I woke this morning at 3 am.  The moon was full.  The dogs, again, had managed to get out of the house and were howling for all they were worth with a couple of coyotes down in the meadow by the horses.  Around the hills, the echo of their voices sang in unison with the voices of other dogs–distant and muted–while a full moon bathed the land in silver white.

I had been dreaming of paintings, of giclees.  The first proof– back from the printer today was so close to the original you wouldn’t know it wasn’t original until you touched it–was a scary thing so that I kept my distance, circling it cautiously with the feeling that somehow, if I am not very, very careful it will bite me.   And it could.  I’ve never been a fan of giclee for all the usual reasons.  Still, the weight and time factor make them appealing for these steel paintings and the cost makes them more than affordable for people wanting the work and unable, especially now, to hit the prices of originals.

The dogs came running up the hill to my calls, tails wagging and thirsty as though howling in the middle of the night was something usual, fun and even necessary. 

15 minutes later, after I lay back down under the full moon in the bed on our bedroom patio, they began again.  Another door, somewhere in the house was open and cursing,  I knew I was awake for the duration. 

This time, yelling  for the dogs again – urgently now and with a pitch somewhat hysterical, kin to them crazy under the moon–my thoughts were of  Jason Shinder.  This is especially weird. 

Jason was a poet.  He founded the national Writers Voice program at the 57th street YMCA in New York city.  He fervently  believed in art, in arts education, and in demystifying the ever pervasive myths about artists.  He gave his life to that.  In all his years as an arts advocate, he only published two small volumes of his own poetry.  His third book was published after his death.

In 2001, just before 9/11, I  had been working in the national YMCA arts and humanities program under Jason (a long way under Jason) and it was the first time in my life that being an artist was not only ok, it was imperative to others beside myself. 

Jason was a kind of hero to me.  I took his teachings to heart and worked overly hard at teaching my staff, the grant makers, the parents and the kids that all artists are not smelly, sexually deviant, lazy, deranged, unreliable, or any of the other myths typically associated with artists.  They are, instead, just people who do things both amazing and mundane but who are intrinsic to what it means to be human.  They are our collective voice. 

Jason also, indirectly, is responsible for me becoming a full time artist.  I had been working at implementing the Writers Voice program in Santa Fe.  In collaboration with the annual book festival, I had organized a reading by several well known writers at the Lensic and Jason, personally, was going to do a reading for us.  He had even brought in Pam Houston for the event.  All my bosses from the Albuquerque Y were in attendance.  Pam Houston cancelled.  There were kids and parents and people I had begged to come just to fill the huge room.  Jason got on stage and proceeded to read explicity sexual poetry to an audience both conservative and unknown.  My bosses were shocked.  I was shocked.  All that training  and he’s reciting poetry about as explicit as it can be without being downright pornography.  So much for demystifying the stereotypes about artists!  A few weeks later, after 9/11 and a new executive director who believed the Y needed to be about God and basketball, I lost my job.  It was a laid off, get your shit out of here, kind of thing that blew a hole in my world about as big as I had seen. 

It was also the thing that made me say to myself, ”Now or never.”  I became a full time artist and didn’t look back.  I haven’t thought about Jason for years.  I learned that he had died in 2008, but other than that he hadn’t really crossed my mind.  It kind of surprised me that he was on the edge of my consciousness under the moon this morning. 

Then I realized that I had written a blog post on the new website for my gallery this afternoon describing a fledgling artist collective and how its not really hip or cool, that most of the artists look like normal people most of the time, but how there is something magic in the air.  An energy and vitality that quickens the pulse, a dialog both witty and strange, a community for whom art is not only imperative, its as natural as breathing. 

Jason danced with a soft shoe.  He negotiated.  He compromised.  He was the bridge between worlds until he had an opportunity to be on stage as merely an artist.  Then, though I had heard him read multiple times prior in different political settings, he let loose, shocking us all, becoming on that stage not the director, not the educator, not even the man.  He was, in that instant, a poet — vulnerable, real, hard core and bristling — and he changed my life forever (though not, I’m sure, as he would have liked to).

I’m fortunate today to live in the kind of community Jason sought to create nationwide.  I don’t think I would be working so hard at sparking this collective if it hadn’t been for him and what he taught me.  He stayed a bridge in my life and I’m glad, writing this, that he was still there somewhere in my deep subconsious waiting for a moon, coyotes, baying dogs and the middle of the night to surface and remind me that though we are unpredicatable, often weird, crazily vulnerable and scary honest, we are the voices, the hopes, and the middle of the night dreams.   The catalysts and crusaders.  The harbingers of change.

Today I told my youngest son that he has 3 days to move out of my house.  He did nothing wrong. I am not angry with him.  He just simply refuses to work.  Or go to school.  Or do anything he doesn’t want to do.  He does not want to be a slave, he says.  It doesn’t matter how much money you make, you’re always broke so why not do what you want?  He’s 19.  He has, I tell him, a lot to learn.  So, perhaps do I. 

