Storms Made of Sand

There's a story about sand here, and I partly have my high school freshman year English teacher to thank for that. 

This inspiring instructor provided the impetus for what became my long ago established pen name, Sand Storm, the origin for the name of my Etsy shop and this blog.

These days, no one uses pen names. The prevalence of social media renders the practice obsolete, since it obscures rather than assigns credit to its author, and social media thrives more on revelation than obfuscation.

What does SandStorming, and its root, Sand Storm mean? When I first coined the name, I referred to it as a metaphor, one that involved grains of sand (words and pictures) swirling about my mental landscape, creating the thoughts that culminated in a poem, artwork, or a song. The fact that it contained a form of my name iced the cake.

Destination Inspiration

As I entered the world of social media with the masses, I noticed that mine was not, er, the only storm churning up sand. My solution? One that would possibly have made my former English teacher proud: I created a gerund from the word and from there, forged ahead. Gerund, you say? Yes; the "Storm" half of the term with "-ing" tacked to the end of it, smooshed together with "Sand" in front, "smooshed " being the less technical but appropriately virtual-space sort of term. It seemed to make sense, in a logical progression sort of way. 

Since my high school days, the military has coined SandStorming for its desert-worthy implications. My sand is more the beach variety, or maybe an Arizona landscape on a quiet moonlit evening. Such is the variety of sands swirling in my own mental space and arriving often thereafter on paper.

Walking Crow Logo Tee from the SandStorming Shop

What has felt most remarkable to me is that, after many years of desert, these sands seem drenched in sea again--ebb and flow and mist and mystery--the kind of mystery that accompanies the creative process. 

Sometimes the sense of innocence and impression leads me to joke that, when I'm drawing, I'm transported back to my childhood once again. But really, I'm only half joking. And what about that shop mascot, the crow? How does he link to sands and storms and pen names? 

That is a story for another time. 

Of Art and Music

A friend made this comparison, recently: For the most part, we make music to play it for or even with others. When we create art, it is typically a solitary experience.

But are these two creative avenues so different, or are they more alike than this observation suggests?

When I'm drawing, I sometimes notice several things happening internally. For one, I notice my thoughts regarding the particular image at hand (pardon the pun). A drawing may evoke a memory or an interest, such as the desire to visit a place I've not yet seen. Or a random song might come to mind and, often, I find myself humming or softly singing as I draw.

Rocky Mountain Rails at Sunset

Often, I experience an inward turning, toward a calm space, a place of contentment and balance. Access to that space does not seem limited to the creation of the visual arts, however; rather, it is shared across each art form, no matter how it is finally expressed. 

Granted, performing a song in public appears in opposition to creating a piece of visual art. Yet I notice that the creativity in the performance itself feels much the same as when I am drawing. Further, songs can induce a picture in my mind, which can later become a drawing on a page. Thus, for me, songs as art, whether I am writing or performing them, begin in the same solitary secret place, even when they culminate in collaboration. In that respect, a song can be an invitation to share that space for a time, to complete the creative process.  

What remains the same for both is that each can be shared again and again. A song can be played and replayed, and a work of visual art can be revisited, too. And, given each is seen with fresh ears/eyes, the joy they evoke can be renewed beyond their creation. 

Returning

Sometimes it helps to go away from a place for a while to really appreciate it. 

In a perfect world, such going away would not be necessary. We'd see things afresh without having to take a vacation from this too-embedded knowledge of them. But the human condition tends to blind us sometimes, dulling our senses, pulling a misty veil across our eyes, so that things we see daily are seen only through a glass, darkly. We lose the ability to notice nuance, to perceive change, to discover that which remains alive and turning before our jaded eyes. 

Such is the feeling I get when returning home, to Maryland, or what is called "the DC metro area." It's a bustling place, frantic with traffic and high energy, or perhaps its just nail-biting nervousness that makes the place seem so electric. There is a sense of duplicity that accompanies a town rife with political deceit that often overshadows its foundation of democracy. Yet, even though the former often stifles the latter, whenever I return to my roots, I can still hear the steady heartbeat of the just and true, however faint. 

