We've all heard the phrase that "the eyes are the window to the soul," and in the last few months I've been looking at art with a particular focus on the eyes,  considering the way we might really glimpse the soul the artist was seeing. It's an interesting exercise, one that could be used as a productive writing prompt.

I came to realize that perhaps the most distancing (and sometimes disturbing) aspect of masks is those empty eyes--it's more than the fact that a particular identity is hidden. The blankness is fundamentally disturbing, even though we may be able to feel the character or emotion inscribed by a good mask maker, and even though the blank eyes allow us to project something archetypal.
Here are a few examples of empty eyes (remember to click on the images for a fuller view):

Masks or sculpted faces that keep the blankness but fill in the holes seem melancholy, but are more relatable.

It's the eyeballs, literally, that enliven the face, and we feel most kinship with those that include the spark of light. I know I'm getting a little carried away here with this many images, but I find them so fascinating that it's hard to edit many out. Let your eyes wander over these eyes, and see which grab you and why.

Finally, I couldn't resist: the light shining through the eyes of some real folks--the artist, other than the camera, is the divine spark of creation itself. Whether the eyes are open wide or crinkled in a smile, the soul window is clearly present.

I really enjoy exploring cemeteries, especially those created in the 19th century with park-like landscapes. I have so much to say about this--the meaning of the Indian effigy mounds in my nearby Forest Hill cemetery, and how they were made to keep a kind of cosmological balance; the flock of robins I encountered there recently (yes, they do flock together and roost in trees in cold weather); and so much more. (As enticement for some future post, here's one image showing part of one of these mound).

The subject of the post, though, is about stone--rock-- which is a central part of the cemetery experience. It is of course all around; gravestones are ubiquitous, from identical plain veteran's gravestones placed in neat rows to towering obelisks erected to proclaim that powerful men will take up a great deal of space, even in death. There are even solid marble gazing balls that must have taken enormous skill to carve. Stone, everywhere. Solid, appearing in a range of different colors. Stone, with dignity and staying power.

It's interesting to note that the tradition of leaving rocks is not limited to Jewish graves any more; others are increasingly finding it a meaningful tradition. And parenthetically, there is a growing practice of leaving coins on (non-Jewish American) military gravestones. There is a code of meaning, with each coin symbolizing a particular relationship with the deceased. A nickel would be left by someone who was in boot camp with the fallen soldier, while a quarter would indicate the visitor was present when the person was killed.

Other than remarking on an interesting practice, I am impelled to write about these memory stones because I've been feeling the energy of rocks so strongly. It's hard to write about; it's a feeling, an intimation about something. It is not a concept.  I tried to capture some of it with my poems and images of the rocks on Mt. Shasta (August, 2018), and it has to do with the rocks holding the holographic imprint, holding memory, but maybe a much longer, deeper memory than we even know. Not exactly really permanent, but so long-lived by our standards that it comes close. Discussions of the Jewish custom of leaving rocks keep referring back to the Bible and the rocky landscape that was part of Jewish history. The stone on which Abraham was to have sacrificed Isaac is referred to as hashityah, the foundation stone of the world. A pile of stones could be a sacred place, a place of prayer. Moses sat on "the Rock," and carved the tablets from it. Jacob's Ladder rose from a stone.  On the darker side, people were stoned to death, and "stony" implies unyielding, cold, and without empathy.

I was very moved recently in driving through the Atlas mountains in Morocco. This is a dramatic region, all about rock and stones. The terrain consists of stones for miles and miles and miles, sometimes pebble-sized, sometimes big boulders. Houses are built of stone. Stone tumbles into rivers. Sheep and goats climb over high stony peaks. I kept sensing the stone memory, the consciousness held in all that rock, but I couldn't really access or translate it. I felt stone-ness, but there are no words or concepts to say what it was I felt.  At one point one of my traveling companions remarked that she wouldn't want any of that "real estate"--it was too much relentless rock, too hard to deal with, too unfriendly. Rocky terrain=trouble. I reacted almost viscerally; yes that's true, I thought, but you aren't asking what the stones know, you aren't feeling into the stone or the stone space. Maybe those who live here live deep in the stone, know what the stone knows, hold stone memory. Maybe the rock remembers them. Maybe they have another, silent experience that you can't even imagine.

Maybe.  Right now, today, I will hold some stones and breathe with them: round smooth ones tossed by Lake Michigan, and sparkly ones from riverbeds in the high Andes (another oh-so-rocky landscape). I will even touch the very fine sand I brought back from the Sahara--sand that was stone, ground down to the consistency of fairy dust. Maybe I will breathe them in, absorb their stone wisdom. Maybe I will be taken into the secrets of stone.

