Puppet Reflection

I have come to accept that certain art projects take years to grow from the initial seed (idea) to a finished piece of art, with its own story to tell. My dance puppets are one such project.

Heads drying on the stove.
The shoes- also drying, were a handy way
to keep the heads upright... 

Looking back:

I found this abstract From a blog post in March 2014:

"... During my residency at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig [September 2013] I was invited to visit the dance studio. When I made my way up there, the person who had invited me was not there. Walking through the door I was faced by a full wall of mirrors.

Unsettled by my reflection, I turned around, sat down, and observed the beautiful views from the large windows: the greenhouse, Annaghmakerrig House, fields, and trees. Lots of trees. A robin landed on the wall in front of me. A playful dog ran back and forth (danced?) along the patio, his owner not to be seen. Listening to a reversing tractor making a sound like a musical instrument, I decided it was time to look around and face the dance studio mirrors.

I walked, slowly. Stood still, two canes holding me upright. When I moved the canes behind my back I looked pretty normal. I could be that dancer. But looking with intend into my face, brought sadness.

Here was the reality: I am disabled. Rely on canes to walk. Can only stand steadily for a few minutes. Away from mirrors I generally do not see my life to be so much different from the ‘healthy’. 

I needed to trust my body, trust I can dance. In my own way. 

As a result of this encounter, the puppets I was working on which were to represent dancers, changed from two healthy dancers to one disabled dancer seeing her healthy reflection in the mirror.

In art I can be who I want to be. In art I have danced. ..."

I had started to make one of the heads four years ago... But life took a different route. And I was not so sure about the head I had created... It was different from my usual more whimsical faces. 

Over the years other sculptures were started, and finished. But this one head remained in my studio. Untouched. But not forgotten. 

Starting the puppet making workshops in my studio 8 weeks ago was the catalyst to resume working on the Dancer puppets. (Of course the whole puppet adventures have taken on a life of their own as well. See below for link.)

As I wanted to have the puppet face itself in a 'mirror' (I intend to use framed plexiglass as a pretend mirror), I had to find a way to copy the head I had made. I decided that the best way to do this was create a plaster mould. Having made the copy of the head with DAS air drying clay, I was able to change the facial features some bit, to a more open, happy face, while the clay was still wet.

Dancer Puppets in the making.
One with walking sticks,
the other more free in her movements

I have assembled two wooden puppet bodies. The parts made with the help of my brother Joop, and IWA puppet maker Paul.

I made two individual sets of hands. One set to hold on to the walking sticks. The other with a much more movement in her arms and hands- even her wrists. (I moulded a piece of rope from a roller blind between the hand and forearm)

hands in the making. Adding one finger at the time

Hands in progress

The puppet with the walking sticks will be pretty much stationary when facing the 'mirror'. The other one- the reflection of herself in the 'mirror' I would like to be able to move. To Dance!

This will be an exciting adventure too. 

Of course the puppets can be manipulated manually... like the puppets in Life Outside the Box but I am also exploring how the puppet in the mirror can move with the help of a little motor.  

This part will be created in collaboration with Cork based Artist Dominic Fee .
I am so excited!

Today, eight weeks after having resumed this project, I have applied the first of four layers of paint/varnish on the puppets. Over the next few weeks/months, I will look for the fabric, and design the clothing, decide on hair style, and finish the painting process.

And suddenly, the puppet and its reflection in the mirror are becoming little 'people'.

Watch this space!

Further reading:

• See the full Dance story of 2014 
• Adventures in the world of puppetry 
• start of puppet making workshop
• The Life Outside the Box puppet blog
• Artist Dominic Fee

Movement is life

... if only I might move as the wind moves, sing along as the trees sing, bend and quiver as the flowers do, and feel the sap of life stirring swiftly and strongly through me!’

Aleanor Mordaunt

Me and Frans Hogevorst dancing during celebrations
in first year of school. Aged 4 '

Dancing has been one of my desires. All of my life.  It still is. This year I will dance! Hopefully using my body, definitely through my artwork.

