Carol Philips's blog

In what ways is art a gift? Most saliently, it’s a gift to the artist - in my case, me. For instance, I get to play with lots of wonderful toys, make a mess, repeatedly ask and answer the question “what if” (e.g., What if there were more of this red here? What if this horizontal piece were vertical? What if I removed/added this part of the grid, those sequins, that shape . . .) and, eventually, find out what it is that I’m trying to say.

In Istanbul, last fall, I visited the 1000 years of Koran exhibit that happened to be featured at the archealogical museum during my stay. Many of these books were exhibited open, their letters and words incomprehensible to me.

For the past six months, I’ve been on medical leave from almost everything. When I returned from the Art in the Open and the Summer Solstice events in June (both rare exception leaves from medical leave), I dumped \all the supplies and works that I’d brought with me on my studio floor. This past week, I sorted and cleaned and cleaned and sorted. My mother asked, “Wasn’t that unbearably boring?”

In direct contradiction to the Sesame Street song, none of these things is not like the others. Their oh so important to me shared quality is that they serve to attach, making as one things that are currently two, reuniting things that have been torn asunder. Or, what the Kabblah calls repairing the world. I use all these materials often and  for those reasons. I am moved by a stong need, nay, an ovewhelming and unstoppable urge to put things together.

On this gray April morning, I figured I’d link my blog to Julie Davis’s Phillyist December interview with me. Lo and behold, Phillyist is no more! The interview could not be accessed! My web presence is shrunken, oh my!  Then I took a deep breath followed by an alternate electronic route and found the iview through its own personal link:

http://phillyist.com/2010/12/15/artist_carol_philips.php.

Beginning The Wild Rumpus

Here’s a story that explains the origins of this blog and where it’s going:

Being a friendly sort of artist, I encourage people to ask questions when they're looking at my work. So, there I am, by my work, chatting with some friends during an open studios tour and, out of the corner of my eye, I notice someone taking time to carefully look at my personal favorite piece in the Books of Love’s Own Dream series. Prompted by his apparent interest, I ask whether he has any questions. Typically, people ask questions about what the piece is made of or what it’s “supposed to be.” But, this man says he doesn’t have any questions, next he begins formulating a thought that doesn’t quite turn into a question, and then he hits on what he wants to ask: How do you do it?