The Last of Summer

Labor Day Weekend and the weather is cool.  Fresh September air floods the house and we breathe with  new vigor.  Cooler nights are a harbinger of yet cooler weather, slowly leading into the depths of winter.  One small snow and I have had plenty, often more falls.

Yet I love the cooler nights.  I love the feel of dry air of a warm nature, playing upon my skin.  Is there anything more comforting than the embrace of the air, or of a warm sea?  September offers both and is a glorious month.

The leaves began dropping from our Sycamore tree last month; they go early.  The Goldenrod is tall and in full bloom. The cucumber plants are dead and our apples are red; the harvest nearing completion.  Paper or plastic pumpkins are in stores everywhere, far too early, they should wait until October and November.  Many of us seem unduly anxious for the next of our experiences;  I am content to wallow in warm September when the sun sets early for summer, but so much later than in winter. September is middle ground and for the non-academic, middle aged set, it no longer calls up tremors of "Back to School."  The only worry I have is the local traffic, which doubles as shore folk return and buses rumble.

My son returned to school, by plane (and most of his stuff by FedEx Ground) for far less expense than I could have driven him.  The trip would have been 30 hours there and back and for me, requires at least one hotel night, preferably two. September simplified. Warm dry air welcomed

My life is untied, leaving my toes to wiggle out of binding shoes into open air and my brain to wander, sans sun hat, with an open mind.

New York Times Article on Tasmanian Art Venture

So my humble opinion is: This is great!

Museums are not churches. Reasonable quiet can be nice, so that one can think and feel, I understand that.  I often feel reverent about art, but art should not be Golden Calves!  I do not want Charlton Heston tossing around stone tablets and destroying museums; keep it real folks.

Live a little, don't let anybody  tell you what to think or feel.  Learn what others see, but form your own thoughts, and for heaven's sake, have fun. Why else would anyone go to a Museum, to brag about it???

Please cut and paste the link - -   From the The New York Times:   

 http://mobile.nytimes.com/2015/03/17/world/asia/mona-the-museum-of-old-and-new-art-proves-just-the-ticket-for-tasmania.html?referrer=&_r=0

Digital Doodles

Because I have nothing to say that is cheery, bright, funny or helpful, I give  you digital doodles.

Godzilla

I Don't Know What To Do.

Sometimes I get so mad I do not know what to do; literally.

I was about to say what I would like to do were I raised differently or were I not afraid of the consequences of my actions, but in fact that is not what truly stops me.  It is lack of knowledge of what could possibly bring satisfaction in the moment or span of rage.

Dissatisfaction is my primary source of anger, whether it is with myself or with others, I am not getting what I want need, expect, deserve....what ever thought or word comes to mind.  Often rage comes from several of these ideas, piled like wobbly blocks atop one another, until the Yertle the Turtle of my zen ego comes tumbling down from the wonderful view, to fall deeply into a muddy, blinding, abyss of rage, outrage and funk  - not the "good" kind (lots of disco on the radio today). (Yes, I still use FM radio in my car).

This evening the tipping point was an urgent order for a replacement cord for my computer science major son's laptop; I paid extra for overnight shipping. (We just replaced it in January and it broke already, returning that one was going to be tomorrow's problem).  I got an e-mail five hours after placing the order, that it was winging its' way to me in Pennsylvania.  My son is in college in TENNESSEE!

I managed to calmly use my rage to wangle a phone call out of Amazon and it will get to him two days from now.  Fab. I did everything right for him to have it tomorrow.  There is nothing I can do. There is often nothing I can do about stuff that happens.  The cycle of misplaced trust and impotence is exhausting. I will not touch upon the powerlessness that keeping up with the news imparts.

The firewood we bought in January, nice seasoned firewood, would not burn this evening; it was actually weeping water out the side of each log.  How do I know?  I could hold the sides of the log they were so water cooled, and my hands got wet, actually wet.  Perhaps though,  if I touch them right now, they would ignite.

Maybe I should settle into watching a pleasant little movie on my kindle (Fire) to help me sleep tonight like Rambo; yes that might just be the ticket.

Got My Eye On You

Facebook fascinates me.  I have many friends and they have many others and our shares and comments overlap.  Our friends get to know one another, argue, laugh, advise, sometimes without ever meeting.  I have found lost classmates from elementary school, reconnected with neighbors, cousins, old boyfriends (no dates planned and no divorce is imminent, my husband is well aware)  and it has all been grand.