I've just returned from traveling in Morocco. There are so many impressions--sunrise on the Sahara, sheep and goats climbing the top ridges of the dramatic Atlas mountains, ubiquitous arches, painted wood, tilework, fabulous doors--but what I kept wanting to capture with my camera was the way so much was bathed--or literally painted--in color. Consider this post a continuation of my previous offering of color images. Here, I focus on the many permutations of blue, from the blue city to the blue pots to the blue-clad Taureg people (no longer wearing indigo-dyed cloth, though they still call it that and are proud of the connection).  I will probably share much more from the trip, but here's a way of checking back in. I offer you a way to "tangle up in blue" and bathe in its endless textures.

I have been making small sculptural figures that incorporate natural materials for a great many years now. The first came through in the early 1970s. I can't even remember all of them, but the two from that time that lasted the longest incorporated pine needles and snail shells. I always related to those figures as totemic, holding a kind of spiritual power. At that time I thought of them as kachinas, a term I borrowed from the Hopi and other Puebloan peoples. I adopted the term because I had been introduced to the concept of the kachinas (katsinas) when I visited the southwest. Kachinas are spirit figures, immortal beings that interact with humans--they are in effect messengers between the spirit and human worlds, and can intervene with human life, for example by bringing rain. There are ceremonies where individuals actually embody kachinas, dressing in ritual regalia and dancing their energy. Even more ubiquitous are the kachina "dolls," which are carved wooden figures that were traditionally given to girls to help them learn the cast of spirit characters. A few simple kachina images are pictured here to give a visual to go with this story.

My figures did not literally look like Hopi kachinas, but had "heads" resting on more or less tubular bodies. I was not carving, but assembling the parts, and I had not mastered the technical aspects of making these in a sturdy fashion. I felt connected to the idea, but stopped making them as my attention was brought to other arenas. I also realized that I was appropriating a term and concept, and especially as time went on and I became more sensitive to this, I felt more uncomfortable using the term for my own work.

Fast forward a long time, to about the turn of the 21st century. One day as I was dancing around in my attic, where I had baskets holding some of the very materials I collected in the 1970s--shells, leather pouches, driftwood--I literally felt something re-awaken. I've referred to this as my "muse" waking up. I saw those materials that had stayed with me for decades and began to imagine them coming together as beings once again. I had new ideas about how to construct the figures, and I knew their new forms demanded a new name. I settled on (Las) Tierras, which I translate as Earth Beings.  Many of the people who see them refer to them as dolls, but I don't relate to them that way. To me they are indeed still spirit figures, intermediaries, not mini-humans. They each have their own character, often emanating from their materials, but they embody energies from another realm. This does not make them unapproachable; like dolls, they are relatable. They are compelling, but not all equally serious--some are funnier than others. Some are forceful, some shy, some mysterious. Some can be disturbing, mostly because their materials remind people of decay and death.

Each Tierra has a story of its own genesis, of its materials and where they come from, and if I ask, each will tell me of its essence. I didn't name them at first, but eventually I had to, just to keep them straight in my mind and even be able to refer to them in my own record-keeping files. I don't always like to share these tiles, since I find if I let people encounter them without names, they relate to them differently; they resonate with them in a more personal way. (The figures can act as a kind of Rorshach experience--one sees what is on one's mind and in one's heart.)  Here I am sharing images of some of the Tierras that have made their way into my life over the last 15 years or so, and offering some information on the materials. Perhaps in the future I will tell more of the process stories, and can certainly supply a name if it is requested.

Many of you may be familiar with the concept of light language --what is sometimes referred to as a universal, multidimensional language understood with the heart, or understood by everyone on a soul level. Some people express the language through their voice (singing or toning), some through movement, and sometimes, it is represented visually as a kind of script or cipher. I first encountered this many years ago through the images of Bryan de Flores, who essentially channeled  the images he called "accelerators."

For anyone who has never seen this kind of "writing," here are a few examples one can find on the web:

I can't translate--it's all still a mystery--but maybe my heart and soul do respond, because I have a consistent attraction to this material. Lately, as I walk through the environment, I've started seeing tree roots as the same kind of messengers. It's hard to photographically capture them quite as I see them, but I'm sharing a bit of what I've encountered here. (In some cases I have transformed the images a little to capture the feeling. I hope to work more on these and other transformations later, honing the images to allow them to fully communicate).  In the meantime, take in each image and allow it to speak to you. (Remember to click on the images for the full, enlarged view.)  Imagine yourself in the forest  where the trees are such strong presences, and see what comes. And if YOU can translate, please share what comes through!