The Group as Witness Environment
Trying to convey the nature of what transpires in a studio when a group of artists are at work can be maddening. Though it helps to show the process, even a videotape edits the experience. I invite you to conjure images of the artists at work in your mind’s eye. While the stories of individual artists give a glimpse into a personal experience of art as a spiritual path, the aspect of being witnessed in a group cannot be underestimated and is lost in the telling of the individual story. The nature of the witness, the quality of attention offered to one another, and the spaciousness provided by the practice of no-comment are ineffable but vital to enabling artists to forget themselves and their outer concerns, and to enter the artmaking experience completely. In order to understand this phenomenon and to learn how to write about it, I gave over the facilitation of the Friday studio process class at Studio Pardes to Kim. I did this reluctantly. After all, I had worked for years to devise and refine a method that I could both participate in and facilitate simultaneously. I feared that I would feel left out and resentful watching others create while I “merely” witnessed their process. I resisted the idea even though I had been feeling flat and disengaged for quite a while when participating and facilitating, especially with my own artmaking. I had begun to feel the pressure of piles of images created without a destination. I felt increasingly torn over the growing separation between the images that arose in the classes and the artwork I created alone, which was often more complex. The time frame of several hours had begun to feel too short.
The Friday class consisted of twelve artists, some longtime veterans of the process and several new members. I decided to begin my witnessing in the second meeting of a new session so that Kim could establish herself as facilitator with less interference from me. She briefly explained to the group my plan to visit and observe. I didn’t know exactly what form that would take until I showed up for the second class. Kim initiated the drawing workshop “Energy Made Visible,” the heart of the process. We begin all sessions with this workshop, in which artists are invited to choose one color of oil pastel and a small sheet of paper, often a scrap, and begin to make marks. They are asked to explore the richness within the limitations of this practice as thoroughly as they can. The idea is to notice everything: the sense of sitting in a chair, the act of choosing the scrap of paper, maybe one that already has marks on it. The instructions given in the workshop attempt to bring students into greater intimacy with their own experience, and often go something like this: “Choose a color. Feel the blunt crayon as it touches the paper, again, again, differently again. Notice how a dirty crayon brings along traces of other colors. Do you like that? The crayon warms in your hand and smears on the paper, blending colors. Do you like that? You notice that you can put one color over another, you can obliterate, you can layer, you can scrape away color and reveal what is underneath with your fingernail, which is now very dirty. Do you like that? Yes, it is like foreplay, this act of making marks. It transports and opens you and makes you want more.”
Once the artist feels finished, they can take a large sheet of paper, tape it to the wall, and continue to make marks using any and all colors. We play loud drumming music in the background as we make marks. The music interrupts the thinking process and induces a light trance, allowing us to focus simply on color and marks, simply on the bodily pleasure of touch and color. These marks are the record of each artist’s energy. Standing at the wall, we make marks for at least an hour or more. Some artists choose to stay with a small piece for the whole time; others move almost immediately to the wall, tearing off large sheets from rolls of paper.
As I enter the studio on my observation day, artists are talking, laughing, catching up about family and children, getting cups of hot tea. Light streams in, catching and illuminating the colors of the dragon painted on the west windows. It is a bitterly cold January morning, and these artists have set it aside to make art and write about it. Kim sits quietly and listens as conversations subside. She smoothly moves into explaining the task of the day, making marks on paper. She reminds everyone to make an intention, to focus on their bodies, to become aware of the energy that animates them, to become present to self. She mentions that, of course, any regular member who feels called to paint or work in another medium should heed that call: “Follow your pleasure.”
Some linger at the tables with journals; others move directly to the large rolls of black, white, or brown paper and tear or carefully cut off sheets of varying sizes. Next, these are taped to the wall with masking tape. The drumming CD that Kim has chosen unfolds a beat that is loose and rhythmic. She chooses a spot on the wall closest to the music, a spot I usually take. I am sitting at first in my work space, set apart from the classroom by a long table and the shelves that hold the art materials. I wonder at first if I should be out of sight, but soon realize I must move around the room and take different seats—that there is so much to see. Mary stands over the oil pastels, which are set out according to the spectrum, moving her shoulders up and down to the beat, shaking off the morning chill. Rebecca stands, hands on hips, looking at her piece of black paper against the paint-stained wall. She carefully tears and manipulates one corner of the paper, twisting it gently.
