Last night I watched a C-Span II rerun of a Committee Hearing of the Bureau of Indian Affairs headed by Senator Ben Nighthorse-Campbell. I have only seen the Senator from Colorado once in person. He was on a Harly surrounded by a group of bikers in Sturgis, SD and he was a half block down a street filled with motorcycles. It was obvious that he was well regarded in that setting.
Clarence Wolf Guts was speaking in the Committee Hearing when I tuned in. He was very old, toothless, Lakota, wise and revered. He spoke in his Lakota/English accent of his love for America. "We love America. Nobody can take that from us...We love our country so we will do anything we can to protect us. We want America to be free. We didn't want the enemy to come here. I sang for my wounded buddies when they came home. We are proud to be Lakota. We are happy."
Clarence is the last surviving Lakota code talkers of the 11 who enlisted during WWII. Code takers from 18 American Indian tribes assisted the war effort. The link is to Heidi Bell Grease's article in the Rapid City Journal.
His only wish was to be able to see the World War II memorial and to talk to President Bush. He added that he didn't think he would ever get back to Washington DC again. Nighthorse told him that the visit to the Memorial would be arranged. I saw on the news this morning that Pres. Bush spoke to the Indian delegation this morning, before he and Ayad Allawi's press conference.
What a dichotomy today to hear this man, Clarence Wolf Guts, so depressed historically, speak with such deep and moving conviction regarding his love of country and honor upon serving during war time.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The Sight of Sun Sparkling on Cut Glass
The set of dishes for 16 in the drawer under the stove has not been used for several years. This morning I called a daughter to see if she wanted them and she does. I found 12 clear pink etched glass plates at a garage sale yesterday for $10. They are so pretty I bought them. The lady that sold them had bought all the books for her six college kids with her art work, she knew what she was selling. Her aunt had them in her house as long as she could recall. I think they must have been a grocery store premium at one time. They will replace the unused dishes in the stove drawer and I will use them next Tuesday night for expected company.
The garage sales at which I find good stuff just drives He Who Must Be Obeyed nuts. I found another oil painting that he had to hang on the back fence and a miniature to go with the little grouping in my bathroom. The little outdoor toilet watercolors, my artist aunt painted on Christmas cards over thirty years ago, had to be moved around. One thing leads to another. There is some conventional wisdom for you..."One thing leads to another."
The philosophy of social order reveals itself in garage sales. I will never have one for two reasons: a. it is too publicly revealing and b. I believe in giving away, not selling. I would be a natural at a potlatch.
Yesterday a nice lady in a lower middle class part of town sold her mother's cut glass bowls and creme and sugar set for pocket change. People who sell their parent's or older relatives things, in order to get them into nursing homes, have people like myself who buy them to cherish for a few years before my own kids sell it again to get me into a nursing home. Being the kid of 'Depression' parents, we are starved for things. The men can't get enough tools and the women can't get enough 'pretty dishes.' My dad made his own tools in his blacksmith shop and I ate off of chipped china. That stays with you. I cannot abide a chipped dish. I do appreciate hand smithed tools though. I am at odds with my own materialism.
Buying the same things in an antique or second-hand store does not have the same impact. There it all looks pathetic. On a table in the driveway with the sun shining on it makes it magical.
Maybe it is the relationships, no matter how momentary. Yesterday I visited with a woman, a decade younger than myself, who six years ago, with her husband, bought a power station from the power company to turn into a home. It was in a neighborhood of tudor brick homes and was my idea of a perfect adventure. Brick inside and out, concrete floors and ceilings, no heat, two windows, meeting city codes was tricky, she said. I admire their pioneer spirtit even if they find it chilly in the midwest winters. An artist had worked with them to create the gargoyles and wrought iron enclusure for courtyard. I found a treasure there as well, Chinese blue and white pottery with maker's marks on the bottom. Without the lid she didn't want it. To me it was beautiful.
Instead of a thesis on the philosophy of garage sales, perhaps I should figure out why I go to them. I suspect I know. It is the sight of sun sparkling on cut glass.
The garage sales at which I find good stuff just drives He Who Must Be Obeyed nuts. I found another oil painting that he had to hang on the back fence and a miniature to go with the little grouping in my bathroom. The little outdoor toilet watercolors, my artist aunt painted on Christmas cards over thirty years ago, had to be moved around. One thing leads to another. There is some conventional wisdom for you..."One thing leads to another."
The philosophy of social order reveals itself in garage sales. I will never have one for two reasons: a. it is too publicly revealing and b. I believe in giving away, not selling. I would be a natural at a potlatch.
Yesterday a nice lady in a lower middle class part of town sold her mother's cut glass bowls and creme and sugar set for pocket change. People who sell their parent's or older relatives things, in order to get them into nursing homes, have people like myself who buy them to cherish for a few years before my own kids sell it again to get me into a nursing home. Being the kid of 'Depression' parents, we are starved for things. The men can't get enough tools and the women can't get enough 'pretty dishes.' My dad made his own tools in his blacksmith shop and I ate off of chipped china. That stays with you. I cannot abide a chipped dish. I do appreciate hand smithed tools though. I am at odds with my own materialism.
Buying the same things in an antique or second-hand store does not have the same impact. There it all looks pathetic. On a table in the driveway with the sun shining on it makes it magical.