As a little girl I passed by a ballet studio on my way to primary school. I so much wanted to be a dancer. During those childhood years there was a Saturday night variety show on TV. My favourite part was the group of eight dancers. I wanted to grow up as being one of them. I didn't. And even when I could decide for myself to attend dance classes, I never did. The closest I came to dancing was attending jazz-gymnastics in the 70's, and of course at the Saturday night disco! 

I possibly have been restricting movement in my body for years. Much longer than from the onset of illness. Maybe I had became unsure of trusting my body - of being who I meant to be and grew into someone others wanted me to be.
During the first few years of illness I became severely restricted in my movements. Every single action: walking, eating, brushing my teeth, having a shower, turning around in bed was at times so painful that I moved as little as possible. I did get out of bed every day and worked some routine in my day – but looking back I restricted movement to a bare minimum. The words "movement is life", uttered by a dietitian/homeopath who supported me during those early years, still rings in my ears. Movement is life. Now I am very slowly re-learning, re-imagining, and trusting, who I am. A dancer.  I am ready to dance, and ready for change.

Subtle movements are dance too

Through reading books about healing and wellness, listening to my body, observing nature and exploring art, I now come to the conviction that the breath can be seen as the subtlest form of dance. This way, we can all dance, no matter what our physical state may be. Even when I was more or less bedbound, or in constant pain, the core of my body was dancing. “Let the body be free and open as it’s rocked and cradled by the breath- still, yet continually moving,” as Vidyamala Burch suggests in Living well with pain and illness. “Motion is natural to the body and its systems. Even the bone cells are in a constant state of movement as they replenish themselves.” 

So, inside I am dancing. The realization of the importance of the breath has been with me for a long time, but as for dance, I looked outside of myself.

Annaghmakerrig Lake

Dance is everywhere

Observing nature, I witness the dance of leaves and flower petals in my garden. The birds flying from tree to feeder. A goldfinch swinging gently with the breeze on top of the teasel.
Resting by Annamakerrig Lake during my residency in 2013, I watched water-striders dancing on the surface. The intertwining circles they created on the water were of a beautiful choreography. What about the autumnal leaves swirling on the road, or a group of starlings in the sky, shifting direction at the same time? Or the gentle bee hovering, dancing above a flower in search of nectar.

One of the beauties of living with this illness is that I have time to observe the minutest detail in nature. Of course I am not alone in this.
Kathleen Madge wrote in 1947 in The World of Living Green: “almost every plant has its own dance, continually moving, both in leaf, shoot, and flower – a dance so slow that we hurrying human being do not perceive it. There is a rhythmic dance of the flowers as they open in the morning and close at dusk…"

Aleanor Mordaunt wrote this delightful passage in The garden of Contentment one hundred years before I read it. Oh beautiful, beautiful life! beautiful wind and clouds and trees! they make a Pantheon of me, and I prayed them to take me to themselves and make me one of their wild, sweet fraternity, to teach me their secrets and joys, and their almost sweet sorrows; if only I might move as the wind moves, sing along as the trees sing, bend and quiver as the flowers do, and feel the sap of life stirring swiftly and strongly through me!’

The dance in art

Now. 2017. I am on a mission to dance. 

I am relearning my body's movements and possibilities.

I have continued with my walking practice, and every week I go 'one-tree-further'. I concentrate on my movements during this now almost ten minute exploration. I am observing the dance of nature. I  am filming some of it too. And I am dancing with words here on my blog. 

My art is definately going into the direction of movement too. The plan is to have two little aniamted puppets dance through my garden. (... more about that some other day.)

If I don't fully succeed to really dance myself (as in the true sense of the word), I will dance through my art.

Links for further reading:

• Earlier dance story: The Dance of illness
• Walking: Sore hands and arms from walking
• Part of today's blog appeared here
• See author list here 

Interdependence - A story of Trees, Illness and Acceptance

Illness brings a level of dependency which can be very challenging to accept.  But maybe we are all dependent on each other to some degree... 

"These trees in your photo remind me how the trees can teach us in quiet ways the timeless wisdom of waiting, enduring, drawing strength from others (which we often seem to find so difficult to do!) and finding hope for springtime and the future."

Joyce Barrass

'The Oak tree is the emblem of strength and hospitality.' 

Kathleen Madge - The World of Living Green. 

