Tuesday 6:30 p.m. The wind was brisk, the night pitch black. The temperature had already fallen into the upper 20’s, very cold for Cottonwood. I dashed from my gallery to my car. Shivering, I pulled the door shut. I saw a figure coming towards me, out of the dark. A light on his head gave him an eerie look. As I put the key in my ignition, I heard, “Ann! We are back. It’s Pat!”
I looked beyond the figure to the parking lot next door. There was that big, boxy truck. I remembered it from the last time I saw Pat and his wife. I looked closer at his face. “Pat?”
I hadn’t seen Pat for the past 15 months. In October, 2018, he stopped by, told me he had wood for me down in Camp Verde, and would bring it back after a trip to Henderson. He never came back, then.
He spoke. “Maureen and I have that wood for you. It’s back in Camp Verde. We can come by Thursday. Be around then?”
“Sure, what time?”
“Morning, probably.”
As I drove off, I heard his scratchy truck engine as he started his truck..
Wednesday night, around 7, the door to my gallery opened. “Hey, Ann. You in here? it’s Pat.
“Wow! Your gallery has certainly changed!”
I showed him around, picked up the pieces I had with wood attached, so he would know what I wanted. “I stopped using wood for several months, but have begun using it for only some of my stuff now.”
Pat fingered the pieces I showed him. “What ya’ working on tonight?”
I showed him one piece which I was struggling to hang. It had three ceramic masks attached to a branch of wood. 
“Let me get you some hooks I have. Ya can put one into this wood. Maybe it’ll help”
He went out the door and returned with a handful of different hooks. We tried several. Then we moved onto another piece giving me problems.
As we talked, Pat began to speak of several of the treasures he had in his truck. “I have these dinosaur eggs. They got DNA in ‘em. And I gotta deal with Homeland Security on this. I ain’t allowed to own them unless I can prove they were willed to me, ya’ know, mine forever, not just gotten now……Got three of “em, but one has other buds in it.  Each bud has eggs. Each egg could  be worth more than $100,000.  I need to get to Henderson to speak with an attorney about this.”
“Oh,” he went on. “Remember those circus sideshows where they had weird stuff. And people paid to go look. I got an embryo of a cyclops pig in formaldehyde. Coulda’ been in one of those shows. Let me go get it.”
Pat returned with a jar. Inside the jar was grayish liquid and floating in the liquid was an animal with a snout and one blue eye, shining in the middle of its forehead. He also brought in one of his dinosaur eggs.
“See this?” He pointed to the outside shell on the rather shapeless mass of rock. “I thought this was the shell of the dinosaur egg, but it is the ground that was under the shell. This is the shell.” He pointed to another layer of stone. “I think this needs to be in the Smithsonian. and if I can authenticate it, I‘ll give it to them.”
“Oh. Wanna see something else? I got this enormous dildo. The guy who sold it to me said it was from some cave back in 2400 BC. It is the world’s oldest sex toy!”
He returned with a two-foot long piece of very hard, heavy stone, clearly carved with a glans at the tip. “See?” Pat brought out his phone. He flipped through several pages to show me a photo of a replica of the piece he held out to me. “Says 2400 BC!”
Pat went on to tell me about an African mask. “This preacher said it came from South Africa. He had a room full of masks. I went to p[ick this one up. When I went to put it back on its hook, I couldn’t get it on. The preacher said to me, ‘Uh-oh, you been cursed. It won’t go back on the hook. You gotta buy it.’ Paid $40 for the mask.”
My ears pricked up. An African mask? I love African masks! “Can I see it?”
Pat went back to his truck and returned with a wood carving of a face. It looked genuine! I handled it with reverence. “Could I buy this from you?”
Pat replied, “Let me think about that.” He left my studio.
He was gone for twenty minutes. I was almost ready to go home. “I had to check this out on the internet before I could let you have it.” Pat pointed to the mask sitting on my table. “It is authentic. I didn’t want to sell you a fake. I paid 40, I will give it to you for 40.”
“It’s getting late. We have that wood for you back in Camp Verde. What time will you be here tomorrow morning? We’ll bring it by then.”
“Around 10:00?”
“Great. See ya’ then.”
The next afternoon, Pat’s wife, Maureen, entered my studio at 4:30. “Pat is at the DMV getting the registration for the truck. He said for you to come out, look at the wood we brought you.”
She and I went through about 100 chunks of wood. I picked out the ones I wanted. “OK. when Pat gets back, you ’n him can decide on a price. and we’ll put it in the back of your studio for you.”
An hour later, when Pat returned, he and I settled on $100 for all the wood I’d selected. We went back to my wood enclosure “I see you have some huge pieces here. Probably too big!  I know you’re limited in space. What if we pull those out before we put your new wood in?”
Pat and his wife wrestled the big limbs out of my space, and threw it over the fence so they could tie it down on the trailer bed behind their truck. They stacked my new wood for me in my enclosure.
“We gotta go,” Pat announced. “Got an appointment tomorrow in Kingman with that attorney about those dinosaur eggs. Maybe I’ll get rich! We’ll catch ya’ next time we come through.”

