Eugenie Torgerson: A Visual Life with Words

My Powerful and Sweet Dragon

2012-01-07T17:56:00.000-05:00

I am lucky to have Louise. She has been my friend since we met in sixth grade and discovered that there could be -- if the stars are right -- someone else who is just like you. Sure, I know that it is wonderful and challenging to encounter and to love people who are total mysteries to your mind and heart, but you can't beat having a friend like Louise

She is not a simple person, although her way of living is careful and orderly. She is utterly brilliant, but her way of being in the world is respectful, inquisitive, and admiring. Louise has a potter's gesture that reveals itself when she is making tea or making up the guest room. She knows just about all there is to know about Asian ceramics but is always on the prowl for new ideas and other ways of looking at things.

For her birthday, for the new year, and to mark our long and important friendship, Louise sent me a beautiful Vietnamese robe. She and I will wear these dragons on our spines, together, simultaneously, and forever.

All I Want for Christmas is a Goat

2011-12-24T17:27:00.000-05:00

It is interesting to me that these days the main actors in Christmas traditions are human or at least as human-like as angels and elves can be. Perhaps this anthromorphing has something to with the Age of Reason, the Industrial Age, or man's supposed mastery over the planet. Who knows? In contrast, old Scandinavian traditions designated a goat as the driving force of Christmas. This animal, the Julebukk, was the mythic descendent of Thor's companion. In rowdy Viking ceremonies, the divine and fearsome goat was portrayed by a man who would customarily die and be born again.

The early Nordic Christians raised the stakes and viewed the goat as a sort of welcome devil who would appear in times of wild celebration. The Church was not pleased, thank you very much, and forbade the Christmas Goat which, when not acting out, had turned to supervising Christmas preparations and giving gifts. Eventually the active role of the Julebukk faded, to be replaced by the Julenissen, the Christmas Troll.

You had to watch out for the Julenissen as well. If you did not provide it with a Christmas Eve bowl of rømmegrøt, a porridge made of sour cream, whole milk, wheat flour, butter and salt, it would retaliate by killing all your cattle. Norwegians take things very seriously.

When I spent a Christmas in Norway, we set a straw Julebukk next to the chimney to guard the rømmegrøt, and -- sure enough -- everything turned out fine. So tonight, as Christmas Evening comes to us, I wish you friendly visitations and much joy.

Lille Julaften

2011-12-23T09:27:00.000-05:00

I love this evening. In Scandinavian traditions, December 23rd is Lille Julaften -- Little Christmas Eve. Taking note of this night spreads the pleasure of Christmas forward and intensifies anticipation. When I lived in Norway as a teenager, preparations for Christmas did not really begin until Lille Julaften. That was the day when people shopped for gifts and put up a tree which was decorated solely and purely with white lights, Norwegian flags, and small balls of white cotton snow.

Lille Julaften became part of my life as a young mother, wife, and artist in Cleveland as we threw a big party that drew together people from all parts of our lives -- neighbors, friends, family, work colleagues, and eventually friends of friends and friends of family. The preparations were daunting -- huge quantities of eggnog and strong punch, buckets of 1/2 inch round Swedish meatballs. I accomplished Herculean feats of lefse-making and fragile cookie cakes. And it was all wonderful as everyone I loved gathered together.

So tonight, even if you are far too busy and your list of tasks is still too long, even if the Christmas music that has played in your ears since Halloween has grown tedious, even if you are sad, even if you miss someone, perhaps there will be a moment of quiet joy and sweet anticipation of better times as Lille Julaften works its small magic.

Thanks for the Ride

2011-12-02T18:18:00.000-05:00

I have used this loyal hip for a long time -- learning to walk, chasing my sister, climbing, dancing, running, skating, skiing, accelerating, and generally having a fine time. It is now time to give it a rest and get a substitute joint. How about something that looks like it was machined at Bayerische Motoren Werke AG, as sleek and expensive as a new car?

So off I will go on Pearl Harbor Day to have my hip replaced, interested in the whole process, eager to move again without discomfort & this annoying limp, and grateful.

Lucky, the Blue Hen

2011-10-05T18:36:00.000-04:00

When I last stopped by Shady Maple Farms for fresh, right-out-of-the-hen eggs, Ms. Linda asked if I cared for a blue egg. Who could resist that offer? The egg is the offspring of a Blue Hen, who was abandoned injured at the county fair by some really bad actor of a 4-H kid. Ms. Linda and her husband, the vet, named the chicken Lucky, for good reason, and took her back to Shady Maple for recuperation and poultry companionship.

