|
our
stories
Maryo
| Miki Klocke | Allison
Leete
Allison Leete
Since the early 1990s, Allison Leete
has been integrating her love of art, science and nature
to develop a body of work which portrays the inner life
of animals. Allison's subjects are drawn from her personal
experiences of raising and caring for animals, and range
in breadth from California condors to Disaster Search
dogs. Allison's medium of preference is pastel, yet
she enjoys exploring the ability of watercolor, oil
painting and photography to communicate her celebration
of life in a vibrant spectrum of color.
Originally interested in veterinary
science, wildlife health and animal behavior, Allison
discovered the burgeoning field of Conservation Biology.
She embraced the opportunity to be involved in the recovery
of a highly endangered species - the California condor.
Her observation and data collection of breeding California
condors in captivity and the experimental release of
captive-reared condors acquainted her with not only
the condor, but with world-renowned scientists and philosophers
who would subsequently guide Allison to discover her
own strength in artistic expression.
Miki Klocke
Photographer and craftswoman Miki
Klocke was born and raised in the intense beauty of
the Ojai Valley, a haven for artists of all kinds. Surrounded
by talented and imaginative individuals, Miki felt both
inspired and encouraged by the dazzling creative energy
enveloping her.
Upon graduation from high school,
Miki's adventurous spirit took her from sunny southern
California to the high mountain peaks of Colorado where
she finally got to experience all four seasons. Pursuing
her study of photography, Miki found herself in the
heart of snowboard country. She spent the next 11 years
torn between her passion for photography and playing
in the snow. While managing to maintain both these loves,
she also developed an affinity for woodcraft.
Knowing she needed to be with her
family brought Miki back to Ojai. While she greatly
missed the snow, Miki soon discovered a powerful connection
to the canine world. Everything she does now is about
dogs, work and play are one and the same.
Miki pursues her love of all things
canine through the mediums of photography and woodcraft
and is exploring ways to combine the two. Her companion
and constant source of inspiration is Moose, a 5 year
old Chocolate Labrador. Moose not only keeps Miki company
in the woodshop, but is also a very willing model for
the camera.
Maryo
I was born into
the languid heat of a steamy Florida afternoon on March
1, 1965 in the tiny red brick hospital of a sleepy little
beach town on the gulf of Mexico.
As a small child,
the stark and brilliant sugar white sand and turquoise
water of the gulf around the Florida panhandle nurtured
and delighted me - and I vividly remember dolphins swimming
playfully around my sister and me in the bath water
warm gulf.
My parents soon
found out I had been born with an eye condition, inherited
from my Father, that left me partially blind. I was
unable to focus, and because I was so young and my eyes
were changing so rapidly, they were unable to fit me
with glasses. I spent the first six years of my life
in a soft, yellowish, confusing blur - unable to understand
what people were talking about when they described the
world and all the things in it I could not see - like
birds, and clocks, and shoelaces.
Knowing I was
different from other people, but not really understanding
how or why, I developed into a shy, withdrawn and anxious
child with a deep burning need to do something with
all these harsh, unsettling feelings. So I began to
draw. It didn't seem to matter that I could only vaguely
see the crayon in my hand - the simple act of moving
it around on the paper, of creating and leaving a mark
of some kind, calmed me and exhilarated me all at the
same time.
Since I could
not see clearly, I learned to draw my impressions of
things - I drew the energy around them and what they
meant to me, and the connection I felt to whatever my
subject might be. I stubbornly refused to listen to
comments or allow anyone to change my pictures in any
way. They were the only things that portrayed my own
world view - the only things that were wholly mine.
In first grade
I was fitted with my first pair of glasses and the world
changed completely and so abruptly I was almost literally
thrown off balance. I was not familiar with these crisp
and intimidating lines and angles rushing up at me.
People didn't look the way they were supposed to - and
there was so much information to process I was completely
overwhelmed. I withdrew even further - creating elaborate
dreamscapes inside my whirling, tumbling, shifting thoughts
and pouring them onto whatever surface I could get a
hold of. My later pictures may have more structure,
but they are still built out of paint, pencil or computer
with the same passionate intensity and need to give
voice to my mind, heart and soul.
My parents,
while they loved me, were logical and analytical people
- brilliant and reasonable. They sometimes treated me
bewilderment - they did not understand my need to create
and so for the most part they ignored it. I went off
to art school - secure in the knowledge I was already
an artist - but unable to explain to them what that
really meant. This frustration, however, only served
to fuel my need to find my voice through color, shape
and line.
Art school turned
out to be exactly the opposite of what I thought it
should be. I found the opportunity to draw and paint
from the model for hours at a time very useful - but
I found the academic culture stifling. Instead of being
encouraged to experiment - to find our own paths while
feeling safe enough to fail along the way - the students
were met with rigidity and unrelenting pressure to conform.
My artistic vision was strong and I quickly ascertained
that art school was not the place to foster it. I left
after two years. I will say, however, that the training
I received there in classical drawing and painting skills
was invaluable.
In 1995 the
genetic defect that affected my eyes caused my lenses
to completely detach. Surgery on my left eye to remove
the lens and implant an artificial one was successful
but a string of complications left me blind in the right
eye. I was distraught. The medical establishment felt
brutal and insensitive to my loss - and I was deathly
afraid I would never paint again.
Painting and
drawing were much more difficult for me after the surgeries
- the loss of depth perception and ability to see fine
detail affected my work greatly. Yet all was not lost.
About a year before I became partially sighted, I had
begun experimenting with a new medium - the computer.
With this miraculous tool I could zoom in on a picture
as close as I needed to without even leaving my chair.
I was saved. Over the next several years, with much
trial and error, I painstakingly retrained myself to
paint in the digital medium. My traditional skills were
very important - giving me the solid foundation and
structure to created balanced and harmonious compositions
- while still allowing my artistic vision to burst through
in color, shape and line.
The computer
cannot "generate" art any more than brush
and canvas can - only a passionate heart can endow a
picture with enough human intensity to truly create
a work of art.
|
