Face of Nature

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

The Force of Nature ~ Photo by Ben McCartney
1301 Avenue of the Americas ~ New York City
by Italian sculptor, Lorenzo Quinn (b 1966)
Now, having read Quinn's description of his work, I have mixed feelings about this sculpture. Yes, Mother Nature looks forceful but not furious, powerful but not necessarily hurtful. The way Nature's dress is blown so fiercely, even to the point of covering her face, suggests to me that there is yet another strong force, outside of both Earth and Nature, that both are struggling against.

Nor did I get the sense that Nature was harming Earth -- but maybe even trying to help in some way, trying to reign Earth in with that shiny sash, which does not look like a weapon. Nature appears to be using the strength of her arms to pull Earth closer, not to fling her away as with a slingshot. I understand now that the sculpture is intended to convey a twirling motion, as Nature hurls Earth round and round in a vicious circle. Yet, to me, Nature looks braced, as if she is exerting all her energy in an effort to hold herself steady and draw Earth in.

Slightly different versions of Quinn's Force of Nature have been displayed in various countries: England,Ireland, Monaco, and Singapore, and the United States. Oddly, even in the unclothed version of the sculpture, Quinn still covers Nature's face with the scarf, executioner - style. Without the full - length wind - blown garments, it is less clear to me why Nature's face would be covered, other than to make her more mysterious and less human, though her body is clearly that of a female human.

My first impression, before reading any background information or even the title of the piece, was not of Nature but of a mere mortal, headless, who had somehow lost her head and was struggling to regain it, only to find that what she thought was her head was instead / indeed the Earth.

In contrast to the hidden head of Quinn's "Force of Nature" is Rodin's bust of Nature, with serene face and braided wheat for hair, that I saw earlier this week at the Legion of Honor Museum in San Francisco. Despite her apparent serenity, Nature / Miss Fairfax is a force to be reckoned with:

Signed on the Back
Now, compare Nature (above) to Spirit (below), as portrayed in this face of Prayer, rendered by Rodin's sculpting companion, Camille Claudel (click here to view / read more about the fateful and tortuted connections between Rodin and Claudel):

La Prière / The Prayer aka Le Psaume / The Psalm
Bronze Sculpture, 1889 (or 1896?)
by Camille Claudel 1864-1943
One more favorite from the Legion of Honor,
featuring sunflowers . . .

And a closing poem from Mary Oliver . . .

Messenger

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

by Mary Oliver
Contemporary American Poet (b. 1935)
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, 1984

. . . loving the world . . .

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, May 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ Another Museum Post ~ Guggenheim
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST ~ "Until We Seek Until We Find Ammonia Avenue"
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Paris: Ferlinghetti, Fenton & Forche

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Shakespeare and Company Bookstore, Paris
On the right is my friend Victoria Amador, who has been around the world!

Recipe for Happiness
Khabarovsk or Anyplace

One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups

One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you

One fine day

Lawrence Ferlinghetti
American, b. 1919
Paris Street ~ Rainy Day
Gustave Caillebotte ~ French, 1848 - 94

I guess Ferlinghetti feels that to say "Paris" -- rather than "Khabarovsk or Anyplace" -- would be simply too obvious; whereas, in the next poem, "Paris" becomes the substitute code word for something even more obvious and too often cliched:

In Paris With You

Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve drowned a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded
I’m a hostage. I’m marooned.
But I’m in Paris with you.

Yes I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysees
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling

And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris with . . . all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.

James Fenton
British, b. 1949

La Tour Eiffel
Photographed by my niece, Sara Carriker, 2013

And one more poem about Paris in which the last line says it all:
"I've been to Paris . . . "

As Children Together

Under the sloped snow
pinned all winter with Christmas
lights, we waited for your father
to whittle his soap cakes
away, finish the whisky,
your mother to carry her coffee
from room to room closing lights
cubed in the snow at our feet.
Holding each other's
coat sleeves we slid down
the roads in our tight
black dresses, past
crystal swamps and the death
face of each dark house,
over the golden ice
of tobacco spit, the blue
quiet of ponds, with town
glowing behind the blind
white hills and a scant
snow ticking in the stars.
You hummed "blanche comme
la neige" and spoke of Montreal
where a québecoise could sing,
take any man's face
to her unfastened blouse
and wake to wine
on the bedside table.
I always believed this,
Victoria, that there might
be a way to get out.

You were ashamed of that house,
its round tins of surplus flour,
chipped beef and white beans,
relief checks and winter trips
that always ended in deer
tied stiff to the car rack,
the accordion breath of your uncles
down from the north, and what
you called the stupidity
of the Michigan French.

Your mirror grew ringed
with photos of servicemen
who had taken your breasts
in their hands, the buttons
of your blouses in their teeth,
who had given you the silk
tassles of their graduation,
jackets embroidered with dragons
from the Far East. You kept
the corks that had fired
from bottles over their beds,
their letters with each city
blackened, envelopes of hair
from their shaved heads.

I am going to have it, you said.
Flowers wrapped in paper from carts
in Montreal, a plane lifting out
of Detroit, a satin bed, a table
cluttered with bottles of scent.

So standing in a Platter of ice
outside a Catholic dance hall
you took their collars
in your fine chilled hands
and lied your age to adulthood.

I did not then have breasts of my own,
nor any letters from bootcamp
and when one of the men who had
gathered around you took my mouth
to his own there was nothing
other than the dance hall music
rising to the arms of iced trees.

I don't know where you are now, Victoria.
They say you have children, a trailer
in the snow near our town,
and the husband you found as a girl
returned from the Far East broken
cursing holy blood at the table
where nightly a pile of white shavings
is paid from the edge of his knife.

If you read this poem, write to me.
I have been to Paris since we parted.

Carolyn Forché
American, b. 1950

Girls Together in Paris ~ Sara & her friend Angela

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, June 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com