These Arms Don't Fit

The Girl With No Hands - AT Type 706

As promised, I will be discussing my favorite fairy tale today. I don't know why it's my favorite, but I have so far made something like 3 paintings directly based on it and quite a few more roughly inspired by it. I will probably wish to revisit it frequently in the future, as it contains many themes that intrigue and, quite frankly, disturb me.

What I've been thinking about this time, though, is the nature of those silver hands. They were always the most puzzling element of the story, for me. What purpose did they really serve? The girl really never explicitly uses them for anything, and she hasn't gotten her happy ending until she has natural hands again. So what is the deal with the silver ones? Here is my theory, by way of an Absurd Art Anecdote.

One of my latest artistic endeavors is to knit up some clothing for a young girl mannequin in my studio. Perhaps some other time I will tell you the story of how she ended up there. In any case, after a few name changes, she is now known as Audrey (I considered naming her Galatea, but it seemed a bit too on-the-nose), and despite a fresh new coat of pink paint she is otherwise nude. Since I've taken up knitting and using yarn and knitting needles in my sculpture, I thought it would be appropriate to make some clothing and accessories for her. With this in mind, I paid a visit to the local yarn shop, hoping to find a pattern for a nice summer dress for her. Finding knitting patterns for girls around her apparent age (I would guess around nine) is not easy, as mostly people seem to knit for adults and young children only. They even have a name for her demographic: "middle-aged children."

In any case, I asked a lady at the store to help me find a pattern for a sleeveless summery dress for Audrey, of course pretending that she was my niece, because obviously yarn-store attendants wouldn't understand the kind of high-concept art I make. In any case, the lady told me that a girl her age would never wear a knitted dress, and that I should make her a sweater or something. The nerve! To suggest that I wouldn't know what my niece likes, or that she wouldn't absolutely love any gift I put so much effort into. I tried not to let my frustration show, especially since I was already lying through my teeth and very much wanted to leave as quickly as possible. But to be honest, it was really bothering me, and the reason was this: Audrey, being inanimate, would of course like anything I made for her. But what ifI were making something for my real relatives, as I very much intend to do soon? What if they don't like it? Is it presumptuous of me to assume that my young cousins would like clothing I made for them? More importantly, why do stupid questions like this keep bothering me?

Anyway, what I'm trying to say in a roundabout way is that I think the Girl Without Hands couldn't be satisfied with her silver hands because they weren't hers. This is a surprisingly girl-empowering message for a fairy tale, especially one with an implied incest threat and mutilation as retribution for disobeying male authority. As well-intentioned as the king may have been in making her silver hands, she couldn't "win" the story as it were until she got her own natural hands back, through her own strength. Now, given that her strength is piety and constant prayer, maybe we shouldn't be too praising of those old-time Germans' feminism, but it could be worse. The story could end when the king finds her and makes her new hands and marries her, but it doesn't end until she proves herself worthy, through her own actions, of new, natural hands that belong only to her. Now, silver hands are of course a different matter entirely from knitted clothing, but I guess it couldn't hurt to figure out what kinds of clothes my cousins like to wear before I start making things for them...

Nothing Endures But Change

One-Eye, Two-Eyes, and Three-Eyes - AT Type 511

This story is... a bit of an odd one. It's another tree story, because I enjoy running with a theme, and I'm learning a lot. In fact, it's not just another tree story (Green Willow was a tree story too, but I don't think it's anything like these). It's another "tree providing for a little girl when other people are cruel to her" story, which for some reason or another seems to really appeal to me. I think I'll conclude my current visitations on the subject with my favorite fairy tale ever tomorrow. For now, though, I'm writing about this one, because it helped me solve a particular problem I've been thinking about for some time.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about seemingly irreconcilable dichotomies of action or thought. One that has always provided me with a great deal of challenge has been the clash between stability and change. I'm a very mutable person. I'm prone to mood swings, have a very short attention span, and love novelty. I also crave stability. I like having a routine in my life, and forming long-lasting friendships, and repeating things often enough to get very good at them. How can I live with these two forces constantly at war with one another? I want to stick with things for a very long time, but I get bored or distracted or simply overwhelmed with everything else I could be doing.

I am happy to say that I've discovered a new solution today: find things that are a constant part of my life that are themselves constantly changing! How I discovered this was simple. Today I brought the girl I am babysitting to my studio (at her mother's request - she likes art), and we had some time to kill. I asked her if she wanted to try some painting or drawing, or visit other artists at work, but she seemed very interested in the way I decorate my studio. Right now there is thread and yarn stretched all across the ceiling and walls, and lots of things like tree branches and strings of beads and dried flowers hanging from it. She made the suggestion of separating one part of my studio from the other by hanging a bunch of bead strings together to make a curtain. It was a great idea, and we spent the rest of our time working on the project. It occurred to me that the space of my studio, and the sort of general space of "where I am" is kind of like this ever-changing but ever-constant reminder of who I am and the people I care about. The contents, layout, or even location of the space may be constantly changing, but it always reflects the people that matter to me, and keeps me grounded in a very stable reality.