The egg is not a brilliant, knock-your-socks-off blue but rather a sweet, light azure, and we are delaying cracking open such a lovely thing. When we do, it will be our lucky day.

A Girl in the Studio

2011-09-05T10:12:00.000-04:00

When my ten-year-old granddaughter, Sterling Knight, visited for a week, we spent much of our time in my studio. She arrived with Fluffy, a cunning, lavender-plush, weasel-like toy pet who needed a house. As it turned out, Fluffy actually needed a contemporary, four-story condominium with a private elevator and garage for the red convertible Sterling would make for her/him.

Beyond the satisfaction of using odds & ends, materials, and saved objects for which I could not imagine any use but had kept anyway, the real delight was watching Sterling work. She is deft and understands how to put things together. She sees possibilities and has an intuitive sense of structure and proportion. What I really admired, however, was the way she did not self-edit. There was no "This looks all yukky and stupid." If a chair made of boxes, scrap leather, cotton balls, and brads was a little wonky, she accepted it and moved on to construct a big-screen television. The home was packed with imagination, clever ideas, originality, and fun.

Above all she worked with enthusiasm and self-confidence, making what she wanted to see, making what would give Fluffy pleasure. Any artist can learn a lesson from this young girl.

Comfort

2011-08-04T13:18:00.000-04:00

After my son, Ryan, died two months ago, I kept moving forward with work --- in disbelief, in sadness, but buoyed by the love that poured over me from all quarters of my life. It was possible to work slowly in the studio, and I was able to measure, cut, paste up, print, and generally accomplish things. There is a notion, translated roughly from the German, of "grief bacon," a slowness, a layering of emotion much like hibernation that comforts, nourishes, and protects those who have experienced loss. I had the grief bacon. Still do.

The action that brought me pleasure and peace was knitting, to no knitter's surprise, and I wanted to make something for Heidi, Ryan's young daughter. At Red Purl in downtown Niles, my choice was immediate, soft, and white: yarn that Amy had spun from local sheep. Delicious between my fingers and heaven to my eyes, it invited another yarn to ride along -- something perfectly named Little Flowers. The bright bits strung along the fiber remind me of Tibetan prayer flags.

So I knit my heart and my healing, my love for Ryan and his life, for his children, for all children into this rhythm of white and pink and red and sparkle.

Wonky in Austin

2011-03-31T18:14:00.000-04:00

You don't have to be in Austin long before you realize that people here pride themselves on being different. "Keep Austin Weird" is a slogan plastered everywhere. To me, the city is more "original" than weird -- packed with independent stores & restaurants and bearing an attitude of insouciance & the off-beat. It is an altogether engaging place to be.

A question though: is it the Austin attitude or the Whole Foods attitude that produced these parking jobs? All within a twelve-car corner of the lot. Even the Smart Car failed Driver's Ed.

A Hat That Legends Are Made Of

2011-03-29T14:33:00.000-04:00

Ever since Al Shudde opened a hat store in Houston in 1907, four generations of Shudde men have been serving those who know the importance of a good hat. Several years ago in Houston, Edward (one of those who can wear any hat with style and conviction) spotted a man wearing an exceptional cowboy hat. After chasing him down, Edward learned that it came from Shudde Brothers Store and Hat Factory, and yesterday we made a pilgrimmage.

What a wonderful place -- hats, hat forms, hat steamers, and Neal Shudde who knows all there is to know about fitting, wearing, and maintaining hats of character. I nearly succumbed to a black wool derby, thinking that wearing it would unravel the unbearable lightness of being. I did receive a gift of sharp, narrow-brimmed, flat-topped, straw hat with attitude. I think that, wearing it, I will be unstoppable.

Edward looked fantastic in a black top hat, but he was on a quest for that exceptional hat.

It was amazing. It was undeniable. It was Edward.

One Thing Leads to Another

2011-03-10T22:06:00.000-05:00

I came across some small pieces of beautiful Asian papers and thought I would put together a diminutive book -- a few poems, a few images, bound simply and quickly finished. Beware such unambitious thoughts! Here I am, weeks later, in a complicated and enticing undertaking that has involved the purchase of more paper, the writing of more poems, the construction of more images, and some engineering possibly beyond my skill level.

The parts so far:
a chunky, poem/image-packed book with a beaded silk cover
a box that will hold the book and whose sides will have digital images printed on Yupo
the parts of a platform for the box

What is next in my imagination:
a statuesque cover for the platform that will have openings screened with knitted stainless steel yarn and a window in the top
a four-legged base for the whole business

Stay tuned.