In the same way that this returning can open one's eyes, a fresh look at almost anything -- one's occupation, one's surroundings, one's life -- can create an awareness of what is worthwhile, and what is not; what enriches the soul as opposed to that which drains it. If that fresh look is not forthcoming in the moment, then taking a break from the day-to-day, such as a visit to the beach, can offer this same clarifying space from the frenzy that tends to dominate my life. 

Sand and See

I'd like to think that I can clear such a space internally, but more often than not, the external world dictates that sense of peace so that, usually, it takes removing myself from the noise to get down to serious introspection. If I carry that noise with me to the drawing table, I find the same effect: that is, I may need to walk away several times from a drawing before completing it. Not always -- but sometimes. 

I've come to appreciate both sides of this same coin. The important part is listening: What direction is this piece taking? Has it collided with a wall at the moment? Is it time to step away, clear my head, and look at it another day with fresh eyes? It's not how it happens so much, but rather the integrity of its coming about: I can see it through best by listening to the ebb and flow of this art; and so, too, of this life. 

Something Serendipitous

More often than not, for me, something artful comes from a completely unexpected place. 

Much as I'd like to think that I can plan each piece, barely any work of art that suits me on completion comes out part and parcel from any sort of immediately distinct vision. It's true that, generally, I have an idea at the outset--either a complete scene, or most of it--but where it goes from there is anyone's guess as much as it is my own. 

Floating Blossoms

For instance, I'll start by creating some sort of color wash, but then, something else often takes shape that I couldn't predict. Perhaps a tiny sail boat appears on a still ocean-view, or a house crops up among daisies. 

One of my more recent works started out as a blue wash which could have morphed into anything from a watery scene to a landscape. It sat for at least a week while I tended to the daily grind. At best, I'd give it a quick glance, but for more than a few days I'd had no time to sit quietly before it to see what belonged in that space. At last, though, up cropped a layer of cherry blossom petals atop a very still pond. 

Today's creation started as a colorful pastel that I decided to turn monochromatic once I'd scanned it. I'd started with an image set in the daytime; but when I looked at it onscreen, the sturdy lighthouse at the center seemed to tell me that this was really an evening study, and that it needed some light piercing the darkness. 

So I returned the piece literally to the drawing board, and swept a swath of light from the lighthouse peak out across the early morning sky. I re-scanned and swapped the image to monochrome once again, adjusted the photo curves to darken specific areas of the scene and, at last, the resulting image felt right to me. 

My favorite artistic surprise happened a few months ago, starting with a piece of sandpaper. Not just any sandpaper, but the kind made for drawing with pastels. Yes; they actually make sandpaper on which you draw--in different weights no less. I'd not had any experience with this sort of paper though and, silly me, instead of using it to see how it went, I decided to use it to rough up some too-smooth art stock so I could use that with pastels. It seemed like a practical idea at the time, anyway. 

With purpose, I took the cream colored sandpaper and rubbed it on the too-slick black drawing paper and voila! I mean, OOPS! The black paper was not sanded enough, and now the sandpaper had gray blotches on it. 

Reach

When I looked at the sandpaper more closely, however, I began to see a man's arm reaching in from the left side of the paper. Maybe there's a picture here, already, I thought. I noticed a larger blotch going nearly top to bottom on the right side, but I couldn't make out anything, so I put the paper on a music stand (i.e., creative props are interchangeable), and decided I'd have a look every once in a while to see what I might eventually see. 

After several weeks, the last few of which I'd not looked at the sandpaper for about a week or so, I finally saw the entire drawing. It simply needed me to put in some outlines to finish it, adding a bit more blotching to finish the man's coat and add that last far-left fold of the woman's dress. Then I had to add the man's hand, which for some unforeseen reason seemed to take me nearly as long as it might to begin the whole thing from scratch, and that made me laugh. I could not figure out how that should look, other than subtle, just as the woman's hand is subtle. 

In all, much of what appears as shading was already there from the sanding event; I just had to see it and outline it, adding a few strokes and a bit more rendering to complete the scene. I am especially fond of its mystery: The woman's right arm looks as if it's extended upward, for example. 

