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Painting

I painted today. Rejoice, right? Nope not that kind of painting. As many of you may know my son recently vacated the premises, AKA moved out, left the nest, I’m sure you get the idea. That left me with an empty room in my house. Worse yet, an empty undecorated room. That just can’t be tolerated. I have a show coming up, one that I am in no way ready for. Dan and I decided yesterday that we would postpone the painting of the room formerly known as Brian’s room until further notice. My studio is entirely to small for the amount of crap in it. It is busting at the seams. We decided I would use the extra room to work in until after the show. I began to move things in there, wait! Not so fast. I am a person who cannot eat at one of those throw your peanuts on the floor, and allow the waiter or waitress to be rude to you kind of restaurants. I encounter enough rudeness in my every day life as it is, and as for eating with a dirty floor? No way, no how. I can’t do it. I am a publicly admitted slob, I said so myself right here on these pages, but only when I’m creating. That means that when I cook the kitchen is a disaster that will later be cleaned by my minions. (Although now that I have an empty nest I have no minions. That’s a problem.) When I create art there is paint/paper/pastel dust/brushes/etc…everywhere. I clean that mess up by myself. (I haven’t discovered any art minions as of yet.) Dan was gone most of the day. I thought, “I’m going to paint.” What I intended was art, what happened was decorating. I went into the spare room, which had the studio overflow everywhere, and I began to look for what I wanted to do and realized I couldn’t. The room was worse than peanuts on the floor dirty. I just couldn’t work in there. I did the only thing I could. I went into the garage to look for paint. I had some blue, but not quite enough, found some white and, voilà another custom blend. I didn’t even bother to empty the room. I pushed everything in the middle and went to work. That was five hours ago. I’m finished. Sometimes it’s good to be a painter’s daughter. Brush is washed out, roller wrapped up for touch-ups in the morning light, and I’m beat.

No art that was created today, unless you count the abstract art on my hands and face (like I said, slob). Instead I am posting an old one, a painting that I did a very long time ago. I had gone out with a friend for coffee, she was an actress, I the artist, and we had a wonderful afternoon talking all things creative. When I got home I was so inspired that I painted the following piece. Now I am off to rest my weary bones.

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Writing By The Rules

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I received an email not long ago from the folks at WordPress. I’m sure many of you may have received it as well. It was about avoiding the grammar police. I didn’t read the email, although maybe I should have, but I’m pretty sure my grammar isn’t all that terrible. I did of course have English in school, but I finished school more than thirty years ago. Sister Charlotte, my freshman year English teacher was deaf. Seriously deaf. So deaf that we obnoxious young ladies of St. Scholastica would run our pencils along the grated book holder attached to the desk when her back was turned just to make sure. She was a very sweet old woman, far nicer than we probably deserved. It was the year in high school that we were supposed to be focused on grammar, but sadly we didn’t learn a lot. It was there however that I discovered my favorite book, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. All these years later it is still my favorite. I reread it from time to time for pleasure.

The other year in my academic life that was focused on grammar was seventh grade. Mr. Helms, a former Boys Town educator, was my teacher. We were terrified of him. Rumor had it that he killed a kid at Boys Town. There was a boy in my class, Austin H., a troubled kid who I later heard sadly died young. He acted out in class one day and Mr. Helms took him out into the hallway. I’m not sure what happened, but everyone swore there was blood on the wall. I don’t think he even noticed me, well except to call me Marion. Marion is my older sister, she is blond, I was not. Unfortunately seventh grade was also the year my eyes abandoned me. I desperately needed glasses. It took me the entire school year to convince my Mom that I was blind, so essentially I missed the whole year. I couldn’t see the board if my life depended on it, and I was far too afraid of Mr. Helms to talk to him. I suffered in silence. These days thanks to “spell-check” my spelling is usually correct. Except that once in a while it changes a word on me that I don’t catch until the next day when Dan points it out. I don’t know about anyone else, but I swear I read and reread several times before I publish, yet there it is, the wrong word. It happened to me just last night. As for the spelling, I recently heard about a German study that is going on. The German scientists are testing their theory that when we get older our memories fail not because we are decrepit (my word, not an official study term), but because our brains have so much information in them that it takes time to push through all the clutter and find what we’re looking for. (Again, me) I love this theory, it makes me happy. As for grammar, I have been corrected from time to time by my children. They are very smart and educated people, so am I, I just don’t put as much thought into sentence structure. I write like I speak, although I probably don’t use as many commas or my infamous ” …’s” when I talk. (Is there a name for …? Dot, dot, dot?? Is it etc.? I forgot, it’s in the back of my cluttered brain) I do care that what I write is readable but I’m more interested in getting the thoughts out of my brain and onto the page than sweeping through the cobwebs in my mind to remember that I am writing a really, really, really run on sentence.

