Your Sky is Still My Sky: West Oakland
Oakland Series
I had plans.
All these places I would go—Hawaii to see my son and swim in turquois blue water, Austin to write up research, Poland to finally visit concentration camps, Israel, Greece, and other yet to be determined destinations. I hoped to see the California desert bloom, drive to Big Sur--where I haven’t been since I was 17, road trip to the Southwest, and visit frequently with Bay Area friends. Adventures canceled. I run my hand across the smooth white surface of paper I use for painting and think this is the map for my journey now.
At work
As an introvert who spends hours painting and writing, I was already “social distancing” in my cottage. The shelter in place order came down like a thud in the Bay Area, and soon the world slowed to a crawl. I feel people around me but I can’t see them. I subtly include them in paintings. I close my eyes and hear movement. Braches swaying in the breeze. Twigs rolling down the cement. Birds. Distant voices. Neighbor playing the piano. Construction workers next door. The hum of my own thoughts. I gaze out at the hills and see the gondola still running at the Oakland Zoo and wonder why because it feels like the entire world has shut down.
Pearl on our neighborhood walk
My days are full of painting, moving from one series to another and back again.
Oakland Series—paintings about neighborhoods and the people who live there. West Oakland was first up--I drove around taking pictures, astounded at how whitewashed the neighborhood has become. It reminded me of East Austin. I talked my way into the old 16th Train Station, a space that holds historic memory for thousands. It was the place black folks went during the early part of the Great Migration to see who was arriving from the South. I remember picking my dad up there when Rena was a toddler. The station's faded grandeur is visible behind a chain link fence and No Trespassing signs but I got in (another story) and took pictures for a painting.
My neighborhood, Oak Knoll, feels like Oakland did 30 years ago because black people still live here in their nice homes. People talk and smile and wave. It’s gentrifying but not as rapid as other parts of Oakland. I will be taking pictures of people in front of their house and recording their stories to create paintings. I have several neighbors on board. Dig deep a neighbor said, many of the black people in this neighborhood moved from West Oakland. Another neighbor told me he lived in five houses in West Oakland before moving here in 1974. Want to go to West Oakland and take pictures in front of those houses I asked. Sure, he said but now we must wait until it’s safe. This series could keep me busy for two years at least.
4Sale4U: West Oakland
Oakland Series
16th Street Train Station grand hall
16th Street Train Station grand hall
16th Street Train Station Tower
16th Street Train Station exterior
Live model session—I sketched and later painted 11 drawings of Tatiana. Eighteen years since I stepped into a live model session. I was scared I would embarrass myself but I sat on the floor and spread out my pastels. It was rapture and felt like home. I saw my 18-year old self at San Francisco Art Institute in painting class, my teacher Bruce McGaw leaning over my shoulder saying, You know, you can let the color run through the body. All these years later I still hear those words each time I paint. Let the color run…
Tatiana
Tatiana's shoes
Abstracts—One of life’s great mysteries and terrors is painting abstract. It is a metaphor for the most unsettling and rewarding parts of life. For me it is letting go of knowing exactly what I am doing and what is going to happen. When I am in the process I feel a fluidity sweep me up, pushing me to have faith in something I do not understand and cannot control. Okay, I mutter to myself, it’s gonna be okay (really???) just stay with it, don’t give up because you are afraid it will suck, and if it sucks what does that say about me as an artist—I suck too? Doesn’t matter what came before this piece, every day, every painting is ground zero. Why is it we invest and measure our sense of self, identity, and value in transactional products and so-called success or failure. When I paint, abstracts in particular, I am trusting the process will teach, replenish, challenge, and bring new understanding. Painting abstract makes me be a better teacher. Walking a creative tightrope better positions me to help my students focus on learning versus performance, dip their toes in the unknown, ask big questions, and grapple with the fact that we cannot predict every outcome. Nor should we.
Abstract Birds of Paradise #1,2,&3
Spring
People in Hiding
Birds of Paradise and fire hydrants—I walk the neighborhood every day. Being on sabbatical I have time to ponder and pay attention to the often overlooked. I slow my walking pace and study the colors of flowers, fire hydrants, and teal paint accidentally splattered on the curb. The rust spreading on the peeling white paint of the fire hydrant and turquoise blue ring at the base. The electric orange, violet blue, red, yellow, and variation of green hues of the blooming Birds of Paradise. A symphony of colors played daily. Years ago, I painted my shoes and the shoes of my friends—sneakers, sandals, golf and dress shoes. The beauty of ordinary objects is often taken for granted and under the radar unless you slow down and open your eyes and heart.
