Arty Tuesday: Reflektor is on Fire

This week's Arty Tuesday takes us into Arcade Fire's Reflektor and Geoffrey Farmer's 'Spider House' - as well as anywhere you want to go. What arty things have you been up to this week? Art speaks. This is where we stop and listen in community.

Share up to three art experiences you've had this week. A gallery show. A movie. A new album. A piece of theatre. Choose based on one criteria - the art made an impact on you. It spoke. It resonated. It won't leave you alone.

Share in the comments, and comment on others' posts.

My name is Dave, and I'll begin this week.

MUSIC: Arcade Fire: Reflektor

I don't buy a lot of music. That doesn't mean I download a lot of music for free - I just don't get new music that often. There are a few bands I follow closely and Arcade Fire is one of those. Having pre-bought the new album a month ago on iTunes, I was very excited to get my 'download is ready' email. The album has not been a disappointment. I am loving the fusion of electronic beats with organic rhythms. I read that this album bears the fingerprints of travels in Haiti and it's easy to hear the influences in the rhythms alone. I think Arcade Fire have done a masterful job blending their own unique, anthemic style with the joy and infectious danceability they found in Haitian music. This album is a lot of fun! But it is, as all Arcade Fire albums are, deeper too.

I'm still sifting through the lyrics (my life doesn't allow a lot of 'sit down and listen through this' moments). So far, there are many lines making me think. 'Thought you would bring me to the resurrector / turns out it was just a reflector' points to our loss of intimacy and spirituality found throughout the song Reflektor - we've created idols that simply reflect us back upon ourselves infinitely. The line also makes me think of the time I was in the Mormon temple for a tour and saw a room with mirrors on each side, reflecting back and forth into a simulated eternity. I seem to remember some Mormon roots for Arcade Fire (correct me if I'm wrong) so I wonder if that's part of the reference here?

Here Comes the Night Time is chock full of contrasts between the people in the streets and the people of the religious establishments. Indictments against missionaries are here, knocks on televangelists and even jabs at the theology of heaven and hell. But this is not just deconstructive railing. Arcade Fire has found beauty in the sounds of the streets of Haiti, and in that beauty I think they've seen God, and they have noticed how blind to him the Christians seem to be -

"And when they hear the beat, coming from the street, they lock the door But if there's no music up in heaven, then what's it for?"

(see full lyrics with some interesting notes here - http://rock.rapgenius.com/Arcade-fire-here-comes-the-night-time-lyrics)

That line alone could be a sermon.

What's grabbing you on this album?

GALLERY: The Intellection of Lady Spider House

Both of my kids were too scared to go inside this massive haunted house / installation at the Art Gallery of Alberta. I have to admit that opening the broom-handled door that led into darkness and mystery, I was spooked, too.

A haunted house in an art gallery over Halloween sounds like a gimmick, but this installation by Geoffrey Farmer really works. It works as a haunted house, and it works as a fascinating art installation. It is immersive and it is scary. It is impressive and calls out for engagement. It is unlike anything else I've seen, really.

What was interesting for me were the things I was afraid of. There are typical spooky elements, like severed limbs and spiders. But then, there are areas where I wasn't sure I could go. There were no clearly marked signs to go this way or interact in that way, and so I found myself to afraid to be curious in some cases. At one point the path leads under a bridge, through a tiny little tunnel. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was allowed in there, so I went around. My fears about breaking things, including the rules, were rising up and choking me. This exhibit revealed some things about me that I don't like to see.

It is dense and worth more than one visit, so it is good that we have until January 12 to visit the 'house' time and again.

Have you been? What did you think?

Please join the comments below - I'd love to talk about these, or any other art with you this week.

Art Speaks: Learning to See in a Room Full of Eyes

This is the first post in a series exploring The Bleeding Heart Manifesto in depth. Each post will take a sentence from the Manifesto and explore its meaning and implications for a life filled with art, faith, hope and love.

Art speaks. Stop and listen. Open yourself to questions, conversations and connections. Engage. Wrestle.

(featured art by Jessica Culling)

The entire Bleeding Heart Manifesto – in fact the entire Bleeding Heart project – stems from two words; art speaks. The implication is that art matters, that it can mean something and that we ought to listen. Even when the hearing is hard. Even when we need to wrestle. Learning to listen can be transformative. Learning to pay attention can awaken us to a world behind the world.

