January 14, 2013 – GETTING TO THE HEART OF IT

It’s been one year and three months since I found my husband Jim Janosky lying dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in our driveway. Ten months since my best friend from pre-kindergarten Brenda died of cancer. Seven months since my dad Eddie Guyer died of congestive heart failure. For some reason I sailed through this Christmas just fine, stayed busy with parties and charity events and Christmas choir rehearsals and then….on New Year’s Eve (Jim’s birthday) I hit the wall. For the last 15 days I’ve been fighting a low-grade panic attack, with pounding heart, shortness of breath, and surprise ambushes of overwhelming sadness.

Also during the last fifteen days, when made aware of my state of mind/soul/heart, my son Sam, age 27, a musician and old soul, suggested “Mom, why don’t you start doing art again? You know, do some painting?” Having just completed a large oil landscape-ish painting for over my brother’s fireplace as a Christmas gift, my response was “Meh…. It was ok doing it. I enjoying creating something they will enjoy. I enjoyed giving it to them. But to do that for my own fun or pleasure? Nah. It felt more like an exercise. An assignment that required isolation.”

“But Mom, you’re an artist!” Oh, that one cut to the heart of it, because no, I’ve never considered myself an artist. I’ve had art training, spent 5 years obtaining a Bachelor’s Degree in Fine Arts back in the 70’s from Kent State University (“Four dead in O-HI-O…”). I taught art for three years in the public schools of Ohio. I have moderate drawing and painting skills. If I really set my mind to it I can do a nice piece of illustrative work, even though I don’t know crap about any of the new digital graphic design programs. But… an artist??? An artist is someone who has their own style, their own voice. They’ve worked to develop their own UNIQUE visual language. They KNOW who they are! They have GALLERY SHOWS! They even have something to SAY!!

Since re-routing to the corporate world in 1981, my only artistic output has come in fits and spurts, erratically over the years, randomly in a stylistic sense. I don’t know who I am, my style, or my own voice. When I start something, all I hear are other voices in my head – “Will it be nice? Will it look good in the intended living/dining/bedroom? I’m not as good as others. Will other people like it?”

And I’ve never been just free to PAINT!!! Like in big, bold, sweeping, free strokes like Gauguin or even Jackson Pollack. I’m no artist.

“Mom, do something just for you. Let it come from inside you.” My knee-jerk response to was to mutter “it might be darker than you’d think.” No worries he said, do it anyway. You mean like without thought that anyone else will see it? Like it might not be pretty? It will NEVER hang in a room or match the décor? It will NEVER be commercial or marketable? Really? Hmmm…. What do I feel? What do I have to say? Right now I seem to only have questions.

Paul Gauguin / Jackson Pollock

January 15^th, 2013 – THE STUPID HEARTS PROJECT

Thousands of songs & poems have been written about the “heart”. My favorite classic rock radio stations in the 70’s provided an ongoing audio smorgasbord of heartbreak & heartache, from the fluffy pop of Elton John and Kiki Dee chirping “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart” to the angst-ridden, ripped-from-the-soul cries of Janis Joplin, pleading “Take it, Take Another Little Piece of My Heart.” Songs about the heart were usually hits, because so many of us could relate to the pain or the yearning. The noun or term seems to be a euphemism for some amalgamation of our mind, soul, & spirit, somehow the core of who we are and the seat of our emotions as well as our attitudes and mind-set.

The Bible talks in depth about the heart. I did a word-search and found no less than 725 Scriptures that reference the heart, and I’m not talking about in the anatomical sense. It refers to attitudes of the heart (hard, proud), states of the heart (pure, humble, and sincere) and personal attributes, even describing the shepherd/King David as a “man after God’s own heart”.

If you try to think of our essence as human beings as being centered in our mind or consciousness, which would seem to make sense, then why does our chest hurt when we are crushed or disappointed or shocked by bad news? When we lose someone we love, it seems like the ache is centered in our solar plexus. We feel pains, pressure (like an elephant sitting on our chest) racing heartbeats, and shortness of breath. This must be how the term “HEART” came to represent the core of who we are.

I just finished reading “Proof of Heaven” by Dr. Eben Alexander, a Harvard-trained neurosurgeon, where he describes his near death experience during a coma caused by a rare case of bacterial meningitis in his brain. During his 6-day coma his brain was shut down and completely inactive. There were NO BRAIN WAVES or activity, yet he still experienced the purest form of consciousness. His experiences were awe-inspiring and overwhelming for him, and he struggled to find words to describe them. Dr. Alexander’s experience seemed to reinforce the idea for him that in spite of all of his advanced medical and scientific knowledge of the brain, what makes us uniquely human is NOT our mind. In fact, although he knew that the biological and neurological activities that are centered in the brain govern our physical functions as well as our ability to think, analyze, remember the past, and reason – he concluded that our soul or spirit did not reside there.

So I guess that brings us back to the HEART as the term or image most have agreed upon (God, humans, scientists, musicians & poets) to describe our: soul, spirit, unique repository of memories & experiences that form and shape our personalities, responses, emotions, motivations, consciousness and attitudes.

