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A Little Rant

Still tired from our travels, I was shortsighted and scheduled a doctor’s appointment for 8 a.m. this morning. Even the nurse told me I was crazy. That led me to a sort of six degrees of separation topic for tonight. That would be all of the things that drive me crazy at the doctor’s office. Such as…

I was a new patient today, and being the regimented little soldier that I am I followed instructions. Be here at eight they said, so I was. Except that the reason to be there at eight was to fill out the new patient forms, the same forms they sent me in the mail a week and a half ago and told me to have filled out at my first appointment. Of course I had filled them out, they told me too, but then they also told me to be there at eight so that I could sit in their waiting room and waste a half hour of my life that I will never get back.

Can anyone tell me the reason that the new patient forms asked the date of my birth eleven times? It might be that with all the questions I had to answer I aged in the process. Or the need for my driver’s license number. Are they planning on writing me a ticket? They claim it is so that they know it is me. That’s right, I enjoy being poked and prodded so much that I assume the identity of other people so I can take their turn.

Is it me, or do the receptionists time it so that you don’t get taken back to start your exam until you get to the middle of the article in the year old magazine? That way you will never know what happened at the end of your story. One more unanswered question in your life.

Speaking of the moldy magazines. Today I was reading a magazine that is published locally, I found a piece on a new art exhibit opening. It was exactly the kind of thing I like to do. Too bad it was over more than a year ago, the magazine was the February 2012 issue.

Finally, I’m in the room. The doctor will be in “momentarily”. Dear doctor, you are very educated, much more so than me, but unless we went to really different grammar schools “moment” means, ” a very brief  period of time.” It does not mean that I sit in a freezing cold room missing a portion of my clothing, on the meat slab table for what seems like forever, because your day is running late. My day runs late sometimes, but if I show up late for my appointment you won’t see me. I think if your days starts to run late you should call me and ask me to come a little later.

As I sat there waiting today, very nervous because there was the possibility of some bad news, I thought to myself, “How do you draw fear?”  (See illustration below)Orange Dragonfly (7)

Now that I have had my rant, lets talk about the art. Lately I have found myself really interested in vintage book covers. There was a time before dust covers where the art on the cover of a book was incredibly beautiful. Inspired by that I began some pen and ink work tonight. I’m not sure where I’m going with it as of yet, just enjoying the process. Oh wait, maybe I could write a book on the difference in the time/space continuum that exists inside a doctor’s office.  photo-1

 

Still Hanging In

Today is my Dad’s birthday. My mother used to say about him, “A creaking door never dies.” Not quite sure what that means, but at eighty-one he has outlived most of his family. My mother, his brothers and sister, his parents, and quite a few of his friends. The doctors said that his recent head injury should have killed him. That head? He’s a former pro soccer player and his head was one of his best weapons. I’ve actually seen him use it more than once during the endless games of my childhood. My mother would dress my sisters and I alike, the four little dolls that she grew up without, and we would have to sit in a row and watch “Daddy” play. I’ve also seen him use that head off the field, fortunately for me only once, unfortunately for the guy who received it in the jaw. Dad saw a guy in a bar slap a woman. I don’t remember any more about it than that, I was only around eleven or twelve, (Yes, I was in a tavern, not unheard of in the Irish crowd of my youth. Your parents friends were all there, and you just went along). He went outside with the guy, words were exchanged, the guy raised his hands, and then the head, right to the jaw. It burst like a fountain, and the argument was over. He was also a track star, and now he can barely walk. Age and a really bad knee cap replacement have taken their toll. The last few days have been enlightening in a number of ways. To begin with I feel saddened by seeing him in the forgetful condition he is in now. The head injury may not have killed him but it definitely had an effect. It also troubles me to see how he has given up. He is lonely, and bored, but no matter how many suggestions we make the answer is always, “I can’t”. That is disappointing for me because I know the man he used to be. And finally, the most enlightening of all was a glimpse of my parent’s life as a couple. I told my sisters that while I was here I would begin the enormous job of cleaning out some of the stuff that has accumulated in both the basement and the garage. My Dad had EVERY greeting card he and my mother had ever received or given each other. They were married for fifty years. Boxes and boxes of cards. I decided to sort them by daughter, a box for each of us, cards we gave them or our children gave them, and then two boxes for my Dad, one for cards from my Mom, one for cards that he gave her. As I sorted through them I found little terms of endearment, expressions of love, gratitude, and even a little humor. I’m sure you might not find that to be unusual, but if you had been around my parents the last few years you would have to wonder. They were always fighting,at least it seemed that way to me. When Mom died I overheard my Dad saying that they never had an argument. I remember thinking, “What? All they did was fight, where was he?”, but no one knows what goes on inside a marriage. It was a very pleasant surprise to read those cards. I learned something else in the last few days, I’m throwing crap out when I get home. When I look at the overwhelming task that awaits my sisters and I, I refuse to do that to my kids. You’re welcome Jessica and Brian.

