Jeannie Bench

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=168 BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="0ada11c3.gif"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FF6600" FACE="Benguiat Frisky ATT" ><B>Artrageous     Women</B></FONT><B> </B> </div> <div>   <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#FFFFCC" FACE="Benguiat Frisky ATT" >Autumn 2001</FONT></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="0e3644b0.jpg" border=0 width="100" height="75" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FFFFCC" FACE="Benguiat Frisky ATT" >Jeannie's jewelry is sold in shops local to Anchorage.  Some of her work can be sampled online </FONT><A HREF=" http://www.PictureTrail.com/jeanniebench" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" http://www.PictureTrail.com/jeanniebenc"><U>here</U></A> <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FFFFCC" FACE="Benguiat Frisky ATT" >and she can be reached</FONT> <A HREF="mailto:jeanniebench@yahoo.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="mailto:jeanniebench@yahoo.com"><U>here</U></A><FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FFFFCC" FACE="Benguiat Frisky ATT" >. </FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Artrageous Women"><U>Home</U></A></div> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <div> <B>Artist Gallery</B></div> <div> <IMG SRC="0acf4010.gif" border=0 width="500" height="1" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> Jeannie Bench</div> <div> One day about two years ago, I was curled up in a comfy chair, nursing a case of flu, feeling restless and cranky. I was feeling sorry for myself, because I couldn't go out, couldn't enjoy my soup, and that always makes me want to rebel, to "show `em". I noticed that my son had left a how-to-draw book lying around. I said to myself, "I always wished I could draw"; I'd been told, of course, that I couldn't. I have always hated being told I couldn't do something. I picked up the book, played with a couple of exercises, and guess what? I can draw.</div> <div>      I began writing for publication when my first marriage was dying. I was feeling trapped, and scared. Writing was a way for me to give voice to things too long repressed. I had written since childhood, but had never had the courage to share it with anyone who might criticize or reject it, but when things were falling apart around me, it seemed I had little left to risk in the rejection department. I began submitting essays and poetry. Seeing my words in print somehow opened the world to me a bit more.</div> <div>      I did a lot of drawing and writing while my dad was dying of cancer. When my daughter was diagnosed with cancer, I moved her into the guest room, and withdrew from most outside activities so that I could be nearby during her recuperation from major surgery. Needing to find new ways to bring fruit out of the losses I was experiencing, I started to play around with clay, beads and paint.  Color and form, light and whimsy were very healing companions.</div> <div>      Beading eventually seemed to come to the forefront as a medium of choice. When I took a freeform peyote lesson from a local "bead goddess", Linda Smith (how can you not be drawn to an artist who calls herself "Mistress of Chaos"?), I fell in love with the unlimited ways of expressing myself that technique offered me. My first sculptural things were jewelry: a bracelet, a watchband, a neckpiece, and now I'm trying more forms slightly "outside the box" of functionality. I'm discovering there are many less boundaries in life than I had once thought.</div> <div>      After years of trying to find a voice that really fits, I think I'm arriving at the conclusion that no one form really fits. Writing fits some aspects of my spirit; beading some aspects, and drawing some others. I believe people are kaleidoscopes, multi-dimensional beings which sparkle differently depending on the light, and on perspective. The more we risk failing at something new, the more we grow. </div> <div>      I don't believe an artist has to "suffer for her art", but I do believe in the resurrection made available by every death. Pain opens us if we let it, and there is a real healing power in the enterprise of creativity, both for the artist and for anyone else touched by her art.</div> <div>      When I found myself trying to find places to store all my beads and jewelry (you can only give your sisters so many bracelets!) a friend or two began pestering me to sell things to them. So, now I am learning more about the "business" of art. </div> <div>      I once thought I'd never be able to do that, but just watch me!</div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>