These sorts of serendipity pieces are my favorites. It seems there is a sheer wisdom in the flow of not knowing in art as well as in life--of seeing what at first seems obscured, but suddenly, at just the right moment, is absolutely unmistakable to the creative eye. 

Losing It and Finding It, or Thoughts on The Muse

Some folks who don't choose to dabble in the arts imagine that a painting or a song happens at will. Truthfully, it sort of does and it sort of doesn't. In fact, the arts imitate life: there's an initial intention, and then whatever comes after is potluck. 

I've grown to love this come-what-may fact of creativity. Having had a long business career that's often about executing as close to plan as possible, the joy of discovery that comes free of expectations eclipses the staleness of repetitive process.

Last night, for example, I started with a conceptual piece--the third in a series--with the intent of rendering a vision of sea meeting sky. What I expected to take shape from each stroke and smudge of pastel, however, did not. Five seconds from making a paper basketball and scoring a free throw in lieu of a masterpiece, I stopped short. 

Deep as the Ocean

As I looked once more at the darkly smudged page highlighted from one angle with streams of light, I realized something different emerging: not a different image altogether, but rather a backdrop for something even more visually dramatic.

I propped the piece against the curve of the task lamp, doused the light, and went upstairs. I knew I needed to break away from it and see it in new light, with fresh eyes.

The next afternoon I returned to look at the pastel rendering and sure enough, I could see precisely what to do. Just a bit of color here, and some there, and suddenly this directionless drawing evoked a sense of both mystery and whimsy, completely unforeseen the day before. 

The understanding it took to complete the effort came only through the space given for something to flourish. And flourish it did. The original image set the stage one day for the bright yet spare elements I added the next. 

With a little patience on my part, a drawing that seemed lifeless at first gained its own voice, that je ne sais quoi of artistic expression. 

I couldn't have planned it better. 

You've Got to Start Somewhere

They say don't sweat the small stuff, but it can be challenging to see the bigger picture while the small stuff seems to overshadow it. 

When you're just starting out--a new endeavor, a change in lifestyle--that newness, those tiny numbers--it all feels so small. You hear your mind rattling off the baby steps:

"I started my workout today."
"It's been 3 days since I stopped smoking."
"I've made 15 sales."

No wonder it's so easy to give up on a dream. After all, starting is half the battle, and that's a clue in itself that there's more than one way to look at the numbers.

Some things take time....

I recall taking a management course early in my information technology career that taught an astute approach to decision making. That method has stuck with me for nearly three decades and informed many tough choices in the workplace and beyond.

This approach, developed by the Kepner Tregoe consulting firm, adds the dimension of weights to scale-of-1-to-10 valuing. While the business version of this method can seem rather complex, you can adapt it to make almost any critical decision. Say you're wondering whether to buy a new car. Using KT, you start by making a list of the pros for choosing the decision as favorable, and then a list of cons for scrapping the idea. At the end of this first pass, you may end up with 3 "pros" that point to making the purchase, and only 1 "con" that says, "don't do it."

Now go back through both lists, assigning a weight of importance between 1 and 10 to each "for" and each "against" buying the car. When you include these weights with the original totals for each list, you may find a very different picture. For example, there might be only one downside: that you'll be tapped out financially each month to cover payments. Given the potential for certain disaster, you'll probably want to rate this a 10 on the importance scale. Even if the 3 pros rate 2 points each for a total of 6 on the positive side, that single negative factor creates a weighted total that advises against a car purchase for now.

But wait a minute. If we're talking about progress rather than decisions, how does all this math help paint a clear picture of steps toward a goal? Let's start by tweaking the KT rating method a bit.

First list all those things you've done to move forward, and then list everything that's held you back. Now go through each list and apply a weight factor, item by item. If you've started something new--anything from opening a new business to running a marathon--that start is a crucial step that deserves ample value. You may also want to include a positive line item for working each day toward your goal, no matter how slight that work seems. After all, daily commitment has certain value, too.

As you take the time to add up the reality of your efforts, you might be surprised to discover that you're more successful than you thought. You might even feel a little grateful for that small stuff. 

