Laura Puts Out...pictures, words, ideas

MAKING SHIRLEY'S PORTRAIT of HER and HER PORTRAIT

2012-01-04T11:39:00.000-05:00

Our neighbor Shirley, who died last summer, was as indelible a presence in the neighborhood as was her startling makeup and Indian black hair. A tiny woman in brilliant red lipstick and vivid circles of rouge, she walked up and down the neighborhood for at least four hours -- or eight miles -- a day. A vision of perpetual, steady motion, her head bent forward, her frozen shoulder curved behind, she was a moving fixture enveloped in an aura of happiness. “When I’m walking, it’s like I’m in heaven,” she used to say.

No one knew how old Shirley was, except Harold, her deeply protective husband who was retired from his career as a welder for Pan American Airlines and who wasn’t much for talking. I guessed from her height (maybe 4’10”) and sun-stained skin and fragile-looking bones that she might be around eighty. Of obvious Cherokee descent (her hair was obsidian black and her cheekbones angled high), she grew up on Florida’s west coast in deep orange grove territory where, on her walks to school, she encountered all manner of “Swamplandia’s” creatures. When the School Board insisted she ride the school bus, she refused. Her mother stormed the School Board office, arguing on Shirley’s behalf…and won. Shirley walked the several miles and several hours each way, in bliss.

Her mother must have adored her, for when she asked Shirley what kind of dress she’d like for her first grown-up outing, Shirley showed her a picture of Suzy Wong in a frock with a Chinese collar. Her mother sewed the dress for her and added a bauble that Shirley wore around her ear. Years later, she would have a portrait painted of herself taken from a photograph of her in the dress and bauble. This portrait was the beginning point of our friendship.

I, too, am an avid walker. And whenever Shirley and I crossed paths in the neighborhood, we’d stop and chat. Usually about our mutual love of being in nature. “I could live happily under a tree,” she’d say. “I could live happily in a tree,” I’d answer. When I revealed to her that I was an artist, she asked if I’d like to see the portrait. It seems Shirley also loved to paint, and it was this passion, along with her love for the memory of that dress and her mother, that had prompted her to have this special portrait made.

I was eager to see this evidence of Shirley’s history. Waiting outside the chain link fence that surrounded the ramshackle house where she and Harold lived, I contemplated Shirley’s devotions – walking, communing with wildlife, and now, it seemed, art. Harold emerged through the front door carrying the portrait. Even from the sidewalk, I could see that it was elegant and articulate. Up close, I could easily detect not only the determination Shirley possessed in her youth, but also her youthful beauty.

Colorful, dare I say dramatic makeup was only one among Shirley’s notable features. Her black eyes were starkly framed by bangs and braids. A beautician once convinced her to cut off the braids. She compensated with braided wisps which lent her an incongruous twist of urban chic.

Shirley’s smile outshone everything else. I never once encountered her on my dog walks when she didn’t greet me with a grin so generous it could fill a movie screen. “You look so pretty today. I love what you’re wearing…or, I love those earrings…or I love the color of your shirt,” she’d say. And she truly meant it. She was easy to delight.

I asked Shirley if I could bring over my camera and photograph her with the portrait so I could do a painting of her. Harold granted permission and chaperoned the event. Later that year, 2009, I invited them over to my house a few blocks away to see the finished work. The painting is nearly life size, and I titled it, “Shirley, Now and Then.” Harold nodded at it. Shirley grinned and glowed. “You’re a really good artist,” she told me. Then I took a photo of her standing next to my painting of the picture of her holding the portrait and then another photo of her standing next to my painting holding the photo of her holding the portrait. (Very post modern, indeed.) Now, added to her compliments about my appearance whenever I saw her was always praise for my talent.

Shirley and I often talked about animals – my dogs, the squirrels and birds she fed, her own dog, Bonnie. Bonnie was a sweet old pit bull who, apparently, loved to dance. Music was yet another of Shirley’s passions, and she told me how every night she would put on a record and dance. (Learning this was reassuring, because I’d never been entirely sure their house had electricity). Bonnie, it seems, also loved dancing. Upon hearing the music, she would stand up on her two hind legs and “walk” across the floor to dance with Shirley.

For years, Harold and Shirley bought birdseed to spread around the front yard poincianas where Shirley also fed individually-named squirrels and foxes. You might have taken her for St. Francis of Assisi…or Snow White (if Snow White could be a tiny Cherokee woman with vivid lipstick and wispy braids), surrounded by adoring woodland creatures and glowing with beneficence. (Knowing, squawking blue jays perched on Shirley’s shoulders as she tossed morsels to the assembly, their tails a riot of twitching arabesques. Then, money got tight (I assume Harold and Shirley lived on his Social Security), and Harold determined that the wildlife food was too much of an expense. The feedings stopped. Still, a squirrel or two would often trot alongside Shirley on her walks, chattering, maybe scolding, but undoubtedly sustaining the bond.

Long after telling me the story of Bonnie the Dancing Dog, I asked what had happened to Bonnie. Dade County, it seems, had passed an anti-pit bull ordinance restricting the breed from residential neighborhoods, and the dog police had come and taken Bonnie away. Shirley related the story to me soberly, but without anguish or even nostalgia. I was crushed. Shirley resumed her walking.

Laura Puts Out...pictures, words, ideas: Preview "MAKING SHIRLEY'S PORTRAIT of HER and HER PORTRAIT"

2012-01-04T11:35:00.001-05:00

Laura Puts Out...pictures, words, ideas: Preview "MAKING SHIRLEY'S PORTRAIT of HER and HER PORTRAIT"

THE CULTURAL GLUTTON FEASTS AGAIN: THE ART BASEL REPORT

2011-12-08T16:28:00.001-05:00

Every year, the biggest decision when attending the annual international Art Basel Exhibition in Miami Beach is whether to focus on the art or on the people. The cast of characters is feathered, tattooed, bejeweled, and otherwise sartorially splendid. The art fair offers one of the greatest shows on earth: more museum-quality art under one roof at one time than, probably, any time in history. Not to mention the city-wide satellite exhibitions. All of which draw thousands of artists, dealers, brokers, viewers, reporters, and party-goers. Last year I reveled in the great many exhibits of work by the 20th century American abstract landscape painter Milton Avery and a whole slew of Lucien Freud portraits. This year there were numerous 20th century female artists one seldom sees, like the ceramic artist and painter Beatrice Wood (who died at the age of 105 and lived on Hershey chocolate) and surrealist sculptor Leonore Tawney, as well as a few Alice Neel portraits. One year I discovered an gallery showing the work of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhove, the German-born Dadist and friend of Duchamp. Among my greatest discoveries this year was a Swiss gallery showing the work of Gitte Schafer whose small pristine framed assemblages moved me as much as the little Joseph Campbell box sculpture of five tiny wine goblets each holding a marble.

Among my favorite installations was a display of life-size, tunnel-headed costume sculptures by the Chicago artist Nick Cave made of thousands of iridescent buttons. His work always combines high fashion, science fiction, and sheer beauty in startling ways.

Another of the crucial decisions to be made each year about Art Basel is what shoes to wear. I’m known for being fascinated by my own feet — a childhood of running barefoot, decades of dance training in everything from ballroom slippers to tap shoes and jazz thongs, eras of wearing platforms and stilt-high heels, and, today, the omnipresent sandal (I do, after all, live in Miami). This year, by happy accident, I came upon the Croc store on Miami Beach’s famed Lincoln Road. There, aside from hideously wonderful signature slip-on that I do my gardening in, was, lo and behold, an entire selection of Crocs in an array of styles and all with the same springy, durable weightlessness that gives the brand its signature desirability. They resemble "jellies," the great plastic, candy-colored sandals of yore, and certain styles change color between shade and daylight. Enchanting! I chose a perforated ballet-slipper style with an open toe. Significant or not, I completed a series of paintings showing my feet in shoes — character shoes and ballroom open toes -- just before Art Basel opened, The paintings, in gouache, were done over drawings I made in 1993 after photographs taken of me by the clothing designer and blues singer Judy Tampa in 1992. You can see them at: http://tinyurl.com/cy7f463

BLESSED BE THE BOUNTY

2011-11-26T15:32:00.001-05:00

AND ALL WE DO TO SUPPORT IT

RADICAL WRITING and

LAURA'S RECOMMENDATIONS

for DECEMBER

ENJOY!

WHEN RHOMA DREAMS RHOMA PAINTS

2011-10-09T20:03:00.000-04:00

by Rhoma
crayon and pastel on paper

2011-10-09T20:02:00.001-04:00

detail from "Connect the Dots" by Laura Cerwinske

PORTRAIT OF EARTH and TIME

2011-10-09T20:00:00.001-04:00

photographer Unknown

HAPPY

2011-10-09T19:58:00.001-04:00

photograph by Laura Cerwinske

SHIRLEY THEN AND NOW AND THEN AGAIN

2011-10-09T19:46:00.002-04:00

painting by Laura Cerwinske

THIS MONTH LAURA RECOMMENDS:

2011-10-09T17:54:00.008-04:00

BOOKS: The memoir is not a novel, nor is it an autobiography. It is a selected moment or epoch or era of a life told by the one who lived it. Two such superior examples are newly published: THE LAST RESORT: Taking the Mississippi Cure by Norma Watkins is a recounting of girlhood and young womanhood in the deep South of the 1940s, 50s, and 60s. Watkins’ story is equally about family – that of her blood relations and of the black servants who raised her -- and her own coming to consciousness of racism and its inescapable contagion. Her daily struggle is with the knowledge that those she loves are filled with hate. Each page is filled with as much lush description as every family meal is with home cooking. Watkins’ flight from her world and its suffocation form an achingly unstoppable trajectory.

HELLO, HELLO, FAREWELL: Laura Cerwinske

The antithesis to Norma Watkins’ memoir is LE FREAK: An Upside Down Story of Family, Disco and Destiny. Nile Rodgers, the brilliant musician and producer, grew up in bohemian 1950s New York, the son of a beautiful 14-year-old black girl and a percussionist who was obsessed with music. His step-father was white, Jewish, and “central-casting” handsome. They and their friends listened to Tony Bennet, Nina Simone, and Thelonius Monk, read Playboy for the articles, talked politics and poetry, and, most of all, loved listening to and making music. They were hipsters, true embodiments of the term “cool”, and they were junkies. Rogers maneuvers through this world of color, cool, and craziness with a sense of wonder and amusement, dazzled by the kindness and open-heartedness that came his way.