I watch people post at odd hours, all sorts of odd things - like putting magnets in cows, and I am fascinated.  I have learned, thanks to my retired priest, about Snopes.com (which I needed so badly, and has made me, thankfully, more of a skeptic) - my friends are grateful as well.

I get an idea of how people spend their lives, and have been given a window into their free time. Among my friends are antique aficionados, skiers, sailors, hikers, gardeners, fisher-people, musicians, thespians, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers....it is astonishing.  Most of my friends are good photographers, some are very good.  Many shovel their own driveways.  Some have introduced me to new foods and weird cocktails.  I am delighted to see friends from hundreds, to thousand of miles away.

Facebook is voyeur's dream, especially a clean minded one.  Artists are seeing people, we look.  Nice people look away, we don't.  Artists look and remember, it is our job.  Facebook is a fascinating set of artistically chosen peeps into lives; people write their autobiographies by what they choose to post.

I am also fascinated by friends I run into who call me out on my own postings (which are many) but who never post anything.  I realize there is an algorithm to decide what I see on my feed, (I am skipping over the language we have all acquired) but if I go to their page, they have not posted anything, they are just trolling; silently.  Who knew there were so many incognito voyeurs?

I am out in the open.  I love it, just like TV; entertainment. I know so many producers!

Facebook though, also kept me from being isolated when I was ill. Through it I connected with an acquaintance, who shared some of my experiences and really helped me.  When she became ill, I hope I helped her a bit too; that's been a wonderful part of "social networking."

If you are posting, I am watching.

Darth Coffee

I love coffee.  I have been drinking it since I was very small child and I love it; no cream no sugar.

Coffee is my number one comfort food.  At one time, in graduate school, when I was young and very tired from long hours of physical and emotional work, I drank two pots, pots, of coffee a day and slept well at night.

Later in my life, a doctor wanted to put me on a statin drug, not because my cholesterol was high, but because they were supposed to be so very good for one's arteries.  I tried it.  It was VERY  painful, so I stopped it. My doctor was upset with me and implied that I would die of dementia like my mother, or of a heart attack (probably more from that conversation than from arterial hardening). I decided that I would rather live fewer years absent of agonizing pain, than live 30 years in agonizing pain; odd of me I know.  Now experts are saying that several cups of coffee a day are better for one than a statin.  Did I mention that the same sill Doc had wanted me to stop drinking coffee?

As I said, I love my coffee.  I am also very picky about my coffee maker.  I will only use a maker with a cone shaped filter.  I use Melita filters, recycled paper filters, never a brass reusable one.  I brew strong, aromatic coffee and I drink it hot, tepid or cold, usually sixteen ounces at a time.

I purchased a coffee maker for my son's dorm room which had all the features I prefer and an auto shut off, which the college required.  It got a little moldy and he refused to use it anymore, so I brought it home and I use it (it is completely clean now).  It makes great coffee and I have enjoyed it for two years.

It was only this past weekend that I realized, not unlike poor Luke Skywalker, that Darth Vader has a place in my home!

The coffee has never been a greater force in my life.

Humane Emotion

Philadelphia has been barraged with tragedy these past few days.  Two teenagers went missing, one from an very affluent family and one from a less financially fortunate situation.  One had significant social media, community local and national searches, one had a tag line in the news.  One was found safe and alive and the other was not.

I was filled with relief and joy when the 13 year old girl was found and returned to her family; it made me hopeful for the other lost child.

I was overcome with sorrow when I learned that the 13 year old boy was found dead, on his own estate, four days after he went missing; he had died the same day he was lost, buried under a foot of snowfall.

The city also had another policeman killed on Thursday night.  The father of two children, he was in a Game Stop buying a birthday present for his son, when the store was robbed, and he was shot.  The city mourns, from locals to visitors.  Unknown citizens to famous celebrities have all lined up to grieve and to donate to his family in his memory.

I went out today, on an errand and watched in horror as a small dog ran into traffic was struck a glancing blow, which knocked him down and then was fully crushed by the next passing car.  Neither driver stopped (I had in the opposite lane to avoid the little dog, it all happened too quickly to do anything).  His owner retrieved him from the street and I wept for him and for the dog.

