What's new in PW3225? PW3225 = Print Works, Building #3, Floor #2, Studio #25, Taylors Mill. What's new? Works in progress. Let me be honest: I am less likely to share images of my work in progress than the finished artwork. Vulnerability is an issue, even for my mid-career artist self.

I recently completed a 48x36-inch work as well as two of three 22x10-inch pieces (see pic of number three in progress). All of these are intended for my solo exhibit "Remnants" in Greenville's Metropolitan Arts Council gallery in January/February 2017. As I move toward the show's installation date, I've devised a way to make myself more accountable by recording studio time in my cell phone calendar. My peak creative and productive window is 5-hours. While wielding an Xacto knife to cut a multitude of collage pieces (see pic of working table), it is prudent to know when to stop. A lack of attention can result in cuts; blood is not included in my personal definition of "mixed media."

Speaking of knowing when to stop, a colleague and friend who recently visited my studio, paid me what I consider a compliment: "You know when to stop." She is referring to not overworking a piece, because if the art is over-baked, it will taste that way. Overworking leaves no room for your imagination, only mine.

The other pics are from December's First Friday in PW3225, just prior to a steady stream of delightful visitors. In a matter of weeks, the cradled wood collages and the suspended cocoons will travel from PW3225 to be "what's new" at the Metropolitan Arts Council. PW3225 will be empty but ripe for "what's new" in 2017.

On the morning of Wednesday, November 9, as I back my car into a parking space at Taylors Mill, I catch a glimpse of something green within the cavity of a hole punched into a concrete wall. The green, upon closer inspection, is a fern inhabiting a patch of earth in the cool underbelly of a walkway. Life sprouts in the most unexpected places.

What else is sprouting at Taylors Mill? On November 3, First Friday and Open Studios coincide; it's a perfect opportunity to get to know some of my neighbors. While I am not participating in either - the deadline for Open Studios was April and I did not move into the Mill until mid-July - I do enjoy partaking in the events. The weather is favorable, 13 Stripes Brewery is opening its doors for a peek at construction and a taste of their wares, Due South Coffee is rolling up its garage-size doors, and a food truck and cupcake vendor are on the premises. The vibe in the air is Millennial but inclusive.

Tonight my husband is joining me as we first ascend the stairwell leading to Shane Bryant's William Felton School of Craft. Shane and I go back a few years, as former co-workers, when his vision was to hone his craft in clay. Vision accomplished. But what surprises me tonight, in the rear of his massive studio/school, is a white wooden structure. The handcrafted vessel reveals Shane's more recent passions: boat building and sailing. Curious? Contact Shane with inquiries; I tend to stick to the shore.

Traversing across the parking lot to another portion of the Mill, climbing the concrete and steel stairs, and walking through a door marked "WRK GRP," we enter a space filled with a bevy of French-doored studios. Among the two dozen studios on the second floor are those of sculptor Allison Anne Brown and painter Nathan Bertling. Both are Open Studio artists. Classically trained, Nathan works in oil: landscapes and portraiture. There are a number of self-portraits in his space, each with a penetrating gaze as painter becomes painted. If you have ever attempted a self-portrait, you know it demands mustering an objectivity more easily accomplished painting others. I email Nathan following my visit: "The portraits are strong, dignified, and seem to encompass what I imagine to be the best of each of your portrait sitters." He also opens his studio for weekly sketching sessions; best to check his website for details.

As we again walk across the parking lot, I am oblivious to the fern underneath the walkway - the one awaiting our Wednesday morning encounter. Life sprouts in the most unexpected places.

As I ramble down the one-lane road toward Highway 29 in Amherst, Virginia, it is impossible to miss the sign "the real world" - simple lettering on a blue cloud background, perhaps painted by one of the many artists-in-residence at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. This is my third artist residency in three years, the previous two in Kentucky and Georgia; each a unique experience. How so?