The drum beat gets louder and more complex. Kim is covering an irregularly shaped piece of black paper with white lines. Mary is dancing back and forth along a six-foot stretch of brown paper, making marks with many colors. Brenda works carefully on a piece of black paper. She is creating an image, a figure running into a field of peach and blue. She leaves a wide, empty border around the figure. The music shifts again to a multilayered percussion. I can pick out rattles and a sound of metal against metal. Kim and Heather share a laugh at the oil pastel bins. Mary’s paper falls down; she tapes it back up and keeps working. Kim adds red and orange over the white marks.
Tom wrote his intention with a flat carpenter’s pencil. He is the only man in the studio today. He works on an image of a man with a tornado of color coming out of his side. Heather has two pieces of brown paper on the wall, one above the other. She repeats circles and more circles on the lower piece, circles and ovals on the piece above. Amy, to Heather’s left, begins to fill with black around some colored lines even though her paper is black. The colors leap out from the paper with the added emphasis.
I hear a rainstick and a chime in the music, and a deep bass note creates a sense of something impending. When I am drawing, I don’t notice the minute details of the music. In fact, sometimes I would swear I have never heard a CD that I have played for years as background music for the “Energy Made Visible” workshop.
I feel enormous energy as I witness and record what is unfolding in the studio. Although I came in nervous and not knowing exactly what I would do, this watching, writing, and moving around feels exactly right. I am a witness. I do not feel outside the process as I had feared, but simply in it more fully. I am overjoyed at the energy flowing around the room and at my ability to swim in it and receive this new delight. The music shifts to a track with quieter sounds and whispered voices in an African language. The movement of the artists slows down, too. Heather stops for a drink of tea; Mary walks around and looks at what others are doing. Heather returns to her piece and begins to fill in her blue circles with white. Meg has drawn what looks like a large lotus flower over her initial marks. Kim sits for a while and regards her drawing from across the room, then returns to add a tornado-like shape in black over the red center.
The music shifts again and suddenly both Meg and Mary, working side by side, are adding black lines over their colorful marks. Kim adds a second piece of paper and adjusts the placement of the first piece on the wall. Rebecca carefully draws small marks in the corner of the paper she had massaged in the beginning of the session. A figure is forming. As she walks across the room, I notice that her cheek is lightly smeared with black oil pastel. She walks across the room to get a look at her piece from a distance. With dreamy looks on their faces, several artists peel paper off oil pastel sticks. Tom stops and turns from his corner to regard the room. Meg has added a second flower. Kim has added two more tornado shapes.
The CD begins to skip. Kim looks toward the sound system on the center of the altar, but she doesn’t stop drawing. The skipping stops. Kim sits down and drinks some tea from her electric-purple hot cup. All the artists are committed by now to the image that has appeared. Rebecca is adding a face to her figure. Kim has added a third piece of paper. The artists have been in the studio for about fifty-five minutes. They are engaged with something that has arrived to meet them on the paper. As an observer, I realize I can’t know what that is. I cannot know if any particular artist is happy or sad, frustrated or ecstatic. I can simply notice what I see and the feelings and thoughts that rise and fall in me.
It feels surprisingly good to witness the class and not participate in artmaking. The CD continues to skip periodically and then right itself. I imagine a fingerprint on the playing side and make a note to tell Kim about cleaning the surface with a cotton swab and rubbing alcohol, a trick I learned from the teenagers who come to the studio. I imagine Kim weighing whether or not to take out the CD. I relax into the knowledge that today it is not my responsibility, and I am only curious about how Kim will respond. Meg’s flowers are multiplying. Kim stops the sound system and changes the CD. A few artists turn to jokingly complain. Kim jokes back: “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice, but then you’re supposed to notice everything!” Now Kim plays a CD of drumming and flute music by Kodo, a Japanese traditional music ensemble. It is much crisper than the whispered African voices. The sound is like being inside the drums.
Brenda sits down and takes a breakfast bar from her bag and begins to eat while she regards her drawing. Rebecca has drawn a face in light yellow lines. Heather continues to fill in her circles with white. One oval in the upper piece is filled in with magenta. Amy cuts a second piece of paper, the knife making a crisp sound as it cuts through the paper. She tears masking tape from a roll; these sounds mix with the music. The music shifts again; it sounds like the original CD, and the artists are moving more briskly and fluidly to the African rhythms. Mary resumes dancing. Kim is adding eyes to the center of her figure, nine of them in a line. She comes over and consults me about the CD and how to skip over the damaged tracks.
