Being noticed

My husband called from his office yesterday to let me know that another administrator at the university saw my work in his office and got all excited about it, asking where he got it. He told her that he bought it at a charity auction, but that he knew the artist if she was interested. She was very surprised to learn that it was my work, and indicated she wanted to get in touch with me to see what I had for sale. What a wonderful boost to my confidence to receive an email from he asking if I had a web site that she could peruse in her efforts to find a birthday gift for her husband. Wow! I've got some real motivation to get busy.

I wish there were an easy fix to fear of exposure and failure. Growing up being pounded by criticism and insults hasn't helped me. I wonder how long it takes to get past the memories of that and able to focus more on the present.

To put a little more pressure on myself, I'm going to figure out how long it will take me to produce six pieces and then set up an Etsy market page. If I have a deadline, I'll be more likely to make real progress.

I'm finally excited about it. I'm starting to feel like an artist instead of just saying that I am.

Critical Eyes

I was poking around on Etsy today, thinking about when I'm going to get more work done in the studio and when I'm going to get up the nerve to post art for sale. I saw a feature (new, or I just never noticed it before) that allows the visitor to select a few sites to look at that are waiting for their first sale. I'm wicked, evil and mean, but I have to say it. Some of it was just terribly unappealing! I mean it was so unappealing and simple that I thought surely it was a cute little kid who'd been encouraged by their mother to try to sell their work, inspiring me to look at the cutie's blog. Wrong.

The blog is written by someone who just really likes making art. Good for her. She is quite prolific in her production, which is more than I can say for myself. Once again, I am reminded that art is not a competitive sport. There is joy in the making which lives in a whole separate world away from art being made to please someone else's eyes. So I am ashamed of myself for being critical, worried again (because that's what I do so well!) that others will think the same of my work, yet inspired to kick myself in the fanny and get moving.

Today I am going to commit to some studio time. I'm not sure what I'll do yet, but I will get paint on my hands. Maybe it's time to pull out one of my millions of books intended as instruction in technique and inspiration and just DO something. In the past I have committed myself to posting a photo at the end of the day to put pressure on myself to get something done. That's a habit I should keep up. We'll see what I can accomplish.

Appreciating life today...

My dearest friend works for the Boys and Girls Club here in town. She asked me to volunteer as a chaperone for a holiday shopping spree for their neediest kids. I have to admit that while I agreed immediately, I kept wishing that I could just sleep in today and write them a check. But I promised, and so I went.

I got up while it was still dark, slugged down a half cup of espresso and dragged my sorry behind to the club. I waited in the gymnasium with 100 people I didn't know and listened to the "rules" for helping the kids shop with their $75 gift cards at Old Navy and for their pair of shoes ($25 max value) at Payless; we had to pay attention to the notes that the parents offered for what the kids really needed, no toys, etc. A line of children were walked out to meet one-on-one with the adults in line, and I was introduced to Johnny. He was a really polite boy of 11, in 6th grade at the middle school in the worst part of town. He was very friendly and shared easily as I asked him all about his favorite subject at school (film production!), his family and his favorite video games. When talking about Christmas plans, he told me that his parents used to have a lot of really bad fights and so his father moved out and got an apartment, and how his parents got along much better after that. Then his father got sick and was on dialysis, had a seizure followed by a heart attack and died a few months ago. This will be his first Christmas without his father. He told me that his grandmother was getting moving into their apartment this weekend because she and her husband (not "grandfather") also have a lot of really bad fights, so Grandma is going to live with them until she finds her own apartment. He wasn't bitter and didn't sound angry, but sadly matter-of-fact about the whole thing. It was all so sad.

Johnny was really fun to shop with and seemed to be very excited to get so much clothing and a cool, complete outfit. We had a lot of laughs while we shopped and chatted about everything and anything while we waited in the loooong checkout line with all of the other kids from the Club. When I asked him what big plans he had for the rest of the weekend, he told me that today was they day they went to the laundromat, and tomorrow he'd go with his aunt to 7-Eleven, get a Big Gulp to share out in the parking lot, and get a refill for 75 cents. On the bus as we headed back to the Club, Johnny looked at me and told me that he had a lot of fun this morning and thanked me for helping him shop. I gave him a big hug and told him that I'd see what we could do to get paired up again next year.

I grew up really poor and get it. This boy lives just a short distance from a bad apartment building that I lived in during high school. I really get it. I'm seeing signs that my son gets it - he wanted to buy Christmas gifts for all of his friends that he knows have struggling families and understands that they can't afford to reciprocate. Tonight, I'm distracted by the number of people that I know or see that are struggling and wish I could do more. My husband teases that if I ever win the lottery (not that I play), he knows I'd give most of it away.

So once again, I am reminded to count my blessings. I appreciate my good marriage, my great kids, having a comfortable roof over my head, not having to worry about buying food or paying for heat and having wonderful friends and family.

Good News, Bad News

It's been a roller coaster week. After many, many trips to the vet we have received the worst diagnosis possible for our wonderful 10 year old Fred. Cancer. He's losing weight like crazy, down to about 9 lbs or less from his starting point of 16 (he's a Maine Coon and they are big, muscular kitties) and still losing. At this point, there is nothing we can do but give him a lot of love and attention, making him as comfortable as possible and hopefully having him through the holidays. He's the greatest kitty and we are having a hard time imagining our family without him.

In the midst of all the vet visits, we are busy getting ready for the holidays. We are happy that Erica is able to swap hours with someone at her two jobs so she can come home for Thanksgiving. It won't be much time - she'll arrive at about midnight on Wednesday and have to head back after dinner on Thursday - but we will take what we can get and be happy that we'll have some fun time together. We'll have enough time to play some wild rounds of Tripoly or Uno Attack with the holiday music blaring.