Print from the  Into the Light  series

The following thoughts were the starting point for one of the reflections in Into the Light:

At the edge of Annaghmakerrig Lake a young hawthorn tree had grown leaning against a much older and stronger oak tree. It was as if it needed support to grow. To survive.
It made me think about dependency, about asking for help. Accepting support.

Cheri Register contemplates in her book Living with Chronic Illness: ‘Asking for help is, first off, an admission of helplessness’.

I certainly have struggled with dependency for the duration of this illness. I can still find it difficult to ask for help.
I am resourceful.
Make changes, re-think if it really needs to be done; divide up the task over a longer period...

At times I simply have to ask for help.

No matter how sophisticated the intellectual acceptance of illness is, it stays emotionally difficult to say,  I can no longer live without support.

Susan Alm puts it clearly: 'It is very frustrating when you can’t pick up a spoon or stir a pot of soup. When you have to have someone come in and do the simplest, very basic things for you, it is very difficult thing to deal with. And it is difficult not just because your life is disrupted by having another  person there, but because it's admitting that you can’t take care of yourself.'

So, What does independence really mean?

'Independence', suggest Jenny Morris in her excellent book on disability studies, Pride Against Prejudice, that 'to the non–disabled world the term is used in a specific ideological contexts; it means both physical and emotional autonomy and the focus is on the individual's ability to achieve this autonomy. When you can’t carry out these tasks you become in a sense helpless and subordinate - independence is assumed to be impossible.' Simon Brisenden refines independence further: 'The disabled are victims of this ideology of independence. It teaches us that unless we can do everything for ourselves we cannot take our place in society.'

Now that made me think.

It can be argued that my place in society is that of an artist and writer who conveys a message about living with the challenges of chronic illness/disability, through words and images. In order for me to do this at the best of my ability, I need assistance.

I realize that my dependency is not necessarily one-way. Maybe it's more a case of inter-dependence. I need somebody. Somebody might need me; maybe to earn a living, or to learn from my creative work.

This thought takes the pressure off ‘needs’, and as Cheri Register suggests, 'If we are allowed to retain control, we can accept offers of help without feeling's diminished by our dependence on others'.

Bonnie Klein, who wrote about her stroke puts a practical spin on independence. 'I no longer see independence in terms of how far I can walk, as I did in physio, but as control of my life, measured not by the tasks I can do without help but with the quality of my life with the help that is needed.' 

That, to my mind, is very powerful indeed. 

The focus is on the quality of life, needs be with support. 

To bring this to an even more human level, she suggests, 'Maybe independence is a misleading concept. Each of us is dependent on others. Perhaps independence is not the ultimate goal, but interdependence: the possibility of doing with and for each other, the ability to ask for help with what each needs.'

Or as Sister Stanislaus Kennedy puts it beautifully that all of us have unique gifts. 'We live better when we share in the presence and talents of others…'

Maybe we are both the Oak Tree and the Hawthorn. 

Links:

• This story was the one of the starting points for what came to be my Into the Light book in a box, which consists of a set of images, and short quotes.
• The image is one of the A4 prints available here
• Joyce Barrass who instigated me to write about this image, has her photos here and Blog
• Quotes are from: Kathleen Madge, The World of Living Green 1947, London and Redhill Lutterworth Press  page 16; Cheri Register. Living with chronic illness, page 73, Susan Alm. Quoted by Register Page 36; Jenny Morris, Pride Against Prejudice: Transforming Attitudes to Disability. Women’s Press 1996. page 13 & Morris, quoting Simon Brisenden, page 140; Cherri Register. Living with Chronic Illness, Bantam Books, 1992, Page 59; Bonnie Sherr Klein, Slow Dance A story of Stroke, Love and Disability, PageMills Press Berkeley, 1998, page 220 & 278
  Sister Stanislaus Kennedy, Gardening the Soul – A spiritual daybook through the seasons. Simon & Schuster/Townhouse, 2001, page: 5 June See Also HERE

Dancing

Following is an version of a story I started writing last autumn, as part of my 'book to be' Into the Light. It is still in draft form, but I keep thinking that I would like to share it with you. After months of challenging health I am re-focusing on carving out small fragments of creative time in my day, so maybe now is the time to share this little thought with you.

with every best wish

Corina

Dancing

Love Dances

There’s always been a dancer in Corina

Look up that ramp,

behind the birds,

through the bedroom window,

past the wheelchair,

over the illness,

into the art,

at the woman.