I’ve been hanging on by a thread to my project this week. Tonight isn’t much better. We took Dad to an Irish Pub for dinner. You may know the type, prefabricated Irish pubs are opening all over the place, complete with Irish knick-knacks and artwork. I saw photo on the wall that caught my eye. As always a sketch pad and pen. A little bit of the old sod as my Dad would say, reflected in the water.image

Desperate Times

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Still in Chicago with my Dad, and that essentially means I get no time to myself. I’ve been scrambling to produce art at the last second for the last few days. Tonight it became a real issue when he decided he wanted go to a movie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m only here for a few days and my Dad doesn’t get out much these days, but I have to keep at this project for myself, it has come to mean so much to me, and has done so much for me. We were sitting in a restaurant having a quick bite before the movie and I searched my purse for something to sketch on. I found a manilla tag, and used it to draw a quick picture inspired by yesterday’s walk in McDonald Woods, and then as I looked around the restaurant I saw a man who I thought was interesting. No more tags, but I had a napkin. A quick napkin sketch and I had a second piece of art. Neither piece of art is the best work I’ve ever produced, but the drive that produced them is what matters to me. Tomorrow I hope to have a few minutes to produce a finished piece, but there will be art, oh yes there will be art.image

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Out Of My Element

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Ten years ago I left Chicago for Temecula. For the first year all I did was piss and moan about how my life was horrible, Temecula was so boring, I even wrote a four page love letter to Chicago, waxing poetically about the wonder that she is. On occasion I took it out on my poor husband, blaming Dan for moving me away from the city I love so much. That was ten years ago. Don’t get me wrong, I still love Chicago. It is an amazing place, and if I had the kind of money that would afford me the life I dream of, there would be a downtown loft in my future. That being said, Temecula is my home now. Southern California is where my children are. It’s a beautiful area where I have a beautiful home. There are also all those wineries, the gorgeous weather (for the most part), and I have made some friends, the kind that you know will be your friends forever. Of course my family is still here, and I miss seeing them regularly, but I’ve made a life in California, and right now I’m missing home. I think some of that has to do with the fact that my son isn’t feeling well, my inner mother is really feeling guilty, I also think that whatever he has, I’m getting. I want to be in my own bed with the covers pulled over my head. I’m also a little discombobulated with my art. I never travel without supplies, and this trip is no different. I do have watercolors, markers and pens with me, but I think being away from home disagrees with me. I am definitely a homebody. I’ve told Dan on more than one occasion that I’d travel anywhere in the world as long as I can sleep in my own bed at night. We went for a walk in the incredibly beautiful McDonald Woods this morning, and normally I would feel inspired. Instead I am sitting here watching the clock, waiting anxiously to go to bed.