Pleasures of the Hand

2011-01-12T21:32:00.000-05:00

I have taken up knitting again -- something I delayed for fifty years because I was afraid I would not remember how. Yes, I knitted when I was an exchange student in a small Norwegian town, but I did not actually learn to knit. Every girl and a few of the boys knitted all the time, everywhere, and so it was a no-brainer for me to hand any problem I created for myself over to the kid sitting next to me. To really knit again, to really create a textile, I would have to do some learning, and, because I prefer to do everything perfectly the first time, I put the project off.

Luckily for me on a visit to Cleveland, the seduction of the yarns at Liz Tekus' Fine Points http://www.finepoints.com/, proved to be no match for the habits of my ego, and I began to teach myself from books and on-line videos. The allure of holding and manipulating yarn is so compelling and delicious that I have been trying to figure out why I do it.

I know some knitters are in it for the creation of objects, and some perhaps for the challenge of patterns and structures. For me, it is the feel of silk or wool or cashmere or alpaca or merino between my fingers, in that sweet V between digits that is so sensitive and always available. As I child, I slipped my hair through that intersection for comfort and pleasure, and I have seen my mother and my grandchildren do it.

The act of knitting has many attractions --- gorgeous materials, visual construction, the emergence of pattern, the sound & action of needles, and the capacity to make something while talking and listening to others. Who knew it was also so sexy?

Four Horse Town

2010-11-02T19:00:00.001-04:00

We live in Pokagon Township, a name whose pronunciation distinguishes locals from outsiders. You are probably thinking it is POE kah gone. Wrong. Poe KAY gun, for future reference. Be that as it may, after casting the 278th and 279th votes this afternoon, we drove home through our tiny village, Sumnerville. There is one church and one business in Sumnerville, and the latter has been in continuous existence since 1835, giving it historic status.

The Old Tavern Inn, once a stagecoach stop, has cultural status as a popular burger joint and a watering hole for people who drive pick-up trucks. Apparently there were cowboys chowing down today after exercising their right to vote, just up the road. We live in the past and the present, still knee deep in autumn leaves.

Timber

2010-09-22T23:29:00.000-04:00

While city trees were ripping apart and crashing onto parked cars in Brooklyn and Queens last week, here in rural Michigan an old giant was being intentionally and methodically brought to earth across the road from our building.

Although a venerable sentry for the Sumnerville Bible Baptist Church, Old Tree was also a threat and a nuisance as it shed its branches in windstorms, and Dan the Minister had no alternative but to have it taken down--- heavy limb by heavy limb. We are relieved that all the neighborhood foresters survived the Felling Bee, and we are mesmerized by the sheer volume of wood, of accumulated vegetable growth -- photosythesis writ large -- that lies on the ground. The ancient girth of Old Tree stumped garden-variety tools, and someone will have to find a chain saw with a 36" blade if the remainder of the trunk is not to be a permanent lawn ornament in front of the church.

For all its dignity, the tree seems to have had an unfortunate name. Botanically, we are a casual lot around here, and we sort of agree that it is a Stinkwood tree. Green-a-Planet says that the Stinkwood is "tough and strong, and polishes well, but is difficult to work. It is a good general timber suitable for making planks, shelving, yokes, tent-bows and furniture. The African people have always used it to make a variety of household articles. It is also thought to have magical properties. The wood is mixed with crocodile fat as a charm against lightning, and many people believe that it has the power over evil and that pegs of wood driven into the ground will keep witches away."

Perhaps the mighty root system will continue to keep this little village free from harm.Taking the giant down required two hard days; reducing it to firewood will take weeks. We are grateful for its life, from shade to heat, with good juju.

I Have Quit Picking Huckleberries

2010-09-04T22:44:00.000-04:00

After a hot and humid summer, the new season gave us a cool, bright, windy day, and with great pleasure I went a few miles up the road to the annual pow wow of the Pokagon Band of the Potawatomi. It is an event of great vitality, spiritual significance, and beauty.

Called Kee-Boon-Mein-Kaa, the pow wow celebrates the harvest, and the name means literally "I have quit picking huckleberries." In my years here I do not think I have seen a huckleberry, although I could be wrong. An ancient tradition, the pow wow serves as a reunion, a renewal, and a chance to dance.

These dances are the focus of the public experience, and how wonderful they are. Wearing regalia that defies simple description, the participants are as flamboyant as the men's fancy dancers, as dignified as the women's shawl dancers, as deliciously noisy as the women's jingle dances, as rooted in practical tradition as the men's grass dancers, and as revered as the Great Lakes Old-Style dancers.

