The Mosaicist's Lament (By Jove, The Blog)

April 22nd, 2019

4/22/2019

The Opossum That Came Home to Die

When my coffee spilled like dark beige tears, ringing our green table in shallow wet promises of feeling better, I knew that my Easter was in full swing. Easter, my anniversary of falling out of Catholicism, or more like getting back up on St. Paul’s horse and riding away into Agnostic Territory, always causes me so much grief.

And then. I found out that the furry body under my and Walt’s Lilac Bush was an opossum.

Maybe he was Apple, that first opossum, sighted 2934 miles and 55 years away, who was perched outside my nighttime bedroom window, staring straight at me —-so still, perhaps to hide his being?
Or was he Old Lester, the snap-shotted one, tangled high in my lemon tree, the possum I met just a year ago?

All I DID know was that my so-much-sadness and coffee tears were for Me and for Apple and for Old Lester and for all the Old Souls who had put me here, at precisely this moment, spinning.

But tell me? Did I degrade Apple or Old Lester or Possum Spirit, whomever might he be, by having his carcass hauled off by a grumpy city employee who had to work on a Sunday? and Easter Sunday, at that —- a person tasked with hauling bodies that did not rise on Easter? I looked out in time to see Apple or Old Lester or Possum Spirit, swinging in black plastic, toted to a place to be dumped and mercifully burned. Was it merciful? Or should I have let my Possum Friend’s body decompose stinkily under the lilacs? Was it okay? —- Please tell me that it was OKAY! to have his body carted off so rudely.

In Sri Lanka close to 300 people were killed, many in churches, TODAY —— an Easter massacre.
There are no words for these, my tears that are privileged by their very breathing existence.

For Apple
For Old Lester
For The Murdered in Sri Lanka

Diana Maria Rossi
4/21/2019

Dzienkuje and grazie. Thank you very much for reading.

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The Elephant in My Living Room

1/29/2016

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Here is a piece, just posted to my website, that I made in 1995 called “A Rebuttal to my Critics (with Aunt Bea Watching)”. It was included in a show at Velvet da Vinci Gallery (1995) and also published on page 32 of the book: The Art of Mosaic Design: a Collection of Contemporary Artists by JoAnn Loctov and Leslie Plummer Clagett. I haven’t wanted to post photos of this piece till now and here is the story of why:

For many years, “A Rebuttal to my Critics (with Aunt Bea Watching)” has been hanging in my living room, featured in a prominent position —- sometimes over the couch. I like this piece well enough, and it was certainly very time consuming to make. (Its diameters are 15.5 inches x 16.75 inches.) I tried to express something that was important to me with this mosaic (well what else is new:) — something that had been sticking in my craw for years!

You see, in the Fall of 1985, I attended graduate school at the San Francisco Art Institute. I was in the MFA program for Printmaking, but I endured only one brief, somewhat tortuous semester and quit that program after my first and last, disastrous, nasty, humiliating, and sad first semester critique. This was the critique where it was just me, the student, proudly displaying my first semester’s efforts with the entire Printmaking faculty there to look, judge, comment, instruct? (no, instruct would be too kind). I won’t go into the gory details here ( I never tire of sharing the story in person, though), but let’s just suffice it to say that I fled my critique in tears, never to return. I did not totally run away, however, as I was employed as a Cataloging Assistant in the San Francisco Art Institute’s Anne Bremer Library and continued to be employed there. That meant that I had to awkwardly rush past my tormentors on an almost daily basis for the next three and a half years! (It was good therapy for this sensitive soul. Hmm…) Back to the story. During this exercise in humility (the critique), one of the negative words that was used by a Faculty member to characterize my work was “trite”. I never forgot that and every time I even hear that adjective, I can feel the slow steep of humiliation and self doubt.

