Artistry.

"Congratulations. This is a huge day," I said to the red-faced artist in his own living room, crowded with neighbors and friends. He smiled and rolled his eyes simultaneously.

"What you drinking?" he pointed to my empty hands.

"Oh no, we've been drinking all day. We're in town for a wedding that started at noon, and after this we're going back for the after party." His cheeks were balls of smile and sweat. I wasn't sure how well he could hear me in the crowd. Or how well he could understand my English. "But we are so glad we made it here. Seriously, congratulations. How does it feel?"

Air shot out of his nostrils. He was still smiling. "It's done. It's happened. And I just want to get back in my studio."

His house was a three story West-Philadelphia row house that had no roof when he and his wife bought it, after having moved to the U.S. from Romania decades ago. Now, we were standing on hard wood floors he restored himself, amidst a crowd of gracious and drunken neighbors - some human, some bronze. For up until this day that he finally opened a gallery to show his work, he kept all of his sculptures in his house. Huge. Bronze. Sculptures. Stunning.

"But it's such a wonderful gift for people to be able to see your work," I dipped some bread into his wife's eggplant puree. His response wasn't at all callous. Or even rude. It was simply honest and devoid of any concern for traditional etiquette or protocol.

"I dont care. I just want to be making. In the studio."

In the past twenty years, this man has not put any energy into marketing or press or making a name for himself. Every ounce of his energy goes into the creation of his artform. Gorgeous, huge, bronze figures. That take years to create. A blend of classicism and the grotesque. An elongated calf bleeds into an ankle and a horizontal foot that dances with a dripping blob or bronze. His pieces are bodily and disturbing. They cut the space and capture you. You want to dance with them, make love to them, and run screaming from them at the same time. You cannot encounter one, and walk away unchanged. And they are everywhere in his house. Taking up his entire living room. Situated around his back yard. Gestating in his studio out back. And now at this moment, some of them are on display for the first time ever in his newly finished gallery.

This whole weekend was a contemplation of artistry. Simultaneously, as Philadelphia saw the opening of this gallery, the whole city is pulsing and pregnant as the annual Live Arts/Fringe Theatre Festival approaches in a couple of weeks. Hundreds of shows are being created, rehearsed, teched, edited, and born into being. I sat in on friends' rehearsals and beamed with gratitude for the authenticity of genuine creation. Friends whose lives are built around making work. Whose primary concern is excellence and craft and sharing themselves. And it is so clear that "successful" theatre comes from an inner joy, rather than an external idea whose motivation is to gain recognition.

However, theater as an artform demands an audience. Performance requires feedback. The show cannot exist in a living room or a studio for eyes to gaze on later. Posterity is moot. But with any artform, the artist must at some point reflect on intention. What is the seed of the creation? Is it a need to create and give voice to something within - offering it to the elements? Or is it a need to please the viewers and derive affirmation from the outside?

On the back of the cereal box of artistry, I think you would see the following listed ingredients: craft, discipline, intention, generosity, and joy. Not necessarily in that order. In fact, it's the order that interests me. If they are listed by importance, or quantity - which would come first?

I have just moved to Los Angeles. City of dreams. And the questions are no different. Of course, the air here pulsates with decades of stereotypical ambition. To "make it". And the question for me is - who decides when I've been made? It has something to do with feedback from the outside world - validation and justification and power in the community. But if those are the leading forces, the cereal will go stale.

Flowers are gorgeous because they are not trying to be. They struggle, of course. For sunlight and water. They put effort in. Stretching their roots to find water. But they do so out of a built in need to express their unique make-up. They will bloom whether or not someone is there to paint them or take their picture or sign them with an agent.

And Philadelphia has taught me an incredible reality in the art world - it is a myth that if someone else succeeds, you have to suffer. The daisies, the roses, the sunflowers - they all get some of the sun. I could not be more grateful for the spirit of generosity that Philadelphia artists and friends have exposed me to.

And so, the question in Los Angeles lives: How can we stretch our roots for water without feeling threatened by the giant oak tree, or stealing more than our share from the dandelion seed? Is it possible?

Winter

The year's eyelids are heavy. Barely a slit to let in the remaining December light. The year sits in her rocker, and we crowd around her. Begging her to explain her stories. But she is tired. Her heavy breathing stops for a moment as she cocks her head to listen. Can you hear that my children? We are barely able to make out the sound of 2010 clambering up the walk. What will he bring us?! Beautiful treasures? Or a warning of sorts?

