Spare Me the Minutiae



December Sky
by Carolee Ross



Spare me the details

Of the checkups

And the endless luncheons and Bo Peep breakfasts

For, they are of no interest to me

They are part of the endless minutiae

That makes existence banal.

Give me the details

Of the sumptuous orchard

And the turbulent sky

Of the bird caught in flight

And the storms that rush forth

Moving rumbling waves and tumbling clouds across the sky.

Spare me the details

Of the child with the runny nose

The lines in Wal-Mart

The trip to the flea market

Unless of course

The treasures there were mysterious or gaudy or extravagant.

Tell me of your thoughts

About the Universe

And the Ocean

And Love

About such matters that makes a heart sing

And transform life

Into a vibrant adventure with all its pain and joy.

For I'm too old to dwell

On such sundry, dull beige things.

I want streaks of color

Cries of passion

Trees that preen and dance in the wind

And a life without the dearly, dulling recounting of dreary minutiae.

Morning Coffee

Morning Coffee

Copyright, 2006

Jotted on a napkin in the local Cup and Saucer

This morning I went out

to get a cup of coffee but actually

to eavesdrop a bit.

It's not the slightly stale brew

Or the hot, overpriced muffins and processed spread

That prompted the trip to town.

It's the circle of retired men next to me

Who sit and talk and smile,

Doctors, lawyers, carpenters, truckers and farmers.

College men, technical men, husbands and widowers.

All retired,

And on the same footing now,

Careers' end has suddenly equalized

breeding, education, lineage and ethnicity.

Now they sit with their packets of sweetener,

Gossiping about

Their cholesterol and sugar levels, the fishing trip to Canada,

their wives' illnesses, their new time-killing projects.

I sit nearby,

Getting a vicarious insight

into lives that long for companionship and connection.

Lives that once collectively scoffed at morning kaffee klatches

Events that reeked of wives and mothers

Boredom, longing and escape.

Suddenly they know

How comforting it can be

To start a long day with coffee, tea and talk.

Remember the Beginnings

© copyright 1996

Remember back to

The rich, lush impasto of paint

The creamy chalks,

The pungent aroma of the studio

The clear, white light,

the feel of a brush in my hand.

Remember, arts writer, when the fools get to you;

when the trivia and politics and nonsense takes over

and you forget the colors --

and talk bullshit about this one and that one --

You've lost it.

You are now an art gossiper.

You are mired down in their artsy muck.

Much ado about meaningless beings,

and shows that reek of ego,

jobs that tell of favors,

you've become busy with words of hate and derision

you've forgotten the original meaning.

Have you read this, seen that, gone there?

Did you hear that ----

No. I was busy loving and trying to understand

busy trying to learn and grow and see.

busy writing about my life-long love, my love for art:

all over the walls of the town.

Do you read what I write?

No, they answer, with voices reeking of derision,

We never bother with local papers.

I see,

You only get the Sunday Times?

I'm not in there - yet.

Does anyone read my words?

Is anyone out there?

I can't hear you.

Writer: Don't waste your energy explaining,

getting caught up in the scene,

Think of the love that began when you opened your eyes,

blinded by light and form,

mesmerized by image and line.

Think back, remember:

the lines which ran forth from your hands,

those waxy, hard Crayolas,

and when I run out of paper,

I draw on the wall, behind the piano,

pencils with points so sharp

and crisp

and sometimes there's paper,

or I use the bags from the store,

it's war time, remember?

Paint, pens, markers of magic;

let me draw

even on my fingertips,

the colors which have sound

and love

and life.

In that house of musty sadness.

and neglect,

and rage,

the books become my friends,

images, pictures, words my only companions.

But Papa does take me to the museum,

Where I learn that Picasso is expansive, Braque self-contained,

Van Eyk's light fills the canvas,

and if there is a God,

She is here, in Kandinsky's whirling forms.

The lines which ran forth from my hands,

energies with lives of their own,

waving, bending,

while Marcel Duchamp's words rang in my head,

Is Art Dada? Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

I am too sensitive

My soul holds the art of the ages,

sighing like sirens of old with their enchanted song,

the weight on my soul is too dear,

Scheherezade, Marat Sade,

I pay a perilous price

for the artist's eye.

Run, Katya, go to the bars of Twelfth Street,

Wear black, sleep with an artist,

Smoke some weed, drink some espresso,

The sixties say you'd better marry

or get thee to a nunnery.

Use your art to teach kindergarten,

go to the suburbs and curate art shows,

forget the light

give it up.

You were born five, ten years too early.

And the wrong sex as well.

The revolution will begin when you've stopped.

Live that dull life,

raise a few sweet children,

give scintillating suburban dinners.

Forget the light,

You have no audience

they're all watching TV

and shopping in the A&P.

And besides, they think you're peculiar.

You are peculiar.

But your art is pretty,

your face is pretty,

your hair is so pretty,

So you'll never create good art.

Have another child or two, instead.

Then, Papa comes to watch the kids

and I'm back at school,

in a time where it is still an outrage.

she's an unfit mother, they say,

those poor children,

Clean your house, lady,

join the P.T.A.

Try tennis if you're bored.

Sitting in the classroom that first autumn afternoon

learning the symbols of Flemish art,

Walking back in time.

The visions dance before my eyes:

Joseph builds a better mousetrap,

Mary the vessel so holy and pure,

The pomegranate,the lily, the lamb.

