Mosaic

I am an artist.

Not just in the sense that all forms of art exist to help us better understand and appreciate the human existence.  More than that fundamental philosophy I believe art is entwined all around us, in everything we do, the very complexity of life is art. Once we see that fusion we can find beauty everywhere, in everything. I don't just want to create art, I want my life to reflect art.

I've thought a lot lately about the twisting and turning paths of my life. This spring culminated with two milestones and both of them have given me pause over how I fit into art, into life.

I am a woman I am an artist

And I know where my voice belongs

As our plane began its descent to JFK, I peered across the person sitting next to the window and looked out at NY Harbor.  I could see Battery Park and off in the hazy distance, the Statue of Liberty. Just as with my first trip to New York, from the moment my ears began to pop, a slow smile spread across my face.  You know that feeling you have when you've been away on a trip and you come home, exhausted, so glad to be back in your own bed and sink down on your pillow, ahhhhhh?! That's what I feel when I come to New York.  There's no rational reason for it, I've been there twice, only 4 days each time, barely able to breathe the city in, but it's mine and I'm home. Bard was next to me on the plane, oblivious, probably reading about the housing bubble, Brazilian economics, current political strategies or some such other muckety muck.  But you know who was not next to me? Any of my three ankle biters. Children.

Yep. We were off, gallivanting around the world! June 17th marks our ten year wedding anniversary and to celebrate we enjoyed (enjoyed is not even a strong enough term, more like drank in with the enthusiasm of Augustus Gloop slurping chocolate and drowning himself in its absolute fabulousness.) New York sucked us in. My first trip to New York I carted the girls all over the city to check off my museum bucket list (the one I started when I was 12!) And so this trip I wanted to plant my happy little booty firmly into a theatre seat and never leave. I made a bargain with the devil to afford Hamilton tickets (I promised him my 4th child.  Joke's on him!) and we also saw Misty Copeland dance with ABT.  Watching the legacy of Balanchine, just feet from where Mikhail Barshnikov soared, seeing a Broadway show for the first time (umm, someone please get me Daveed Digg's number I need to tell him how much I adore him.  I don't know what bitmoji to use for that, but I will figure it our!) It was unbelievable.  Bard dragged me out of the theatre, blinking, a few times, and we were able to connect with East Coast family, which was an absolute treasure as well. We spent dusk under the Brooklyn Bridge with the city's skyline layed out before us. As we were walking back to our stop a family friend asked me about teaching dance. I stopped and looked at him. For the first time in more than 20 years I am not teaching dance. He paused as well and remarked on how hard that must be. "Yes, it's very painful."

I am a woman I exist

I shake my fist but not my hips.

June 17th is also the dance recital for my old studio-a room, a sanctuary, a family that shaped my identity for 27 of my 38 years. It will be the first time I haven't performed with them, and oddly, because I was one of the first students, it will be the first time there's been a recital without me.  This studio has been a cool respite from the heat of the moment. Calm. Inspiring. Comfort. Home.  Little ballerinas whose shoes I tied and buns I pinned, who giggled backstage with me before going out for their first show have grown up to teach my own little ballerinas and wait for them offstage.  Girls, grown into women, grown into strong women, changing lives and pouring out the work of their souls. Living art. I embraced this life like no other. Teaching, choreography, leading, changing. Sweat.

And you give yourself away

And you give yourself away

And you give and you give

And you give yourself away

When I turned in my resignation letter I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.  I walked down the hall, alone, reeling, in a dream. I had to quit for all the wrong reasons, but quitting was the right thing to do. I remember studying Renaissance art ages ago. Artists operated within a patronage system, free yet shackled by their often ignorant benefactors.  It's true that without that patronage we would probably not now be able to enjoy some of the world's most famous masterpieces.  It's also true that patronage is but a step away from censorship. Throughout history art has rarely been able to exist without being tainted by political maneuvering.  A problem that is alive and well today in corporate America.

My hands are tied, my body bruised

She got me with nothing to win

And nothing left to lose

And you give yourself away

And you give...