Here at VCCA there are an average of 30 artists-in-residence at a time; private rooms with shared bath are in a 1970s-era dormitory that also houses communal spaces and the dining room where two of three meals are served. Lunch is conveyed to a kitchen in the Normandy-style barn that has numerous studios so that fellows - as the artists-in-residence are referred to - barely need to interrupt the day's work. Each studio is outfitted with a bed for naps or overnight sleeping or creative musing. To say that I am spoiled after 10 days here is an understatement.

What is common to each residency is the tradition of leaving one's autograph on a studio wall or door frame. Here at VCCA, I overhear one fellow effusing about her assignment to the studio where Cheryl Strayed once sat and wrote. In my studio, VA9, it appears that installation artist Bryant Holsenbeck was the latest occupant in July 2016, but I count no less than 58 names dating to 2010 on the door frame. Later, I discover a wall ledge in the back of the studio where I glimpse behind a section of peeling white paper yet more autographs. The accretion of artistic energy is palpable in all 500 square feet, from the skylight to the paint-dappled floor, and as of October 4, 2016, there are now 59 signatures on the door frame of VA9.

Writers and visual artists alike make each studio their own: moving furniture, orienting a desk toward the east or west, taping protective plastic to the walls. For VA9, it is an uncluttering in order to create space for a new Japanese-paper immersive installation, "Refugium: lily pad." But it is premature to assign a title to this work. I have come here to explore the lily pad, to see where it takes me. Long hours in the studio behind closed doors - fellows may only enter upon invitation - without daily distractions and with the support of the VCCA staff, are the perfect ingredients for a productive and insightful experience.

And then there are the evenings. On the night of the first presidential debate, all of the fellows gather around the sole TV set. On Monday night two poets, Lara Payne and Hilde Weisert, give a reading in the studio of visual artist Miriam Morsel Nathan. On Tuesday night a hallway is transformed into a salon with readings by two fiction writers, followed by a performance by a music theorist. Wednesday evening is an unplanned event - a tornado warning forcing the fellows and staff to congregate in the dormitory's basement, followed with another reading by two fiction writers and a poet. I am introduced to new terminology: conflation, and epigenetics. With the ebb and flow of artists-in-residence arriving and departing (some from as far away as Germany and Austria), there is no lack of stimulation.

By week's end, my one-layer lily pads are now two-layered and suspended cloud-like from the overhead fishnet armature. Other suspended lily pads hover above the floor in small clusters. The open studio windows provide just the right amount of subtle air movement; the lily pads rotate in constant slow motion. During the afternoon hours on Monday, October 3, there is a steady flow of fellows and VCCA staff arriving at VA9 (at my invitation) to experience the installation. Down the hall in VA7, painter Janet Burke has also opened wide her studio doors. Among the responses to "Refugium: lily pad" are: "It's like being under water and on top of the water," "It's like walking a labyrinth," and "It's like being in a dream." Perhaps my favorite response is from a German artist (in his language the lily pad is called a "sea rose") who purses his lips and throws an air kiss toward the installation: "The aesthetic is just right."

My artist residency at VCCA is just right. The bucolic Virginia countryside, the artistic camaraderie, and the lily pad have all taken me to a new place. On Tuesday morning, October 4, with a gentle sigh, I prepare to re-enter the "real world" as my car rattles over the cow grate - the sound signaling a return to life as I knew it before entering the grounds of VCCA. And yet anew.

I'm strolling through the Greenville County Museum of Art on Thursday - determining which painting I'll use for October's "Sketching in the Galleries" - when I'm suddenly thunderstruck by bird carvings. Yes, bird carvings. It is as though the ubiquitous Audubon prints we encounter have sprung into holographic form. The craftsmanship and artistry of Grainger McCoy's sculptures are profoundly beautiful, and the cast shadows on the walls are almost as entrancing as the work itself.

Upstate New York-based artist Jason Tennant carves powerful bird sculptures that dominate gallery walls in simulated flight. In his own words, "These works are a celebration of nature's resilience to human stresses and are my interpretation of the essence of wildness." Tennant's carvings are not as lifelike and representational as McCoy's, but are stylized evocative reminders of the strength of these taken-for-granted creatures.