Look at the dancer.

DGS ‘06

A poem by a friend of mine. It came to her during a meditation-led creative workshop in 2006. It hangs, framed, in my studio above a print of Degas’s Dancers.

‘There's always been a dancer in Corina.’

True. Dancing has been one of my desires. It was when every single day I passed by a ballet studio on my way to primary school. I so much wanted to be a dancer.

During those childhood years there was a Saturday night variety show on TV. My favourite part was the group of eight dancers. I wanted to grow up as being one of them. I didn't. And even when I could decide for myself to attend dance classes, I never did. The closest I came to dancing was attending jazz-gymnastics, and of course at the Saturday night disco!

Looking closely at my desire to dance at the present moment makes me realize I possibly have been restricting movement in my body for years. Much longer than from the onset of illness. I possibly became unsure of grace – of freedom – of trusting my body - of being who I meant to be and grew into someone others wanted me to be.

Now I am very slowly re-learning, re-imagining, and trusting, who I am. A dancer. ‘Look up that ramp - behind the birds, through the bedroom window - past the wheelchair - over the illness - into the art - at the woman.’

I am ready to dance, and ready for change. Kalichi wrote in his book Dance, Words & Soul, that “he is still unashamedly radical in his believe that dance, re–imagined, can act as a force for change.” But first I have to go back to basics.

During the first few years of illness I became severely restricted in my movements. Every single action: walking, eating, brushing my teeth, having a shower, turning around in bed was at times so painful that I moved as little as possible. I did get out of bed every day and worked some routine in my day – but looking back I restricted movement to a bare minimum. The words "movement is life", uttered by a dietician/homeopath who supported me during those early years, still rings in my ears. Movement is life.

Recently I have started to break down the very act of dancing, of movements into the smallest components. Breathing creates movement. Movement can be seen as dance. Writer of Living Well with Pain and Illness, Vidyamala Burch suggests that: “Motion is natural to the body and its systems. Even the bone cells are in a constant state of movement as they replenish themselves.”  So, inside I am dancing.

The realization of the importance of the breath has been with me for a long time, but as for dance, I looked outside of myself.

Observing nature, I witness the dance of leaves and petals on the flowers in my garden. The tree in front of my study is dancing with the wind as I write. Much lower to the ground, a poppy sways gently on its delicate stem. Resting by Annamakerrig Lake, I watched water-striders dancing on the surface. The intertwining circles they created on the water were of a beautiful choreography. What about the autumnal leaves swirling on the road, or a group of starlings in the sky, shifting direction at the same time? Or the gentle bee hovering, dancing above a flower in search of nectar.

Dance is everywhere.

This thought is of course nothing new to humanity. I came across a delightful passage in The garden of Contentment by Aleanor Mordaunt, written in 1913.

Oh beautiful, beautiful life! beautiful wind and clouds and trees! they make a Pantheon of me, and I prayed them to take me to themselves and make me one of their wild, sweet fraternity, to teach me  their secrets and joys, and their almost sweet sorrows; if only I might move as the wind moves, sing along as the trees sing, bend and quiver as the flowers do, and feel the sap of life stirring swiftly and strongly through me!’

One of the beauties of living with illness is that I have time to observe the minutest detail in nature. Kathleen Madge had an eye for the dance in nature too. In The World of Living Green published in 1947, she writes: “almost every plant has its own dance, continually moving, both in leaf, shoot, and flower – a dance so slow that we hurrying human being do not perceive it. There is a rhythmic dance of the flowers as they open in the morning and close at dusk…"

The time has come to look at my own dance, not just of that in nature.

During my residency at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig I was invited to visit the dance studio. When I made my way up there, the person who had invited me was not there. Walking through the door I was faced by a full wall of mirrors.

Unsettled by my reflection, I turned around, sat down, and observed the beautiful views from the large windows: the greenhouse, Annaghmakerrig House, fields, and trees. Lots of trees. A robin landed on the wall in front of me. A playful dog ran back and forth (danced?) along the patio, his owner not to be seen. Listening to a reversing tractor making a sound like a musical instrument, I decided it was time to look around and face the dance studio mirrors.