MOVIE: THE INFIDEL This terrific comedy about Muslim/Jewish identity centers on a Muslim business owner iand family man in London who learns he was adopted as a baby from Jewish parents just as his son becomes engaged to the step-daughter of a fanatic imam. Iranian/British actor Omid Djalili may have the most uproariously expressive face and body ever to meet stage or screen. Surprise, surprise, Richard Schiff (of the West Wing!) plays a boozy Jewish cab driver who gets enlisted to tutor his reluctant new friend in such behaviors as the Yiddish shrug.

ARTISTS: STRANDBEESTS means beach animals. Dutch artist THEO JANSSEN has spent the past 21 years constructing giant “animals” (out of PVC pipes) that can walk on the beach strictly using wind. power. His complex creatures are made of interlocking networks of PVC pipe bleached bone-like by the weather. They look like a pre-historic scaffolding shambling across the sand. The idea for the beach beasts came as a solution to his concern over rising sea levels that might re-flood Holland reduce it size to what it had been in medieval times. He envisioned self-propelled creatures that would restore the balance between water and land, the way beavers so in Dutch marshes.

He cannot say if he is a sculptor or an engineer. ‘Mine is not a straight path like an engineer’s, it’s not A to B. I make a very curly road just by the restrictions of goals and materials. A real engineer would probably solve the problem differently, maybe make an aluminum robot with motor and electric sensors and all that. But the solutions of engineers are often much alike. Everything we think can in principle be thought by someone else. The ideas, as evolution shows, come about by change. Reality is very creative.” Theo says he envies the original Creator’s supply of countless millions of years for animal evolution and is “sure he could make perfect beach animals, given that much time.”

Watch this clip for a taste: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HSKyHmjyrkA
And then read the article by Ian Frazier in the September 5th issue of The New Yorker.

The French painter AGNES BOULLOCHE creates mystical world populated by turbaned dukes, sartorial dogs in pipe-smoking maidens in Renaissance-like settings. Her early childhood in Morocco filled her imagination with stories of djinns and otherworldly creatures. They appear throughout her work beautifully coutured. See her webiste at http://tinyurl.com/3u6n6gj and a lyrical musical video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szbTuUl_Dxk

The word animation dervies from the Latin meaning to spark with life. Watch this video by the artist BLU to see grafitti images jump from walls and sidewalks into your imagination and back. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECxDz16B7z8&feature=share <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECxDz16B7z8&feature=share>

FREE ACCESS TO YOUR INNERMOST SOURCE OF PEACE AND POWER
www.thekeys.maharaji.net <http://www.thekeys.maharaji.net/>

WHEN JOY OVERTAKES INHIBITION

2011-09-05T17:58:00.006-04:00

“When I was very little, say five or six, I became aware of the fact that people wrote books. Before that, I thought that God wrote books. I thought a book was a manifestation of nature, like a tree. When my mother explained it, I kept after her: What are you saying? What do you mean? I couldn’t believe it. It was astonishing. It was like—here’s the man who makes all the trees. Then I wanted to be a writer, because, I suppose, it seemed the closest thing to being God." Fran Lebowitz

"A novel is a chance to try on a different life for size." Marion C Garretty

THIS MONTH, I RECOMMEND:

ARCHITECTURE: BJARKE INGELS If you want to truly understand the meaning of the word visionary, take a look at the Ted Talk by the brilliant Danish architect Bjarke Ingels who not only develops astounding ideas and solutions for 21st century scenarios, but who has fun, yes FUN, doing it. His philosophy is, “Yes is more”, a response to Mies van der Rohe, the father of Modernism, who said “Less is more,” and Robert Venturei, the father of Post Modernism, who said “Less is a bore.” http://www.ted.com/talks/bjarke_ingels_3_warp_speed_architecture_tales.htm

ARTIST: JULIE HEFERNAN Fragonard meets Bruegel meets the pre=Raphaelites and Rousseau in this artist’s sinister, opulent kingdom of self-portraits. Be enchanted and cautious as you indulge her work and recognize the fearless beauty of her imagination. http://tinyurl.com/3gs72ed

FASHION: IRIS APFEL willfully disjunctive look, and the tart wit behind it, have been the subject of museum exhibitions, a coffee table book, and soon a documentary film. At the age of 90, she is fashion’s newest icon: “Straight people, gay people, students of art and social history, tourists and chattering adolescents, “even little kids,” she noted, gravitate to her lectures, blog about her and send her mash notes.” http://tinyurl.com/3gm8qzm

THE 21st CENTURY: THOMAS FRIEDMAN’s commentaries on our present moment in history are as visionary as Bjarke Ingels’s designs. “It used to be that only cheap foreign manual labor was easily available; now cheap foreign genius is easily available,” he writes. This globalization/I.T. revolution is also “super-empowering” individuals, enabling them to challenge hierarchies and traditional authority figures — from business to science to government. It is also enabling the creation of powerful minorities and making governing harder and minority rule easier than ever. See dictionary for: “Tea Party.” http://tinyurl.com/3okzx99

PUBLISHING: JEFFREY A. TRACHTENBERG describes the present moment in the publishing industry along the lines of Thomas Friedman’s perspectives. New Economics Rewrite Book Business: http://tinyurl.com/3qz43bz

Simultaneously, there is an interesting international bent to recent publishing acquisitions, among them editor of the Evening Standard Geordie Greig's BREAKFAST WITH LUCIAN, based on Greig's regular Sunday breakfasts with Lucian Freud; German author Bettina Stangneth's EICHMANN IN JERUSALEM, showing that the common view of Eichmann as 'just a cog' in Hitler's diabolical killing machine is incorrect; Nancy Kricorian's ALL THE LIGHT THERE WAS, the story of an Armenian family's struggle to survive the Nazi occupation of Paris; Dr. Sheri Speede's DOROTHY'S CIRCLE, from growing up in working-class Mississippi to building a chimpanzee rescue center in the middle of Africa to raising her young daughter in the jungles of Cameroon; and Michael Moran's THE RECKONING, an account of the end of American global dominance, with a foreword by Nouriel Roubini.

Nothing except your thoughts can attack you.

Nothing except your thoughts can make you think you are vulnerable.

And nothing except your thoughts can prove to you this is not so.

A Course in Miracles, lesson 26

LAURA'S RECENT RECOMMENDATIONS

2011-07-21T18:24:00.008-04:00

Her Secret is Patience, an icon created by the American Artist Janet Echelman, suspended above the new two-city-block Phoenix Civic Space park in the middle of downtown.

ARTIST: Sculptor Janet Echelman receives calls from cities around the world asking her to make sculptures for them. She is my hero in this way and more. Her work is the most ephemeral embodiment of transformation imaginable…meaning that she weaves exquisite, monumental airborne forms that suggest space. In her TED Talk, Taking Imagination Seriously, she illustrates the evolution of her ideas beginning with the serendipitous event that changed her expressive arc from painting to sculpture and set her on her genius career. http://www.ted.com/talks/janet_echelman.html

ARTIST: Derek Jeter gave The Master of all Master’s Classes on July 9th when he hit his 3,000th home run in a game in which he also went five for five (hits for times at plate), and drove in the winning home run. The dean of baseball writers, Rogel Angell, muses that Derek “lit up the day and the record and the twenty-seven extraordinary players already within his élite new circle, and reminded the rest of us, fans everywhere, that what we come for is always the game, the game itself.” Read more @ http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/sportingscene/2011/07/derek-jeter-3000-hits.html#ixzz1SPqrK3bb

BOOK: : Center of the Universe. Nancy Bachrach. (New York: Alfred Knopf, 2009) Nancy Bachrach’s mother, Lola, was not only the quintessential Jewish mother (her voracious appetite for sex, notwithstanding), but the quintessential bipolar Jewish mother. Her dizzying, dazzling creativity and the inevitable, ever-growing list of flameouts make family life a tortured family circus – but a circus nonetheless. You could easily hear David Sedaris reading Bachrach’s words. As with Karen Russell in the recent Swamplandia!, Bachrach’s command of language is put to the service of a killer wit. And she never lets up. Just like her father, a hapless handyman doomed by his infernal jury-rigging. And just like her mother who refused to allow life to eliminate her universe and her place at its center.

TELEVISION: The serial drama Breaking Bad takes place in a universe “where nobody gets away with anything and karma is the great uncredited player in the cast.” It’s also, by turns, hilarious, macabre, and filled with “mordantly amusing ordeals.” The premise: After being diagnosed with lung cancer, chemistry teacher, father, husband and all-round solid Albuquerque citizen Walter White wakes from the slumber of an unfulfilling life to become a wizard at concocting the purest, most coveted crystal meth that local dealers have ever known. The fist show of the current (fourth) season on July 17 was truly grim, but trust that the cockeyed juxtapositions of previous seasons will return. If you haven’t caught it, dive in now (on AMC), but also treat yourself to a marathon of the earlier seasons.

URBAN DESIGN: “No tyrant can run a city. The city will talk back.” Three-quarters of the world’s population is expected to live in cities by 2050. This brief video collects the thoughts of several eminent urban scholars as to what they think makes a city successful, with suggestions ranging from public transportation to ethnic integration to public spaces, to states of incompleteness.
http://www.designtaxi.com/news/35050/What-Makes-a-City-Successful/

FASHION: Those feathery, flowery sculptures perched atop the heads of the royals and the friends at Ascot and the monarchal weddings are not called hats. They are referred to as fascinators. Take a look and you’ll agree the term is perfect. http://www.google.com/search?q=fascinators&hl=en&client=safari&rls=en&prmd=ivns&source=lnms&tbm=isch&ei=uykmTrLoN6rr0gGVyJzdCg&sa=X&oi=mode_link&ct=mode&cd=2&ved=0CFIQ_AUoAQ&biw=1680&bih=952

“On this Earth where you exist,
the Divine is the host,
and you are the guest.
And in this body,
you are the host,
and the Divine is the guest.”
Prem Rawat/Maharaji
http://theypi.net/latest-videos.php#1

You’ll gasp, you’ll chuckle. It’s MR. SLICK.
Your FREE e-comic book from Laura:
http://tinyurl.com/43mc4dn

THE FATE of our PLANET is in OUR HANDS

2011-04-11T13:35:00.003-04:00

"Only the human community has the idea

that we somehow live apart from the Earth,

that the Earth does not respond to our breathing,

to our thoughts, to our actions."

Caroline Myss

photo: Laura Cerwinske

SLINKING from, SURVIVING and LEARNING TO LOVE my MOTHER

2011-03-16T16:45:00.005-04:00

“When Mom Was My Age” is an interview series between daughters and mothers that appears in the blog of writer/editor Jane Friedman. This interview appeared on March 14th.Photos: Evie and Bob in 1985 when she was 63, Evie, today at nearly 90 years old. Unbelievable!