I'm drawn through the centuries.

pulled, transformed, transmuted,

into a world serene and blessed

Better than the one out here.

I write silent words,

written on paper and shoved in the drawer,

I create collages and prints and paintings,

filled with silent fury,

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

Then comes graduation with a hard-won 4.00 cum

and highest honors and the Rittmaster Award.

I pay a price for those things too.

When I'm divorced, and need the bucks,

nobody cares,

about the academics,

or the honors,

or the creative bent;

They ask if I can type,

or file or answer phones,

my hate grows even stronger.

What about the galleries, I ask,

where I installed shows and wrote brochures,

What about my papers,

I wrote entire catalogues.

I was Professor Meyer Shapiro's protege.

Doesn't that matter?

No matter,

be a temp, they say,

you think you're better because of a few degrees?

A few degrees about nothing,

A few meaningless papers on the wall,

which say that you know about Dada.

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

Does anyone understand my need for light?

Is the Light Dead?

Am I one of the walking dead?

Did I die in that house near the shore?

Did I burn out my brains in Sausalito?

Did the cells all go into wifely duties and bearing babes?

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

The house without light.

contained a child who needed it.

that child,

much older, still sad, still peculiar,

still needs that light.

She still writes on the wall behind the piano,

Only now they call it the Advocate,

or the Westport News, or Newsleaf, or IBM's Quarterly

does it matter?

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

Lisa Black, Artist, Photographer, Poet, Printmaker



Lisa Black, 1967

 By the time I became acquainted with Lisa Black’s work in 2006, she had already won more than 150 awards and had worked steadily as an artist for over forty years (while raising two daughters and babysitting her grandchildren). The occasion was my reviewing a competition at the Stamford Art Association called “Far Away Places” as arts writer for the Times-Mirror Newspaper Syndicate.

Black took First Place for “Getty Amphitheatre,” a starkly geometric color photo with straight lines intersecting the semi-circles of huge rows of steps. In an unprecedented coup, she also took Second Place for “Geoffrey’s Malibu.”



                                 Getty Amphitheatre, Los Angeles, 2006                                      



The artist noted, “I loved the broad sweep and geometry of the Amphitheatre. It was wonderful to be there in person to see this beautiful structure on a sun-filled day.” What the panel of judges recognized at that, and so many other competitions, was Black’s ability to use the innate vision of a true artist to look beyond and see the extraordinary in commonplace scenes.



Lisa Black, who received her undergraduate degree in Art History and French and a diploma from the Sorbonne in French Civilization, is also listed in The International Who's Who in Poetry, Who’s Who in American Art, 2010, and is a member of the National League of American Pen Women. Her mature artwork has evolved from a marvelous mélange of influences and represents a fusion of many talents -- combining the insight gained from journeys to exotic places -- with the agility of a skilled painter, the objectivity of an anthropologist and the soul of a philosopher. She has never stopped reaching out and trying new techniques to enrich her art.

Ode to the Seed Pod 2010
Mixed Media Acrylic structure
including seed pods found on streets of Fairfield, Connecticut

As a child, she enjoyed the pictures she saw in Life Magazine and later, during her travels with her husband, Tom, (Tom Black worked on the business end for Life and Time Magazines  and later, helped establish the Smithsonian Magazine, where he served for 25 years before retiring as associate publisher), she met several of the photographers she had admired – Alfred Eisenstaedt, Cornell Capa, Carol and Shelly Mydans and John Dominis.

Lisa Black
Taken by husband
Tom Black
1967

She writes on her website, www.LisaBlack.com, that she enjoys taking pictures of whatever catches her eye, “being able to freeze the images in still time – where they can be seen and enjoyed over and over again. She always knew she wanted to paint, and after seeing Picasso’s work in Paris, she had “little choice but to begin.” Other influences have included Cezanne, Van Gogh, Picasso, Matisse, the Abstract Expressionists and, to some extent, Andy Warhol.  



             Black has experimented with the bold colors of acrylics, the magic of watercolors, the joy of monotypes and the endless possibilities of washes. “My purpose is to explore and experiment with a variety of media for the sheer joy of producing art that is colorful, strong, expressionistic and individualistic," notes Black. She has also taken classes in computer photography software, such as Adobe Photoshop Elements 2-9 and is as proficient technically as she is artistically. Her studies include classes at the Art Students’ League in New York, The Rowayton Arts Center, The New York Institute of Photography, and The Center for Contemporary Printmaking in Norwalk, Connecticut.

Nanoflower
created in colaboration with Cristian Orfescu,
founder of the NanoArt Movement
created using Photoshop Elements 6

Volcano I - Acrylic

  Prizewinner at the Rowayton Arts Center and was sold there.

Lisa Black’s artwork conveys a rich fusion of color that is wonderfully eclectic, filling the walls with an exciting energy, bombarding the senses with imagery, and saturating the viewers’ eyes with color and form.

Glass and Shadows series 2011
Fairfield Photographers' Network Topic



Scission Monotype
Created at Center for Contemporary Printmaking



For a more comprehensive library of Lisa Black’s work, visit www.LisaBlack.com.

Lisa Black today with her newest artwork



Cosmos 2011
Acrylic 





‘Unemployed Man’ Creator Basically Unemployed Himself - MediaJobsDaily

‘Unemployed Man’ Creator Basically Unemployed Himself - MediaJobsDaily