I Believe in Art Saints by Ana Flores - I know people who�ll make courageous innovative efforts to have art in their lives. They�ll eat peanut butter for a year in order to pay off an artist month by month for a piece they�ve bought. They believe art is necessary food for their soul. As an artist, I love these kind of people, I call them art saints and this year I�ve been lucky enough to have a few in my life. Andrew, a new friend, called last summer six weeks before his second marriage to speak to my husband and me. �Friends keep asking us about a wedding registry and Megan and I�ve decided we don�t need another blender so we�d like to list your web sites as our registry. With the funds collected we�ll commission a work by each of you. What do you think?� I paused, stunned. �We�d love to create pieces for your new home and what a great idea- registering with artists instead of pottery barn!� Over the next three months fourteen friends registered and a �village� of patrons blossomed ea- ger to see the work we�d make for the unique spaces that he and Megan had designed together. Luli is another saint. �I�d rather invest in something I love rather than the stock market,�she told me as we sat in her terraced garden. She�d spent a decade transforming this overgrown hillside along the Hudson River. �I want to see one of your pieces there�. She pointed to a space be- tween two trees. �The cost of bronze is like gold these days.� I warned. She was unfazed, excited instead by the prospect of watching the sculpture grow. Unfortunately there�s not enough saints to go around for so many artists, but an art collecting idea I learned about when we lived in New Zealand might offer a template for collecting on tight budgets. While there I met the Stitchbury club, fifteen women from Auckland whose focus was contemporary three dimensional work ranging from jewelry to outdoor sculpture. Each contributed a set amount annually to their art bank. Every month - like a book group�they ga
A flower from my garden is the symbol I chose to represent my spirituality. The dirt and the roots gives me a feeling of being grounded, connected to the earth. The flower reaches up to God - opening to the radiance of love. I feel close to God when I am in my garden witnessing the miracles and the cycles of life - seeding, nurturing, growing, fading away, resting, rebirth.
Last week's THIS I BELIEVE REVEALED event was amazing! With over 80 attendees and the viewing of Revealing REVEALED short film and a multi-media interview with THIS I BELIEVE REVEALED subject Jim Stahl. Dana Duellman introduced everyone and talked about the history of REVEALED. WRNI General manager Joe O'Connor spoke about the connection with This I Believe and REVEALED and how the two projects came together to collaborate. Rick Reamer, host of This I Believe, took the stage and gave insight into his 3-years with Rhode Island's This I Believe and the impact it has had on the community.
For the first time the Revealing REVEALED short film played in a real theater. It was great to see it on the big screen. In addition a new multi-media interview with subject Jim Stahl and the impact this project has had on him.
Then I was the keynote and really enjoyed the talk about how REVEALED began and the collaboration with This I Believe to create This I Believe REVEALED. We had a Q&A at the end with some amazing questions. I love these questions because it gives me even more insight into this project. I am continually learning from this project.
Of course I need to mention Ian Charles was the guest musician and his music is awesome. The event was photographically covered by Abby McGuire. And thank you to Jane Pickens Theater for their hospitality and use of their beautiful theater. Also, This program has been made possible, in part, by a grant from RISCA (Rhode Island State Council on the Arts). The prints on display were beautifully printed by Gordon's Ink and the framed by Crestar. And of course Mirage Design who designed the flyers that were circulated.
Who am I without Christ? No one. With out him, I am just meaningless traits. He is my peace + my hope. The cross with the heart represents my relationship with Christ. The cross is made from a butterfly bush, representing new birth + life. The broken glass represents my imperfections; the human part of me. I love Christ, but I still screw up. The nails represent the pain of life. Just because I have hope doesn't mean my life is all rainbows + unicorns - its hard and will never not be hard, but now it's not bleak. Without Christ, my "spirit self" wouldn't even be worth a picture.