When my mother, Evelyn Schwartz, was my age, in 1985, she was still working as a public elementary school reading teacher.

What was your typical day like?

I awoke at six-o-clock, went for swim, took a shower, dressed for the day, prepared Bob (my husband’s) breakfast and my lunch (a sandwich, tomato, and apple), carried my books, papers, and folders to the car, and drove to school.

I made sure to get there extra early so I could write the lessons on the blackboard before the kids arrived. (My students were difficult kids, the discipline problems and the underachievers. I couldn’t afford to turn my back on them when they came to school.)

After several hours of teaching, I had lunch in the teachers’ lounge, and when I returned to class, I would read or tell a story, complete the school day’s lessons, then stay after school to grade papers or go to faculty meetings.

I was always proud of my bulletin boards, and often stayed on to create the month’s newest theme. One of the nicest compliments I ever had was from the music teacher: he told me my classroom was the most creative of all he’d been in.

I usually brought home a lot of work because I couldn’t get much done in class. After preparing and serving dinner, I graded papers or contacted parents or whatever the school day required. I know I brought home more work than the other teachers.

If I had the energy, I’d watch TV with Bob before going to bed.

Laura: Evie is nearly 90 years old now. She still lives in the house that our family moved into in 1961 from our original house, where Rick and I were born and raised. The “new” house was/is her lifelong dream-come-true—open, sunny, custom built in a new suburb, with a pool overlooking a waterway and big rooms with sliding doors that open onto views of the waterway. Evie has lived here on her own since my father, Bob, died eight years ago, but she remains almost as busy she ever has been, teaching reading skills in her home office, attending her many literacy and Jewish organization meetings, and entertaining her beloved girlfriends and relatives. As a child, I found Evie’s list of professional activities and social obligations not simply daunting, but formidable—how was an introverted child with unconventional passions and a vast plague of insecurities supposed to find a place on it?

What did you worry about most?
My biggest anxiety in those days was what to make for dinner before I went grocery shopping on Friday. After growing up with the privations of the Depression, I learned to live life day by day, to say my prayers at night and hope things would work out well. Bob and I felt that everyone in the family was coping in their own way, handling their own problems, and seeming pretty independent. No one came crying on our shoulder.

What did you think the future held for you?
Who had time to think about it! I was always optimistic. Life takes you on its course: You finish one phase and move on to the next.

How do you look back on that age now?
I look back on all of it with satisfaction. We did the best we could do. Compared to the Depression years, the later years were not filled with anxiety because we had a steady income.”

From Laura
During this era, when Evie was 63, I was 37 and had recently (finally!) moved into a nearby house with my six-year-old son after our living with Bob and Evie for several years following my divorce.

This house (near enough that my son and my father could still see each other daily) was my dream house—dim and cozy, on an acre of pines, with a fireplace and cedar-lined closets. I’d always been a little house-mouse, reluctant to leave home or go out and socialize, and moving into this wooded nest was the perfect balm to my shredding confidence.

I was supporting my son and myself (insufficiently) as a freelance writer while struggling with clinical depression, anorexia, extreme PMS, and migraines—the typical distress list of overwhelmed single mothers. In addition, my son’s attention span was as depleted as my income, and the school reports on his conduct and performance were mortifying. I could sense that his aggressive behavioral momentum was unstoppable, but I kept delving, seeking, applying whatever knowledge and strength I could garner to learn and simply cope. More than anything in world, I wanted to sleep.

As a kid, I truly hated school—the hours, the routine, the incomprehensible social structure, the fears of getting roughed up, the unbending authority, the monotonous texts, the patriotic pabulum, the unopenable windows. Being an honor student made no difference.

Each morning, Evie, the robust, unstoppable, perpetual motion machine, would wake me with a cheerful bedside recitation of: “Here is now dawning another new day. Think, woulds’t thou let it slip useless away!” Even then, the only place I wanted to slip was deeper under the covers.

I still sleep a lot. Evie still swims every morning. I survived public school, single motherhood, a parade of predatory men, and the vicissitudes of a writer’s career.

Evie flourished and continues to flourish among her books, students, Jewish philanthropies, literacy efforts, lifelong friends, and relatives. She loves the life she created for herself, and I have grown to love it for her. I praise her lists of plans and teaching activities as well as her extraordinary good health. What had been a cursed agenda for this daughter in youth is a blessing for that same daughter in late middle age.

MY AFFAIR WITH THE CHAIR

2011-03-01T14:15:00.003-05:00

We can thank the ancient Romans for plumbing, paved highways, and the Julian calendar. But of all their contributions to Western civilization, the most important, as far as I’m concerned, is the introduction to Europe of the free-standing chair. Until approximately the seventh or eighth century BC, we were still tucking in on the floor with the animals. The utilitarian bench and stool and even the floor cushion may have raised us marginally off the floor, but it was the anthropomorphic free-standing chair that marked humanity’s elevation from subsistence to “civilized” living. With its articulated arms and legs and seat and back, the chair denoted our abandonment of animal habits and postures in favor of comfort and symbols of power.

The Pharonic Egyptians were the first to develop the chair – for ceremonial use. In the sixth or seventh century BC, the Greeks modified Pharonic proportions to create the most elegant chair in history -- the ineffable Klismos.. With its low, concave backrest shaped to the human body, and splayed legs that allowed the sitter to lean back, the Klismos is as sculptural as a Brancusi and as comfortable as a contour. As the Roman Empire spread across Europe, the Klismos became a fundamental part of the scenery for the theater of Western life. . .at least for a millennium or so.

Having climbed to such a pinnacle of civility, how, we must wonder, could humanity could return to a life of squatting. Indeed, if anything was dark about the Dark Ages, it was the return to eating off the floor. Following the collapse of the Roman Empire in the 5^th Century AD the free-standing chair was all but forgotten…and for more than a thousand years!

Not until the dawn of the 16^th century, as the earliest domestic interiors of Europe’s town-dwelling bourgeoisie evolved, did houses began to fill again with rudimentary furnishings. These took the form of built-in and portable chests for stage, seating, and sometimes sleeping as well as stools, folding benches, and trestle tables for eating and working. The nobility traveled among their many residences carrying their portable tables and collapsible chairs with them (hence the words for furniture in Italian, French and Spanish are mobili, mobiliers, and muebles). The poor lived wretchedly in huts of mud and straw. But city-dwelling merchants and artisans enjoyed their relative degree of medieval prosperity in long, narrow, two-story townhouses where they combined living and working. Although they were still virtually camping inside, this proud population began to think about something resembling permanence and, equally astonishing, comfort.

The chair connoted stability, affluence, and religio/civic authority. The earliest free-standing examples were X-frame chairs made of an X-shaped wooden frame across which canvas, webbing or leather was slung as a seat and stretched as a back. (It was derived from the X-shaped folding stool.) By the 17^th century, an increased control over materials and expanded expertise in production enabled furniture pieces to be used as part of the decoration of a room. Fabric and padding were customarily attached to a chair frame with nails, the fabric and nails lending ornament and the padding comfort. Furniture, for the first time since the Roman era, came to be considered a valuable possession.

With this consciousness, the medieval X-frame chairs grew into “chairs of estate” and achieved throne-like prestige with expanded proportions, luxe upholstery, and decorations of with fringes, tassels, needlework, and large ornamental nails. This macho opulence ultimately gave way, toward the end of the 17^th century, to a refinement of line and form. As the frame grew graceful, the seat and back grew commodious and intimations of the Klismos appeared. Ultimately, the abundantly cushioned and graceful fauteuil, the classic French open armchair, grew so desired for its elegance and largesse, that it was sustained and copied in most European countries throughout the next century. During the 18^th century, which was the pinnacle of chair design, the chair came to mirror fashion. In France, for example, chairs were created to accommodate the fabulous heights of ladies’ wigs or to accentuate the simply cut gowns of the favored Grecian style.

Regardless of its age or condition, a beautiful chair is a work of art. In my garden, a half-wooded, subtropical Giverny, a collection of old wrought iron garden chairs suggest a poetry of ruin. Although each chair possesses some arabesqued element – a scrolled armrest, a fanned backrest, a splayed foot -- they are more Giocommetti than Brancusi, skeletal and rusting into a deterioration of sculptural glory. Poised for visitation, their assembly begs curiosity – who and what are they waiting for out there in the elements as if in silent anticipation of a Quaker meeting.

Inside the house, my oval-back dining chairs are upholstered in a leopard pattern print on which my Bengal cats, curled in slumber, become almost indistinguishable. At the head of the dining table sits a Klismos-like armchair with silvered finish and ram’s-head finials. If such a thing were not oxymoronic, it could be considered a modest throne.

My friend, the illustrator Barry Zaid has an actual throne in his “sitting” room. It is one of only nine reproductions that exist in the world of a chair made for Sitamen, daughter of Tuya and Yuyu, aunt and uncle of the Pharoah Tutankhamen. The original was discovered when Tutankhamen’s tomb was opened in 1903 and is now (we hope, still) in the Cairo museum. The modeled gesso and gilt decoration on the back panel of the chair consists of a winged sun disc below which appears a scene showing a dual image of Sitamen receiving gifts of gold necklaces from female servants. The accompanying inscription above the seated princess gives her name: "The eldest daughter of the king whom he loves, Sitamen." The text inscribed above the servants describes the offering of gold from "the lands of the south."

Barry bought his throne from an antique dealer in 1976. Today it sits in his South Beach apartment among his collections of mosaic urns and obelisks, glass globes, and examples of his own art. It looks right at home. His spotted Bengal cat Chitta and her companion Penny long ago claimed it for a napping spot.

You can read more about the Treasures of Yuya and Tuyu at http://anubis4_2000.tripod.com/SpecialExhibits/YuyaTuyu.htm

You can see Barry’s graphic design, illustration, and packaging art at http://www.barryzaid.com

The Colors of White

2011-02-08T19:42:00.014-05:00

Laura Cerwinske

If only white were only white, we might be fooled to believe that life could ever be -- black and white. But white -- the luminous sum of all color -- is the epitome of nuance. Think lime white, glacier white, honeymilk white, colorless chameleon white, and dove white. Imagine rich and glossy white "like the rooms in Gosford Park" and sharp, cool, clean enamel white.

Ten architects, interior and set designers, product designers, and color experts reveal their propensities in a to-the-point article about "choosing whites." Writer Elana Frankel confides that she "tends to use brighter whites higher up in a room and warmer whites down around eye level." My conclusion: There's nothing black and white about white.