With or without you

With or without you

I can't live

With or without you

So when Bard's cousin commented on my transition, it was almost as if I had spoken the words a million times but was hearing them myself for the first time. I was no longer a dance teacher. How could that be? I had sat that very day and watched Misty Copeland's smile lead her across the stage, her legs extended for miles, her passion for even farther. I soaked in the art of the city as I thought about the art of me. Diversity. Extremes. Light and dark. Grace. Spring.

New beginnings.

I am an endangered species

But I sing no victim's song

I am a woman I am an artist

And I know where my voice belongs

I've thought and thought about my identity over the last days, months. I'm sad that I am not currently teaching dance.  Although I've been able to choreograph for a few church projects and have more opportunities before me, I'm not actively dancing in my studio, shaping little feet and little hearts. And I don't know if that will change next week or next year. I could have never pictured this happening.  The weird thing is, ten years ago, if you had asked me where I saw myself in ten years I would have described for you my current life. Living in the North End.  Two girls, one boy.  One adopted. Working, serving, living in community. But let me tell you, and listen up because I'm done talking about Willy Wonka, I never could have imagined the road it took for us to get here. Even though the outward facade is the same as my naive little dream, the inside is nothing. Nothing. Nothing like what I dreamt of. I didn't dream of marital counseling and lost pregnancies.  I didn't dream of countless doctor's appointments, the suffocating fear of motherhood, the constant fight to remain a spouse instead of slipping into a roommate. I didn't dream of countries closing to adoptions, careers driven off of cliffs, loss of life, loss of friendships, loss of me. 

Letting go of every single dream

I lay each one down at Your feet

Every moment of my wandering

Never changes what You see

One museum that's still on my bucket list is The Art Institute of Chicago.  I'm not sure I'll ever make it-I have no idea why I'd go to Chicago-but if I do, I'll make my way up to the second floor to see Georges Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. Similar to Impressionism, Seurat's style of art, Pointillism, is a study of colors, light, brushstrokes-tiny seemingly insignificant details come together to form a piece of art that is more than the sum of their parts. I love it. The painting is why I love New York. Millions of little details, taxis on Broadway, 1,2, 200 skyscrapers gleaming down, boats on the river, colors of skin, stilettos on the subway, honking, sweating, singing, sights and smells. They all dance in and out, night and day. Every little part means nothing by itself but woven together screams New York.

That is life.  You might walk down a street, past the world's most impressive museums, underneath gigantic architecture, through scenic parks, but along the way you'll smell urine in the streets and trip over garbage.  The man in the subway plays his saxophone while the rat scuttles away in the dark. Everything works together...

When You don't move the mountains I'm needing You to move

When You don't part the waters I wish I could walk through

When you don't give the answers as I cry out to You

I will trust, I will trust, I will trust in You

Ten years Bard and I started a journey.  We bought a house, had a few kids, changed cars, jobs, schools, and dentists (my childhood dentist retired, so sad!) And I promise the next blog will be about the children again, don't worry they're all still as forceful, feisty, and fearless as usual. But along peaks and valleys, we've had a constant. And I believe it's the source of all art.  The Artist. I create because I was created. And nothing and no one can change that Truth. No amount of stress, pressure, emotion, demands, and chaos can strip my identity from me. Who I am.

I am not throwing away my shot!

Sigh. I tried SO hard not to put in a Hamilton reference.  People, you don't even.

I love watching people merge onto the freeway.  The more intricate the system, the better.  Bridges curving into on ramps leading to tunnels. Four leaf clovers, cars going every which way, highways, interstates, express lanes. Hundreds of cars representing thousands of people, touching millions of lives. Tiny dots coming together, layers upon layers of paint forming a canvas that is constantly metamorphosing into something new.

My life is varied and complex. You do not know me. Little bits, slips, jumps, turns, here and there, weld and meld. They make me. The sum of my parts does not equal a whole.  I am part of something much bigger. I may not be a dance teacher. But I am still a dancer.

I am an artist.