These creatures are not taken for granted by a former college art mentor, Phyllis Kloda, who in 2009 creates a body of ceramics and paintings from a moment of awareness about birds. Actually, their absence. At her art opening at the Genesee Center for the Arts and Education gallery in Rochester, NY, Kloda speaks of a morning peculiarly quiet; a morning without the usual outdoor symphony of birds. What if suddenly there were no more birds? That morning is her muse.

On Saturday I watch a PBS news segment on the Audubon Mural Project currently underway in Manhattan. A collaboration of the Audubon Society and The Gitler & ___ Gallery, the selected subject birds are those that face extinction. Specifically, climate-threatened or endangered according to an Audubon report: 314 in total. While the project's genesis is a synchronous event for the society and artists, the project enlightening, and the meeting of art and science to highlight an environmental topic is inspiring, I am still aghast at the number 314.

This concept of no-longer-being is brought to light in McCoy's exhibit as well. The Carolina parakeet once populated my state of residence, South Carolina, in the not so distant past. According to the sculptor's website, "Already rare by the mid 1880s, its last stand was in Florida, where, in 1920, a flock of 30 birds was the last ever seen of the only native parrot of the United States." The demands of millinery couture for their colorful feathers  was a dominant factor in the Carolina parakeet's demise. This historical fact renders me a bit queasy.

Recently I had a personal encounter with the bird kingdom, as I attempt to save a nestling in my backyard. A common response to my retelling of the story is, "Did the bird survive?" Wishing for a fairy-tale ending that I cannot honestly convey, I cite the natural selection process of an overcrowded nest. Two of the three nestlings fledged. The other I discover in the dirt not far from where I found the original - perhaps the very same bird that I rescued. But this encounter is beyond rescue. The nature of time claims the tiny bird's frailty, reducing it from feather and flesh to skeleton in a matter of weeks.

I am saddened by the plight that birds face due to humans' intrusive nature; in the same breath I am awed by the fierce beauty of birds and by the aesthetics of their artists. Which does not translate into the inclusion of these vertebrates in my own art. I am busy in the studio working with the iconic butterfly, with many of its species facing their own extinction. Perhaps by painting birds and collaging butterflies, we are all hoping for a fairy-tale ending.

I have always liked French doors: the window panes, and the opening outward to create a broad welcoming entry. But I have never lived in a residence or studio with French doors. Until Taylors Mill Studios.

For my Rochester, NY, friends and colleagues, you may notice the similarity between the Taylors Mill studio and the spaces in the Anderson Alley and Hungerford studios. There are wide hallways lined with entrepreneurs and artists, high ceilings, industrial-strength concrete floors and structural columns. Not all studios have exterior windows, air-conditioning or central heating - the case at Taylors Mill, where there are ceiling and hallway fans, and wall-mounted heaters. In the South Carolina summer heat, trust me, I swing wide those French doors.

All 500 square feet are mine, for the first time in my life. Previously, I've managed in 100 square feet home studios or shared studios of 300 square feet. My artist residencies in Paducah and at Hambidge afforded me greater space, for which I continue to be grateful. As soon as I engineer an overhead armature, the Taylors Mill studio will function wonderfully for exploring and configuring installations. The cocoons that you see suspended in the studio do so from super-magnets attached to conduit. As long as I don't tug too vigorously, the magnets work.

Andrew Simonet, founder of Artist U, speaks of letting "the work determine the space." I listened, Andrew, and now I'm preparing for a 2017 exhibit at Greenville, South Carolina's Metropolitan Arts Council. To that end, I am using artwork measuring 82 x 24 inches, titled "Pushed to the Periphery," as one of my tables. The vertical work has gone horizontal, and transformed from a reflection of last year's breast cancer journey to a viable tool for this year's recovery. My work is no longer pushed to the periphery; it is central.

