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. 
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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.
A Storm Of Color
As always, unsure of what I would create today, I decided to revisit my fourteen year old self. Back before I knew there were rules that applied to painting. Back to a time when I painted for the sheer joy of putting paint on a canvas. No subject matter in mind I simply began to layer the paint on, thickly at first, then dissatisfied, scraping away the paint frustrated at my inability to know what it was I looking for. Aside from my struggles with perspective, my greatest failing as an artist is my inability to transmit what is in my head onto a canvas. There are times when I see a shadow of an idea, but lack of completion of the thought. I don’t believe it is something that can be taught, its instinctive. I truly believe that it comes from the daily practice of brush to canvas. It is what I intended those many months ago when I began to transform this project from its original platform of simply using up what I had on hand, to a transformation of my artistic self. To become a fully developed artist, to understand who I am as an artist, and to find that elusive confidence that I have lacked for so long. I have without a doubt seen signs of what I can achieve, I have discovered new ways of creating art that I truly love, but I still find myself searching for my artistic identity. I am capable of incredible likeness in portrait drawings and paintings, and six months ago that perfectionism was what I thought I wanted and needed, that is no longer the case. I believe there is more to me than that. My Dad has on occasion volunteered my talents. I have done the portraits of children I’ve never met, and even after a printer failed to come through on an order, replicated the logos and business ads for and entire booklet for a fundraiser. (Needless to say, not happy about that one!) I would complain and say, “I’m not a copy machine.” Yet here I was months ago bemoaning my want for perfection. No longer. Photography has it place. It produces the exact image of its subject. What I have failed to understand is that art is more than a representation, it is an emotion. I want to feel about my subject, and I want you to feel when you view it. What happened tonight was a scraped canvas that caused a reaction, a feeling in me. Colors that jumped off a canvas begging to be repainted. It’s a solitary work, I am a solitary woman, you can see that in much of what I do with a brush and a camera. It was very windy here today, I’ve also been hearing much about hurricane Karen. I didn’t think tonight, I painted. Troubled skies, and uncertain seas, maybe my mind is on the canvas after all.
Life Changes
I started a project for tonight, a watercolor of the daughter of a friend, but didn’t manage to finish, and I’ll be saving it until tomorrow because its actually a surprise. I’m not sure if this particular person reads my blog, so I am hanging onto it until it is finished. In the meantime, my friend Emily is getting a new bedroom design, (she is four for those of you who might be unfamiliar. We recently played a fabulous game of Barbie’s.) Emily loves mermaids, and so I decided at the last-minute to do a little something for her. I have contributed a few things for her room, but her Mom is my friend Theresa, who is a very creative soul, and the room is adorable. I miss decorating my kids bedrooms, and so much more. My kids are much older, actually my youngest will be moving out soon. I guess I’ll soon be an “Empty Nester”. You hear these terms as you are aging and it seems so far away, like it’s for “old” people. I don’t feel old, and neither does Dan. It is strange to be at an age where much of the world begins to become dismissive of you. I saw a movie recently with Michelle Pfeiffer in it. She is a year older than me. I wasn’t crazy about the movie, but very pleased to see that she is aging like a normal human being. So many women on television and in the movies are looking scary plastic. I’d like to remain as human as possible. In so many ways because of this project in particular, I feel reborn. It truly is the first time in my life where I wasn’t so busy being daughter/sister/wife/mother, that I am just being myself. I of course still have children, still worry like a lunatic about them, and have my husband, and couldn’t love him more, but have come to understand that this is my time. Dan has been more than incredibly supportive of my artistic endeavors. There are days when I fall into the old ways and bury myself in the stuff of life, and it is he who is asking if I did my project yet. The days ahead seem a little strange. I’m so accustomed to Brian being around that I think I may be a little lost for a few weeks. I don’t worry too much about the growing older aspect of life, I’m just really grateful that I learned to love myself and to think about myself while I’m young enough to enjoy the time. And as I liked to remind my daughter Jessica when she was a kid, “Madonna is older than Mommy”. I’ll always have that.
Torn Between Two Loves
I was finally able to grab that elusive moment to paint this evening. We have spent most of this week holed up in my Dad’s house. Today we ventured into our old neighborhood after dropping my Dad off with his friends, and I came away inspired. I wrote the other night about Temecula, and missing home. So here’s where I change my mind. I grew up in the heart of the city, and there is something about being in the thick of it once again that makes me feel alive. Chicago is such a mixed bag of nationalities, we were driving down Lawrence Avenue today past the Greek bakery across from the Vietnamese bakery, having just dropped my Dad off at the Irish Heritage Center, at every bus stop there are people of obvious racial or national diversity. I absolutely love that. We drove by a home that I owned at one time, it’s for sale, and I’d buy it back tomorrow. The neighborhood has only gotten better since I left. We drove down residential streets where wild flower gardens were lush with overgrowth, no home owners association to tell the home owner that their aesthetic doesn’t “fit in”. Streets so narrow that one car has to pull over to let the other pass, and the sound of the El train rumbling from the next block. I love being in the rush of people, catching snippets of passing conversations, feeling part of the community. I have to admit it, I’m really torn between Temecula and Chicago, and then there is Paris….life is just too short, and costs too much! The area in Chicago that we were in today is a neighborhood named Lincoln Square. It is a very old neighborhood, at one time primarily German. There is still very European feel to the neighborhood, one of the really fantastic old German restaurants, and Merz Apothecary, which has been in business since 1875, still one of my favorite places. With all of that said, tonight a watercolor inspired by my old neighborhood. A European street scene.
Painting On The Fly
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.