But, like many disappointed and dejected ex-MFA graduate students before me, I survived my ordeal. Some would say I even managed to thrive. Without a press of my own, it was difficult to continue on in printmaking, (people do, though — there are ways to find a press —- I think that I was meant to try something different), so I eventually taught myself how to make mosaics.

Somewhere early in my foray into mosaic-making I began to make three-dimensional hearts. I am not quite sure what prompted me to begin, but I think it was mostly a quasi- unconscious manifestation of my personality. Let me explain. Even in my 30’s I was often clueless about other people’s realities — you mean not everyone senses their world through their emotions, first and foremost? {This was before I had a teenage daughter who liked to subject everyone in her family to the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator personality test where I discovered that I was truly an INFJ (“F” for feeling).} Anyway, making hearts felt kind of natural to me. And then people started to buy them, so onward I went in my heart-making.

I have made so many “hearts” I need to write the word in quotations! They don’t even look like hearts to me! Even so, I have been art-school educated, so there have been times, even knowing that Jim Dine made hearts, was not enough art history knowledge to allay those pesky self-doubts that wondered if the Printmaking faculty was correct in their assessment of me —— maybe their triteness meter had been right on the money?

photography of rays from hearts with text that says: the absence of war

photography of rays from hearts with text that says: the absence of poverty

photography of rays from hearts with text that says: the absence of ignorance

At some point, though, I started to think about the word trite. And I started to think about what it meant that I made and used so many heart shapes. Is the use of the heart shape really trite? Why am I attracted to this symbol? How could my feelings be trite? How could anyone’s feelings be trite? Weren’t there things or events or people or questions in this crappy, happy, mixed up world that warranted a strong emotional response? That is the how and why “A Rebuttal for my Critics (With Aunt Bea Watching)” came into being. The text on the bottom curve of the piece reads: “Longing For A World Where A Heart Is Truly Trite”. And I am including above and below, the photos of the text on the rays which emanate from each heart. These are my personal conditions for another world where, okay, I would happily and proudly declare myself the Queen of Trite!

photography of rays from hearts with text that says: the absence of uncaring coldness

photography of rays from hearts with text that says: the absence of cruelty

photography of rays from hearts with text that says: the absence of good-bye

But what about “Aunt Bea Watching” and what about the "Elephant in My Living Room"? Do I really have an elephant hanging out in my front room, nestling with my two cats? or is he restlessly pacing, knocking over the mosaics? Is this why our house is so messy? Nah. More on the "Elephant in My Living Room" later. First, let’s talk about my Aunt Bea.

Aunt Bea was my brother’s godmother and one of my Mom’s closest and oldest friends. I had known her as a kid when I still lived in Connecticut, but even when we moved far away, we kept in touch. When I was about 25, I was fortunate to be able to hang out with her for a bit, and I got to know her and most importantly, to like her. She had not lived a totally care-free life, but there was something about what she had experienced that made her wise and kind; honest and accepting. And she loved and liked me and was excited for me, just starting out, immersing myself in art school. Aunt Bea radiated unconditional acceptance.

We kept in touch, writing notes and letters over the years. She sent gifts for my first born. One day in 1995 while I was with my infant son, waiting for my Mom to come over and give me my weekly respite from full-time Mom duties so that I could do my other work, making mosaic sculptures, and in this case making pieces for an upcoming show, I heard a voice. I thought that maybe it was my Mom, but no, she had not arrived yet; it was just me and my son. And this was a woman’s voice. I had thought I had heard something like “Hi”. It all seemed kind of weird, but I was taking care of a baby so I did not have time to dwell on it. A short time later, my Mom arrived. My Mom was very upset because she had just found out that Aunt Bea had died. We both cried and reminisced. And then I remembered the voice that I had heard. For some reason, I was sure that that had been Aunt Bea’s voice!

