Work in Progress, “Wild”, 18“x24”, acrylic on panel, © 2012 Belinda Chlouber

This piece is the left half of a diptych that I am working on which is based on a poem my mother wrote “The Wild Animal Trainer”. I  used a panel which I inked lace and printed using my etching press, the images are painted with acrylic paint. I toyed with the idea of using oil paint but decided not to, they just seem to toxic and now I can get the same feel with acrylic paint.

The poem is one I particularly love. Now I’m working on the other half of it which I will post soon. I have to look at them together once the other comes up to a certain point and then decide what to do next. Adding excerpts of the poem, or who knows sanding the whole thing down.…..but I don’t think so with this one.…

A woman is never prepared

for the slashing claws,

the bared teeth, but I have never

been seriously hurt. A few scratches,

perhaps a bruise or two,

certainly nothing

to worry about.

I admit there were times

when I shut my eyes,

twisted inside, almost screamed,

but I never turned away.

Except for once

when the fat lady

told me that as she lay dreaming

she became as one

with the dancing winds of spring

and floated softly to your bed

sweating drops of perfume

on your thighs, and you

welcomed her. In the morning

I could smell the gardenias

when you walked.

The tigers live their

own lives now.

The lion has retired.

I myself

seldom see them

anymore.

© Chlouber estate, Carla Chlouber

1991

If I may ask a boon of fate,

And in my hand were placed a key

That turned the bolt of any gate

And opened everything to me;

Oh, not the gates of paradise

I’d choose to fit my magic key,

Not chests of gold and merchandise,

Not high renown I’d bring to me;

But turn the bolt that locks your heart,

And place the love I feel so true,

Within that sacred shrine apart

And leave it there to dwell with you.

Gates of Paradise

This piece was inspired by my Grandfather Sweet’s poem which he left “Untitled”. I used a combination of real lace and lace that I printed on the panel along with acrylic paints. His poems that we found speak of a young love, one that troubled and tormented him greatly. It made me remember how hard first love can be, how we aren’t really prepared for the rush of such intense emotion it can bring. It is fragile like lace but beautiful in it’s intensity. It can be so painful but feeling life so deeply is magnificent beyond words.

We counted seventeen Angus cows

Moving silently into the clearing,

The cows first, then the calves, and last the bull,

Who paused to look our way

Before dismissing us as unimportant.

And then I saw that they were floating

In a field of black-eyed susans,

With small white daisies lagging at their sides.

The herd sailed slowly westward,

Pushed only by the slightest breeze—

Black barges on a golden sea.

And at that moment, it was as if the wine

Were already made, and I was looking at them

Through a shining haze of memory;

As if the sun had turned the berries

To their final liquid form,

To drink again and again, having only

To think of black cows in a field of yellow flowers.

Carla Chlouber

July 15, 1983

“Haze of Memory”, Mixed media painting, 8.5“x60”, © 2012 Belinda Chlouber

This piece is inspired by mother’s poem “Blackberry Wine” which holds special meaning for me as the poem was read at her funeral last year. When I was visiting my father earlier this year I looked out the kitchen window very early in the morning and saw the cows floating just like my mother describes in the poem. I ran and got my camera and was able to take some pictures to use for the painting. I think a lot about memory lately. My father-in-law has Alzheimer’s and my mother’s parathyroid and thyroid problems caused strange memory problems. My mother often wrote about memory and remembering, the conclusion I’ve come to is we write the story of our lives, and then rewrite the story of our lives over and over again. And then in the end somehow every piece and every bit of what we do contributes to the making of the future.

I’m sorry, dear, but love is like

A fragile lace

That’s beautiful to contemplate

But has no place

As cloak against the cold

Realities of life

Where bitter winds of doubt

With keenness of a knife

Assail the luted soul that love

Has got in thrall

And fed the aching heart

On bitterness and gall.

Why love should breed such misery,

I do not know.

And I am truly dear,

But it is so.

by Arthur Sweet, Carla Chlouber’s father and my grandfather

Life is a mystery

With secrets hidden deep,

But there are some things rare

That even life can’t keep

Submerged and hidden from

The soul of questing youth

Who in his eager search

At last will find the truth.

by Arthur Sweet (Carla Chlouber’s father and Belinda Chlouber’s Grandfather)

This piece is based on a poem my mother, Carla Chlouber, wrote called “Sunday Evening—April 14, 1991″.

“Sunday Evening”, Mixed media painting, 8.5“x60”, © 2011 Belinda Chlouber

Sunday Evening—April 14, 1991

He fights me—

Our long-haired silver cat

Whose tail is like

A plume of smoke.

All evening I’ve been brushing

The matted fur from

His chest and belly,

Trying to extricate

The clumped hair with gentle

Strokes, but now I give

A hard tug and his claws

Catch my fingers

In retaliation. His teeth

Find the side of my hand,

I drop the brush,

Pull back my arm,

And curse the cat

Under my breath.

On television

Our country is glorifying

War, celebrating the slaughter

Of a hundred thousand people.

Between commercials

For Chrysler and AT&T

We salute, parade tanks, wave

Flags, and sing about

Our love of freedom,

As if that had

Something to do with

What we did.

The cat jumps on my lap, ready for battle

Again, I apply the brush

To pull at another

Small knot of gray fur

And cry out as he shreds

The skin of one knuckle,

Leaving it bleeding and raw.

Bob Hope, Ronald Reagan,

General Powell, President Bush—

They are all there—

Smiling, waving, cheering.

For almost two hours now

Hollywood patriots

Have filled the screen

With exultation

Over our great victory,

Extolling the wonders of war—

Modern remote-control war,

New World Order kick-ass war—

And for almost two hours now

The only blood I’ve seen

Is on my bony hand.

Carla Chlouber

“Haze of Memory”, Mixed media painting, 8.5“x60”, © 2012 Belinda Chlouber

Blackberry Wine

We counted seventeen Angus cows

Moving silently into the clearing,

The cows first, then the calves, and last the bull,

Who paused to look our way

Before dismissing us as unimportant.

And then I saw that they were floating

In a field of black-eyed susans,

With small white daisies lagging at their sides.

The herd sailed slowly westward,

Pushed only by the slightest breeze—

Black barges on a golden sea.

And at that moment, it was as if the wine

Were already made, and I was looking at them

Through a shining haze of memory;

As if the sun had turned the berries

to their final liquid form,

To drink again and again, having only

To think of black cows in a field of yellow flowers.

Carla Chlouber

July 15, 1983