I was also weeping for the lost boy.  I found out he had died, when I went to see if I could help find him.  The parking lot of the rally place was empty, save for one woman, who informed me that his body had been found.

Empathy and sympathy are important emotions; they make us more humane when we feel them. Abstract in concept, but so very really real in experience, they give comfort and compassion to the recipient and expand the capacity for action in those who reach out on those valuable emotions. Hundreds of people turned out to look for this child because they felt the horror of being in the parents situation, and they felt the fear and isolation of the child. Empathy and sympathy are hugely important and need to be nurtured; they bring out our best. We may not all know the feeling of the person in pain directly, but we can imagine.

The money of the affluent family will never comfort their loss; pain is universal regardless of situation.  The loss of a child is infinite, only our empathy, sympathy and care will help buoy them to go on; they will help us go on as well.

The police officer's family has the outpourings of thousands in this city and they deserve our gratitude for his diligence and devotion. I hope it helps, and perhaps helps even enough for us to "Stop shooting our cops."  The new rally cry of the city.

I hope our capacity for conceptual care expands, but I also hope that we move towards much more empathy of joy and happiness.

How Can Plain Be So Vain?

  

  

Dissapointment

We all have disappointments; things that fall short of our hopes, dreams, desires or expectations, Heartbreak, job loss, not getting into that elusive, college, competition, club...the list goes on and on. Most of us deal with them in acceptable and hopefully constructive ways.  Sometimes we rail and throw temper tantrums, but they are short lived, if thrown at all.

Sweet Briar College announced its' closing today; a huge shock and disappointment.  My friends and I wondered if they accepted applications this year for the fall of 2015?  Did they take early admission applications?  If they did and accepted people, is that fraud?

Disappointment can be elevated then, from drat to NO!  What does one do when that happens?  Is it worse for applicants, or for the families and individuals who have invested thousand of dollars and hours of work in study at Sweet Briar already?

People disappoint sometimes too.  Frequently, out of habit we disappoint consistently, that is part of the definition of being human.  When does individual failure escalate from rats, to an intolerable NO?

Perhaps intolerability leads to independence, and the change required to make an individual grow, separate and develop into the very human they were supposed to be.  This is what moves our children to leave home and live on their own.

If we can move through disappointment, even at the criminal level, and seek the rest of the human, can we find joy and satisfaction?  I am reading  a book that calls "expectations  - emotional blackmail;" a heavy accusation.  Every parent I know is guilty, but would not the world be a horrible place if we had no such expectations?  Perhaps that is an illusion of authority and grandeur (or delusions thereof). Parenting requires a certain amount of hubris mixed with courage.  We are responsible for a life and for launching a person onto the rest of the human race; error could be irresponsibly tragic. Is forgiveness in the face of disappointment ransom?

Mistakes and disappointment grease wheels of change or gears of rage, I have moved in both realms, without much effect in either, and that is fortunate.  Sometimes invisibility is a good thing.

A Little Ashtray

February twenty eighth marked the three year anniversary of my Mom's death.  I felt she had lived a long life;  since my Dad died at forty six, eighty nine seemed a really decent age, especially for a life-long smoker with dementia.  All in all, I felt accepting about the inevitable and I wasn't sad, not really.

I do wish my kids had known her longer, she was quite a character and they might have benefited from knowing her later in their lives; or not.

As I said, I was fine about it all.  Then my daughter's boyfriend, who was helping her clean up her stuff, brought down three packages of tea and a small glass dish.  I could barely speak and tears welled up (I suspect he thought I was a bit nuts); it was one of my Mom's ashtrays (I think it is actually a coaster, but she used them as ashtrays). She loved smoking.

I could see her sitting in her recliner, cigarette resting next to her blue glass of ice coffee,

head bent over the ubiquitous book.  She read, on average, one book a night.  I wish I had her aptitude for reading; my brother got that trait. I just missed her at that moment of that ashtray's appearance.

My Mom was superstitious, which is so funny for a psychiatrist.  My friend's mother is also superstitious and is amazed that I know so many of these worrisome practices.  Some are just intelligent: Don't walk under a ladder (duh).  Don't open an umbrella in the house (duh) -  I had to onstage once and it gave me such worries.  Don't put a hat on the bed (duh - think about it).

