Art By Tali Landsman

Dear Lisa Jane (and to all my friends) You say that you do your “Morning Pages”...... You say it, as if I SHOULD know what it mean..... And funnily enough, I do. The Artist’s Way,..... had paved MY way. And Julia Cameron, Has been my teacher. A blond, curly hair she has. A wicked sense of humor.... too. Did you know that she says “Fuck” a LOT? It is true! She says it CONSTANTLY. I once was offended, by her openness. I was so closed up, So frozen inside..... A dry prune really..... But she released me. She told me of her love affairs with men AND women. She told me of her broken marriages, Her craziness... Her art. She gave me permission to remember my own past... To love myself and all the crazy shit I did. Her eyes were ALWAYS sad... But with a glint.... small flashes of light.....a spark. I told her that I meditate A LOT! And she said: “STOP! You WANT to FEEL it! Don’t MEDICATE IT!” I said defensively: “I didn’t say MEDICATE... I said MEDITATE....” She said: “YOU are NOT hearing me g

I once had a one night stand with a pilot. His name was Ori, and he flew small planes. Mostly Cesnnas. We’ve been together three or four times. “Well, you can’t really call it a one night stand, can you? I mean... if you’ve slept with him three or four times...?” “Yaa, I guess..... but it was not really a relationship either....” “Yaa, I get it, but a ONE NIGHT stand, by definition, imply that you’ve spent together a SINGLE, ONE, night! And you just said you’ve done it 3-4 times...” “Well, if you are being pedantic here, we actually had 3-4 nights together, but we did it more than once a night..... This is ACTUALLY what I am getting at.... You know, the POINT of the story... that I am trying to make?........ the story... that you keep on interrupting me with?.........” “I’m just trying to be accurate here. You had SOME KIND of a relationship going. NOT a one night stand.” “NO! we really didn’t! Why are you insisting? I told you, there was NOTHING between us beside sex. I didn’t even li

Did I tell you that in one week I am flying to Israel? with Jules? For 3 weeks? It will be my first trip in 19 years Jules has never been. It is a beautiful place despite being a war zone for so long..... The land is ancient and steeped with mysticism. Stories float in the air..... If you close your eyes, You can hear Ancient voices olive trees The ocean is so blue the fishermen are strong and salt crusted. I am SO nervous...... Afraid really, to face this country and its people again..... But I am also beyond excited... To face this country and its people....... once again. Maybe I could love some of them... back into their senses? Maybe I can help make some miracles? tie some loose ends.... of my life's rope? I do NOT plan to visit family... Just roam the country feel its vibes... add my own vibes to the mix..... be me. Laugh at the absurd find the beautiful Help dream something new... Do I dare dream of healing? Hillary Clinton sure is not going to do it... (love the people of b

NOW, that I feel pretty brave, after all my friends congratulated me on my success in my art career..... I have an even BIGGER thing to brag about..... This one is a HARD ONE to admit... It is MUCH HARDER than to admit to career success....... But, I feel that I have to be brave and to just come out and SAY IT....... OUT LOUD.... IN PUBLIC............ because.... IT IS THE TRUTH!!!! OK,...... here it comes......... “THE UNIVERSE LOVES ME !!” “SERIOUSLY?”...... You say with cynicism..... “So what’s the big deal?.... Are we not ALL, loved by the Universe?......... So what is the big deal here?....” But I DO NOT mean it esoterically.... I DO NOT mean it as a generalization..... I mean it on a VERY PERSONAL level.... The Universe loves ME and likes to make me LAUGH and to entertain me..... You don’t believe me? Listen to this: Recently, I told my story about a night I spent in jail, after a domestic dispute with my previous husband. In that story, I

Years ago, in my desperate attempt to better understand how to make money from my art, I bought a book called “Art Without Rejection” (by Sheila Reid) At the time, I bought EVERY best seller, obscure or self published book about the subject. This book attracted me, because it is a very wise reflection on how often artists, (I also think that it apply here to poets and writers), lose their spirit, by the constant rejections they encounter from galleries, publishers or from the marketplace. In the book, It said that REJECTION, damages the artist’s sensitivity and questions the artist’s motives and the artist’s ability to translate personal experiences, into valuable art. She said that the invented system of ‘galleries’, (or publishing houses), are to blame for the rejections artists receive. Not that the ‘system’ intended to hurt anyone, it is just that by is selective nature, it ended up devastating artists and the whole atmosphere of the art community and its purpose. The premise of th

I hear an inner voice, urging me to write about mental illness. I am NOT sure what this voice wants from me.... I am NOT a professional and I know nothing that is worth any serious attention. “Just share your observations and personal ideas” says the voice. “But I am just an artist, not a therapist,..... I know nothing about it really....” I answer. “Well, this is NOT the whole truth...” says the voice. “What? are you talking about my Grandmothers? About the fact that both of them were crazier than a loon?” Well, yes... but there is also all the readings you’ve done... through the years... trying to understand the subject... The “madness” of artists, the labels put on things that are not understood, behaviors caused by wounds that people do not take the time to explore... “ “Where will I even begin? If you are serious about it... you gonna need to help me here... I know nothing that is worth sharing”.... I say tentatively. “You are such a drama queen..” Says the voice “You know you h