People being people, the celebratory dances are also competitive, and I was told that dancers travel a "pow wow circuit" that involves performance categories ranging from the Tiny Tots to the mature adult dancers. And, yes, there are stars, favorites, and rivalries.

Whether participating in the come-one, come-all Intertribal dances or in the category competitions, dancers do not move alone. In meandering single files, they circle the dance arena. All the girls' jingle dancers, for example, are in view at the same time, and although they are competing, they are dancing together. There is much to be learned in this community.

Although the family lineages are long and deep, it is obvious that they include new blood, and it is not unusal to see blond boys dancing in fierce competition with their Native pals. A close look at the image here reveals not only light hair but plaid Old Navy shorts. The pow wow is quite a patchwork that includes fry bread pizza.

The traditions also teach respect and acceptance. An important part of the Grand Entry of the dancers is the recognition of veterans - Native American and other. Deep gratitude is shown to all those who have served their country. All are asked to look after the elders and to have good thoughts.

So I go to the tribal land and walk each year through the campgrounds that are filled with tents and woodsmoke. I go in part to look at the craft of the regalia, in part to observe the earnest energy of the children, in part to eat fry bread. But mostly I go in gratitude for the grace of people whose ancestors inhabited this land and were stewards of its bounty, its huckleberries.

Double Dutch

2010-08-16T18:13:00.004-04:00

If I go down Indian Lake Road, cross the bridge, and turn left onto Creek Road, it feels like I am in the Netherlands of my imagination --- although without the spare, flat vistas. These two barns are tucked deep in the dense Michigan woods that hug the edges of farmland, but they seem to have been constructed by the Dutch settlers of this region with a mind's eye looking to the old country.

The Dutch presence is pervasive here, particularly at election time, when the roads are peppered with signs for the Hoogendyks, VanderBurgs, Bowkers, and Behnkes.

In addition to the Dutch in this part of southwest Michigan, there was a 19th century African-American population second only to that of the Detroit area in its size. According to one historian, the experiences of our county's African-Americans were unlike those of northern urban African-Americans. The economic balance and dependency that developed between Cass County's white and black populations helped to minimize racism, promote cooperation between the races, and create an African-American community of prosperity and confidence unique in the North.

The fate of the indigenous population, the Potawatomis, is a sad and sorry story of injustice to be told another time.

A Big Sale

2010-07-27T13:47:00.000-04:00

I will be showing mixed media work and some pastels in West Bloomfield, MI July 31 and August 1 at the Orchard Lake Fine Art Show http://www.hotworks.org/orchardlakefineartshow/

I am offering a 10% discount with a mention of this notice or of the e-mail announcements I have sent. This also extends to friends and neighbors you might direct to my space at the show, #227.

Catching Air and Letting It Go

2010-07-14T22:25:00.002-04:00

I am wild for wind turbines. I can't get enough of the white height and grace of them, and the moving space between the blades seems as visible as those big wings themselves. The first wind farms I ever saw were around Palm Springs, and the turbines actually looked cool in the sere, hot desert. On and on they went, spreading over dry hills for miles, and my fascination was cemented.

Thinking of wind turbines as Western creatures, I was surprised and delighted by the array along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Issues surrounding objections to the Nantucket Sound Cape Wind project are foggy to me, enamored as I am. The easy answer is that I would rather have a wind turbine than a yacht. But then again, I live in an old school that has five restrooms and no closets. What would I know?

I do know that I lost my heart to Iowa's wind farms when we recently drove to Denver and back. On one particular dim, damp, hot morning --- with the sky preparing for some extravagant storms --- we just gazed at the wind workers in the field down the road, and wondered how much it would cost to get one. Or two.

Plein Air in Plain View

2010-06-18T04:13:00.000-04:00

Christine Brenner and Christopher Castelli have been with us at The School for nearly a week, and our days have been filled with good conversation and incredible food. We have cooked Aloo Gobi & Lemon Dal, Chicken with Tomatillos & Hominy, and Polpetti & Spinach. Christopher made popovers, and Edward made butter. We have watched: Snow Cake, The Music Man, You Can Count on Me, Zoot Suit, Walk Out, and Sunday in the Park With George. We are close to swooning with the pleasures of friendship and sensory experience.

So Christine offered a display of enviable discipline, setting up her easel in the lee of the Blue Sprinter. It was not long before she had a trio of kibitzers who had a thing or two to tell her about blue. As if she didn't know.

Tonight we will take a break from high culture to watch the South Bend Silver Hawks play the Fort Wayne Tin Caps. It's a busy life, this being artists.

