Ruby Tuesday -- They're Still Kicking. Well, Mostly

Getting back to blogging means getting back on the Ruby Tuesday bandwagon.  (Check out Work of the Poet's other photo memes, too... yellow is sometimes involved, and so is the sky...but alas, no time to keep up with everything, and so for now we stick with ruby).

They're just now winding down, though they've been gracing our table for the past week and a half.  That Guy I Married brought them home for us two Fridays ago, in honor of Shabbat.  

The flowers are called  כלניות kalaniot in Hebrew and are grown locally, on Moshav land in the area.  In fact, there is an anemone field right down the road from us.   They also grow wild at this time of year -- although only in ruby red -- all over Israel.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Reflection

For once, there's no hidden metaphor here... unless you're looking for some deeper meaning, and a reason to celebrate.  Here it is:  

It's finally started raining here in Israel.  

Okay, so it came two months late, but we'll take every drop we can get, even when it means mud everywhere.  Bring it on, we can handle it!

Keep the balance, and Let It Rain!

ALN

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 3

(This is a continuation piece of last week's post, Perception and Creation Beyond Sight 2).

Immaterial Elements and Tactile Shades.  Light.  Color.  Texture.  Composition.  For most artists, these are key concepts, central considerations in all their work.  With closed eyes, color becomes irrelevant, as does all but the brightest light.  

Sharon Karni's works, so rich in scope and layering (as well as color) showed me that textural nuance and material variety can be experienced as colorful, in and of themselves.  With eyes closed and color no longer a consideration, I was able to appreciate and enjoy the depth of Karni's tactile expression via her use of varied materials and textures, from wood relief to netting to nails.  

(An internet search led to one Hebrew explanation of her tendency to incorporate natural elements, such as beach sand and seawater, to her pigments, further adding to their sense of tactility.  The Biblical title of this work refers to words contained in a line of Moshe's Song of the Sea describing the Red Sea's waters as standing "frozen" on each side).

Sharon Karni, Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004.  Mixed technique on wood.

Cathedral, a medium-sized sculpture in plywood by Israel Hadany, could be mistaken for simplistic in shape, a smooth, nearly organic form that -- in contrast to the surging interior of an actual cathedral, sags toward the middle, only to soar upward at each end.   To run my hands over its surface, eyes closed, was to flow down and up again, along its rounded exterior into the space created within.  But the temptation of actually seeing this work wedged itself into my tactile experience after only a few seconds.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005.  Plywood.

This was one of the few works for which, once I had opened my eyes, I could not limit myself to touch alone.  The contrast of light and darkness, spilling over, around and within the form, had me mesmerized.   An orderly row of small windows along its upper surface created a captivating sun-spot effect within.  Experiencing the sculpture by touch alone sharpened my awareness of the piece's richness and depth of form, as well as the visual beauty a sightless person misses.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005 (interior).  Plywood.

Compensation, Exaggeration.   It is commonly believed that those lacking one sensory ability tend to deepen their other sensory abilities -- namely, hearing and touch -- in compensation.  This makes sense to me, and I understand that magnetic imaging of the brain has proven it true on a neurological level as well.  

During my visit, I cannot say that my neurological abilities shifted in any meaningful way, but my attention certainly did.  The gallery, closed off only partially by short walls within the university's echoey, chamber-like corridor, had the opposite effect of that reflective, austere silence typical of most public art venues.  After only a few minutes I was intensely, almost painfully aware of the volume of sound entering the venue.  Previous wanderings through those halls, with my only goal to get from one end to the other, had not focused my awareness on the noise level, but here in the gallery I found it an almost overwhelming presence which disturbed my concentration.  In this context, an "enhanced" ability to hear became a limitation.

Closed In, Exposed Outward.  Last month, at a professional convention, I had the privilege of attending a presentation by several blind adults who shared some thoughts on their experiences before and after receiving dog guides.  One man, a psychologist by profession, had lost his sight as a result of a war injury.  He related his original refusal to have a dog guide, based on his fears of becoming dependent, and the many benefits he now credits to his canine companion, including a facilitation of his social connections with others.  Instead of standing out as an objectified, dependent person, he and his dog now share the limelight, and a sense of healthy interdependence.