A while ago I mentioned that Dan and I have a little, actually not so little, project in the works. We are going into business together. We are beginning to put together the pieces. Tonight I was working on an idea for a sign that will be in our business. A little pen and ink on paper. I think I’m headed in the right direction, something that looks a little vintage…like me.image

Turbulent Sketching

I’ve survived the flight! Actually two flights since we had an hour plus layover in Phoenix. I was up a half hour before the alarm this morning. I don’t believe it was preflight jitters, I’m one of those odd people who don’t need an alarm. If I know that I have to be up to go somewhere, I’m up with time to spare. The flights themselves were uneventful, although there was just a bit of turbulence. I took my xanax, grabbed a sketch pad and relaxed for the flights.The only real issue I came across was the inconsiderate behavior of one of my seat mates. I admit it, I freakishly like the middle seat on the plane. (I guess so that I’ll somehow be cushioned in the fall from the sky). Dan was on the aisle, and this very tiny woman came on board after us and took the window seat. Small woman, big space hog. For the next two and a half hours I was elbowed, hit in the back of the head, and had her stuff pushed on top of my feet. To make matters worse, when we exited the plane I went into the lady’s room, the tiny one came in right after me. As we waited for an open stall she gushed about what a gentleman my husband is because he helped her with her bags both getting on and off the plane, and then she cut in front of me in line. I was about to say something, but remembered my vow not to get mad, so I didn’t. Do I feel better for not saying anything? Not at the moment. But I’m sure I’ll move on….in about a year or until someone else aggravates me.

I had planned to do a watercolor on the plane, but I found myself instead drawing Maddie, she is a very dear girl, and getting prettier everyday.  I’m not quite finished, I need to look closer at the photo in better light. That I will do tomorrow. But not bad on Xanax and turbulence.image

Painting On The Fly

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I’m getting on a plane in the morning, and anyone who knows me, knows that is an issue. I have major league claustrophobia. When we make plans that involve air travel I tend to worry weeks in advance. It’s all about control. Yes, I have control issues too. As I tell Dan, I would be fine with flying, as long as I am the one flying the plane. He always tells me that the rest of the passengers might not be thrilled, but I believe I’d do a fine job. I understand the science of flying, and I know all the stats about how safe it is, but let me remind you all once again, I’m Irish, glass isn’t half full, nor half empty, it is broken on the floor, except when I’m about to get on a plane, in that case a piece of the broken glass is lodged in my big toe. We had a friend who was an airline captain, nice guy, goofy guy, but when it came to his job, a very serious guy. Knowing him has helped a little. I also remind myself as I fly that the people who work on the plane probably fly a lot, and I assume they believe its safe or they would choose another occupation. The strange thing is that when I was a kid I wanted to be an airline stewardess. (I know, politically correctness calls for flight attendant). There was a girl who lived down the street from us that was a stewardess. Madeline, I still remember how she looked in her uniform. I wanted to grow up and be her. Then when I was thirteen we went to Ireland. It was my first plane trip. I loved it, in fact I loved it so much that I came back from that trip and investigated the Air Force. I was disappointed to find out at the time that they had no female pilots, but the Navy did. I actually entertained the idea of joining up, but then the reality of basic training came to mind. Have you seen An Officer And A Gentleman? There was one female candidate, Seeger, she barely made it through the obstacle course, well she would look like an Olympic champion next to me. I’ve since flown to Scotland, Ireland for a second time, and France. Of course I’ve flown several times here in the States as well. I’m not sure when the awful fear began, maybe when I realized I had more to live for. I guess it might come down to losing fate in humanity (deep right?) I have learned a little trick or two along the way.

1. Take Xanax , it’s amazing how a half of a Xanax works so well. It’s as though my brain is screaming, “We’re on a plane!”, but my body is saying, “Its cool, relax.”

2. Memorize a Novena. For those of you non-Catholics out there. It is a series of prayers. Extra special religious insurance. Repeated in a loop as the plane is taking off.

3. Break the fingers of your traveling companion by squeezing them as hard as you possibly can.

4. Close your eyes. Any four-year old can tell you that all the bad stuff isn’t there when you can’t see it.

5. Travel with watercolors. It always takes my mind off where I’m at when I’m involved in my art.

So that’s it. Countdown to takeoff has commenced. (It’s actually more than ten hours from now, but why waste perfectly good worrying? ) For tonight just a little watercolor and ink. Inspired by an old piece of stationary. Tomorrow night you will see just exactly what can be accomplished in the air.photo

 

