February 21, 2014 § Leave a comment
February 14, 2014 § Leave a comment
“A reminder that this coming Sunday, as part of the month long exhibit at RiskPress Gallery in Sebastopol, Iota is presenting a diverse reading by people involved in printing their work at the Iota shop. The reading will run from 2:00 to 4:00, and takes place in the gallery surrounded by the books and broadsides on display for the show. There will also be a special appearance of the Iota Handset Quire, whose groundbroken work is unbeknownst to all.”
The readers will be: Judi Goldberg, Megan Arnold , Cheryl Itamura, Lyn Dillin, Clara Rosemarda, John Johnson, Maia Kobabe, Eric Johnson, Serena Coltrane-Briscoe, Birgit Nielsen, Katie Nealon, and Luci Edwards Friesen
The choir includes: Maia Kobabe, Judi Goldberg, Tiana Krahn, Luci Edwards Freisen, Birgit Nielsen, Ash Weiss, Megan Arnold, Serena Coltrane-Briscoe, Katie Nealon, Cheryl Itamura, Brooke Holve, Eric Johnson, and Lyn Dillin
February 9, 2014 § 4 Comments
Power is a relative thing, I mean it comes up in relation to, but the point is, no matter what you are allotted, you (only)(can) have what you are willing or able to take responsibility for, and no matter a group’s (nurses let’s say) apparent powerlessness, an individual within that group can have, does have as much power as she, or he, is willing to take responsibility for.
It never dawned on me (as a nurse) to be powerless. Never was.
I suppose, like home, or love, power is one of those words we, without thinking, think we know the meaning of, until someone walks up and asks what you mean by that. I mean, effective; which means having choices & resource, and of course information and curiosity, and gumption, and a certain skill with risk. I mean opinion, and voice. And I suppose I also mean, visibility.
And it certainly means not starting every damn sentence, or presentation, with an apology.
Sitting in the gallery, at the end of the other day, a gallery which is host, among many others, to some of my work, I pulled out my banjo to keep me company. It was wet blustery and dark, and people were homeward bound with little mind for dillydally. Or art. A man under a huge umbrella with a huge smile peeked in the huge window as he walked by. Turned around to peek in again. And then actually came in.
He was, as it turned out, a musician. And before I could help myself I said I wasn’t. And he, pointing to my handcrafted just for me banjo, said, if you play that, you are.
Which brings me back around to that whole power thing, and how maybe most importantly it is simply about a working, as in effective, sense of self which supports, and allows for, the journey.