Years ago I had a strange idea to try to visually create the LOOK of different states or stages of the heart. I assembled some wood, Styrofoam, backing canvas boards, paints and other mixed media, then decided it was a stupid idea and packed it all away. It stayed packed away through 4 moves until a few months ago (EIGHTEEN years later!) I unearthed it while cleaning out my basement. The STUPID HEARTS PROJECT I called it back then. So what if I resurrected the STUPID HEARTS PROJECT? Only this time it would be informed by an entire series of events and experiences, some of which had caused me great emotional pain.

I could explore what the pain looked like. I could explore what other people’s pain looked like. What the damage looked like. I mean tactilely and visually. I could explore what it looked like when people took steps to PROTECT their hearts from the damage inflicted by living life. Isolation? Encasement? What does being “EMOTIONALLY UNAVAILABLE” look like?

So these are the questions that will fuel the resurrection and launch of THE STUPID HEARTS PROJECT. My counselor Margaret says we will find a new name for this that’s not self-denigrating. I’m working on that self-denigrating thing.

January 17, 2013 – STUPID HEARTS PROJECT

Before Christmas, while working on a painting for my brother to match his new family room, I had my TV on and was listening to the reports about the Newton, Connecticut School shooting. That tragic, awful massacre of 20 little children and their teachers and caregivers right in their schoolrooms. I was pondering while I painted… “What did that shooter’s HEART look like? Was it a cold, hard, dark place? How had it become so corroded? Was there damage inflicted on him to cause such disfigurement? Or was it a genetic type of disease, like that flesh eating bacteria we’ve read about? Did something inside of him just eat away his compassion and capacity for love? Was his heart completely empty and devoid of empathy & emotion? How did this happen? Was he born that way? Was it video games or movies? Was the family home cold and unloving? Was he bullied? Was it nature or nurture? What does that mess LOOK like?

I’ve already written down and sketched out about 25 different visual pictures of states and stages of the heart. Many are dark and weird and strange. Some were suggested by the Classic Rock repertoire I grew up listening to, others are inspired by a Scripture. Some are just a little dark and deviant and other images may border on the sacrilegious side. (I was born, baptized and raised Catholic). I’m contemplating now what restoration and healing looks like visually (and what it might feel like personally). Both the process and the result. What do healed scars look like? Are they beautifully ugly?

Some of the images I’m getting are funny to me. I’ve laughed out loud. SPOILER ALERT: Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart” will be cake or bread baked in a heart shaped pan (they sell those everywhere for Valentine’s Day cakes). Then in cake writing over the top of it will say “TAKE IT!!! Take another little piece of my heart“ …and a big chunk of the cake will be missing with crumbs all over the place and part of the word “heart” will be torn/eaten as well. Like the Gingerbread Man in Shrek who screams out EAT ME!!! I’m cracking myself up.

STUPID HEARTS PROJECT – PERMISSION SLIP

• I have permission to express ANY emotion I want to – even ANGER and DEPRESSION

• I have permission to NOT be cool or artsy or sophisticated or trendy or creative like in a hipster bohemian fashion. I will not stop coloring my hair, wear Birkenstocks, granny clothes, or throw away my makeup.

• Tattoos or body piercings in order to look dark & rebellious are not required.

• I can be as loose and crazy with the materials as I like

• I can also be detailed and meticulous and overwork some things if I like. I can be artsy-craftsy if I want!

• NO identifiable style is OK and even good, allowing me to dive into any style that the individual piece demands in order to best express the emotion or concept I’m striving for – I can be stylistically schizophrenic.

• I can use ANY MEDIUM I feel like in order to best express the emotion or concept I’m striving to put forth. I can be a dilettante. (I once had an art school professor who scoffed at us and told us we were all a bunch of dilettantes – which I had to go look up. It meant “somebody who is interested in the fine arts but who takes up a subject or interest in a superficial or desultory way, and essentially becomes a master of no media, subject or art form.”

• I can take as long as I want to – even a year – I’m free and under no pressure unless I want to set a goal for myself.

• I can disregard any notion of people ever seeing this or liking this or it being shown in a gallery for the art snobs – I can throw away the idea that this would EVER have to be marketable! Yeh!!! Not a penny!!!

• I can do as many pieces or as few as I like

• I can throw something away and start over if it sucks

• I can get excited about this. I can PLAY.

• I’m free to enjoy the process as much as the product, maybe even more.

• I’m doing this for myself first and foremost because I believe this will help with my own healing.

• Secondarily, I wouldn’t mind if these pieces and images could help others who have experienced emotional damage to their hearts. It would be amazing if someone who’s all bound up inside sees maybe just ONE of these images of wounded brokenness and feels like they can relate, that this describes how they feel inside but couldn’t articulate it and now know they are not alone.

• I would desire that the images of the healing process could begin to manifest themselves and take root in some people (myself?) and to give hope to others who feel irreparably devastated or torn apart.