Do not whistle in a dressing room (?) - I have no idea about that one, and the whole black cat thing is just stupid. Saying "bread and butter" if you and  a friend go around opposite sides of a pole or you will have a fight(?).  Getting out the same side of the bed as you got into it (hence the right side rather than the wrong side of the bed (?).  They go on and on; guess who taught me all those.

Some I think she invented, she was very upset when some of our trees started to die, fearing that it was a bad omen. We even brought the stump of a dead tree from our old house to our new one, for good luck (?).  We put the Halloween pumpkin on it for years, until the stump finally disintegrated. Owls were not welcome near our house, she made loud noises to drive them away; in some Native American traditions owls are harbingers of death.  She was an interesting conglomeration of facts and worries. Being well read can have its' pros and cons.

She kept the "Handbook for Poisoners"  next to her cookbooks, which I always found amusing, especially since she was not fond of cooking, though she was a pretty good, if nervous, cook.


Mom introduced me to:

Charles Addams cartoons



and the engravings of Gustave Dore,
 

for which I will always be indebted.



Funny what one little ashtray can do.  I put it in the china cabinet for safe-keeping.

The Waking Vision

The cat decided to take a nap on my lap this evening.  I love it when she does; I find her very comforting.  After a while, however much I enjoy her warm presence, my legs begin to ache from impaired blood flow and I must, reluctantly move.  She invariably leaves me and I usually, as I did  tonight, curl up in a ball and sleep.

This evening, I briefly napped, awoke with an idea in my head and ran upstairs to make a drawing, with which I am pleased.  From there I went to work on an idea about a painting, on which I have been working on for ten years.  It is a part of a series of works, both 2-d and 3-d referring to The Crown of Thorns from the New Testament of the Bible, with which Jesus was crowned as a mocking tribute to his authority.  I am fascinated by the metaphor.

This particular painting is a collage of my ripped up charcoal drawings, on a panel,.  I had done one before measuring 3 x 3 feet, on a red background.  I like it very much.  This one is 4 x 4 feet on a pale blue background, like a sky.  It was too simple, yet, I could never quite find a way to complicate it just right.  I tried lots of things and pulled them off the surface. When I say I have been working for ten years it was, build up and tear down for several of them. Finally I got smart, lazy or frustrated and worked in my head.  The image has been thumping around in my head, with its' four sharp corners for a long time.
 
In the last three weeks, I conceived of an idea, brought to me by my storage war.  I do not have room to store a  4 x 4 foot painting and it is a pain in the neck to move.....that is what saws are for.

Tonight I placed the image in "Paint" and cut it up.  I love it!  4 x 4 cut into 4.

In my studio that I had this past fall, I had a cot.  When I grew tired, every day, I would lie down and nap for as little as 5 or 10 minutes.  When I woke, my eyes were new, my head was clear and ideas flowed again;  same as tonight.  Perhaps there is something about waking up from the horizontal to see the vertical image that allows me to just get it.  Live with the work; the waking vision is so different from the staring one.

The only problem I have now is that I do not want to sleep, I am so excited.  I hope the lumber yard will cut this thing for me.

Oh boy Oh boy oh boy!

Rules??

I confess, I follow most rules.  As an artist this can be an oxymoron and yet potentially liberating.  It can also be a wonderful framework in which to press the edges until they mold to what I want.

In life, I try to follow rules.  In life, I often fail.  This is not because I am such a rebel, I am not, at least not until I am pressed, not unlike that aforementioned framework...   Rather the issue I face with rules is that I just don't understand a lot of them.  Dare I say - your rules; dare I say your rules, except when they apply to me?

I get shushed, more than I would like and often by people who seem to enjoy my company. I guess my company is OK up to a certain volume.  My cousin posted a t-shirt on Facebook to another cousin of mine; the t-shirt read:

http://www.greekworldmusic.com/product_info.php?products_id=3203&osCsid=pei36r19so11r7cvg52dr2c330

Actually, while there is some truth culturally, in saying that Greek culture accepts a different level of interaction volume, it could also be construed as an ethnic slur.  I was not encouraged in my upbringing to have no opinions nor to be unwilling to express them.  I was encouraged to be lady-like, but also full of life.  So I chose to keep my legs together when wearing a skirt, and to speak fully when moved to expression.  This is against the rules, especially if wearing a skirt; why those two are related boggles my mind.  I do not get the rules.