Handmade: Making Things from the Heart

Since the dawning of the Industrial Age, modern society has learned not only to accept, but to expect the products we buy to come from machines. We're accustomed to objects that are identical. A set of plates bought from a big box retailer in one location looks identical to the same set bought thousands of miles away at another of that retailer's locations and, of course, each plate in a set will look like all the others. That sense of stamped out perfection can feel almost comforting.

But is there something missing? Etsy, Redbubble, and ArtFire have staked their Internet sites on that supposition, providing artisans a way to sell their handiworks online, with impressive results. These "virtual marketplaces" are accessible from around the globe, delivering more customers to Web shops than most small-time merchants would see in typical bricks-and-mortar businesses. 

What's so special about handmade? Major manufacturers and retailers boast the advantage of quick production, the uniformity of machine-precision, and the presence only corporate-funded advertising and multiple stores can provide. 

Handmade "Primitive Celtic" Pendant

Yet handcrafted products feature things major chain stores can't touch. 

Each item is unique. 
Without a machine, it's seriously challenging to create two items that are exactly alike. Handmade craftsmanship takes advantage of this ability to differentiate, seeing uniqueness as an opportunity rather than a detriment. 

Time is spent in crafting each piece.
Even when the artisan is accustomed to a process, it still takes more time to create something by hand. In a world that's anxious to deliver, this can be a drawback, but for those who enjoy something unique, the joy of the carefully crafted piece is part of why buyers purchase directly from the artist. 

The artist focuses on one item at a time. 
Depending on the product, individual attention is spent on each item. This is an aesthetic value rather than a physical one, but for those who understand this aspect, it's important. In a world that often seems soul-less, the care of craftsmanship applied to handmade goods imbues a sense of quality that's highly valued. 

There is a connection between the artisan and the buyer.
When the buyer can directly access the artist, communication easily ensues, improving the experience. Buyers can ask for customization, request more detail, or simply share their interest in a particular product. And, when it comes to making a purchase, they often can expect to turn heads with clever creations that lead others to ask, "Where did you get that?!"

Shiny Things

When it comes to crows, several schools of thought apply. Depending on the one that speaks to you, crows are:

• Intelligent
• Mysterious
• A nuisance
• Lovers of shiny objects
• Bullies of other birds
• Spiritual
• Interesting characters in storybooks and legends

Moonlit Flight

Quite possibly, crows embody all of these aspects, making them not unlike us multifaceted humans. For this reason, I chose a crow as the mascot of my SandStorming shop.

Called by a variety of names (raven, rook, jackdaw), they appear in the Bible, Celtic and Greek mythology, European and American literature, Eastern and Middle Eastern lore, and Native American tales. And for the last few years, a flock in a Seattle suburb has been gifting one little girl: 

The Girl Who Gets Gifts from Birds

To pick up some shiny things for yourself, join the SandStorming crow on Etsy. 

Art and Philosophy

I typically find the words of Eastern philosopher, Jiddu Krishnamurti, quite profound. As an exception, and if I've understood him as intended, he once observed that churning out works of art struck him as a way in which the human brain avoids observing. While many of the philosophical journeys Krishnamurti shared ring true for me, this does not. Perhaps, not being inclined to artistry, he was making an assumption about it. I suspect he did not actually sit down and draw and find out what artistic production is all about, but made the conjecture by observing others who had. If he had had the experience of producing works of art, he'd have found that, to produce an accurate image of a thing takes an exceptionally deep observational approach.

The challenge of art is not so much the steadiness of the hand, but the steadiness of the intuition. Moreover, taking the accurate image of something in the mind's eye and then conveying it in a surrealistic way takes a certain profound understanding that's difficult to describe. The ability to observe some intrinsic quality in a thing may very well inspire the drawing of its essence, so to speak: the quality of the thing that allows us to feel it with intensity. For example, the saturation of color and light, and how these play across the landscape are qualities in a sunset that seem to move everyone universally.

The latest addition to the SandStorming shop invokes Spring.

