Artist Statement

Days o’ Work: Etchings, Woodcuts & Rubbings
Artist’s Statement, December 2009

This is the fourth time I’ve been given the opportunity to present a solo show at Washington Printmakers Gallery. Four years elapsed between each exhibition, each span of time essentially the equivalent of a college education. But Days o’ Work is comprised entirely of prints made after a three year hiatus from the privilege of working in the studio. Of course, the head work and the heart work were always going on during those fallow years, but the hand work could not be done until recently. At one point, feeling guilty about having no tangible ‘product’ to show for myself, I was heartened by Picasso’s statement that “The artist goes through states of fullness and emptiness, and that is all there is to the mystery of art.”

My artwork has always been a means for me to grapple with contemporary conundrums, both personal and societal. The end results –the prints themselves-- invoke time, motion, passages, pathways and perception, invariably with at least a whiff of art historical reference. Working with the human figure and bringing art history to the present have been my modus operandi for many years. But for this body of work, I returned to using the tapestry of nature as a backdrop. I gave myself permission to stop trying to make ‘Art’, or things that look like art, and began to make images I wanted to see, literally, to live with.

I was born and raised in Iowa, the youngest in a family of seven. I’ve been living out here on the East Coast for 25 years, but I’m an Iowan. Some would say militantly so. But in truth, ‘The Lake’ in Northern Minnesota --where we’ve gathered for 23 of my 50 years-- is home. Half of those years we splashed and gamboled wildly as youngsters; half I’ve spent as a grown (though certainly not a grown up) woman paddling along the shoreline in a kayak. The eagles and loons have had their own renaissance, from threatened demise to becoming delightfully common sights. I’ve discovered that while some of us talk to think, and some of us think to talk, at ‘The Lake’ I can actually shut up and listen. (Now I have an inkling as to how Monet had the courage to paint his glorious, mammoth cycles of waterlilies at Giverny, even as the bombs of World War I were dropping directly on Rouen, not 40 miles away.)

As we grow, we are told that life is a balancing act. But for me, that concept presents a picture that is much too poised and delicate. Life is hard. Life is messy. Life is sacred. Life is fun. Consequently, I find that I’m always wrestling with this tension of opposites, and that struggle pervades my imagery. So I made the decision to make that contest apparent in this chapter of my work: fleeting moments versus the unfolding of geological time; sacred beauty versus secular ephemera; big versus little picture; fact versus feeling; reality versus memory; unscripted versus premeditated; acceptance versus denial; fearless freedom versus patient control. To let go on the roller coaster and enjoy the ride, terrifying and awful, thrilling and wonderful, as it is. With hope, these forces coalesce into something we may come to realize is beautiful. Imperfect, but beautiful.

Days o’ Work was created with a deep sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the unstoppable work of nature, and gratitude to my late mother (a force of nature to be reckoned with indeed!). Gratitude for my students, colleagues, friends, family and family of the heart, who have taught me so much. It’s been a mighty bumpy road, but here we are, on the right side of the grass. Thank you for being here. Now.

“Nowhere can one get to know an artist better than in his prints.” --Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

* * * *

From Lisé D. Ludwig, November, 2009
(traditionally the quietest and most understated of Ruth’s five children)

Though I elected not to speak at the memorial service of Jessie Ruth Ludwig-Miller in July, I find that I would like my prepared remarks to have a wider audience than they did at the time. What follows is a written version of what I would have presented had I chosen to do so.
Mom had wide ranging knowledge and questions would generally be answered with some editorial context included. When I was about 12 the subject of core courses and distribution requirements kept coming up. It was clear that our household was in favor of these but one evening, working in the kitchen, I asked her why someone who knew they were going into Medicine should be required to take Literature or Music courses. She explained that a Liberal Arts education was to give people exposure to a wide range of subjects because decades from now they might find their interests had changed and they would have some background to pursue a new direction. Pursuing only Science and Math courses would not result in a well rounded person. Just as we want our physicians to have a background in the Humanities, artists or musicians should have a background in Science and Math before they specialize too much. "Without the education one is simply going to trade school."

The "Argument Shelf" and "Look it up!" have been mentioned. A corollary is, "You don't have to know the answer, you have to know where to find it," and sometimes asking Mom was how you found it. One day in the Consumer Division at the Iowa Attorney General's office an attorney was trying to confirm an item for an article. A widening circle of attorneys and investigators worked to verify the item which we all agreed was correct. Finally, I suggested I call my Mom explaining we had exhausted our known resources and she could at least suggest other places for us to look. They looked at me a little quizzically but said to go ahead.
I called and she did offer some ideas.

A couple of months later there was a little hubbub over in the attorney section but I stayed at my desk figuring they knew where to find me. Finally, after the group had debated and discussed for awhile I heard one Attorney's voice rise over the others, "Well, call Lisé's Mother!"

You can tell from our stories that Minnesota has been a touch stone. One summer at Shady Knolls Mom and I were sharing a cabin while sister Trudi, husband Paul and their son Byron had another. Paul had brought his string bass or, "the other woman" due to its size and prominence in their family, as well. One day as I was coming up from the beach I heard a rhythmic bass line coming through the trees. a Dump a de dah Dump a de dah Dump a de dah Dump a de dah, dah daht. a Dump a de dah Dump a de dah Dump a de dah Dump a de dah, dah daht. Thinking this was uncharacteristic of the classical music I expected from Paul I went toward their cabin and peered through the trees. There was Paul on their deck in conversation with half a dozen children gathered around the instrument. Satisfied, I went on to our cabin and found Mom working a crossword puzzle and looking over the lake. "Mom, the line that Paul was playing for the kids, is it a standard or is it something specific? I know it's a classic, but what is it?"
I ran through the line, " a Dump a de dah Dump a de dah Dump a de dah ..." and she replied, "I should know that. Give me a minute" so I went to the kitchen. She came in shortly with a slight look of surprise; "Well, Lisé, that's the bridge to 'Night Train'!" and went on to show how "You can hear the wheels" and emphasized the rhythm with her shoulders. We both laughed agreeing it is, indeed, a classic. Even at the time I thought, "Boy, it's never going to be easier than this to get information."

It was also in Minnesota, I am given to understand, that Young Byron's "Salty Grandma", her English teaching days well behind her, made it quite clear that she, personally, had no use for the American poet Walt Whitman.

Well, Mom was right about the Liberal Arts education. In May, when Trudi and I were with her, and after she died, I went home to Charles City. My curiosity piqued, I pulled my college Whitman off the shelf after 30 years and paged through. The following is one that stood out to me as capturing our recent experience. I know she won't mind the Whitman if it has value for us gathered here today.

THE LAST INVOCATION
Walt Whitman

At the last, tenderly,
From the walls of the powerful fortress'd house,
From the clasp of the knitted locks, from the keep of the well-closed doors,
Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth;
With the key of softness unlock the locks -- with a whisper,
Set ope the doors O soul.

Tenderly -- be not impatient,
(Strong is your hold O mortal flesh,
Strong is your hold O love).