Maybe it is the relationships, no matter how momentary. Yesterday I visited with a woman, a decade younger than myself, who six years ago, with her husband, bought a power station from the power company to turn into a home. It was in a neighborhood of tudor brick homes and was my idea of a perfect adventure. Brick inside and out, concrete floors and ceilings, no heat, two windows, meeting city codes was tricky, she said. I admire their pioneer spirtit even if they find it chilly in the midwest winters. An artist had worked with them to create the gargoyles and wrought iron enclusure for courtyard. I found a treasure there as well, Chinese blue and white pottery with maker's marks on the bottom. Without the lid she didn't want it. To me it was beautiful.
Instead of a thesis on the philosophy of garage sales, perhaps I should figure out why I go to them. I suspect I know. It is the sight of sun sparkling on cut glass.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Wish List of Bloggers
When I get into my cosmic loneliness I search the blog lists to find a writer that resonates. Then I wish this blogging business had been around for those ancestors who are no longer here but knew so much more than I do. Why didn't we keep every letter from everyone of them forever. Then I could dig them out and have a little cosmic connection with some of the people that meant the most to me, but I didn't know that until too late. Even their handwriting would be a comfort.
As it is, I have a cousin in Kalispell who would be a wonderful blogger; a classmate in Conneticut who has insight that should be shared; a former pastor who spent years in the church all four of my grandparents helped to build; Kurt Vonnegut I would read every day; my dear, now gone professor, Harry Duncan; one old friend, now gone; my cousin, Paul, who was the best history professor ever; my husband's mother who I never met. I feel people deprived today.
INFP's have a hard time using the phone, the cellular connect of this time and age. Getting an answering machine still makes me gasp. I need somebody to talk politics, religion, literature, pop culture, and everything under the sun with. Live, in person, is the best. Reading blogs, in which I can comment upon is a close second.
Blogs are in the news. There are lots of political ones out there. Lots of mindless babble, groaning women, improper men, the religious who go left, mentally unbalanced, you name it it is out there. I read a lot of lists of blogs. A good one is very hard to find, very hard.
I have not figured out how to add a list of good bloggers. I will do that.
As it is, I have a cousin in Kalispell who would be a wonderful blogger; a classmate in Conneticut who has insight that should be shared; a former pastor who spent years in the church all four of my grandparents helped to build; Kurt Vonnegut I would read every day; my dear, now gone professor, Harry Duncan; one old friend, now gone; my cousin, Paul, who was the best history professor ever; my husband's mother who I never met. I feel people deprived today.
INFP's have a hard time using the phone, the cellular connect of this time and age. Getting an answering machine still makes me gasp. I need somebody to talk politics, religion, literature, pop culture, and everything under the sun with. Live, in person, is the best. Reading blogs, in which I can comment upon is a close second.
Blogs are in the news. There are lots of political ones out there. Lots of mindless babble, groaning women, improper men, the religious who go left, mentally unbalanced, you name it it is out there. I read a lot of lists of blogs. A good one is very hard to find, very hard.
I have not figured out how to add a list of good bloggers. I will do that.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Baba Yaga Died
Nancy Duncan, who portrayed the ancient Baba Yaga in her storytelling, died on Labor Day. The world was a better place for having had both her and her husband, Harry, in it for a time.
Outsider Art
Kurt Anderson, Studio 360, is talking about Outsider Artists this morning. My dad was an outsider artist. Untrained, non-verbal, out of the circle, but the description can stop there. Anderson declares that these people are often prisoners, molesters of children, drug addicted misfits. My dad did not fit that list in any way. He was a blacksmith, which is a bit out of the ordinary today; but it wasn't unheard of in his era.
The term Outsider Art first came into my awareness when I edited a biography of my father with an appendix of over 100 of his artworks. I sent the work to be copyrighted by the Library of Congress Copyright Office. The subject heads were his name, Sacrison, Axel 1899-1966, Outsider Art-South Dakota, and Finnish American-- South Dakota. The LOC is not correct about having one copy. They have four. Call Number ND237.S14 A4 2002
I had to look it up on www.google.com to see what Outsider Art is all about. I don't think a person has to collect junk or cut off a body part to be an Outsider Artist. Maybe all that is required is not being able to go to school. Maybe it is the drive of the gift to create in spite of adversity. When I was a small child, I thought my dad painted all night after blacksmithing all day. He would be painting when I went to sleep and painting when I awoke.
The smell of oil paint still does a number on me and I revert to the time when our small house walls were covered with large paintings in various stages of completion. Oil paint permeated everything, but to me was the pleasant association with that of a very loved and secure childhood.
The book is Artist and Blacksmith, Axel Sacrison. It was another time, another place and it was good. Life is good.
The term Outsider Art first came into my awareness when I edited a biography of my father with an appendix of over 100 of his artworks. I sent the work to be copyrighted by the Library of Congress Copyright Office. The subject heads were his name, Sacrison, Axel 1899-1966, Outsider Art-South Dakota, and Finnish American-- South Dakota. The LOC is not correct about having one copy. They have four. Call Number ND237.S14 A4 2002
I had to look it up on www.google.com to see what Outsider Art is all about. I don't think a person has to collect junk or cut off a body part to be an Outsider Artist. Maybe all that is required is not being able to go to school. Maybe it is the drive of the gift to create in spite of adversity. When I was a small child, I thought my dad painted all night after blacksmithing all day. He would be painting when I went to sleep and painting when I awoke.
The smell of oil paint still does a number on me and I revert to the time when our small house walls were covered with large paintings in various stages of completion. Oil paint permeated everything, but to me was the pleasant association with that of a very loved and secure childhood.
The book is Artist and Blacksmith, Axel Sacrison. It was another time, another place and it was good. Life is good.
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