Ardell Louis Persinger, Sr., 1921-2012

Ardell (center), Doris (right) at the WWII Memorial

In the War, the second big war, he flight tested P-51 Mustangs, the fighter plane.

When the war was over, he returned to Iowa, where distance is shortened by the past. He planted his land a farmer-stone’s throw from Lum Hollow where he grew up, where I like to think he hung the tire swing from the cottonwood tree for his younger brothers and sisters, for the grandchildren, where he watched his mother’s narrow back and wide hands on a wooden board on dough.

Dessert first, I can hear him say.

With the gift of the rising sun, he survived the all-too-common small farmer’s demise because he ran the farm with a businessman’s head. His land like all the land around the town opens up in one long field of alfalfa and corn and soy beans, squares of green patched up against pale gold, stretching so far you’d think the world was flat.

He took me, a Baltimore girl, inside the waving wheat, inside the fields he’d plowed and planted.

Hard work, blisters on the hands, aches in the back of his legs, the smell of sweat and dirt reverberate in the sight of his neck, wrinkled with years and sun. And in the story:

The caper during the second World War when he flew repaired planes to see if they were safe. He and his buddies were pilots who could fly larger planes and did: Planes filled with officers they took down from Kastl, Germany, where he was stationed, to the French Riviera to give the heroes R&R.

He and his buddies didn’t get that R&R but they did get time off and the P-51s were theirs. The Doris Lea, the one he named for his love, I think of as glory. Here’s what he and a buddy did on a whim. Got into his P-51 and flew to Paris with the glory of the Eiffel Tower in their heads: Its arch, its height, its span and the span of their wings and their own foolhardiness. They flew to the arch of the tower that looked smaller and smaller as they approached, when there was no turning back, when through it they would go or die. Only those on the ground who saw would ever know. Those on the ground and we who’ve heard the story told over and over and over again.

I saw tears in his eyes only once when my husband and I took him to The Smithsonian’s outpost of the Air and Space Museum way out by Dulles airport, not where the Apollo 11 command module sits, not where the Wright Brothers’ 1903 Flyer hangs or the Spirit of St. Louis, not where the McDonnell FH-1 Phantom holds court inside the museum that sits on the National Mall. His P-51 requires a long drive out to Chantilly, Virginia, where he stood and saw his Doris Lea.

He risked.

Every pilot who flew and shot and saved and won Congressional medals and Purple Hearts owes him. The second big war that was won in part with some five hundred enemy aircraft shot down by P-51s, the lives that were saved, the lives that were lost owe him.

I see him inside the church in town, a simple wooden structure with stained glass windows on two sides. I see his gait down the center aisle, the collection plate in his rough hewn hands that speak of the one who gets things done and can’t be bothered with those who don’t.

He filled the bird feeders that hang from the wide strong maple that stands in his yard the way he stands: lofty and longstanding.

His son in the Persinger cornfield

Nick Winkworth: Artist Photographer on how art enlarges the consciousness

Ruby Slippers

I introduce you today to the photographer/artist Nick Winkworth. The chapter “Bedtrick” in my memoir (Re)Making Love was inspired in part by Nick's photograph entitled  “Ruby Slippers.” I am in his debt.

He honors me here today with his essay and more of his work.

William Gass in Fiction and the Figures of Life, a fabulous book on art and life, says ...[A]rt enlarges consciousness like space in a cathedral, ribboned with light, and though a new work of art may consume our souls completely for a while, almost as a jingle might, if consumption were all that mattered, we are never, afterward, the same; we cannot consciously go on in the old way; there is, as in Rilke’s poem ‘Torso of an Archaic Apollo,’ no place that does not see us, and we must change our life.


Nick gives credence to William Gass’s words.


Nick Winkworth

It was inevitable, I suppose, that someone born into a family of painters and sculptors would find an outlet for artistic expression one way or another.

Born and brought up in England, I have lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, in California, for over 20 years, brought here by a career in high technology which could hardly be further from the world of paint and clay in which I grew up.

At times I imagined the vehicle for my artistic output might have been music (I play bass and guitar), but photography has always been my first love, as well as a more constant and reliable companion.

From the moment I first picked up my first camera as a child, my choice of subject matter has been a cause for comment, but I simply reflect the world as I see it – the subtle interplay of composition, color and form is often more interesting to me than what the subject may be. That doesn’t mean my photographs are sterile exercises in geometry, however. My goal with every image is to achieve a balance between aesthetic appeal and that elusive emotional quality which hints at a mystery, an untold story, or a forgotten memory.

After many years of sharing my work only with family and friends, my photography has now become a serious artistic endeavor.  An initial online presence led to a solo show, which was followed by selection into a number of juried exhibitions and events. Encouraged and inspired by participation in recent portfolio reviews, I now have a long list of projects which will allow me to continue to grow as a photographer and artist …and keep me busy in the coming months!

