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Ghosts Of Projects Past

I had another one if those inexplicable moments of inspiration today. My mother in law gave my husband copies of some old family photos, one of which was her mother as a child. I love it. Alice, an adorable little girl in a Victorian era dress, but for me it was the her expression in the photo. There is a petulance and stubbornness in her face that I love. I haven’t quite captured it yet, the photo is a copy, and isn’t as clear as I’d like. I more than likely won’t get back to it tomorrow because we will be traveling home, but Alice deserves to be finished.

No sooner did I type that Alice deserved to be finished, I heard the essence of the portrait of Jessica calling from my dining room back home. I started Jessica’s portrait in May? I think? I think I started it in a moment of bravado. Feeling empowered by how well things were moving along with this blog I started that portrait, and in my defense returned to it once, but we all know what is going on here. That portrait is my Christmas Carol. It screams of my “not good enough” past. I have been doing so well in my “present”, working daily on my art, feeling confident, and hopeful. There is also a “future” in the works. I am currently planning to attempt my first show. No ghosts in those closets, but as for that portrait I’m feeling those old ghosts. I feel uncertain in my approach, it is after all my first attempt at a full portrait. There is the…dare I say it?….possibility of failure. But what is failure in art? Perhaps my imperfect perspective? When you think about it I guess the only failure in a portrait might be that the subject looks nothing like the finished work, but I will say that so far it does look like Jessica, so what is my problem? Me as always. This new-found artistic confidence is still on somewhat uncertain ground. There are still far too many issues I skirt around. So here is where I once again make the “I have to do this because I said I would because I’m Catholic and I’ll suffer eternal damnation, and endless guilt if I don’t do what I said I would do” promise. Got that? A vow here and now to revisit Jessica by Wednesday of next week. Did you notice I gave myself some time to play with?  So Wednesday it is, at least as a deadline. I think I can hear Jessica say she would like to appear much sooner that that.image

One Last Move

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A small watercolor tonight of the “auld sod”, otherwise known as Ireland. My Dad left Ireland in July of 1956, my Mother followed that October, after accepting my Dad’s invitation to move to Canada and marry him. Fifty seven years later Mom is gone, and my Dad is ready to move from the home they had together. It was a difficult decision for him, leaving the last place that he lived with her, but it is time for him to move somewhere more manageable. Fifty seven years later my Dad still sounds like he just arrived from Dublin last week. We grew up in Chicago, but I often joke that we might as well have grown up in Ireland, all of our parents friends were from there, any events we attended were with Irish people, music in our home was Irish…you get the idea. Dad has found a place to move to, there is a large Irish contingent living in this particular retirement home. He seems happy which is what is important, but he said something to me a few months ago that really stuck with me. He said that when he moved out his house he would be leaving his last home. The finality of that statement made me sad. I thought about what it must feel like to choose the last place you will live. In his heart he never left Ireland, and I am sure that there is a part of him that would love to move back there now, but the bigger part of his heart belongs to my Mom, and her grave is near his new place. He is certain about this move except for leaving her house, and in some way leaving her behind. We are all doing our part to reassure him that he is making the right decision. My contribution to that will be a painting for his new apartment. The painting tonight is the beautiful Irish coast, I will give him this one, but once I am back at home it will have to be an oil of Dublin. It will be hard on all of us to sell their home. Just as I am on this journey of discovery for myself, Dad will be starting the last leg of his own journey, and I want him to be happy.