This morning Dan and I had a wonderful hike through the lovely Santa Rosa Plateau. We were fortunate enough to see the vernal pools. Vernal pools, also called vernal ponds or ephemeral pools, are temporary pools of water that provide habitat for distinctive plants and animals. (That sounds really smart doesn’t it? It’s from Wikipedia.) We are lucky enough to have these pools at the Plateau in the Spring. We got out there at about eight thirty. It was sunny, but there was still fog billowing in from the coast. Just beautiful. I was inspired to try to capture some of what we saw in pastel. Pastels are not my strong suit. I find them a difficult medium and don’t understand why I torture myself with them. First photo is my pastel of the vernal pools. The second photo is God’s handiwork, I just snapped the picture.

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A Belated “Thank You”

I haven’t been doing my best work as of late. I’ve probably phoned it in more in the last month than in the eleven months prior. We’re still not out of the woods here at home, and the clock is ticking. Worry and stress do not make good creative partners. Tonight I tried to clear my mind and focus on some work. I chose my subject matter for a very particular reason tonight.

I still haven’t sent my mother in-law a thank you note for her gift. I had an idea for something to include in her thank you. Like me, she is a collector. I remember the first time Dan brought me home to his parents house. Two things struck me that night. First was his Mom’s incredible antiques, the second was his Dad’s cooking. Don passed away a few years ago. A hard lesson that so many people learn as they age is to not let things go unsaid. The old cliché about life being short is so true. I have more than one regret about things that should have been said, or done and the opportunity has passed. I am late on my “thank you” to Joyce, but better late than never. I have often mentioned here that I am a really good cook. My interest in cooking started at about age seventeen, but it really took off after I started eating at the Zuckerman house. Both of Dan’s parents were terrific cooks, and in later years it was almost always his Dad that made the meal (except for gravy, Joyce’s specialty). I never told Don what an inspiration he was to me. I eventually had the chance to cook for him, and when he praised the meal I was beyond thrilled. Amongst my mother in-laws collections are some vintage sugar jars with the label “Zucker”,  which is German for sugar. I love her jars, so I made it my mission to find some for myself. One of my other collections is a group of chefs. Joyce wanted to collect them but didn’t have the room, so she began to collect them for me. One in particular always reminded us of Don. I wanted to pay tribute to both of Dan’s parents tonight. One of my Zucker jars, and “Don”, one of my chefs in watercolor. Belated thanks for inspiring one of the great pleasures in my life, cooking. (Oh, and by the way, thanks for the really wonderful son I have for a husband.)

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Self Esteem By The Numbers

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I seem to be on a recurring theme these days, but I did something yesterday that made me question just how much I believe in myself. As I said last night I had a little battle waging in my head between my “not good enough voice” and my inner cheerleader. (I am so not a cheerleader, quite frankly I lack a certain amount of enthusiasm, but that is a topic for another day.) I thought that I had to a certain extent conquered my feelings of inadequacy, but I was wrong. I put a piece of work on etsy yesterday. It is part of the fairy making I do. I hesitate to call it a craft, I think of it as art. Don’t get me wrong, I have great respect for craftsmen and women. I think the word “crafter” has gotten a bad rap. Unfortunately thanks to shows of a certain caliber, crafting is far too often associated with items such as my most hated craft, the crocheted toilet paper roll cover. (I just had a visual image of one and cringed) I know there is a market for these kinds of items, I think it may involve blue hair of some sort, but I cannot think of a ….I’m sorry, I have no words. I feel that strongly about them. To get back to my point, there are many fine crafts people, people with envious skill and talent, and their work is art. I hereby decree that artists and true craftsmanship be one and the same. (I can do this because I should be ruling the world) My piece is a fairy playground. It took vast amounts of creative imagination, hours of intricate work, and numerous hot glue burns to create it. When I began to list it on etsy the doubt began to creep in. Materials ran me roughly twenty-five dollars. I originally thought to list it at $100, its one of a kind, unique, it’s art, but then “not good enough” spoke up. “No one will pay that much.”, or “It only cost you $25” (not including the day and a half labor). I’m sure you get the idea. I listed it at $65. When I told Dan he said I was crazy. Later in the evening I went back on etsy. I didn’t sign in, I just wanted to see how long it would take me to find my item in the search engine. I came across a fairy house created by another artist. No fairies, just the house. It was more than three hundred dollars. Yikes! Those must be very rich fairies, like Trump fairies. It was beautiful, but I couldn’t believe the price. Then I thought to myself, “This woman values herself, and her work.” I showed it to Dan, and then I raised my price to $95. When I told my saga to my daughter this morning, she too pronounced me crazy, and said $95 is too low. I haven’t changed it, but it did get me wondering about the connection between my pricing and my low artistic self-esteem. I always under price myself. So I guess I have to ask myself just how much my self-esteem is worth?