I am also a regular participant in the web project “SPARK”, which pairs visual artists with writers, encouraging each to create new work inspired by the other. (getsparked.org)

Crying over Colors – Emotion in the Abstract

By Nick Winkworth

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld famously described his hit TV series as “a show about nothing.”

White on White

Of course, he didn’t mean that nothing happened in the show, or that it had nothing to say (as you may remember, it tapped into the psyche of its time and was hugely successful).  What he meant was that the stories in the show were grounded in the mundane – in the ordinary life we take for granted and which passes us by before we realize it’s actually “something”.  We go to work or school. We buy groceries and we interact with our friends. But when asked, “what happened today?” we reply “oh, nothing.”

Jurassic Shore

By removing the distraction of a dramatic plot or an exotic setting, the writers cleverly made us look inward. We laughed because we recognized ourselves and our lives (hopefully only certain aspects!), and by exposing the stuff that normally goes unexamined, it took us beyond humor to (perhaps) some deeper truths. If we cared to notice. 

So if “nothing” can be the subject of a successful TV sitcom, can it also be the basis for other art forms?

LoveLoveLove

My introduction to this idea took place at an early age. Growing up in a family of painters and sculptors, I was reluctantly dragged around what seemed like every art gallery in London as a small child. I naturally became a big fan of the surrealists with their funny juxtapositions and brilliant ideas (“Ceci n'est pas une pipe”), but I was also strongly drawn to the work of abstract expressionists like De Kooning, Malevich, Pollock -- and especially Mark Rothko. I’m not sure I could have told you why at the time, but those fields of pure color and indefinable shapes that call to something just below the conscious were not simply compelling and attractive - they wormed their way into my brain in a way that would not become
apparent for many years.

We Never Close

The painters of that movement would have had a very clear explanation for my reaction, of course. They would no doubt have claimed that their work was a direct emotional connection between the painter and the viewer, without the intermediation of subject. “A painting about nothing” perhaps, but one which has a lot to say, and which is ecumenical in its appeal. This direct connection to emotion has been interpreted by some as “spiritual” and indeed one of the finest examples of Mark Rothko’s work is the Rothko “Chapel,” just outside Houston, Texas. This small octagonal building houses fourteen enormous, dark, almost monochromatic, panels and is a place for non-denominational and philosophical contemplation. 

The power of the work is reputed to move some visitors to tears.

Bus Stop

After my early exposure to painting, my life followed a path away from art - to science, technology and a career which eventually deposited me in my current location in Silicon Valley, California. I nevertheless always maintained a personal creative and artistic output, primarily through the medium of photography, and this is where the threads of my story converge. Photographs – as any photographer will tell you – are not made with a camera, but with an eye and a brain. My photographic subjects have always been what some may call unorthodox. Many have called them painterly. However it was only recently that I made the connection.

The fact is, abstract art is everywhere we look. It is there in the “nothing” that we pass by every day on our way to work. It is there in the “blank” wall and the “empty” space. In reality, of course, it’s in our brains, or rather, since I can only speak for myself, in my brain. Once I realized that my photography was unconsciously drawing on those early memories of abstract paintings I decided to create the body of work I later titled “Off the Wall”. 

Sharing one's personal vision may go with the territory in art, but I was nevertheless relieved to discover that I am not alone: One of my images was recently selected (from over 1,400 submissions) for an exhibition of abstract photography showing now until June 9th at the PhotoPlace gallery in Middlebury, Vermont called “Abstract Expressions” (details at absoluteblog.net). My contribution, “Dividing Line”, is at once an abstract composition of shapes, colors and textures, and also a simple boarded-up window that you might drive past every day. All the exhibition images are available online for those who can't, or won't, make it to Vermont.

Dividing Line

By coincidence, a few weeks before I heard about my inclusion in this exhibition I attended a photographic event in Houston and so naturally made a pilgrimage to the Rothko Chapel. It turned out to be a fairly unassuming building surrounded by a nice little park in a residential part of town. Having passed through the lobby, filled with books from every faith, I entered the main space. Huge purple-black canvases encircle the dim, high ceilinged room and imbue the place with an atmosphere I have only experienced before in a cathedral or remote redwood grove.  A few people sat quietly on benches, or on the floor. Some with eyes closed. 