February, 2013 Valentine’s Day

Eckkkkh… Valentine’s Day approaches. Do you know how much this time of year annoys and depresses me? And has for the last 30 years or so? If you’ve ever been with a partner who’s not all that interested in going through those motions (and let’s face it – more than a few folks merely go through the motions only because it’s expected from them and there’ll be hell to pay if they don’t) OR if you’re single, this whole season just rubs salt in the wound.

YOU’RE ALONE – YOU’RE ALONE –

YOU DON’T HAVE A SWEETHEART –

NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOU –

YOU’RE ALONE!!!

Everywhere you look, card shops, grocery stores, drug stores and television commercials, the advertising machine just hammers away with their sappy pressure. Jane Seymour and her ever-promoted Open Hearts Collection which I’ve always thought was something I would have scribbled out in an Art School design class and then quickly discarded. Cliche’s are everywhere. (Yikes do I sound a tad cynical?) I’m going to open up my new line -Annette’s Fucked Up Hearts Collection Available NOW at all Fine Jewelry stores & Counseling Centers EVERYWHERE!

I’ve been resisting the beginning of this project, which to me has to start with a pure, innocent undamaged heart. We all start there at SOME point don’t we? For some, maybe only as an infant before neglect or child abuse begins. For others there are a few brief years of childhood innocence before Mommy or Daddy leaves or a dysfunctional home or church environment begins to unfold, or the school bullies and taunting children start to snipe and the wounds are inflicted and the damage begins. Others cruise along fine until male-female relationships unfold and then experience unrequited love, betrayal, or abandonment. Wounds start earlier for some than for others. But the damage gets most of us at some point, maybe not even until later in life. But sooner or later we all feel the pain of being human.

The HeART Project – ART IS MESSY

Art is messy. I’d forgotten that. As a person who tends to like my home to be neat and tidy (I can’t relax with clutter and mess within view), I’m rediscovering how the process of creating generates collateral damage. It’s just that when you really get into the “flow” of the work in progress and your left brain shuts down and quits consciously making decisions and your right brain gets going and you’re grabbing whatever paint tube/bottle/brush/material you need and the fur and feathers are flying, and you come to your senses a few hours later – you look around and are amazed at the mess you’ve created!

That reminds me of my last year of Art School at Kent State University. I was scheduled to spend Winter Semester student-teaching high school art students in Cleveland, which was about 40 miles north of Kent. Normally, this would not be a bad drive, but during Winter Semester the weather could be terrible, with “lake effects” snow off of Lake Erie. So the college decided to pair me up with another student who would also be student-teaching Home Economics that semester in the same high school to share the drive. She was a sorority girl and would help with gas costs, but we’d be using my vehicle for transportation, a 1970 yellow Volkswagen Beetle – known as a “Bug.”.

In art school, most of the professors liked to assign a “Final Project”, which was usually due for submission during Finals Week. This project was expected to be your “MASTERPIECE” – the “piece de resistance”- an “IMPORTANT WORK of ART” which would show the professor how much knowledge and wisdom you’d absorbed from him and how you could incorporate HIS techniques into your work. In other words, you needed to create something in his image. Oh yes, politics and ass-kissing were very much alive at this very liberal artsy place. So during Finals Week, depending on what combination of art classes you were taking – sculpture, printmaking, ceramics, oil painting, life drawing, design etc., you might have any number of Final Projects due simultaneously. And, as is the case with many students of any age, projects that should have been deliberate, thoughtful works diligently created over the course of 12 weeks, were usually hurriedly concocted in a last minute frenzy during that Finals Week.

One evening, in the midst of the insanity after a string of consecutive all nighters, I was working in my apartment amidst a sea of paints, solvents, inks, mixed media, matting and mounting boards and other products and byproducts of this mosh pit of activity. The floor of my small apartment was a veritable wall to wall bog of art mess. My IMPORTANT ART/ MASTERPIECES/ piece de resistances were taking shape. My hair was unwashed and uncombed, my ragged jeans & T-shirt looked like a Pollack painting, I was wearing bad glasses instead of contacts and suddenly there was an unexpected knock on the door. I opened it to see a lovely, conservative, well dressed, well coiffed young lady — Sarah the Sorority Girl. She had dropped by to meet me and firm up our carpool arrangement for next semester. I think she might have even been wearing a pearl choker (possibly designed by Jane Seymour?) She looked wide-eyed at me, then into the room which appeared as though a tornado had spun through it, and was initially speechless. I was equally speechless, embarrassed and also horrified.

It was apparent from her face that the thought of spending a semester with this ”Hippie-Chick/Artsy-Bohemian/Freak” (that term “Freak” used to mean something else, which some people claimed with pride) was appalling. I in turn believed “Sorority Girls” to be the epitome of coddled shallowness, dizziness and vapidity, and the thought of driving to Cleveland every day with her in my cramped old VW “Bug” was fairly abhorrent to me.