Museums are not churches, you may talk.  You may feel.  You may rejoice with consideration of others and of the work (Do not throw snowballs in a museum). I walked into a gallery in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York,  to visit my favorite Manet angels:



http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/29.100.51


and wept instead when I encountered a Courbet:

http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/40.175

It just plain floored me that day.  The guard thought I was nuts.  Perhaps I was, but I felt overwhelmed and it felt alive to allow the full sensation of that feeling.  It is a beautiful painting (not well represented online). I could feel the touch of Courbet's brush on the canvas. I still love the Manet too, but that Courbet, just got to me.

Television is entertaining.  Why do people think that it is odd of me to laugh out loud at a joke on TV?  I am in my own house and I am not disrupting their pleasure; I do not get this rule.

I like funky clothes.  I wear them less than I used to because I am old.  The age things matters to me because I belong to other people and I might make them feel foolish.  I hate that, but I try to follow that rule a bit.  Most people would tell you that they have no idea what I am saying, since I always look weird; they have no idea what I left in my closet.

It is nice not to rob, injure, murder, cheat, lie....but really, if I am loud in the hall while you are playing bridge, will it kill you;  4 seconds of 24 hours, because I laughed, fully?

I can't do Facebook according to he rules either.  I have no idea what those rules are, but I seem to be messing up there royally.  I keep getting private messages or phone calls that say "Stop!" "Take it down!" or "Oh no!!!"  I keep sending "Sorry."  I feel about 3 years old.  If you see less of me on Facebook, that's why - I seem to be really stepping in it and I do not want to bother anybody.

I am a bull in the china shop of the world.  I don't like breaking the china, I am just trying to say hello and get out of your way.  Perhaps I should press my ringed nose against the glass, but that would probably scratch it.  Point me to Wall Street where I can play outside and be a good omen.

In the meantime, as I have been told, I will continue to be as described: "...about a subtle as a Mack truck" and "What you see is what you get."  I take these as compliments.  I have little subterfuge, I stink at lying and I wear my heart on my sleeve. Rules?  I am very compliant, but I often can't read the language.

Sorry is my mantra, but expression seems to be my tenacious, truculent, succulent, inexorable identity.

                    .....Sorry.

                                                                                            

  

Flu Blues

I recently fell ill with the flu.  Please do not yell at me for not getting a flu shot, I did.  As so many of us have come to realize this winter, the flu shot does not cover all the strains this year and we have an epidemic.  Fortunately, the shot did lessen the effects so I was not totally miserable and my fever stayed below 101 degrees.

Flu hits hard, even weak flu and I spent most of the first four days in bed.  I had lots of time on my hands, lots.  TV gets old, Facebook repetitive, reading is a little tough... so I thought, between naps and then I thought more.  I worried and obsessed over things I had said the day before my temperature rose; dumb things, really dumb things.  I ached, some from the flu, but mostly from verbal regret, unfettered by new interactions.

Today, I saw a couple of the people in whose presence I had verbally embarrassed myself. I apologized for my clumsiness and stupidity and the possible offense I had precipitated in them.  It is completely possible that the dear people I spoke with today plead generous ignorance out of kindness. It might well be that they had been too busy with their own versions of the flu or other business, that they actually did not recall, or care, if I had been a less than evolved human.  Thank goodness and their good natures, that I am redeemed!

"Too much time on my hands," never too many friends, glad I didn't lose any while I learned yet another painful lesson.  I am still becoming human and I am working hard on it too! Perhaps the flu slowed me down and shut me up at just the right moment.  Ah-choo, ah-choo, thank you flu? God bless you too.

Story-Telling and Art

The last event of my show at Baldwin School was  a meeting with the Third Grade who were studying my paintings; imagine!.  I have taught elementary students a little bit, a long time ago. These students have an outstanding teacher who taught them a lot about looking and about talking about art.  They were fun.

I was a little concerned that too many limitations were being placed on their reactions, so I wrote them a letter:

Dear Third Grade:

It was fun meeting with you a couple of weeks ago.  I would have written sooner, but I got the flu!  While resting though, I have been thinking about our few minutes together.