Mark Rothko Four Darks in Red © Tate / 1998 by Kate Rothko Prizel and Christopher Rothko source The Guardian

Having taken a while to absorb the ambiance, I approached one of the panels, reminiscent perhaps of a cave man approaching the black monolith in “2001, A Space Odyssey” (Rothko encouraged viewers to get very close - as close as 18 inches) and as I did so, the painting seemed to reach out and pull me inside itself. The surface texture and brush strokes are visible at this distance but they seem to just add to the sense of depth, and in a moment I was both deep under the ocean and staring at the stars at the same time. The subtle variations in color and shifting light drew my attention from one place to the next, but in every direction all there was, was the painting.

After a while it became so overwhelming in its intensity that I could no longer continue to look, and I turned my head away.

Visit Nick Winkworth’s blog and website through the link in the right hand margin of this site:

EXCELLENT BLOGS, FRIENDS AND HEROES.

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The triad of talk, food and wine: Ah, Love

Pablo Neruda in a poem I love "Every Day You Play" said, "Every day you play with the light of the universe." Each day we live we choose to light the way for others, to help another, to present their words, to read their work and say something about them, to them. These are the ways of giving that I hope for and so I try here to highlight the work of others.

Occasionally, I get lucky and am found.

Caren and Leah

Two terrific women understand the gift of light: Leah Odze Epstein and Caren Osten Gerszberg, co-editors of the fascinating blog, Drinking Diaries, where you'll find the interview they did with me. Their questions led me to the rediscovery of love in my family and the bond I shared with my father through talk, through a conversation that illuminates my life and that laid the groundwork for my love and work.

Today, I thank Leah and Caren for finding me. You two play with the light of the universe.



Read about these two generous women who are definitely making news: Leah and Caren in the NEWS!

The light of a benefactor: A heartfelt thank you

Derek Walcott said in a 1997 lecture, “All art has to do with light.” The light that comes from the work is often not seen unless a benefactor comes along and tries to help shed that light.

I write here a love letter to Robert Reich, to his wife Caroline Reich and to Lori Welch. Rob and his wife are lovers of the arts and they read my memoir (Re)Making Love, believed in it and wanted to shed light on the work. Lori Welch, a columnist herself on life as a single gal, also owns a company JCL Services, a concierge and party planning company. Rob and Caroline hired Lori to help shed the light. And Lori knows something about how to do this.

With my deep thanks, I offer this toast and a glimpse into the gift they gave: Please, raise your metaphorical glass  to Rob, Caroline and Lori. May they be my Flo Ziegfield, my Simon Cowell or my Sylvia Beach! Whether we who paint, photograph and write are chorus girls, American idols, or poets is for others to decide. But one thing is for sure: The light shines from Rob, Caroline and Lori—and all the folks who attended and heard me read.

Two professional photographers took the stills. My thanks to Tom Kochel and Gedyion Kifle.

Here's a short clip of my reading:


Mary L. Tabor reads from (Re)Making Love from Mary Tabor on Vimeo.

The Benefactors:

Rob Reich to the right (photo by Tom Kochel)

Lori Welch (photo by Gediyon Kifle)

The Crowd

photo Kifle

photo Kifle

photo by Del Persinger

(photo Kifle)

photo Kifle

photo Persinger

 The Afterparty

Photo Persinger

Gediyon Kifle, right Photographer (photo Persinger)

Photogragher Tom Kochel, photo by Kifle

My thanks to all,

Lavender and dreams: Aspiring actor James Green

I virtually met James Green through the magic of Facebook. He began writing to me and so I introduce you to him with a brief essay on his dream. What we have here is one man’s dream, a bit of his life story, and the hint of lavender.

This blog’s purpose has been to discuss the arts, creativity, the process of invention. Most who visit here are writers and painters, artists all. For the first time here, I present the voice of an aspiring actor, who dreams what some say is the impossible dream.

As I present this bit of admitted autobiography by James Green, I’d also like to discuss with you the role of dreams in the process of invention.

John Cheever in an interview in The New York Times, put the question: autobiography in works of fiction in its place—and with that, gave some solid advice on dreams and invention:

It seems to me that any confusion between autobiography and fiction is precisely the role that reality plays in a dream. As you dream your ship, you perhaps know the boat, but you’re going towards a coast that is quite strange; you’re wearing clothes, the language that is being spoken around you is a language you don’t understand, but the woman to your left is your wife. It seems to me that this is not capricious but a quite mysterious union of fact and imagination one also finds in fiction. My favorite definition of fiction is Cocteau’s: “Literature is a force of memory that we have not yet understood.” It seems in a book one finds gratifying, the writer is able to present the reader with memory he has already possessed, but has not comprehended … .

Perhaps here in this brief piece by James Green you will see that dreams and the need to reinvent ourselves throughout our lives is “a force of memory that we have not yet understood.”