But art is often quiet. Sometimes art is nearly invisible as wallpaper, hiding out on the walls of your favourite coffee shop or behind the admission prices of a large public gallery. Art can be obtuse, or even resistant to interpretation. Some contemporary art seems to speak a foreign language, if it is speaking at all. Or perhaps it is a language we have forgotten.

Some art is loud. Performance art often begs to be seen or heard. Rock music certainly makes a noise. But amid the bang and clash, is anything really heard? If we could learn to listen even through this jangle, would we hear anything that matters?

There is much to be heard for those who have ears to hear. Listening is a journey. I am learning the language of art and it is worth the effort. I am grateful to my teachers.

I first learned to see in a room full of eyes.

Several years ago, I was invited to a small gallery by local artist and curator Edward Van Vliet. I arrived at Profiles Gallery in St.Albert, where Edward was working, to find a space smaller than expected. I took in all of the work in about 3 minutes. There were not many pieces, and the art was contemporary in a way that defied easy interpretation. It was easy to breeze by and let the work’s whispers drift over my head. But I’d driven a half hour to come here at the invitation of a friend. This friend was watching and waiting, eager to discuss my response. Edward had something to show me and I wanted to be sure I saw it.

I sat down on a black leather bench in the middle of an installation. I was willing to wrestle. I was surrounded on all sides by drawings of eyes, cut out and hung on string from the ceiling. There must have been hundreds of eyes, hanging like hand made mobiles over a crib. My initial reaction was surface level. Cool. This piece was cool. But meaning? There were eyes. So what?

Edward sat beside me and began to help me listen and see. He did not offer explanations, but questions. What do you see? Eyes. What are they looking at? Me. How does that make you feel? How does it feel to be watched? Are you confident? Are you afraid? What does that say about you?

These questions are likely a blurring of Edward Van Vliet’s words and my own inner dialogue. They opened me up not only to the installation of eyes, but to the world of art in general. Art like this, that seemed obtuse and beyond my comprehension, could be unlocked. It could unfold and bloom like the petals of a rose, to reveal a greater depth and beauty. Art could become a mirror, reflecting hidden parts of me back at myself. There was beauty waiting if I would only stop, look and listen.

Since those eyes looked into me, I have been learning to look myself. I am trying to pay attention at the leading of artists and thinkers like Edward Van Vliet and Jeffery Overstreet, whose mantra is 'Looking Closer’. There is much to be gained, I have found, by looking closer.

Our noisy world can numb us. The barrage of babel can stop our hearing. Art is asking us, everywhere, to wake up. Wake Up! Of course it is difficult to hear on first listen, as we are so often asleep. We are numb to our consumer culture. We are willing captives to our technology. We are numb to our own apathy. We are numb to our self deceptions.

As you go about your living today, so many voices will grab at your ears. With the internet in every pocket, information has become nearly as ubiquitous as air. It has also become as invisible. Like air, we breathe all of this information in and out, without noticing. We can barely distinguish particle from particle, fact from fact. It has all become noise.

And yet, in a sacred small voice, art speaks.

How do we break through to hear our voice? We must assume a posture of listening. CS Lewis prescribes an approach of surrender;

“The first demand any work of art makes upon us is surrender. Look. Listen. Receive. Get yourself out of the way. (There is no good asking first whether the work before you deserves such a surrender, for until you have surrendered you cannot possibly find out.)” ― C.S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism

The Bleeding Heart Art Space seeks to discover and share work with something to say. We are drawn to art that whispers under and through the noise and numb.

The gallery needn’t be the only example. We can hear these voices in a movie theatre, or calling from the stage. We resonate with late night radio. A story can pull is into an old book’s dusty pages and show us something about ourselves. Art has this power to connect, beyond time and space. Art speaks.

Listening does not happen in isolation. We can help one another see and hear, as Edward Van Vliet helped me amidst the eyes. Discernment is best in community, which is why each week we are hosting Arty Tuesday on this site. You are invited to share art that has spoken to you in the last seven days, and to comment on the sharing of others. You can join last week’s conversation here.

I also invite you to share your thoughts on today’s post below. Here are some questions to get us started.

