"Intelligent Life" at Twilight Gallery

"Intelligent Life: New Work by Laura Allen"

Nov. 10, 2016 - December 4, 2016

Twilight Gallery, West Seattle

Opening Reception: Nov. 10, 6 - 9 p.m.

Exciting news: my work will be featured in November at Twilight Gallery, West Seattle's own "...independent, woman-owned and operated art gallery and jewelry boutique. We cultivate and champion women and LGBTQ independent artists and designers, featuring contemporary art, eclectic designs and one of a kind handmade pieces from around the world." Owner and curator Tracy Cllona has an eye for Seattle's best female artists, and I am honored to be included among them.


For more information: 

"Intelligent Life" on Facebook


 Just checking in with a few new pieces...

...I draw and I paint and I do various things, but nothing makes me happier than creative accretion....

 "...I've discovered similar elements among works as varied as a sonnet or a series of assemblage sculptures: a love of fantastical, ambiguous narration and shifting frames of reference; a reliance on synchronicitous accident and stream-of-consciousness process; and a delight in repeated layers of time, wit, and image...."

New Work: A Planetary Series

 It should come as no real surprise to those of you who know me: science was my first love. If I had known at the time just how creative a science career could be, I might have channeled all my artistic energy into something like genetic engineering and stuck with my original biology track. As it stood, though, I couldn't stand not making new things. So I kept writing and making art instead.

I don't regret it. Much. But I am still preoccupied with all things biological, geological, astronomical, physical. I've been told that I can consume more science fiction in a month than the entire staff of the NY Review of SF. I read entomological field guides for fun, and when I paint, I paint to Sean Carroll physics lectures; cosmology is all the music I need.

And when a new abstract series starts to take on decided tones of strange, alien geology, I am very happy. As these new pieces emerged, I worked to develop those exoplanetary overtones: the unfamiliar strata, the unusual chemical colors of the sky and sea, the variable texture of the alien atmospheres.

(The piece below, "Blue Planet 3", will be included in Verum Ultimatum's juried exhibition 'Abstract Catalyst' in Portland in September/October 2015.)

Open Studios This Weekend

It's that time again: Open Studios at the Inscape building. 

I, along with dozens of other artists, have spent a frantic two weeks framing and hanging, shooting and matting, cleaning and tossing, and if you make it out on Sunday, don't be surprised to see one or more of us propped in a corner snoring. There's always a lot of prep involved in open studios, but they present a unique opportunity to visit artists on their  own turf. 

Of course, it's slightly spiffier-than-usual turf with an atypical quantity of cheese trays, but you know what I mean. Come on out. 

Art, Art, and More Art

Sorry so long no post! I've been working in mixed media again; it took a while after the Big Move to resupply my stockpile of random things, but now my hoard is fully loaded and I'm mixing media like mad. This new series is making me very happy, oh yes indeed.

Here's a preliminary shot of one 3D piece, "Go Now While You Still Can." It has internal motors that turn various bits, a couple of lighted windows, and it's powered by an Arduino Due.

(Thanks to most awesome Husband for helping with the programming despite my infamous impatience and ridiculous perfectionism.)

I'll get a video soon, too.
 The piece to the right is called "Come On Down." I'll be showing it, as well as "Go Now" and others during Inscape Seattle's Open House on June 14. I'll post more info soon, but here's a Facebook link meantime.

In other news, I've been taking a watercolor class with local favorite Jennifer Carrasco. Watercolor has always intimidated me, I'll admit; it requires a bit more delicacy than I can usually muster. Or at least that's what I thought...so far, so good, though. I'm having big fun, thanks to Jennifer and the rest of the gang at C&P Coffee.

Some Chariots

Always behind my back I hear
The spastic clicking of jerked knees
And other automatic reactions
Tracking me through the years to where
Time’s winged chariot is double
Parked near the eternity frontier
And in such moments I want to participate
In human life less and less
But when I do the obligatory double take
And glance behind me into the dark green future
All I see stretching out are vast
Arizona republics of more

-"Human Life" by Tom Clark

from the Cary-Yale Visconti deck, Milan

from the Jacque Vieville deck, France

from Salvador Dali's deck, released in 1984

from The New Tarot by Hurley, Hurley, and Horler
California, 1974

(apparently contemporary)

from Sacred India deck by Rohit Arya


from the Hexen 2.0 deck by Suzanne Treister

added on 2010

from the Voyager Tarot by James Wanless

from the Amano Deck by Yoshitaka Amano, 1991

            Here is where
            You can get nowhere
            Faster than ever
            As you go under
            Deeper and deeper

            In the fertile smother
            Of another acre
            Like any other
            You can’t peer over
            And then another

            And everywhere
            You veer or hare
            There you are
            Farther and farther
            Afield than before

           But on you blunder
           In the verdant meander
           As if   the answer
           To looking for cover
           Were to bewilder

           Your inner minotaur
           And near and far were
           Neither here nor there
           And where you are
           Is where you were 

-"Corn Maze" by David Barber                                

Outsider's Outsiders, and Leonora Carrington

Should an artist choose one art form and stick with it exclusively? 

I've heard dozens of pros and cons on all sides of this argument, and I still haven't made up my mind...which is, I suppose, a way of making up one's mind. 

