"She could Almost Touch Them"
18x22 graphite on paper


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A Poem About the Creative Process:


19 August 2006


"For My Birthday Give Me Art! Visions of Mermaids and Fairies, A Poem About the Creative Process"


White canvas' and drawers full of color
brushes
clay
pencils and paper to write out my ideas
waiting for me

Inspiration
somewhere between folded memories and todays rainbow or stormy clouds
My creativity depends on my focus
I smile
I frown
I tear up and feel the pang of some ones defeat
oft times my own

Arrival at a mermaids den
flight of a nearby fairy offering her dust
Images of old masters who never knew their worth
How to books of arriving at someone else's vision
Movies of passion or tears
Fashion magazines and torn out pages of sensual poses
Fashion magazines of women who line up perfectly in a crowd
filed carefully to meet my mood

Melted my treasures
together with music!
Ahhh music my muse!
Play it as loud as you can without alarming the neighbors.
Feel the base and the pounding of musical notes as they meet their objective
Know the lyrics and sing to the top of my lungs
Yes sing!
All the magic around me is ready

Then dance!
Dance free on the sand of the closest beach I can find
Dance on fresh mown grass
feel the blood rush to my head
Dance like a fairy under flowers and leaves
Dance swimming swiftly just like a mermaid
Feel the wetness of her travel
close my eyes
yes, I am there!

So Swim!
All the fish adorned with their jewels of color
and the dolphins of yore
the sea lions chime in
and together we feel our artful journey

Love
all the beauty around me
breath it in
make it my pleasure to visit anytime I choose

I take out my pen and write all my childlike adventures
I write and it saves me
encourages me
protects me from my own self sometimes
gets it all out for all to see or to hide in my closet

I write
my friend, my pleasure this pen of mine
My companion from whomever the words are birthed

and then....
I cry
I cry because I lust for my arrival to that space
that space that dismisses criticism
that ache
I cry because it seems only inches away
at any given moment my teacup might fall

So I YELL
I YELL at the incoming traffic
floods of eyes showing disapproval
and I YELL at my own struggle

Turning around
I see me


I pick my battles and I run
I feel the breeze in my hair
sweat falling from my head to my neck that confirms my travel
and I feel the rush
because I run as far as I can

I lie flat on the floor
quiet
still and quiet
I listen to the sound of my own breath
I try to think of nothing
no false prisons that lock out creative souls or the inner child
I think of nothing

Silence enters and I am calm
once again

Birds
the wind through the tree
my cat licks my face
I open my eyes

White canvas' and drawers full of color........waiting for me

"Hood"
Kathy Ostman-Magnusen
20x18 oil on canvas
(from the "Passion Series")

$400.

Artist's note: He sees; he thinks; he resolves and waits for a clearing. He is a man of wisdom.


This painting is hangeing at Aloha Outpost in Pahoa, Hawaii

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On ezinearticles.com today:

September 1996

"Aloha" said the male voice over the phone.

"Hello?" I said with anticipation. "Is this Dennis Magnusen?"

"Yes"

"Did you graduate from Such and Such High School in 1965?" I asked.

"Yes" said the voice hesitantly.

"This is Kathy"

"Oh Sweetheart!"

He knew exactly who I was. Our story unfolds from there, inside a little window in time that gave us the miracle of a second chance.

1964

When I was fifteen, I noticed a tall blond head amidst the crowds of non people in my high school. I would look for him at breaks or lunchtime, see where he was and who he was with. His 6'2 1/2" frame with lovely blue eyes and calm demeanor my reward to glance upon from a distance. He was usually with another girl or a group of friends. I noticed him then and have felt my eyes and heart searching him out ever since. I was a very shy girl with no confidence about who I was or my place in circles of clubs and established friendships around me. I was born with the spirit of art inside me. It was my hideaway as well as my best friend. My Mother always told me I was pretty. I never felt sure if that was an asset or a hindrance. I was and am still blond with green eyes of Scandinavian decent. Scandinavian's tend to be reserved yet moody which fits me well. I never considered high school to be a highlight of my life, rather an intrusion into my underdeveloped psyche. I was still playing hop scotch in my front yard after school. My bed was filled with dolls that I still found delight in combing their hair and changing their clothes. I was a young 15 with pressures around me to grow up and become a young lady.

