The Next Shaman

The Kwakiutl of British Columbia offered a child's afterbirth to the beaks of ravens in hopes that the boy would grow to learn the language of corvids. All those hopes and superstitions focused on a tiny body that might learn Raven's wisdom, trickery, creativity and magic--- a new messiah, the next Dalai lama, the next peacemaker. Perhaps this little juvie is the next shaman.

Raven Walks Like a Man

In my dream, Raven walks like a man.

My friend Cuervo, who grew up in Columbia, warned me, "If you see a really big raven, I mean, one that is big like a dog, it's a spirit or a brujo, and not a good one."

Raven lopes towards me, beak wide open and pink inside, so I know he's young, but I don't know what he wants, so I wake up.

I draw every feather and shadow of him until he walks off the page to tell me why he is here.

Raven just flew by my window. I can see everything through the wall of glass, the light so beautiful I can breathe.

The Egg Thief

As I was drawing in the highlights on a pair of raven feet, Raven flew directly towards my studio window, then veered to land in a big pine tree. My pleasure at his arrival turned to foreboding as he placed one foot in front of the other, moving purposefully through the branches towards a songbird's nest that I knew held three eggs.

I ran into the garden, squawking and flapping my arms. Raven glared at me and took off before he reached the nest.

Two days later, I climbed a ladder to find only one egg in the nest. As I grieved, telling myself that this was nature's order, the egg moved! The remaining baby had pecked out much of the underside of the shell.

As I came down the ladder, hoping the mother would return, I saw a tiny yellow beak wobbling open-mouthed in a soft bed of leaves at the base of the tree. Another survivor! I placed it, pink skinned with random patches of gray fuzz, back in the nest.

Raven must have made off with the third egg, for there was no sign at all.

In two more days, the birds have doubled in size, but these babies may still be doomed. My friend David had five little birdkins snatched all at once and he's still moping like a grandfather denied visitation.

And I, recognizing that humans steal and eat eggs from nests every day, I have lost my desire to eat eggs.

This original drawing is pen, pencil, heart and mind on paper size 15" x 21"

Raven brought this mermaid to the high desert. To begin, start with Drawing Raven.

The Ravens of Truth and Memory

The Norse God Odin sent two Ravens out each day--one named Truth (Hugin), the other Memory (Munin). Here, Memory allows Truth to gently pick through her feathers until both birds shine.

While I was creating Truth and Memory (paper size 15" X 22") with pen and colored pencil, heart and mind, two tiny Zuni fetish ravens carved into black marble and bound together with turquoise and coral perched on the paper's edge. I found them through the grace of the White Raven who owns Keshi in Santa Fe.
My thanks to kind-hearted Cordova Raven, who cares for ravens and eagles in Alaska.
For the beginning of the Raven story that brought this mermaid to the desert, start with Drawing Raven.

Heartbeat of the earth

At the San Felipe Corn Dance, my pulse thrums with ancient chants as 1500 people dance the heartbeat of the land. It is by their grace that I am here.
Hours later, with Raven by my side, I look for spirit carvings amidst the traditional regalia of whole fox pelts and skunk anklets. Frowning and smiling like a god with two faces, a Zuni fetish seller says, "No, I don't have ravens, they are not good signs for us."
"Don't listen to him, " Raven hisses in my ear. "Be polite, then walk away." So I do.
"Tell our stories," says Raven as he perches on my shoulder, each pinpoint of his claws reminding me of the path I am meant to be taking.

Knowing Raven ( on 10" x 13" paper) is drawn with pen, pencil, heart and mind, as are the other denizens of the Listening To Raven series.
As to raven and carved Zuni fetishes---my first little raven, black marble with turquoise eyes, perches on my work table atop a lapis heart. Both were gifts from dear friends in Santa Fe. While creating Truth and Memory, a carved pair of ravens bound together with turquoise and coral sat watching on the paper's edge. All three were discovered at Keshi in Santa Fe.
The story of why this mermaid came to live in the high desert begins with Drawing Raven.