Take a look:

http://www.homegoesstrong.com/pick-perfect-white-paint

2011-01-05T19:32:00.006-05:00

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE...

the geographic and historic mix grows all the richer

On Christmas day I flew to Tampa to visit the blues/rock musician and funked-out-elegant clothing designer Judy Tampa (http://www.judytampa.com) and her ex-husband with whom she lives, the Mack Truck scion David Hall. We’ve all known each other since art school at the University of South Florida in the late 1960s and various subsequent episodes in San Francisco, Miami, and New York. Judy sings with her band Bunko Squad and their first CD, "Tainted" is killer.

In 1973, Judy and I “received Knowledge” from Guru Maharaji, known then as “The 16-year-old Guru” and “Lord of the Universe.” He dazzled my artist/dancer/writer/soul-starved wanderer self (contrary to every intellectual Jewish fiber of my being). Today I am still an artist/writer/teacher, but my self is no longer soul starved, and Maharaji, now known as Prem Rawat, is still dazzling me. (http://maharaji.net/main1280.html).

At Judy and David’s Christmas party I ran into (with champagne in hand) their lifelong friend the juggler/filmmaker/art historian Stuart Lippe who I met in 1967 on the FSU art program in Florence, Italy and who I’d not seen since. We delved into a psychedelically cluttered reminiscence that included Stuart’s mention of the Rubenesque and brilliant academic Helen Hennessey with whom he had recently become reacquainted. I remembered her as my roommate and frequent photography model at USF after our return from Florence.

The next day Judy Tampa and I drove to St. Petersburg to visit Fred Tirabassi, owner of the legendary eatery Kopper Kitchen. Fred and I had known each other since 1973 when he was the head of Maharaji’s Miami ashram. Judy and I followed him down a yellow brick path on a tour of the 1920s Spanish Mediterranean house he’d remodeled. Once uninhabitable, it is Fred’s homage to the casual beauty of Old Florida.

For New Year’s my friend and boss the architect Bernard Zyscovich (http://www.zyscovich.com) held a dinner for a few friends including his partner, architect Suria Yaffar (native of El Salvador), Vlad and Ludmilla Wasserstein (natives of Russia), Camille and Ron Sppmno (who grew up in St. Petersburg and whose brother turns out to be a long time friend of Fred Tirabassi), Pam Blum (a South African-born Israeli and my dearest friend from the kibbutz I lived on in 1968) who is the mother of Maayan Blum who is married to Joe Clark (an Israeli Cherokee) who works for Zyscovich, Inc.

Yes, a glorious tangle. And the holiday is not yet over. After New Year’s my dear, sartorially superb octogenarian friend Bob Watters, known for his generosity – and popularity -- as “the rock star of AA,” held a birthday luncheon for the octogenarian stud and furniture maker/artist Les Cizek and his wife, the renegade belle of Mississippi whose memoir is to be published this summer, Norma Watkins. Joining us was architect Suzanne Martinson, for whom Zyscovich partner Suria Yaffa used to work. Suzanne’s former husband, the architectural photographer Steven Brooke (http://www.stevenbrooke.com), and I produced the first architecture and design books on Miami (http://www.bluehairlady.com), many of which included the work of Bernard Zyscovich. Suzanne Martinson met Bob Watters through me, I met Bob through Norma Watkins, and Norma and I met through a friend of Fred Tirabassi’s.

I regard this tangle of place and time, these unexpected collisions that re-unite and re-ignite former and present selves, to be the art of living. Out of it I am learning to transform the image I am too often shocked to find in the mirror (lower lighting, ever lower lighting, please) into the brave, gregarious girl I remember. This occurs as I experience myself more and more from the inside out: When I look into Pam’s eyes/mouth/face, I am 19-years-old again and ready to climb the peach trees, prune the plum trees, and take on whatever was next in our uncharted lives at that unique moment of hope for Israel. With Judy Tampa I am the languid bohemian, lounging at the lake-house-in-the-orange-groves just as I am the brittle, exhausted twenty-three year-old, screaming her primal brains out in a freezing cold New York apartment. The primal therapist led us to Maharaji. With Fred I am the girl sitting in a tree behind the ashram, dazzled by the height of the sprawling banyan, the intensity of Fred’s devotion, and our novitiate spiritual grandiosity. When I am with Bernard, we are still pioneers.

“If you want to know your destiny, look around at your friends,” says my godfather, the ever wise Oba Ernesto Pichardo. Likewise with self-regard: in whose eyes do you choose to see yourself? I’ve been looking into Maharaji’s eyes for 38 years as he has been looking back into mine.

Today, I had a meeting with prospective editorial clients whom I had never met before -- Benny Mizrahi (a third generation Israeli) and Farouk Gongee (a native of Lebanon) -- who want to write a book together on Maharaji. Farouk was among Maharaji’s first devotees in America and had been sent to Beirut to propagate Knowledge. He had preceded Fred Tirabassi as director of the early Miami ashram.

AN IMMERSION IN THE VISIONARY

2010-12-31T22:05:00.005-05:00

The Goddess Fulfaggotra Laura Cerwinske, 2000

The present contains every possible destiny.

Prayerfully, let us ask for 2011, that:

We more deeply understand that forgiveness is a willingness to see from another point of view.

We celebrate the willingness to trust the infinite, unpredictable nature of the universe to shape and move us.

We surround ourselves with others who are similarly allied in building the strength, focus, and responsiveness necessary to fulfilling our vision.

We appreciate vision as an instrument of liberation, understanding that a vision is not a goal; a vision requires conscious action to deliver a conscious outcome in conscious form.

We embrace all that is organic, dynamic, intuitive, meditative, energetic, holographic, and holistic.

We apply that which is linear, analytical, mechanical, orderly, and measurable only in the service of beauty, creativity, nourishment, and alliance.

We acknowledge our ancestors daily, cultivate our gardens, make peace with our mothers, and express our gratitude to Creation with every breath.

We live by Grace.

Love to All,

Laura

with acknowledgement to Dianne Collins, creator of QuantumThink® and author of the forthcoming book, Do You Quantum Think? New Thinking That Will Rock Your World. www.quantumthink.com <http://www.quantumthink.com>

THIS MONTH LAURA RECOMMENDS:

2010-12-14T21:29:00.012-05:00

The Ladies are Amused by Laura Cerwinske

BOOK: Journey into the Past by STEFAN ZWEIG is a “between the wars” psychological novella that was found among author’s papers after his death. It is now published for the first time in America with an introduction that explicates the agony of Sweig’s cultural alienation.

ARTIST: EMANUELE VISCUSO answers to a whole gallery of Renaissance muses. His fan-like sculptures synthesize the elegance of Brancusi and Fortuny. His trompe l’oeil painting would make the Duke di Montefeltro weep. And then there is all the rest. http://www.viscuso.com/

INTERVIEW: Be prepared to laugh out loud…and often: FRAN LEBOWITZ on the agony of writing (from the brain, that is, and NOT the fingers – imagine if she took RADICAL WRITING http://www.radicalwriting.com) Take a look: http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1931/a-humorist-at-work-fran-lebowitz

VIDEO: See this documentary on the life of writer/activist GRACE PALEY to gain a vast understanding of a writer/artist’s commitment.
http://washingtondcjcc.org/center-for-arts/film/WJFF/films2010/grace-paley.html

THOUGHTS: On Contradiction
by filmmaker Shekhar Kapur

When we consider a script for a potential film, we look for a story on a plot level, then we look for a story on a psychological level, then we look for a story on a political level, then we look for a story on a mythological level. We need a story on each level. It is not necessary that these stories agree with each other. What is wonderful is, many times, the stories contradict each other. So when I work with Rahman, who’s a great musician, I often tell him, “Don’t follow what the script already says. Find that which is not. Find the truth for yourself, and when you find the truth for yourself, there will be a truth in it. It may contradict the plot, but don’t worry about it.”

Everything’s a contradiction. The universe is a contradiction. And all of us are constantly looking for harmony. Harmony is the notes that Mozart didn’t give you, but somehow the contradiction of his notes suggests harmony. It’s the effect of looking for harmony in the contradiction that exists in a poet’s mind, a contradiction that exists in a storyteller’s mind. A storyteller’s mind is a contradiction of moralities. In a poet’s mind, it is a conflict of words. In the universe’s mind, it’s between day and night. In the mind of a man and a woman, we’re looking constantly at the contradiction between male and female.

The acceptance of contradiction is the telling of the story, not the resolution. The problem with a lot of the storytelling in Hollywood and many films is that we try to resolve the contradiction. Harmony is not resolution. Harmony is the suggestion of a thing that is much larger than resolution. Harmony is the suggestion of something that is embracing and universal and of eternity and of the moment. Resolution is something that is far more limited. It is finite. Harmony is infinite. So storytelling, like all other contradictions in the universe, looks for harmony and infinity in moral resolutions, resolving one, but letting another go, letting another go and creating a question that is important.
- Shekhar Kapur, filmmaker (Bandit Queen, Elizabeth) in a TED presentation . [Edited]

HIS MISSION IS...

2010-12-06T14:41:00.002-05:00

AM I SEEING THINGS? AM I SEEING...?

2010-12-06T14:38:00.001-05:00

door by Roy Lichtenstein

THEY DO NOT ANTICIPATE...

2010-12-06T14:34:00.001-05:00

painting by ALice Neel

THE MOMENT

2010-12-06T14:25:00.002-05:00

THE MONAS

2010-12-06T14:12:00.002-05:00

Laura Puts Out...pictures, words, ideas: WHAT I’VE FIGURED OUT ABOUT PUBLISHING: NOW and NEXT…

2010-11-16T15:14:00.001-05:00

Laura Puts Out...pictures, words, ideas: WHAT I’VE FIGURED OUT ABOUT PUBLISHING: NOW and NEXT…

...and here's some more excellent advice:
http://www.alanrinzler.com/blog/2010/11/13/what-makes-a-book-publisher-drool-can-you-say-“series”/

WHAT I’VE FIGURED OUT ABOUT PUBLISHING: NOW and NEXT…

2010-11-09T17:09:00.002-05:00

I’ve been involved in publishing for so long that I actually witnessed the decline of hot type. Forty years ago my first job in the field was as a typesetter at small typography studio in New York. Giant-sized computers with complicated keyboards were just supplanting the manual labor of letter-by-letter composition, but even so, typos still had to be sliced out by hand with a razor and corrections pasted with wax into final galleys. For the time, however, this was cutting edge technology. I felt like a pioneer, a path finding participant in the world of publishing evolution.