Its pretty amazing to me that in spite of everything I believe, I stick to the capitalist philosophies and puritan work ethics I despise.  If he can figure it out, crash on couches and get really good at shooting pool, why shouldn’t he?  Then the logic kicks in, and the memories of being hungry or trying to find enough money (in spite of working full time) to feed him when he was little, and I argue again.  I beg him to think about next year, or five years from now instead of just what he’s doing tonight.  I tell him to plan, to save, to work toward the goals….

But I too have been reading the news, counting the new people standing on new street corners with signs, watching the world spiral away into some amalgam of 1950′s morality and 1930′s economy, the erosion of rights and will and hope. 

I went to a rally for Wisconsin last week.   My sister was there too.  So were about 1000 other people.  We were all really nice.  We cheered and clapped when we could hear what was being said.  We cheered and clapped when we couldn’t.  We very carefully, and very politely, stayed off the sidewalk we weren’t suppose to be on and were careful not to block stairs or streets or jostle people unnecessarily.  After about an hour, we all dispersed and went to have lunch.  Baaa, my sister said.  That’s what’s wrong with us.  We’re all too bloody nice.  “Watch out!  Here come the sheep.  They’re not happy with what we’re doing!”  And here we come.  Baaa.  Baaa.  We’re not dangerous. We’re not scary.  We are very, very good at doing what we’re told in the nicest of all possible ways.  At our worst, we might run away if something moves suddenly or yells too loud.  At our best, we link arms, smile at those around us, and appreciate the community of like minded folks who are sharing a lovely day and a cause with us. 

There were no youth there.  I don’t think anyone cussed once.  It was like standing on the edge of a pier waving at the big boat carrying away our dreams, our identities, and our liberties.  And where were the kids?  They were shooting pool, getting high, watching TV, or sleeping. 

So what does all this have to do with a metal sculpture blog?  I guess it has to do with the fact that while I have been pursuing beauty and trying to nail down some concrete truth that exists outside of perspective, I have also been selling art so I could raise my kids and pay the mortgage.  Maybe its time to stop paying attention and start doing something.  Isn’t that what artists do.  Raise consciousness, heighten emotion, make the issues relevant.  I never thought I would be a sheep.

My finance and I sponsor an exhibit space for local artists who are not represented in Santa Fe galleries.  We do not jury the shows or try, in any way, to dictate what art is.  People show in groups on a first come, first served basis.  Each group hangs their own show, promotes it and staffs the space during their show.  This is a free, gorgeous, 2000 sqft gallery in a great location and the artists take 100% of any sales. 

I was in the exhibit space this afternoon with my photographer doing a shoot for the invitation card for my show at the gallery.  Some of the pieces were too big to photograph in my studio and the exhibit space has really high ceilings and clean walls.

One of the artists participating in the next exhibit space show was there also, hanging his work.  I asked him to help me hang a 4 x 4 painting on the wall.  He looked at the 3 paintings I had there and commented, “Oh, are those supposed to be art?”   It was pretty comical, and also a bit sad.

I don’t really know why I’m telling you this.  Somehow, it got to me.  Artists, I think, are supposed to be open.  They are supposed to look deeper, feel more, and, if nothing else, support the creative process wherever they find it. 

His comment made me so instantly angry that it took every bit of self control to not squash this guy like a bug.  I wanted to ask him how many pieces he’s sold this year, or last year, or in his entire life.  I wanted to ask him why he’s hanging in our exhibit space and I’m getting ready for a solo on Canyon Road.  I didn’t.  I told him instead that my paintings are decorative table tops.  Then I told him that I liked one of his pieces.  These comments made him happy. 

The last show in the exhibit space was the life time retrospective of Dean Howell.  Dean’s an amazing guy who continues to alter my reality in subtle and profound ways.  I keep accusing him of corrupting me.  He’s in his 70′s and he is an artist with a capital A. 

Dean’s show was dark.  His work was amazingly well executed.  Some of it was downright scary.  I told him this.  He chuckled at me like I was a little kid.  Then he said, “This work isn’t dark.  Its honest. ”  His work, he explained, is about being fully human.  He wants us to be allowed to show, feel, live in all parts of our humanness.  “If we were able to be fully ourselves all the time, wouldn’t that be wonderful?  Then, we wouldn’t have to feel so bad all the time.” 

I’m wondering, if I had showed my full humanness this afternoon and let out the full range and power of my emotions, whether or not that other artist would be still be standing and whether or not I would feel better or worse for having done so.  His over inflated ego and obvious insecurity made me a little more conscious of my own and I ended up wondering about honesty, about what Dean is referencing, about humanness.  That other artist, I am sure, felt he was being honest.  But doesn’t honesty require openness, curiousity, a willingness to look at what’s beyond the surface?  At the end of the day,  I ended up feeling like honesty isn’t about immediate response.  It’s about what comes after the examination of that response.   And I think, if I have to be honest, what I found was compassion for this man.  And for myself.