Multiple pieces from my series “Through the Cloth” weew accepted for the women-themed exhibition in Italy.
como en la piedra fresca
del manantial, el agua
abre un ancho relámpago de espuma,
así es la sonrisa en tu rostro,
de finas manos y delgados pies
como un caballito de plata,
andando, flor del mundo,
así te veo,
con un nido de cobre enmarañado
en tu cabeza, un nido
color de miel sombría
donde mi corazón arde y reposa,
no te caben los ojos en la cara,
no te caben los ojos en la tierra.
Hay países, hay ríos
en tus ojos,
mi patria está en tus ojos,
yo camino por ellos,
ellos dan luz al mundo
por donde yo camino,
tus senos son como dos panes hechos
de tierra cereal y luna de oro,
la hizo mi brazo como un río cuando
pasó mil años por tu dulce cuerpo,
no hay nada como tus caderas,
tal vez la tierra tiene
en algún sitio oculto
la curva y el aroma de tu cuerpo,
tal vez en algún sitio,
Bella, mi bella,
tu voz, tu piel, tus uñas,
bella, mi bella,
tu ser, tu luz, tu sombra,
todo eso es mío, bella,
todo eso es mío, mía,
cuando andas o reposas,
cuando cantas o duermes,
cuando sufres o sueñas,
cuando estás cerca o lejos,
eres mía, mi bella,
I have encountered a lot of people traveling around the world these past four years. Most rewarding has been encountering myself and discovering who I am. The gift has been a deep and permanent change in perspective. To combine travel with food, art, music, and dance is to celebrate life. It’s not the destination that matters, it’s the change of scene and the discovery of unknown foods, unseen art, unheard music and new dances to learn. Wherever I am is home. I am a rich woman because I have many homes.
I posted this right before I left San Antonio to start traveling around the world. It has become my mantra. I have learned to handle fear. It does not mean I don´t feel it. I just don’t let it stop me.
Day of the Dead is a holiday honoring deceased family members that is celebrated by indigenous people in Central and South America the end of October and beginning of November. According to tradition, the gates of heaven are opened at midnight on October 31, allowing the spirits of all deceased children (angelitos) to reunite with their families for 24 hours. On November 2, the spirits of the adults come down to enjoy the festivities that are prepared for them.
In Mexico, La Catrina has become the iconic image of Day. However, few know of her origins. Skeletal Calaveras became popular in Day of the Dead celebrations around the turn of the 19th century. La Catrina was created as a political satire in 1910 by José Guadalupe Posada to mock women who, ashamed of their indigenous origins, wore makeup to make their skin look whiter and slavishly imitated Western fasion. The term Garbancera became a nickname for people who hide their cultural heritage.
Around my neck in this painting is a mirror so that the viewer can see themselves. The questions to ask are “What part of myself am I denying?” and “What parts of my authentic selves do I need to uncover and embrace?” The image is cropped, but you can still see the metal milagras which are on the arches around the image. A Milagro is a miracle. A miracle in this image is anything which wakes us up to our authentic selves.
All of the bitches in the attic. Every. Single. One..
A milagro is a miracle that opens a gate for us to pass through. Whether we pass through or stay stuck is up to us. The choice is ours.
Me, I´m going to walk through every gate that opens. From now until I die, my purpose is to discover my authentic self, both the good and the bad, the beautiful and the hideous aspects of my nature.
Time is running out.
Every day is precious.
I am looking for the gates. And expecting miracles.
Painting I did while living in Thailand. The best incense is a fragrant kitchen. The best music is someone singing in the kitchen. The best dance floor is always the kitchen.
Forget the boardroom.
This is where the power is.
filled with clutter and spice,
swirling and dodging,
collecting our lives.
It is here that we make
where Peace is restored
Here, we make mistakes,
red-button catastrophes and, then,
apologize and hold one another
hoping to be forgiven, to forgive,
never really knowing.
This kitchen, bright and rambling,
a world in itself,
secures us, like a bouquet of rosemary
swinging lightly from the eves,
the fragrance of
our ragged dreams
our mingled prayers
sustain us as we move beyond
the porch steps.
– Anne Kundtz