if I get to see her again.

On a not-quite-related note, here is a stunning piece of artwork from ancient Egypt. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?

“The Bird Lady” was excavated by Henri de Morgan in 1907 from Tomb 2 at the site of Ma’mariya in Egypt, which dates to about 5,500 years ago.
‘The Dawn of Egyptian Art’ is on view at the Met from April 10 to August 5, 2012.