Bit o’ Honey ~ the little things that please

I admit, my head was swimming when the art committee left.  My first design was raw, I knew, but given the chance to develop it and with the addition of glass I was certain it could stand on its own.  None of that mattered, however.  The chaplain wanted water, less yellow and no chalice; the project manager wanted sun through the leaves and a palpable sense of hope; both thought the symbolism needed to be strengthened. The art consultant, hired as a mediator between the hospital and the artists, only asked that I keep the process going, balancing my style with the others’ requests.

The biggest challenge for me as an artist working in stained glass is that of over-design, of the piece feeling contrived, or worse, kitchy.  Too often I encounter stained glass windows that have the subtlety of a brick to the head.   If my design lacked symbolic impact, it meant the viewer would be given the opportunity to fill in the blanks with color, line, and best, with imagination.  But to satisfy the committee, I had to give up at least a little of that.  The design couldn’t just suggest a botanical form; it had to represent a tree in all its glorious symbolism.  And more than that, the design had to accommodate the addition of water.  I had no choice but to take this as a new challenge: to blend my aesthetic with a more direct representation.  I tried not to fret over it.  I know how my state of mind can seep into the finished product.  While I may not always feel relaxed and balanced when I work, at the very least I want the work to reflect my desired state of mind.  

So, pencil in hand, I approached the blank paper for round two with a sense of curiosity and play. 

I’m most pleased with the canopy.  No chalice here! 

To create a sense of “verdant abundance” the builder spoke of, rather than complicate things by adding more leaves, I made them full and voluptuous, almost like fruit or buds.  I also varied their sizes, which I think inspires the eye to roam the flow of lines.  It’s that roaming along shapes and color I hope will serve as meditation, even more than the symbolism.

In most images depicting the Tree of Life the roots are a vital part of the overall design.  Not true in this draft.  With a more detailed root system the drawing became too busy.  After rubbing my eraser to a nub, I finally left three visible roots.  I’m not real happy about how it looks.  This area still needs some thought — or needs to be redrawn quickly, without too much thought.  I’ll experiment when I begin to cut the glass.  That should help determine what kind of shapes I want to use here.

I’m quite satisfied with how the bend in the stream works off the trunk’s curve to make a figure 8, the symbol of infinity.  I didn’t plan this, it just came about as I drew it.  Once I realized it, I worked the lines to enhance it.  The trunk could be bulked up.  You can just see a pencil line where I tried to do this. I’m a little concerned about the stream.  I think it looks too darn cliche.   But face it, it’s a tree by a stream in stained glass!  Cliches abound!  I remind myself that I’m helping create an important refuge in the hospital — no one will be as critical of the end results as I will.  I’m also working under some very specific parameters, including the unfortunate display in a light box.   But more on that later.  

What’s not to love?

Never mind all the hoo-ha over carbohydrates, I’ve been baking quick breads for years, and unless you spend your day at the T.V. or in front of computer (ahem) there should be no problem incorporating my delicious carbo-rich loaf into your diet.  

A fresh homemade loaf of sweet bread is perfect as a thank you token for a favor received, a last minute holiday or birthday treat, a house warming gift, great for pot-lucks or a get-well-soon happy.  When I’m traveling I freeze slices in ziploc bags and remove them just as I’m out the door.  That helps with the squish factor on the bus or plane.

This recipe is forgiving and easily adaptable.  You can substitute flours, add various fruits and nuts, and basically tweak the recipe to your tastes.  The only thing I haven’t experimented with are the amounts of baking soda and powder.  The quantities work even as I vary the other ingredients, so I stick with them.

Here’s the basic recipe:

1 1/2 C all purpose flour  You may also use 3/4 c all purpose plus 3/4 c whole wheat.  

If you’re avoiding wheat, spelt flour can be substituted in the same ratio.  In some speciality stores you can find whole grain spelt, which I prefer for its higher protein content and wonderful nutty flavor.  Keep in mind that whole grain flours absorb moisture.  If you use them, you will likely need to add about a 1/4 c of a wet ingredient – extra egg, milk or fruit will usually do the trick.  Experiment with ratios of these to find your preferred tastes.

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

dash of nutmeg or cinnamon or both

___________________________

2 large eggs

1 heaping C fruit (mashed bananas, canned squash or pumpkin, grated zuchinni — or a mix of any of these.  Banana and squash together is sublime.  In the fall I use fresh Delicata squash.  Just slice it down the center and bake in the oven.  One medium-sized Delicata will usually suffice.  The flavor lives up to its name.)