A Never Ending Day
The piece of art I have to post tonight is drawn on the back of a list of patient rights from one of our local hospitals. We spent the day first at an urgent care facility, and then in a hospital emergency ward waiting room. Our son was complaining of a pain in his right side, amongst other complaints, so we immediately thought appendicitis. The people at urgent care agreed with us and sent us to the hospital. Seven hours later we are home with Brian, still having symptoms, no diagnosis other than they think there is nothing wrong with him. It was a frustrating day to say the least. When I questioned why he was still having pain if there is nothing wrong with my son, I was asked by a nurse if I wanted to read the CT Scan myself. I am more than a little worried that something may have been missed, and feeling as though Brian was treated as less than because he currently has no insurance. I am actually pretty angry at how we were treated today. If there was any possibility that my son had appendicitis, a seven hour wait is ridiculous. Now all I can do is pray that he feels better tomorrow and that no one made a mistake.
OK, breathe…didn’t I say last night that I didn’t want to be mad anymore? That was of course before someone didn’t do right by my kid. Nothing lights a fire in me more that. Second opinion, first thing tomorrow morning.
On a more pleasant note. A few years back when I was really struggling artistically, my wonderful husband who does not paint, sat and painted with me, we both painted the same flower. I’m posting mine. I love the painting, and what he did for me that day. Feeling better already.
The Core
Several months ago I had made the decision to not be mad any more. As simple as that. Life is too short, and far too often we allow ourselves to be upset about things that just don’t matter. I for one could care less about the condition of my toothpaste tube, I also don’t care which way the toilet paper hangs (as long as it’s there), and I don’t keep score on who does what around the house. I am choosing to focus on being happy, making sure the people I love know that I love them, and feeling like I make a difference in the world. There is of course my relentless recycling, but beyond that in little ways, with individual people, particularly children, I want to feel like something I did touched their life. Much like my Myra and Emma story, I’d like to be the “lady” that a child remembers from their childhood, I don’t even care if they recall my name. These days however I am trying to be to be the rock for a number of people in my life. It is definitely easier with some than with others. Stress, tension, worry, and exhaustion can cause people to lose sight of what is important, they speak without thinking, fly off the handle at nothing, and what ends up happening is the fracture of otherwise loving relationships. I’ve mentioned that Dan is out of work. I can honestly say that these past few months have only proven how much we care for each other. Some weeks are like a see saw, he’s up, I’m down, and vice versa, we support each other through the bad days, and are currently planning for a future business together. During our troubled times I have also been trying to be as much help as possible to two friends who find themselves in very different, but also very difficult situations. Then there is my family, my Dad was injured and then had a bad reaction to some medication. My sisters are worn thin, and again I am trying to be as much help as possible from thousands of miles away. Tonight when I tried to work I found myself unable to concentrate on anything. I started and stopped several pieces. I thought I had given up. I sat at the table and worked with my watercolors, swirling paint on the paper thinking that I was just playing with color. Something began to happen, my swirls of paint began to speak to me. I began to add intended shapes to the page, and in the midst of all of the chaos a solid core. It’s what I feel like these days. I am trying to be what the people in my life need, someone that they can count on in the middle of all of their problems that they know will listen, offer advice, or just offer some support and understanding. Through it all I am trying to maintain my new philosophy of living happier. Sometimes it’s difficult, but what always makes it easier is having Dan by my side.
A New Process
I again find myself fascinated by an artistic process I know nothing about. Encaustic Art, an ancient technique using melted wax and oil tints. I’ve seen a few projects and thought they were beautiful. So of course me being me, I set out to play with a technique I have no idea how to do. Did I get a book? Yes. Did I read it? Sort of. I read enough to get a general idea, and to learn that they are some health and safety regulations. A little more about me. I am beyond klutzy, a good friend who sells insurance suggested I get insured, not life or health, but accident. I have already revealed the accidental slit wrist, the six knee surgeries, etc…but it goes well beyond that. I think I have an oven burn to commemorate every holiday dinner I have prepared. As for inhaling fumes, my daughter once told me that the smell of polyurethane reminds her of home. Never bothering with a mask, or to work outdoors (although in all fairness to me, Chicago in the winter? You work inside if at all possible). I now have chemical allergies. All in the name of art. I’d like to think at this age I’ve learned to behave. That of course means I went ahead and worked with some wax. I didn’t have all the materials mentioned in the book, but I did have a box of tiny candles that I bought for a dollar several years ago. Trial and error is my mantra. Officially known as “Art by the seat of my pants”. When you’ve never had lessons, it’s a way of life. I melted wax and poured it over a black and white print of one of my photos. Error number one, it needs some reinforcement under it or it will curl under the weight of the wax. Back to the drawing board. Also changed my mind about the photo. I originally was using photo of an angel from a gravestone. I switched to one of my cloud photos from a few days ago. This time I mounted the photo which was printed on matte paper, to a piece of black foam core board. I have altered the color of the photo slightly, intensifying the hue. I then added just a hint of yellow ochre oil paint to the melted wax. I poured it over the photo. I loved the effect, a cloudy, dreamy feeling. I went back with white oil and added highlights to a few areas, rubbing them in with my fingers. I was very happy with the result. Then as I looked at the finished piece I thought it needed words to go with it. Dan had been looking over my shoulder and really liked where it was going, so I decided to dedicate it to him. I found a quote about love and time, it just seemed to fit with the photo. I will definitely be experimenting more with this technique, and I might actually even read the book!
The quote translates to: “Love is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time: effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end.
Madame de Stael
Quitting While I’m Ahead
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.
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