My friend Rajpal, posted this post: "In the book of life, the answers aren't in the back.. Life takes the exams first, and then teaches the lessons" So I reflected and wrote back to Rajpal: MMmmmm..... Interesting. I was never very good at exams.... This is true! I got too nervous and wanted to perform so much, that I forgot all my knowledge.... You want to hear a true story? one that is NOT related AT ALL to the philosophy you present here? It takes place in my high school - The Final Exams. I was NOT a "good" student in school. I missed many classes, NEVER did my homework, did not even buy the books... had only one notebook for ALL the subjects. So how did I learn ANYTHING? I listened very attentively in class. When I was FULLY present, the information stayed in my mind. Anyway, It was in the final examinations that my miracle happened... I was taking a Bible exam (I hated the Old Testament... it is just SO OLD....) The question was about: "What names app

I once fell in love with a very wealthy man. Why do I describe his wealth BEFORE, I describe his character? his charm? his humor? Because he wore his wealth like a suit of armor that walked before him. He wore eye glasses that costs thousands of dollars. He wore expensive suites of the latest fashionable cut. He flew only first class or in private corporate jets. He wore a Rolex and a large diamond pinky ring. I KNOW that my FB friends who are mostly poets and artists, are recoiling while reading this. But I try NOT to prejudge people by their failures, so why should I prejudge them by their successes? If I can easily fall in love with a penniless painter, why not with a multimillionaire? Amy, (Emmanuel), lived in Beverly Hills. He flew me to LA every weekend to be with him. During the week he worked mostly in Hong Kong, but also in other parts of Asia. He owned 52 different corporations. Most of them dealt with manufacturing, imports and exports, investment and such. All were on the u

I am sitting in the hot tub at the recreation center in Beaver Creek. It is a large hot tub that can comfortably hold more than two dozens people. I am the only one there when a group of a dozen teenagers come splashing in. I am NOT looking for privacy, Not hoping to find it in a public place anyway, So I am happy to observe them. Happy to see how they interact with one another, How playful and free they are. I am eager to learn..... Eager to remember. They hug one another often. Boy and girls- there is NO distinctions. They see Nothing wrong with touching one another (yet...) And they do it often. They stretch one another's legs They pull one another's arms arbitrarily, They fall into one another's arms in joy In Unbound freedom. I am thinking to myself: "when did we loose this freedom and became adults? When did we get to be so stiff? and physically exclusive? and cold to one another, as adults?" The kids around me, are physically free with one another and share

Dear Mohammed, (and all my FB friends) Thank you for the letters and poems that you’ve sent me. I am touched and inspired. My mind is thinking in circles now. I have been hearing so many stories, have been noticing so much healing going on around me. I feel like I am taking a detour here, from where I last stopped writing to you. It feels strange not to pick up where I’ve left. I feel like I may lose the continuity, and therefore, things may not integrate into a whole picture. I believe that this is the reason that many humans are so not integrated. They think that it is NORMAL to have beautiful sides to their personality AND to hold on to the dark side of their personality AND to live happily. I do not think it works. I think that only by bringing into the “light,” your dark side, and by daring to look at it, to reflect on it, - that you are able to fully understand it, and to see the beauty in the pattern that made us take that path. There are NO dark corners in this beautiful Univer

I wrote this piece as a continuation to an earlier note that I wrote called “More about being a Fake." In that piece, I had briefly mentioned a threesome with a fabulous artist named Itamar Newman and a girlfriend of mine. But, I have NOT told ALL in that story (as usually is the case, otherwise, the story gets to be too long...) There was more to the story of my one night, ecstasy infused threesome, with Itamar that night. I have met Itamar years before that night. I was very young and still unmarried. I was working as a waitress and a barmaid in a very popular local pub in Tel Aviv. I used to have a group of men that came before the busy hours, to chat with me about life, about pain, and about girls.... They viewed me, as a portal to the female psyche - they felt that they can ask me ANYTHING and that I will tell ALL (which I did, according to my young, and very limited understanding.) Itamar used to come often too. He was always an artist. Wild and creative and totally out ther

A real bike story? I wrote this piece not just because it is true and happened recently, but also because I just heard another story by a brilliant poet and friend, who got his bicycle stolen. It takes place in New Zealand (my beloved second home) My husband had a vintage Schwinn bike that he owned for like 200 years. But he NEVER rides it. He has bikes that are 1000 times better. It just takes up space in our storage room, under my studio, standing there between my blank canvases. So, he finally agrees to sell it. He is NOT a man that gives up old things easily (even old ideas..) So I photograph the bike and post a "For Sale" sign on our bulletin board in our little village. We want very little money for it.... Nobody response in a long while. Finally, someone from a neighboring town calls, he says he want to come. to have a look. Jules and I are in the midst of leaving and we are SO busy- we have no time to breathe.... So, we try to schedule a time, but, he is not available