My typesetting career led to a job as a paste-up artist which led to layout which led to graphic design which led to photo styling, and eventually art directing. Simultaneously, I was working as a freelance writer which led to a long career as an author, editor, photo editor, and book packager. Now, I’m about to launch my own publishing list (Blue Hair Lady Publishing), write and illustrate a novella, and find a new agent while continuing to teach my online course Radical Writing. In other words, I’m path finding in a new publishing landscape…again. What I recognize this time, however, is that the present change in technology is merely the tip of the evolutionary iceberg. With e-books, blogs and social networking, creativity and information-sharing inhabit an entirely new cosmos, for, along with the vast transformation of technology is sea change of values. Books, once the literary prize of the educated elite, are no longer the “object” of the long process of intense creative labor. Rather, they are now regarded in much of the commercial world as the premium, the give-away, the prize that comes along with (that crass word) “the brand.”

After much investigation and trial, I’ve now come to believe that neither established publishers, editors, nor agents and not even the new world marketing gurus really know where word-and-picture media are headed. Certainly, the printed word will not entirely vanish. But it’s place in the world – and publishing’s place within that place – have yet to be determined.

At a writers conference I recently attended in NYC, a panel of literary agents explained the types of material their agencies were receptive to. Professionals though they were, the panel members looked like deer caught in the headlights. It became clear to me that given the vast changes in the publishing game, even they didn’t know what truthfully to advise their audience of aspiring authors. I came away feeling lucky that, as an artist and writer, I’m no stranger to “making up the process as I go along.” This, I realized, is exactly what is required to enter the publishing arena today.

A following or “platform” is now the product. Publishers and agents look for name/product recognition as much as for talent or idea. Success in publishing (and especially self-publishing) now requires great competence and involvement in internet marketing and self-promotion. Publishing houses traditionally give books no longer than six weeks of marketing focus (the time leading up to and immediately following the publication date). Now, before, during, and after that period, the author is expected to promote, promote, promote. Publishing has become more than ever an endeavor of personal responsibility.

My friend, the cookbook author Grace Young, has published three beautiful books with Simon & Schuster over the last ten years. (The Wisdom of the Chinese Kitchen, the Breath of a Wok, Stir-frying to the Sky’s Edge). Leading up to last spring’s publication of Sky’s Edge, her editor and publicist had left their positions. On the last day of her book tour, she received a Tweet that the company’s publisher had been outsed. Since then she has also lost her replacement editor. Grace’s experience makes the message pretty clear – if you want to get your book out into the world, the development and promotional heavy lifting now falls to you.

I’ve been observing the author Julie Klam on Twitter as she stirs the pot for her just-released book on rescue dogs, You Had Me At Woof. She and her coterie of writer friends and girl friends have been putting out the word all over the social media for weeks and months. They made a tongue-in-cheek “training” video for YouTube exposure, cheered on Julie’s book signing appearances in enthusiastic tweets, and hailed her every mention in print through various networks. The constant mention and sight of Julie’s name made me want to rescue another dog, have lunch with all the girlfriends, talk until dusk, and buy the book! The personal promotional efforts make me feel not simply like I know Julie Klam, but that we’re BFFs.

Like every passionate idea brought to fruition, we must still conceive, believe, and apply heart, soul, creativity, and talent. To achieve commercial success in publishing, we must also now apply marketing skill, analytical skill, social skills, and a lot of perseverance.

A WORD ABOUT e-BOOKS

What’s most difficult for people to grasp about electronic publishing is that e-books are NOT books. The book designer Joel Friedlander consistently illuminates his learning about e-publishing, and I highly recommend his website and blog, http://www.thebookdesigner.com. This is how he describes the distinctions print and electronic books:

E-books have no pages. Pages, the two sides of the leaves of paper that make up the book, are intrinsic to printed books. Although e-books imitate “pages” it’s just for our convenience. There is no reason an entire novel in e-book form couldn’t be written on one “page” or on thousands of bits of displayed text within a programmed environment.
E-books also have no spreads. Although it seems like I’m repeating myself, this is the heart of the book. When the sheaves of papyrus or linen or wood pulp paper are bound they naturally create two (or more) side-by-side pages, or a spread. What makes a book is the binding, so the spread is really the basic unit of the book, not the page.
Every word in an e-book is equidistant from every other word in the e-book. Any location in the e-book can be connected instantly to any other location in the text through hyperlinks.
The text of an e-book is searchable and subject to computer analysis. Just by entering a search term and hitting the Return key, you can highlight thousands of occurrences of the term throughout the entire text. Instantly.
There is no need in an e-book for text to be linear. An e-book, like almost all text-delivery systems, presents text in orderly rows of type on discrete, sequential pages, but this has nothing to do with the form of the e-book and everything to do with habits and expectations. We are used to reading text that way, so designers have created a model of the book on the screen. With just a little more work they could and do create models that have no debt to the book, where text is free-form, or timed to appear at intervals, or integrated with other media, or reading in circles if they bloody well want it to.
The form, size and typography of the e-book are adjusted by the devices on which they are presented. I have hanging over my desk a page from a religious text printed in Paris in 1495 by a printer named Ulrich Gering, and I have no doubt that Ulrich himself set up this page and printed it on his pull-lever press. With many e-books, the user can change the typeface, the typesize and other attributes. The e-reader itself will create the format for the pages and how they are displayed.

ADVENTURES IN SELF-PUBLISHING

For artists and writers particularly, the promise of self-publishing is infinite. For people like me with experience in all facets of the field, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for -- books over which we have design, production, and promotional power. For artists and writers in general, self-publishing provides the means to bring a book idea into material fruitionby ourselves. A great satisfaction.

A great example of a purely self-published project is a delightful book I learned about on the internet that was produced by a photographer/designer/ illustrator team in the UK, Gerry King and Louise Burston, who formed a company called Zero Lubin to produce and market their art and books. Gerry King’s Lubin Tales draws us in “a world of small town debauchery and intercontinental dubious intent.” Take a look at http://www.zerolubin.wordpress.com and www.zerolubin.org. Everything about their effort is distinctive, edgy, whimsical, and highly professional. And they are very responsive to personal inquiry.

In regard to self-publishing through a POD (print-on-demand) company, I advise that you be certain you are retaining rights to your material. Do your research or contact a literary attorney (I can recommend an excellent one). Here’s an excellent summary of rights licensing and a list of helpful resources: http://ht.ly/35WAH

Once you’ve published, work hard at those Facebook, Twitter, other social network connections, and keep your blog current. All this takes time, but it is now The Work. I’ve yet to discover how much effective traffic these media genuinely generate, but I continue under the belief that any connection could provide the link to the next big step. You just never know.

The following article provides some insight as to how Facebook functions – it’s interesting, and worth reading, but the actual method it describes is way too dense for me. Instead, I put out, and put out, and put out as intelligently and pervasively and discriminatingly as I can, and then I pray for the best. http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2010-10-18/the-facebook-news-feed-how-it-works-the-10-biggest-secrets/

Remember also to investigate avenues of free mention (online publications in your field) and advertising. I started with Google Adwords and with classifieds in my fields’ association media.

In conclusion, this is what I’ve learned so far about publishing today and in the near future: The internet has given us the power to grow exponentially, to function simultaneously and democratically (so far), to generate limitless connection. And, as in life and art and nature, it welcomes serendipity. The internet is a malleable medium, and for those who use it creatively, the future is now and it’s in our hands.

WHAT TO DO WHEN THE GERMAN CATHOLIC PRIEST YOU LOVE IS GAY… a JEWISH GIRL’S DILEMMA

2010-10-08T13:04:00.004-04:00

Aside from the equatorial-like heat and humidity, my cousin’s garden wedding was glorious. The grounds of the Italian Renaissance-style tropical estate were candlelit, and the air redolent with jasmine. A procession of bagpipers was followed up the aisle by a rabbi -- a tanned, suburban-looking fellow in suit and tie who, I quickly decided, surely drove a Cadillac Escalade and had three kids and ex-wife in Boca Raton. Astonishing, I thought, in a flash of self-awareness, the speed with which I could go from exalting in beauty to swimming in judgment.

As the guests rose to their feet in anticipation of the bride, I glimpsed behind the rabbi a disturbance of black hair shot with silver and resting atop a head resembling the noble bust of the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius. Below the curling lips of this Aurelius -- the priest -- was chiseled a chin that surmounted the folds of a robe, lovely and soft and as black as the silver-shot hair. When the face of Aurelius lifted from its downward cast, a pair of glinting, black-marble eyes revealed an expression of bemusement. This was James Dean in a collar, I thought, or Marcello Mastroianni on a mission from God. Well before the bride made her way to the hupa, I had mentally rearranged the place cards on the banquet tables.

I have no idea who sat to my left during that bridal dinner, but on my right was Father Eric (“Please, just call me Eric”). It took me no time to discover that Eric belonged to the Reform Catholic Church (they allowed sex and female ordination), that he was from Germany and spoke seven languages, had not become a priest until after period of adventure and travel during which he’d ridden across Morocco on a motorcycle and, like me, had lived on an Israeli kibbutz.

Sitting on the other side of Eric was the rabbi and his girlfriend. I attempted to make small talk with her since the rabbi hadn’t introduced her to anyone at the table or made any effort to include her in conversation. I didn’t like this lack of consideration. No wonder the ex-wife I imagined him to have had divorced him. My judgments were growing as tall as the wedding cake.

By the time the reception ended, I had secured a promise from Eric to help me with a book I was writing. My cousin’s father had been watching me throughout the evening. He came up beside me as I waved Eric off in his BMW. “You’re going to hell,” he whispered.

The book I was writing was called, In a Spiritual Style: The Home as Sanctuary. It opens with an essay on “The Evolution of Sacred Design” and Eric was expert. He’d come to my house in the afternoons or evenings and we’d sip wine and talk. During that time I was also working on a series of sculptures made from the beautifully contoured husks of royal palms and bamboo. Gilded, lacquered, and mounted, they resembled goddess gowns or papal robes. “Ah, very Julius II” (the outrageous pontiff of the High Renaissance), admired Eric. A man who appreciates fashion, I swooned.

Naturally, I suspected Eric could be gay, but that certainly wasn’t going to restrict my imagination's momentum. God had put him in my life, right there at my cousin’s wedding, and seated me next to him. And Eric’s attributes were manifold: he was cultured, European, well-traveled, superbly educated and possessed of a voluptuous androgyny. His penetrating gaze and aqualine nose could have been sculpted on a Roman coin. Bless my wildly beating heart, this holy renegade probably rode horses. He was divine

My tastes have always been far more ecumenical than those of my distinctly conventional family. Surveying the wedding reception, I had come to the happy realization that this event -- my cousin's bi-worshipful ceremony with its Orthodox parents, reform rabbi, bagpipes, and a German priest -- had all but vindicated me. So with very little reservation I invited Eric to Passover at my mother's house. Traffic delayed him, and we were already seated at the seder table when he arrived. My cousin's father mouthed to me, "You're going to hell." One of Eric's seven languages, it turned out, was Hebrew -- he actually read the prayers while everyone else followed the transliterations . Having lived in Israel, he also knew the words to all the songs. My mother was unnerved, my father oblivious, and my cousins confused.