The above is an excerpt from a book I am writing about finding my long lost love. Below is a song I wrote years before finding him. I always loved him.

BTW, I am looking for a publisher/agent....whatever helps me get my story out.

"In You"

a song:

1)
In you... I saw a vision fleeting by,
no tale nor reason to de-nigh
a dream so dim
yet waiting to begin.

2)
In you...the ships could sail behind your eyes
encase a world or hasten time.
The color blue...in you
casts another hue.

3)
And you... escaped my grasp
I cannot tell
If all is lost I wish you well
another time
where stories never rhymed.

4)
In you... I saw a vision fleeting by
in songs, in notes, in passers by,
a stories end
no longer to pretend
in you.

"Suntouched"
24x48 oil on canvas


4 August 2006

Early in the morning
I picked honeysuckle from the edge of our yard
right before I walked down to that house
the one that burned to the ground last night
I smelled my branch of fragrance as I stood before it's ruin
Eyes from a calico cat met mine
She seemed to still expect breakfast in her bowl
But not from me
from the people that no longer had a home

Ahhh such a sight in the sky last night
Loud bangs as chemicals from a drug lab met fire
Cars quickly spun away
I bet they were surprised
Was everyone OK?
No news yet today.

The dogs from across the street yelped
as they watched me in my query
I wondered what they thought last night
still tied up
like always
as their owner leaves them each day

I locked up my own dog and two cats
safely
in the garage
Four fire trucks and their entourage
rushing down the road
too late
It seems no one called 911
Not for a long long time
'Til the house and what was inside
was almost gone.
This same house
and the people inside
wasted every second and moment of their lives
brewing up a substance that put us all in jeopardy
And this morning
standing in front of that house
that was
I still hope
that everyone is alright

One of the tied up dogs gets loose
He comes and sniffs my aura
Not to worry little friend
I am no threat to you
He cowers none the less
Too many days of being tied to a post

There is an elderly couple
living right next door to that now gone house
I hear the man in this back yard
running a weed whacker
Seems he was not affected by the glow
from night before

One last glance
wondering exactly what happened
I still did not know
not the people
who were only passers by
who hosted a constant flow of short visitors
Such a life
I can only wonder why
There but poor fortune
you or I

I sniff my honeysuckle branch once again
Say good bye to the dog at my feet
and the cat looking for it's bowl
Perhaps the elderly couple will take pity
Maybe they or I

At my gate I am met by my own little pets
A house still standing
and my husband
asleep
inside.

"Solace and Consolation"

chaos and distortion
I met my motivation for recovery
'twas bolted on the doorway
I muttered 
don't bother waiting
or complain of irritations 
I paint over all gilded cages

I force my fingers to make a fist
but oh
they refuse to bend
however will I recover?

yet there beside the light
cheese and wine are served 
what a lovely opening...
the doorway I mean
the one with bolted breaths
you remember that show?

I stood there in my mind
my compliments to the shadow
red was not on my palette
I reached for other colors 
they simply refused their mark

I will take your objections 
clearly 
I will point towards sleeping giants
wrap up their fingers
just like mine
and wait 

Twist your arm 
hold a hammer with your muted hand
there is nothing charming about this wall I said
there is noting here to keep me amused
I am board with it
I want to say I am finished 
and have you agree

pastel 
your breath I mean
what could you have been thinking?
I have all these boxes still
portions set in a line
put your two hands close together
and pretend them to be mine
you might be disappointed
there is no solace
no consolation  in getting it right
no matter how soft the colors return to you

"Bed of Dreams"
30x40 oil and gold leaf on canvas

New Poems:

18 May 2006

"Buried Roses"

if i had roses to give you
i would have buried them
muted their breath
measured their penitence
stopped the flood of overflowing criticism

the rain continues
I thought it's shoulders were undaunted.
horizontal landscapes catch the rhythm
hold gifts
good and bad
none the less given with due remarks of wanting shelter
in the presence of unadorned queens

was it you who never stopped noting thorns
of now quieted roses?
or me who allowed their travel?