A I Long before I discovered my passion for using clay as a vehicle to show others the stark beauty of the land around me, I was a poet. From the time I learned to recognize words, I crafted these words into imagery that came alive, as it depicted the world around me.
 
This month, as featured artist at the Muse Gallery in Cottonwood, I will share these poetic depictions of the beauty I have found here in the Verde Valley, and those I have experienced throughout my life. I hope you can join me for this on Saturday, February 8 between two and five.
 
As a preview to this other side of my creativity, I want to share with you several of my poems. I will have many more next Saturday.
 
​Landscape
 
Tonight I stand, a rugged tree,
seemingly alone in the stillness
of God’s valley.
 
My patient roots
have learned to push
through drought-stricken
clods of dirt,
protecting me within their toughened skin
 
They grasp the fickle soil
around them,
not allowing it to wash
away in torrents of anger,
in floods of fear and hatred
 
in this alone-place,
in this internal struggle
to stand upright,
I can look above my precarious perch
to the jagged cliffs
the soaring peaks,
the cloud-splattered sunrise
now brightening the horizons..
 
Tomorrow, in renewed strength
I will become the river
that can nourish us, the trees.
I will move up, through my babbling
depths to kiss the sun.
 
Then I can become the clouds
that float above. I can bring
needed moisture
to this crumbling desert
and its thirsty roots.
 
All will thrive in the oneness
of God’s spectacular valley.
 
 
The Cactus
 
I live with the sun, undeterred by thirsty sand.
as I bake within its relentless rays, the scorching noons 
and the chill of vacant starlit skies. 
I accept the challenge of presumed emptiness,
and monotones flattened into endless blue.
 
To survive within desert’s vast vacuum of inhospitality,
one develops a prickle of spines, an impenetrable
armor to guard against a neighbor’s ravenous lust.
 
I maintain my green tones of life within a landscape
guised in dyes of brown.  I flower in brilliant shades
painted by the setting sun, adding sunrise’s forgotten
shades of rose.  No harsh wind nor biting clouds
of dust can permeate my sword-sharp shell.  I listen
 
to the tedious tones of arid desert and hear silences impossible
to detect in the busy-ness of life.  Even in my own barren
spaces, I warmly greet the friendly tumbleweeds drifting by.  
 
 
Blessing to You, my Friend
 
May you discover how
to live among
these beams of sunlight,
this temple filled with all creation.
 
May you know warmth
within the embrace
of everything beautiful.
 
May you thirst for meaning
in your life,
even at the times,
when it blows through
you like a gale of monsoons;
 
May these reveal
to you the face of Love,
even when it blinds you.
 
May you live with Holy grace,
even as you stumble
on the rocks that lie
along the way.

In a time when anti-semitism rears an ugly head far too often, I want to use this space to celebrate my life within Judaism.

I am Jewish. I was not born into Judaism. I was raised in a very liberal (both politically and religiously) Protestant church. The services, which were very much oriented around community action, lacked ceremony, and were emotionally bland. I did not soar in that setting (although, the beautiful organ in the sanctuary gave me chills when joined with the choir, from time to time.)

I knew something was lacking, and I “knew” my true identity when I was rather young. I think this background has led me to a deep spiritual comfort within Judaism. I did not have to go through the mandatory Hebrew school. Laws for Kashrut and for maintaining the Sabbath, and other Jewish practices were never a part of my life. I  have had nobody ever tell me what it meant to be Jewish, I have “invented” it as I have gone along.

Also, I did not have parents who were traumatized by their Jewish faith. So many of my friends were children of Holocaust survivors. Those people, who had seen the scary devastation as a result of their faith, and continued to practice Judaism openly, those are my heroes. 

I have a number of friends who decry organized religion. I do not see my practice of Judaism as “organized.” Perhaps, my spiritual practice is organized more as the twelve-step, “Take what you want and leave the rest” belief in a Higher Power with a deeply moral code to help me decide how to negotiate the world.

One of my most treasured possessions is my tallit (prayer shawl). This was made for me when I took on my Hebrew name—Alona Tszipporah. My name means “bird in an oak tree.” I named myself after my Aunt Allie, the strongest woman I ever knew. That was the oak tree. When I contemplated the “tree”, I immediately knew trees were too sedentary. I became the bird in the tree, blessed and nurtured by it, but able to fly beyond it.