I walked, slowly. Stood still, two canes holding me upright. When I moved the canes behind my back I looked pretty normal. I could be that dancer. But looking with intend into my face, brought sadness.

Here was the reality: I am disabled. Rely on canes to walk. Can only stand steadily for a few minutes. Away from mirrors I generally do not see my life to be so much different from the ‘healthy’.

I needed to trust my body, trust I can dance. In my own way.

As a result of this encounter, the puppets I was working on which were to represent dancers, changed from two healthy dancers to one disabled dancer seeing her healthy reflection in the mirror.

In art I can be who I want to be. In art I have danced. The artist Matisse, when no longer able to move freely, created art that moved for him: Through artistic projection, he was up leaping and swirling with the dancing paper forms he had displayed throughout his house. As his mind was free, he was no longer confined to a chair or his bed. He danced.

Through reading, learning, observing and exploring, I now come to the conviction that the breath can be seen the subtlest form of dance. This way, we can all dance, no matter what our physical state may be. Even when I was more or less bedbound, or in constant pain, the core of my body was dancing. “Let the body be free and open as it’s rocked and cradled by the breath- still, yet continually moving,” as Vidyamala Burch suggests. If we listen and feel with all our mind and heart, we dance.

I look at my lazy (or is it relaxed?) cat, lying on his back on my bed, completely stretched out. His belly rises and falls so gently. His breath seems to fill his whole body. Kalichi also observing the cat brought my observation closer to the point of my quest: to dance, to truly feel the movement in my body. “Stretching like a cat. Imagining a cat resting, relaxed, yet attentive. This teaches you the first act of stretching – presence. In one smooth continuum, the cat lengthens its spine, stretches out through its paws and yawns deeply.” Back to us humans: “Stretching and breathing. One movement at the time”. And in the process, unblocking my stored, hidden and blocked energy, to grow, to stretch and dance.

Bonnie Klein, a Canadian documentary maker who suffered a stroke was told by L.A. dancer Emilie Conrad that “movement isn't something we do, it something we are.” Again, movement and dance are brought back to the breath, and with that the mystery, the seemingly unattainable goal to dance, has been lifted. Klein describes her dance session in her book Slow Dance:

“We concentrated on my breath. [Emilie Conrad Da’oud] asked me to pay attention to any natural movement that occurred, even a twinge in a finger or a jerk in my thigh, and to exaggerated and follow it through. In a short amount of time I was moving my limbs in unaccustomed ways, swaying and writhing in all directions in movements which Emilie called ‘primal’, because they imitate the evolution of the species and each individual. There were no formal directions, just the natural movement of my body, directed from the inside out. There was no right or wrong, not even a better or worse.”

Bonnie Klein said after the experience: “I was a dancer too! I could play as well as work with my body; I could have fun, pleasure, beautiful music. I could take control of my healing: no therapist knew my body as well as to as I did.

It all seems so simple. Maybe it is that simple.

To start my dance, I started to learn the practice of Tai Chi last autumn. Once a week I went to a class, and although I've mostly observed the teacher and other participants, I was drinking in the movements. I so appreciate the grace of movements. The pace of movements is something I can cope with. I stand up to do the warm up exercises and movements when I can. Most I do sitting down.  Focusing more and more on my breath, how my body feels and concentrating on every subtle movement my body is making, I am aware of subtle changes in my body. Kalichi, who at the time of writing Dance, Words & Soul, had been teaching Tai Chi for 25 years, says “Tai Chi is a slow and continuous movement – one movement leading gracefully into another.” I can feel the grace.

While fast-forwarding a Tai Chi video to the part with the exercises I could do sitting down, I watched the 108 moves made by the practitioner. Her movements resembled a beautiful dance.

With my mobility becoming more restrictive again due to (yet unexplained) deterioration in my health, I started following the online Mindfulness for Health course, given by Vidyamala Burch and her company Breathworks. Focusing on the importance of the breath and the subtle movements I can feel in my body are of great benefit for my overall wellbeing...

I too am dancing.

Slowly.

‘Look at the dancer…’

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