The Compass of My Heart

Displayed until May 29 at City Hall in Santa Fe, this intricate drawing came to me in a dream:

A Compass glinted between Raven’s feet as he lengthened his legs to land. It had been a bad day—a friend in Florida had been shot, not killed, by some crazy teenager with a 357 Magnum the color of raven feathers.
Raven, as gravel-voiced as Tom Waits, announced his arrival. I offered a flat hand, palm up, as one would to a dog, my mother’s voice in my ear, “Always palm up, so they won’t be threatened,” she’d whisper, the thin white scar from the bite embroidered right above her eyebrow. Big dogs scared her. She tried to pass on her fears to me, but I decided to just be polite to the muscled boxer down the street, saying “Excuse me,” if I ran by him.
“Don’t run; he’ll chase you. They can smell fear,” warned my mother, but for much of my life I have smelled like musk and exotic flowers.
Raven released a silvery roundel that fit well into the palm of my hand. The sun’s shadow quivered like a hound as tiny animal shapes in turquoise and black marble moved restlessly around the sides.
Raven danced next to me, scratching out a tune in the dirt as I examined the intricate inlay of purple sugalite, orange coral and bright turquoise.
Wings whisked the air as he lofted onto my shoulder, nuzzling his beak into my hair.
“What is this?” I asked him as he preened me, rubbing his head against mine, combing through my hair with his beak, tickling along my hairline.
“Pay attention to what I’ve brought you,” he murmured.
I stroked his head and back, trying to read the compass of my heart.

Death and Cookies

Death stands next to me in the kitchen watching me make cookies....

Find out why at author Judi Hendricks' Kitchen Table, where I'm this month's guest.
While you're there, please leave comments, then amble through http://www.judihendricks.com/
Set aside time for Judi's compelling book, The Laws of Harmony, just published by Harper Collins.

This image--Tied Up, Tied Down © Beth Surdut 2008

Pay attention ot me, says Raven.
I will. Tomorrow. Right now I'm distracted.
Tied up. Tied down.
Looking at me, he swoops in to untie a knot.

Milky Ways

Truth be told, a blood feast turns my stomach. Raven and Coyote keep inviting me to eat with them, but in the moonlight, when Coyote turns to me, his eyes bright and unreadable as the Milky Way, he stands and stares--you know how he does--and I hesitate.
At night I leave the window over my bed open so I can hear him sing wild tunes with his buddies like liquored-up barflies.
During the day, Raven, Coyote and I are compadres. We play tag in the desert and discuss which of them really made the Milky Way.

When I'm not drawing Ravens and weaving their stories, I'm listening to yours...
Hear a discussion on storycatching that aired April 7 on Radiocafe at http://www.santaferadiocafe.org/podcasts/

Professional writer and artist Beth Surdut has written for newspapers, magazines, radio, and the web as well as produced an oral history funded by the Massachusetts Cultural Council and Harvard Historical Society. She has facilitated real-life commentary/creative non-fiction workshops for professional writers and anyone else who has something to say.
The world being an expansive place, the mind being an expanding organ, she has covered just about everything from sewers to senators, beekeepers to Buddhists, and, so as not to get lost in alliteration, here is a random selection of topics--
a plane crash, Pakistani terrorism expert (unrelated to the plane crash), ignominious Cardinal, homophobic teacher,
a psychic tearoom, bird banding, mycology, grave robbing, wildlife management, sludge plant (not the government, the real thing), pollution, adoption, tzedakah,
an unsolved murder, small town government and all the boards, committees, and complaints,
theater, music, visual art, books, and countless profiles celebrating the creative spirits who bring us all that magic.

The Reason Why

When I first came to New Mexico, I breathed in the landscape to see what I would breathe out. I wandered the giant's playground of Tent Rocks, ascended the laddered cliff dwellings at Bandelier, tasted the Gila wilderness, gazed open-mouthed at the sky, and took photographs that I called The Reason Why. As I showed them to Eastern friends, I knew I had to return to live in the Southwest's many-layered palette of colors, micro-climates, and stories.

As I create the Listening to Raven drawings and stories, I also continue my work as a colorist. These silk Abiquiu scarves (8”x 54”) in Winter Sunrise and Summer Sunset are individually drawn freehand and painted, so each scarf is as unique as the person who wears it. $140 each. Clients may also order larger sizes of scarves and triangular shawls, including Chamisa Rain and Aspen Vista. Just ask.