That is why Aunt Bea ended up looking on in “A Rebuttal for my Critics (with Aunt Bea Watching)”. I think that her unconditional acceptance and pride in me bolstered my courage, and reminded me about what is important. Even though her name is spelled “Bea” ( it was short for “Albina”), I was playing with the homonym by putting in those two mille-fiore antennae above the eye to symbolize her presence. I think that she would enjoy the pun.

photo graph of glass mosaic, detail, white eye with acqua cornea with green spokes around it on red background. there are two antanae coming out of the eye at the top and the round part of the antenae is made with millefiore glass

Now, let’s talk “ elephant” . Isn’t the shape of “Rebuttal for my Critics….” interesting? When I began work on this piece, I just loved the medallion, shield-like shape. Like all the wood that I use for my sculpture sub-structures, it is either found , recycled, scrap and/or salvaged wood. Often, I found my wood on the street. I no longer have to do this, as I have accumulated quite a stash of scrap wood in my garage! But back in 1995, I was still picking up wood whenever I would happen upon it, during my daily walks. I remember finding that nice shield shape, along with a bunch of scrap, outside a Berkeley home that was being remodeled. That medallion shield shape was an unusual find, and I was so pleased!

Fast forward from 1995, to about the year 2005 (the exact date eludes me). “Rebuttal for my Critics (with Aunt Bea Watching)” has long been made and exhibited and even published. It’s proudly hanging above our couch in our living room. Someone, and I can’t for the life of me remember who, is visiting. They are looking at the beautiful mosaic above our couch and admiring it. And then they say, “Hey, isn’t that in the shape of a toilet seat cover!”. Holy Nellie! I know that they are right.That is SO a toilet seat cover! I had found that very thick plywood that was cut in that medallion shield shape among a curbside pile of scrap outside a home construction site. It was not an actual toilet seat cover — the wood was not finished. Or was it? My heroic medallion shield shape was really a toilet seat shape and all these years, I had not noticed —- the thought had never crossed my mind. Had it crossed everyone else’s mind and were they just too polite to say anything? We had a toilet seat cover hanging over our couch - how utterly embarrassing was that?

I cannot ever look at “Rebuttal for My Critics (with Aunt Bea Watching)” without seeing that mundane ,earthy, inelegant shape. I will never see the medallion shield again. I have to work to keep from inwardly flinching when I think of all those years I unwittingly displayed a toilet seat cover in my living room. And no one, except that one brave soul, ever said anything. Yes, it’s still in my living room. The couch has moved, but the mosaic is now standing guard over my Mom’s china cabinet. I try to keep my focus on the message of the piece and I try to remember, again, about what is important in this life and that Aunt Bea is watching. And laughing.

Dzienkuje and grazie. Thank you very much for reading.

photo of glass mosaic detail, bottom part with red, orange, yellow, green heart and text under red glass that reads: longing for a world where a heart is truely trite

Sophie and Bea 1950's ?

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March 19th, 2015

3/19/2015

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{I am starting a blog because: everyone in the whole world writes blogs; I have been told
that it might increase traffic to my website; I work alone. }

THE PARKING LOT
MARCH, 2015

Let's begin with this lighthearted video:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2UFc1pr2yUU.

Speaking of which, I just DID find myself maneuvering my aging mini-van, (she goes by
the name of Peri), into the NEW Whole Foods Parking lot in Berkeley. What a cornucopia
of gastronomical delights, including caffeine! And it is all laid out so beautifully, all so
enticing.

But. Why do I feel so guilty (and poor!) when I shop at Whole Foods? Maybe there is a
part of me that remembers that Whole Food’s CEO, John Mackey, has been an
outspoken opponent and lobbyist against Obamacare and any type of government
financed healthcare. Maybe there is a part of me, when walking into that pretty market
and picking out my vegan donut, (or wondering if I should make it a cinnamon infused
morning bun — gooey pecan roll???) that is remembering, kind of like muscle memory,
the terror I felt, 21 years ago, upon finding myself with a planned and very wanted
pregnancy, but lacking in any type of healthcare.