However, we were stuck with each other, and in January the commute began. Initially, all went well; with the VW Bug chugging in the dark down the Ohio Turnpike, buffeted by 18-wheelers at 4:30 a.m. each morning to get us to classes on time. A few weeks in things got dicey. This was one of the winters where the entire area was hit with blizzard after blizzard all winter. In this part of the country, school classes are NEVER cancelled, for the snow plows are out at all hours and folks just deal with it. So I would drive the little Bug scrunched over the steering wheel, peering into the blinding snow to see, white-knuckled but determined. Two days into the blizzard, my windshield wiper broke (that’s right, singular wiper. On Bugs just one big wiper took care of the entire windshield). So that morning I had to ask Sarah the Sorority Girl to lean out of her window into the frozen coldness and continuously brush snow off the windshield so I could see the road. The next day we tied a string to the wiper so she could move it from inside the car, instead of leaning out of the window like a dog. The third day her parents rented a new Buick Impala Sedan for us to drive for the rest of the semester.

Interestingly, over the course of that three months of riding together, Sarah and I were forced to “reach across the aisle” so-to-speak and we began to develop a rapport & some grudging mutual respect. We began to understand each other’s point of view, experiences and how we came to be the way we were. By the end of our shared transportation arrangement we had even begun to like each other. We learned to see past each other’s exteriors and gain a glimpse into each other’s HEARTS.

Maybe every member of Congress should be forced to carpool with a member of the opposite party for an entire term! It might be just what is needed to open up some genuine dialog and communication, understand the other’s point of view, and quit the non-productive demonizing which is rampant on both sides.

It was a valuable lesson to learn, and I’ve also learned since then that not only is ART messy, but so is LIFE. It’s our assignment, I believe, to somehow create beauty out of the mess.

Stepping Out

In the past few months I’ve actually been going out to events (book-signings, Nashville Creative Group meetings) and introducing myself as an artist. “Hi I’m Annette Johnson. I’m an artist.” It sticks in my throat sometimes but I say it. It always seems to hang out there in the air as I recoil inside and imagine all the thoughts the other person might be thinking…

“I’m sure she is… ha ha… one of those bored middle-aged women with an empty nest who starts dabbling with paints and does florals and still lifes and paintings of barns and hay bales in Williamson County”…. Or “Poor woman who lost her husband under tragic circumstances… I’m sure it’s therapeutic for her to paint”…as I picture an imaginary “pat-pat” on my head” and a “Bless her heart”. Pun intended.

I constantly fight my inner critic and editor. As this pregnancy with this litter of hearts continues and each of them is compelled to emerge, I push through the birthing process, usually within that “zone” where you’re just doing and not thinking. Then within a few hours of completion, after I’ve come to my senses, I stand back and my mind begins the process of overruling what came from my gut.

“This isn’t fine art”

“This is trite and craftsy”

“This stuff is too obvious, it’s not deep and obscure enough”

“I need to work larger. It will seem more important”

“There’s no continuity of style or medium – it’s a mess”

Adding to this sense of dissatisfaction is that I’m working “out of order”. The story to be told here is one where our hearts begin pure and innocent and unscathed by life. That’s the beginning. I haven’t done that yet. It fights me. I know the colors I will use (pale sky blue peeking through pale creams, off-whites with hints of pale peach and pink and yellow). But will there be images? Hints of images….? It’s not coming so I wait. I skip around, finishing the INNOCENCE phase, doing some of the DAMAGE series, some of the PROTECTIVE MEASURES section, a couple of HEALED images, although I’m not really feelin’ those so much. The process is not linear. Just like this grief/healing process is not linear.

I have a couple of weeks or months where I’m really clicking along, enjoying music with friends, feeling comfy in my home and proud of my remodeling projects and engaged with my HEARTS and then BAM!!! Out of the blue something will trigger a wave of anger and cynicism so dark and intense it’s frightening. Or a tsunami wave of grief and sadness and disappointment with life will wash over me. I’m deeply disappointed in some of my own choices and truth be told, with God himself -that He didn’t protect me from some of the shit that flew in from left field. Or the land mines that my ever-vigilant metal detector missed. I’m lonely and right now I’d be happy with just some folks to really collaborate with me on the musical component of this thing.

Oh did I mention that I hear music with these images? To me, the visual and audio are two sides of a coin and I can’t see one without hearing the other. While I hope to have a physical space (NOT a FREAKING ART GALLERY – PLEASE!!!) in which to display these at some point, maybe as an anti-Valentine’s day event for anyone who feels left out, I see them accompanied by music. I also see a website-slideshow where there’s a sound track. In this city that’s chock-full of musicians and songwriters & creatives, I need to find: 1- a good photographer to capture the images properly 2. – someone with computer skills to help me create the website and slideshow 3. –an engineer/producer to help record and connect the music, and 4. song contributors. The last one shouldn’t be hard. The other components kind of overwhelm me right now. I have to seek collaborators and that’s hard, because it requires me to reach out and say … “Hi, I’m Annette Johnson and I’m an artist”.

My Roomie

I live with this guy, you see. And he’s not very nice.