Olga at 95

2010-06-10T00:23:00.001-04:00

I am lucky enough to be celebrating my mom's 95th birthday today, separated by some miles but not by feeling. On the ground in Cleveland, she will be taken out for dinner by her favorite friends -- who are younger than I am --- to her favorite restaurant on Lake Erie with a view of the city lights and the water.

Olga is a remarkable person. She is spunky, bright, curious, stubborn, flexible, loyal, opinionated, generous, optimistic, honest, and good. She graciously accepts assistance now that she is older, and has only praise and kind words for those who help her. She is passionate about current events, books, and the Cleveland Indians. For her knowledge and judgment, she was prized as a seller of children's books and an expert on the US First Ladies. Competitive and smart, she takes no prisoners in Scrabble or at the bridge table. She has expected a lot from life and given much back.

Her company is sought by people of all ages because of the warmth of her personality, the range of her interests, and the modernity of her attitudes. I have never, in all my life, heard her say, "I'm too old for this."

There is one beautiful and pivotal thing she does customarily say, however. Looking around, taking life in as it happens, she smiles and asks with pleasure, "What could be better than this?"

Baby Olga is held by her grandfather, the orchardist Harry Frank, nestled next to Lizzie Frank. The people in the fine hats are Baby Olga's parents, Luella Frank Shortess and Jesse Cloyd Shortess. Jesse was an artist who died young, and Luella was a postmistress and peach vendor. The mournful woman seated in the front is Cousin Edna Beaver, and we do not know why the occasion made her feel so low.

Pennsylvania, 1915

Jack and His Kubota

2010-06-05T08:45:00.001-04:00

When Edward and I bought The School from John McQueen a decade ago, we became the custodians of a thousand trees. City kids that we were, we failed to supervise them, and, in the passing years, those trees became the masters of our long views. Thanks to our neighbor, Minister Dan, and his chain saw, we have recently gained more light and space.

Yesterday Dan's friend, Excavator Jack, made quick work of the stumps and brush, while we stood around, not getting poison ivy and sore backs. At 76, he is quite the agile and opinionated machine operator, and we were impressed by his turns-on-a-dime.

This morning we do not feel so enclosed by brush and trees, but the chipmunks are outraged and letting us hear about it.

A Red Letter Day

2010-06-03T00:50:00.001-04:00

I love this day. The National Spelling Bee begins in Washington, and it is the only thing on television I will not miss. No way; no how. Imagine it: two days of watching youngsters who are eager, bright, determined, geeky, gawky, adorable, emotional, impudent, scared, generous, curious, wiggly, multi-colored, and --- above all --- wrapped up in words.

This event, dear ones, is not just about knowing how to spell. It is about figuring out words, learning where they come from, and how they veer away from their origins just when you think you've got them nailed. It is detective work, with the gumshoe part accomplished in repetitive discipline. It is being able to lasso the spelling, once you know if it is from the Greek or the Latin.

The great Spelling Bee competitors have patience, timing, and cool. They do not jump their guns, and they are not intimidated by the judges or the clock. If they faint, they get up and ask for the language of origin, earning a place in sports comeback history. Think of the spectacularly serious Akshay Buddiga, dropping out of the camera's view in 2004. Few remember that year's skinny Hoosier champ, David Tidmarsh, but Akshay has a fan club. Shows to go you; spelling is sexy.

For the spectators, the bee is a rolic of satisfaction and mystification. Bless ESPN3's heart for letting us watch the spellers as they unravel words and knit them back up - writing them in the air, on their palms, on the backs of their numbers, and in our hearts.

A Long Lineage of Long Living Women

2010-05-06T23:46:00.000-04:00

Now here is a bevy of mothers and daughters! All but the worried baby lived into their ninth decades, and she has a good start on keeping up with the Franks. Although I have other equal parts of Shortess (the tall, artist & preacher genes) Jansen (the moody, wandering Norwegian genes) McMahon (the moody, wandering Irish genes) I owe a lot of my determination and stamina to these beguiling ancestresses:

Lizzie Beaver Frank, my great-grandmother
Luella Frank Shortess Shambach, my grandmother
Olga Frank Shortess McMahon, my mother who is now a bright and vital 94

I hope I have passed on to my daughter, Kirstin and her daughter, Sterling some of the gifts I have received from these sturdy and beautiful creatures.

What I Do on Friday

2010-04-09T22:58:00.001-04:00

It takes a lot to keep me from my Friday visit to La Central, the panadaria on South Bend's west side. If you have never had Mexican pan dulce, find a panadaria pronto, and prepare to be delighted. "Pan dulce" directly translated means sweet bread, but these bakery goods are not as sweet as they look and rarely seem like bread. They are not quite pastries; they are themselves.