Here is James Green:

 I was born in Detroit, Michigan. My father worked at Hitsville as a recording engineer, which later became Motown Records. I've also lived in New York, Atlanta and Los Angeles which is where I spent my formative years, I grew up in a world being surrounded by many great entertainers: The Jackson 5, Smokey Robinson, The Drifters, Rick James and many others. My father worked in the music business, and my mother worked for the Screen Actors Guild in Hollywood. My jobs over the years have been doing extra work in a few films and stand in/model work when I lived in Los Angeles. I moved to Wisconsin and have been a chef for a few years and dabbled in the manufacturing industry. I have a 14 year old son and am trying after all these years to get back into the entertainment business, my true calling I strongly feel. I currently live in Appleton, Wisconsin, and enjoy reading, coaching youth sports, hiking and on occasion playing basketball while pretending every joint in my body isn't screaming in agony.

Three Hours in a Day

by James Green

Three hours of sleep in a day. That’s the average amount of sleep I have had in the last ten years, give or take an hour here or there. I existed in a zombie like state while also enduring a lifeless and loveless marriage. I would go to work, come home and watch the kid, sleep a little and repeat. My only respite was to escape into a Walter Mitty world of fantasy and film.

I jumped into Rick’s trench coat and fedora in Casablanca, and ran for miles as Forrest Gump!

Hmm, also on occasion imagining a little gnome whose arrival was preceded by the smell of lavender...

Two years ago I finally decided to file for divorce, leaving my soon-to-be ex to her own devices in finding a babysitter while she entertained her many male companions.

This month I turn 45 years old. The ink has not quite dried on the divorce papers and thus far shoes still outnumber boots 6 to 1.

After leaving the ex, like a dog realizing its leash is not on, I ran with glee and a newfound hope! I couldn’t wait to get back into the dating pool after 15 years… or so I thought. I have discovered the hard way why certain people are still single. I have met some interesting, entertaining (whether they knew they were or not.) and odd individuals. There has been a rendezvous or two with a couple of nice women, but nothing too substantial.

In the year and a half to two years I have been living by myself, there has been much self-analyzing and introspection. They say if you take a good, hard look in the mirror you may not like what you see—or the opposite? When I was younger I was always the tall, gangly kid trying to blend into the background. I was reserved and painfully shy. Even into the adult years the baggage of youth dragged behind. I have found out who the heck I am.

Punctuality is still an issue, but stopping and smelling the roses is not a crime, yet.

I recently drove to Las Vegas and back! It was almost 4000 miles of bliss and adventure. Steve, a friend, lives out there and has his own film production company. I had been toying with the idea of getting into acting or something film related. The “new” me has decided to take chances and rather than dream, make something happen.

Over lunch I posed the question to Steve about my sudden inspiration to live the dream. His response was honest and disappointing. He advised me not to pursue it. Valid points: Everyone and their mother wants to be an actor. Competition, age, and plus he knew me as the shy kid 20 some odd years ago.

Well, that stoked the embers. One thing that I can call myself is stubborn. In 20 years I had grown mentally and physically, scarred, toughened, and an extrovert by my standards. Let no one tell you what you can or cannot do. I have since returned to merry Wisconsin, and my drive is magnified tenfold.

I will find my path and make my dream come true. I’m not saying that this guy is going to win an Oscar (it is possible!), but there is no such thing as failure if I’ve tried and given it a shot. I could walk away knowing at least I attempted the journey. I will look into getting headshots, overcoming an aversion to getting my picture taken. Ha! This isn’t Hollywood, but there are some smaller theater and stage productions locally. As well as acting, singing and dancing (hmm, let’s not go too far) classes. Baby steps. I’ll do it my way.

A fuzzy photo of James at age 8: dreaming as we all do when we are children

A few years ago, another friend of mine gave me invaluable advice to getting my life together. “James, be eight years old. Remember when you were eight? You dreamed, laughed and played? Where’s that James? It’s time to let him out.” Yes!  At eight I could run into the girls’ bathroom! Of course if I tried going into the ladies’ room now that would carry a hefty fine and a possible sentence. I’ve outgrown some things.

Hmm…do I smell lavender?

Coming through better after 50—even after 60

I've discovered a great ever-changing, fast-paced blog that discovered me. It's all about discovery and, as Yogi Berra told us in his wisdom that remains so quotable, "It ain't over till it's over."

Go to Better after 50 to take a look at the piece I wrote for Felice Shapiro based on my memoir and more (Yes, I tell more ...) and to discover the amazing Felice Shapiro who owns this blog and runs conferences that may interest you. These occur in both Boston and Manhattan.

Felice gets around.

Community is everything. Connecting helps us maintain our humanity. This is a site men and women will want to visit. This is a site where women write and tell what men need to know.

Although Felice (Bless you!) found me, you can find her. Read about Felice's mission.