Kevin's high school band program has kept us hopping and, happily, their efforts have paid off for them in a big way. This last Saturday they competed at the State level against 32 other high schools. They took 2nd place in their division (seven schools), but took the High Music Award for the entire event. Woohoo!!!!! I think it teaches the kids how much they can accomplish as a team and with practice. They are back at it today (on a school holiday) as they prepare for another field show competition in two weeks.

This all has me thinking about how much my parents missed. I remember Christmas as a child. We hung stockings one year. One. Mom suggested we wedge the edge of one of our knee-high socks in the top drawer of the buffet in the dining room. It was all very unceremonious. I recall there were a few goodies in it (I still remember the plastic flute and the Fred Flintsone toy where I pushed up on the bottom of it and he flopped around with his elasticized limbs), but she didn't think it was worth the effort to continue the practice. We never had Christmas stockings again.

As a family, we watch "A Christmas Story" every year while we decorate our tree. I think about the scene where the kids are opening presents and the dad had acquired the beloved BB gun for his son, hidden it away until last, and watched him open the gift and lose his mind from happiness. Hmmm. I wonder what that would have been like? I think about the Christmas programs in which I participated in school, including a solo in 8th grade, none of which were attended by my parents. I remember my best friend Michelle sharing her dad with me at the Father Daughter Girl Scout banquet, and how I felt so embarrassed that my father was the only one missing. He wasn't there simply because he wasn't interested and didn't care.

I have been to every single one of my children's performances at daycare and school. When I was hired at the hospital, I made sure that they understood that I HAD to be at every school event and would get back to the office as quickly as possible, but it wasn't an option. They were great and always accommodating. I sat through the same Christmas program year after year for my daughter and went because I wanted to be there and loved watching her, not out of a sense of obligation. I have attended every single field show for my son in marching band and he's happy to have me there. That's the best reason. I appreciate my children more, I think, because of how little my parents appreciated me. I watch them and wonder if my parents ever realized how much they missed, how much fun they could have had, or how much their neglect would cause me heartache for my entire life.

In the meantime, I relish the holidays, the fun we have together, and the fact that my children really want to be home with us for the holidays. Even with bad news like Fred's diagnosis, we can focus on the fact that we will be together and make sure that Fred has an extra special Christmas stocking this year.

Games People Play

As a family, we are a little nuts with our passion for playing "Slug Bug." We have learned that, for those who play, there is a wide range of rules and most everyone is pretty firm about their rules being "right." In our home, only the old Volkswagens count. As a former bug owner, I am quite firm in my opinion that the newer bugs have their engines at the wrong end, making them useless and ineligible for points. We call the buses or vans, "super slug bug" (my friend Gail calls them "Grand Daddy" bugs, and I found a web site where someone said they yell, "double slugbug") for which one earns two points; the beetles are worth one. We change the rules sometimes, but only if we agree before the game starts. Having recently discovered "Lost," we now have the "Dharma bug." That's a super slug bug that is the original faded light blue and white two-tone and it's worth three points. If we yell, "Dharma bug!" we get three points, but if we mess up and just yell, "super slugbug," we only get the regular two points. The game runs for only as long as that trip in the car. If we stop the car and get out, the game is over. And we don't hit each other! Family rule!

The thing that's so funny and got me thinking about this is that I can't refrain from playing all by myself in my head when I'm alone in the car. Kevin's friends think it's funny that when I'm playing carpool mom and driving everyone home after school that wanted a ride, I'll interrupt anyone, myself included, to yell, "Slugbug!" if I spot on en route. I absolutely vibrate and hyperventilate when I see one of those old Volkswagen graveyards and have to count on my fingers and I scream out all of my "slugbug" and "superslugbug" calls while the family just howls and laughs at me. Hey, I win! What else matters? :-)

There are some really, truly simple things in life that can't be beat for a good chuckle.

Proud Mom Moment

My son came home from school yesterday upset about an incident that involved a classmate trying to push him to buy drugs. Today the school intervened, discovered drugs on the boy and expelled him from school. I was proud and relieved that Kevin felt he could talk to me, happy that he reacted by letting me know what happened instead of, as many kids do, taking the drugs and giving them a try. As a parent, we hope and pray that the things we tell our children really sink in and that they listen. More importantly, I hoped that I had instilled in my children the morals about which I feel so strongly and today my son proved that I have done alright as a mother.

My rules for life are simple. Do the right thing. Don't lie. If someone gives you too much money in change, give the extra back. Be a good friend. Appreciate your friends. Don't take what you have for granted. Be generous and give for the sake of giving, not because you expect anything in return. Be grateful for every little thing, not just big stuff. Tell the people you love that you love them often. Don't complain so much! Tell people the good things you think about them - everyone wants to hear the good things. Be a good companion. Hold the door open for others. Life is good when we are good people.

My son is a good person. My daughter is a good person. What more could a mom ask for?

Staying Positive

A couple of months ago I saw Jenny McCarthy in an interview where she talked about the fact that they don't watch the news in their home because it's just bad. Not that being informed is bad, but that the local "news" tends to be just a lot of ugliness, gossip, and certainly not "need to know" kind of stuff. I was just getting my car repaired and listened to the absolute blithering for an hour by newscasters about a local brush fire. The fact that there is a fire by the freeway and providing information about any evacuation or road closure is critical, but that's not what they were doing. They were asking anyone who lived in the area to call, tell "us" what they're seeing (even though the news helicopters were broadcasting a live picture), talk about what they, personally, had packed up if they needed to evacuate...absolutely idiotic banter with no useful information. Not once did they mention the portion of the freeway that was closed. Earlier today, I saw a news bulletin about a shooting in L.A. with SWAT team members trying to end the encounter. Of course the news is broadcasting a live image of all the SWAT guys on the roof tops, showing their location (complete with shots of the street signs), while stating that they wanted to be careful and not give the bad guys any information about where the SWAT team was positioned. OMG. What idiots.