The textures are light and soft. The colors can be as pink and yellow as the closet of a seven year-old girl, and the shapes are fantastical. No doubt each traditional form has a name, but --- not knowing them --- we call various pan dulce by their nicknames: the flower bud, the cigar, the Edvard Munch face, the alligator, and the You Know the One. There are huge crumbly cerise cookies and sugary oval pods with gooey fillings. There are whorles that flake like croissants, and sturdy anise-flavored scone-like things. If you are lucky, you will be able to grab a pumpkin empanada before they are all gone.

Each panadaria pretty much looks like every other panadaria. No sexy patisserie style here, but instead you'll find utilitarian pan dulce cases lining the walls, shuttered with clear plexi knee-to-head doors. At the cash register counter, you will pick up a round metal tray as big as a pizza pan and a pair of spring-loaded tongs. Then you will start piling the pan dulce on the tray. Go ahead. Try to stop yourself. I think I will try this one, and this one, and of course this one, and on it goes.

At La Central, the best panadaria in South Bend, I take my tray, towering with treasure, to Andres, the owner and head baker. He puts them all in a big grocery bag, doing the math in his head. If Edward and I show a little discipline, the supply will last until the next Friday, but that doesn't happen often.

My Friday trip to La Central is one of the wonderful sensory traditions that Edward and his family have shared with me. As everyone knows, nothing beats knowing how to judge a tamale. I will need many more years to master that one.

Animal Adventures

2010-04-07T20:35:00.001-04:00

So off goes Edward on his daily walk. He expects to be noticed by several chained and nasty dogs who serve more as sentries than pets. He will not be surprised by the galumphing rush of wild turkeys as they try to fly about four feet above the field. He will probably hear the plopping of frogs into ponds and the rumble of tractors. He may encounter snapping turtles, horses ambling in pastures, and have the pleasure of stepping over roadkill raccoons, oppossums, and snakes.

But this will be a new one: a young, brash, and very heavy bull will come charging at him. Separated only by a puny wire fence, the two face off, and Edward hollers, "Go away!" The bull does, only to wheel around and return for another confrontation of wills. Edward strolls nonchalantly along, hoping the bull does not realize how flimsy the wire fence is. The bull loses interest, as bulls will, and Edward makes it home, none the worse.

Yes, there were a few tense moments, but it was nothing like Edward's encounter with the groundhog. Or the bat. Or the wolverine. Ask him about them someday.

Luxe and Luscious

2010-03-25T23:21:00.003-04:00

I mixed happy business with sensual pleasure this afternoon at Lemon Creek Fabrics. It may be a little shop in the sleepy town of Berrien Springs, MI, but Lemon Creek is a destination for high-end interior designers from all over the country. It is a regular candy box of long gorgeous bolts of upholstery fabrics that cost $200 per yard elsewhere but are sold by Judi and John Dugan for $15 to $30 per yard. The beauty and the feel of these textiles take your breath away.

The yards, I might mention, are wider than your wingspan, and, for the price of a pair of Zappo's shoes, I came away with an armload of shiny, shimmering, crunchy, cozy, smooth, vivid, and subtle fabrics for making bookcloth. Bookbinding suppliers sell handsome paper-backed materials for covering books, and they do a yeoman's job. Making my own from these silks, however, is magic for my hands and eyes.

New Work: Air, Water, Warmth

2010-02-09T22:10:00.002-05:00

Edward and I will leave tomorrow in the new, deep snow to drive through new deep snow towards Indianapolis, Louisville, Nashville, Chattanooga, Atlanta, Orlando, and -- at last -- Miami. For the outdoor show in Coconut Grove http://www.coconutgroveartsfest.com/ this weekend, I have made new work that speaks of the sea, moving air, geography, and marks on a map. How fortunate I was to be able to incorporate beautiful photographs taken by my son, Ryan Torgerson and his wife, Paige. I digitally combined them with other images and maps for printing on steel and bolted the metal to wooden backboards made by our good cabinetmaker friend, Dennis Snow http://dennissnow.com/about.htm

It was pure pleasure to photograph some shells I have treasured forever and to invent, with other photographs, their source. I used the images over and over, nesting them in piles of handmade paper, sewing them into books for the wall. So, as the snow piled up around The School, my studio became a sort of paradise, all azure, white, and green.