1/2 C honey 

1/2 C canola or other mild-flavored oil

Bake at 350 for about 45 minutes.

Fresh ingredients make for a healthier, tastier bread.  Buy local!

Mix the dry ingredients separately from the wet.  Fold them together just until the batter is formed.  

A gentle hand when mixing makes for a tender loaf.

If you’re like Blue Bicicletta and are harvesting your first zucchini, this would be a perfect way to use up some of your pickings.  Keep in mind that zucchini’s already subtle flavor pretty much disappears when baked, so you may want to bump up the spices in the recipe.  

Try using a portion of whole wheat flour or wheat germ in the mix.  You’ll need to add an extra egg, a little yogurt or more fruit, as those hearty grains soak up liquid. 

For this pumpkin bread I used 1C whole wheat flour + 1/2C white + 1/4C wheat germ.  I added one extra egg and a dollop of homemade yogurt to give the loaf more moisture to balance the whole grains.  Experiment!

The batter is thick but should pour easily.

Use a standard 9″ baking pan or muffin tin.

Time for breakfast!

“It looks like a chalice,” the chaplain said. 

Tree?  Chalice?

We studied the drawing tacked to the wall.  A chalice?  It hadn’t occurred to me.  ”Not surprising you would find that,” I said, “considering your profession.”

“Everyone on the committee thought so,” he added.  

The chaplain and I were in my studio waiting for the other committee members to arrive.  I was thrilled at the news that my proposal had been chosen, but the real work was just beginning.  This would be my first public art piece, my first experience working with a committee, each member with their own ideas and interpretations of my design.  Like the chalice.  I would’ve never seen it had the chaplain not brought it up.  

“We can’t have a symbol so religious.  This design has to be as inclusive as possible.”

The project manager and art consultant arrived and together we discussed the chaplain’s concern.  I didn’t think the reference to a chalice was a bad thing, but I told them it could be easily fixed.   “I could add a few extra lines in the canopy or change the shape of the trunk.”

“In the watercolor there was yellow in the background,” the chaplain continued.  ”A lot of yellow. And nothing else.”

Ouch!  He was right!

“I hadn’t really had a chance to consider how I might develop the background, and I want to do that.”

“There’s a stained glass window in the hospital chapel, you should see it.   It has a circle representing the moon and sun together.  A very powerful, ancient symbol.  There’s a bridge over a stream.  A rainbow too, something that speaks to many viewers as symbols of hope.”

Rainbows?  I thought.  Please, no rainbows!

“The chaplain has a point,” the project manager said.  ”We really need to have the sense of hope.  I think of the sun pouring through the leaves.  It doesn’t have to be a literal sun, but a feeling.”

I led them to my light table where I’d lined glass samples in the palette I’d hoped to use.   The way glass comes alive in light is a marvel.  Colored glass, particularly mouthblown glass, has a purity and brilliance of color unmatched by paint or photography.  Its impact goes beyond any literal context or symbolism.  I’d kept my lines simple precisely because I wanted to draw attention to glass through my design, and not the opposite.  It was hard to express that at the time.  I’d hoped the glass would be allowed to do its magic on the psyche without the need for so many literal references.  They agreed the colors would work but that the design needed more symbolic relevance.  This seemed especially vital to the chaplain, which was understandable.  Of all those committee members present, he would be most involved with those who used the room where the window would be displayed.  

“Water is an important symbol,” he said.  ”I’d like to see water.”

Water? I thought.  That means blue.  

The art consultant scribbled notes.  ”I’ll need to document this.”

True collaboration means it’s no longer my single vision, it’s our vision.  They wanted water, and I would have to find a way to include it so that it fit with the rest of my design.   I rifled through old photographs of earlier windows I’d done depicting water.

“This looks more like the ocean,” the project manager said, sorting through the photographs.  ”If I’m a parent whose child is in the neo-natal care unit, it might make me feel like I’m drowning.  It should be calmer.  ’He leadeth me beside still waters.’  That’s what I think of.”

 ”The twenty-third psalm,” the chaplain nodded.  ”A cleansing water.”   

“Right,” I said, wondering how I might render cleansing lines.