Meg has added a green background to her flowers. Rebecca, again across the room, stretches her arms overhead as she looks at the changes she has made. The face is gone; a burnished-looking egg shape has taken its place. Kim has switched back to the Asian music, which doesn’t feel as free or mysterious to me, but more stylized. I imagine movements I might make to it. Mary is sitting down, working on a small piece of paper. Amy squats near the floor to reach the second piece of paper she attached to her original drawing. I think about the differences between African art and Asian art; the aesthetics of each culture are so different. I chide myself for making such a gross generalization and let the topic go. I notice my strong preference for African music.
Kim sits down and begins to write her witness with a little stub of a pencil. She gives a time check to the group, reminding them that they have about ten minutes of drawing time left. As if on cue, a very uptempo piece begins to play. Mary attaches her small drawing to her large one. A cell phone begins to ring but is nearly drowned out by the drumming. Mary cuts off a new piece of paper. The music builds to a frenzied crescendo with several false endings. I notice the time seems to move more slowly as I sit and witness. More infernal Japanese flutes! I wonder if this music would disrupt my process if I were drawing. I note again my preference for African music.
I wonder if the artists will remark on my scribbling presence in their midst. Artists begin to drift off to wash hands and get ready for the witness writing segment of class. Meg changes the orientation of her piece on the wall and then changes it back. Kim lowers the music, a sign to the group that the drawing part of class is coming to an end. The energy quiets further, and I realize there has been no conversation aside from a few brief exchanges. Artists have been silent and I look forward to hearing their witness readings. Conversations float in from the bathroom, where washing off the oil pastels from greasy fingers provides a transition. Cups of tea are refilled, seats taken. Only Heather still works at the wall, filling in circles.
The artists have been in the studio for about an hour and a half. Now they begin to step out of the numinous space of creating, to begin the process of separating from the image and regarding it more completely from a place outside it. This drawing workshop, perhaps more than any other art experience, allows the artist to merge with their image, to fall into colors, strokes, and the smeared surface. Sometimes it feels like fighting, slashing, and leaning into the paper. Other times it feels like melting. It is in the moments of merger that we touch the Creative Source, losing track of time, relaxing into a state of focused but gently suspended awareness. Music aids this suspension. Some artists may not have even noticed the skipping CD or the switch of musical styles. The most jarring musical intrusion occurs when there is a shift to English and the language becomes comprehensible. In almost all English speakers, this interrupts the sense of being transported to another realm and fully awakens the thinking mind. The witness writing is a transitional state. Awareness is focused more narrowly at first on the image that appears. Often the experience feels like surfacing after being underwater. The artist at first tries to notice what is there—what colors, what shapes—to sharpen awareness even further and to enter the image with one’s thinking mind open and not in judgment mode. Just look, just see. Now that the image and artist are separate, each can regard the other. After describing the piece, the witness becomes a conversation. This may take the form of dialogue, or there may ensue a series of ideas, observations, or even metaphoric ramblings that speak of the artist’s judgments, insights, intruding events of the day, and stories.
After about thirty minutes of writing time, artists walk around and look at the art that has been created. Kim invites the artists to read their witness writings, remembering to ask each person to say his or her name before beginning. This part of the process is like a courtly ritual. Heather begins by reading her intention: I engage with the process and welcome whatever energy comes. Then her witness: What I mostly felt while working on this piece was pure joy—and I feel joy when I look at it up close like this. I see a jumble of circular marks different shades of blue—deep Prussian blue with white—mostly white on top of blue but then blue working back into white. The marks have lost their circularity on the top layer—have become choppy and sometimes horizontal blue bands staccato across the paper like musical punctuation, as do the lighter blue areas where I used a light blue cray pas instead of getting that color from mixing. I see a visual rhythm that pleases me. The marks are exciting, energetic, rhythmic. The composition is horizontal—I tried at first to put the piece of paper vertically on the wall but I had to change it—wanted it horizontal. I also had to cut the paper in half so that it would be thinner horizontal—I wonder why I am drawn to these horizontal bands of paper? Many of my works here have been like this—those bigger ones.
HEATHER: Drawing, can you tell me why horizontal?
DRAWING: Movement across time.
HEATHER: Like a time line?