What moments you have had, surrendering to the speech of art? Have you ever heard a piece of art call out? Has it ever aligned with something in your own heart, causing an inner voice to rise up and whisper, or shout, some truth in your ear?

As an artist, have you had the joy of knowing your work has spoken, either to you or a listener/view/reader?

Are there dangers involved in opening yourself up to a work?

Arty Tuesday 'Spooktacular'

Welcome to week two of Arty Tuesday. We hope you'll join the conversation. Art speaks. This is where we stop and listen in community.

We believe that what we watch, listen to, and experience matters. It can form us. Of course, this formation can be to our benefit ... or not. Discernment is required. Thoughtful consideration. And this happens best in community.

Share up to three art experiences you've had this week. A gallery show. A movie. A new album. A piece of theatre. Choose based on one criteria - the art made an impact on you. It spoke. It resonated. It won't leave you alone.

Share in the comments, and join in the comments on others' shares. If you dare (cue Halloween inspired cackle) ... 

Arty Tuesday

Welcome to Arty Tuesday. Art speaks. We're gathering here to stop and listen in community. These posts are conversations, so use our brand new commenting system and join in.

The idea is simple.

• Think about the art and media you've experienced this week. Gallery shows, movies, books, music, public art, theatre – anything goes.
• What affected you? What made an impact? What are you thinking about, days later? Get beyond what you liked or didn't like. What left a mark?
• Share up to three art and media that impacted you this week and tell us why.
• Read what others are sharing and comment. Keep the conversation going.

Glen Workshop Part Four: I Am a Poet

As I began my reflections on the Glen West Workshop, I shared two questions I had packed alongside my shorts and sandals. One of those questions was so basic it's embarrassing. Going into my first poetry workshop, I was wondering, 'Am I a poet'? This question, perhaps better posed as 'am I a real poet?' might come in many forms. Am I a real painter? Am I a real novelist? Am I a real dancer? Am I any good at this? Am I legit, or am I a fraud? Do I belong here, among professional peers?

The question reveals deep, life-long insecurities and fears. This tiny question can become an unscalable wall.

I shared earlier that the Poetry track was not my first choice. I had chosen songwriting, a path that felt safer as I've walked it much longer. When that door closed I had to walk through another, less comfortable door. It felt like a doggie-door that I had to crawl through on hands and knees. I felt humbled, small and unprepared.

Most of this fear, like most of all fear, can be blamed on faulty thinking. I had wrong ideas about poetry. I had caricatures of poets in my head. It seemed poetry was far more serious and intellectual than me. Poetry was for English majors and professional philosophers. There was a chasm of comprehension I could not cross.

But there was some poetry that I loved. There were even some poets I knew personally, defying my false perceptions.

Why are lies often louder than truths? Why did I choose to believe the frightening parts of my own story and doubt its comforts and encouragements. Why do I always?

Monday morning, I walked into my poetry workshop to meet 15 other poets, including our workshop leader, Amy Newman. I had read their work through plane rides and airport waiting, and had no idea which writing belonged to which real-life person now sitting around the table with me. My secret guesses were often wrong.

Over the week we talked about each poet's work for an hour. Because we went alphabetically, I was plunged back into grade school line up nightmares, forced to wait until the near end before my work was read. My question would linger until Friday morning.

But even before we arrived at my work, I learned much about poetry. I learned that I understand and appreciate poetry much more than I'd given myself credit for. I could contribute to the conversation. People appreciated my feedback. I was treated as a peer. I thought to myself how wonderful it was to be in a room full of poets, marinating in wonderful words. I discovered how precious good poetry can be. And then I realized how rare it is. This is not the time in history for poetry. It is not in fashion.

I learned, I think, what poetry is for. Or can be for, at its best. A poem can dive deep into a moment to discover the kaleidoscope of creatures beneath the water's silent surface. A poem can slow down time and draw attention to a bygone instant, because that instant was full of riches that should be savoured. A poem can hold a magnifying glass to the lawn and honour an ant's noble work – seeing the sacred in the small.

Poetry is about naming things because they are worthy of names. It is about memorials. To all of us sleepwalking, poetry is a wake up call into life.

Poetry is paying attention, and there are such riches to be unearthed by that digging. I heard a poem explore a moment when a group of girls shot guns into a lake in the American south. I heard a poem reveal a railroad spike's dreams. These poems stand out for taking something small and making it large enough to walk around in. I am grateful for them.