Telling Tales in New Mexico

Critter Tales:
Yours, Mine, and Ours
Feb 18, 2009
9:30 AM - noon

There's nothing as fun as winding people up and watching them go, so I'm facilitating this workshop at the Georgia O'Keeffe museum. Come join a round robin of your nature stories, where I bet we'll learn more about the humans telling the tales than then critters we talk about.
Here’s a great opportunity to foster concise storytelling. Bring your wild critter stories—off the top of your head is just fine—and share them with neighbors who have lived in New Mexico forever or for just a little while.
Professional writer and artist Beth Surdut, aka Gator Girl, will assist you in telling a good tale for radio—short and sometimes not so sweet. Participants will write their stories, read them aloud, and hone them for radio. Education Annex, 123 Grant Avenue. $35; Members $26 (25% discount).Reservations required by February 16: 505.946.1039.
For a few bites of the wild life, meander through my blog. Drawing Raven explains why I've come here. In Gator Girl , terror masquerades as aplomb, and join me in Raptor Rapture-- an owl prowl and oh my, what big teeth you have. There are gators and mermaids swimming through my stories here and at http://www.bethsurdut.com/

Drawing Raven

Raven comes here to find me in the cool desert morning, announcing his presence in an apricot sky. I see myself reflected in his blue-black eyes and feathers.

According to Native American lore, Raven is the bringer of magic. He is my birth month totem. We've been engaged in an ongoing dialogue as I get to know him through my drawings.
I saw no ravens in my three years of river paddling and bird scouting in Florida, but once I started drawing Raven on paper, a large crow came to see me. Always chased by a noisy escort of mockingbirds and blue jays, Crow would perch on the turquoise-colored wood railing of my front porch to watch me draw. If he couldn’t find me, he would caw and dance on the little tin roof covering back stairs. I'd come out and he’d cock his head to get a good look. That bird never missed a day for weeks.
A friend of mine who is a lay minister tells me that somewhere in the bible a visit from a raven can mean prosperity and the Medicine Wheel offers the same possibility. Here is a place for people to unbind themselves, to expand their hearing and seeing, both inward and outward, in the vast beauty of a limitless sky.
For another glimpse of Raven, look at my Raven Telling Tales
This drawing is on 10" x 14" paper using pen, pencil, heart and mind.

The Art of Rain Barrels

The new accessory to a green life seems to be rainbarrels. So what do I offer my clients, my muse mused. Create the equivalent of lawn art--those tacky fiberglass clowns and animals or one or more of the seven dwarves? Instead I offer Ambient Rain Cathchers.

Some have litle bit of a twist and shout, like my homage to Man Ray with those big tears; or Monet, now living in a Florida garden.

In Santa Fe, Desert Rain is an earthy camouflage of southwest shadows

Desert Sage, laced with the purple and violet of New Mexico, nestles in with Russian Sage and Butterfly Bush

Whether you have existing barrels or want to add to your eco-system,

Contact info@bethsurdut.com to commission your own elegant utilitarian design. Prices start at $250 for the artwork.

Picknicking with gators--an hour on the air with Beth Surdut

Not long before the onset of another hell-on-earth hurricane season, I was interviewed by Canadian radio host Lynn Thompson for her show Living On Purpose. We started with a tour of my art and conversation about the Dream Vessels Project at my classic Florida 1920s wooden bungalow, then the plan was to go paddling with the alligators. I took her to the wild and scenic Myakka river (that description is a state designation), but on that windy day, which really would have been a challenge for a novice paddler, the actuality of getting in the canoe turned out to be beyond her comfort zone. So I took her around on foot to favorite spots to see birds and reptiles, snouts and tails.

As I approached the final put-in by car, giving her the fish-or-cut-bait speech in case she just might want to splash the boat in an hour before sunset, we saw a gator on land next to a picnic table being used as a perch by five vultures, while a few stood around on the ground.

Lynn asked me if the gator was alive. When I said yes, she started to get out of the car asking, "This is safe, isn't it?" and I responded, "You don't see me getting out, do you?"

If you've read my blog (scroll down for Bloodsuckered, Darwin Should See This, Gator Girl and the Prehistorics) you know I'm more comfortable surrounded by 14 alligators when I'm in a boat and they're in the water, so I let her go first. Do listen to the adventure, a luxurious and engaging hour of radio.