DRAWING: Generations continue on, everything is the same and different—war, greed, love, hope, poverty, wealth, violence, kindness, fear—all the same, all different, all jumbled together in this human stew. You shouldn’t judge it—that’s what the Hindu sages have said—you have to embrace the whole damn messy thing.
HEATHER: Oh, so chaos is good news?
HEATHER: So in this drawing—oh—now I see people, faces, masses of humanity and everyone, each one is beautiful—if they are ugly they are beautiful in their horror—it’s all so seductive, really.
DRAWING: Yes—if you’re present, if you’re paying attention.
HEATHER: Like all those people on the train—when I begin to really pay attention they are all so interesting I can’t write fast enough to capture their vitality, their individuality, their quirky wonder—that’s the magic.
DRAWING: Now you’re cooking.
HEATHER: So do you have any advice, any practice?
DRAWING: Yes, keep up with your observing, keep up with this mark making—follow the circles that give you the bliss.
HEATHER: Yes, I started with the circles, I love to make circles.
DRAWING: Yes, well why don’t you do that at home—your practice is to make circles this week. Take Wednesday afternoon and just make circles—like you did today and see what comes up—turn on the drumming music—treat yourself to a new CD or two and go with the circles and write an observation each day—think about the wealth of all these interesting people to observe.
HEATHER: Thank you drawing—you’ve really taught me a lot today.
As Heather reads, the rest of the artists focus on her. I find tears rising in my eyes. Heather is working to create her identity as a writer and artist. She knows she must make space in her home if this dream is to become reality. She is receiving her own guidance. Mary goes next. I notice the small drawing Mary made toward the end of the session now affixed to her large drawing. It is labeled “unremote control.” Unlike most artists, who use journals or notebooks, Mary frequently does her writings on scraps of paper; today is no exception. On a beautiful scrap of handmade paper with rose petals pressed within it, Mary writes: Intention: I stay in touch with the process I invite strength and stamina to help me on my 50 by 50 journey. She mutters that we do not need to know exactly what the literal meaning of her intention is and begins to read her witness off a large fragment of brown kraft paper. Wow, the power of intention! I got the gift today.
DRAWING: Music—movement are your answer . . . Play . . . Ferris wheels roller coasters. Prayer beads. So many images flying in at once. Pure energy flows through you, you are energy.
MARY: But what about these dark black lines? I thought I would not use black today at all at the beginning.
DRAWING: Black is the seat and direction of your power. You need to accept that your power and energy need to be directed and controlled.
MARY: While working on my black lines, images of my kids at school come flooding through me. [Mary is a preschool teacher.] They were playing yesterday, taking hollow big blocks setting them up to the shape of a television. They made TV screens on paper and taped them up to the blocks. About seven children did this. Then they got blocks or pretend telephones, sat on chairs, and began pressing their pretend remote controls to change channels on their “TV’s.” It was fascinating prompting incredible imaginate stories, television stations, conversations about fears and dreams. I began to recognize some of their skills and abilities, their hopes and nightmares in each press of the remote. They went there so easily—with the push of a button.
DRAWING: You need an unremote control. When you are remote from your feelings and energy, you don’t have control over your life. You can’t follow a direction. It’s too chaotic. You do have to have a plan. You have awesome powers. Just press the button.
MARY: Thank you. I know.
Silence follows Mary’s words as we sit and take them in, letting her wisdom become our own. Rebecca goes next. Her intention is: Don’t think anymore—just do. She begins her witness:
I finished reading my book this morning—a book I’ve been pulled into as I do with most novels, where I become the characters and their lives become mine. This is how I’ve always learned, through absorption. Does “absorption” ever get included as one of the intelligences, as a learning style, as a valued technique for taking in information? I ask rhetorically. So this book [A Fine Balance by R. Mistry] I identify most closely in the end to the character of least strength, who lacks ambition and the ability to overcome obstacles. He lets life beat him. Why do I react to him? The characters in the story who are truly beaten by life bounce back, joke, continue living. Is this survival guilt, the guilt of the more lucky, more fortunate, that my character feels?