The WRK GRP co-owner of Taylors Mill, Greg Cotton, oversees construction and management, and is planning a grand opening in the fall. The behemoth buildings that used to house a fabric bleachery and printworks are today affectionately referred to as the Rusted Palace. Taylors Mill also houses a coffee shop, a brewery, businesses, and hosts a farmers market among other events.

I will be sending invitations when a date is set and will swing wide those French doors! Please do plan on visiting.

I step outside to water plants, only to discover a bird - a nestling - on the ground with its pink chest heaving ever so slightly. It's alive! This brief moment of revelation is followed with one of terror at my newfound responsibility. Leaving it underfoot in the dirt to expire is not an option. Between my surging maternal instincts and internet research, I devise a plan to craft a virtual nest as I cannot locate the actual one. I later discover the original nest and redeposit the robin among its two siblings.

The next day there are only two of the three nestlings craning their necks to receive wormy sustenance. In the ensuing days the birds jostle each other, stretch their downy wings, and morph into fledglings.

Nature observed. The progression of nestling to fledgling to adult makes me think of the categories assigned to artists: emerging, mid-career, and professional. Just a few years ago I checked the box next to "emerging," but today I check "mid-career." "Professional" artists, I think, are the ones I read about in the art magazines and online. In truth, I sense that I - perhaps we - carry all of these stages within myself - and ourselves - at all times.

I have discovered a number of installation artists about whom I do not care if they are emerging, mid-career or professional because it is the work that draws me in.

Lee Broson: "Plastic Fantastic" at MassMOCA
    "...large-scale immersive installations, which emulate 'natural' experiences for his viewers, based on the most ineffable elemental forces in nature — from air, fog, and smoke, to fire and the cosmos."
    
     Thank you, Lee, for the word "immersive" which will now replace the "walk-in" descriptor I use for my installations.

Gail Grinnell and son Sam Waldman: "Angle of Repose" at Gibson Gallery             "...it is the tension between the past and the present that drives the final form of this installation. It is the voluminous amounts of delicate hand made work finding a point of stillness that constitutes the angle of repose." From the artist's website.

     I love the photo of the work-in-progress in Gall's studio, and how she and Sam dialogue about the installation as bridging a generational gap.

Judith Olson Gregory: "Taking Tea" at Burchfield Penney Art Center
    "Taking Tea... consists of a minimalist 'house' constructed from used tea leaves and tea bags and echoes the tumultuous journey of tea from the mountains of China to the lace cloths of British aristocracy."

     At a recent art opening in Rochester, NY, I spoke with artist Pat Wilder who asked if I had seen Judith's installation in Buffalo, NY. I did not, but would have loved to, as I've been following this artist's work for years.

I take heart in seeing the work of these "professional" artists who have ventured into larger arenas than I; I identify with them while in the same breath my "mid-career" artist self identifies with the fledgling. A part of me hopes that I will always stay tethered to the "emerging" nestling - seeing and experiencing life anew with every breath.

Butterfly wings? For the past three times that I have participated in "Art in June," I have shown wall-mounted fans. This year I introduce collages from a recent butterfly wing series titled "Remnants." And I brought a few remaining fans as well. While the "Remnants" series exhibited in Rochester in December 2015, with Stephen Merritt and Jonathan Merritt at Baush & Lomb's Geisel Gallery, I know that many were not able to brave the winter weather. I worry that my Asian-influenced fans will be the expected motif but soon my fears are allayed. Butterfly wings (and fans) are well received, with a number of them having now found new homes. Thank you my beloved collectors.

For over 15 years Stephen Merritt has invited artists to join him in his studio for "Art in June." The potter moves his equipment, rolls out a corrugated paper wall, positions pedestals, and transforms a working studio into a gallery for each weekend in the month. Mary Lou Wilson designs and prints postcards, Donna Merritt creates a tableau from whatever food and beverage the artists bring, and the weather follows the dictates of nature. Visitors ooh and ah over the architectural beauty of Steve's studio nestled in the wooded backyard of his home at the end of a long residential street. Who wouldn't want to linger and imagine this as their very own world?

