At My Feet

installation, ceramic,earth,coal

I spend an inordinate amount of time scrutinizing the ground.

Watching for bumps and cracks and detritus left behind.

My neck gets sore from the constant hyper vigilance needed to stay upright.

Really, just RIGHT in general.

And so.. I came across an artist recently who piqued my interest.

He created 100 MILLION INDIVIDUAL SUNFLOWER SEEDS for an installation at the TATE Museum.

Each tiny seed was made individually, fired once, painted and then fired again.

The artist invited the museum-goers to walk on the carpet of porcelain seeds and have their own experience.

Intriguing landscapes can be found at one’s feet, in the sky, the full and wide-angle view we take for granted and in the palm of one’s hand.

Since MS has forced me to be more myopic, my landscapes are closer in.

I like to wade through each person’s flotsam and unveil the jewels there; often hidden.

I do the same with myself.

The longer this partnership continues with MS, the shinier I seem to become.

(except in the mornings when it takes me hours to become human)

(Oh.. and then in the afternoons when the leaden wall of fatigue comes a’ callin’)

(and then when I am swearing up a storm because I can’t even hold an avocado to cut it for lunch)

I haven’t quite mastered talking myself into all situations as interesting landscapes…


2 Responses to “At My Feet”

  1. spiny tim on October 18th, 2010

    Any scene should be of equal interest to the competent artist, but emotions are our ambition, and without that supercharging of attention, or when we are distressed by the superhuman demands placed on us by our neural affliction, we cannot see, we cannot be touched by anything less than a chorus line of angels in spangled suites with full orchestration. Just sayin’.

  2. Caitlin on October 21st, 2010

    ah Cathy – love the photo of you and Livvy.

    and I forget to look down – with the false confidence of AFO – and then, go flying down to the ground – flying? – hands out to save my head from hitting – and biting my lips to stop the tears – as Bridge watches and calls out “Mom, Mom are you OK?”

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