Waiting By The Phone

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A few days ago I wrote about the prehistoric times of my youth when phones were attached to walls with cords, an inconvenience when you were trying to have a private conversation with your boyfriend/girlfriend, and your parents wouldn’t leave the room. I got to thinking about that today and the expression “waiting by the phone” came to mind. It’s what I’m calling my piece of art for tonight. I sat my twenty-two year old son down and explained my work to him. When I was a teenager if a boy said he was going to call you, you waited in your house, usually in your kitchen for that phone to ring. You didn’t go out with your friends, pleaded with your mother to let you stay behind instead of accompanying her to the grocery store, you sat and waited for that phone to ring. It would ring, and your excitement was palpable, you would rush breathlessly to be the one to answer, trying in that moment to sound careless and mature, and it was…your grandmother, or your aunt, or your mom’s best friend. A piece of you would die as you silently pleaded with your mother to hang up, how could she not realize that your entire existence relied on that call from that boy? Didn’t she remember what it was like to be young? Of course not, parents were never young. No call waiting, no answering machines, no cell phones, your entire romantic life depended on that phone, and to think he might call and get a busy signal was devastating. What if he didn’t call back? What if he called another girl because you didn’t answer yours? I realized that my children have never and will never experience that. I see six-year olds with iPhones. In this instantaneous world we live in with tweets, instagrams, and Facebook, our children are losing a little of the romance of the phone. Sure it’s still a thrill when that call comes, but think about having your entire world revolve around that call, when you had to sit and patiently wait to hear the voice on the other end of the line. There is a romance in that, unlike the call that comes at the mall when you are hanging out with your friends. Our kids are so accustomed to instant gratification that they are losing out on some of the best times, the best memories. Years ago Brian asked what we did when we were kids. He assumed that we were bored, no DVDs, no video games, no iPods or iPads.  We told him we were never bored, we had our imaginations, the same imaginations that we used dreaming, waiting for the ring of the telephone.IMG_1020

 

Quitting While I’m Ahead

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No, I’m not quitting my blog, or abandoning my project. What I am referring to is my project tonight. I wrestled with the devil, by that of course I mean perspective, and I caved. I am in the midst of planning a birthday gift for my Dad’s eighty-first birthday, which is a week from Thursday. It involves many photos of his favorite subject, which happens to be him. I feel slightly guilty making fun of him since he isn’t feeling well, but he has a great sense of humor, and I kid because I love, and he loves…himself…I really can’t help myself. I’ve mentioned the Natalie story (for those of you who may be unaware, short story is I look like my Dad, so I look like Natalie Wood. His idea, not mine). If you are as old as me, or have studied ancient history, you know that at one time in the history of man telephones were attached to walls, and had cords…gasp!  Imagine being a teenager and wanting to talk to your boyfriend, you would stretch that curly cord until it was a straight as possible as you pulled it taut to get around a corner, out of parental earshot. My Dad pulled it tight as well, not so that we couldn’t hear him, but so that he could look at himself in the bathroom mirror as he talked. We of course, being the family of merciless critics that we are, made fun of him for it. He didn’t even try to deny it. He would just get a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Back to our regularly scheduled project…my painting for this evening. As I was looking at all the old family photos on my computer I came across one of my Mom that I love. In 1957 my Mom and Dad were married in Toronto, Canada, and had their honeymoon at Niagara Falls. It was really beautiful then, of course the Falls still are, but the area around them hadn’t yet been developed by Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, and Madame Tussaud’s, and the endless souvenir and t-shirt shops. In this particular photo my Mom, who never had a shred a of confidence looks like the coolest chick around. She was really cute. My Dad, not so much at the time. He grew into a handsome Clint Eastwood look a like later in life when he actually gained a little weight. I told my Mother that she was way too cute for him, thankfully she didn’t share my opinion or I obviously wouldn’t be here. I’ve never been the “cool chick”, I was the clumsy chick, the nerdy chick, the artistic weirdo (my Dad, once again), I was never a cheerleader, or a sorority girl, I was just me, always striving to Never be like anyone else. Being an individual is important to me and always has been. My Mom looks like she could be Rizzo from Grease in this photo, or at the least one of the Pink Ladies. I never saw her that way, I saw a lonely, very wounded woman. I like looking at this picture of her and thinking about a time in her life when she felt empowered, or at the very least that she thought she looked really cool.