When I got home this afternoon, I don't know what possessed me to turn on the tv. I had been stressed from the window falling in my car door while at the grocery store (thank goodness I could get it repaired in the hour that I was listening to the newscasters blither) and wanted to relax. As I flipped through the channels, I paid attention to how many really depraved, negative and just ugly programs are on TV. There were reality shows about people hiring private investigators to catch their cheating spouses, shows like Bridezillas that promote the most revolting of bad manners and language, shows like Maury where hundreds of women every year are seeking to find out who the fathers of their children are (and I do mean that plurally - it's gross). How can anyone maintain a positive attitude in life watching all of this horrible nastiness?

Today I'm making a pledge to not watch any more of that kind of television. I find that when I turn it off and turn on music or put on a light hearted program, I'm in a much better mood. There are so many ways to be entertained and informed in a positive way. It is hard to imagine that constant exposure to this depravity has no impact on the people who watch. I'm going to ask the family to join me in turning off and turning away from the negative stuff and see if it doesn't help us stay in a more positive frame of mind. It couldn't hurt!

Life is good

OK, I got over the fuss of having my husband buying my artwork at the auction. He's been coming home telling me about the comments he's received. At first, I cringe when he says that someone commented. But all the comments have been positive. Not that someone would crap on the boss's wife's artwork ;-)

Yesterday was my birthday. It was odd to be alone all day. I miss birthdays at the office when everyone made a fuss, my husband sent the most gorgeous flowers that made everyone jealous (he sent even more gorgeous flowers this year, but there's no one but me to enjoy them - I love them anyway!), and we always had silly decorations or went out to lunch together. I had a lot of time to reflect on life. A dear friend called to wish me happy birthday and ended up sharing a lot of personal struggles she's wrestling with. I wish I'd had something profound to say to make her feel better. It put my own fussing in perspective and helped me appreciate the things that go well every day.

My son was very thoughtful and wanted to get a gift that was related to my artwork. My husband knew that I'd been resisting working on more clay projects because I just have a hard time working the clay by hand (my fingers are getting older than the rest of me) and the manual pasta roller I have is a dilapidated piece of junk. He did a lot of research, unbeknownst to me, and conspired with my son to give me a pasta roller attachment for the big Kitchenaid mixer in the kitchen. It was funny - when I opened the package and saw what it was, all I could think of was the fact that my son hates pasta. He also got me a wooden rack for draping the fresh pasta as well, making me even more confused. I guess I wasn't hiding it well and my husband told me that he'd read a lot of comments by artists on the internet about how they used this attachment just for their clay and found the wooden draping gizmo to be very helpful in terms of where to put their sheets of clay. What a thoughtful bunch! He doesn't have time to blink these days, but took the time (as non-techie as he is) to do the research. I am in a much better position to get started on another art doll with a mechanical means of conditioning the clay. Yeah!

As a charming end to my birthday, Kevin announced as he was about to go to bed, "Oh yeah, I get to give you 49 whacks!" and we proceeded to have the most hysterically funny ten minutes of running around the house and whooping each other until he felt he got to 49 (with some very creative counting and after I got in a few tweaks myself).

Now all I have to do is get through Halloween with a houseful of teenagers carving pumpkins, eating pizza and watching a dreadful horror movie while I cower in another room. I wonder how many pounds of pumpkin seeds are going to be tossed during the feisty seed fight that I'm sure is going to take place. Argh. :-)

My daughter wasn't able to come home for my birthday, and told us that she lost the draw for time off for Thanksgiving and Christmas as well. It has begun. She's been on her own for a while, but we've always managed to do something like have Thanksgiving on Friday or have her drive up on Christmas morning. As long as we were together, it didn't matter when. I laughed at her last year when she asked me to take a photo of her with her cell phone while she tore into a big turkey leg. She sent it to her vegetarian boyfriend with a caption that read something along the lines of, "MEAT!!!" I know that the time will come when she will have her own family and start her own traditions that won't include coming home. Kevin is in high school now, so we know time is growing shorter with him as well. Thank heavens I have my art to keep me busy. I think I'll be taking a million classes when he's gone, although right now he says, "What do you mean leave and live on my own? You guys are awesome!" :-) What a cutie. I'll enjoy what I can get.

What was the point?

I was so proud of myself contributing two pieces of my artwork to the Boys & Girls Club auction event this past weekend. This is the favorite of all of the art dolls I've made. Showing my work in public and having my name on it was really, really hard for me. However, my husband, in his effort to make me feel good, decided he was going to bid on the work so that he could buy one or both pieces for his display in his office. I didn't even get the chance to see if there was any interest or what others may have felt was a reasonable bid for the artwork of someone they didn't know. All I know is that he made high enough bids that he "won" both pieces. I don't even know if there was a single bid on either piece.

He just didn't get it. How does one sigh on ones blog?