Having more than one primary art form-- fiction and painting, say, or screenwriting and dance-- is liberating, but even aside from questions of divided effort, it's also the source of an odd sense of personal discomfort. Are you really a writer? Or a painter? Or neither, since you won't choose? In a world that is geared very tightly toward hyperspecialization, where do the unrecalcitrant multitalented people go?

Outside, usually. While the sense of outsiderhood is certainly imposed by cultural norms, it's also intrinsic to the situation; on a very basic level, the need to navigate a very diverse set of social and professional circles leads to a certain degree of personal discomfort. Differences between functional groups-- the artists' coop down the street, or the poetry peer critique that meets at the bookshop-- aren't all superficial. Different groups value different approaches, different methodology, different mindsets, and the artist with multiple career paths will find it difficult to switch personas often enough to truly satisfy any core in-group.

They remain outsiders, even from groups of outsiders.

In honor, then, I've found a few selections from the diverse and many-headed Leonora Carrington, definitely an outsider's outsider.

"Ab Ao Quod" 1956

"Who Art Thou, White Face?" 1959

Here's one of Carrington's short stories, "The Beloved.". You can find it here at Biblioklept, along with "The Debutante" which I just studied in a Hugo House class with Erin Gilbert. Both of these stories have strong women's themes; both are brutal and lovely.

“The Beloved” by Leonora Carrington
ONE LATE afternoon, passing through a narrow street, I stole a melon. The fruit man who was hidden behind his fruits seized me by the arm and said to me: “Señorita, I’ve been waiting for an occasion like this for forty years. I have spent forty years hidden behind this pile of oranges with the hope that someone would steal a fruit from me. I will tell you why; I need to talk, I need to tell my story. If you don’t listen, I will hand you over to the police.”
“I’ll listen,’ I said. Without letting me go, he took me to the inside of the store, among fruits
Without letting me go, he took me to the inside of the store, among fruits and vegetables. We shut a door at the far end, and we reached a room where there was a bed on which an immovable and probably dead woman lay. It appeared to me that she had been there for a long time since the bed was covered with weeds.
“I water her every day,” said the fruitman with a pensive air. “In 40 years I have not succeeded in knowing whether she is dead or not. She has never moved, nor spoken, nor eaten during that time. But the curious thing is that she remains warm. If you don’t believe me, look.”
The man lifted a corner of the cover, which permitted me to see many eggs and some little chicks recently hatched.
“As you notice,” he said, “I incubate eggs here. I also sell fresh eggs.”
We each sat down on one side of the bed and the fruit man began to tell his story.
“Believe me; I love her so much! I have always loved her! She was so sweet! She had little agile white feet. Would you like to see them?”
“No,” I answered.
“Finally,” he continued, after exhaling a deep breath, “she was so beautiful! My hair was blonde; hers, magnificently black! Now, both of us have white hair. Her father was an extraordinary man. He had a mansion in the country. He was a collector of lamb chops. For that we came to know each other. I have a certain skill in drying meat with a glance. Mr. Pushfoot (so he was called) heard about me. He invited me to his house in order to dry his ribs to keep them from rotting. Agnes was his daughter. We loved each other from the first moment. We departed in a boat by way of the Seine. I rowed. Agnes said to me: ‘I love you so much that I only live for you.’ I answered her with the same words. I believe that it is my love which keeps her warm, perhaps she is dead, but the warmth persists.”
After a short pause, with an absent look, he continued: “Next year I will grow some tomatoes; it wouldn’t surprise me if they would grow well there inside … It became night, and I didn’t know where we would spend our wedding night. Agnes had become very pale, because of fatigue. Finally we had scarcely left Paris behind when I saw an inn that faced the river. I moored the boat and we walked toward an obscure and sinister terrace. There were two wolves there and a fox, who began to walk around us. There was nobody else … I knocked and knocked at the door, on the other side of which a terrible silence prevailed. ‘Agnes is tired! Agnes is very tired!’ I shouted with as much force as I could. Finally, an old lady’s head appeared at the window and said: ‘I don’t know anything. The landlord here is the fox. Let me sleep. You are bothering me.’ Agnes began to cry. There was no other remedy than to direct ourselves to the fox. ‘Have you beds?’ I asked several times. Nobody responded: he didn’t know how to speak. And again the head, older than the other, but which now descended slowly through the window tied to the end of a little cord. ‘Direct yourself to the wolves; I am not the landlord here. Let me sleep! please!’ I understood that that head was crazy and I did not have the heart to continue. Agnes kept crying. I walked around the house a few times and finally, I was able to open a window, through which we entered. Then we found ourselves in a kitchen with a high ceiling; over a large oven made hot by fire were some vegetables that were cooking and they jumped in the boiling water, a thing that much amused us. We ate well and then we laid ourselves down on the floor. I had Agnes in my arms. We did not sleep. That terrible kitchen contained all kinds of things. Many rats had stuck their heads out of their holes and then sang with screeching and disagreeable little voices. Filthy odors expanded and diminished one after the other, and there were air drafts. I believe that it was the air drafts that finished my poor Agnes. She never recovered. From that day, each time she spoke less . . .”
And the fruitman was so blinded by tears that I could escape with my melon.
* * *

"The Burning of Giordano Bruno" 1964

"The Giantess" 1947