By the time I read my own work, I had shed much of my fear. And yes, it was confirmed, I had written poetry. These pieces I had submitted were, in fact, poems. And all of that could only mean one thing. Yes, I am a poet.

Those simple affirmations from a group of 'real life poets' meant the world to me. As I reflected on my week at the Glen Workshop, now winding down, those affirmations spurred me on to write my best poem, and perhaps my first poem as a 'real life poet'. This poem came from a bolder place. It is a poem with a little less fear in it.

So I will close this series with a poem that for me marked a new beginning. This is a poem about poetry, an 'Ars Poetica'. And it is, of course, about more than that.

Ars Poetica (On Leaving)

Poetry If your special magic is to pluck a single star From the vast night sky of time And pull that star apart into A universe Then do

The clock wanes And I will see only one more New Mexico moon Stars are shy where I come from I have to dig for them Beneath the rush and noise Of traffic-life

Twenty four short hours from now I board the airport shuttle In broad daylight The stars slipping Out of my naive net

Of course I cannot keep this I am no astronaut Stepping in slow motion On this moon rock There is no gravity here, to hold me No children No wife No friends with earth-bound histories

I would lose my tether and Pirouette into the galaxy Revolving endlessly round A center of myself Lost To space madness

---

This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

The Glen Workshop Part Three: Instant Transformation Takes Its Time

I began my series on The Glen Workshop claiming, as Glen organizers claim, that a week can change a life. My change came in a flash of clarity that has been spilling its light onto practical, nuts-and-bolts decisions since my return. Those decisions have been surprisingly easy. That flash was hard. It was Wednesday afternoon and I was listening to Jeffery Overstreet's session at the Glen. Rather than simply read from his work, as most other presenters did, Jeffery had prepared a talk. Or perhaps the talk had pounced upon him, unprepared. He had adjusted his talk in a frenzy of last minute inspiration. The Spirit, it seemed, was moving. I listened intently to tales of Jeffery Overstreet's journey as an artist. I recount the talk, but scenes have lodged themselves in my memory. His story was full of failures and falters. Jeffery was wounded early on by love, and became afraid to love again. That fear held him back, not only in love, but in his desire and ability to create. He became starved for beauty.

I know from experience those terrible, suffocating walls of fear, closing in. I could feel their claustrophobia as Overstreet shared.

He had moved into a job where his creative calling was not front-and-center, but he eventually found life and hope in a late-night poetry reading group who met in some dark and mystic hideout. He told of meeting his wife, Anne, and wanting to journey with her but not knowing if his fragile heart could make the trip. His own brokenness was keeping beauty at bay. It was at this point, I think, that my own fragile heart began to crack. Jeffery's story then moved to what should have been the pinnacle of his career – publishing the series of fantasy novels he had envisioned for years, The Auralia Thread. A series, we learned, that echoed many of his own struggles with beauty and creativity and brokenness.

All four books in his 'thread' were out now and Jeffery Overstreet was still not sure what success meant. He still found himself wrestling between job and vocation. His own brokenness, and the brokenness around him, had not simply vanished in a magic 'poof' of achievement. As he shared that Wednesday, he was in the midst of a very difficult year, surrounded by tragedies too close to home. He was still searching for a beauty strong enough to pull him through.

But there was this moment. Facing deadline, Jeffrey Overstreet was struggling through a difficult scene in his novel. He went for a walk. He discovered his breakthrough in a form so small that many would have missed it. Jeff's personal mantra seems to be 'looking closer', and he must have been looking very closely that afternoon, through the Seattle mist, to spot a single leaf dancing in midair. He got out his camera. We watched the video. That leaf danced, suspended like pure magic, for well over a minute or two. The video stopped before the leaf fell. And that was it. Just a little dancing leaf. But it was a gift and Jeffery Overstreet recognized it. And I recognized it.

I recognized the voice of God in that moment whispering that there is still beauty in the world and even though life can be difficult and even though I can feel alone in my calling, He is right there. I need to look closer, but He is here.

In that moment I heard God say that my fragile heart can go one more round. I felt my excuses rise to pull that dancing leaf to the ground. I work too much to spare time for my dreams. Sometimes my wife's shift-work schedule makes it difficult to commit to things. Our single car makes travel difficult. I don't feel strong enough, inside, to do what I feel called to do. And so on. Then I heard God respond.