Inspiration requires waterproof mascara

Inspired to try something new after watching a show about artists, I wandered into our local (and usually sadly lacking) fabric & craft store. I found a few books that I thought would encourage exploring materials I don't usually work with and figured, what the heck, they would be good reading while I sat waiting (and waiting and waiting) in the car to pick up Kevin after school. I can't say I've ever been moved by an art or craft book to the point of tears, but I was - twice in two days - with the book, "Taking Flight" by Kelly Rae Roberts. She wrote in my voice, articulating my thoughts and fears and worries, but also encouraged pushing to get beyond those things that hold us back. I must admit that this is the first time I've ever read one of my art books from cover to cover. I cried in the car (thank goodness for dark sunglasses), and then got weepy again this morning as I read. The realization that I'm not alone in these very specific fears gave me a sense of inspiration that I have not experienced before. I totally related to her expression of fear of producing art that people might not like, or that they might not want to buy. I have a real fear of others thinking that I've got real nerve putting a dollar figure on my work because it's not worthy. I am nervous about attending a class or workshop, worried that I'll be the only person in the room with no ideas, I won't know anyone, will feel like a dork sitting by myself at lunch - all the silly stuff that we experience in junior high! Kelly made specific suggestions to get past all of this, including online groups and getting up the courage to attend classes and workshops. While I've asked my friend Amy, and will ask Susie M, to attend as well, I am determined to break out and go whether it's with friends there or alone. Truthfully, it would be more fun with friends (especially because the courses all teach stuff outside of all our areas of experience), but I think I'll have tons of fun anyway.

I owe Kelly Rae Roberts a big, fat thank you.

Jekyll & Hyde blogs

Life isn't so great these days. I feel like I should have a second and very secret, private blog where the ugly and grouchy "Hyde" me can just rant and fuss and complain and rant some more about everything that makes me miserable so that I can stick to the topic of art and good stuff in life on this one. The problem is finding a way to be sure that the Hyde blog gets blown up at some point so no one thinks this is all I am - a pile of ticked off grumpiness.

OK, got that out of my system.

I finished my piece for the fundraiser auction and turned it over to them. That was a really, really big step for me. I've also invested in a few new books with information about stuff I've never tried before so that I can push myself out of the comfort zone and expand the old artsy horizons. Today, I'm going to start another ATC and try some new medium. What fun! It'll be a small project that will give me a sense of satisfaction quickly. I'm also going to contact a few long-distance artsy friends to see if I can talk them into the Art & Soul gig in Portland next October. That would be a blast! Oooh, I can be positive when I try. ;-)

Reflecting on my life as an Air Force "Brat"

Independent filmmaker Donna Musil has created a documentary about military brats. I was moved to tears watching just a minute of the clip. The description of the film alone makes me cry. Those of us who can't answer the question, "So, where are you from?" get it. Boy, do we get it. Our lives growing up were inexplicably different from those of the friends we developed later in life, after our military parent(s) retired from the service. Even civilian kids that move frequently can't relate to the lives we experienced. I remember so clearly the tension and quiet panic when living in Manila when President Marcos declared martial law. We were prisoners in our homes, unable to even go out in the small yard for days. I remember when my best friend and I realized that our phone was tapped and we could hear the "observers" on the other end before placing a call. We were wicked and had some fun at their expense. Our relationship with extended family gradually waned with longer stretches of time between personal contact. Our home was run in a very dictatorial, military fashion. It was not happy. I remember coming back to the states and being terrified to speak to civilian kids. Everything about them was different - the way they spoke to each other, the slang they used, their music, their clothes...it was terrifying. I was teased because of my perceived accent, having lived in the deep south, followed by Southeast Asia, then New York. I assumed I would eventually marry someone in the service so that I could return to my life the way I knew it and was comfortable.

I've been in my current home now for 18 years. There are times that I can't believe it and want to run anywhere else. I rearrange furniture, paint rooms wildly different colours, even rearrange art between rooms to give me the sense of change. I find it odd that my children will have gone to school with the same kids for their entire academic lives. What must that feel like?

Rambling again. Sigh. In the meantime, I will enjoy running into friends at the grocery store. I will work at developing friendships, harder now that I don't have a job outside the home, but critical to my sanity! Perhaps I will find a way to include some of this renewed sense of my earlier years into a piece of art. That would be good.

I've got icing on my cake!

I've loosely quoted artist Lisa Vollrath here a couple of times because she means business when she writes and it all hits home for me. On her website, she writes about art not being a competitive sport, noting that if our art makes us happy, it has served it's purpose. If others express some pleasure or appreciation for our art, that's icing on the cake. This most recent piece of mine elicited some icing. Woohoo! I suppose it's not as important as my own appreciation for it (and I really love this one if I do say so myself), but it's still nice to have others express an appreciation for it as well. I am motivated to do more.

I did it! I finished a project!!

The self-kicking (and a little help from a cyber pal :-) got me in gear. I pulled out a piece that I started ages and ages ago and just couldn't figure out how to finish. I tore the studio apart (it's really quite dreadful), pulling out fabric, tearing it, painting, stitching, re-thinking process when the stitching broke - argh - but getting it done. I think this is actually my favourite of all the pieces I've made, in part because it's different and out-of-the-box for me. The pics are quickies without proper lighting, but I promised myself that I'd post a photo today, so I'm doing it. What a great feeling! I should have whomped on my own behind much sooner.

I'm trying too hard

Ever since my friend asked me to contribute two art pieces for a fundraiser/auction for the Boys and Girls Club next month, I've been making myself nuts. On the one hand, I've really wanted to get back to making my art dolls (how I choke on that term), but also feel compelled to try something different. The frozen state of mind I've been experiencing for days should be a big, fat loud signal to stop trying so hard. Stop trying to do some of everything, stop feeling frantic about how to do it all, stop behaving as if I just had that one more bit, piece or product in the studio, I could do something fresh. I haven't even written here because I've been floundering so much that my brain just stops when I sit down to write.

So I'm taking a two minute break here, then I'm going into the studio. I'm not going to buy one more piece of fabric, glue, paint, bead, wire, or tool. I've got enough to keep me busy for bloody ever. I will show respect for my friends and supporters and everything they have said to inspire and encourage me, I will throw on my "making art" clothes and work until it's time to pick up Kevin from school. So there!