Eric was soon to be ordained a bishop. His 90-year-old mother who had never before left Germany would fly in for the ceremony, and the members of the Reform Catholic congregation would prepare a feast. A female bishop performed the service. Eric, in his bishop’s robes, holding aloft the chalice, intoning in Latin, his eyes steely with purpose, was nothing less than regal,

I celebrated my birthday that year at the home of a friend, a fabulous cook whose smoked salmon was so delectable it virtually flew off the laden table. While Eric, who had arrived in the company of a young Filipino, chatted away with my friends, I observed him from across the room. Although his wrist rested on his hip in an arabesque of relaxation, his black eyes expressed a penetrating absolutism. It occurred to me that without the softening effects of spiritual devotion, he would have made an excellent Fascist. I also noticed that not once during the evening did he ever introduce his Filipino friend to anyone or include him in a conversation. The poor soul was left to linger over the smoked salmon and wander the room alone. Recollections of the rabbi abruptly emerged.

I didn’t think about Eric again for quite some time after that, not until a friend mentioned that she needed a priest to officiate at her wedding, and I referred her to him. “He was wonderful!” she later gushed. A year after that, she announced that she would be asking Eric to perform her newborn son’s baptism. I asked her to convey to him my love.

“My God, what did you do to him?” my friend asked when we met a few weeks later. “When I mentioned your name, he looked startled… and then his eyes filled up with tears.”

Laura Puts Out...pictures, words, ideas: READING THE CRYSTAL BALL

2010-09-01T16:33:00.000-04:00

Laura Puts Out...pictures, words, ideas: READING THE CRYSTAL BALL

http://www.radicalwriting.com

http://www.lauracerwinske.com

http://www.bluehairlady.com

READING THE CRYSTAL BALL

2010-09-01T15:47:00.006-04:00

Several years ago, during a not-uncommon quest for motivational clarity, I took a terrific course called QuantumThink given by the visionaries Dianne Collins and Alan Collins. Dianne's process and Alan's coaching gave me precisely the support and focus I needed to propel me into effective action. In a recent email from them, they shared

7 Questions to Get Your Big Idea Clear which is the basis for their upcoming QuantumThink Mastery Intensive Series. Their advice is so spot-on and effective, I wanted to share it:

1. What is the ONE big idea you are passionate about getting into action?

2. What is the INTENT of your idea? How does it serve others?

3. Who is your AUDIENCE or market? What specific groups would appreciate, purchase, use and enjoy your big idea?

4. What is the primary factor you think/feel/believe has stopped, slowed, or thus far PREVENTED your idea from manifesting?

5. What are “the FRUITS” for you, once your idea is in action?

6. When your idea is in action, what will you be doing every day as your new LIFESTYLE routine?

7. What new IDENTITY would need to emerge in you, in how you relate to yourself—to manifest, maintain, and sustain the success of your idea in action?

Of course these questions are perfect material for Radical Writing, both for people who have taken my course and already know how to apply the process to responding as well as for people who are would want to learn the magic of effortless self-expression. The next session for Radical Writing: the 15- minute-a-day Online Course in Uninhibited Self-Exploration begins this coming Monday, September 6th. (Register at: http://www.radicalwriting.com) The course requires no previous writing experience or any expertise whatsoever.

Dianne and Alan's QuantumThink Mastery Intensive – Idea Into Action Course starts Monday, September 27th via teleconference. For information contact: alan@quantumthink.com or if you prefer, call him directly at (305) 354-8141.

CAMPBELL SOUP GIRL, R.I.P.

2010-08-27T15:07:00.005-04:00

THE CAMPBELL SOUP KIDS were already a well-loved phenomenon in 1905 by the time Campbell Soup Company of Canada opened. The artist Grace Gebbie Wiederseim Drayton was hired to create the adorable chubby-faced boy and girl characters. They immediately became so famous as spokes-kids for the international soup company, their images are updated and used still today. The artist Barry Zaid remembers coming across a picture of the Soup Girl in his mother's photo albums from the 1920s. She had been cut out from the label of a can -- smiling, healthy, and happy. Perfectly energetic, charming, and delightful, her cheeks polished like apples, he immediately fell in love with her.

Fast forward to 2010 and Barry is walking into Marshalls where, right at the front door, he comes across a table full of Campbell Soup Girl cookies jars, all bursting with happiness to greet him. AND, they were only $12.99. Of course he had to have one.

Miss Campbells Soup was so cheerful and welcoming that Barry placed her on the middle of his stove top (he doesn't cook). She was the only object with red detailing in a kitchen filled with only blue-and-white objects. In other words, she was a stand out.

After a life of prominence at center stage in Barry kitchen, Miss Campbells Soup came to be emblematic of welcome, holding up her big red tomato in one hand. Then, one portentous Friday, the exterminator appeared. In preparation for having his apartment "tented", Barry had to face his past and clean out the entire kitchen. When his cat, Cheetah, spied an empty shelf, she lept into the air to reach it and, in the process, knocked over a can of Campbells Cream of Poblano Pepper Soup which came crashing down on poor Miss Campbells Soup's chef hat, smashing her to pieces.

The ray of sunshine behind this drear cloud is that her face remained unmarred and in tact. Barry pledges that she will resurrect in the form of some broken china object d'art.

Until then, Miss Campbell's Soup Girl, R.I.P.

As Artists Know, IT’S EASIER TO GIVE BIRTH THAN TO RAISE THE DEAD

2010-08-19T14:05:00.002-04:00

Moving, as we are, from the fossil age into the solar age, everything around us seems subject to tumult. We witness nearly daily the implosions of our institutions and the erosion of our perceived stability. Ours is a balancing act of desires for both change and equilibrium within a world in constant flux, and balance requires fierce focus. Upon what…? We can and must learn from the past, but we can only be inspired by the future –i.e. a vision that combines elements of past and present to create wholly new ideas, perspectives, sensations, and approaches. Such is the everyday work of artists.

Art is witness and manifestation both. Its power is born of the marriage of extremes. Reinvention is the artist’s métier; creativity is our way of functioning. We are practiced at shaping new form out of fragments, of drawing new reality out of pure imagination. We strip, edit, combine, reduce, enlarge, shape, and reshape. We rely on instinct as much, if not more, than on critical, analytical, or linear processes. We naturally think outside the box because most of the time we’re not even aware of the box. We value fluidity over order, possibility over authority. We are inherently collaborative, and we recognize change as opportunity. Our passion is transformation. Our commitment is to “see anew.” In this way, art is a spiritual undertaking, for as artists, we are constantly remaking Creation.

Anything born of creativity is a devotion. In making art, in surrendering reliance on intellect and habits of ego, we transform ourselves and, thereby, as quantum physics tells us, ALL Creation. The spiritual aspects of art take us beyond historical, geographical, and cultural boundaries. They reveal the illusion of catastrophe and dispel the paralysis of fear.

In his article, “Desperately Painting the Plague,” (The New York Times, July 29, 2005. p. B25) Holland Carter wrote, “Pandemics of one kind or another have always terrorized human history. And where science has been helpless and politics mute, religion and art have responded…. Christian ‘high art’, when considered as devotional icons rather than as old master monuments, are viewed from an existential rather than a doctrinal or sociopolitical perspective; through the eyes of a believer for whom a picture of the Virgin is a moral lesson and an emotional encounter, a culture’s cry of pain, before it is a Tiepolo or a Tintoretto. …. the focus is not on the comparative quality of objects or styles, but on intangible elements that science tends to be shy of: how art provokes emotion and conveys belief, and how a certain kind of art, at a certain time, gave certain people who felt the earth had been swept away beneath them a place to stand.”

Taped to my computer is the following quote from A Course in Miracles (Lesson 70): “My salvation comes from me. Nothing outside of me can hold me back. Within me is the world’s salvation and my own.” With that reminder, I consistently reset my ragged inner compass, even as I go in search of my savage self, the fearless Mother/warrior needed to look straight through the ego to the beauty/peace/security inside. Fierce focus and a savage self. Yes, these are as much the artist’s instrument as contemplation, study, and devotion. And without a savage self, the artist cannot surrender the inappropriate or outmoded images endlessly spewed by that ubiquitous constellation of family, religion, and culture.

The artist’s stare is a metaphysical tool, for pure observation is transformation’s fuel. Quantum physics speaks of the effect at an energetic level of the act of observation on the object of observation. Once the observation is tainted with judgment, sentiment, or opinion, the evolution is stymied.

Art is the illustrated story of our humanity, and we are that story’s creators.. Let the nation turn to its most effective illuminators to make our aspirations recognizable. Artists are practiced at creating and deciphering; we are at ease in right-brained or metaphysical states of mind (from which visionary thinking emanates). We understand how fiction, not fact, is the most powerful agent of transformation.

Science, logic, and linear or left-brained pursuits have their value in the objective weighing of fact and detail. They serve best when put to use in service of the imagination, for no calculation surpasses in power or effectiveness supremely articulated passion.

Lasting change occurs not in a static environment or by varying a theme, but as a result of challenging our behaviors and perceptions to recognize another way of being. Faced daily with reports of our perpetual and ubiquitous crises, I wait with ever growing impatience for this country’s national call for artists. Though our president was elected on a platform of promised change, the imperative for innovation seems buried under our campaign of resurrection through repair. When, I wonder every day, will we ever put our faith (and money, energy, and determination,) into the skilled and blessed hands of our visionaries?

SOLAR FLARE

2010-08-09T13:17:00.002-04:00

The painting, "Solar Flare" is by the artist Judith Hoch, known as Juju. She reports: Solar Flare....like red hot love that burns, consumes and turns you to dust! The new cycle started on August 3 and 4 and produced large storms in the magnetosphere and beautiful auroras. Will the maximum in 2013 herald the beginning of the "Solar" age of power and energy from the SUN ? Or will the amount of coronal mass "injected" into the magnetosphere down the grid and take everyone off internet, phone, etc for six months or so leading to mass extinction and return to foraging?

GOT TRAFFIC CONGESTION...GET IN LINE

2010-08-07T14:22:00.004-04:00

GOT TRAFFIC CONGESTION? GET IN LINE

see Keith Gessen’s article “Stuck” in the August 2nd issue of The New Yorker

If you think traffic in Miami, New York, Paris, Mexico, and L.A. is bad, you haven’t tried to drive in Moscow, where the number of cars increased six-fold between 1991 and 2009. The city’s driving conditions bring to mind two pieces of 20^th century literature (a time before things got really bad): “Highway of the South, “ a 1964 story by Julio Cortazar that describes how people returning to Paris from a long weekend accommodate themselves to a massive traffic jam by eventually forgetting that they were ever going anywhere. A Brezhnev-era novella by Vladiir Sorokin called “The Queue” has people waiting to buy something (not even they know what any longer) in a line so long and complex, that they begin to live in it.