The new work can be seen at http://blog.eugenietorgerson.com/?p=378

Better Than A Studio

2010-01-16T00:22:00.002-05:00

When it comes to creativity, an automotive repair shop takes the cake. It is downright thrilling to see Ron, Derek, Henry, and Greg look at a problem, talk it over, and proceed with ingenuity and good humor. The lesson for me is seeing how the creative process at Dowagiac Auto unreels with without ego, false modesty, or delibitating self-doubt.

It is no wonder then that I like hanging around the shop with my camera, trying to stay out of the way, looking at stuff. My favorite things are heavy and rusty, and if I behave myself, they will let me take something home. Got a great brake rotor once.

Julaften

2009-12-24T12:55:00.000-05:00

So here it is at last -- Christmas Eve, or as we say in Norwegian "Julaften." It is a night for children everywhere to anticipate the fulfillment of wishes, and in the United States, all you have to do is leave cookies and a beverage (preferably one laced with strong spirits) for Santa Claus, and you are all set.

For the Norwegian child, more hangs in the balance than just getting a Disney Princess and the Frog "Just One Kiss" Tiana Doll or not. You must leave a bowl of groet, a rye/barley porridge, laced with butter, for the Christmas troll. If he comes to your house and finds no groet, he will kill all your father's cattle. That is one rugged Christmas tradition.

Lille Julaften

2009-12-23T17:44:00.000-05:00

There is Christmas Eve, and then there is Little Christmas Eve --- Lille Julaften. In Scandinavian tradition, December 23rd is celebrated with as much enthusiasm as (Big) Christmas Eve. In fact, when I was there in the early 1960's, the Christmas season did not start until Lille Julaften. It was then that the stores put up decorations and people thought about shopping. Away from home at sixteen, I had begun to think that Christmas simply would not come to Aalesund, the small city in Norway where I was living.

Ah, but it did, on Lille Julaften. Up went the Christmas tree, spiraled with tiny white lights, long before they were the fashion in the United States. No gaudy glittering glass globes, but instead tufts of white cotton, looking not the least bit like the snow balls they represented. No candy canes, but instead garlands of tiny paper Norwegian flags. The tree was cool, pure, and perfectly beautiful. The final enchantment came when we joined hands, walking around the tree, and singing Christmas songs.

So tonight I wish you a sweet and simple, joyous Little Christmas Eve, wherever you are.

A Golden World

2009-12-18T13:48:00.000-05:00

Who knew that the lenses we were born with would turn amber over time, giving our view onto the world a warm, golden tint? When these lenses develop cataracts, headlights become searchlights, and road striping disappears in the brilliant aura, making night driving really, really scary for everyone involved.

If one is fortunate, out goes the old lens, like an amber M&M, and in goes a sliver of high-tech synthethic. Trouble is, the new lens is as clear as the day you were born. The world through one eye is icy blue, and through the other eye, it is as golden as October in the woods. Eventually both my eyes will see the same clear world, and I wonder what this will mean to the things I make. Will the work look like it has been devised in a high latitude studio with chill Northern light, instead of a dreamland nearer the middle bulge of the globe? We will see, as they say.

Through My Eyes Today

2009-12-17T16:44:00.000-05:00

This morning I experienced cataract surgery for my wonky left eye, a fascinating procedure performed by a skilled and empathetic doctor. You know how you close your eyes when something is being done to you that you don't want to see? Not for this one, thank you very much. The well-doped bad eye was propped open, I think, and the other, inquisitive eye looked out through a piece of foggy plastic, much like the stuff Edward and I tape to the wall as makeshift storm windows.

Determined to watch the whole thing with the vigilance of a patched pirate, I think I dozed off just as the view was getting interesting, all swirly and glowy. A few hours later, I feel slightly glowy myself from the anaesthesia, and looking around is certainly interesting. My right eye is carrying the load, somehow realizing that Lefty is as clear as an old shower curtain. I am constantly entertained by covering one eye and noting how the other reacts.

I am grateful for the skill and technology that makes it possible to receive such precise care. It surely was not too long ago, in terms of human history, when cataracts meant the end of visual life. Today I am looking through my glass brightly.

Why I Don't Like to Make Pies

2009-11-24T19:29:00.000-05:00

Don't get me wrong. I love to eat pies, and I adore the people who make them. It is the obscure and quite impenetrable construction process that I try to avoid. Cooking in a cast iron skillet or a soup pot I get: you taste it as you go along, and you pretty much know how it is going to turn out. An unbaked pie, all pale and cold, gives you precious little clue as to its future success or failure. And the entire project is uncorrectable until it comes out of the oven. Too late then, except for a gigantic ice cream rescue or a shroud of whipped cream.

