| GET MS. |
| VIEW CURRENT ISSUE |
| SHOP MS. STORE |
| MS. CRUISE |
| FEMINIST DAILY WIRE |
| ON THE RADAR |
| ABOUT |
| CONTACT |
| PRESS |
| READ BACK ISSUES |
| FEMINIST RESOURCES |
| SPECIAL OFFERS |
Ms. Logo Line |
arts & culture
Room of One's Own
A New Hampshire Artist Colony Provides a Refuge From the World
10.28.04 | To say MacDowell Colony is female is hardly a metaphor.
Started in 1907 by Marian MacDowell at the final request of her composer/husband Edward, the first artist colony in the United States has remained faithful to it's founder's commitment to "not let the great poem go unwritten."
How is this commitment realized? A studio in the woods continues to afford an artist -- of any stripe -- freedom from the constraints of everyday responsibility and the access to work undisturbed, in solitude. Why is that important?
One of the first MacDowell colonists, writer Mary Mears, observed, "Whatever influences the art of a country, influences in the most intimate sense its civilization, and certainly few people are aware that MacDowell's plan, now proved practical beyond question, is one of national importance."
At the age of 50, following her husband's death, Marian toured the U.S. to raise funds for her colony, speaking and performing piano recitals of Edward's compositions to schools, women's clubs and sororities. Gifts from these organizations allowed for the construction of many of the first studios. In addition, generous donations from women benefactors and bequests of primarily women's estates comprise much of the support for MacDowell since its inception.
The ghost of Ms. MacDowell is felt keenly on these gorgeous 450 acres. No decision is made without questioning if the outcome will be consistent with her vision. Even the former maintenance supervisor used to visit her onsite grave for consult on important decisions.
Faithful to Ms. MacDowell’s endeavor to allow the artist freedom from everyday concern, the colony's infrastructure -- including the underground power lines and fuel tanks -- is made to disappear.
There is a network of 41 staff, laboring silently in the shadows, maintaining roads, curing firewood, cutting grass, cooking, cleaning -- not to mention organizing the selection process of over a thousand eager artists yearly, and guaranteeing that the 240 lucky souls who receive fellowships are so well cared for all they have to concern themselves with is ... work.
Even woodchucks and wild turkeys forage in the peripheral, just part of the set in which one is to step forward, soliloquize. There is nothing else to do. The environment is expectant. One can only work. No more, and no less.
Hours pass, leaves fall, the hush is ever-so considerate. One can feel a bit like an aphid, fed and fussed over by ants who wait patiently for its honeydew. Few know what day it is, unless they check the newspapers in the Hall.
For many, left to their own devices, this is a time out of time, the course of a day interrupted only by meals.
There's a discussion at breakfast concerning the quality of the meals here (excellent) and how mealtimes -- even the lunch basket set discreetly at the studio door -- are the anticipated events of the day. Will I gain 10 pounds before I leave?
"Oh, the 'MacDowell Ten'?" a staff member sighs, then winks, "You'll lose it fast."
One more thing about mealtimes: You never know just how conversation is going to go at dinner. It's considered part of the “magic” that happens here -- the synergy that might well nourish what is generated later in the studio.
One night, for example, there's a lively, if dominating tussle between a bon-vivant 30-ish African American poet and a 50-ish Serbian performance artist/poet/journalist/etc. -- both, incidentally, a tense bit under the spell of the grape.
The content? You name it: politics to potatoes, and the bedbugs in the upstairs of the Paris Shakespeare & Co. A playwright at the table would have a hard time topping this dialog. Who knows how these exchanges might wend their way into the Zeitgeist.
Despite artistic egos and sensitivities, good will between fellows is palpable. "How's your work coming?" is part of every exchange.
One woman writer who is finishing a novel begun when she was here a year ago says, "Yaddo [the other famous artist colony] is a boy's club. … I like this better. I can really focus in."
A white haired male poet agrees: “Yeah, Yaddo's very male, very competitive, star oriented."
Indeed, more than half of those accepted into MacDowell are women. One look at any one of the "tombstones" in a studio -- the wooden roster signed by former occupants -- and you can see the breakdown. Women are, for once, in the majority.
Notables include choreographer Martha Graham, artists Louise Borgouise and Janet Fish, poets May Swenson and Marianne Moore, writers Eudora Welty, Alice Walker, Mary McCarthy and, let's not forget, Willa Cather.
Residents you might have seen on our pages recently include poets Marilyn Hacker and Cleopatra Mathis, writers Heidi Julavitz, Michelle Huneven, Valerie Miner and our own Amy Bloom.
Kym, a filmmaker from New York says, “It took my first week just to detox from the stress of the city, the routines, the chatter of my life. I've let it all go.”
She pauses from a bite of pork roast and her hands fly up. “E-mail, ffthhhhh!”
Bia Lowe, Ms. magazine's poetry editor, is the author of, most recently, Splendored Thing: Love, Roses and Other Thorny Treasures, a collection of essays. She recently spent time at The MacDowell Colony.