“No city has ever constructed itself out of congestion. It’s impossible,” says transportation expert Cukan Vuchic of the University of Pennsylvania. In Moscow, post-Soviet development exploded as the population swelled with refugees from rural Russia, the Central Asian states, and Ukraine escaping poverty and from the Caucasus escaping the war. All of them wanted cars. The city fathers, believing that “planning was for Socialists” embraced a no-planning posture and figured, under capitalism, the market would take care of everything. At first, “Moscow filled up with kiosks and flimsy freestanding grocery stores, and little old ladies selling socks. Eventually, these were replaced by office buildings and megastores and even luxury condominiums; the spaces once reserved for new roads or metro stations were given over to construction…. The first great post-Soviet fortune, after all, was made not from oil or gas or nickel. That came later. It was made when Boris Beresovsky, a mathematician and game theorist, started selling cars.”

In the August 2^nd issue of The New Yorker, writer Keith Gessen’s article “Stuck” describes the socio/political and economic forces that have brought Moscow to the brink of transportational collapse. He quotes Mikhail Blinkin, a traffic expert and classic dissident (the Saharov of traffic) who spent nearly twenty years at two Soviet research institutes devoted to “urban planning” and in 1990 started a private think tank on traffic: “Eventually, Moscow will simply cease to function as a city…. Some people will live in one neighborhood, and others will live in a different neighborhood, and that will be fine, except they won’t be able to get from one neighborhood to the other.” Blinkin sees Moscow’s traffic and parking troubles as, “a symbol of the city’s general lack of legal and planning culture.”

There are three main factors that determine a city’s traffic, explains Yukio Hatoyama, a traffic engineer who teaches at Moscow State University (and the son of the former prime minister of Japan): 1) Driver behavior – Do drivers care if they enter an intersection before a light turns red and there’s a chance they’ll get stuck and create gridlock? 2) The organization of the roads – radial or gridded – and how well that organization is maintained; 3) The social system, as it is reflected on the roads—are there different rules for different drivers (i.e. do the elite get a free pass to put on sirens and charge through)? Hatoyama remarks that the other place that functions in Moscow’s feudal way is China.

In gridded cities, like New York, there are two tiers: a street tier, on which pedestrians are primary and cars secondary; and a freeway tier, where cars rule and there are no pedestrians at all, Moscow has a radial system that, unlike Washington DC’s, for example, simply doesn’t work. Moscow’s (three) rings are interrupted by drivers pulling on and off from side roads to outlet malls, making the beltways into wider thoroughfares-cum-parking lots (there are some streets in the city center as wide as five lanes in each direction and still perpetually clogged).

Parking in Moscow is no less problematic than traffic. Cars are parked everywhere – from roads to sidewalks, the parking authority is corrupt, and enforcement of existing laws is lax. “Try parking on the sidewalk in Munich or Boston.” says Cukan Vuchic. He recalls how, years ago, “You would go to Salzburg to look a the Mozart statue, but you couldn’t see it, because Salzburg was a big parking lot. The Austrians have since take care of the problem with zoning, signage, and enforcement.”

Over the last few years, Moscow drivers have become one of the city’s most active social groups, Keith Gessen tells us. They have organizied to eliminate the corrupt meter maids and are lobbying for more roads. “Car owner” is the one social category that has actually been created in Russia in the past twenty years, as opposed to all the social categories that have been destroyed. “Perhaps this is the emergence, finally, of a propertied, stockholding – and frustrated, selfish, neurotic – middle class.”

PURVIS YOUNG, HIS BEAUTIFUL WIFE, and a SWARMING HARPIE

2010-07-31T14:16:00.005-04:00

All week I'd been anticipating seeing the preview of the Purvis Young retrospective on Thrusday at the Miami Art Museum. Purvis Young (who died in April at the age of 69) was an urban expressionist painter who was born and lived in Miami's Overtown, the black neighborhood that was demolished along with its music/art/and social nexus in the 1970s when the I-95 expressway was erected downtown. Young stayed on, filling his warehouse/studio with thousands of paintings on cardboard, plywood, and all kinds of found materials. He educated himself through library books, NPR, and PBS and was markedly affected by and involved in the mid-century civil rights movement. An evanescence pervades his work. Its gentle surrealism is far more satisfying than Marc Chagall's. Within the relentless, vivid kinetecism of his surfaces lies a constant tranquillity. The fluid linearity of his figures often resembles the Lascaux-like markings of Picasso's "picador" series. The silhouettes of pregnant women and construction cranes are equally fluid. Every inch of his paintings is animated with his passion for paint, devotion to the the brush, and love of seeing. By the time of his death, his paintings had been acquired by museums and collectors all over the world.

The exhibit itself had, sadly, only about eight works. Among those closely inspecting the pictures was a handsome black woman with two teenage boys. When a guard rushed over to admonish them for touching the work, the woman replied, "Lady, these pictures have been sitting in my backyard for 35 years. I'm Purvis's wife and these are his grandsons, and we worked with him on the frames of every one of them. Don't tell me not to touch them." Her name was Eddye Mae, but, as she explained to me, Purvis called her Betty. He called everyone by a nickname. The boys, Dquon, 17, and Devante, 14, were as long, tall, and beautifully molded as the figures in Purvis's paintings. While I talked with them, a vulture flew by -- a blonde Broward woman handing out glossy business cards and hawking her collection of Purvis Young's art. Hard to think that she and Eddye Mae occupied the same planet, let along floor space. Eddye Mae told me she was rather "phobic" of people these days as we watched the harpie work the room.

A documentary film on Purvis's life and work was screened downstairs -- it showed him in civil rights footage, during the demolition of Overtown, with his famous sidewalk wall of pictures erected during the 70s, interviews with collectors, friends, family, neighbors, and, most of all, with Purvis. He was a monumental man -- big, genial, stubborn, obsessed. I thought about what a joy and agony it must have been for Eddye Mae to love and put up with such man for 35 years and that she, probably, deserved at least as much a tribute as this show.

After the film (which is a terrifically made documentary but two first-time filmmakers whose names I wish I could remember), the crowd dispersed into groups of loud reminiscence and acclaim. Clustered among them were other members of Purvis's family -- children, grandchildren, even a few-week-old great-grandbaby in a carrier. Outside the harpie was again hawking her collection amidst the smokers.

HALF OF EVERYTHING IS OURS

2010-07-24T20:47:00.001-04:00

For many years, I worked as a figure model for artists. The painting, on the right, entitled Half of Everything is Ours, is by the artist and anthropologist Judith Hoch who uses the name JuJu. It was created in the 1990s and is shown, today, in Judith's studio in Wainui Bay, New Zealand next to a double self-portrait and the New York Times pronouncement we've all been waiting for.

FROM BEADS to SEEDS...and BUTTONS and BOWS

2010-07-16T16:26:00.002-04:00

FROM SEEDS to BEADS…

....and BUTTONS and BOWS

We are born from seed and so is beauty. From the time the first seeds were saved, not for planting, but to be strung together for adornment and protection, their dormant life brought forth the art of jewelry. From seeds came beads, and from beads followed the stones and shards and fossils, the teeth and bone and shells and feathers that, sewn together, were recognizable in pattern and form as signifiers of power.

Humans donned jewelry long before clothing. Necklaces, bracelets, finger and toe rings, earrings, medals, tiaras, and crowns served, first, to attract the opposite sex and, later, as symbolic shields for the wearers. Emblems of mystical, political, and medicinal authority, early jewelry was imbued with the power of blessings, beauty, and the safeguarding of life.

In the baskets of beads are the seeds of the peony vine, which, in the Lukumi religion, are used in ceremonies invoking the god Shango for help in decision making. The story (or one of several) relates that a terrific argument between seeds as to which color they should be, red or black, became so noisy that Shango had to come forth to mediate. “Enough,” he said, and imprisoned the seeds inside a gourd and shook them all together. “Now you are both colors,” he declared. The maracas are shaken and necklaces of these seeds are worn to bring forth Shango’s wisdom and assistance.

Peony vine seeds likes these in the photo grew wild around the house I grew up in Miami. I remember being told never to put them in my mouth, that they were poisonous, which, actually, they’re not. Seeing them causes me to remember the rattling of their vines within the still-wild landscape of my youth.

The Goddess Fulfaggotra, the second image, has taken her seeds and beads to the limit. She surveys Miracle Mile, the grand boulevard of Coral Gables, which I also grew up exploring. Her hauteur and immodesty are of one who has no doubt of the power of her jewelry.

For a glimpse of the most beautiful of nature’s adornments, take a look at Hans Silvester’s photos/video of the people of Ethiopia’s Omo River Valley. It will take your breath away:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TGLR8wEvRfQ

A WALK DOWN THE MILE

2010-07-09T21:08:00.003-04:00

A FEAST, in REFLECTION

Even while the era of Tiffany windows is long gone, the hungry eye can still find tasty morsels on Miracle Mile where the poetry of the fabulous lives on.

WHAT IS HE THINKING?

2009-11-08T17:14:00.001-05:00

WHAT LED JOHN TO HIS DELIGHT

2009-11-08T17:12:00.001-05:00

WHAT SECRET DO THEY SHARE?

2009-11-08T17:09:00.001-05:00

DESCRIBE HER DISTANT HORIZON

2009-11-08T16:52:00.002-05:00

2009-11-08T16:52:00.000-05:00

WHO'S NOT TELLING WHAT?

2009-11-08T16:47:00.002-05:00

file:///Users/lauracerwinske/Desktop/IMG_0949.JPG

2009-10-15T20:24:00.015-04:00

SUNDAY WRITING GROUP

October 25th, 10:30a – 12:30p

It will be Illuminating

Miracle Mile 2009 Laura Cerwinske

RADICAL WRITING and more

$45

(Gratis to students in October or November online classes)

All you need is a pen, a pad,

and a willingness to let go on the page.

Seating is limited, so reserve your place quickly

by contacting laura@lauracerwinske.com

2009-09-01T16:19:00.000-04:00

RATES for

WRITE your LIFE’s SCRIPTURE

at ROYAL WAY RETREAT

Arriving October 8^th @ 4pm

and departing October 13^th before 1pm

The cost for the retreat is all-inclusive – Laura’s classes, fresh, delicious organic meals, and your room. The amount is determined by your choice of accommodations. Prices include dinner on the evening of Friday the 8^th, breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the 9^th through the 12th and breakfast on Tuesday the 13^th.