What if the obstacles in my life never go away? What if I can never pursue my calling full time? What if I never make much money from it? What if I always feel this broken? If this is what I'm given to work with, what then? Will I just walk away? Am I okay with that? Can I just set my calling down? Am I done searching for beauty?

And then my fragile heart broke.

Tears welled up and all I could do at the end of Jeffrey Overstreet's talk was blubber a thank you and make plans to chat later. Once I gathered my composure, I began to piece this awakening together. What had I heard? Why had my heart broke open? What was God up to and what was I to do?

I had not been avoiding my calling but I had been holding back, hiding behind those excuses. For the past few years I have been content to rest in the shadows and support my wife's career. It has been my delight to support her, as she has so often supported me. These have been good years, and I remain grateful, but I was feeling a push from the shadows and into the light. As my wife and I would discuss later, the season was changing yet again.

Two practical choices emerged, both significant. First, I could not work as many hours as I was working and get any more accomplished. The definition of insanity, they say, is doing the same thing and expecting different results. Time was something I would have to carve out, and not something that would fall in my lap. Second, we needed a second vehicle. The scheduling issues of shift work can be transcended, at least in part, with a second vehicle.

So far the changes are going well. I've just begun my new schedule working two days a week, rather than three or four. I am finding more time to write and to grow The Bleeding Heart Art Space. I've had some wonderful coffees with friends new and old. A few weeks ago we bought an old Subaru Forester. I am still struggling with becoming a two-car family, but that's for another post. For now I will admit that the colder it gets, the more at peace I feel with that decision.

Taking time away to think and pray and feel and commune with the Holy Spirit and the Body of Christ, I heard some things. Perhaps more than the Glen Workshop itself, it is this act of listening that is changing me.

My prayer now, back in the routine rush of the everyday, is that I continue to listen, and when I hear, to respond courageously.

Here is another poem written from the Glen, about waking up.

The Opening and Closing of a Door

The opening and closing of a door awakens me with recognition The sound and speed of it creaking hesitation The timbre and pitch of a careless slam

In my murky waking it rings like church bells And I am not here in a college dorm bed too small for two under threadbare scratchy blankets tossed and turned

I am in my basement bedroom coolness squinting sideways toward my wife still sleeping soft as sheets so it is too early But tell that to the kids upstairs crowing good morning with their loudest opening and closing of a door

As soon as I approach they all become mirage and I am left with my self missing deeply Scrunching my sunburned forehead

Yesterday I walked alone in brightness

Near canyon road I saw a massive sculpted portal white as a promise Circles circling circles daring entry A Narnian gate

And I wish that I could rise and dress my suitcase in hand To turn the creaking handle toward unthinkable light then step across the rot-wood threshold of home

---

This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

The Glen Workshop Part Two: A Banquet of Beauty

Having arrived at the Glen Workshop late but in one piece, and having awoken my poor roommate, and not for the last time, I woke up to my first taste of Santa Fe sunshine. I headed to breakfast, gawking at the gorgeous landscape on every side. Turquise brush met turquoise trim on burnt sienna buildings hiding on burnt sienna hills. I crossed the adobe campus of St.John's College, past the tranquil Koi pond, towards the first of many abundant, delicious feasts. I ate very well in Santa Fe. From my first breakfast, I met incredible people. I challenged myself to join the conversation of a new group each meal. I learned a lot this way. I learned about art spaces and projects like The Bleeding Heart that had soaked up time, money and passion like sponges, rarely giving large returns on investment, but always worthwhile. This shared struggle somehow encouraged me. In other settings I could whine how difficult it was to get a crazy project like The Bleeding Heart Art Space off of the ground. I could bemoan being misunderstood. But here was total understanding. Here were those who fought in the same war, and having been wounded, rose to fight again. And again. Beyond my own excuses these were beautiful artists who made art work in their context, regardless of perceived success or failure.

Over the week I met remarkable men and women, most of whom have not made a living solely by their art, but have surrendered to its vocational calling nonetheless. They have simply found ways to create. Sometimes to not create for long seasons. Sometimes after raising families and establishing careers, to return to their first love of art making. But regardless where they had meandered across a lifetime, the artist's call remained a constant thorn and comfort.