His stride sounds heavy. Burdened, perhaps, by the weight of gifts for us all? Or the weight of sadness and dread?

Artistry.

"Congratulations. This is a huge day," I said to the red-faced artist in his own living room, crowded with neighbors and friends. He smiled and rolled his eyes simultaneously.

"What you drinking?" he pointed to my empty hands.

"Oh no, we've been drinking all day. We're in town for a wedding that started at noon, and after this we're going back for the after party." His cheeks were balls of smile and sweat. I wasn't sure how well he could hear me in the crowd. Or how well he could understand my English. "But we are so glad we made it here. Seriously, congratulations. How does it feel?"

Air shot out of his nostrils. He was still smiling. "It's done. It's happened. And I just want to get back in my studio."

His house was a three story West-Philadelphia row house that had no roof when he and his wife bought it, after having moved to the U.S. from Romania decades ago. Now, we were standing on hard wood floors he restored himself, amidst a crowd of gracious and drunken neighbors - some human, some bronze. For up until this day that he finally opened a gallery to show his work, he kept all of his sculptures in his house. Huge. Bronze. Sculptures. Stunning.

"But it's such a wonderful gift for people to be able to see your work," I dipped some bread into his wife's eggplant puree. His response wasn't at all callous. Or even rude. It was simply honest and devoid of any concern for traditional etiquette or protocol.

"I dont care. I just want to be making. In the studio."

In the past twenty years, this man has not put any energy into marketing or press or making a name for himself. Every ounce of his energy goes into the creation of his artform. Gorgeous, huge, bronze figures. That take years to create. A blend of classicism and the grotesque. An elongated calf bleeds into an ankle and a horizontal foot that dances with a dripping blob or bronze. His pieces are bodily and disturbing. They cut the space and capture you. You want to dance with them, make love to them, and run screaming from them at the same time. You cannot encounter one, and walk away unchanged. And they are everywhere in his house. Taking up his entire living room. Situated around his back yard. Gestating in his studio out back. And now at this moment, some of them are on display for the first time ever in his newly finished gallery.

This whole weekend was a contemplation of artistry. Simultaneously, as Philadelphia saw the opening of this gallery, the whole city is pulsing and pregnant as the annual Live Arts/Fringe Theatre Festival approaches in a couple of weeks. Hundreds of shows are being created, rehearsed, teched, edited, and born into being. I sat in on friends' rehearsals and beamed with gratitude for the authenticity of genuine creation. Friends whose lives are built around making work. Whose primary concern is excellence and craft and sharing themselves. And it is so clear that "successful" theatre comes from an inner joy, rather than an external idea whose motivation is to gain recognition.

However, theater as an artform demands an audience. Performance requires feedback. The show cannot exist in a living room or a studio for eyes to gaze on later. Posterity is moot. But with any artform, the artist must at some point reflect on intention. What is the seed of the creation? Is it a need to create and give voice to something within - offering it to the elements? Or is it a need to please the viewers and derive affirmation from the outside?

On the back of the cereal box of artistry, I think you would see the following listed ingredients: craft, discipline, intention, generosity, and joy. Not necessarily in that order. In fact, it's the order that interests me. If they are listed by importance, or quantity - which would come first?

I have just moved to Los Angeles. City of dreams. And the questions are no different. Of course, the air here pulsates with decades of stereotypical ambition. To "make it". And the question for me is - who decides when I've been made? It has something to do with feedback from the outside world - validation and justification and power in the community. But if those are the leading forces, the cereal will go stale.

Flowers are gorgeous because they are not trying to be. They struggle, of course. For sunlight and water. They put effort in. Stretching their roots to find water. But they do so out of a built in need to express their unique make-up. They will bloom whether or not someone is there to paint them or take their picture or sign them with an agent.

And Philadelphia has taught me an incredible reality in the art world - it is a myth that if someone else succeeds, you have to suffer. The daisies, the roses, the sunflowers - they all get some of the sun. I could not be more grateful for the spirit of generosity that Philadelphia artists and friends have exposed me to.

And so, the question in Los Angeles lives: How can we stretch our roots for water without feeling threatened by the giant oak tree, or stealing more than our share from the dandelion seed? Is it possible?