On to my picture. I enjoyed doing this. Pleasure, Kim reminded us last week. That was good to be reminded. I cut my paper with a strange corner rip and spent time adjusting the rip to be a private little scream at the top right corner—a little spirit scream. Then the color first felt overwhelming and I cursed cutting a big paper (though not really so big). But once the music carried me, my lines grew and I didn’t care what I made or where the lines went. At one point the white jiggle reminded me of hair and I thought of Venus de Milo—she stayed with me throughout, though only as a whisper. I think the suggestion of sea from the colors I chose and the wavery seashell shaped lines made me think of her, and when I stepped back, I was shocked to see a delicately shrouded oval shape that might well be a face. A face, yikes. I liked the picture, why destroy it with an awkward face? Why not try, what difference does it make? It looks like a face belongs in there so I tried it timidly, working to the drums. But the drums pulled out from under me—just stopped cold [when Kim changed the skipping CD]. Empty and gone. As though someone turned on the light in a softly candlelit room, the face was gone, as well, so I stepped back to inspect the problem, immediately knowing what to do, or try to do anyway. The oval needed to be mother-of-pearl rather than a pearl. The irregularity of color and shape has always appealed to me far more than a pearl.
Perhaps there’s a face hidden in there somewhere. She’s serene and protected, wrapped in her lacy shroud. She’s a survivor without guilt.
Brenda goes next. She has chosen to explore an image that she began last week; that is her intention. Her witness begins:
Last week he was stepping out onto the water. This week he’s running toward it, energy radiating from his outstretched hand. No ripples in the water now only a soft glow reflecting from the sky. Who is this guy?
He is the energy I never seem to have.
He is energy—light—movement—go—
He is unafraid.
He is confident.
But who is he?
A Spirit. The Spirit of going forward. Spirit of light. Spirit of “it’s okay.”
“Light” has more than one meaning—is he the opposite of “heavy” or the opposite of “dark”? Well?
Go forward. He is the Spirit of Going Forward.
And that’s okay.
Kim follows Brenda. Her intention reads: I connect with the Creative Source and find pleasure. Her witness reads:
What are you circles that are being birthed? A hurricane of fire birthing a butterfly of transformation a head for a woman—a bird woman not a butterfly. Eyes nine eyes why nine eyes? White. First I created a hurricane of fire after many layers and different energy lines going in all different directions the hurricane appeared. I loved this fast-moving hurricane. I desired to be stirred up. I desire to be on fire I really can feel the pull to get out of myself. Hurricane, do you wish to speak?
HURRICANE: Yes, pay attention here you are out onto the fire hurricane pay attention here this is a birthing.
KIM: Then I realized it was so I repeated the spiraling fire hurricane many times over then I could feel the next step of something energizing. So I ripped the paper and I had the shape of what seemed a butterfly or bird someone or something with wings. I worked on the wings and desired a head—the head of who or what—like a bird head?
WING: A contented happy face.
KIM: I say it is, but as soon as the face appeared she said: “I’m not beautiful enough I’m not feminine enough I’m alive people have to notice me.”
KIM: You’re asking me?
FACE: Yes.
KIM: Give me hints—
FACE: Eyes—like Klimt.
KIM: I’ve no gold.
FACE: Doesn’t matter. I want lots of eyes.
KIM: O.K., I see where. So I created nine eyes. Eyes are the all-knowing.
FACE: The more the better—never enough eyes.
KIM: I feel there is more you are not saying—
FACE: You will know be . . . Be what I ask BE there
KIM: Okay, I guess—what else did you desire?
FACE: Waves of spirals to pull me along to calm my soul—
KIM: Okay, done, anything else?
FACE: You can be divided in many directions but if you are challenged think of me for you need to be true to yourself.
KIM: I will take this advice. Thank you.
Meg, whose final image has become a profusion of flowers, speaks next. Her intention: To feel warmth! To rid my body of the chill that has stuck with me all week. To listen to the music and move around and greet the paper! It feels good to be back here, to create something, to be myself. Her witness:
I have lost my chill, briefly as I sit here I feel a breeze again. I hate the cold. I hate the heat as well. Spring and Fall—why can’t we just have two seasons? I look at my drawing. The black outlines please me—I don’t think I’ve ever used black like that. The other times I’ve used the Cray-Pas, I’ve just scribbled, never making a real outline of anything. I started out that way today. I wanted to try textures so I taped artificial leaves and feathers to the back like leaf rubbings. I’ve always liked how Brenda makes a border around her image at first I made a yellow rectangular border, filling it in with strokes. I felt confined and stifled. I rebelled and popped my strokes out of it. At first, little loops but then I made larger ones, big strokes of color, pinks, blues, yellows, greens, I had a sample plate of colors, not wanting to limit myself. I like color. Bright colors. I grabbed the black and made some leaves. The flowers came naturally. Seems all I draw are hearts, flowers, and children. What does that mean? I ask my flowers.