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Detailed Appreciation

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Before I begin to talk about tonight’s artwork and it’s inspiration, I need to say a very public “Thank You”, to a new member of my family. I sent a text, I am mailing a card in the morning, (sorry it’s slightly late), but I felt the need to say this so she knows just how much her gift meant to me. Jill, my new son in law’s sister, and in my world that means he is my son, and she in a way an extended daughter. That may call for a short explanation. I am divorced. My ex and his wife are my very dear friends. Their two daughters are like my own. My daughter is from that marriage, she has two dads, and two moms. My husband has a daughter. We together have a son. We don’t believe in going halfway in anything we do in our lives. There are no step children, no half brothers and sisters. They are all of our children. When John married Jessica he became one more kid for us, (Yes John, I realize how old you are, but it’s too late now, you married her, now you’re ours!) John has two sisters with husbands and children, and a grandmother. Yep, ours. Now after that long not sure you needed to know explanation…

I did portraits of Jill’s girls. It was a pleasure, they are beautiful. I expected no thanks, and what I got in return meant the world to me. When I started this blog I spoke about not having the family support growing up to help me grow artistically. My parents just didn’t understand. I have also frequently mentioned my love of cooking. I came home one day to find a box waiting for me. Inside were some really cool kitchen gadgets, which if you could see my kitchen, you would understand how hard it is to find something that I don’t already possess. She managed to pull off a miracle. I love the kitchen stuff! Also inside the box was one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received, an antique metal child’s palette and an old box of charcoal, and a beautiful note. When I saw the palette it brought me to tears. It represented the kind of gift that a little girl who dreamed of painting would want to own. I was that little girl. As if that thoughtfulness wasn’t enough, there was also the card. The words of support for me and this project were  extraordinary, and yes I did cry. Thanks Jill for understanding who I am and what means something to me. And now I’m crying again…I know, I can’t help it.

For tonight another pen and ink. I’m a detail girl. I love old things, old architecture, corbels, sconces….etc. I love the care and craftsmanship that was the norm of another era. I am lucky enough that my pack-rat partner, otherwise known as my Dad, gave me some old pieces I love. Stuff other people would throw away. A door plate. Yes, a simple door plate, with beautiful detail. It in my eyes is a piece of art. As always perspective began to get the best of me…such is life.

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The Second Half

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I announced the halfway point in my blog on Friday, had the wedding yesterday, so today is the official start of the second half of my year of dealing with my artistic procrastination. I went out today and purchased a few things to enhance my oil painting. (I know, the idea is to use up the supplies, not buy more), but I’ve decided that for this second half of this journey maybe its time to actually try reading and studying about the art I want to create. Flying by the seat of my pants has done pretty well by me thus far, but all those experts can’t be wrong. Its time to wave the flag of the surrender of my stubbornness. (A note to those close to me, the surrender applies to artistic endeavors only, sorry to burst your bubble.) I took the time this weekend to print out wallet sizes of most of the art I have produced in the last six months. The only comparison I can make is maternal. I obviously remember the birth of my children, I also remember much of their lives, but sometimes it seems as though I just turned my head for a second and they were grown. It’s similar to what I felt when I held those photos in my hand. It feels as though I just started this project. When I held that stack of photos in my hands I was surprised at the amount and scope of work I have produced, and dare I say it? I’m proud of myself for sticking with it, and pretty impressed with some of my work.  I do have to admit that I wish there were more of the pieces that I really love, but maybe as I glance through those photos of the finished work I’ll inspire myself to do more. It might seem strange that I printed them all out when I have almost all of the originals here, but to print them all out in the same manageable size makes it easier for me to see what I have done so far. There is so much I didn’t think about or plan for as I headed into this, there have been some really frustrating days when it seemed as though nothing would work, but I’m feeling really good about this.