“And leaves,” the project manager said, “I like the use of green.  Bright green, like this,” he said, pointing to a citron piece of glass used in a piece that hung in my studio window.  ”This color gives the feeling of a verdant abundance.   Of growth and renewal.”  

Sexy lines. . .

“These lines,” he said, “I could look at them all day.  They feel meditative.  That’s why we chose you.  We just want you to put that same treatment into more symbols.” 

“Right.  I can do that.”  I tried to sound confident.  Actually, I wondered how I might do that without the result looking about as original as a paint-by-numbers landscape.  But this was a good reference.  My Tree of Life didn’t have the same flow of lines.  In this windows, the full leaves and movement added to the verdant quality.  That seemed a significant detail.  I would need to remember it for my second draft.   

We ended the meeting with pleasantries.  I reassured them of my willingness incorporate the ideas we discussed into the design.  We shook hands and they filed out.  The art consultant lingered a moment at the door.  ”It’s a lot of information, but we like your aesthetic.  Just stay with that.”

“Thanks.  I’m sure I can come up with something that everyone will approve of.”  I wasn’t lying exactly, just wishfully thinking out loud.

The creative process is about as easy to navigate as love.  It’s messy and unpredictable.  Often it touches on the metaphysical, other times it curses you with empty promises.  Always in motion, no matter how you try to direct it, it takes the lead, carrying you to a place largely unexpected.  The creative process is deeply personal and at the same it demands you leave your ego behind.  This is especially true when working collaboratively, which is where I find myself now, sharing the creative process with four other people: an architect, a project manager, an art consultant, and a chaplain.  

The call for stained glass artists came last month. A 4′X3′ glass panel was to be created for the new wing of a local hospital.   There were several important stipulations.  The design should not represent any particular religion but speak to a multi-racial, multi-ethnic, multi-religious population.  Also, the design should reference Nature.  I would need to include an application, biography and statement, as well as a visual representation of my design.  I had one week to complete it.

I knew what design I would use.  The Tree of Life.  Deeply symbolic without being overtly religious, it stood as an axis mundi, connecting earth and sky and depicting the continuous cycle of life.  I didn’t bother considering other ideas, it seemed right in every way.  I went to work immediately.

Every night for the next week I worked on my hands and knees over a swath of white paper, making various interpretations of the Tree of Life.  With designs this size I prefer to draw on the floor using my whole body so that I not only see the lines clearly, I feel them.  Unfortunately, with so little time I was forced to offer an unrefined design.  This disgruntled me, but no matter how rough the idea I knew a few things for certain. First of all, I would not use blue.  Blue is a fine color, but grossly overused in stained glass.  And blue was the obvious choice used to evoke comfort.  I wanted to step away from the obvious.  In addition, I knew the design had to be kept simple.  No high concept, no pretense, and visually undemanding.  In a hospital, where matters of life and death abound, I wanted an image that could offer a place of rest, a quiet play of color and line to soothe the heart.

That was the goal, anyway.

I finished the preliminary watercolor at 10 o’clock at night.  Deadline for submission was the next morning. 

And so begins the creative process . . .

It wasn’t long ago I could shop once a week at any one of the city’s specialty food stores to stock up on Manchego cheese, cured black olives, a decent bottle of Australian wine, salted cashews, and a loaf of fresh German rye bread.  I can remember deliberating at the check out line, “Should I buy that $4 bar of chocolate, too?”  Ah, those were the days.  Now, due to the much-hyped gas prices, I’ve downgraded to deli cheddar at the chain store, rye crackers and the occasional Hershey bar.  And the wine and olives?  Well, maybe for my birthday (which is just two months away).  I decided to the only solution was one I’d been mulling over for years — to work at a local farm in exchange for food.  Through the Portland CSA, or Community Supported Agriculture, I found a small family farm about twenty minutes from home where I can work for food.  The beauty of this arrangement is that I’m able to work around my schedule, so long as I total 25 hours during the growing season.  For that I receive produce for two every week during harvest, an education in agriculture and the sensual experience of working outside in the dirt on a farm.  

This lower field sits at the bottom of a dirt road.  

My job this week was ridding the onion patch of weeds.  

Sometimes it’s hard to tell weed from plant.

Even a farmer’s helper needs her fashion.  

I bought this hat at the Dollar Store – yes, for one dollar.  I ripped the plastic ribbon from its brim, submerged the hat in a sink full of water to de-starch it, and threaded it with a leather strip.   Now I’m ready to hit the rows. . .

