As a performing artist, my visual art practice is a refuge: it’s a non-performative, contemplative part of my creative life. The showing of art work may be infiltrated by performativity, but the creative process itself is free of the presence of The Internal Judges and unencumbered by outcome expectations.
Read MoreCelebrate tonight's full moon in Leo and the penumbral eclipse!
How will you Enchant the World?
Read MoreMedia projects are an evolving progression of my creative practice. As any performing artist knows, documentation of live work is an absolute must. — Check out my guest post on The Sybaritic Singer!
Read MoreNotes from the Mat
I like hanging out with MaryBeth Smith, she's a master educator, nurturing supporter, and her energy exudes insight. She teaches the movement modality, the Feldenkrais Method (she is also the director of The Feldenkrais Center of Houston).
Read More"This is our universe" (Woolf 22)
Edges where opposing worlds meet:
Sea and sky. Land and sea. Sun and cloud.
A threshold
A not this
A not that
An in-;betwixt place
Voice and body
Notes on staff lift off of paper: changing states in an alchemical rush
A Something Else emerges
Fiery flames and smoldering vapor plumes
Wildflowers and wild grasses
An elemental goddess at the mercy of humankind
An experimental voicescape work: a setting of the luscious poetry of Petra Kuppers recently published in [PANK] Magazine; my audio is the second audio link on the page, with other audios being Petra reading her work.
Read MoreThis new work is created by composer George Heathco and is a setting of the words of the Dalai Lama XVI. The title Compassion is a verb, emerged from the wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh.
Read Moreravens & radishes is an operatic song cycle composed by George Heathco. George set some of my re-tellings and re-imaginings of fairytale poetry to music for soprano, electric guitar and cello.
Read MoreWorlds wholly imaginary, intangible, just-out-of-reach; a place and time, outside of place and time...an almost afternoon...a walk through a church belled town, its paths all tiger lily for spring, you stand by a market stall, leaning on a splintered cross beam railing...I dreamed a sea gabled house with widows walk, my skirts all rustle whisper, rustle whisper, rustle whisper...sand smoothed out like honeyed silk
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