Tomorrow, I'm going to post a picture of whatever I've accomplished. No more freaking out, no more worrying or comparing myself to others. Time for just enough pressure on myself to do SOMETHING and create a deadline to get that something done, even if it's just the commitment to post the picture.

Until tomorrow.....

Change is hard!

I don't even know where to begin. I've really been struggling for a long time now with so many facets of my life. I feel like I'm getting old so fast and falling apart at the seams. I feel frumpy and dumpy, especially when I have to attend events with the Uber rich in Orange County (the most painful social gatherings for me!). As I've fussed about before, I stress about sharing my artwork because it's so personal and I haven't practiced tolerating criticism.

The first thing I decided to do to get OUT of this slump was to give up control of the things I've been doing that have NOT been working for me and trust friends and experts who may have alternative suggestions. I found myself going back to a hair salon that I used to frequent. I've known the owner/stylist for ten years and was comfortable sharing some of my worries. He looked me in the face, asked me how direct he could be (I told him to be brutal) and he said that he felt that I was just letting life happen to me and that he felt if I could give in to some changes, both outside and inside and with which he would love to work with me, he thinks I would feel less burdened and maybe even start to blossom. What the heck. My way hasn't produced. So I just gave him free reign to play. The result is that for the first time since I was four years old, I'm blonde! Eeeeeeeeeek! It will take some getting used to and I may decide I can't take it, but it's liberating to let go of some of that stress and feeling of same old same old. (Is that the right way to type it?).

I'm so proud of my sister Lisa who has taken a HUGE leap with her artwork and found a market for it in Minnesota. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for her and feeling inspired. My dearest friend Deb, in an effort to help me feel more comfortable sharing my work, has asked me to create two art dolls for a benefit auction for the local Girls and Boys Club. I have about a month and am actually really excited to have this "homework" and a deadline. I'm going to focus on changing my attitude and increasing my confidence. I shall remind myself that this isn't a competition, art is supposed to be fun and I'm not half bad.

With Kevin in high school, jazz band and marching band, I have found myself overwhelmed with trying to fit in all the housework and chores along with all of the running him around all over the place. I haven't done a thing in the studio for a few weeks. I look at other friends (I'm thinking of Amy in CO right now) who has two kids and a lot of activities, but still does her voice over stuff and improv. I should certainly be able to manage making an ATC after I vacuum!

Thank you Lisa, Al, Deb and Amy for helping me.

Time flew when I wasn't looking

It's been a month since I last posted. I've been busy, but with everything except art. Ugh.

School starts next week and my son will be starting high school. We haven't done much to get ready, distracted by time commitment to marching band. Our biggest challenge right now is that he wants to start high school without benefit of his ADHD medication. Last night he talked about how much he wants to feel "normal," which he says he doesn't feel if he needs medication. Typically Mom, I ran through the list of friends and family that all take medication for one thing or another, explained that he certainly doesn't have to share the information about his medication with anyone and pointed out that he wears glasses to "normalize" his sight, blah blah blah. I think that's what he hears. So I'm trying a new approach. I am trying so very hard not simply to dictate the decision, but talk with him about it, listen to his position and problem solve together. This is hard for me.

We will figure out techniques for improving his organizational skills to compensate for his terrible working memory. There is no medication for that problem. I'm still not convinced that ditching meds is the right thing to do, but I appreciate how much he has improved even when not on meds (as was the case all summer), and I appreciate his passion for his position. He's not bipolar or schizophrenic, just a spaz monkey. I'm reading books, blogs and web sites with information from every angle. I've talked with his doctor who tells me that kids CAN grow out of it, or adolescence can make it worse. Gee, thanks for the help. His advice has always been to just give it a try (going without meds) and see how it works. The notion of "giving it a whirl" is a little nerve wracking for me, although the beasty boy thinks it's a great idea.

Today I'll get some time in the studio with the music going to try to clear my head, get back on track and do some project planning. Maybe helping Kevin get more organized will help me too. I think back to my friend Leslie, a consultant at the hospital that offered a great seminar on getting organized, making deadlines and reducing distractions and stress. Sadly, I never really thought about applying those techniques at home. I think I'll start today. Step 1 - create a "to do" list of no more than three items. Have the list clearly visible. Every time I find myself distracted, return my attention to the list. As I complete something, check it off but do NOT add another item to the list until those things are done. There's no self-imposed deadline for completing the tasks. Step 2 - keep the work surface clear of everything but the thing on which I'm working. Clutter is distracting.

I can do this.

Following my own rules

I've been trying to make something every day. It's been nice. While my back is about to explode (because I'm falling apart at the seams), I refused to let it be an excuse and went into the studio. I couldn't figure out what to do with the paper I made in the class I took with Traci Bautista. I'm just not equipped yet to try more of what she taught - I'll be able to try more when her book arrives. I decided to apply it to the sides of the shelf I've had to move in the studio. Since those sides are the first thing someone will see walking into the room, I figured it couldn't hurt. It actually came out OK! I even painted the bottom of the shelf. Maybe everyone else doesn't look, but I do. I also made another ATC. It's hard to stop criticizing myself about the quality of the cards. The advice about just making art and stopping the internal criticizing is hard to keep in the forefront of my brain, but I'm trying.

I've got nothing fabulous or amusing to add. I'm happy with myself for continuing to make a daily effort at producing art and will leave it at that.