Bloodsuckered

New research by scientists in Louisiana suggests that alligator blood could serve as the basis for new antibiotics... Uh-oh. Researchers warn that drinking untreated alligator blood isn't healthy for humans, and I'm guessing not so good for the gator, either. Even though my favorite prehistorics aren't supposed to be killed--Step 1, catch gator. Step 2, extract its blood before it extracts yours--this brings up sanguine visions of shark fins or rhino horns lopped off, bull blood drunk hot from the trembling carcass right after the gory bullfight.
When did humans decide that they can torture animals and each other? Let's not forget the practice of eating the heart of your valiant enemy to grow stronger.
Wait, there is reciprocity--
Leeching, having your blood "cleansed" by live bloodsuckers directly injecting natural anti-coagulants, is seeing a revival. At least two famous actresses are sporting leech-induced bruises that supposedly add to a person's well being.

Think of the business possibilities. Artisans can create elegant little vials of gator blood to wear as a pendant. Or how about a portable fetid environment in which to carry your leeches or maggots?
Have you heard about the companies that will take a spoonful of cremains--that's the ashes of your beloved--and make glass jewelry so you can always keep Fido or mom close? Just what I always wanted--to live on as a chachkie that will eventually show up at a yard sale. There's a medieval flair, a touch of the relic, that one-born-every-minute sense of history that smacks of the Florida weirdness that writer Carl Hiaasen celebrates so well.
I'm not professing disbelief in the potential power of the blood of the alligators I spend time with on the river. But since irony is my boon companion, I definitely believe in the foolhardiness of humans.

Today's painting, which I designed from a combination of patterns of striated rock, wood, and pheasant feather, I named Fossils and later, Lifeblood, when a nurse described it as veins and capillaries, blood flowing...the essence of life. The original is available, as is Green Scattered Fossils. Trawl my blog for more wild life art and essays to meet Gator Girl and Mr. Stinky. Visit http://www.bethsurdut.com/ for your mind and body.

Darwin should see this

I didn’t hear any screams, so I guess the idiot and the gator survived.
Before I tell you that story, let me explain about my painting Circe’s Dating Pool. In mythology, Circe turned amorous sailors into swine. In Florida, aging boys litter dating sites with pictures of themselves holding big hogfish as romantic bait. To me, the move from Circe's swine to hogfish and dating seems a reasonable metamorphosis.
Now, moving from ocean to river, here's the story of that first line--
A curious gator, maybe four feet long, leaves the shore and swims quickly towards our canoe. Soon as he's close enough to figure out what we are, he swims parallel to the boat. The birds have gone silent and instead of their songs, we hear some recidivist rehab diva's voice scratching nature till it bleeds.
The young gator submerges, now invisible, as we round the bend where the air is suddenly scented with cigarette smoke. There’s one man standing--well, sort of swaying--in thigh deep water, his white skin glowing in the tannin-dense river. One hand is conducting with a cigarette, and he's using the beer in the other hand as ballast.
“There’s a gator heading in your direction,” I call to him, and the idiot, showing off for his beer can buddies in their boat yells, “Great! I’ll go meet it!” and dives under water.
I ply the paddle deep and fast, saying to my companion, “This could be a Darwin Award Moment and I don’t want to see it. Just keep paddling.”
Far be it from me to get in the way of that guy's personal freedom.

You’d think that telling “gator and the idiot” stories would be cautionary tales, but a park ranger at Myakka told me that there are people who emulate whatever bad behavior they hear. Warn not too feed gators, and picnickers are right on the river bank tossing in hot dogs. Might as well be tossing their kids and canines.
The sad thing is that any gator seen being fed is “removed” for future human safety, because an alligator not only comes to associate humans with food, but doesn’t distinguish between the food and the hand that holds it. Potentially, you’re just one big snack, bubba.

Want more wild life? Read Gator Girl (terror masquerades as aplomb) and Raptor Rapture
(owl prowl and oh my, what big teeth you have).
Circe's Dating Pool , from my Enigmatic Paradise series, is available in print.
Idiosyncracies: Female hogfish can change sex and have a harem. (See, there is a Cosmic Jester.) Wonderfully snarky poem from Circe’s perspective in The World’s Wife by Carol Ann Duffy.
The Darwin Awards are given "to people who kill (or sterilize) themselves in really stupid ways, and in doing so, significantly improve the gene pool by eliminating themselves from the human race."