"Art in June" is about the work and not about the work. To use a word that is misappropriated and misused, but appropriate here, each weekend is "curated." Craftsmanship and professionalism are key. I am with jeweler and sculptor Lorraine Cooley, woodworker Dick Westfall, and of course Stephen Merritt. Never is there a sense of competitiveness over space or guests or work or sales. We are each other's advocates and storytellers. So refreshing.

On Saturday my California brother surprises me with a visit, accompanied by one of my sisters. Another brother and his girlfriend, and her daughter, trek to Rochester from our hometown of Syracuse on Sunday. I am buoyed by so many: a former Arts Council co-worker, a program director at Gilda's Club, several botanical artists, Anderson Alley and Hungerford studios artists, a poet and her spouse, a former non-traditional student (as I once was) at The College at Brockport SUNY, and even the hostess of my Airbnb. The mosquitoes and black flies are not at their worst and the predicted rain does not manifest. Our conversations encompass health, children and grandchildren, art, the past and the future. Life is good.

Did I mention that worrying is in my family-of-origin's makeup? My brothers and sister, the ones visiting Rochester, agree. Which is why, on the long drive home to Greenville, SC, with my husband, I am already worrying about the artwork for next year's "Art in June."

If you are of a certain age you will recall the hit game/TV series "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?". This is almost exactly the question that comes to mind as soon as I realized my last blog was written in January and in just a few days it will be June. Where in the world is Christina Laurel?

I continue receiving breast cancer treatments, discovered in 2014 with surgery and radiation in 2015, now in remission. However, each monthly endocrine-therapy infusion subtracts a few days from my usual routine, including art. The good news: there are only six remaining infusions.

Nonetheless life conspires to bring new ventures. Just this week I installed an exhibit of photos and stories (not mine), at the Greenville SC Chamber of Commerce, that runs through August 7. I dare you to keep a dry eye upon reviewing Mark Kirby's black and white images and reading Emily Price's write-ups of local cancer survivors. "S3 - Sunday Survivor Series" is an initiative of the Cancer Survivors Park Alliance, where I began volunteering in January.

Valentine's weekend takes my husband and me to North Carolina's Black Mountain Center for the Arts for a concert. I am so inspired by the community in attendance, a lively mix of friendly cultural aesthetes and the art gallery, that I approach the director about a future installation. I am to contact her in September regarding a 2017 exhibit. Seize the moment.

On March 8 an artist friend assists me as I begin installing "Refugium" in Greenville Technical College's downtown gallery. Three days later I complete the hanging of 1,000+ shoji-paper gingko-leaf suspensions in Riverworks Gallery. The walk-in installation works as I envisioned it, and the April 1 opening feedback confirms that is as positive an experience for others as it is for me. My oasis does indeed provide refuge.

Since February a small group of alumni from the Artist U workshop has been meeting monthly. We are visual artists, whose ages span several decades, finding valuable camaraderie. I've written several blogs praising Artist U; suffice it to say that this annual SC Arts Commission opportunity is well worth a weekend of your time.

Although I love to travel, driving in mega-metro areas is not a favorite. Which is why I am grateful the purchasers of Edo Influence #3 were willing to meet me on the outskirts of Atlanta. Several times in May as I retrieve, repair and return the cradled wood collage. Repair? Unfortunately the handlers at the Hambidge Center's gala fundraiser damaged a corner. On the upside, the repair is successful, my trips include visits to the Georgia Museum of Art and art supply stores, and I meet the new owners of my art who send me a photo of the work in situ. It's cliché but all is well that ends well.

These past few months are not totally self involved. I attend the Metropolitan Arts Council's annual meeting, label a few hundred envelopes for the MAC, and gallery-sit for their "One Stop Open Studios Retrospective." In full disclosure my 12x12-inch Edo Waterfall is in the exhibit (pictured above). I enjoy Kathryn Schnabel's art opening in Travelers Rest, the Brandon Fellows' talks at the invitation of Naomi Nakazato, a First Friday and the spring opening of ArtBomb studios. On Thursday I intend to be at Terry Jarrard Dimond's and Tom Dimond's reception at the Clemson Arts Center.

