Reflections on Illumination

Joanna Read is the featured artist on our upcoming series, Illumination. She is a heart-led artist, coach, writer, and yoga teacher who dreams of a consciously interconnected, harmonious world. Her mission is to inspire and connect individuals with their inner worlds and build stronger communities through adventure, creative expression, and connection with nature.
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Follow her at @joannaeread or visit joannaread.com to learn more.

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My journey with silk painting has been an illumination of the heart, mind, and soul. I first discovered this magical medium after graduating from Umass Amherst in 2007 on the Chancellor’s scholarship for art, at my first real “job”, working in events organization for the Rockport Art Association in my hometown on the North Shore. It was here where I connected with artist member Judith Goetemann, and first was introduced to the idea of painting on silk. Her paintings were vibrant, thoughtful, meticulously rendered expressions inspired by the natural world. Her demeanor was warm, and whenever she spoke about her work, her eyes would light up. I was drawn to her youthful spirit, her enthusiasm for the unique challenges the medium presented, and, most of all, her humility and genuine kindness towards others.

Joanna Read

One summer Saturday, wandering around the Rocky Neck artist colony, I happened upon Judith’s studio, and to my delight, she invited me in for a tour. Her work space, overlooking Gloucester Harbor, reminded me of a science lab: lined with glass jars of colored dyes; piles of swatches neatly stacked. She explained to me how silk painters work with different types of resists to manipulate the flow of the dye. Her eyes twinkled as she spoke of the magical process of watching the lifelike dye travel across the shimmering fabric.

Judy shared with me how silk painting helped her develop a high-degree of patience, focus, concentration, and non-attachment to her work. These were all concepts I was learning about in yoga practice. It felt illuminating to discover how silk painting was another form of yoga - a moving meditation of color, gesture, and fluid, mindful awareness.

Visiting Judy’s studio made me realize how hungry I was to once again expose my mind to new creative endeavors, exploration, and learning, and I picked up silk painting as soon as my loans were paid off. It was a welcome reprise to return to creative work after years of juggling 4 jobs. Many days I would begin my work day in the dark, and end my day gazing out across the moonlit sea. I drew so much inspiration from the hundreds of sunrises and sunsets that I was blessed to witness while I worked.

Returning from my studio tour filled with inspiration, I scoured the internet for the few-available books and tutorials I could find, ordered some supplies, and dove in head first into educating myself, mostly by trial and (a lot of) error. I was instantly captivated by how the fluid dyes would react and respond to the elements of air, water, and heat. Colors beginning with mysteriously deep, dark tones would dry in various gradients and hues, and become richly vibrant again after carefully and meticulously exposing the silk to a combination of heat, parchment, steam, and time.
Within my first year of mastering the craft, I launched a business for my silk painting: creating an online store, teaching classes, and exhibiting work locally. My practice and methods with silk mirrored my inner world, changing and evolving as I found my way in the world.

I’m returning back to silk painting now after taking the last half-decade years to focus on other aspects of my [he]art, and it’s exciting to feel like I’m in such a rich place of creative integration.
I’ve had this vision of silk painting to chamber music ever since my days working in the art gallery. Every now and then, we’d collaborate with the Rockport chamber music festival, and my imagination would light up as melodies and rhythms translated into colors and gestures that I could visualize in my mind and feel into with my heart. It is a humbling privilege, and miraculous dream come true to be co creating an inspiring moment in time with Aurora, and all who receive the energy of the work.
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A sample of Joanna’s silk work

A tour of Damak, Nepal

Owen Baertlein is a photographer, Aurora artist, and University of Maine student. As he travels the world, his journey with photojournalism nets him some truly phenomenal stories. We are excited to share some of these stories with you.

Owen Baertlein

​Four days after I land in Kathmandu, I am aboard my fifth flight in the last two weeks. This one takes me away from the overpopulated metropolis of Nepal’s capital city and into the tropical river flats of the Jhapa District. The plane is a smallish, two-engine turboprop aircraft, obviously reliable given it is still in use to ferry passengers across the region. However, even given the comfortable seats, friendly stewardesses, and reassuring elevator music playing over the PA, my nerves shudder when the entire aircraft creaks and settles as the rotors begin to turn.

Damak, Nepal by Owen Baertlein

Within half an hour, we are back down on the tarmac in Biratnagar, Nepal’s second most densely populated city. After picking up my single piece of luggage other than my camera bag, I wander out into an oppressive, humid heat to make an ally in the mob of taxi drivers assaulting the debarking passengers. I finally find one man, small, strong, quiet and angry, who agrees to take me to Damak, an hour and a half away, for 2,800 rupees. My 10-minute drive from the Kathmandu airport to my first hotel cost me 1,000. I toss both bags into the back of an old, overused crimson minivan, with doors that can only be opened from the outside. As I slam the door closed after me, the window falls down.

With a horrendous grinding of gears, the van lurches forward, the driver’s hand nudging my knee aside every time he shifts gears. Just like most other Westerners, I am far too large for a majority of Nepal. I’ve worn an almost new Levi’s denim jacket for the flight, using the inside pockets to furtively stash away my wallet, passport, extra cash, and phone. Now, in the heavy tropical heat of Biratnagar, I unbutton the cuffs and roll the sleeves up to my elbows. I hang one arm out the window, tapping my hand against the thin sheet metal exterior of the van in rhythm with the Nepali music playing gently over the car stereo. As we bump over the countless potholes on a highway not maintained since Nepal gained independence, I lean my head against the door, watching the dusty urban areas give way to lush green rice fields and water buffalo grazing in front yards.