Your wild life

Here in Florida, a place I’m convinced was never meant for human habitation, we just love to tell each other stories about the critters we’ve seen. When that rustic sphinx moth the size of a hummingbird landed on my front porch last week (This is an earlier Saturniid moth I painted and sold called I'll Fly Away) and sat on my arm for three hours, well, the neighbors came over to take a look and take pictures. Just the other day I stood in the middle of my street listening to a woodpecker ratatatat Morse code over the drone of traffic on 41. A landscape guy came out to his truck as I turned in circles trying to find the bird. He knew right away why I was doing my dance and told me as he put away his tools how sad it was that he had to bury a little owl he found when he was working in some other part of town. So I told him about the Barred Owl in my back yard and the Caracara hawk I saw feasting by the side of the road on Bee Ridge extension and…see what I mean? Here we are, paving paradise into that big hurricane attracting parking lot, and mostly what we want is to see and hear the very creatures that we’re moving in on and moving out.
Now one thing I’ve noticed is that when someone tells a story about a wildlife encounter, especially one that has an alligator, the story tells more about the person than the gator. Just about everyone here has a story, and in the telling, I learn about Florida, human nature and the human heart. Fostering the telling brings people together to celebrate this unique place, weird and wacky as it can be. In my opinion, a lot of people move here and just kind of use the place, not really interacting with the wonder of it.
When I taught that Writing for Radio class at the Peace River Center for Writers, and no one showed up with a story idea, I asked everyone to write about gators. A song-writing environmental lawyer and his guitar –playing buddy picked up a gator—not too small but not so big that it didn’t just fit in their beer cooler-- and drove it over state lines just to be able to say to an unsuspecting friend, “Want a beer? Help yourself. There’s some in the cooler.” After an old man with two hearing aids likened the gator in his trailer park to an old boot camp buddy, the stories rolled out pretty smoothly, with lots of laughter, surprise and recognition.
I could stand up and tell other people’s stories, which I’m happy to do, but mostly, I get a charge out of fostering storytelling. Though I can’t resist a good Liar’s Contest, it’s the true stories I’m looking to hear in a way that people can share with each other. My student with the two hearing aids said to me. “I’ve figured you out. You like to wind people up and watch them go!” He’s right.

Raptor Rapture

Big gator. Bigger than my boat, and definitely faster. Like a nightmare troll stretching across the narrow entrance of the estuary, he watches as I edge past in a rented tub-toy masquerading as a kayak. God he has a lot of teeth.

Almost three years I've been paddling, skimming, slogging, punting my way along the Myakka- the wild and scenic place that never disappoints and keeps me on the right side of sanity.

Almost sunset--two wood storks pose in tandem like a lyre of grace amidst four deer grazing in a lush green patch. An ungainly gallinule lofts from one shore to the other, reflected in the dark mirror of water before landing heavily in a bank of grass so dry it crackles.

I paddle up to where I think the bird might be, and find myself looking at three bulging pairs of eyes in gator babies so cute you might almost forget that Big Momma Gator might be close by...but truth is, I have an arrangement with these creatures of wing and hoof, carapace and prehistoric hide--they own the joint and as long as I behave myself, I get to experience the wonder of natural Florida.

I spent three nights wandering around Myakka park looking for owls. Didn't see a one in the wild, or on the birdwalk, or up in the moonlit canopy, or down by the gully, though the Owl Prowl instructor brought four raptors for a teaching purposes. "Might sound like a dove," the ranger said.

Dusk in my backyard in the city-- For the second night in a row I hear"Hoooo-hooo. Hooo-hooo-hooo." I stand under the live oaks draped with thick Spanish moss, what we call Pele's Hair in Hawaii, and I carefully mimic the call. There it is, a great winged creature flying across the twilight, a barred owl. Must've heard me asking for him.

For more art and the adventures of Gator Girl, see The Subtlety of Gators posted Oct 2007.