My Second letter to Mohammed and to all my dear FB friends... Dear Mohammed, Finally, I have a few moments to sit and to write to you my second letter. It has been a bit hectic here, with much art to pack and canvases to stretch, and all these ideas running through my mind.... I must admit that I miss painting. Cannot wait to finish with all the chores, and go back to standing in front of the easel and just painting. Painting for hours... until the world disappears.... Until there are no more things to save or to mourn for.... until the clock disappears and it it time for dinner..... Painting is my true passion- the rest is ways to stay connected. Painting is FOR ME. OK, back to our communication now: In your letter to me, you said: “Hi Tali, Warm greeting! Your outside look says that you are: 1 - A woman of letters 2 - Believe in absurdity 3 - Have a good sense of humor or witty 4 - Like living in a mess 5 - Sometimes make confusion between dream & illusion 6 - Finally a WOMAN try

Mohammed Dear I am SO excited to be writing to you, that I find my head running WAY TOO FAST for my fingers to keep up... How do I arrange my thoughts?..........why am I so excited anyway?.............Maybe it was the message you've sent me with those seven questions that woke me up.............Maybe it is the depth and honesty of your words?.......Maybe a connection once lost?................. Maybe I see an opportunity for bridges?................. A pure and open heart, that I recognize on a level beyond my conscious mind?...... Who cares!..... All I can admit to, is that my heart is beating faster than the speed of light, as I write this, and my hands are a bit shaky..... I may have to write my letter to you in few parts.... So, stay tuned..... Let me start by saying that I am beyond touched by the words you chose to describe me/ an artist and a poetess to your daughter.... You said: I like to tell you that one day, my daughter ( who is a student in the college of science / che

What I will write here, may sound unreal, but it is all true. I have been holding off writing this piece for a few weeks now.... I guess now I am ready. It all started when I was in Japan. I was sitting in the hotel lobby on a high mountain, waiting for my husband, when I saw this strange, very strange scene: An elderly woman was crossing the busy lobby. Her walk was wobbly, she needed a cane, but she had none in her hand. She walked straight into the arms of an elderly, thin man, who was also as stable as a feather in the wind. They had “bumped” into one another, except, there was no “excuse me” or “forgive me” or “shitsurishimas” (gomen kudasai, pardon the intrusion) - exchanged AT ALL! There was not even a sense of “bumping” into one another- it almost seemed like they walked straight into one another's embrace. And for a few seconds, they stood there, holding and hugging one another, heart to heart- as if they were BEST of friends, maybe even lovers.... Except, they did NOT kno

Imagine this scene: You are driving down a rural road, when a frantic, tall, black man jump into your path. He is bare chested and sweaty and he wears nothing but a pair of torn, cut off shorts. He is also bare footed, and and drops of sweat are dripping down his body. Against his black skin, they glisten in the sun like diamonds... The first instinct you may have, is to stir the car out of his way, to accelerate, until he is nothing more “threatening” than a small dot in the rearview mirror. But I am NOT a person who acts on first instincts. I contemplate my thoughts and my actions many times. So I suggest we stop. We do not live in an area populated with many black people. I often wonder why it is so..... It is beautiful here after all. The area is filled with unspoiled nature, plenty of fun things to do to enhance your life, like; hiking, fishing, plenty of nature trails, lakes, skiing, wild flowers and mushroom hunting, kayaking, rafting, and more. It is truly a stunning place. Wel

The question was posed to me once by a cynical journalist. This time, I will keep his name hidden, as he is still a famous journalist in the UK today. He moaned that, so many people in the UK, seem to be dabbling with poetry and with writing. In his opinion, it “lowers” the standards of the written word. At first, what I “heard”, is the voice of a man that is fearing for his livelihood. Fearing that if everyone is a writer, what makes him and his long and expensive private education- so special. In today’s environment, almost nobody hires journalists any more. The are “freelance agents” and need to try and sell their words to make a living. I heard the frustration in his voice and felt real sympathy for him. Despite what others may think of me, I am actually a VERY polite person. I would NEVER make a guest in my home feel uncomfortable. So, I said nothing at the time. But I will do so now. in short: WALOB ! What A Load Of Bullshit! The first example that come to my mind, is from my own

This is a story that was sent to me by my dear friend Rajpal. Below this story, is a small part of a “conversation” that I had with my friend’s Luke Prater. I would love to hear your thoughts about this subject and to start a dialog. The Obedient Wife There was a man who had worked all his life, had saved all of his money, and was a real "miser" when it came to his money. Just before he died, he said to his wife..."When I die, I want you to take all my money and put it in the casket with me. I want to take my money to the afterlife with me." And so he got his wife to promise him, with all of her heart, that when he died, she would put all of the money into the casket with him. Well, he died. He was stretched out in the casket, his wife was sitting there - dressed in black, and her friend was sitting next to her. When they finished the ceremony, and just before the undertakers got ready to close the casket, the wife said, "Wait just a moment!" Sh