FLOWERS: You like them.
MEG: Duh. And they are colorful. No deep meaning here. The green background feels tropical. I wish my image were a big beach towel on the sand. I hear the crashing of the waves, the calling of the gulls rather than the sound of the traffic and the screeching of brakes. I feel the sun shine down on my face. I sip a cold, fruity drink with an umbrella, a slice of orange and a (luck?)! Paradise. My picture brings me peace! Whimsy. It takes me out of the cold, back to Catalina where Greg and I looked out at the ocean for hours at a time laughing, talking, then saying nothing at all. Enjoying our time alone. No worries or responsibilities. Able to focus on us, the beauty of the sea and sleeping late. Walking. Sunbathing. Eating lots. Drinking more. A week long date in paradise. I think I’ll save my pennies and get back there some day. Till then, I’ll look at you, picture, and pretend.
My eyes turn to Kim’s picture—a genie exiting the bottle. Swirling as she comes out. Taking it all in with her many eyes. A smirk on her face like she’s in charge. She’s got the power, she’s in control. Waking up. Meeting the day head on. Willing to take what it gives her with open arms. Strong. I am woman she shouts to me.
I am intrigued by Mary’s mural! Her “remotes.” I watched her move with the drums, slap on the colors, large swirls all over the page. She motivated me to get the hell out of the yellow box! Thanks Mary.
Amy’s images attract me. The asymmetry in the paper fascinates me. I think “how brave to make a cut like that—I’d be worried about hanging it back up or framing it.” Looks like Catholic grade school was not the best place to have one’s first art experience! Maybe I’ll try a fun shape another day.
Amy speaks next. Her intention: How can I get unstuck how can I get inside find the inner movement and pay attention to the force going in the opposite direction. She doesn’t write question marks. Her witness begins:
A snake with an egg in its tail winds itself around the leg of a tree that once was human but then was trapped mid-leap. The serpent aims upward at an interrupted forest. A high-heeled boot opens its mouth with a sides way smile its spindly teeth can dangle. Who knew that the big toe grid hid a prisoner with a pink dancing partner? Two huge tears of green are more than middleaged breasts. They have inner knowing eyes that the snake wants to eat to feed its tail egg. Is that boot mouth menacing or snidely comical. There are porous openings into spaces that perhaps are moments of evaporation. Who’s more (?) the tic tac toe or her pink partner who may have slipped from the prisoner’s grasp. The high heeled pointy toothed mouth may have aims in the pink dancer’s direction. But then it’s hard to say if hers is a smile with any bite. Dangling images speak but they are hieroglyphs that say too much and like to interrupt each other, even one dangling participle looking for the main clause.
Tom, who is married to Brenda, goes last. He states his intention: Get in touch with lots of energy. His witness, typically brief, reads: I took smaller image from last week and worked it in color. Too energic nervous and hot—as in radioactive. I really appreciated the “cooler” work around me today. Thank you.
Once everyone has read, Kim strikes a small chime to signal the end of the formal witness time. Chairs scrape, some artists leave quickly, some linger to wash their hands and tea mugs and delay going out into the January cold. Sometimes there are questions, general ones, or observations about the process. Often there are expressions of gratitude. Today those came in the witness writings themselves. The sense of mind-body entrainment produced by the music persists. It takes a while for thoughts to crowd back in. A sense of peace comes from going deeply within oneself in the presence of others.
Today, observing, I realize that this studio experience evokes a quality of early life. Mary’s reference to her preschool students’ imaginative play helps me to see how similar their play with pretend televisions and changing images with remote controls is to the artists’ mark making. In both instances images rise and fall, teasing out emotions, stories, and insights as they go. Both are play in the most exalted sense of that word. Both artists and children play life like a beautiful instrument for which there are no lessons save the playing itself. Play is an indigenous, primary form of being in the world, even of inventing the world. I am struck also by how well each image fits its artist. Each artist, through writing their intention, sets the terms and conditions of the relationship to the Creative Source in this particular encounter.