Inspiration Overload

Is it possible? The last week has been a whirlwind of varying degrees of inspiration to work, work, work in the studio. Frustrated that my art supplies are either in an old painted lingerie dresser or in a dark closet, my husband insisted we head to Ikea to find storage that would work for me. In less than four minutes, I spotted the perfect tall glass-fronted cabinet. He insisted I buy two. So while it has put a kink in production in the sense that I must completely (ugh!) rearrange the furniture and (double ugh!!) take down everything on the walls, patch and paint those spots, then rearrange furniture more, the end result will be a markedly improved final work room.

On Wednesday, I took my first ever art workshop with Traci Bautista at the International Quilt Festival in Long Beach. The class was entitled "Monotypes and Drizzles." I was terrified on arrival, worried that everyone would be better than me, that I'd be lost in terms of following instructions, etc. It was a real challenge for me, and stuff that is well outside the realm of what I do, but it was a great learning experience with a superbly patient and creative instructor. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to attend the Friday class I'd signed up for, but did end up being able to return to see the actual quilt show and visit a few vendors and pick up some amazing fabrics, trims and threads for future projects. I watched people in workshops trying things new to them. We played like we did when we were little kids with artsy muck on our hands, wiping the goo on our shirts without a care in the world, and just had fun making something. For me, the something was painted papers - tissue, paper towels, copy paper. What fun.

Not to beat a dead horse, but I kept reminding myself of artist Lisa Vollrath's advice throughout the weekend. I stopped comparing myself and my art to everyone else and theirs, and really did become wildly inspired. I looked at the details of quilts and got new ideas, really thought about what I liked and what methods were used that were new to me. I found myself plotting projects, eager to try those new techniques. The experience was liberating instead of daunting. That's new for me.

Following the quilt show, my husband and I took his college buddy visiting from Iowa to the Laguna Arts Festival here in So Cal. Instead of focusing on the artists' commercial success and mentally beating myself up for not making enough effort, I really looked at techniques, thought about what attracted me to some pieces vs. others and found even more inspiration for future projects.

Today I am home alone, a rarity in this household. After racing through chores, I'll be finishing assembling the 2nd cabinet for the studio and patch the nail holes as I relocate the displayed art, all the while planning projects and jotting down notes and sketches while I work, enjoying the inspiration that consumed the weekend. There should be more days like this. I will make it happen instead of just waiting for that to happen.

Trying to finish projects

What a frustrating day! I decided that I really should try to finish half-completed (or less) projects before starting a lot more, though I can't really stand the thought of just doing one project at a time. So I'll start one new project (a "strips and curves" quilt) and complete one old project (a long past due unfinished quilt) for now. Of course, I'm still sneaking a little time in the studio to work on the Monday project.

Today's mission was to select a new focus fabric for the new quilt I'm starting. The one I had chosen before just wouldn't work. I drove forever to what USED to be a fantastic shop loaded with a zillion fabric choices. I was stunned to walk in and find row after row of scrapbooking materials, but a gigantic empty wall where the fabric used to be! I stopped in my tracks and asked what happened. They looked at me like I was from Mars and asked what I meant. It's a little hard to miss an entire wall of empty cubbies that used to hold fabric, so I pointed it out to the goobers. They said that because of the economy, they were cutting back on inventory. I pointed out that there was a total of a mile of aisle of scrapbooking stuff, but not many people can make much with fat quarters of fabric (just about all they had). I tried really hard to find something, anything, I could use, but left with my lower lip extended a little. I ended up at (choke, gag) Jo-Ann Fabrics. Yuck. Their inventory consists of the same fabric (and I swear even the same bolts) they had last year and the year before. After 3.5 hours out and about, I came home with a measly three bits of fabric and a pinch of thread. Ugh.

On a positive note, I'll be at the International Quilt Festival in Long Beach next week and know I'll be able to buy fabric. Even though it can be a little crampbed and disoragnized, it's so much fun to be surrounded with thousands of people that enjoy creating as much as I do. Woohoo! I can't wait.

My first challenge

Today I received my first "Make It Mondays" challenge via Facebook. Lisa Vollrath has so much good common sense advice about creating art and I'm trying like mad to take it all to heart as I start. Creating work without self criticism is tough! Today I read Lisa's comments about art not being a competitive sport, noting that we should be inspired by the work of other artists, not wasting time or energy criticizing their work or our own. Motivated by the challenge for this week of creating something with paper scraps, I marched into the studio to get started. It took a while. I don't have a lot of paper bits. Pulling out the few pieces I had (and used previously on my business cards), I started looking at paper not designed for art. I pulled out magazine clippings, an old Pottery Barn catalog and some children's books for inspiration. The modge podge came out, along with the scissors and an xacto knife. I haven't used that one in a while! For an hour I puttered with clipping, folding, tearing and gluing bits. I'm not quite finished with the project, but took the time to stop and look at what I'd accomplished. It's good for a chuckle, if nothing else. I'm just not at the point where I don't criticize myself, but the critic isn't so brutal today. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I had fun making the mess. I am reminded, once again, that this is the entire point. Today was fun and, for once, I feel like a LOT of the pressure is off to create a masterpiece.

Tomorrow, I'll spend more time on the Frankenstein in my studio. It's a mish-mash of stuff, but it's a good mess.

I swore I'd never write about my cats...

Today I'm making a single exception. What the heck kind of cat eats avocados? My son asked why there was an avacado in the dining room, to which I had no logical response. I thought about it for a second, then asked if it had chomp marks on it. It did. That scrawny beast took it from the kitchen and ran with it. Those suckers are expensive, and the brat didn't even eat it. He just made it inedible for us human folk. I can only assume that the reason his scrawny behind has been sitting by the kitty toys all afternoon is because he's nursing a sprained neck from carrying the big load. Serves him right. I guess Albert the Racoon is going to have himself quite the lovely snack tonight to go with his kitty food.