The reason this reminded me of today's story was because of the presence of the old woman. She's a constant source of nourishment for the girl (sort of taking the place of the real mother in the "evil stepmother" stories like Juniper Tree and Magic Orange Tree), but that source of nourishment changes and moves with the girl. First she is given a goat, with magic that works just for her. When the goat dies (as all goats must, especially, it seems, when they're standing in for motherly love), its entrails are used to create a brand new magical tree that only provides food for Two-Eyes. And what's more, when Two-Eyes moves away, the tree moves with her! This brings me right back to the topic of my last entry, the constancy of love. And the funny thing is, even though they're full of fairy-magic happy endings, they're actually pretty relevant to real life if you know how to interpret them.

The Flute

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find a web-based version of this story, but I did stumble upon a digitized copy of my source book, so if you're really interested you can read any of the Japanese stories I'm reading here. Something about having a rare story in printed form sitting on my bedside table makes me very happy, but of course I'm always happier to share. In fact, this thought leads me quite fluidly in to the topic I have in mind. You see, I'm a bit of a pack rat, and believe strongly in the emotional resonance of physical objects. I recognize that material belongings are nothing compared to real human interactions, of course, but I also see them as being very palpable mementos of such interactions after they have occurred and especially when those people aren't close to me anymore.

Today's story (yesterday's too - I like it very much and was too tired last night to write about it, so I read it twice) is about the most heartbreaking kind of loss, the loss of a child. Once again, this story features no traditional western happy ending, and I am starting to see that its meaning is all the more palpable for being more realistic. What is most powerful for me is the fact that the bereaved father ends the story with nothing but his memories and a single gift from his child: the eponymous flute. One of my favorite parts of fairy tales is the vivid images they can call forth of people, places, strange events, and simple objects imbued with profound magic. The reason this particular image touches me so is that it is by such tokens that I often recall the people I love the most and who are not with me right now. I have not lost many loved ones to death, thankfully, but I have lost many to physical distance and simply a necessary parting of ways. Unfortunately, such is the nature of my work with children and my habit of forming close friendships with people who are planning on studying abroad. I don't think I would survive their absence from my life, permanent or temporary, without the little tokens of their presence in my daily lives. CDs we listened to together, books they bought me, drawings they made for me, toys found in coat pockets from last winter... the list goes on. My home and my studio are both filled with these objects, and though some people see it as mess or clutter, I can't live without it.

It is with this realization, I think, that my art began to change in a major way earlier this year. Understanding how important physical objects were to me, I came to realize that I was merely collecting, never giving away. Certainly, different people have different ways of remembering their loved ones, but how could I feel truly happy creating artwork that I felt embarrassed or uncomfortable giving freely to other people? Of course, I'll always make some art for myself, but I realized, after taking some good, long looks at the kind of art I was making, that I was making virtually nothing for other people. If my goal as an artist was to communicate, I needed to think much more about the people with whom I wanted to communicate. And, tacky as it may sound, I feel a lot better about my artwork when my mother tells me how much she thinks my grandma would like my drawing than when some visiting art critic likes the narrative in my six-foot painting.

Faithful Johannes

Faithful Johannes - AT Type 516

My primary concern after reading this story was the moral dilemma presented at its end. It is not, of course, a dilemma for very long in the story, because that is not how fairy tales work. In any case, I'll get to that in a moment and ask for your contributions to a discussion of the situation. First, I would like to reflect on the issue of friendship. Faithful Johannes is at its heart a story about loyalty and, in a certain sense, friendship. Although Johannes is presented as a servant to the prince in the story, he is in many ways what a lot of people would like in a good and loyal friend. He helps the prince in his time of need, plays wingman when the prince wants to win a woman, and puts his own safety on the line when he knows he can help the prince. Of course much of what he does goes above and beyond the line of common friendship, but then again very little is "common" in fairy tales.