My tallit, made by Shana, a wonderful, creative friend in Virginia, features the tree, the bird, and the wings of God. I can, and do, wrap myself in Her wings when seeking further strength, or solace.

I am deeply proud to be a part of a community which honors moral standards and learning. 

This is the poem I wrote to commemorate my conversion, honoring the bird in an oak tree.

​

Prayer of the Oak Tree and the Bird

Let me grow straight and tall
my roots deeply grounded in the Earth,
my arms reaching up toward the bounty of heaven.

Let my skin grow as tough as bark,
Let my resolve become as strong as a tree trunk
Let my beauty be a reflection of all creation.

Let me provide cooling shade on days that are hot,
shelter within my sturdy limbs for those in need
as Love envelops us all in her gossamer wings.

Let me dance to the music of the wind.
Let me drink in the cooling waters of the rain.
Let me nourish my hunger in the warm glow of the sun.

As Spirit provides us
with all we need for a life of fulfillment,
good deeds and peace.

Let my soul soar through the skies,
resting on clouds of rich, white velvet
riding across azure oceans on gentle breezes,

flying over glorious sunsets
and quiet purple moon-rise
in search of Everlasting meaning,

a glimpse of paradise,
an encounter with eternity,
a journey to sacred space.


​

A year ago I set a goal for the continuing development of my art. I affirmed I
would work towards getting my name out for creating my art. At that time, I
was producing ceramic pieces which were rather lumpy. The glazes were
muddy or black. But, I did have seven large women and children. Glazes
were undistinguished, but the pieces I created were tortured and
compelling.

I joined with Coalition Against Human Trafficking, and developed an exhibit,
featuring these women, called “To Restore their Dreams.” I wrote a poem
and divided it into six segments, one for each figure, and put them on large
posters. I displayed these first in my studio. We organized a film to be
shown at Mingus High School. Then I took this show to the Camp Verde
Library for three months, from May through July. Overall, several hundred
people were moved, some to tears, by the horrendous practice of
trafficking.

Having success with one library, I found a way to get my art into a second
library, the Clark Memorial. I arranged to put 30 pieces with the theme
“Visions of the Verde.” there for July and August. Forty people came to a
reception, and received the art positively. Their comments included
“beautiful,” “unique,” and “fun.”

I took three classes at the Reitz Ranch during this year. In January I
worked with Ben Roti on slab building. In May I took a class with Jeff Heeg,
“Finding your Voice in Clay.” In November I studied glazes and surface
decoration with Dexter Woods. Each of these classes brought on significant
growth in my art.

In the summer, when much of my art was visiting local libraries, I closed
down my studio, changed the name, and my refocussed my artistic
direction. I began the year doing ceramic assemblages with desert wood.
By the end of the summer I focussed my art on ceramic sculpture. My
studio changed from “Adrift” to “Ann Metlay Art.” Ann Metlay Art features
sculptures with definite shapes and bright colored finishes.

I reached into the art community. My art was recognized by Sedona
Monthly Magazine in January and February. Since June I have had wall
hangings in the Old Town Center for the Arts. I participated in the annual
show for Sedona Visual Artist Coalition in February. In April and October I
participated in Open Studios with SVAC.

Two of my pieces were included in the Sedona Arts Festival. And quite recently I
participated in Made in Clarkdale, a four-day celebration of the many artists of Clarkdale. Since May, my art has been displayed in the Muse Gallery in Old Town Cottonwood. In October I contributed three fountains to their outdoor
sculpture show.
​
I have developed several muses for my art. Ongoing has been primitive art,
particularly African. Many of my masks demonstrate this inspiration. I have
spent much time studying cubist and expressionist abstractions, including
Picasso. And recently, after receiving a lithograph of an etching by Ynez
Johnston, a Berkeley artist, I have been looking at abstract art created in
the mid 20th century.

My most important inspiration for my art continues to be this local area. The
landforms: mountains, foothills, valleys, riverbanks. The skies, clouds,
sunsets, mist. the colors and seasons. All these can be seen in my pieces.
I frequently take photos on my trips to and from the Reitz Ranch. I use
these photos as I create my art. I incorporate poetry in about 1/3 of the
pieces I make.

Not only have I put significant effort into continuing my art.I continue to
write. I write monthly poems for a Shabbat service in Sedona. Twice a
month I publish a blog on my webpage. My writing for this has included
poetry, essays, recipes and short stories.

A final successful writing project for me has been offering “Memory Writing
Workshops” at the Clark Memorial Library. Beginning in February five to
eight women (not that we exclude men) have gathered monthly to share
their memory snippets, each time around a particular theme.

For 2020, my intention is to expand my artistic expressions. I will focus
more on my process, smoothing edges and joints. I will ferret out public ​response to my work, and use this in planning future artwork.