For tonight I finished the sketch for watercolor that I started last night. It is inspired by a photograph I took in Giverny. As I looked at the piece it a little like a children’s book illustration. I decided to go with that, and let the work lead me where it wanted. In the end I also added some fine line pen. I may just have to write a little story to go with it.10 13

 

Turning The Old Into New

So often we hear comedians joking about how we turn into our parents. In my case I think I’ve reversed the process. When our son Brian was a little boy, he would often be someplace else in his head, fingers flickering, a look of concentration on his face, his mind obviously out in the universe somewhere. His first grade teacher commented on it once. She said she would see that far away look on his face and call out, “Earth to Brian.” Dan coached him for a season or two in soccer, and he would often see Brian standing in the middle of the field tapping his foot, and tapping his wrist, much like his favorite character, Sonic the Hedgehog. This while his and the other team played around him. We were out shopping with him, maybe around the age of three or four, and as always he was somewhere else. We watched in amusement as he began following another man, although it wasn’t the man he was following, it was the man’s jeans. Brian had barely picked his head up, only long enough to see jeans and began to follow, because Dan was wearing jeans. I’m reminded of the incident because lately Dan and I have begun to walk every day. We began with a usual walk through the paths of our subdivision, but after a week or so decided to add a little mileage to our trek. We chose a subdivision across the street, the path is longer, and actually quite a bit nicer. We’ve been walking this path for about a week. I have mentioned before that as talented as I am with my hands, I am sorely lacking in other areas, one of which is that I have no internal G.P.S., not one ounce of a sense of direction resides in my brain. (It’s the monkeys that live in there. I know it is.) Every morning as we walk the same path I find myself unable to remember where to turn next. The sun is still strong here in Southern California, so most of the time despite a hat and sunglasses, my head is down. So what do I do? I follow Dan’s pants. Like my son, my brain is always somewhere else, and usually not on what direction I’m traveling. That makes me have to ask, do I get it from Brian? Or does he get it from me?

We had a wedding to attend today, and as well-intentioned as I am, I just didn’t have the time to finish a project. I did begin a sketch for a watercolor, but it isn’t far enough along to use. I decided to post a few photos of some furniture projects. An old jewelry chest repainted for a teenager, and a chair that I decided to reupholster for my own bedroom. I’ve never upholstered before, but like so many things I do, it was one more by the seat of my pants. I simply looked at the chair and figured it out. I find it funny that as I said above, I really truly have no internal map, I have a designated parking space at the mall and grocery store because of the amount of times I lose my car. I can get lost in my own neighborhood, and math? Forget it. I can however, look at a chair, take it apart and redo it. It’s a strange, strange brain that I own.bergere chair 002Before

bedroom chair (1)

After

MISC (59)Before

MISC (204)

Doodles

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As I face this empty page I once again find myself looking for excuses, but the truth is that I have a fairly busy life. Contrary to what so many misinformed people believe, women, and men for that matter, who stay home to tend to a house have full days. I have a few voluntary commitments aside from the day-to-day of my household. One of which I have regretfully not been very faithful to, but that is soon to change. I got a little lost in my own problems for a while. That commitment involves some motherless children. I lost my Mom when I was forty-six, these four children, two of whom were under six, the other two not much older, when they lost theirs. The inconsolable grief I felt when I lost my Mom is beyond description, but at least I did have her for all of those years. These kids won’t even begin to understand the realm of their loss until they are much older. Theresa brought them into my life, and it has been a gift. I decided last night that I would be there this morning to see the two younger ones off to school. I actually prayed last night to be awake in time to get there, and boy was God listening. I think I woke at least five times. When I finally dragged myself up it was 5:15. Not too bad, although it was tough to get out of that warm bed. Then I got to their house, I was greeted at the door by a little girl with a huge smile, and a little later upon waking her little brother another to match. We had breakfast and laughed and talked, it just felt great to see them so happy. A great way to start the day. Something I plan to do much more often. I did promise French Toast after all.

Then there is my Dad. He hasn’t quite recovered from the recent head injury. Still major confusion and forgetfulness. Shortly after my Mother died he confessed to me that he has trouble sleeping without talking to anyone. Thus began the now six-plus years of nightly phone calls, that’s right, every night. That is more than twenty-one hundred phone calls. I’ve missed a few here and there, mostly due to things like the jaw surgery I had two years ago, when I actually couldn’t speak, but I have been more than faithful to this commitment. Now that he is eighty-one, the calls have expanded to mornings and several throughout the day. I am his personal television schedule. Dan has the TV guide app on his i Pad. I look up movies, soccer games, or anything I think he might be interested in. Sometimes he just wants to talk. He can’t walk much anymore, and it gets lonely for him. Those calls have begun to eat into my day. I’m not complaining. I have repeated the same thing to everyone that comments, and that is that I would kill to talk to my Mother for a single moment, he is here. I won’t regret any of it.