Looking like Benazir Bhutto

Buffalo Beth in Bali
©Beth Surdut 2007
In 1999, after a trip to Bali where I was repeatedly told I looked like Benazir Bhutto, I wrote a somewhat snarky piece called “Benazir and Cher” about the public’s desire to identify me with famous people and my desire to be known for my own accomplishments as an artist. To my sorrow, but not to my surprise, Benazir Bhutto, born the same year as I was, was murdered in the last week of 2007.
The Balinese villagers who called me Benazir and held up their children to look at me as my driver negotiated through their festival parade were not the only ones who saw a resemblance. After 9/11, juggling a dual career as an artist and journalist, I was assigned to interview a Pakistani terrorism expert in Massachusetts. Before meeting him in person, I mentioned the Bhutto connection, thinking it might help us bond. He invited me to come to his home to meet his family and to break the fast at the end of Ramadan. As the day lengthened, he told me that the reason he left Pakistan was because he was informed that his death had been ordered by Benazir’s father. So much for bonding! I was thinking that maybe I should have picked a more benign famous person—you know, like Joan Baez--when he said, “I think you’re smarter.”
A couple of years later I was at a party chatting with a Pakistani journalist who had interviewed Bhutto extensively. An American man married to a Pakistani woman said, “I think Beth looks like Benazir Bhutto!” His wife and the journalist chorused, “No!” and decided I looked like Rajiv Gandhi’s wife. Has anyone told these women that they look like me?
I was emailed by a guy in India saying he was writing an article and asking for pictures of me if I really looked like Bhutto. Having seen that someone had landed on my website by typing the search terms “Bhutto+nude+pictures”, I suspiciously asked him what periodical he was writing for and, no surprise, he disappeared.
What I wrote eight years ago, seemingly flippant about a leader I truly admire, ended with this:
“In Hawaii, after being ignored by a maître d' of a restaurant that catered to the famous and infamous, I considered renting a limo and going there dressed as Bhutto... Then I reconsidered, figuring some crazed assassin would pick that same night to make a political statement to the world. I think after all I would rather be killed for who I really am.”
May her courage and spirit continue after her death.

Plane truth in Los Angeles

A few days after Mr. Moto sends me this rudder frame I've drawn here in anticipation for my Dream Vessel, I'm in a former airplane hangar converted into art studios and galleries at Santa Monica airport.I'm looking at a high-minded installation so minimalist I don't even realize it's there. The existentialism of it so overwhelms me that it takes a grand effort of politeness to control my Art Tourette's Syndrome. Never heard of it? It rears its ugly head when faced with bland public art or some whining self-centered visual exercise best discussed with a therapist rather than trotted out as cutting edge art.
I manage to get out the door before expletives burst forth punctuated with a combination of exclamation points and question marks. "Somebody gets paid for this sh-t!?" Once again, I have neglected to insert that filter between brain and mouth.
I walk across the street to lunch at Typhoon where aromatic Asian food scents the atmosphere as I look at the true art on the runway where small planes are lined up waiting to take off.The array of form, color, skill and imagination intrigues and inspires me. As the planes loft, I think of Icarus and Leonardo. Might as well burn up in a flash of beautiful fire than take up space in the garage.

Flying with Joseph Albers and a Circus Poodle

Da plane! Da Plane!

Mural in Zen time--go to the news page of my site for more visuals of this three-walled courtyard where I had some slapstick moments—a full can of lavender paint did the hula on my head, covering my hair and just about everywhere else while I was dive-bombed by persistently angry bees, one of which stung me before I whacked it and hastened its next incarnation. This is, after all, a tranquil meditation space I'm designing.The trained circus poodle on the property only speaks Russian and, like much of the population in retiree paradise, has lousy short term memory. Each time he sees me it's a new adventure of feints and barks.

I finished highlighting the whirring propellers, thinking about Joseph Albers Interaction of Color (the only life-changing class I've ever taken), and realized that the care I put into the shadows and light on the bamboo might well be overshadowed by the plane, placed at my client's behest. (I wonder if the famous luminist painters of the Hudson River Valley School--Cole, Church or Bierstadt--were asked to throw in Rumplstiltskin?) Hiking through bamboo and eucalyptus groves in my former Hawaii home is a delicious memory, but the experience of piloting a small plane, especially through sunset, gave me delirious contentment.
In my usual 'I can do this' approach, I attended ground school after I'd flown a few times. Learning the intricacies of engines and navigation was, for me, like dancing, loving the feeling, and then being told that I had to memorize all the bones in the foot and learn how to repair them if I wanted to be a really great dancer. To understand an engine, I made up stories of hamsters doing push ups (pistons) and lighting matches (combustion). I realized that the next time I hire someone to take me into some remote spot in the Amazon, I can fly the plane if the licensed pilot keels over, but I won't have a clue where we're going. It may really be about the journey, not the destination.