I remembered this man as I made my way around the exhibit, eyes closed, hands roaming over the artwork.  I was acutely aware of the gallery's glass walls, and how ridiculous I must have looked to those who were unaware of the exhibit's focus.  I felt exposed, and this bothered me.  But I also felt strangely free, an unfamiliar sensation of being alone with myself, asking, If I can't see others, how much do I care how they see me?

In Conclusion.  I am so visual a person, I find it extremely challenging to even imagine a world in which my sense of sight does not play a dominant role.  Here in the Stern Gallery, I was reminded that my sight, for all its advantages, can limit my perception and my appreciation by its tendency to dominate my other senses.  I came to learn that approaching art up close can, with all the irony implied, create a distance.  

I credit this exhibit, its artists and curators, with providing us a particular opportunity to experience art -- and our own selves, experiencing the art -- anew.

* * * * *

Feeling and Meaning:  Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman 

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva Passow-Whitman.

* * * * *

Keep the balance, 

ALN

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 2

I have just spent half an hour with the exhibit “Feeling and Meaning – Seeing Art Through Touch,” now open  in the Stern Gallery, a glass-walled pair of narrow rooms carved out of the wide, multi-angled hallway of the Humanities Wing of Hebrew University, Mt. Scopus. Although it is a small exhibit, featuring only twenty or so works, I easily could have stayed there an hour or more.  

I took advantage of what I knew would be an abridged visit by passing fairly quickly from one work to the next, noting my reactions to the new and often surprising discoveries that came with experiencing a body of art in ways beyond the visual.  Here are some of my impressions.

Here, You Can Touch.  I entered the gallery completely aware that these objects, all of which had three-dimensional aspects, were on display to be touched as well as seen. Yet I had to consciously stop myself from asking the security guard to confirm that yes, I really was allowed to touch everything.  This, in and of itself, was a freeing prospect, breaking a social convention while opening doors to a new way of perceiving the artwork.

Eyes Down, Hands Up.  I did not want to fall into an impossible attempt at closing my eyes and "pretending to be blind;"  as a seeing person -- however myopic -- I know that I am habituated to experiences my world "eyes first."   By closing them, I understood that would only be scraping the surface of taking in my surroundings via additional senses.  I chose instead to touch the work with eyes open, but limiting their use, either beginning with a brief glance, to get a general impression of the size, shape, color and subject of the work, or else fixing my gaze downward, until after I had first gotten to know the art through my hands.

The Same Work, Twice.  This duality, seeing the work only peripherally while allowing my sense of touch to dominate my sensory intake, led to a feeling of intense sensory dichotomy. Through touch alone I could not identify a small sculpture which afterwards, by sight, I effortlessly recognized as a bust of Chaim Weizmann.  But it wasn't just a matter of finding something recognizable;  the sculpture as perceived by my hands, was nothing like the one my eyes claimed to see.  In all but those two or three works containing exceedingly clean, straight lines and clear-cut materials, I was never able to reconcile what I looked at with what I touched, effectively turning every piece into two -- or more -- completely different works of art.

How Big, and How Wide?  

The first thing I did when approaching a piece was to run my hands along its edges, trying to establish a tactile understanding of the size of the work.  

Sharon Karni.  Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

For many of the larger pieces, such as Sharon Karni's Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), this process took time and required a certain effort -- reaching up, around, crouching down.  It struck me, the amount of time and effort that would be required to understand the scope and size of an image without the help of my eyes.

A Feeling for the Whole Picture.  It only got more difficult when I tried to create an overall internal picture of the work in front of me.  With information coming in from only two hands, I could take in about 100 square centimeters at a time, and only slowly, bit by bit.  I ended up trying -- unsuccessfully -- to assemble a disjointed collection of data into one coherent image, but found I could do so only afterwards, using my eyes.  My sensory experience lacked wholeness and continuity.  