Often, I draw while looking at one of my own photographs. Sometimes I draw a composite of images, creating something new, but still based on something actual. Very occasionally, I will create something that is surreal. But when I draw, that is, reproduce something my eyes perceive or my brain has recorded based on something my eyes have seen, I'm not thinking, "What species of flower is that?" or, "What was the name of the place in the picture?" I'm looking for the fact of the thing: What is (or was) the color? How does (or did) the light or shade play on the subject?

The drawing pictured here is based on a photo I took at the National Arboretum in Washington, DC, mid-Spring, 2009. Taking the photo required the close observation of these tiny flowers popping up along the edges of a walkway. Drawing this subject took a different type of observation. I had to match the colors as they present themselves in both light and shade, for each facet of the image. I had to determine which lines were objects and which were shadows of those objects. I also determined what from the photo I might decide to leave out or alter slightly--the beauty of drawing rather than photographing, or photographing and PhotoShopping, depending on your perspective. The truth is, if there is any sort of success in the effort, my thinking brain shuts off completely when I am drawing, or for that matter, photographing. In its place, a deeper sort of intuitive operation takes over.

And maybe that is the significant draw of art for me.

To do Krishnamurti justice, though he engaged in speeches and journal-keeping rather than dabbling in sketches, he too waxed poetic on sunsets and other common subjects of art. I can only assume he tapped the same intuition that conjures these images born of my camera, my memory, and my cognition.

32 Flavors, When it Counts

Grocery shopping occasionally leaves me feeling mildly overwhelmed.

There are so many flavors of, well, everything. There must be ten different kinds of Triscuits, for example. And don't get me wrong. I'm quite fond of a Triscuit. But the one that comes to mind is the original shredded wheat variety: slightly salt-infused, a bit of oil baked in to temper the dryness and add just a hint of nutty flavor.

But the word, Triscuit, means so many things now: fire-roasted, garden herb, rosemary and olive oil, and others I don't recall at the moment. It reminds me of a line from a song, "All the crazy you get from too much choice."

Hey, I really do appreciate expansive freedom in cracker choices, it's just that sometimes two options actually suffice and, in this case, choosing between a Triscuit and a Wheat Thin has always been enough for me.

It's not that I don't like choice. I do; and very much so, when it really counts. Take art and music: when it comes to variety, I can't get enough of either of these. Show me a sculpture formed from an ingenious blend of materials or play me a tune that defies today's audio pigeonholes, and I'm ecstatic. In fact, you'll restore my faith in the future of art and music, and clear my mind of crackers, all in one fell swoop.

Not long ago, I produced a drawing of a building (is it a barn? a house?) set in snow-covered woods. For a lark, I decided to apply a variety of filters to see how many moods I could create with that one drawing.

Were these variations of a single drawing necessary?  No; but there was something soul-soothing in sampling these many moods, something connecting me with humanity. While Golden felt sun-drenched surreal, warming up the snowy scene, Midday reminded me of childhood and the scent of my grandmother's cherry pies beckoning on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It's the eerie end of October when I look at Haunted, and I'm just arriving gratefully home from a long day in Dusk.

As they say, variety is the spice of life. But in life, as with food, to best compliment the experience, you need to know three things: when, what, and how much. If I had my choice (and there's that word, again), I'd lift the music business curse that now audibly limits the spectrum of songs produced. I'd launch a cultural revival of visual art in all its many forms.

But let's hold the fire-roasted Triscuits, please.

Art for the Eclectic Heart

The word, jewelry, typically brings to mind something sleek and stylized. Precious stones in a refined setting, perhaps. Though I'm not quite sure why, I tend to favor something rough-hewn. Old world. Primitive. Mysterious, in an ancient sort of way.

Celtic art and culture embodies the sort of mystery I find appealing. According to LiveScience:

"The relationship between modern-day Celts and their ancient forbearers is a contentious issue that scholars have different opinions about. Languages change over time, and people move, and how much modern-day Celtic peoples, language and cultures are related to the ancient Celts is an open question."

When I came across a circular metal pendant simulating an inscribed stone, I was curious to learn the history of those markings. After a bit of Googling, I discovered the medieval Celtic alphabet, called the Beith-luis-nin, based on the names of some of its letters. Not to be confused with the misnomer, "Celtic runes," the Beith (for short) contains letters bearing the names of trees, in what is known to scholars as the "Ogham" system. These markings appear in relationship to a vertical line and represent the branches of a tree.