No, I don’t mean I cohabit in my home with another human being. I mean this guy lives in my head, my personal Mr. Critic/Editor. He is always with me. Kinda like Jesus is supposed to be. But this guy drowns out most of the nice stuff Jesus would have to say and picks at me like a nagging shrew. You can never please him.

An artist friend has been encouraging me to attend art gallery shows and I’ve reluctantly agreed to venture out into the world of wine & cheese & art. Inwardly I recoil. Why are these people here? Are they really looking for something that will genuinely move them? Or are they just looking for something to match their decor? Is it the cool place to see and be seen? Is having a piece of this or that artist’s work an investment? Or would it be a status symbol that would provide them bragging rights? I pre-judge motives and agendas. I can’t see their hearts but I presume they’re not nice. That’s terrible. It goes against what this whole project is about, which is that IF we could walk around with x-ray vision and see right into people’s hearts, instead of the persona they present to the public, we might be more understanding and empathetic. If we knew that that person over by the cheese tray is currently crushed with disappointment over a child caught up in drug abuse, or jaded because they’ve had so many bad business breaks come their way, or that the person over by the wall is growing faint of heart due to recurring breast cancer despite all prayers and medical procedures, we might not presume ANYTHING just because they’re standing there with a glass of wine gazing at a painting.

In spite of all that inner dialog, when I actually get around to viewing the actual pieces of gallery art I am always inspired. I GET the artists doing what they do. I admire their techniques, their use of color, their draftsmanship. I get excited.

Then I go home and my buddy Mr. Critic/Editor beats me up. If I’ve just finished some pieces involving bright colors – my critic/editor says that they’re not subtle and sophisticated enough. If one piece turns out to be quieter in nature, my critic/editor tells me it’s boring, simple and dull. If I work loosely and abstractly, he says it’s too obscure and when I do detailed work he tells me it’s too fussy. I really can’t win with this guy.

Mr. Critic/Editor recently sent me into a full-blown shame attack over the fact that most of my pieces are in shadow boxes. “That’s craftsy.” “That’s a little ticky-tacky.” ” They wouldn’t look substantial or important on a gallery wall.” I suffered with that for a couple of months.

But out of the shame attack I was inspired to begin setting the boxes INTO heavy 2 3/8″ deep gallery wrapped canvases. I spent 5 days on vacation lying by a pool at a lovely Caribbean resort resting and planning out what all of the paintings would look like and how I would marry the hearts with their surrounding canvas box to complement the inset hearts – to hopefully increase and enhance the visual impact of each heart.

So maybe sometimes, just sometimes, the critic/editor is good for something. He nudges me to reach a little higher. To not be satisfied with average. To do my VERY best. I just need to learn to filter him so that the attacks don’t feel personal, but rather come through as exhortation. I also need to remember that every now and then I can just tell him to SHUT UP.

As I’ve begun the canvas surrounds, I find that I’m still drawn to very textural stuff. I still want someone to FEEL the work first, rather than think about it, or just experience it as eye candy. I still want a visceral response. And so far, Mr. Critic/Editor likes them, he really likes them.

Tree Hearts

On a beautiful , sunny and crisp November weekend spent at my brother’s home with extended family, my little nephews were playing outside and wanted us to see the fort they’d constructed out of scrap wood. We strolled over the wooded back yard and admired their handiwork, remembering the forts we’d created around our own home as children. As one brother and I walked around the large nearby pile of firewood and stumps from the five acres that had been cleared, my brother said…. “Annette come look here”. We walked over to several large walnut stumps that had been sliced off, and saw that the insides were hollow, and that the outside, including the bark, was shaped like a heart. We called over my other two brothers, and we all marveled at the naturally created design. I asked them to get a chainsaw and begin slicing off cross-sections. It became quite the family project, and the deeper we sliced the more interesting the heart shapes became. While everyone concurred they were meant for me, we all ended up with unique mementos of our family weekend, and I felt personally blessed, in ways that I could/can barely articulate. As I drove back to Nashville, my mind kept circling around several thoughts and questions:

1. First thought – what a gift from God to my Heart Project! He’s IN it with me! Thank you!!!

2. Also, that Jim was an arborist and horticulturist who used to consult with clients on the health of their trees. A personal little contribution from him perhaps, embedded within the tree for us to discover?

3. Was there a message embedded in the shape? That the tree looked large and stable and strong on the outside but was empty on the inside? That disease and/or insects had slowly decimated the core until it was a hollow shell, a husk wrapped around nothing? That external looks can be deceiving? OR…That the heart was open and ready to be filled? That it had been emptied so that it would be ready for a Second Act… to frame or encase something even more beautiful? (Which could be up to me to create?) It’s easy to over-think these things.

I brought 3 of them home with me to experiment with.

The War of Art

I just finished reading the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, (who wrote The Legend of Bagger Vance), which challenges us creative types to overcome the many varieties of internal “Resistance” that rise up within us, in order to truly become an artist. Excellent book, considering my own bouts in the ring with Mr. Inner Critic/Editor. As much as I enjoyed the discussion about going to war with Resistance (which can masquerade as Fear), there was one little quote from poet William Blake which the author related that really just captured my imagination:

“Eternity is In Love with the Creations of Time”.

