Skip to main content

My Mosaic Mind


We went to Philadelphia recently, and in looking online for things to do before the trip I found THE MAGIC GARDENS.  It is a space filled to the brim with mosaics and art by Isaiah Zagar.  I like mosaic – always love visiting the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore with its mosaic egg and walls. And we visited a space mosaic-ed by Niki de Saint Phalle, Queen Califia’s Magic Circle, in Escondido, California once that fascinated me, so I knew I would enjoy the Magic Gardens.

But honestly, I was not prepared for the sensations that overcame me. 


Every inch of the space – the walls, the stairs, the columns, the floors, was covered in ART.  Most was mosaic made from tiles, glass, ceramic, bits and pieces of life, all grouted together.  The artist seemed to have expressed his innermost thoughts, himself, and glued bits and pieces of it everywhere.  It was as if he was showing himself to the world, but only the attentive few would find the pieces of the puzzle scattered all about and be able to put them together to get a glimpse of his soul.




I was in the gardens with my sweetheart and other family members.  They seemed to enjoy the artwork for a while, but quickly grew to the “Ok, let’s get out of here and move onto the next activity” phase, whereas I felt like I could explore for hours.  That'w what art does, I guess, it either "clicks" with a person or it doesn't.  Me - I wanted to see every nook and cranny – sit on the tile in the little hidden mosaic cave, lie down and look UP to the chimney mosaic-ed above us – and take it all in.




In the last few years I have chosen to be more transparent about my life – sharing what I am feeling and going through (both good and bad).  I used to be much more guarded and private, but I have learned that through writing and expressing who am I and what I am going through, I find solace, healing and knowledge.  Isaiah Zagar, the Magic Gardens artist, must feel the same way.  By creating – painting, collecting bits and pieces, blending, grouting, MAKING – he can open up, be himself, and LIVE.


Where my family saw messiness and “junk” – I saw art.


When other visitors loudly proclaimed that the work surrounding us was a symptom of extreme mental illness – I saw it as a symptom of CREATIVITY and self-expression.



And when others seemed to find the stimulation overwhelming and gaudy – I FOUND IT CALM AND PEACEFUL.

I related to it.  I loved it.

Since we left, I have been thinking about it.  MY LIFE IS A MOSAIC.  My desk, so messy and full of papers that I had to install a desk number 2 (instead of sorting out desk 1).  The dining room table, where I sit writing now, which is almost NEVER devoid of gifts to be wrapped, bills to be paid, and mail to sort.  But mostly, my MIND.

The things that whirl and swirl in my mind and never stop…  Cards to mail, clothes to wash, checks to deposit, vegetables to plant.  But mostly – ART.  Projects that have seeds in my mind, some have pieces collected just waiting to be used, that have yet to be born.  The “Happy Hoopers”.  The “You Know You Want To”.  The “Kindness Yard Sale”.  The chalkboard.  The audio described museum on the corner.  The tear-off signs.  All expressions of me that will someday stop swirling in my mind and find their way to our front gate.

Thank you, Magic Gardens.  You showed me that my mind is a mosaic.  Instead of fretting or worrying or being ashamed of the “mess”, I will celebrate it.  My Mosaic Mind.





(All artwork by Isaiah Zagar, photos by Susan Thompson-Gaines)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Damn Skin

I honestly don’t know how long it has been there.  David and I both have this sort of weird disassociation with time – him much worse than me.  But both of us really don’t have a handle on how long things are, how far in the past they were, etc.  It is like time blurs or something (which is why neither of us can ever, for the life of us, remember what anniversary we are on until we count back). So, filling out the blank on the processing questionnaire that asks “How long has this issue been there” is sort of impossible.  But how do you explain to medical professionals that you DON’T KNOW?  So I lie.  “Around a year, maybe a year and a half…”.  I could just write “Your guess is as good as mine”, but that would be even less helpful and harder to explain, so I assign a number.  So yeah, I have this “bump”.  That’s what I called it.  A “bump” on the right side of the bridge of my nose, very near my eye.  It has been there “for...

The Girl Who Can't Ride a Bike

I am “the girl who can’t ride a bike”. I guess to be accurate, I should say that I WAS “the girl who can’t ride a bike”.   But it was such a big part of my identity growing up, that the never formalized (but often teased about) nickname stuck in my psyche. You know how most kids love to jump on their bikes and pedal around the neighborhood once they have figured out how to balance, brake, and GO?   Yeah, that wasn’t me.   I wasn’t that kid. I am not sure WHAT really happened. The one thing I do remember is being on a bike in my family’s garage in Omaha, Nebraska trying to ride my bike.   It must’ve been winter, otherwise, why wouldn’t I have been outdoors??   But I think my foot slipped off the pedal and I know for sure my knee hit the handlebar.   It hurt.   I remember crying. But I am guessing that it hurt my pride more than it hurt my knee.   I think I was already past the age where kids were “supposed” to ride a bike. ...

Firsts. And Lasts.

I have been thinking a lot this past week on what seems to be an over-emphasis on FIRSTs in our culture. The first steps. The first tooth. The first born. The first time to have sex. The first haircut. The first word. The first car. The first time to roll over. First.   First.   First.   We photograph them.   We brag about them.   Heck, we even make BOOKS about them. And I have wondered why the lack of acknowledging the LASTs… Is it because the LASTs are so scary?   Too frightening to confront? The last time to drive. The last time to speak to your loved ones. The last smile The last time to walk.   To run.   To jump. The last time to shop. The last time to kiss.   To hug.   To make love. The last vacation. The last meal. If we could embrace the LASTs as much as we do the FIRSTs, would that make them more meaningful?   More tender?   Might...