I also think the requirements are vague and smugly mysterious How could the same substance resemble both tiny peas and coarse meal (Which by the way, is what? Cornmeal before it goes through its last grind at the corn meal factory? Who among us has encountered that?) Peas are quite round and green. Coarse meal is lumpy and not green.

How cold is cold for the shortening? How over is overworked? Does it make sense to make something by hand that your hands should not touch?

My darling daughter-in-law contends that you just know these things. That is why I let her make the pies, and they are fine ones.

An End

2009-11-23T00:09:00.000-05:00

There was a rumble in the air today, and we knew that the harvest beyond our tree line had begun. During these last golden days of low sun and leaf smoke, while we have made hurried efforts to take care of the final outdoor chores, the unharvested corn in Herb's field has seemed indifferent to the end of the season. We even wondered if he meant to leave these spindly, sere stalks standing through the winter -- in some obscure crop rotation scheme we did not know about.

The harvester arrived, however, and the take-down began, filling the air with corn dust. As night fell, the combine lights came on, and the work continued as, in one powerful motion, the corn was cut down, shucked, and spit into the trucks that waited at the fields' perimeters. How odd to look out our windows and see rows of lights, like landing signals, where -- for every other day of the year --- there is darkness. By tomorrow morning, we will be surrounded by low stubble, and the corn will be on the road to its end as chicken feed and ethanol. The air will be quiet again, and we will see a little farther.

Mystery

2009-11-05T18:01:00.000-05:00

What in the world is this, and what is it made of? I took the photograph or, at least, had the camera in my hands, and I should know, but I am mystified. Making things has its perilous moments when you do something that is almost good enough, but you haven't the faintest idea how you did it. Worse, you fret that you might never do anything like it again. Edward counsels that making art is getting lost and getting found and getting lost and getting found. He is, of course, unnervingly right.

I do wish I knew, however, what the camera was pointing at as I shifted and bumped the shutter button by mistake. Nothing around me looks just like this, yet for a moment it was real. Like life.

The Field Next Door

2009-10-28T17:25:00.000-04:00

Each year Herb Miller, the farmer who owns the acreage next to our building, plants an alternate crop for the land's welfare and our entertainment. The soybeans are the more beautiful -- dense, compact, shifting from green to gold to rust as the seasons move. The October stream of beans from the combine harvester into the big hauling trucks is graceful and magical.

The corn is another matter. To my eye, the stalks are pretty only when they are young and only knee-high, creating a thick carpet of lucent green. At the height of summer, the fields look leggy and tough, and they present a formidable barrier to long views. To give the cornfields some due, they do offer the amusement of looking down the rows as one drives past, dizzy with the shift of lines.

Now in late October, the field next door is one of the last of Herb's fields to be harvested. It is properly sere and spooky for Halloween, and one wonders what possible use can be made of the dried-up old cobs. Ethanol, I suppose. That not-so-good idea.

Any day now, we will hear the rumble of the huge machine that will make quick work of the field. If my timing is right, I will go for a ride with Herb, high above the corn.

A Buzzing Giant Revealed

2009-10-25T23:37:00.000-04:00

All summer the wasps' nest hanging near the driveway intimidated us. Big, papery, lumpy, and gray, it was the source of constant waspy motion and potential injury. Or so we thought. It turned out that the wasps kept pretty much to themselves, preferring the company of whatever they keep company with.

Now, after days of rain and nights of frost, the private outer cover has melted away, and we can see the intricacies of what they built and busily inhabited. Where did they all go? Do wasps migrate? Are they intense, skinny fellow-travelers with the butterflies, agitating the southward journey with their angular noise? Or do they lie, frail, dry and wispy, in the corners of barns and old sheds? In either case, I am grateful for this quiet, fragile husk.

All Around Me

2009-10-24T23:46:00.000-04:00

Living and working in an old elementary school in southwest Michigan, I have the luxury of having so much to look at. Eight foot tall windows look onto three acres of trees and grassland, and at this time of year, the view is loaded with golden tulip poplar leaves.

The inside of the building is wide open as well, with an 850 square foot bedroom, and another room of equal size that accomodates a tall wall of books, a seating area with inviting chairs, a 10' long dining table, a desk with computers, scanners and printers --- with room enough for a ping pong table.

Everywhere there are interesting things: art and books of course, but there is also room for objects rescued from the side of the road or found in peculiar places. I can't get enough of looking at this curious metal device, part of an ox yoke, and its companions, a pod and a steel ball. They seem to have had an ancient life together.