Whoa! He was speaking about how, if most artists (including writers, poets, musicians and visual artists) are honest, they would humbly admit that their most brilliant and amazing pieces came to them in a burst of inspiration that could only be considered “divine” or “otherworldly”, acknowledging that it came almost fully formed as a gift to them. In the charismatic Christian world, especially regarding music, the term used (maybe overused?) would be “anointed”, as in “That song is truly anointed!” And if one pictures beings that exist outside the realm of time, in the eternal realm, who have no means of creating works of art other than to whisper them into the subconscious minds of receptive human beings, this implies a kind of partnership between the divine (whether you consider them to be angels, God the ultimate artist, or the Muses of Greek Mythology) and the earthbound human. And they then sit back and enjoy the show – the symphonies, poetry, rock operas, novels, paintings, plays, musicals, songs and sculptures that are birthed into the world for all of the generations to enjoy. Having felt like I’ve been pregnant with a “litter of hearts” for the last year, I can really relate to the sense of wonder at where these creations come from. Not that I would compare myself to any of the “greats”, but it’s cool to think of some divine muse/angel/creator/God sitting back and enjoying my little heart-show, which in truth they incited.

The idea of the artist as an agent (or “tool” – ha ha) of a higher power is a theme expressed by creative types, including scientists, over many centuries. Some examples which I’ve encountered when looking into this phenomenon:

• Michelangelo approached his raw blocks of marble with the thought that the figures were already contained within – and all he had to do was chip away the excess marble to reveal what was already there!
• “The best artist has that thought alone which is contained within the marble shell; The sculptor’s hand can only break the spell to free the figures slumbering in the stone.” – Michelangelo
• “The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection” – Michelangelo

The Muses in Greek mythology, poetry and literature, are the goddesses of the inspiration of literature, science and the arts. They were considered the source of the knowledge, related orally for centuries in the ancient culture that was contained in poetic lyrics and myths.

The Muses, the personification of knowledge and the arts, especially literature, dance and music, are the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (who was memory personified). The Muses were both the embodiments and sponsors of Music, Science, Geography, Mathematics, Philosophy, and especially Art and Drama. Some authors invoked Muses when writing poetry, hymns or epic history. The invocation typically occurs at or near the beginning, and calls for help or inspiration, or simply invites the Muse to sing through the author.

• Paul McCartney claims to have received the entire melody for the song Yesterday in a dream, and hurriedly recorded it when he woke up. McCartney’s initial concern was that he had subconsciously plagiarized someone else’s work. As he put it, “For about a month I went round to people in the music business and asked them whether they had ever heard it before”. None had. John Lennon reported that Paul then struggled with the lyrics for months and months, “Then one morning Paul woke up and the song and the title were both there, completed.”
• “I dream my painting and I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh
• “These are the Spirit illuminating the soul-power within, and in this exalted state, you can clearly see what is obscure in your ordinary moods; then you feel capable of drawing inspiration from above, as Beethoven did.” – Brahms
• “Soli Deo Gloria- To God Alone Be the Glory”- Bach abbreviated this at the end of many of his manuscripts with the letters “S.D.G.” in the last measures. On some occasions he also scrawled “I.N.J.” at the beginning of his manuscripts, referencing the Latin “In Nomine Jesu”, or “In the Name of Jesus.”
• The artist Paul Klee wrote “My hand is entirely the instrument of a more distant sphere.”
• Carl Jung observed that …”in the 20th century we have been blinded by our scientific and technological achievements so that we have forgotten the age-old idea that God speaks through dreams and visions.”
• Albert Einstein, universally recognized as the greatest scientist of the 20th century concurred with Jung, believing that “ideas come from God” tacitly acknowledging the role of divine revelation in his own great contribution to science, the theory of “relativity”.
• Similarly, Pablo Picasso, the most famous artist of the 20th century, in spurning the literal, technical and intellectual interpretation of painting which had become so fashionable said, “…..you should be able to say that such and such a painting is as it is, with its capacity for strength because it is touched by God.”

And closer to home, Nashville’s own veteran singer-songwriter Chris Gantry, one of the original artists of country music’s “Outlaw Movement” describes songwriting as a “divine experience.” “I had an epiphany at a very young age,” Gantry writes, “that songwriting is a Godly gift, and if rightly viewed as something He did instead of something I did, the two of us could form a co-writing partnership as long as I let Him be the captain of the ship and I the first mate.”

The world’s best songwriters, according to Gantry, know not to tinker with lyrics or melodies whispered into their ears by angels. “That only messes it up,” Gantry says. “What if John Hartford had rewritten the first line to ‘Gentle on My Mind’?” Recognizing inspiration, and respecting “that you’re only the conduit,” is what separates shallow songs from meaningful ones with lyrics that pry open the human condition. ” ‘Gentle on My Mind’ could have been written by Shakespeare,” Gantry says. “An angel sat down on John Hartford’s shoulder the day he wrote it. It was the same as when Kris Kristofferson wrote ‘To Beat the Devil,’ ‘Vietnam Blues’ and ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down.’ This was divine poetry that spoke to deep truths about our humanity.”