I am very impressed and honored by the time and care you have each taken to consider and to comment, with great insight, on my artwork.  Mrs. G. has taken her wonderful knowledge skills in art history and appreciation and taught you very well; you are insightful viewers. I apologize for forgetting to point out some of Mrs. G's amazing observations that might have been helpful in your other studies.  My paintings have no people in them.  That is on purpose, as I feel people diminish the vastness and the eternal qualities of the ocean.  The permanence and vital import of the water is the main reason I am attracted to it.  While I love to play in the water, I also feel a full connection to the universe when I am near it.  It is an enormous force of nature and the source of all life.  It’s enormity in every aspect of our lives is immeasurable and I hope to capture that feeling in the images.

Having stated my point of view and having praised your formal art observational skills, I want to go on to encourage a skill that you may not realize you have developed.  As you were lining up to leave, a comment was made by your substitute, that there had been “enough story-telling and it was time to move on.”  There is never, nor there ever be “enough story-telling.”  I delighted in your stories; we were all interacting with the art work.  Your stories were direct reactions to the images.  They were sparked by the images and your stories demonstrated to me what my work brought to your minds.  Some of you were more verbal than others.  Some of you were silent. Silence is also a response to art, whether it is sparked by personal contemplation or by lack of interest, it is a strong response.

Art is an act of sharing.  It is a non verbal story.  Much of the artwork found in churches was made to tell Biblical stories because most of the people in the churches did not read.  Art is thought, ideas  and emotion; story-telling and education in a non-verbal form.  Your storytelling was wonderful and gave me much insight about the effectiveness of my pictures.

I am so glad that you enjoyed my work and I am delighted to have met you and to have heard and seen your interactions with my work, each other and with me.  Keep up your enthusiasm, curiosity and generosity.  You are wonderfully intelligent and joyful people.

I hope that they take my words to heart and know that talking in the presence of art work is a joy. Living with art is a privilege that I wish more people would undertake.  Buy real art, it does not have to be expensive and it brings huge wealth to your life.  

I have a HUGE inventory ;)

Fool For Art

December 2014:
The show is framed.  From here on out it is all fun until the day it gets hung on the walls. Whew.

Way back in August I began the process, now five large paintings, six drawings, four traditional prints, four digital prints are ready.  Everything is new, guess I can still work when I have the space.

The space is the one in my mind and in my being.  Today I started out at home and was interrupted not less than a dozen times.  12X!  How can anybody work when there is not time to put two thoughts and feelings together? Time, not in isolation so much as in safety, of freedom, exploration and expanse.

Since I have had space, my entire life has changed.  The family still begs attention, but I wake up with ideas in my head.  I am happy.  I am whole again.  Artists must not be led down paths of service to the world which do not involve their work; it kills.

February 2015:
Now that I lack the physical space, the metaphysical has vanished as well. Thoughts no longer pop in my head with abandon;  depression and dullness reside there with great spreading wealth.

My entire creative life  from high school to the present day, now lives in a spare bedroom. Every crisis, joy and confusion, visually documented, lies in piles of paper, canvas and pigment.  When I die, what will they do with this debris?  I imagine the same as they will do with my body, burn it.  I have cleaned out the houses of many elderly women who have been forced to downsize.  We pick through the vestiges of their lives, hopes, dreams, joys and sorrows.  No life goes without inspection of detritus, with or without judgement.

Years ago I threw out a self portrait made in my twenties.  In it, I sported a strapless blue bikini top and blue jeans.  I placed the painting outside for the trash men; it was taken from the trash.  I was flattered and oddly embarrassed.  I wonder where I am, half dressed.  Am I dart board?  The painting was mounted on plywood.

The truth is that when paintings leave the studio, I have no control over them and if  I choose to make images of myself then I have no control over that momentary aspect of myself.  When the time comes for me to leave the studio, permanently, I will have no say in the dispersal of my life's work, nor will I care. So do I dispose of work now via the trash or do I try to sell or give it away?  Does that become my life's work?  The walls of my studio, like those of the Death Star's trash compactor, are closing in. I must act or be swallowed by personal history.

As I no longer have an empty, quiet space in which to work, it seems that I have few options. "Growing old is not for sissies;" growing old for artists is not for the weak-stomached nor for the sentimental. Alas I am both.