Sharon Karni.  Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

Zohar Ginio, the lawyer/artist, and only blind artist participating in the exhibit, noted in his interview with The Jerusalem Report that he limits his works to a small scale since it is difficult for blind people get a feel for a large work that they cannot feel all at once. Indeed, his stone sculpture The Laborer, a self-portrait of his hand, is large in impact but small enough (approx. 80 across) to allow both sighted and sightless people to take in the work as a whole.

To be continued...

Keep the balance,

ALN

______

Feeling and Meaning:  Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman 

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva.

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight

I wish I could include here some of the amazing paintings by artist John Bramblitt, although when you see them, you might be tempted to believe he is not blind.  He is featured here in a recent NYT, as well as here in Tara Parker Pope's Well blog.  

His loss of sight became an ironic source of new courage, and a his painting, a way of communicating his perceptions.

"It wasn’t until I lost my sight that I became brave enough to fail,” he said. “Even if the paintings didn’t look good, I didn’t have to see them."

Wow.  To go back to painting, after blindness.   His ability to reframe his (and his environment's) outlook toward his limitation, into one of abilities, is powerful of itself.

On the subject, a current exhibit at the Stern Gallery on the Mt. Scopus campus of Hebrew University features artwork by, and for, blind and visually impaired visitors.  Read about it here, and in the February 16 edition of The Jerusalem Report (no web-based article available, as far I know), which includes a piece on artist Zohar Ginio, a lawyer by profession, and the only blind artist to have artwork -- a sculptural self-portrait of his hand -- featured at the exhibit.   

I have walked by this exhibit several times after-hours, on my way back from evening class.   The gallery has glass walls, allowing some works to be viewed from the outside, but I have not yet had the opportunity to wander in and experience the work tactically.  That needs correction, and since I happen to have class today, I am now going to log off, get up off my tush and head over to campus early, so that I have time to enjoy this exhibit.   Stay tuned for impressions.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Re-Awakening

What a funny feeling -- four weeks off-blog, and now, the ironic sting of returning to this virtual world of real people...  a feeling that this corner of my life has dropped out from under me.  Now there's that expected-nevertheless-surprising squeak of the gears as I try to slide my way back in.

Winter is here, rain is not (not in Israel, not nearly enough of it), but the microbes are back in full, and my two-week battle with bronchitis was there to prove it.  Tune in for my forthcoming work, An Ode to Rythromycin.  

No question, this was my psycho-somatic response to the usual stress at work and the unrelenting scrollbar of daily activity, against the ever-nearing backdrop of our country at war.  The verdict is quite clear:  if I do not learn to pace this hectic life-schedule multi-tasking thing, I will inevitably engage in a forced vacation, and last week was it.  I was in bed, or flopping over onto some sofa or other, for the entire week.  Did not recognize myself.

Even odder, for the duration of that week, nearly everything was input.  Instead of writing (or blogging, as noted), I read.*  Instead of practicing therapy at work, or art in the studio, I went over books and articles about therapy and art.  And I ate regular meals, ones that I had taken time to prepare.  A-B-C's for most, a notable accomplishment for me.  I barely opened the computer, and within three days found myself drowning and spluttering in an email effusion that nearly required a Cyber Coast Guard bail-out.  No blogging.  None.  Not even blog-reading.  It was the printed word, read off of authentic, bleached tree-pulp products.  

Freedom, in an odd way, but also a strange pang of loss and absence... and a return to my original question:  

How does everyone find the time?  

Please, send the magic pill on over.

Keep the balance (or -- you've been warned -- your body may do it for you),

ALN

____

* Namely, אישה בורחת מבשורה -- Until the End of the Land (2006) by David Grossman (I only found circumstantial evidence of its availability translated in English), and How Doctors Think (2007/2008) by Jerome Groopman.  I have thoughts on both, but not for now.