Dumb cat.

Boston Comments (Get it? :-)

I couldn't pass up the opportunity to post my comments about Boston while they are still fresh in my mind and I've had two hot cups of coffee (and one sip of cold. Ugh. I'd rather eat cat food.)

We took two tours via a bus equipped with one seriously noxious potty - one to Plymouth (which they spell "Plimith" everywhere but on one government building as far as I could tell) and one to Salem. There were two common factors with these tours. Both drivers were named Bob, pronounced "Bwaahb" if you are a native. They both had a penchant for sharing macabre bits of info unrelated to the tour. After the 2nd tour, Bwaahb #2 was delivering tourists to their respective hotels, pointing out such attractions as a former prison where they were known to put quite a few people to death, or noting that the raggedy faux flowers near a train track were in honor of the young lady that watched carefully as a train passed before crossing the tracks, but sadly failed to look the other direction to see THAT train coming, at which point she was sqwooshed. I believe I am quoting Bob accurately here.

Another observation about Boston is that those little illuminated "Walk" and "Don't Walk" signs at lighted intersections just don't have the same meaning for those folks as it does here in California. I do believe that with their particular form of dyslexia, what they see is "Step into traffic whilst you give the stink eye to the guy with the right of way that could sqwoosh you too!" We were freaks, pressing the little button and waiting forever for the illuminated permission to step in front of the worst drivers in the contiguous 48 states.

Our trip to Salem was amusing. When I was a kid, I remember my older sister Lisa being somewhat over-the-top in her interest in witchcraft. I felt like I needed to sleep with one eye open for a couple of years. The spell book under her bed made me the most nevervous. That, and the fact that I had humiliated her by collecting my younger sister and best friend and sporting Lisa's half slip-with-legs on our heads while conducting a horrible little dance down the stairs in front of her boyfriend Chuck. Of course, we were sure to inform Chuckiepooh that these lovely crowns were, in fact, Lisa's undergarments. We would never wear such silly things but as a crown. This only inspired her to read her spell book with greater passion. Her interest waned eventually, and I never actually saw any eye of newt or frog parts in the house. In Salem, we visited the scene of the witch trials in 1692, the burial ground of the accusers, and saw the area where the accused were hanged (and one poor soul killed by "pressing" with a pile of rocks). We expected serious, macabre tales and visions of ghastly reenactment of the trials. While the museum promised a "dramatic history lesson using stage sets with life-size figures, lighting and a narration," we got a pretty darned silly show of illuminated giant creepy looking statues (I think they were paper mache over balloons) reminiscent of a giant dioarama. The second room was filled with little posters and blurbs about witch hunts around the world. As soon as I saw Dorothy and Glenda the Good Witch on the wall (seriously), we left. It was good for a chuckle, and "Bwaahb" enchanted us with amusing tales from his youth, as well as stops that weren't on the tour.

I was grateful that it rained lightly for all of ten minutes during a period of time where we'd been promised daily thunder showers. The only drawback to New England is the humidity. For someone with curly hair who is trying to get through the growing-out-short-hair stage, this was a challenging week. I looked like a dandelion. There was no amount of hair product meant to make curls look fabulous that was worth its weight in advertising. It was futile, frustrating and downright fluffy. I was the official "Glamour Don't" girl of MA for a week. Worse, my husband can NOT seem to get control of the camera and discover the "slim" feature. Add the poof on the top of my head, and it was a week of photography nightmares for moi. I'm going to be investing some serious time with Photoshop this week. I'm also not going back to Boston until I have either very long hair, or very short hair. I don't look good as a dandelion.

Inspiration by Surprise

I got a phone call last week from a dear friend (and amazing artist) that I hadn't seen or talked with in a long while was visiting from out of town with her sister and was invited to get together. We were getting ready to head out on vacation, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to reconnect, as I feel we've really drifted with the miles between us. I had a wonderful day filled with loads of laughter, very little talk of kids, husbands and jobs (great girl stuff!) and lots of discussion about creativity of all sorts. I was revved up to get back to work, stop being such a baby and to stop feeling like I have to make excuses for my inadequacies as an artist. We fit into such different categories. I've known my friend Susie since I was a teenager. I remember seeing her "homework" in art school and being blown away at her creativity and skill. Our foyer is home to one of her magnificent watercolours. Her sister Amy is fabulous - full of amazing energy, funny, skilled in so many areas. The best part was that both of them were so positive and encouraging with me, and I appreciate it more than they could know.

As odd as it may sound, I was also significantly inspired by the headstones in the many burial grounds (they don't call them cemeteries) in Boston this past week. The artwork on the tombstones and markers was incredible. There was one in particular that moved me, that of a young woman with a message carved on the stone that spoke to the person reading it and noted that at one time, she too had stood there looking down at graves before death claimed her to join them. It was much more poetic than that, but I'm exhausted and sleep deprived and must review my photos after coffee. Having seen so many graves of so many young people, combined with the remarkable number of celebrity deaths this week of folks my age (Michael Jackson, Billy Mays...), I am reminded that life is short. Time to make art! After grocery shopping, picking up the pile of vacation mail, etc. of course. Ugh, the real world beckons.

I fall into a category after all

After the emotional dousing I took with the lackluster response to my painted chair, I decided to head back to working on my (I choke on this description) art dolls. I hate calling them art dolls. Calling them "multimedia figurative sculptures" dredges of feelings of being a pretentious phony, so I'll call the beasties art dolls. Until I come up with some happy inbetween something or other.