Something a little different tonight. Theresa gave me a pot of beautiful little daffodils today. I was out most of the day, so I decided to do a quick watercolor of them. I really didn’t care for my finished painting, but then I began to play with the Photo shop filters. I found several that I liked, suddenly I didn’t think the original was so bad. I’m going to post the original, one with a poster edge filter, and an eggshell crackle finish. I’m not sure which I like best.

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The Positives

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Last night I said I would look at my work over the last (almost) year to find the positives. I am horribly hard on myself. As I said last night criticism sticks in our brains, it’s a scientific fact. What the piece about criticism I watched on Sunday Morning failed to address was whether our own criticism of ourselves sticks as well. I am here to say in my own private not so scientific study ( which means I talked to myself, Dan and our friend Lori), we do hang on to our own criticism. I think we are harder on ourselves than anyone else. But that begs the question why? Are we innately self-critical? Or are we the product of societies influences? Obviously mass media has a great influence, as do our parents, our friends, our teachers, the list could continue. How does it start? I again will make assumptions. My Mom spoiled my Dad horribly, I think Dan would be happy to agree that I do the same thing. I learned it from my Mom. My Mom was also very insecure…ditto. I knew that as I headed into motherhood. I tried my best to instill confidence in my kids. Did I succeed? Yes and no. Why? Because my children grew up watching me. I was very nobly self-sacrificing, not such a good example to set. That is why I am now on this journey of self-discovery that I should have been on twenty years ago. (Kids, if you’re listening, take time for yourself. Giving all of yourself away no matter how well-intentioned sets a terrible example, and in the end everyone pays.)

Has anyone noticed that I’m avoiding the question at hand? The homework I assigned myself? In my defense I will again explain the Catholic thing. I feel guilty if I feel like I’m bragging. If my history serves me right the original verse reads, Our Father who art in heaven, guilt is part of the game, Thy forbids some fun…oh come on, I’m just kidding. ( I’ve served my time, thirteen years of parochial school, I’m entitled.) Anyway, here goes….

I have discovered that I have a real talent for pen and ink.

My work is so much more alive, more textured, richer. I discovered how much I enjoy working with just a palette knife.

I’m actually finishing pieces. For so many years I left work half done in fear of being judged. This is one where I still struggle a bit, but again, acknowledging the problem is part of the solution.

If I actually take my time (and give myself the time) I can do some really nice work.

I’ve heard so many people say how hard watercolor is. I find it incredibly easy and enjoyable.

That very nasty word, perspective. It’s getting better, and more than that, I’m getting less hung up on it.

My biggest accomplishment is that I no longer feel like I need to be a human copy machine. Art is meant to be expressive, not replace a photograph.

These days I’m struggling on so many levels because of other stuff going on in my life, but I’m still doing this every single day.

As I try to write these positives, I find the little voice on my head saying, “But what about….?” The voice of “Not good enough” is making a case for herself, dropping negative bombs in my brain. Not today. Enforced self-esteem, that’s what I need.