You may recall my questions about what a real life artist looks like 20 years down the road from me. I met so many, with a kaleidoscope of answers. A few common truths emerged.

Artists are called and love or hate it they cannot shake that call. Artists find a way to make their work and surrender to their calling. Sometimes that way is their job. Oftentimes it is not. But they find a way or they suffocate. Artists are often on the margins of their communities, misunderstood and taken for granted. This is why the Glen Workshop is bread and water for so many creatives. It is a week of mutual understanding, where relationships put down last summer can be picked up at that same spot, and carried forward without disruption. Lastly, artists have an absolute overwhelming abundance of beauty to offer up to those who would only watch and listen.

I got to watch and listen a lot during the Glen. It's hard to overstate the blessing of simply witnessing God's creative energies exploding from his obedient children.

Each morning I would listen to poetry from my fellow workshop participants, every one gifted in some unique way. Each voice exposed to me a new facet of God's world. I saw with new eyes. Amy Newman, my poetry workshop director, led us towards some rich wells of words, and I've been returning to drink ever since.

Each afternoon I would enjoy the beauty of creation as I walked from building to building, or sat in the sun to soak it all in. Then I would wander the aisles of Eighth Day Books - a miraculous collection of arts and faith wonders. Then I would listen to reading, or view visual works by one of the workshop leaders. And then, after supper, I would do that again. Then the worship with Richard Rohr, presenting a faith I so wanted to embrace even when I struggled against its simplicity. And finally, some days, an open mic where the floodgates would burst with beauty brought by the workshop attendees. There was no pride or pretense in these performances. It was only, 'here is what God has given me to give to you. Isn't it cool?'. And it was always cool.

On our day off, I wandered downhill into Santa Fe's downtown with two friends I'd made. I won't go into detail to avoid a travelogue, but suffice it to say any creative person must visit Santa Fe. Canyon Road alone boasts a hundred galleries in a single mile. I have never seen anything like the quantity and quality of work on display here.

Later that night I crammed into the apartment of Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet for a gathering called The Thomas Parker Society. It was an intimate night where anyone could get up and read work they'd written or work by someone else that had moved them. There was both laughter and tears. I learned that this spontaneous happening happens spontaneously every year at the Glen, and that one talented man brews special beer to share just for the occasion. Another beautiful gift offered up to community.

As the week came to a close under that final Santa Fe moon I became sad for one reason. I knew that one cannot live with so much beauty always. I knew that this was only a foretaste of glory divine, a thin space where I could not breathe for long.

But for a week I feasted. And in gratitude for that feast, I wrote this poem.

I Just Want to Say

I just want to say (And not just, because I could gush) That you are each beautiful Your particular shimmer Bright as Santa Fe And I did not expect that Gift Or the long conversation Threaded through myriad mouths Across a week of dinners and Walks and waiting Each voice building on the last You, Christ's speech To my hungry ears

I just want to say That compliments are easy But not encouragement that I can believe And I believe you all Truth in love Church

I leave larger Mended where I knew no break Seeds in my spirit A garden growing You have no idea what you've planted In me

I just want to say that

Oh, and thank you

---

This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

On Descending Into New Mexico (Glen Workshop Part One)

The first in a four part reflection on the Glen Workshop, in which Dave Von Bieker gets scared, gets brave, and almost doesn't attend the Glen Workshop.

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When you market your event with the tagline, 'a week can change a life', you're stepping out onto some high, spindly limbs. First off, for an arts workshop with rich roots in writing, it can sound a bit cliché. We artists can be jaded folk, after all. And if that line is to be taken seriously, it presents a grand promise. A promise that must be proven. It's a risk, but as this year's theme was Art and Risk, I suppose the Glen was well aware.

I can attest that the gamble paid off. A week at the Glen has changed my life, in ways both concrete and abstract beyond my comprehension. I am still not sure exactly why, in the middle of the Wednesday session with Jeffery Overstreet, I began to cry and was unable to stop completely for an hour. God was working in very real, mysterious ways throughout the Glen, and my own experience culminated in that Wednesday awakening, which I'll return to later.