Barbie the Bigot and the Big Idea of Spiritual Stewards

Halloween’s coming and guess who’s all dressed up as Barbie the Bigot, the newest in hazardous toys scheduled to be pulled off the market—that self-proclaimed Republican pundit Ann C, who told Donny Deutsch that Christians are perfected Jews. Hunh? So, what is the Big Idea here and why did she get any air time? Having interviewed some severely twisted people myself, I understand about letting them hang themselves, but really, folks, that Republican wet dream must be slathering on makeup concealer under her pearl necklace to cover the rope burns on her neck...
So how does this tie in to what I do besides live on our ever warming planet? Consider the upcoming masquerade/opening of Myths, Masks, Rites & Rituals at Aurora Colors Gallery in Petaluma, CA. where you’ll find four of my best pieces at the gallery. My ongoing visual storytelling begins with a known mythology and adds new coloration. The painting shown here is Spirits of the Millstone. A friend came to my studio in Hawaii when she was writing a book about fairies. She asked me to create a painting to send around to her agent (who turned out to be tied into that whole little girl with wings concept), but our discussion fostered the idea of spiritual stewards of growth, like the garden devas at Findhorn, Scotland. That first painting, We Heard You Asking About Us, sold to a couple in Harvard, MA, where Amazon lilies provide a home for the eyes of the spirits. A few years later, in a quintessential New England town, a massive runic circle lay flat in my garden of peonies and nasturtiums until a well digger noticed it and told me his father collected the stones. Thanks to Archimedes and his fulcrum, the stone was uprighted, more nasturtium planted, and through the round window of the runic path I could see the pond beyond, where each year a goose couple flew in from Canada to breed, and each year the clever fox and the banshee screaming wolverine attempted (and sometimes succeeded) eating the goslings.
So in this time of need and beauty and global warming and ignorant varnished bigots masquerading as conservative intelligentsia, I contend that we are the guardians; we are the spiritual stewards of growth and the time for the spiritual warrior is now.
See you at the masquerade in Petaluma October 30th.

Mr. Stinky and the Wild Princess

Feral, gorgeous and virile Mr. Stinky courted me every night by YOWLING at midnight out front of my house. He'd go quiet as soon as he saw me, never asking for food, seeming just to want me. Two months into this nightly serenade, I began to suspect that he was one of my old bad boyfriends dressed up in a cat suit--he had all the same moves, rubbing his handsome self up against me, running away when I tried to get too close, marking his territory but still schmoozing the blond across the street, who fed him.
Breaks my heart to see homeless animals, so when I was asked recently to design an image for the Sarasota Defense of Animals Catwalk October 20 at Siesta Beach, I created Cats for the Mind and licensed it for use on tee shirts. Available from me as prints, and if you sign a big fat check, the original painting can be yours. Of course, a portion supports the kitty programs.
Mr. Stinky, so much handsomer than his name, turned out to be a good cat with bad manners, living here part-time, now nutless, still spraying, trying to get it on with the little feral spayed princess and eventually getting confused part way through the mating dance because he can't quite figure out how to get tab A into slot B, kind of like the old guys here, but cuter.

The enigma of no tits at the Ritz

The Mermaids Return now swims with ambient music of indie film composer Conrad Praetzel. Suggestions for music poured in, but we heard the dolphin chatter and hints of gamelon in the deep blue and knew we were home.

Florida, surprisingly, aims to subvert decadent public displays by mermaids. (Guess they're easier to control than those pesky voting machines.) I have been told by a representative of the state arts commission that there is a no nipple law, that this series of magical mythical creatures are considered (deleteriously) to be nudes. I refuse to add the accoutrement of clamshell bras (ouch) or strategically placed locks (read that however you want), as suggested by an apologetic buyer for the Ritz Carlton, which has a "no breasts" rule. There we stood in the spa, where most, if not all, of the clientele either had breasts or had obviuosly purchased a pair (ahem, God doesn't start them at the throat) and the buyer said to me in the hushed voice of someone sharing secret wisdom, "You know, most of our clientele is from the midwest."

Just when you think you know about your own country, like thinking your vote counts or that your government representatives actually represent you, there's a moment of enlightenment. "Oh, I grew up in New England, I didn't know that midwesterens don't have breasts!" I blurted out. No wonder the current series is called Enigmatic Paradise.

Out of the Lion's mouth

Yes, I drew this, but there are days when I can't tell if she's being swallowed or pushing herself out of the lion's mouth.