The question now becomes "Where in the world is Christina Laurel next?". To be answered in a forthcoming blog!

Note: links for Black Mountain Center for the Arts, Riverworks Gallery, Artist U, Hambidge Center, MAC, Kathryn Schnabel, and Terry Jarrard Dimond are on my website's Contact, Press & Links page.

Van Gogh. Is that not all I have to say in order for images to appear in your mind? Self portraits, Starry Night, the Yellow House, and the Sunflowers. When I discover "The Sunflowers are Mine: the story of Van Gogh's masterpiece" by Martin Bailey (2013) in the library, I am not intentionally seeking out books on Vincent. But in the same way that his energetic brushstrokes draw me into his work, I am drawn to this book.
​The Dutch artist was prolific, producing more than 1,000 drawings, 150 watercolors, 10 graphic works, 9 lithographs and an etching, and 900 plus paintings in his lifetime, 1853-1890. In his 37 years. Luckily, Bailey's approach is not biographical as much as it is a focused beam on a period and a theme. In 1888 and 1889, Van Gogh completed four original sunflower paintings and at least three signed and unsigned copies. In my ignorance, as I begin the book, I am aware of only the most ubiquitously-reproduced two paintings, "Fourteen Sunflowers" and "Fifteen Sunflowers." Now I am smitten by "Three Sunflowers" and "Six Sunflowers," especially the former.

To think that without Theo's encouragement that Vincent "do flower paintings" because "they might prove more marketable," the world might not have the Sunflowers. What strikes me as I read this is that the marketability of art remains an issue for artists over a century later. Landscapes, portraits, and flowers comprise, I am guessing, still the most marketable of genres. But Van Gogh's sunflower paintings did not sell in his lifetime. In fact, it appears there is only one documented sale of a Van Gogh painting before his death. A sobering fact indeed.

You are probably wondering about the copies that Van Gogh made of his own work. I certainly do, but I have come to understand his rationale of using the copies as gifts and barter with other artists. Including others such as Paul Gauguin who, during the two artists' tumultuous time together in the Yellow House in Arles, portrayed Van Gogh in "The Painter of Sunflowers." Their experiment in artistic camaraderie only highlights the rewards and challenges of cooperative ventures. I am personally hopeful as I learn about contemporary artists who envision and try out different models of collaboration.

In my lifetime I do not anticipate traveling to Munich, Germany, to view "Fourteen Sunflowers" in the Neue Pinakothek, or to London, England, to view "Fifteen Sunflowers" in the National Gallery. Closer to home, I can view a signed copy of the "Fourteen Sunflowers" in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Unfortunately "Six Sunflowers" was destroyed during the Hiroshima bombing, and "Three Sunflowers" is in a private collection. Oh how I would love to see this painting in person. I agree with Bailey that their "yellow-orange sunflowers sing in front of the vibrant, bright turquoise. It is a stunning picture, full of life." As enthusiastically as the sunflowers are depicted in subsequent paintings, this first in the series touches my heart and soul.

The provenance of each of the sunflower paintings occupies several chapters in Bailey's book. Some were sold out of necessity by the widow of Theo, following both his and Vincent's deaths. The trails are often long and convoluted but interesting to my art historical bent. I enjoy the photos of the paintings in situ, especially "Fifteen Sunflowers" hanging above the heads of Vincent's nephew and namesake Vincent Willem Van Gogh and his wife Nelly in their 1949 home.

The title of the book refers to a remark Vincent made to his brother Theo in a letter, "the sunflower is mine." Bailey puts this in greater context, referring to two of Van Gogh's contemporaries, Georges Jeannin and Ernest Quost. In an exchange between Van Gogh to Gauguin, the artist writes, "...if Jeannin has the peony, Quost the hollyhock, I indeed, before others, have taken the sunflower." In his final chapter, Bailey writes that "Once Van Gogh's Sunflowers became famous, viewers tried to unravel their meaning." In a letter to the art critic Aurier, the artist speaks for himself. His Sunflowers "express an idea symbolising 'gratitude'."