-----------------------------------------

19 May 2006

"Defined By So Few Words"

neon blue continues on
i am neither sad nor happy
i guess i find myself relieved
waiting for tears if i need them

i never realized her poems to be so short
so inconclusive
so undefined
she always seemed so magnificently tormented

ahhh zelda
where are you when i need you?

pointing in the direction of the sky
i expected beyond
but the treasure was in the trees
my eyes gathered them
standing beneath and within
i bend my branches

born with a melancholy
poets charm that pathway
books and paintings
sculptures of flight
rounded off with a drunken stupor

my fingers feel numb
i approach the station to arrive
i have been there and back
i am coated with the very same torment
said with few words
on the pages that you sent to me

--------------------------------------
20 May 2006

'Neon's Unspoken Tales'

she said she knew you
i, of course took up her time
quoting our best/ worst moments
yet, only in my head
she never really heard our history
my memories burn still unspoken

be sure to call her everyday, she said

'every' day?
every single day?

just keep it short
that's really all that's needed

how do you fill a bottle too small?
how do you comb the hair of an old dolly
who's locks are now sparse?
how do you find the voices
remembered
take them back
comfort them
instruct them in the art of positive thinking?
my moods are not always my own

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20 May 2006

'Feathers Carved In Stone'

i am not sure how it settles...
the stone past the surface of the water
my words, my appraisal

in a crunch i refer to little boxes
sometimes empty
decorated with ribbons
sometimes filled with feathers carved in stone
i fall back on their sentimental comfort
of who i wish to be
strong, undaunted
graceful despite the climate
just like all the other ladies i admire

yet i sit at the bottom of this pond
i am not sure if it is mirky or clear
if my visions make sense to me at this moment
it may just be lie

i must hold the flag of my own destiny
fold up notes that overtake my heart
but then
i think i might miss them
i feel afraid that if i stand tall
i will find i do not exist
pieces of my flight
though they be stone
brought me here thus far
i would be leaving the little girl
with paper dolls
alone and still afraid

---------------------------------------
25 May 2006

"A Promise and a Gift"

he fled from the mountains
arrived at the sea
leaving
all his gifts behind him
including me

white knights and sacred shells
reach out past sad
beyond
the sand a token
within this map

you came...so i left
you didn't notice
pretending
i never really cared




--------------------------------------
14 july 2006

"I Stroke Her Hair"

i stroke her hair
i mend her
again
despite her wild objections

defined by lines that did not match
she held herself closely
did not entertain streaks of light
river crossings
paths that led to lime green

i walk past her sigh and find it to be my own
buckle down you stupid girl!
consequences of moons that go unlocked
bring hues that grey up possibility

i shook her
i made her bleed
who did she think i was?

her eyes looked up
she asked for mercy
the kind that only i could give her

many a tormented heart is born out of passion
i stroked her hair
i gave her the box unopened
with all the gifts inside
because i was the only one who could
and the only one there

"Hidden Behind Social Masks"
40x48 oil on canvas

NEWS:

I have a show in New York:

Monkdogz Urban Art
547 West 27th Street
Chelsea, New York

http://www.monkdogz.com

May 18 - June 10

If you would like me to send you an invitation please contact me via email through my website http://www.kathysart.com

subject: Monkdogz Urban Art

Yay!

"Peace At Sunset" 48x24

I posted this article on a bunch of ezines...


"Mermaids, Fantasies and Art"
By Kathy Ostman-Magnusen

Article Word Count: 1069




About ten years ago I decided that when people asked me what I did or who I was, I would confidently reply, "I am an artist". No matter how I was making a living or if my status was that of a 'starving artist' or not, I would announce, "I am an artist". I would proclaim what I had fantasized myself to be since I was a little girl.