First, let me explain what the Glen Workshop is. I attended one of two versions - the Glen West in Santa Fe, New Mexico. For one fee, you get a week's worth of art, spiritual formation, workshops, community, accommodations and food. Afternoons and evenings are packed with presentations by artists across several disciplines. We saw photographs of freckled faces. We heard the first act of a play. We viewed paintings and soaked in poetry. Richard Rohr, a Franciscan Priest led us in brief but deep evening ecumenical worship. Mornings at the Glen are for workshops, in the arts discipline of your choosing. There are several options, including one for those wanting a tasty sampler, called the Explorer's Track. I chose Songwriting. At least until it was cancelled.

My road to the Glen was rather rocky, and perhaps that should have clued me in that something important was going to happen to me there. On the other side of every mountain is a valley, after all, and every peak must be climbed.

The first stumble in my journey came as an ominous email informing me the Songwriting track was cancelled due to lack of interest. I had mustered up the courage to register. My wife assured me that it was OK. It was worth the investment. I was worth the investment. I'd paid all my fees (which led to other problems I'll get into later). I'd booked my flights. My track now cancelled, I could get a refund, but not on the plane tickets. I was going to Santa Fe in July, but now I had to choose what type of artist I wanted to be.

I likely knew instantly that I should take Poetry, but Poetry terrified me. Even at a conference about Art and Risk, Poetry was too risky – too difficult. I toyed with safer options, but didn't feel right about them. I was offering up too much time and money to play this week safe. At the encouragement of friends, I signed on for the one Poetry track I felt to be the safest of two offerings.

Then the second email arrived. That Poetry track was full. Would I take the other one? I sweat it out anxiously. You see, to call myself a Poet, I felt like a fraud. Like I was playing house. And this particular workshop leader wrote poetry that scared me even more. Poetry I couldn't fully understand and poetry that sounded nothing like my own. Poetry that hovered above my head. If anyone was to call me out as a phoney, it would certainly be her. But as the line formed behind me on the sky high diving board, I could do nothing but jump.

Somewhere in the free fall, just about to be consoled by my own courage, I received another blow. An email arrived telling me that the company handling online registrations for the Glen Workshop had not been paying the Glen. They took my money, but never handed it over, and most likely would not. Because I had paid early on and all at once, I had in fact not paid. Would I have to pay twice? Could I not attend at all?

Was all of this a sign to just stay home and stop trying to be someone I am not?

Well I obviously went to the Glen Workshop, and they masterfully handled the payment situation. And no, these setbacks were not signs to stay home. But they also weren't over yet.

The morning of the Glen, alarm set to 3 AM for a 6 AM flight to Santa Fe, my answering machine picked up a robo-call from the airline. My flight was cancelled. No reason given. No alternate flight offered. Simply cancelled. I think I laughed as I rose to stumble towards my email and arrange last minute travel in a 3 AM stupor. Waiting on the phone with the airline for nearly an hour I almost fell asleep between travel site searches. In the end, I got on a flight to the Glen, arriving late but still before my Monday morning workshop. It was going to happen after all.

Knowing I had a lot riding on this Glen thing, what with the promise of life-change and all, I came prepared with two questions.

The first was simple. Am I a poet? Is what I am writing poetry – proper poetry – and would other proper poets think so?

The second question weaved itself through the week. What does a real, working artist look like? How do artists make a go of it and what life can I expect in 20 or 30 years? These foolish choices I am making now, where do they lead? I would hear answers through myriad voices across mealtime tables for seven glorious days.

These questions in hand, exhausted from a perilous journey, I touched down in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Waiting for my Santa Fe shuttle, I did what I felt I should do. I wrote the week's first poem.

On Descending Into New Mexico

Descending into New Mexico I glimpse the red rock And mottling bush And hear Bugs Bunny Pronouncing Albuquerque Al-bee-coyk-ee! And I finally know why

It's obvious that this is where the road runner Chased the coyote past Endlessly repeating backdrops Of burnt siena desert

This defining palate of turquoise and burnt peach Sunburn and dusted green Straining to look fertile

Everything in this landscape dances in duotone Every sign in the ABQ airport (Which they tell me is a sunport) Is sunburned skin and moss Dusty rose and sand-storm teal

I rise in my seat and lean for the window New food for old eyes I feel like a boy I taste dormant wonder Then I hear the bleep of the cell phone My seat mate has turned on, After undoing his seatbelt Both before allowed Tiny rebellions