John Hartford himself says of the experience of writing Gentle on My Mind …”That just came real fast, a blaze, a blur.”

So regardless of an artist/creator’s personal theology, most will admit that the best ideas come (or don’t come, in the case of “writer’s block) from somewhere else. It’s hard to grit one’s teeth, concentrate hard, and conjure up a masterpiece. And if one follows that to its logical case conclusion, if a divine presence or the Muses are using the creative individual as a conduit, they most likely don’t intend for that individual to simply hoard the creation. In fact, that choice would be very self-centered and selfish. “Oh God gave me this great song/picture/piece/book, but JUST for me to enjoy, privately.” Not that a private gift is inconceivable, just as my dream-like revelation about the meaning of Matthew 13:44-46 felt like a personal gift to me. But if it’s false humility, fear or insecurity that drives the instinct to withhold the creation from public viewing -then it’s actually arrogant to pre-judge its worthiness or potential to be meaningful to others.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself in an effort to overcome my internal Resistance to submitting these things for public consumption.

Gentle on My Mind

By John Hartford

It’s knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch

And it’s knowing I’m not shackled by forgotten words and bonds and the ink stains that have dried upon some line
That keeps you in the backroads by the rivers of my mem’ry
That keeps you ever gentle on my mind

It’s not clinging to the rocks and ivy planted on their columns now that binds me
Or something that somebody said because they thought we fit together walking
It’s just knowing that the world will not be cursing or forgiving when I walk along some railroad track and find
That you are moving on the backroads by the rivers of my mem’ry
And for hours you’re just gentle on my mind

Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines and the junkyards and the highways come between us
And some other woman crying to her mother ’cause she turned and I was gone
I still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face and the summer sun might burn me ’til I’m blind

But not to where I cannot see you walkin’ on the backroads
By the rivers flowing gentle on my mind

I dip my cup of soup back from the gurglin’ cracklin’ caldron in some train yard
My beard a-rufflin’ cold cowl a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands ’round a tin can I pretend I hold you to my breast and find
That you’re waving from the backroads by the rivers of my mem’ry
Ever smilin’ ever gentle on my mind

The Visitation

On Friday evening, October 14, 2011 I drove in the dark up the hill of my long gravel drive to my home in the woods. Inside, I could see that no lights were on in the house. I had been trying to reach Jim by phone all day, but he never answered. A sliver of concern and dread had nestled into the back of my mind, yet the possibility that Jim would actually do anything drastic to harm himself was a preposterous thought. One that I could not give credence to, nor entertain at length. It was too horrific. I guess that’s called denial. As I drove closer to the home, I could see the garish fluorescent lights on in the basement window. In an instant my dread increased, as that room was where Jim kept all of his hunting rifles and shotguns. My mind was working overtime and I calculated quickly that if his car was in the driveway, with no lights in the house, and the basement room light on — this would not be good.

As I crested the hill I first saw his car in the driveway – sick dread – and then I saw him lying in the driveway. He was on his back, as if he had been sun-tanning. I stopped my vehicle and began calling friends, and the rest of the night is a blur of people, sirens & flashing lights. A surreal horror show.

Afterwards, friends made sure the gravel on the drive was replaced, and in the days immediately following his death, my counselor undertook to help “erase” the traumatic image of him lying there, so that I would not have haunting dreams or flashbacks. She utilized the same techniques they use with war veterans, where they train you to replace the awful images with something beautiful (like changing channels) and avoid post-traumatic stress syndrome.

Over the following months, one of the home projects I completed was finishing off that basement room , making it beautiful and installing lovely soft lighting – so that I would never see those ugly fluorescent lights again. And when it came time for me to smash the stained glass for the Shattered Heart image in my Heart Gallery, I placed it on the exact spot in the driveway where he’d been lying and smashed away.

A few weeks ago, when returning at night from a Christmas Party, I crested the hill coming up to the house. There, standing in exactly the spot where Jim had been lying in the gravel drive, was a magnificent buck with a full rack of antlers. As my car lights caught him he turned his head for a second and faced me, just like in The Hartford’s commercial. It was a moment. Just that quickly he leaped up the hillside into the woods, but not before pausing once again to look at me as I drove into my garage. It’s hard to describe the peace this instilled in me over the holidays, a sense that all was well with Jim. He was in a far better place, and was strong and healthy and free. It really was a moment.

.

Where ARE You??

I believe you must exist. Otherwise how can I have felt your absence all these years? How can I miss your presence so acutely?

I drink coffee on my deck in the woods each morning or sip a glass of wine at sunset and can almost see you sitting in the chair beside me. I go out and dance to all the classic rock songs and know you love them too, and should be dancing along with me.