Prepare for attack! 

Because this farm is in the process of becoming certified organic, it uses nature-friendly techniques.  In other words, weeding is done by hand, plant by plant, row by row.  After the plant is free of weeds, I clear away any dirt from the stalk, where the leaves converge.  

So much for that manicure . . .

This step is important, I learned, to be sure the plant has an open passage for air.  It’s a slow process but the work allows for a deeper intimacy with plant and earth, precisely what’s absent in my city life.  The work is physically challenging but time passes surprisingly fast.  I was at it for three hours in the mid-day sun, with only the breeze and birds to keep me company.  A marvelous time for reflection and daydreaming.

Weeding accomplished! (In this row, at least.)

Hard but satisfying work!  Now, for a cold drink and a shower . . .

In the years before vintage clothes were fashionable they were called “second hand”, a reference with little of the cachet that “vintage” implies.  Less expensive and less trendy, second hand clothes were the perfect answer to the cookie-cutter outfits at the mall, cheap relics of a past era that made me feel a little less ordinary.  

My real passion for second hand clothes was born 200 miles away from my home town, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. My brothers and I would drive down for the day, stumbling on some of the finest shops along Decatur Street — Fred and Ethel’s, Gabriella’s, and the many random junk stores, where we found an odd assortment of old clothes interspersed with antiques. Fox wraps with shriveled heads, organdy house dresses, bowling shirts with names like Randy or Frank embroidered on the chest, leather gloves that reached the elbow and fit tight as a pair of hose, all of them smelling as if they’d just been pulled from a cedar chest. The fabrics were like none I’d encountered in any mall.  Linens were densely woven and weighted with texture.  The best cotton was worn from wear and soft as my father’s handkerchiefs.  I found velvets so sumptuous they stirred a pleasure in me nearly sexual when I touched them.  And the buttons!  Bone and ivory,  metal and bakelite,  big as quarters and tiny as peas.  I was in heaven.  Nearly thirty years later I’m still a sucker for old clothes.  I buy them not because I need them but because I feel like I’m saving them from a sad fate: to be dumped in a heap, their stories lost and forgotten.  Like puppies from the pound I want to give them the chance for a new life.

On a recent trip to New Orleans, I found this sweet dress in the back room of a collectables store on Royal Street.  There was no dressing room so I stripped to my undies and dressed in the cramped closet.  There was no mirror either.  I walked out with the dress unzipped and asked the owner if he might do the honors. With my back to him, he attempted to zip me up.  No luck.  The zipper was faulty and the fit was snug, but I purchased it anyway for $35 in hopes of finding a way to make it work.  I’m not certain, but I would guess this dress is from the late 50’s or early 60’s, close to fifty years old.  The cotton is a fine weave with a rich satiny finish.  Aside from a rusty zipper, it’s in impeccable condition.  Astounding, really, considering its age.

I think the neckline is most flattering.  

However, the bodice was too small, even for me!  After much deliberation I decided to have the zipper cut at the waistline, creating a “peek-a-boo” back.  Now the dilemma was finding an attractive way to close the dress.  I sewed two buttons and loops of elastic in couple of strategic places . . .

It worked!

The quality of fabric and craftsmanship in old clothes is so impressive.  Twenty-five or thirty years ago it wasn’t unusual to find this level of workmanship in clothes.  Now, unless you can afford to shop at Barney’s for high end designer clothes, you’ll be hard-pressed to find the kind of care put into the construction the way you do in garments made as long as fifty years ago.  Here’s what I mean:

  What care went into the making of this dress! 

On inspection, I found this generous 3″ hem reinforced by a ribbon.  You rarely see that kind of detail these days.  All in all, the dress is a classic design, not too “costumey” as some vintage clothes can be. The skirt has a delightful swing to it.  I call it my “Happy Dress”.              