My point, and there always is one, is that I am having trouble getting to my projects these days. It is true what I said the other night about putting myself last, I could reorganize my days to better suit what I need to do for myself, I just need to take the time to do it. Of course I also spent part of the day in a fruitless search for a sweater for the wedding we are attending on Saturday, you know something to deflect from the small planet-sized cold sores which have decided to make my lower lip their home. I told Dan to take a good look today, it’s what I might look like if I got collagen. For tonight I have doodles. You know the kind of stuff you scribble when on the phone? I started one earlier today and just continued it tonight while on the phone with my Dad. It is the only piece of art that I could fit into my day. Of course my doodles tend to be a little extreme…10 10

Blustery Day

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There’s an old song with a line that states, “It never rains in Southern California.” For the most part that’s true, but every now and then we have a day like today, a rainy, overcast, windy, and wet day, and I couldn’t be happier. That might sound strange to some, but for someone like me who grew up in Chicago, it’s a little taste of home. I’ve been in California long enough to be considered a Californian, but I’ll always be a Chicagoan at heart. I love the beautiful weather here in Temecula, but I really miss the change of seasons. There is something so magical about the first Spring day when it is warm enough to crack open a window. In Chicago that could be at forty degrees. Trust me, when it has been near freezing for months on end, forty is practically tropical. There is also that first day of Fall when the wind is just crisp enough to call for a sweater, or the quiet pristine beauty of freshly fallen Winter snow. I miss all of it. Yes, it is wonderful to not have to scrape the ice off my windshield, or to dig out a parking space, but there is something about the cycle of the seasons that appeals to me. Maybe because in a way we all live our lives in a cycle of seasons. I love the rebirth of Spring, and the maturity of Fall. There is an anticipation of the seasons that is lacking here. A few years ago when we were back visiting my parents, my kids were enthralled by a good old-fashioned thunder and lightning storm. I have memories from my childhood of standing in the garden during a Summer rain, when the air was warm and the rain water was cool on my skin. When I was a little girl there was a blizzard in Chicago, twenty-three inches of snow fell. I remember the snow over my head, and the games we played. My sisters and I built a house in the snow. We made a couch, a table, and I think even a television. I remember the thrill of running across the fence that had been covered by snow into the neighbor’s yard. Mrs. Hackel wasn’t very nice to us, and we thought we were so daring to run into that garden. Brian, my son, was devastated to discover upon moving to California that he was losing his “Snow Days”, bad weather free days built into the school calendar. Maybe it’s because I’ve been here in California for ten years that I can wax so poetic about those bad weather days. All I know is that when I have a day like today,  a day when you want to cuddle up inside with something warm to drink, and a good book or a movie, I feel nostalgic.

I had company tonight, and a rather busy day. As always looking through photos from something to paint, I came across a photo from my phone of one of my cats. I was trying to photograph Riley, and she became very curious. She put her face right up to the phone. Riley in watercolor and pencil. Riley is a Chicagoan too.IMG_1669

 