I scan the horizon. My eyes bounce lightly across the sea of faces when I’m in a crowd. I think to myself, hopefully, that maybe this time you’ll appear. Or even better, that you’ll spot me, and somehow there will be a mutual recognition. I pray for no more impostors, posers, or wolves in sheep’s clothing. I pray for discernment and strength that I not try to fabricate a facsimile of you because the longing is so intense.

I’ve prayed for the miracle a long time. But not so much anymore.

Hurry. There is much to be shared before the wheels come off of this contraption of a body. There is Europe to visit together, beaches to lazily relax upon with umbrella drinks in hand, and quiet moments in secret peaceful places to share. I’m trying to stay patient, but the years tick by, and have ticked by so rapidly. I can’t believe there’ve been almost 60 of them!!!

And all this time, to sense you exist but have no confirmation other than a hunch in my spirit that I was not meant to walk this entire journey so alone.

I feel bad that my knowledge of the existence of God is not enough. I feel guilty that while my intrinsic knowledge and awe of the person of Jesus is critical to my existence, that until I leave this temporal physical world and meet him face to face, I really need a physical being wrapped in flesh who can speak and react and share and laugh and administer a strong hug and warm embrace when needed. I’m sorry that I’m not spiritual enough.

Like Dorothy embarking onto that yellow brick road, who needed her escorts, I have needed the tin man, scarecrow and lion rolled up into one partner/companion, with a good heart, a strong mind/brain, and courage to carry us through the scary journey yet to come. I DO believe in spooks, and flying monkeys and mean old witches. Life has taught me to believe in such things.

I know you’re out there somewhere – (to quote a Moody Blues song)- and I need you to hurry. My heart grows faint.

Cross My Heart

“Cross my heart and hope to die” the note said to his friend,

A promise made at 8 years old… “I’ll love you ’til the end.”

She saved the note and every year… she’d read it once again,

Treasured every word and wondered… just what it meant back then.

They married right before… he went off to Afghanistan

He wrote her every day… about his hopes and dreams and plans

He signed each note so carefully… and wrote the words again,

“Cross my heart and hope to die, I’ll love you till the end.”

BRIDGE: He came home to celebration, hugged his child and cried

But was too soon surrounded … by dark and troubled skies

He struggled for his peace … his dreams were haunted lies

Confusion turned his life into the burning question “Why?”

Oh Why?…

She found him in the drive… his dreams were cold and gone

The note was in the bedroom… next to pictures of their son,

“It’s not your fault, don’t wonder why, I fought the fight, you know I tried,

But the pain’s too great, and I… I just have to fly”

Cross my heart and hope to die

(In the Future)

She’s eighty now, her life’s been full… she learned how to transcend,

But she saved the notes and every year, she reads them each again…

The promise made, the truth conveyed … that helped her heart to mend,

“Cross my heart and hope to die. I’ll love you till the end. “

By Annette Guyer Johnson 2014

August 15, 2014 (Less than 2 months before her death)

I recently returned home from an out-of-town business trip to find that an 18-wheel tanker truck loaded with unleaded gasoline had crashing into the overpass which was the exit for the road leading to my home. The entire bridge had burned in the inferno. Concrete and steel girder beams had completely melted. It was dismantled within a week, and just like that, no more Exit 61!

For several months, I’m having to be creative and take lengthy detours to my home

during which I have lots of time to ponder…

Sometimes people and places from the past go up in smoke.

Things are taken off the table, right before our very eyes.

Bridges are burned.

We mourn and we pine, for it wouldn’t have been our choice.

But then we saddle up, set our GPS for the new detour route and begin the new season.

I’m finding that detours sometimes take you to new places

you would have never considered before.

Sometimes the drive is actually prettier.

You see new sights.

You consider new possibilities.

Isaiah says God “will give us beauty for ashes”.

Welcome to the Show

I’m having to ponder on this because as I march through this project and can begin to see the end in sight, the idea of putting these OUT THERE somewhere – in a gallery or some kind of exhibit or even housed in a website – triggers a bit of a panic attack. The thought of perfect strangers viewing these very personal pieces (possibly with a glass of wine in-hand wearing designer shoes and a Jane Seymour necklace) makes me feel a little sick. I know Mr. Critic/Editor will be MORE than happy to act as their personal tour guide through the series with a running commentary of condescending, scathing comments and criticism. I will be hiding in a corner, covering my ears and trying not to over-hear the “tsk tsking.”

So at some point I am going to have to take OFF my creator’s hat,

and put on my bullet-proof chest/vest

and don the hat of “Personal Representative of the Hearts Collection”.

An outside, objective advocate for “The Hearts”.

A promoter. An apologist and interpreter. An agent.

(NOT that they’re for sale. They’re not.)

But IF I truly believe that they were meant to be shared,

then I will have to become a kind of “carney” or “barker” standing outside the sideshow…

“Step right up Ladies and Gents! We got your HEARTS right heah!

Come see what life can do to a HEART! You won’t believe it!

You’ll see ’em broken, bloody, wounded, pierced and hammered,

DE-formed, DE-ranged, and DE-VIANT!!!!

You won’t be sorry you came!