ORIGINAL BUNGALOW ROOMS

(per person for 5 nights)

Double occupancy - $1095 per person

Triple or Quad - $1035 per person

Single occupancy - $1395

NEW BUILDINGS

(per person for 5 nights)

Shared Bath - Double occupancy – $1185 per person

Single occupancy – $1485 per person

Single Bath - Double occupancy - $1260 per person

Single occupancy - $1635 per person

(there are only two of these)

ADDITIONAL CHARGES

Pool Heating - $100 additional per day. Spa is heated 24 hours a day at no extra charge

Sweat Lodge - $100 per sweat. Holds 8-10 people

Extra Meal Charges - Breakfast - $10, Lunch - $15,

Dinner - $25

Late Check-Out (if Ranch is available) - $100 per hour

CONTACT laura@lauracerwinske.com to register

2009-08-31T15:38:00.000-04:00

Cultivate your Spirituality

through your Imagination

WRITE your LIFE’s SCRIPTURE

a 5-day southern California retreat

with

LAURA CERWINSKE

October 8 – 12,2009

Imagine nurturing your spirituality and creativity within an 840-acre oasis in Southern California where you can refresh your spirit among flower gardens, fruit orchards, fountains, streams, ponds, and mountain footpaths. At Royal Way Ranch in the high Mojave you will also enjoy a selection of accommodations and wonderful meals from their organic garden.

In course of this beautiful retreat with Laura Cerwinske, you will write the story of your life as Scripture, recognizing the holiness of the path you have taken and your power to create the next unfolding. Morning and evening writing sessions with Laura allow ample time for further creative exploration, meditation, and recreation.

Laura is an artist, altar maker, and teacher of a transformational process called Radical Writing that safely unleashes the infinite power of uninhibited self-expression. The process engages and focuses the conscious and subconscious activities of the mind to promote health and healing. It requires no writing expertise or experience. As a student of spiritual practice for more than 35 years, Laura incorporates into her teaching her knowledge of meditation, shamanism, yoga, dance, reiki, hypnotherapy, Reichian therapy, primal therapy, traditional psychotherapy, divination, Lukumi, A Course in Miracles, and the Wise Woman traditional of healing. She is the author of more than 20 books on art, writing, and spirituality. See more at: http://www.lauracerwinske.com

Radical Writing is a creative tool as well as a diagnostic and healing technique. As you apply it to Write your Life’s Scripture, you will learn the Power of Your Own Story and recognize how your untold stories direct your life. You will discover the unrealized meaning in your words, deeds, and memories and learn how to alleviate the effects of patterns of thought and behavior; You will be introduced to the Six Classic Principles of Transformation and be shown the power of writer/artist as healer. See more at: http://www.radicalwriting.com

FOR SPECIFIC INFORMATION about costs, schedules, accommodations, and the program itself, contact laura@lauracerwinske.com. To take a vitual tour of Royal Way Ranch, go to http://www.royalway.org.

Also, take a look at Laura’s Radical Writing Adventure in Oaxaca, Mexico May 7 – 15, 2010 http://www.ajourneyofdiscovery.com/Oaxaca.html

2009-08-31T15:37:00.001-04:00

file:///Users/lauracerwinske/Desktop/WRITE%20%20SCRIPTURE%20--%20royal%20way

MY LIFE IN DOGS makes the front page!

2009-06-21T14:45:00.004-04:00

See the whole story at:
http://www.miamiherald.com/863/story/1105014.html

BLUSIE BLACK CERWINSKE, R.I.P.

2009-03-18T21:02:00.000-04:00

The first time I met Blusie she was a five-year-old pup, bounding into the home of a former boyfriend with all the energy and joy of a six-month-old on speed. A yellow lab, she had the exuberant, all-loving happiness typical of her breed and demonstrated it from the moment she raced into the living room and up the stairs, around the landing, down the stairs and onto the sofa where the former boyfriend’s six-year-old twins screamed with excitement and self-protection. Her name was Lucy then, and she belonged to a friend of his who lived nearby.

A year later, after Simone’s recent death, the former boyfriend called to tell me that his neighbor was looking for a home for Lucy, who had become epileptic from being contained and alone all day in a small apartment. He stressed the allure of her sweet pink nose, ever cold, while I recalled the ferocity of her high-speed wagging tail. I decided to rename her Blusie in honor of the former boyfriend’s impossibly blue eyes.

Like Simone, Blusie wasted no time in fitting in. Food and play were her avid passions, and Fleischer and the cat took her exuberance in stride. Blusie especially loved men and children. She would run after them at a moment’s sighting, terrifying some and delighting others. She stole balls from boys playing catch in the street, she rushed across lawns to greet perfect strangers, and like most Labs, assumed everyone in the world loved her. Every day was the best day of Blusie’s life. She never had another seizure.

That sweet pink cold nose was a force of nature. No matter how hard I tried to keep her in the yard, she always found a way out to go tracking. One neighbor in particular, a guardian angel, no doubt, was forever spotting her down the street. Others, blocks away, would stop me on our walks to tell me how she’d shown up and joined their touch football games or stolen their snacks. Once, after a hurricane, when I was sleeping with all the windows and doors open until the electricity returned, I was awakened at midnight by a neighbor who, sitting on his front porch for air, had spied her trotting by. I thought she was still asleep next to the bed. Then there were the times when she simply seem to disappear before my eyes – sleeping in the grass outside my office door one moment, out of the sight the next. It seemed I spent half my life driving around the neighborhood looking for her: I once counted the number of times she’d gone off and I found her – 24.

The nose also made Blusie a beast on the leash. She tugged so hard when I walked her that I had to use a choke chain to keep her from taking off my arm in pursuit of a scent.

Blusie conveyed emotion so intensely, it felt human. Especially when food was around. She liked to post herself just outside the kitchen, turn her big black eyes into those of a starving poster child, and stare in want until a treat appeared. At her happiest, she lay on her back, stretched her paws into the air, and wriggled until her mouth opened with a giant grin. Then she’d lay waiting for me to come and pound on her tummy.

Most of all, Blusie loved to party. The more people, food, and music, the more she was up for a good time. When she was docile, she slept the sleep of angels and snored like a trucker; when she was delighted, which was most of the time, she pranced like a hobby horse; when she was excited, her tail could have pounded a kettle drum. In fact, in her excitement at running to the door to welcome whoever might be there, that tail usually smacked an assemblage of imitation fruit piled in a Piero della Robbia-like still life nearby. Visitors often had to cross a sea of strewn bananas, artichokes, and apples to enter.

Blusie remained the puppy-like party-girl until she turned thirteen. Then her hips grew frail and the feed-me stare began to look haunted. I had her on medications and vitamins and steroid injections. The tail wagged, but unconvincingly. One Saturday night my neighbors had a big pool party, and she, naturally, found her way in. Food, treats, water, friends – she wasn’t as quick as she used to be, but the puppy spirit resurged. She snarfed and trotted, chased a ball and went for a swim.

The next day she was spent. I worried, coaxed, kissed, cooed. The haunted face had returned. That night the cat woke me at three am. Odd, he was prompt about being fed at seven. I got up to let him in. Blusie had moved from her cushion at the foot of my bed to the cool terrazzo floor in the living room. I knew immediately when I saw her that she was gone. I went to hold her, stroke her. When I bent to kiss her, I found that even though the beautiful blond body was inert, the sweet pink nose was still cold.

What Are Laura and the Scull Sisters Celebrating?

2008-10-25T21:04:00.000-04:00

Where Did They Come From, Where Are They Going?

2008-10-20T21:02:00.000-04:00

Ann and Her Symphony of Circles

2008-10-11T21:08:00.000-04:00

Who is Mona's Friend?

2008-10-10T21:01:00.000-04:00

Who Painted Shirley's Portrait?

2008-10-01T20:56:00.000-04:00

THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARTISTS OVER THE PATRIARCHS

2008-09-23T19:20:00.008-04:00

THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARTISTS OVER THE PATRIARCHS

by Laura Cerwinske

Stop the Executions, painting by Judith Hoch

After 30,000 years of peaceful cultivation of the Earth and its peoples by the Females of Creation, the patriarchs, thirsty for power, emerged from the Steppes to migrate across the globe. In their vengeful path, they destroy whole populations of Artists and Healers. They accomplish this with relatively little effort, scaring the shit out of humanity with threats of anguished eternities in hell. They relegate the Artists and Healers to menial lives -- lives of servitude and degradation. They convince them they are weak, incapable, and unequipped to survive without them, the patriarchy.

Although this continues for nearly eight thousand years, the light of Creativity, however slightly palpable, never falters. The Artists and Healers, however diminished, perpetually transform themselves and, in the process, sustain the memory of pre-patriarchal Peace.

Eventually, patriarchy grows weak in the knees, as of course it must, for "domination", a shared hallucination, must ultimately capitulate under the weight of its de-natured bulk. The patriarchy falls, cracks, crashes, and many -- those who refuse to release the illusion -- are crushed under its illusionary weight, impaled by its hideous scales. The scales of justice and hierarchy -- the belief in either/or; the scales of measurement, quantification, and linearity. These glinting shards fracture the patriarchy into a smoldering heap.

The Artists and Healers scoop these pieces into theirs hands and collect them in a brass bowl. They will reassemble them, using them as tesserae for a new constellation. They’ve been weaving this constellation for a mighty long time – countless millennia in fact. Only the threads have been as invisible/ invincible as the Artists and Healers themselves. Now, braided, tangled, knotted together, this Creation forms a net that protects the aspirations of all who join in the reweaving of the Universe as Nature intended.

Stop the Executions was painted by Judith Hoch who is shown, at left, with Laura Cerwinske, who modeled for the painting, at the opening exhibition of the same name at the Cape Cod Community College Art Gallery in 1991. The work is part of Hoch’s series depicting the longest holocaust in human history, one of the millennia of holocausts of women – the witch hunts and executions that took place in Europe from medieval through early modern times. These holocausts spanned three centuries and did not end until the final part of the eighteen-century. They did not end because no one no longer believed women were witches, but because the courts finally declared that there was no judicial evidence that could prove or disprove the fact of witchcraft -- something like proving or disproving the Virgin Birth. Prosecutions against women then changed to charges brought against them for abortion and prostitution. Just as in witchcraft accusations, women were accused of the crime of being women and prosecuted for their sexuality, just as they (we) are today via refusals of equality in professional opportunities and compensation and in rights for control over our own bodies.

To see Judith Hoch's entire series, Accursed Charms, go to www.judithhoch.com.

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