This story, and a conversation I had with a friend today, led me to think about what I look for in a friendship and, interestingly, what I don't feel like I have found, or at least don't have at the moment. Earlier today I was rehearsing for my friend Phoebe's play, and discussing the role in which she cast me. His name is Palamon, and he serves as a mercilessly honest critic for the main character, a playwright. He loves his friend, and respects his work, and because of this feels totally comfortable tearing it to pieces when asked to give his opinion. I think I would like to have this sort of friend by my side constantly when attempting to produce art, and really in everyday life. It is a certain kind of trust that enables a friend to speak the honest truth, even when it might hurt, and I'm not sure that I have that with anyone right now. I can remember feeling this absence since high school, when I felt that others perceived me as weak or sensitive and tended to treat me with a little bit of a blunted edge. I wonder if this has changed much. I don't mean to suggest that I don't think I have friends who are honest with me. I certainly think I have a few. But the honesty seems to come in only a few areas, or even sometimes to be motivated by personal bias. More often, sadly, I feel I receive condescension or reassuring platitudes when I discuss real problems with friends. I suppose it is a bit much of me to ask for a friend so brilliant, honest, and trustworthy that he or she would clearly see the truth in all of my actions and call me on it immediately, but this train of thought is being conducted by a fairy tale. The most likely cause of this deficit in the end is probably my own unwillingness to trust. On some level, I imagine I am afraid of the honest criticisms I could receive if I were to open up less discriminately.

In any case, I'd now like to bring up the moral dilemma I mentioned earlier. For this I hope you'll read the story to get a grasp of the situation. At the end of Faithful Johannes, the petrified servant tells his master that he can pay for his wrongdoing and bring Johannes back if he sacrifices his two children. Since the story takes place in Fairy Tale Logic, the prince decides to go ahead with it and lops off his sons' heads without all that much deliberation, and soon enough the servant and the sons are all restored to life and everyone lives happily ever after. Assuming a situation wherein I didn't know I was in a fairy tale, I would, in this situation, gladly leave my faithful friend as a statue for all eternity. Is this heartless of me? Those who know me well will hopefully not be offended and understand when I say I would gladly leave them in the lurch to protect any child, let alone my own, but I wonder if my personal biases against (even the most loyal of) adults are clouding my judgment. I therefore would like to open the floor to discussion. What would you do if faced with the prince's dilemma? Would you trade the lives of your young children for the life of your most faithful friend, a man who has essentially given his life to bring you happiness? I look forward to hearing your ideas. As always, I thank you for reading, and hope you never have to make this decision in real life.

Shared Home

The Cat and Mouse in Partnership - AT Type 15 "The Theft of Butter by Playing Godfather"

Most Sundays, I pack up a few good books and a sketchbook and ride the commuter rail to the Out of the Blue Gallery in Cambridge. I've been so busy for past few months with final critiques, holidays, and other distractions that I haven't been able to make it in for my regular gallery-sitting appointment in some time. In these weeks, I've been able to think about what my presence at the gallery really means. I have sold a few pieces there, yes, I am occasionally the only one around to keep shop or take care of minor chores, but it is increasingly clear that my relationship with the place and the people who work and spend time there is much deeper than one of monetary benefit. That relationship could not have been put in better words for me than it was today.

This morning, I set out bright and early, walking to the train station despite the cold and the snow, ostensibly to wear in my new boots and afraid my car wouldn't make it out of my driveway. However, I think my real motivation was an exhilarated desire to meet every challenge the day had to offer me, because my fairy tale this morning is one of the most silly and disheartening ones I've ever read. To imply that two creatures, simply because they should be natural enemies, cannot by any means forge a trust between one another in a shared living space, is an affront to my every naive belief about the nature of community and camaraderie. Indeed, when I set out for the gallery today I was looking forward to being with people I had honestly missed, people with whom I had no familial bond yet shared the intimacy of a communal space. I was looking forward to my opportunity to test this old fairy tale notion that some people are just destined not to get along.

In any case, I braved the snow and rode into Cambridge, took a subway and a bus to Central Square, and hiked down Prospect Street to the gallery. My day was, as usual, mostly uneventful. I got to chat with the regulars and get a lot of reading done, and at the end of my usual shift the new drumming instructor began to move in his instruments for the weekly drumming circle. Due to the commuter rail schedule, I usually leave around the time he begins setting up, but today I decided to wait around a few more hours and join in, feeling swayed by a newly rediscovered sense of community.

I will be honest (and apologize to him, if he ever reads this), but I've had my reservations about this new drumming instructor. I was very fond of the man who used to come on Sundays, and I don't know why he left, and this new one seemed to be a bit of a hippy. But today I gave him a chance, and he said something that moved me deeply. As I grabbed some extra chairs to help him set up, he was speaking to another drummer, and talking about how he felt that the gallery was like a second home for him because of the music he made there. He gestured to me and said I must feel the same way, because my art is on the walls, and because of this connection we were sharing a home. I knew as soon as he said it that he was exactly right. I agreed heartily, and he started teaching us the rhythms we would use that night. As we played on, more people I know and love, whose art and poetry lines the walls of the gallery, came in to dance and play with us, and for those few hours we shared that warm home, safe from the weather and worries outside.

And no one tried to steal anyone's fat.