We each have our ways to stay young

The airport is small and old And not surprisingly dusty rose and teal Salmon and powdered turquoise The seats are leather and ranchwood and rivets in brass I see, for the first time today, no signs for free wi-fi It is deceptively cold with air conditioning And the water doesn't taste like home

A step outside reveals hot evening Hot enough in the day, I am sure, to burn a peach Or drain the green from kale

The word 'southwest' rings out like a 10 gallon hat in Calgary, I have yet to peel the cartoon from reality

We shall see for here we are Me and the roadrunner On an adventure

Meep meep.

---

This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

Call for Submissions: #JusticeYEG, The Gallery

The Bleeding Heart Art Space is looking for visual art submissions for the art gallery at #JusticeYEG: A Local Conversation. This gallery will bring together art touching on social justice issues with local relevance to Edmonton. All visual media are welcome.

The issues included in the conference will be HIV/AIDS, aboriginal contributions to restoration of community, housing and homelessness, sex exploitation and sex trafficking, creation care, and restorative justice. Artworks can deal with any of these issues, or the concept of social justice in general.

The Gallery will be on display at the historic First Baptist Church during the #JusticeYEG conference, November 15 & 16.

All work must be submitted by Sunday, October 27. 

Download the Call for Submissions

#JusticeYEG - Call for Submissions (PDF)

Kaleido Festival is a Future-Glimpsing Crystal Ball

When you are proud of something, you want to show it off. Your new home. Your new baby. Your new outfit. Your community. I think of Kaleido Family Arts Festival as an annual housewarming party for a neighbourhood in continual renewal.

Those of us who live in and around Alberta Avenue can see so much potential all year long, peeking out from every alcove and alleyway. It gathers for coffee at The Carrot. It is jamming in the basements of old fixed-up houses. It paints in garages and performs on the Avenue Theatre stage. It smells delicious as a Portuguese bakery and shines brightly coloured as a Glen Ronald portrait. But this potential remains, mostly, bottled and shelved in small separate spaces. And you often have to search those spaces out.

During Kaleido, combustible potential combines and explodes into, well, a kaleidoscope of beauty. For these three blessed days we all get to see Alberta Ave not as she was, and to be truthful, not even as she is yet, but as she will be. There is a long way to go on our journey of revitalization. The path is fraught with obstacles and discouragements. Events like the Kaleido Family Arts Festival remind us that the destination is worth the trip. We can see with waking eyes what is usually perceived only through eyes of faith.

History now knows this to be an event shared with 40 000 people. A very large housewarming party indeed. So large that guests and events are squeezed in everywhere. And this is what makes Kaleido really unique, even for those who couldn't care less about the miraculous second coming of Alberta Avenue. The entire streetscape becomes a stage, with things to see in every direction. Four blocks of street are closed along 118th Avenue and all down the road you'll find sculptures on lampposts, dancers, flash mobs, music raining down from balconies, roving performers, aerialists hanging–or dancing–from buildings and painters collaborating in the alleys. No space is safe from the transformative power of community art.

Words fall short as Kaleido must be experienced first-hand. You must simply show up and be immersed. I usually spend Friday evening meandering down the middle of the ave, mouth and eyes gaping in proud wonder at what Arts On The Ave, the Kaleido organizers have pulled off.

You'll wonder how this could happen, right here in this little old neighbourhood, smack in the middle of this unassuming northern city. We may not have those fabled 'champions' any longer, but at Kaleido, you'd hardly notice, as the same lampposts bearing sports cutouts of a bygone golden age are covered in yarn or grass or photographs or papìer-màchè.

The Bleeding Heart will be caring for volunteers throughout the weekend, and we couldn't be happier to involved.

Kaleido starts this Friday, September 13 on 118th Ave between 90th and 94th streets. An Arts Gala and Street Party kicks things off at 8 PM, along with an showing of Honey, I Shrunk The Kids! At 10 PM, the Aurora Lantern Parade carries lights the darkened streets with handmade lanterns, winding up back at centre stage for a 10:15 concert by San Fancisco alt-indie-pop band The Do-dos. And that's just Friday night.

Oh, did I mention admission is by donation?

Get all the info you need at kaleidofest.ca.