What the artist calls out for determines what the response will be. Meg’s reverie about a romantic vacation with her husband provides an antidote to the “cold that stuck to her all week.” While she may not be able to take that trip right now—in fact she spoke of “saving her pennies for the next trip”—she can go home and embrace her partner with a rekindled appreciation of him and their intimacy. Amy’s work conveys in both word and image a playful complexity worthy of the Surrealists. It isn’t necessary to speculate on a concrete meaning. She is playing out in plain view what is only known to her; the rest of us still feel the energy generated in the tension between her images.
We don’t know what Tom is so “hot” about, and it is none of our business. It is enough to be washed over by the subtle dance of different currents of energy flowing through the room. Meg chooses to name the currents when she mentions the work of individual artists in her witness. Several things distinguish her act, which is a form of referencing, from simply speaking the same observations out loud. For one, whether they feel flattered or annoyed by Meg’s interpretation, the artist being referenced does not verbally respond. One of Meg’s comments serves to illustrate an essential aspect of referencing. She notes that she has always enjoyed the borders that Brenda often creates in her drawings by leaving a space around the perimeter of the image. When Meg tried bordering her own work, she noticed a feeling of restriction and quickly broke the boundary she set. There is nothing like copying an artistic convention to gain empathy for one another or to get to know the crucial difference between what the mind says and how the body feels.
Without it being consciously referenced, the circular form shows up in many artists’ work this day. I can’t help but think of enclosure and gestation as apt winter themes. The studio, too, provides enclosure. It allows each artist to be washed and buffeted by energies that nurture, soothe, and evoke responses in their souls. This is my response and may say as much about my state of gestating this writing project as anything else. Each artist calls out with an intention for something, receives response in the forms and colors of the image, and emerges with something new, nourishing, and grounding.
I have not been so completely in the role of witness before; I always create my own work along with facilitating. Now, seeking only to observe, I experience the events within this environment in a way that is qualitatively different from how the other workshop participants are experiencing them. I am much more aware of how powerful the music is. I notice the vastly different effects exerted on me by the orderly Japanese Kodo drummers and the loose, layered, improvisational African music. I use a wide variety of music from around the world in the studio, but most often I am drawn to African music. Its call and response format seems to best support this kind of artmaking. The music’s purpose is not only to interrupt thinking but to awaken an indigenous form or template within the soul that mirrors our right relationship with the Creative Source. The artist Estella Conwill Majozo says:
This form—call, answer, and release—is a metaphor for art itself and the potential that it holds. The call is incited by the experiences we have in the world, by the human conditions and predicaments within our terrain that arouse our interest or consciousness. Next comes the response, the artist’s creation—the attempt to name, recognize, and instigate change through his or her creative expression. But the artist’s creation is not the end of the process, as it is often thought to be. The process continues as members of the community experience the release, the inspiration that allows them to enflesh their message and begin activating change in their own terrains. This basic human-to-human interaction signals the symbiotic relationship among human beings. When we understand this, we can go on to better appreciate the breath dynamic between ourselves and trees. We can understand our relationship to oceans and ozones and other zones within the universe. (1995, 91)
I discover something in this act of witness that gives me a new and deeper appreciation of the process. We humans are multifaceted and live in an ever-more-complicated world. I believe that at one time humans achieved self-renewal simply in nature, that being embedded in the natural world was a means to retune us to our soul and to retune our soul to the frequency of the Soul of the World. Without needing to ponder things too deeply, the deep truth of natural law simply reentered our awareness on a deep, nonverbal level when we watched the sunset or the tide go out. We re-created ourselves in the divine image, assured of being a part of a larger whole.
When re-creating became recreation, creative activity began to be increasingly mediated by commerce. Equipment, clothing, and organized adventures take the place of a simple walk in the woods followed by some cloud gazing. Communal sports and games are replaced by professional events that reduce us to spectators. The indigenous soul starves and atrophies on a diet of spectacles.
In the studio I witness artists re-creating themselves and returning to balance by dialoguing with images. The art process seems to provide a bridge to the laws of Nature, which we can easily lose touch with in our busy efforts to achieve and produce. It certainly seems true in the following stories that the communal nature of making art together and the energy of witness consciousness combine to encourage artists to move beyond the static created by the world that blocks the call of the soul. For this reason, I am drawn out of the fixed space of an established studio and into the uncertain terrain of the world. I am called to make the process portable so that we can venture into the lost places like Geiger counters seeking the call that, while nearly drowned out, must still exist in everything.