Okay, it’s not indoor gardening exactly but I am growing my own food.  I used a recipe online that called exclusively for powdered milk, which I feared would make a wimpy yogurt.  Instead, I substituted some powder for whole milk. I brought the milk come to a boil, let it cool, then added a few tablespoons of plain yogurt with live bacteria.  My first batch came out fine, not too sour, but a little watery.  On the next try I used the same amount of milk plus extra powder in hopes of a thicker version.  I set the mixure in a low oven for 8-10 hours with the thermometer still in it so I can check the temperature without disturbing the jar.  Apparently, yogurt doesn’t like to be disturbed when it’s growing, so I refrain from being too touch-feely.  This method worked best, resulting in a consistency much like sour cream.  Hmm.  From the photo you may notice this batch is a little warm, (the mixture should hover around 115 degrees).  No worry. If the yogurt doesn’t fully form or breaks, I’ll save the result for smoothies. The whole process is similar to the magic of sourdough baking — a culture is introduced into a warm comfy environment where it grows, reproduces, and turns its home into something a little more interesting. Like growing sprouts or baking bread, yogurt tastes best when you make it yourself.  There’s much satisfaction in problem solving and experimenting to find your signature flavor and texture.

Forget the plastic cups –

Eating from a charming ceramic bowl makes it tastes that much better.

The best batch to date.  I wrapped the jar in a heating pad, which made for a more controllable temperature.  Ultra creamy, this batch was sweetened with honey prior to setting.  Divine!

Mmmm.  I feel healthy already ~

Finally, a terrific way to use those left over jars of spaghetti sauce.  These are mung bean sprouts.  I grew them under my bathroom sink.  After soaking 1/4 cup of cleaned beans in water I rinsed them twice a day for about 4 days, letting them drain each time in a shallow bowl under the sink.  I can’t believe I’ve never tried this before.  Outside of a boiled egg, I can’t think of food easier to prepare.  If you don’t mind the mildly bitter taste, which is really its appeal, you can practically substitute it for lettuce.   If you’re like me and don’t have an outdoor garden, growing sprouts gives you the same satisfaction of watching a seed push its way through soil.  

There was a time when the sight of my hands like this would have horrified me.  When I was sixteen my hands were my most womanly feature.  I took pains to grow my nails half an inch long and filed them into perfect, moonlike crescents.  I fussed over cuticles with ointments ordered from my grandmother’s Avon catalog.  Manicures were one of my grandmother’s favorite pastimes, though I never remember her using that word to describe the activity, she simply “did” them.  As in, “Janie, run get the phone for me.  I’m doing my nails”.  She might spend an hour in her padded rocker with the nearby radio playing gospel, “doing them” with a metal file, then “doing them” in her favorite colors, colors that reminded me of hard candy: pearlized red, purple, or gold that shimmered when you shook the bottle, colors that matched her beaded slippers.  I stayed in the virginal spectrum: Apricot Cream, Royal Blush, Berry Sweet.  

Some time in my early twenties, after a move to Boston, I stopped doing my nails.   I’d found a job in a Middle Eastern cafe serving coffee for quarter tips.  My nails couldn’t survive the daily battle with ceramic cups and silverware, and no matter what the color chipped polish was just not pretty,.  Late nights after the last show at the Brattle Theater when moviegoers filled the cafe for final rounds of espresso and hummus, I helped with dishes.  My hands plowed through bin after bin, fearlessly scraping the uneaten food of a hundred strangers into the trash, my fingertips puckered by dishwater to a milky transluscence.  Later, as a cook in a restaurant I chopped crates of onions and peppers, deboned chickens and worked the lunch line with its open flames and artillary of knives, lifting heavy-bottomed pots of boiling pasta to drain into a colander at the the sink.   My hands, I noticed, were becoming strangely masculine.

My job as a baker ended the feminine life of my hands.  In the bakery I learned when when a bin of dough needed more time to rise, when it had overproofed by pressing my hands to its silky surface, sensing the resistance beneath.  I plunged them into the warm soft mass, broke through pockets that held the pungent breath of fermentation.  I  thought little of reaching into a 400 degree oven to capture a baking loaf, turn it over on my calloused palm and rap the bottom with my fingertips, listening for the hollow thump of doneness.  When carpal tunnel flared, I soaked my hands in ice water and wore wrist splints to bed to ease the tingling.  After five years, the brawn of my hands defied my 100 pound frame.   They’d lost their feminine allure but gained a kind of bravado. Their reddened, rugged state made me proud.   Mine were working hands now; they didn’t lie or forget.  They revealed as much about me as my face.  I was a high school drop out who fibbed of the fact on my college application, only to drop out of that too.  I’d moved from Mississippi to Boston without a degree or a plan.  My head reeled with so many choices in my twenties, but my hands had better work to do — learning, storing knowledge, getting roughed up, and growing stronger.