Tonight a watercolor. New issue of Country Living arrived in the mail, this painting is inspired by a photo in the magazine.3 3 14

Learning To Let Go Of The Negative

Last night I wrote about believing in myself, and how we should remember that while some people might not like our work as artists, others do. We all tend to hang onto the negative, we remember the bad stuff. Dan and I have talked about this with our children. Their recollections of incidents are vastly different of ours. Careless or meaningless remarks made by us were words that they seem to have taken to heart. This morning on CBS Sunday Morning there was a piece about criticism. It seems that our brains are actually geared this way, that our ancestors had a built-in self-preservation system. They remembered the things that were bad or dangerous in a particular part of the brain in order to stay safe. It evolved into an area that processes negative thought. In other words, we hang onto the bad stuff by nature. It shapes who we are. (I’m loosely describing the story, but its worth checking out.) When the piece finished airing Dan and I had an interesting discussion about what we remember from our own childhoods. We both remember many negative incidents, things our parents said or did. When we though about it, we really couldn’t remember as much of the good as the bad. The negative things definitely made the stronger impression, the more lasting memories.  I’ve thought about it today. I think finding that piece of information out might actually help me in my struggles. Maybe if I concentrate on focusing on whats good about my work, understanding all the while that those negative thoughts are part of who I am, I can change that within myself. I’m not foolish enough to think that I can change thousands of years of evolution, but I’ve always thought that being aware of a problem is half the battle. The power of positive thinking. We’ve all heard those words. I think I’m giving myself some homework. All of the work I have produced for this blog is in one file in my computer. I’m going to look back at it tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of the positives I see. Funny, but it automatically just entered my mind to list the negative as well. I’m not going to do that. This is an assignment to change my thought process. Results tomorrow.

I didn’t produce any art today except in my kitchen. Academy Awards are known around here as my Superbowl. Our kids, our friends, good food and fun. I’m posting a piece from awhile ago. Mary Cicely Barker, who I may have mentioned in the past, is an artist who painted the “Flower Fairy” characters. A few years ago I began mixing my painting with her work. This is a checkerboard tabletop I painted and then decoupaged with her characters. Its sitting on top of another table because I haven’t been able to find the right legs for it as of yet. I’ve been giving serious thought to contacting the estate to gain permission to do one of a kind pieces. That again is something I keep putting off.IMG_5782

Following The Thread

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Believe in yourself. That has been my journey in the almost year since I started my blog. I didn’t begin with that as the intent. I actually don’t think I had anything in particular in mind when I began, only inspired to start a 365 day project, I forged ahead. Today I was reading through posts of some of the blogs I follow and throughout I began to see a thread that connects us all. Self doubt, and far too many that mentioned fear of rejection. Are we so programmed from birth to fit in that we fear that what we do, what we create, doesn’t fit? I looked through some art today as well. Some of it I didn’t care for. Does that make it bad art? I used to argue with my son about music taste. There was a time when he was quick to condemn music he didn’t like, he criticized others for liking what he didn’t. I always held to the argument that everyone is entitled to their opinion. Just because I don’t like a song doesn’t make it a bad song. After reading through the posts this morning I looked at some of my own, both art and writing. I realized that I was in many ways rejecting myself. I almost wrote a comment today to someone else, but then I saved it for myself. A little bit of advice that I was about to lay on another struggling artist, that is until I realized that there was some wisdom there for me. “There will be those who love your voice, as much as there are those who won’t.” I need to believe in my work, to stand by what I do, to understand that rejection is nothing more than the opinion of someone else.

There is a little story behind this piece. I spent the entire evening working on something in clay that broke as I was painting it. I had no project for today. Dan suggested putting up the broken pieces. I couldn’t. I grabbed a couple of things, not sure what to do. I painted a little on a mirror. Not feeling it. A board. Nope. I began to play with my pearl Martha Stewart paints on a small canvas.  Brushing on, wiping off, brushing again, not sure where to go, and then a break though. Break Through will be the name of this piece. I was pulling paint away and began to see something. I was talking to my Dad earlier. Another snowstorm in Chicago. I had been thinking about Spring trying to break through the snow and ice, and here it was in front of me.  Ice and snow, and color, that is Chicago in the Spring.  Memories of the purple crocus popping through the retreating snow.3 1 14

 

 

 

 

 