So straightforward and direct, like Vincent Van Gogh's penetrating vision, like his vulnerably honest brushstrokes. I am grateful for having learned more about the Sunflowers. Thank you Martin Bailey.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015. It's 5:15pm, the dark is descending, but I am replete following dinner at the Good Life Café in Columbia, SC. A wisp of a guitar player appears, sets up her mic and amp prior to entertaining the diners. In my mind, this is an act of bravery. She avoids eye contact with the clientele, until I applaud following the first song in her performance. I often wish that someone would walk up to a painting or a sculpture and, following a few moments of contemplation, break out into applause.

I did not applaud earlier this afternoon at the Columbia Museum of Art, although O'Keefe's "Blue Line" and Jarrard Dimond's "Joy and Sorrow" elicit an internal, silent applause. My mission here is twofold: view the exhibits "Georgia O'Keefe: Her Carolina Story" and "Independent Spirits: Women Artists of South Carolina." Both are on view through January 10, 2016. 

Having seen O'Keefe exhibits and artwork in permanent collections previously, and having consumed a biography or two of this exemplary artist, I don't know what to expect. Somehow I missed the seemingly pivotal role that O'Keefe's time as a teacher at Columbia College played. Not worried about archival paper, O'Keefe created exploratory charcoal drawings on newsprint that are now preserved and framed for posterity. I appreciate that Columbia Museum displays the drawings separately from her works in watercolor and oil - her works of color. Had it not been for the artist's friend and advocate, Anna Pollitzer, presenting these drawings to Alfred Stiegletz, well...the rest is history. In my mind, creating these drawings 100 years ago here in Columbia was an act of bravery.

An artist friend told me that the pieces in the "Independent Spirits" exhibition have lots of breathing room. True, and breathing room is a viewing feature I prefer. In scanning the catalogue, I learn that the curator invited 30 artists to participate for various reasons: female artists who were born at the time O'Keefe created in Columbia, SC; artists preeminent in their field; and artists with associations to institutions of higher learning in the state, among other criteria.

Here is work with weight - literally as well as figuratively: an installation in clay and metal "Fear Mongers - Extracted" by Bri Kinard, and the organic "Tree Totem IX" by Alice Ballard. Here is work as light as the fabric utilized in its creation: a silk landscape "Abiquiu (O'Keefe's home in New Mexico)" by Mary Edna Fraser, and an emotive "Joy and Sorrow" by Terry Jarrard Dimond. Painting, encaustic, assemblage, mixed media, photography, sculpture, and collage are all represented. There is a plenitude of abstraction, perhaps a leaning of the curator or simply the nature of the work by the selected artists. The most representational pieces are Karen Ann Myer's painting "Self Portrait (Karen with Sauconys)," and Kathleen Robbins' photograph "Ashe in the Canebrake at Dusk."

As I stroll, I want to dial down my mind's "familiar" button. It is apparently ingrained in the human condition to seek that which we recognize. Here are Greenville artists, whose work is familiar. "Don't dismiss," I remind my brain. "Look, consider, and reconsider." Isn't that what O'Keefe did? She dialed down the familiar ways of looking at landscape and flowers and, by having done so, she dials down our own "familiar" button.

Before I exit the exhibit, I find myself asking, "Independent spirits from whom? from what?" The Museum's answer is that independent spirits are "...women who work against the social grain to pursue modern and experimental means of artistic expression. ...these women represent the undeniable role that women play in shaping the future of arts in South Carolina." To that I will add, these (and many other females who are not in the exhibition) are brave artists who, like O'Keefe, shape not only the future of arts in South Carolina but beyond. At least, in my mind.

PS: Worth viewing on the Museum's 2nd floor is a quiet alcove of an exhibit, "Original Spirits: Early South Carolina Women Artists from the Collections."