At the time, I was self-employed as a mosaicist and Jeff was employed as a community
college and state university English instructor. Jeff was working in at least two places at
once, sometimes, three -— what they call the adjunct track —so no healthcare for him
and his loved ones. That meant that along with the constant nausea, the first half
of my pregnancy was filled with worry and dread about how I would get the prenatal care
that I needed. I ended up finding home-birth midwives that we payed out of pocket, thanks to
some saved funds via Jeff’s generous Mom, but my mid-wives advised us that we
needed to be able to access the regular hospital system, just in case a more medical
intervention was necessary. (These were great, experienced and very responsible
women who require their clients to have a back-up plan, as I believe all good home birth
midwives do).

Because we did not have health insurance, we were directed to a state program
for the
uninsured, specifically dealing with pregnancy care and pediatric care for the first year or so
of an infant’s life. (I have forgotten the name of the program.) What I haven’t forgotten is
the first name of the bureaucrat who took our case and was supposed to help us. For weeks,
Irma became a regular in our household, as we dealt with her on the phone and submitted
reams of paper and documentation only to find out that we made too much money to
qualify for the program. Yes, only utter poverty would work to get this holy benefit of
prenatal care, and healthcare for our soon-to-be newborn. I remember feeling so
disgusted with our system. So alone. We crossed "Irma" off our list of potential baby girl
names and tried to obtain some form of insurance just in case the baby needed to be
born in a hospital.

We discovered that the state of California had a kind of temporary Medi-Cal program,
that would cover hospital births, called Restricted Medi-Cal for Pregnancy also known as
Emergency Medi-Cal. I remember going on down to an ugly government office, sitting
my tired and very pregnant self, into one of those cold, grey plastic chairs that looks
like it has sat out in the rain too long. Our Government gave me the "emergency"
coverage, and thank goodness! A month later, my son, Arturo, was born at
San Francisco General Hospital.

Due to being “sunny side up”, otherwise known in medical terms as “in the posterior
position”, my baby was unable to be born at home and I and my entourage, (four
midwives, one sister-in-law, one brother, and one husband), rushed ourselves to
San Francisco General Hospital, where they did a good, but pricey job. If I had not had
Emergency Medi-Cal, it would have cost us about 10,000 nineteen ninety-four dollars.
That is 10,000 dollars that would have taken us years and years to pay back.
(Did you know that they are changing the name of SF General to Facebook’s founders’
names? But maybe that could be the subject of a future rant :).

Fast forward to now — this Thursday in late-mid March, 2015. Thanks to Jeff’s job as a
full-time and tenured community college English instructor, we have health insurance
for all of us. And Obamacare means that our 20 year old, and soon to be 18 year old can
remain insured through the age of 26.

I am grateful. Very. I happen to think that Obamacare is a good start, but it just doesn’t go far
ENOUGH! Even so, there are folks in Congress who want to throw out Obamacare
http://www.politico.com/story/2015/03/senate-republicans-obamacare-reconciliation-
budget-116190.html And, in June, the Supreme Court is releasing a decision about a key
tenet of the Affordable Care Act. Stay tuned.

In the meantime, that vegan cinnamon sugar donut that I ate today was delicious.
But I did taste a hint of remorse, or is that guilt? Patronizing Whole Foods, putting money in the coffers of a CEO who actively opposes a government financed health care system felt disloyal to
my story and to all of us who do not think that healthcare is a privilege, but a very
necessary right.

Dzienkuje/grazie/ thanks for listening.

Picture of glass mosaic on wood with sonogram yellow heart white background fetus red spokes red drawing for Mazel Tove for Rufino Pandolfo

"Mazel Tov (in memory of Rufino Pandolfo my Great Great Grandfather)" 5.7"x5.5"x1" glass mosaic on wood with drawing and sonagram
©Diana Maria Rossi 1994

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April 22nd, 2019

The Opossum That Came Home to Die

The Elephant in My Living Room

March 19th, 2015

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