I started to draw at three and four years old, in the back seat of my parents car as they drove from state to state, looking for rainbows I suspect. I was a little girl drawing mermaids, angel art ,fairy art, fantasy art in general. I tried as best I could to make that world alive. I made my own coloring pages. As I grew older I had free paper dolls available to me anytime I decided to make drawings or little paintings of them. Drawings of mermaids and fairies that I imagined to be just like Renaissance paintings. My talent was as good as I decided it could be. My free paper dolls were not paper toys at all, my paper mermaid once given a chance became a real mermaid. Fantasy art would one day be wall murals of a world I would create from my imagination . I did not know of Pablo Picasso; Kandinsky; Marc chagall; or the softness of Mary Cassatt. I had never gone to an art gallery to see Salvador dali paintings; Leonardo da Vinci paintings; or Claude Monet paintings. Such a world to discover ahead of me, full of fine art; paintings and sculptures. As a child I had my own fantasy gallery though and everything I saw became magical.

So what happens as we grow older and those feelings of pretend and fantasy become dull? We find ourselves wondering what took away that spirit of optimism and adventure. When did paper toys appear only as paper, no longer something that fairies and mermaids and dragons became alive in? Does it matter? Is it OK that that part of us that became Tinker Bell or a dragon is no longer there? Or maybe is it OK to try to find them again?

People tell me all the time that they cannot even draw a straight line.

Do you 'want' to learn how to draw though? Do you wish you could? Did you draw when you were little? Often the answer is yes.

When you were going to school did anyone ever hand you a piece of paper and say, show me what you can do with algebra without any knowledge of it or any help? Did anyone ever tell you to write a story without first teaching you how to print individual letters? We do that kind of thing with art though don't we? We think that if a child sits down and draws and does a half way decent job that they are talented. Maybe they are, but maybe the kid sitting next to him could be too, even though he has no confidence to draw that straight line because no one taught him how to draw. I think that talent is 'desire' and the rest is practice. If you 'want' to be able to draw a straight line or mermaids or dragons then you 'are' talented. You are an artist waiting to happen! Somewhere along the line someone dampened your spirit so you stopped trying and stopped dreaming. It may not be in fine art, it may be in writing. You may be itching to say, "I am a writer!" even though you might be making your living as a lawyer or a dishwasher. It is art in our souls and I think we need it.

I am an artist! I paint and draw and sculpt. I try to remember all the visions of my childhood and continue on with those dreams. I paint some fantasy art, mermaids, mermaid babies, African women and African art, do some contemporary art, I even draw some naked art and pin up art. I have come a long way. I do sculptures, sell my oil paintings here and there and even have giclee prints. I try to paint or draw every day. Most of all I try to retain my childhood fantasies of 'being an artist'. I try to decide what that means to me. Part of it is my thirst to create but part of it is because without magic, without paper toys becoming real to me, I am only an adult, going through the motions of everyday life not noticing a little fairy dust.

"Paper Toys"

Be careful what you step on
It might just be my heart
Some wounds have no recovery
no place from which to start.

The box, packed with tiny ribbons
you made sure they did not get lost.
You flatter me...
to think that much of me
to handle them with such care.

I thank you for the cobwebs
and the way that they were groomed.
I know I should be grateful
that someone heard the loon.

I was greeted by a pattern
set in place so many days ago
I tried to reconstruct my thoughts
and make them not my home.
I stand erect and look from side to side
It seems I've made a prisoner of my thoughts
sad day of untidy means and sighs.

I thank you for the cobwebs though.
Through all the rubble
that may have gone unnoticed
and yet...
It's not as if you could not possibly understand
what to me was so obviously bemoaned.

I was a little girl paper dolls in hand
Making paper do
what others could not possibly understand.
I suppose I should close the box vacant,
without the ribbons that seemed to have been tossed.
Scold my attitude and measures of the loss.
I know I should be grateful for the memories held fast
but oh...
all the beautiful colors
when clipped could never last.