#stayinplace with cat

In the time of COVID-19

This post is a diary, of sorts. Bits and pieces of events and thoughts that fill my days. Bits to share with you, dear reader, as you construct your days during the time of Covid-19.

Onto week 5 of #stayinplace-

ART

Time to consider art; root through old pieces to re-work; “play” with new ideas, and to include some not-so-usual respites.

At least two weeks have been spent on re-working my artistic endeavors that are “failures” and remain so. Consolation: there is much to learn. The first was an edition broadside I made years ago. Beautiful handmade paper of linen and cotton with flower inclusions, poetry and letterpress with a misspelling! I worked for a week straight trying to salvage this. Sometimes there is no getting around the fact that something you love is not salvageable. Next, a flower drawing that went nowhere; finally, a collection of 8”x10” blue-jean handmade paper with disassembled monoprints hoping to re-work. Still waiting on inspiration with this!

Out of the failures, though, comes a very small edition of 20 prints, Kruh, that are my contribution to Pyramid Atlantic’s Member Print Exchange.  

From this, another series of 4 prints, Kruh.2, evolved for giving away to the first four requests [See, ABLUEBUNNY post for details, https://abluebunny.wordpress.com/portfolio/kruh-in-the-time-of-covid/

Three circles or kruhs (Czech)
three kruhs (circles)

Interspersed during the week and weekend were some delightful respites listed here:

Visual & Tactile Respites

Writers Center, Bethesda, MD – This one hour poetry session, Writing About Place, was so well planned by our instructor Mathu Subramanian that every participant was able to offer her work in progress. I am working in my poem as I write this post!

Rock Paper Plant [Pop-Up] – online workshop from a Washington, D.C., women-owned business. All materials for constructing an air plant were sent ahead of time; thorough and concise workshop by the co-founders, Alicia and Cielo, gave me tons of information on these strange and wonderful plants. Moreover, after logging off, I have a stunning plant to keep me company!

Auditory respites

Classical WETA 90.0 Radio – the most sublime piano piece of Debussy: Suite bergamasque, L. 75-3. Clair de Lune played by Lang Lang. It stopped me in my tracks. While the collection of his pieces are all worthwhile, it is this particular one that I play over and over.

https://youtu.be/85aTjlh66WA

Verified podcast – Riveting content about an Italian, serial rapist sensitively wrought by an outstanding production team including the Senior Producer, Dan Bloom, our local, Takoma Park, MD resident.

Epidsode 1 of 9 https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/stitcher/verified/e/67547326

Our neighborhood during the time of COVID19

A small tribute

For months and months prior to the eruption of the SARS-CoV-2 in China, right here in my hometown so far away, life felt off. Nothing was particularly negative, other than our dire American politics, yet I felt a malaise hanging over the world. And, it was with these manifestations: fires in Australia; polar ice melting at tremendous speed; continual war with refugees fleeing to any port of safety; dire hunger and poverty exploding in Venezuela, on and on. Yet, here I sat in my tiny space where all was well. Unease hung in the air around me. I could not help wait for the other “shoe to drop.” It did. COVID19.

Today, at the rise of this pandemic, I remain sitting in my tiny space, but I venture out, too. The malaise has dissipated; the unease is gone. There is something to be said for meeting your foe whether it is the tangible or intangible. And, I am not alone. My neighborhood is responding with generosity and love in the myriad ways of mixed generations with their talents and inventiveness.

Shared below are a few expressions of caring. I urge you to look to your neighbors, whether suburban, city or rural and count the many ways that caring is demonstrated by others.

Impromptu concert
A windy day for lost toys
Friday-distancing Happy Hours, painted rainbows, Teddy Bear hugs, treasured figs, Flowers from faith, and sweet cats both real and painted, and cookie recipe!

Drawing elicits words

Round & ripe

1970.

Full of “piss & vinegar.” High on life!

Yes, trite but so true.

A clear Pittsburgh day.

Frick’s fountain sprays sending

     shivers along my too-warm-to-touch skin.

The scent of orange peel smacks of happiness.

 With the first bite of this sweet, ripe fruit

   joy explodes everywhere.

Poem by Tina Hudak, 2019

George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” was the 70s song that reminds me of the orange!
From the album
LOVE this version with the Edwin Hawkins Singers.

Art supplies used are Winsor newton Inks, 2B pencil, chalk pastels & Crayola watercolor paints for kids. I have no idea what I am doing with these drawings!!

Minor chord

Minor Chord

My life is being lived in the melancholy

with moments of tenderness

all rooted in the minor chord.

music

Young voices

 

…value dignity in the face of battering conditions.” Beth Kephart

reqieum2The ritual of faith in my childhood taught me to look at death. Directly. Unflinchingly. At seven years of age, I sang in our school’s children’s choir for every funeral. Hidden away in the great ceiling, a small loft for even smaller children. The great organ dwarfing our statures. Both beloved and severe, the choir mistress stands erect, in black, baton in hand. Cold eyes piercing through the young’s urge to giggle – to fend off sorrow. A Gregorian chant of “Requiem aeternam”  begins. We are consumed by solemnity. Only our voices echoing within the high walls to greet the slow procession for the dead. The bowed heads covered in black lace. The straight backs of men in dark suits, like soldiers. Stepping carefully to muffle the clipped sounds of their wingtips against the hard tiled floors echoing against the monophonic repetition. The mantra of children – of innocence –  to greet death.

To relieve the sorrowful burdens from the shoulders of the unknown. Of the adults.

An initiation for the loss in my future.  So many deaths, it seems, that every one is personal. The prayers rise up for love incarnate – my mother, my father, my sister-in-law, my childhood friend to those splashed across the newspapers. The drown Syrian child on Greece’s rocky coast, the African-American father lying dead on the street in Charleston, the babes and their teachers in Newton, the street carnage of Paris’s les jeunesses… on and on.

Far from my childhood in months and years, the “Requiem aeternam” resonates. Now, it is my head bowed, my back that is straight.

Faith remains the constant.


This post is dedicated to the choristers, past and present, of St. Alban’s School for Boys, where their voices have filled me with longing.