Into Every Life A Little Rain Must Fall

When I was younger I found it impossible to say “I’m sorry”, or to admit I was wrong. That thankfully has changed with age, and I know that my near and dear ones greatly appreciate it. The day before yesterday I said we were expecting “a little” rain here, and I said I welcomed it. I’m sorry, I was wrong. (See I said it) Not that a little rain wouldn’t be nice, but torrential downpour with heavy winds I could do without. I know I should consider us lucky that it isn’t that four letter word…S N O W, but it kept us in our house all day. The nearest thing I can compare it to is being inside a car in the middle of a car wash. It was as if someone were outside throwing buckets of water at the window. Neither Dan nor I remember any weather as bad as this in the ten years we’ve lived here. In honor of this momentous weather day I painted a watercolor of vintage souvenir key holder that I own. It’s from Toronto, where I was born, and given to me as a gift. Its one of those kitschy little items that I own that I really love. He also so happens to be a guy with an umbrella.2 28 14

My Early Spring

We are finally expecting a little rain out here in Southern California I know for some people that rain isn’t very good news, but for me it is more than welcome. Aside from the fact that California is in the midst of a drought, I miss rain. I miss weather. I spent most of my life in Chicago, in hot humid summers, freezing cold winters, but glorious spring days, and crisp fall winds. I’m sure everyone who is freezing in the Midwest and the East must think I’m insane, but for me a little bad weather takes me home. It was overcast this morning and I was sure a few drops might fall from the sky, but by late morning the sun was in full shine. My sister tells me that they are expecting a snowstorm in Chicago this weekend. Dan and I walked this morning in the unusually cool air, and as we walked I, as always, admired the beauty that is around us. Yes we are very lucky to live where we live, where Spring raises her head just a little earlier than most places, but in my heart Chicago will always be home, late season snow storms and all.

Tonight just a little pen and ink, part of a thank you I need to send. The drawing inspired by a terrific book by W.G. Paulson Townsend, “Plant And Floral Studies for Artists and Craftspeople”. I loved the finished drawing, but I also enjoy adding just a touch of color with Photo-shop. Last week a package arrived with a small kitchen scale in it. I hadn’t ordered it, and I was quite puzzled at where it came from, there was no receipt included. After a few days Dan received a text message from his mother. My mystery gift was from her. My mother in law very generously wanted to help with my business, and said I could use the scale to help to figure out shipping. It is a very thoughtful gesture. I plan to incorporate the drawing into a card in the morning.2 26 14 (2)

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Also for tonight a touch of Spring, photos from our walk this morning. The Jasmine is in bloom, as is Iris, and quite a few flowers in my garden. A gift of hope for my family and friends due east.

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The Men In My Life

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My twenty-fifth wedding anniversary is four months from today. If you read this blog you know how much I love my husband. However much I love Dan there are other men in my life. I’m not talking about my Dad, although I do love him. Brian is one of the great joys of my life, but I’m not talking about my son either. There are two men, well maybe three. I believe I may have mentioned two of them before (after more than three hundred posts I just can’t keep track), there is “Bob” as in Redford. I’ve loved Bob since I was ten, even though he is the same age as my mother, and he is looking older. We watched “All Is Lost” last week, and Dan was only too happy to point out how much better he is aging compared to Mr. Redford. I had to agree. There is also “Bob Jr.”, a.k.a. Brad Pitt. Brad reminds me of young Bob, so he too gets a little piece of my heart. My other man is chef Tyler Florence. This isn’t a physical attraction (although he is cute), it’s definitely food related. As I so often mention, I love, love to cook, and I am really good at it, but when I am in a quandary and not sure how to make something, Tyler is my man. He never fails me. Tyler offers me security in my little corner of the world, my kitchen. No need for concern because Tyler’s advice is only a few computer clicks away. I have also mentioned that one of the great things about being artistic is that if I see something I like I can pretty much make it for myself. I saw a photo in a magazine of Tyler’s kitchen. He has a chalkboard wall, I have a chalkboard wall, but he had a pig on his wall, and I loved it! My chalkboard wall isn’t quite as big as Tyler’s, but I also had a large chalkboard hanging in my kitchen. I made my own pig. He is fairly close to Tyler’s, the best I could do from the small photo I had. I had a long day yesterday, not enough sleep the night before, and as I wrote last night, I stayed overnight in a hotel with Dan. Our hotel room had a window that overlooked a parking lot. A parking lot that was lit for the World Series. The light coming in over the curtains was so bright we couldn’t sleep. We were both up on and off all night. I decided to give myself the night off and instead post my pig. Thank you Tyler for the cooking advice, and thank you for my pig.2 25 14