Of the 26 letters in the modern English alphabet, 20 are represented by Ogham symbols. With some contemplation, I matched the missing six to those letters that sound closest to them. Then I got busy creating some prototypes of words spelled along my own Circle of Life, die-cut from polymer clay and either buffed using a metallic finish or hammered to look like flecked-gray stone.

"Love" inscribed around the Celtic Circle of Life

With a 1.5-inch diameter, the resulting pendants appear much like ancient artifacts made from metal or rock. Even so, they feel just weighty enough to steady them at the end of a length of leather cord.

As for inscriptions, depending on the word applied, they can bear as many as ten letters, or seem rather cramped at just five or six. Some space must remain at the top for the cord and also to discern where the word begins and ends. With these few limitations, it's still possible to create many variations on the theme, including a personalized version. Even in the case of a fairly common name, hand-inscription ensures that each piece will vary from all the others.  I'll admit, I couldn't resist the idea of a simulated "ancient artifact" with my own name on it. How about you?

Fearless Creativity

Those Etsy artisans taught me something. But it didn't happen overnight. 

You see, I opened my SandStorming shop before I was quite ready. Whatever for, you ask? 

It goes like this: A few years ago, I created some bras for an auction to support a dear friend who had developed breast cancer. [She is doing wonderfully well as I write this, for which I am infinitely grateful.] The bras were lauded as being rather clever, and I was encouraged to make more for sale. So I slapped a few photos on Etsy and left it at that. I sold one or maybe two--I don't even remember now--which left me with the thought that people are just being nice when they say, "Oh you could sell that, it's amazing!"

But I think now that, to sell, there's the product accomplishment, and then there's the exposure accomplishment. Clearly I was not cooperating when it came to exposing myself. Er, in the promotional way, mind you. After all, I reluctantly but diligently posed for that catalog-style shop shot. 

No. The problem was, everyone except me was certain I had something to offer. It's not that I didn't think the bras were worthy of sale. I simply couldn't wrap my head around having a shop that sold things I made, because, well, that would be too much like me, and I'd spent half a lifetime being everyone else but me. And after all that time, I thought, it just ain't fittin'. Ain't fittin'.

And then I encountered Pippenwyck's. Now that's a shop. Unique, delightful, imaginative. And a story behind it all, told in a guileless, delightful manner that sent me straight for a text window where I could finally and bravely confess my own artistic story. 

Astralana

It felt like a revelation to create this first drawing after more than a decade of closing off that part of myself.

In fact, this woman with star-tresses began as a scribble at the margin of a poem from the early 90s. I gave her a name, Astralana; and I've started to think of her as the superhero type: one of those characters of the surreal sort, with a mysterious background. A little dark. A little light. A lot of hope.

A Second Chance at Sand Castles

Somehow, despite a professional writing career that spans nearly three decades, I've successfully avoided this blog-writing thing. Granted, that writing career has sometimes wandered a disappointing desert in terms of creativity. No one, after all, wants an eloquent systems administration manual. They just want to administer, no frills added. 

On becoming an Etsy shop owner, however, I had to relent. At that point, I couldn't deny that, if one is going to commit to purveying things in a virtual store, one had best make good use of the virtual communities. 

Not one to hop eagerly aboard the shameless self-promotion train, I'd had the Etsy shop for more than a year without doing much beyond setting up a couple of items with marginal adieu. But I spontaneously began dabbling with pastels and, six months into that activity, decided to come clean and commemorate on my Etsy "About" page the reasons for my hesitation regarding art. I was finally starting to feel I could share what I'd learned from an excellent book recommended by one of my dear artist friends. The book describes in depth what I'd been experiencing, and provides lots of avenues for healing the creative spirit. Good medicine, indeed. 

It's an odd but welcome happenstance then, that getting over the art hurdles has made way for this new writing adventure. I have no immediate idea what I might discover, but I'm game to see what happens this time around, when I mix water with sand.