Two Steps Backward

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I have an unfinished project for tonight. I feel bad habits forming. A few months ago I declared freedom for orphaned art that was in my studio. I vowed to rescue them and bring them to completion. I have done that with a few, but as I near the middle of this year-long project, I realize that I now have more unfinished work than when I began. That is not good. I knew earlier today that I would have difficulty getting to a project because of other plans. We drove to our daughter’s apartment to spend some time with Jessica and her husband, and to enjoy a lovely dinner. (Thank you Jessica. It was delicious!) I set out for the day with my art box of pens, pencils and charcoal, but forgot to bring my sketchbook. Jessica was kind enough to give me some paper, and I decided to create another book-plate, but chose to do a very intricate design that I didn’t have the time to complete. In other words I have a perfectly legitimate excuse for not getting finished tonight. As for the other projects? I simply have fallen back into putting what is important to me at the end of the line.  Dan and I were discussing my project yesterday, and I pointed out that I didn’t give myself a day off at all for this project. With the exception of one of the several days that I had pneumonia, I have written and worked every single day since April 13th. My brother-in-law is an artist, I’m sure even he takes days off, and as Dan pointed out, it’s all his brother does, its his job. I on the other hand still cook two to three times a day, clean house, do laundry, garden, do the family grocery shopping, and numerous other projects around the house. There is also trying to reach out to my Dad several times a day by phone to help with his loneliness, to schedule help for him, and to let him know what is on television that might fill his time. There are so many projects that I have started at the last-minute, written about and posted half done, fully intending to finish them, but then they get pushed to the back of the line the next day. Tomorrow I will take stock of what is done, what is half done and prioritize my life. I also need to raise the white flag and ask for help. I try to do everything for everyone I love. I need to remember to love myself a little as well. Finally, I really need to ask myself if I haven’t fallen back to the worst habit of all, doubting myself and my abilities. I haven’t written too much about “not good enough” in a while, or about my fear of being judged, but I need to look at myself in the mirror and face the truth about what is really going on here. I hate to go back to the dieting metaphor, but much like when I am tired and give myself an excuse to eat too much, I am finding excuses to not finish the work. Why is it so easy for us to ignore our own needs? My halfway point arrives this weekend, time to take control once again and give myself permission to have the artistic life I deserve.  10 7

Finding Meaning In The Words Of Others

I started a new piece of upcycling the cabinet doors tonight. I decided to turn one into a table. There are recessed panels in the doors, which call to be filled. So far there has been the child’s chalkboard, the cheese tray, the menu board, and the piece of art I made for Dan with the business card from our anniversary dinner in Paris. It occurred to me today as I looked at one that the surface could easily be used as a table if I cut a piece of glass to set into the recess. I began to tinker with the idea of creating a piece of art to put under the glass and turned to my new-found love of pen and ink. I decided to draw an open book, but then decided the book needed to be written in. I have mentioned my love of quotes. I went in search of one pertaining to books and found this one by Cicero, “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” I feel that way. I consider myself very lucky to have what I have in my life. Things are not perfect, Dan is still looking for a job, my Dad is getting older, and more frail, my knees like to remind me daily that they are not happy, but I am.  We are readers, we love books, there are people who think we own too many books, though I strongly disagree, one can never have too many books. From our living room/library windows there is a view of our beautiful garden. One of the pleasures of Southern California is that there is always something in bloom. I can sit in that room with the person I love, surrounded by the books I love, and gaze out at the beauty in the garden, my own little heaven on earth.

In my search for a quote I also came across another that really spoke to me:

“Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.” Issac Asimov

I mentioned my knees, I have often said that I will take all the pain that my knees have to offer, but I can never lose my hands. Mr. Asimov’s quote is the perfect explanation of my blog, and a perfect explanation of my creativity. I spoke last night of the disconnect between what is in my head and what I hope to put on canvas. I may not get exactly what I want, but all that I am comes through these hands.  I struggle daily to think of what it is I want to do artistically, but every night I sit here in front of this computer and think, and then I type. I never plan on what to write, I simply sit here and it flows out of me. I have always loved to write. I have many short stories in notebooks, and pages of poetry. I don’t share most of it with anyone. Dan of course has been the recipient of more than a few poems. Now I’m wondering if its time for those other pieces to see the light of day as well. Something to think about.