About a quarter of the way into my 60-kilometer adventure, the driver pulls off into a tiny one-pump gas station. As he argues with the only worker around, a very small girl with an even smaller goat wanders up to the side of my van, holding up the kid in a very obvious offer: her goat for my rupees. I pull my wallet out, half-hide it behind the door of the vehicle, and prepare to give this girl 100 rupees (a little less than $1) for her goat. I figure I can keep it around and give it to the next house we drive by, which will probably see it came from one of their neighbors and return it, while she still gets her money. However, the driver storms over and hustles the girl off, supposedly so I can save my cash for him. We hit the road again, driving over innumerable dry river beds, through countless small agricultural towns, made up only of thatched-roof huts and corrugated steel shacks, and into the true rainforest of southeastern Nepal.
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Once we are about 30 kilometers from Damak, the wide open rice fields of undeveloped farmland gives way to towering, serpentining trees of the jungle. The entire landscape seems to be composed in a strictly vertical manner: tree trunks go up, vines hang down. The undergrowth is limited to knee-height greenery, and one can look through the trees and see for what seems like miles. Occasionally, this verdure abruptly breaks, revealing another expansive dusty riverbed with a small thread of water flowing through it. These old rivers have long been dried up, even though it is so close to the end of the recent monsoon season. Tire marks scar the yellowish sand and gravel, revealing that it has been more than a while since these waters last flowed high. Soon, we leave this city of trees behind and enter Damak proper.

Downtown Lights: Williams, AZ

Owen Baertlein is a photographer, Aurora artist, and University of Maine student. As he travels the world, his journey with photojournalism nets him some truly phenomenal stories. We are excited to share some of these stories with you.

Owen Baertlein

Another night brings me into town, a short five-minute walk from my family’s old home high on a hill, overlooking town and the Santa Fe reservoir. The night is brightened by warm neon lights, splashing absurd and obscene colors across the facades of old sandstone-brick buildings, worn by years in the unpredictable elements of the Mogollon Rim. I’ve come too late, however. The streets are mostly empty, only dotted by a few locals returning home from their day jobs on this warm Sunday night. Music drifts up from doors kept open to run air through dry, hot interiors, keeping the inside cool for the few that remain, picking up beer bottles, mopping up stains and glass shards left by the many international tourists here to visit (and pollute) Grand Canyon Country. To outsiders, this entire town is a charade. Warm welcomes into over-visited tourist traps are often followed up by disdainful sideways whispers to coworkers; not hateful, but enough to let one know that they were not born and bred into this dusty land like the dry, sun-browned shopkeepers were. At night, though, this mask falls away. The locals call out to each other from across the street, rehashing the day’s hardships of dealing with interlopers that speak little or no English, haggling over the price of a small steel Route 66 sign (the town’s main artery and lifeblood), coping with waves upon waves of people, stumbling in from the day’s scorching heat or pouring rain, depending on the temperament of whatever deities the Hualapai invented to keep them alive in this here high desert.

Downtown Lights by Owen Baertlein

The days now, late in the summer, are marked by cloud-mottled skies. These well-defined, sharp-edged, fish-scale shaped clouds early in the day are sure portents of catastrophic rainfall to come later in the day. Thunder peals like grumbles of angry gods, lightning bolts crash down like artillery, engulfing acres of poorly maintained ponderosa forest in sheets of flame, the Forest Service’s understaffed and overworked fire crew’s best nightmare. These dirty, greasy, sooty men and women pray for flame, smoke, and devastation, a promise of long hours, hazard pay, and time away from home. They are regarded as strange and unrelatable heroes. What kind of person yearns for destruction in their heart? Who can face weeks away from friends and family at a time in exchange for burned flesh and smoke-plagued lungs?
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The town is empty now. No cars on the roads, only the occasional sunbaked local seeking shelter from the bright moonlight in the abandoned doorway, usually smoking, more often drunk. From the only bars in town, the Sultana and the Canyon Club (both oft frequented by Grandpa Dan, who tells me he has girlfriends at each), drift cheerful music and loud voices. Through the glass brick walls of the Canyon Club, I see an empty barroom, occupied by one poor barmaid and three young men, gleefully shouting the lines to an old cowboy country song into a microphone. The Sultana is less cheerful, more of a local establishment. Worn-down cattlemen, sundried ranchers, and gravel-gutted desert shepherds crowd around the bar. The music is lonesome, sorrowful, to help these men pity themselves and those around them. But why not? They work hard and often, for little money, and come away at the end of the day with little to show for their hard work. They deserve a little pity when they come home, and in many cases, there is no one waiting for them. They come here, to The World-Famous Sultana Bar, to gather, to gripe, to drink.

For now, that’s all. By tomorrow morning, 9 A.M, the streets will again be crawling with those who have come to hike, tour, explore, and degrade this Mogollon Rim High Desert Ranch and Farm town. They will be loud, cheerful, ignorant of the contempt that so many others here hold for them. They will be disliked, mocked, dreaded, and they will bring to this town the spirit it would not have without them.