Mary Oliver

 

From American Primitive 

A Shropshire Lad

 

A Shropshire Lad, XL

Into my heart an air that kills  
  From yon far country blows:  
What are those blue remembered hills,  
  What spires, what farms are those?  
  
That is the land of lost content,
  I see it shining plain,  
The happy highways where I went  
  And cannot come again.

by A.E. Housman 
Expired 35mm film from a Olympus OM10 camera he gave to me a few years ago, but that I never had opened. Just developed this past weekend. 
He passed away yesterday. 

Drawing South Podcast

 I spoke with mikewindy, my former sculpture professor at Flagler College, for his Drawing South Podcast. I had not spoken to Mike, beyond social media interactions, in roughly 15 years. It was beyond great to catch up and talk about art making. Mike is a great artist and teacher-and the questions and foundations he laid in that class are things I still feel today. Check out the podcast here https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/a-conversation-with-amelia-eldridge/id1548410092?i=1000693035807 . He has lots of great talks with other artists as well. And here's a link to Mike's own website https://www.mikewindy.com/  . Thanks for the listen.

Artist Statement 11/21/22024

 ARTIST STATEMENT

“...suddenly, it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room.." - Shekure, My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk

Through the isolation of specific body parts, lines, and shapes I explore the structure of the human form. The body serving as an archive of experiences of space and the passage of time. Through the act of physically engaging with my materials, I descend back to this sensual world I inhabit. I use the work as a means of scrying, desiring to understand this vessel I inhabit. My desires have become enmeshed with my meditations on the cycle of the seasons, and the textures and spirits of the natural world. Techniques, crafts, stories, and ways of old that are still in existence today, inform my contemporary art practice.

The Maid

 I made this apron as a meditation on the role of the maid- a helper both looked down upon and fantasized about. I did not use a pattern, rather imagining and measuring using my body. 

I saw the painting that is featured in the cyanotype at the Holburne Museum in Bath, England in June of 2023. I was immediately stuck by her coyness and sass, a painting born of fantasy. Who is watching her? And what do they want with her? And what exactly is she washing? What was her (or any 'servants') level of consent in this? Did she welcome or hate it? Or both? A true lady's maids hands would never be that pristine..Right.. a lot of thoughts. As someone who works in a professional role of service as a public librarian, I’ve felt like a maid. People in turn concoct their own fantasy about you, while others treat you like a servant. 

A Lady’s Maid Soaping Linen by Henry Robert Moreland. C. 1765-82.

Though I saw this painting at the Holburne, the image I used to make the cyanotype is one in the collection of the Tate, featured above. 

The cyanotype hands were made using paper cutouts of my own, the idea being that they are trying to “grab at” the maid. Greedy hands versus helping ones. The two in the center are actually pockets. I had hoped that the apron would come out rather sexy. On the flip, within my personal life I  find the maid trope incredibly sexy. Seduced by falling into the role of the helper or one playing into a fantasy. It is interesting to think of the piece as a muddling between 'professional' and 'personal' life. Consent and boundaries being paramount. 

The apron is made from a simple muslin and sari ribbon around the neck. 

"She enters, as though once and for all, circumspectly deposits her vital paraphernalia beside the door, then crosses the room to fling open (humbly yet authoritatively) the curtains and the garden doors: there is such a song of birds all about! Excited by that, and by the sweet breath of late afternoon, her own eagerness to serve, and faith in the perfectibility of her tasks, she turns with a glad heart and tosses back the bedcovers: "Oh! I beg your pardon, sir!" - p. 94-95, Spanking the Maid by Robert Coover 

Integration

 Marie Howe♥️ another from her collection of poems “Magdalene”

I Pine, I Weep, I Mourn