More work to be done on this piece. A last-minute addition of a trompe l’oeil pencil. I also think the addition of some color around the edges is called for, but that will have to wait until morning.10 6

A Startling Awakening

Dear Wrong Number, I myself have made calls to the incorrect number, but I usually don’t make them at 4:30 in the morning. I also, once realizing my mistake, will stay on the line long enough to say, “I’m sorry.” It’s the only polite thing to do….especially at 4:30 in the morning. The thing is Wrong Number, I happen to be one of those unfortunate people who don’t sleep well, and once jarred from a sound sleep by the shrill ring of the phone, I am unable to return to sleep. There is also the minor stress on my heart thanks to you scaring me awake, and thinking that it might be about my elderly father. You have no idea what effect your little error has had on my life. To begin with I spend my day looking like an extra from The Walking Dead. My face has this incredible ability to absorb makeup when I’m tired, as though I am SpongeBob’s mother, it’s really quite amazing. Then there is the voice in my head that tells me, “Hey, it’s OK, eat whatever you want, you’re tired.”  Managing to break through the Great Wall of Dieting that took years to construct. And finally Wrong Number, I pride myself on being a productive person. The only productivity that goes on when I’m this tired is the relationship between me and my refrigerator. I realize that you know none of this when you call…at 4:30 in the morning, but I thought maybe since you have had such an intimate relationship with my day, and if that perhaps my number is close to the one you meant to call, and by chance it happens again, you might wait and say, “I’m sorry”, or “hello”, before you bang the phone down on my ear. I hope you had a nice day.

On to more pleasant subjects, like art, recycling, and my little friend Emily.  Years ago the manger for our very old Nativity set began to fall apart. My Dad decided to build a new one, which was fine had Mary and Joseph booked a room at a Swiss chalet. The frame of the old one was still usable, so I, being the artist in the family, was given the job of recreating new sides and a back for it. I did a fine job, and it’s still around these many years later. As for the Bethlehem Swiss Inn? We turned it into a doll house for my daughter. Now it will become a doll house for Emily. It needs a little work, which I am thrilled to do. As anyone who reads my blog knows by now, I am just a little crazy when it comes to recycling. Two years ago I began my own private mission to prove how much paper was thrown away at my local Starbucks in the form of coffee sleeves. I decided that I would save our sleeves for a year and shame them into recycling. We are avid coffee drinkers, but not in my wildest imagination did I think I’d end up with the amount of sleeves that I collected. My plan was to collect them , make something artistic out of them, and then write Starbucks corporate office with my complaint and fabulous art project. By the time my year was up, I heard rumors of recycling bins being placed in the stores, and that has since happened. Meanwhile, I have more than one hundred sleeves. Not one to waste the paper, I held on to it, knowing a project would present itself. Last week I went looking for doll house roof tiles for Emily’s house. They were way too expensive, and then…a brainstorm! Corrugated cardboard roof tiles courtesy of Starbucks. I started tonight by deciding on a size, and proceeded to begin the painstaking effort of cutting out these tiles. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the process. When I was a little girl my Mother once said there was something wrong with me because I was always cutting paper. I think I was just connecting with an inner Martha before there was Martha. When I had cut a few out I decided to go a step further and use the technique I wrote about last week. I applied glue to a few and burnt them over a candle. I love them! Much sturdier than plain cardboard, and I believe much more paint-able, however having only finished thirty tiles I decided that I was insane. I am obviously still under the spell of Wrong Number. Emily would be attending college by the time I finished. I decided instead to try painting them with a coat of Modge Podge to seal them instead. Much easier. I am also painting the roof in the same color as the dresser that it will sit upon. You can thank “Wrong Number” because I’ve barely started and need to quit, but this is going to be really special when it’s finished. I can’t wait to finish the doll house, and to get some sleep, and I’m turning the phone off.IMG_1624  IMG_1626  IMG_1627IMG_1628  IMG_1631