In Balinese myth, a big moon faced ogre swallows the moon goddess each month until she's a sliver of light and hope, but he never succeeds entirely, because he only has a head. She always emerges, serene and beautiful, with a knowing little smile. It's something to aspire to--outwitting the ogres, knowing where the lions are-- don't you think?

Musical confluence--Wondering Where the Lions Are by brilliant Bruce Cockburn

The Mermaids Return by Beth Surdut

Paintings by Beth Surdut/Music by Conrad Praetzel/compiled by Chalchuhuitl Productions
The Story of The Mermaid's Return
After seven years spent more on land than in the ocean, the mermaid’s scales had disappeared. Not only that, she thought miserably, staring at the feet at the end of her long legs, her tail was gone. The iridescent flash of turquoise and pale pink with emerald highlights had been replaced by human flesh tones.
The transformation was seemingly complete, but whenever she caught the scent of salt water coming off the marshes, her feet tingled and she would put them together and push downward with a quick hard motion, just as if she still had her tail to power her through the water.
As an artist she was adept at transforming stark white silk into jewel-toned paintings where viewers immersed themselves. Now she realized what she should do with that magical process. She picked up her brush, opened her mind and her bottles of dyes, and began to paint.
In the coldest of winters, where she watched her breath freeze and shatter, the mermaid drew upon her memory of her family of ocean creatures. She promised herself she would paint a magical dozen mermaids, one for every month of the year.
Exuberant adolescents were the first to appear, followed by wise seers and princesses. All emerged with watchful eyes in their tails. Most traveled with sea creatures—starfish, shells, seahorses and parrotfish. The first red-haired one came forward boldly in an emerald sea, palms flowing with sensual power. Next came the painter’s strong-willed Spirit Kin with starfish in her luminous hair.
And that is how the portraits began.

Come meet the mermaids who originally took shape on luminous silk before morphing into the finest of limited edition pigment prints on paper.

Gator Girl and the Prehistorics

"Don't be scared," said the guide as the alligator lunged towards my kayak, the huge prehistoric head right next to my hip. "I'm not scared," I said quietly, "I'm petrified," I whispered as the gator swam past us, gliding parallel to my little tub toy of a boat. The waters of the Myakka river, rightly designated wild and scenic, are a feast for gators and birds--I just didn't want to be the main course.
"Whew," said the guide, "I'm sure glad he didn't get scared and try to climb over our boats."
The next day at an orchid sale, I heard someone loudly calling, "Hey Gator Girl!" It was one of my newly met paddling buddies. My behavior on the river--shock masquerading as aplomb--earned me a new moniker.
That was my first time on the river. I came back to the studio to paint this piece Myakka: the subtlety of Gators. Most of the time, in the dark reflective waters, you can't see who's swimming under or beside you. Eyes head and nose dot the surface and often sink like submarines as we approach.
Myakka, unlike other aspects of Florida, never disappoints, always enchants. Herons abound--Great Blues, Whites, Tri-colored (my favorite), Green and more; heavy bodied woodstorks whose wings whoosh loudly as they loft, goofy and gorgeous roseate spoonbills, bold ospreys, and so many more birds.
I no longer go with a guide, most often with one boon paddling companion in a canoe--I admit that I like the higher sides, especially when a gator decides we're too close and lunges up out of the water, mouth agape. A rare occurrence, especially if its not mating season when the big boys bellow "Stella" in their own version of Streetcar Named Desire.
There have been days where I've seen the spectrum of life-- big eyed baby gators with striped tails and once, a 12 foot gator corpse being feasted upon by vultures who usually amuse with their hopping, dum-de-dump, de-dum-de dum gait.
Recently I counted 14 gator heads in the water around me, and stopped counting when I got to 48 vultures in the trees and on shore with no carrion in sight or scent. I just kept moving, in case they mistook me for dessert.
This piece is sold, and in a private collection of someone who lives in the northeast and has never been on the river.
See more from this series at http://www.bethsurdut.com/harmonics.htm

Mural in zen time

September 1

100 degrees and I'm painting a mural in a client's courtyard. A dreamy bamboo forest emerges from my brush and overheated mind, blue streams and mysterious marshes now surround a zen garden. But it's so damned hot--hey, this is Florida, where a concerned stranger who loved my artwork told me I'm going to burn in hell for eternity--that now I know why Bush won here, why 18,000 votes disappeared in the last election and very few really seem to care. Brain fry. Who can think clearly in this devilish oven?

Antidote--fight the good fight from afar.