Neighborhood fire hydrant
Birds of Paradise #1,2, &3
Words. In books. Emails. Texts. On blank pages I need to fill about things I cannot bring myself to make important because the world is shutting down. I have several articles banging around in in my head—I conceptualize but not write them. Not now. Words aren’t helping me untangle confusion and fear. Maybe I should write letters in longhand, gliding my pen along the paper. But what would I say? How I spend my days painting until my body is sore. How I diffuse myself in quiet. How it is hard to concentrate, write, or even read when people are gasping for air and struggling to hold onto their lives. Not particularly lofty thoughts for a sabbatical.
I read articles posted on social media about the upside of pressing pause, how the water and air are getting clearer, bread baking is back, virtual parties, dancing in the living room, and finally being able to read that stack of books. I get it but what about that book proposal I haven’t touched? I too post the most idyllic parts of my sabbatical life—new paintings rolling out, my dog, breathtaking views of San Francisco and downtown Oakland on my daily walk, the cozy cottage, brilliant sunsets, more pictures of my dog, teaching my daughter make my grandmother's Mandel Bread recipe, and selfies with smiles. We are in retreat and need contact—and hope.
I feel the duress of others moving their classes online, home schooling, and trying to stay safe when you have to go to work (like my son). While I am happily tucked away in my cottage with a bounty of time resting at my feet to paint and write, I feel a new kind of paralysis and level of distraction that obscures the threading of words to sentences to paragraphs to articles. Perhaps I have some survivor’s guilt mixed with a large dose of gratitude that I am on sabbatical, relieved of email replies, online teaching, and helping students cope with upheaval and anxiety. Or, as COVID-19 death tolls and infections escalate, I’m having a hard time answering the question What’s the point?
I read articles posted on social media about the upside of pressing pause, how the water and air are getting clearer, bread baking is back, virtual parties, dancing in the living room, and finally being able to read that stack of books. I get it but what about that book proposal I haven’t touched? I too post the most idyllic parts of my sabbatical life—new paintings rolling out, my dog, breathtaking views of San Francisco and downtown Oakland on my daily walk, the cozy cottage, brilliant sunsets, more pictures of my dog, teaching my daughter make my grandmother's Mandel Bread recipe, and selfies with smiles. We are in retreat and need contact—and hope.
I feel the duress of others moving their classes online, home schooling, and trying to stay safe when you have to go to work (like my son). While I am happily tucked away in my cottage with a bounty of time resting at my feet to paint and write, I feel a new kind of paralysis and level of distraction that obscures the threading of words to sentences to paragraphs to articles. Perhaps I have some survivor’s guilt mixed with a large dose of gratitude that I am on sabbatical, relieved of email replies, online teaching, and helping students cope with upheaval and anxiety. Or, as COVID-19 death tolls and infections escalate, I’m having a hard time answering the question What’s the point?
Rena making my Bubi's Mandel Bread
Daily walk in the neighborhood
View of San Francisco
Pearly and I relaxing
I typically don’t shower for days (3?) or wash my hair for a week. I wear the same workout clothes (I wash them). No brow wax in months, roots are getting dark. I mainly talk to my dog. I don’t always know what day it is. Having spent 4-6 weeks for many years on the island painting and living in a small room, this life is not totally unfamiliar. I actually have a knack for it. Those sojourns prepared me for sabbatical and a deep dive into painting, writing, and thinking without daily life responsibilities; however, first Pandy’s death, and then COVID-19 altered my fantasy sabbatical.
Tools of the trade
Keep your distance. Stand back. No touching. Stay home. I wonder who we will be when the danger is over. Is this more than our personal reset and chance to read, write, draw, bake, spend time with our loved ones? Will the mounting tragedy and loss transform us? Have our societal fault lines been exposed enough to seize the tragic moment to make systemic change? I want to believe this is an opportunity but greed and evil are a powerful force to reckon with and I’m not sure we have the collective energy to put up a fight. I am bolstered by communities galvanizing to help each other and individual acts of kindness, which are many. What has to happen to turn the tide in a more humane and equitable direction on a large scale? I confess I have no idea but if experiencing or witnessing senseless loss of life and economic devastation doesn’t propel us to action I am not sure what will.
Pandy girl
I’m still with Pandy in my dreams. I wake up confused as to what life I am actually living in. Can I be in two places at once? Does loss and human vacancy reform our vantage point? There’s a surreal element permeating the atmosphere. I feel like I am peeking through a grainy lens at a reduced and constrained life. A big wide world is still out there holding itself up despite the heavy weight of sorrow. I am not a philosopher or predictor of the future. I don’t even know when I will get home to Maine, months maybe, or longer. I want to believe the books read, bread baked, paintings painted, hours spent with loved ones, letters written and stamps licked, paused moments to reflect, touching and no touching, and physical/social distancing will ultimately birth a new reality that amends deep seated wrongs, preserves the good of having slowed to a crawl, and pays tribute to those who never made it to the other side.
Be safe and treat yourself and others well.
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