In high school one of my artistic classmates did a painting of herself and her little brother using only shades of gray, with the exception of a fish, the fish was painted green. I loved it, still do when I think about it. I always wanted to do a painting in those shades, I think hers was oil, mine is watercolor. It was a little more difficult with my watercolors, but it captures the essence of my Mom.  Where I quit was the background. I mapped it all out, sketched it in, it was an elaborate cement rail with pillars, and I screwed it up again! Watercolor isn’t always the most forgiving medium, had it been oil or acrylic I could have fixed it, so I quit while I was ahead. I liked the way the figure looked, and quite frankly was afraid I would ruin the painting. Perspective-1, Me-0. It doesn’t mean I’m giving up the fight, just the round.9 1

My Head Is In The Clouds

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8 30 13 (14)Here we go again, but when you see the photographs I took today you won’t blame me in the least. I actually took more than one hundred (although I will only post a few), and to tell you how wonderful my husband is, Dan drove me around to find the best shots. I did thank him for his support of the Arts. Incredibly I was here in Temecula taking photos of the sky outside the library when I received a text from my sister, Colleen, outside of Chicago, it was actually a couple of photos…of a beautiful sky. Although in her case it was the beginning of a bad storm. Colleen and I are only fifteen months apart in age (good Irish Catholic parents), we have been called Irish twins, we are also the two middle children, so I think we somehow ended up on the same wave length. Later in the evening they had a spectacular sunset so she sent me a photo of that as well.

I wasn’t completely happy with my painting last night. I rushed once again, when what I should have done was just laid the groundwork. That’s what I’m doing tonight. I did a pencil sketch of a painting that I want to do, based on one of the photos from today. I had mentioned a couple of months ago that I realized that I didn’t need to get a piece fully completed every day, the purpose of this project is just to create every day. I seem to be fine doing that with non-painting projects, but with most of my paintings I am still struggling to find the patience that I need to build things slowly. That has to be my focus from now on or I won’t like anything I do. I also felt like my style was improving, and last night the work seemed too “old school” me. I am going to let that painting sit for a few days and take a second look at it. For once the feelings I’m having aren’t about not being good enough, but rather feeling disappointed that I didn’t see the growth in that piece that I’ve seen in others. But I guess that realization is growth enough in itself.

And now for a few photos from today.8 30 13 (132)

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Don’t Drink And Draw

My wonderful husband was reading last night’s blog this morning and sneaking glances at me. Why? Because last night’s self-portrait was way off the mark. I am hereby instituting new self-imposed rules for my project.

1. When there is so little light that you can barely see you might want to reconsider drawing.

2. Don’t draw and try to watch one of your favorite television shows at the same time. (I couldn’t help myself, the Newsroom is so good)

3. Two glasses of wine and self-portrait drawing don’t mix. I admit it, I’m a total lightweight.

4. Mixing all of the above activities might cause you to look at your work from the night before and say, “WHAT?”

My first attempt at drawing me. I never liked the idea of the self-portrait, I really think it has to do with the teeth issue, but I went for it. I guess I figured any self-respecting artist does it sooner or later. Dan said all he could do while looking at it was look at me. He wasn’t getting it, and justifiably so. I set about correcting the drawing and quite frankly, it was one of the hardest drawings I’ve done. I couldn’t get my own nose right, much less the fractured tooth. It took me hours, meanwhile subjecting Dan to countless critiques. “Is it right yet?”, “How about now?”, “Is this it?”, you get the idea. I think maybe there is a reason I always see portraits of artists looking in mirrors to draw themselves. You see yourself differently in a mirror than you do in a photograph. It was torture. I’m done, I’m really glad I’m done, and we won’t be seeing another for any time in the near future.

Aside from hating my face for most of the day, I actually did finish one project that was long overdue, made another invite for my special four-year old friend, Emily, and started another painting. Amazing! For tonight the real me (I think, and if you know me and see a problem with the sketch, please don’t tell me for at least a week), Emily’s invite, the beginnings of a painting of an Angel’s Trumpet, and Theresa’s (she of the pear fame) finished gift.8 128 12 18 12 2IMG_0681