September by Liz Doucette �September is the best month in Newport.� Many who live here agree. That�s not to say we don�t love July and August � summer!! � in all its crowded, event-filled glory. Of course we love summer. And we love our visitors, each and every one, traffic included. Okay, I�m exaggerating (and I can�t speak for anyone but myself). Let�s just say Newport relies on summer. Newport works hard in summer. Busy is good. Then, ahhhh, September. It�s still summer, weather-wise. The water is warm for swimming. It�s clear and breezy for sailing. Fish are biting. I might even find a parking space. Doesn�t everyone, everywhere, love September? Except perhaps the kids heading back to school? Something ends, but something else begins. Don�t we all, at every age, regard September as time to get back to � something? This year, my husband and I sent our younger child to college. We�ve just joined that very lonely-sounding demographic: Empty Nesters. But it�s not so empty. Sure, we miss the kids, but they�re doing fine � thank goodness � and there are definite upsides. We�re managing two schedules, not four; so there�s more time to do what we want. More time means more bike rides. And September afternoons, whose warm orange light lingers �til 7pm, are ideal. My husband and I go in different directions, as we go at different paces, then meet back home for dinner. Around Ocean Drive is my usual route: bumpy in spots, but less traffic in September. So, one afternoon verging on evening a few weeks back, I rode my bike out that way, and when I got to Brenton Point, it was just so darn beautiful that I stopped, parked my bike, wandered out onto the stone jetty, and watched: water, a few boats, imminent sunset. As I turned to go, a couple approached over the rocks, slippery in spots. And I heard myself say, like the mother I�ll always be: �Be careful.� Glancing back as I hopped on my bike � to make sure they were safe, I suppose � I s
Creative Kids by R. James Stahl The week of my Bar Mitzvah, a bomb-making prank (my idea) took my left eye. Until that moment, I was seeing the world as a typical 13-year-old boy sees it. Then, a second later, I wasn�t. The required soul-searching over what to place in Scott�s box revealed that what I believe, and the career I made of it, very likely began in that moment. I published writers, some of them famous now, when they still had curfews. They would mail me their folded thoughts about growing up, the trials of school, the death of a pet, the birth of a little brother. Most submissions I had to reject, but published or not each one received a personal response from my talented staff or from me. From our little Main Street office in East Greenwich, we published the best submissions in a magazine that we shipped all across the world. My experience taught me to believe in the practical value of listening to young people�s thinking. Publishing young writers sent a message of hope to creative kids who felt their talents were trivial or unwanted. Their creativity mattered to me. Even the briefest submissions could floor me. One 8th grader, for instance, wrote a poem called �Religion.� �On the sixth day,� it said, �He got up/and sprayed people /from an aerosol can /and then /God threw away /the exhausted container.� Such provocation -- in seven lines! Is creating humanity as casual as spraying air freshener in a guest room? Or does that �exhausted container� mean that the creative act fatigues even all-powerful God? Is God still omnipotent if he or she suffers fatigue? In hundreds of classrooms that read this poem, discussions took off -- all of them launched by the words of one creative teen! Publishing kids, I saw that the brightest ones teach their peers and their teachers. That�s why I believe in urging more teen involvement in our civic and volunteer organizations, in our schools, places of worship, and government. We need the brightest ideas from
The box could not hold it all, so I brought a box of my own: a Hercules Gunpowder Box, a fitting repository for my spirit. The plants are from my garden, my solace, my center, my place to connect to the bounty and wonder of the Universe. I filled my box with old wounds, many half-healed. Even as I stand under the lights, my back aches from the car crash. I question myself and my right to be here. I question my creative fire. But on top of it all is a small wooden box, carved by my brother out of a single chunk of cedar. He carved it for me when I was young and full of boundless rage � some of it directed at him. He carved it with love, as an act of contrition that I did not come to fully understand until years after he had died. It is the most precious thing I own, this box. It represents hope and compassion for the wounded parts of me. ~Stephen R.