Anyway, a friend recently commented on my "primitive" dolls. I figured it was primarily a reference to being roughly handmade. Not that I took it as an insult, but didn't really know what to make of the use of the word as it applied to my art. To get myself in the mood to get started on this project again, I poked around Etsy today and looked at many of the art dolls in the various categories - altered, folk art, and then there was primitive. I checked it out and didn't see much continuity in style or technique. What made it primitive? As goofy an idea as it was, I Googled "definition primitive art" and up popped the following definition: a genre of art and outdoor constructions made by untrained artists who do not recognize themselves as artists.

That's me! I actually feel better. The icing on the cake is that I couldn't find anything that looked like my work. Oh, happy day. Time to go play in the studio.

Wanted: Thicker Skin

Here we go again.  I was so excited to finish the chair for my friend's daughter on her 4th birthday.   The seat design was inspired by a painting exercise in an instructional book by artist Cristina Acosta, and the rest of the details were just my fancy.   I started the chair when Raegan was one year old, but had no place to work.  Now that I have a studio, I was able to work on it every day and have it finished on time (as on time as one can be when the birthday girl is turning four).  The birthday party was an intimate gathering - other than the immediate family, me and Kevin, there were three adult friends. 

The response was underwhelming.  I don't know what I expected.  I'm not a great artist.  I can't even claim ownership of the bulk of the primary design.  I know my work isn't everyone's cup of tea, but still... I'm feeling like a big baby, discouraged and foolish.  I want to hide my work.  I'm too old to feel like this.  Of course, I'll get back on the horse and get back to work (not on furniture!) in the studio, but it makes me feel like not doing this any more.  Could I be more petulant?!?  I'm not upset with anyone because no one did anything wrong.  How do I feel?  Defeated.  For now.  I'm not sure I can reach to kick myself in the patoot to snap out of this funk.

Distracted by life

I can't believe it's been ten days since I wrote. A lot has happened in those ten days. On May 14, my younger sister died. She had Hep C and emphysema. Five days before she died, she was given about six months to live. We had no relationship. Still, when I got the news on the previous Thursday that she was so ill and her birthday was coming up on the 24th, I thought that everyone deserves to have at least a glimpse of feeling happy or just know that someone is thinking of them. Perhaps I could send a "thinking of you" or birthday card. My husband asked if I was doing this out of guilt, and I answered honestly - I have done nothing for which I should feel guilty. Victoria was a nightmare. She was a drug and alcohol abusing teen runaway, a thief and a vandal. Then she was an abusive mother to her daughter, irresponsible mooch who never got tired of putting her hand out. Add to that malicious and vindictive, and she was dangerous. How sad to live such a short life and be the kind of person that causes your own family to struggle to find something nice to say.

The day she died was harder than I expected it to be. I am so sad that she didn't have the inner strength to survive growing up in our family. I am sad that she had so little happiness or joy in her life. I'm sad that she never knew real friendship. I'm sad that we weren't a normal family. I'm sad that she didn't enjoy her own child in the way that I've enjoyed mine. I'm sad that she never had a loving partner in life, never took a vacation, never went to a comedy club, never rode a train, never had a good snowball fight, and never knew my son. This list is endless.

Add to this the fact that my father is, once again, in the geriatric psych ward of the hospital. This Vietnam veteran with worsening dementia has, once again, assaulted his family. This time he tried to start a fire in the house with paper and acetone to "smoke out those Viet Cong sleeping upstairs in their house," (the grandchildren who live with them are half Thai) and he attacked my step-mom with his cane. The VA says this isn't related to his service, and basically dust off their hands and respond, "Bummer for you." He's not exactly having flashbacks to his childhood in Montreal.

There's more, but that's the bulk of it.

I'm tired. It's selfish, but I'm tired. I can't help my father and I couldn't help my sister, and I feel worn. I'm afraid of getting sick or dying from something I could have remedied or avoided. I have spent the last couple of weeks working my butt off on the elliptical trying to avoid or delay the things that would make me just like them. I can't bear the thought that I might become like them. I am distracted from my art, distracted from housework, and not feeling very positive today. I want to be someone else and somewhere else just for a day.

Time to administer a kick to my own behind. Must snap out of it!

Where do I go with a blank mind?

Yesterday wasn't such a great day. I guess the fact that we pick our own (less hectic) Mother's Day date caused the clan to think all bets were off on behavior, so dad and son squabbled to the point that I just gave up on plans and shut myself in my studio.

The worst part is that for the longest time, I just sat there. I looked at the bevy of art supplies and just sat with a blank head. There is so much I know how to do, but so much more that I want to learn and practice, and the result is that I'm just stuck. I got out a sketch book and started looking at old ideas for projects. I realized that when I don't make an effort to write clearly, those notes don't do me much good! So I jotted down a few more ideas, then started pulling books off of the shelf. One quilting book reminded me that I'd actually started buying fabric for that project two years ago. Sure enough, I found the stash and started reorganizing the bits to see what I needed to ditch and what I should add. I had to do something, and this exercise helped. Today I'm going shopping for the fabric to fill in the gaps and get working on it.

Since I find it hard to stay focused on a single project, I'm going to also work on finishing the chair I'm painting for my friend's daughter. I promised she'd have it before her 5th birthday. She's getting it on her 4th. :-)

Giving up and giving in are not allowed.

My first ATC!

OK, there's a lot to learn. I've read books and blogs and web sites about this stuff, but clearly missed the chapter on the ATC warping! I have so much to learn. The message that I heard loud and clear (as I last posted) about DOING art and not just talking about it motivated me. This first ATC was an experiment with gel medium, paper scraps I had on hand and a photo of my grandmother printed on plain old paper on my HP printer. The photo was taken when she was 13 years old in 1905. She lost her hearing at age 9 due to a combination of illnesses that occurred simultaneously, including scarlet fever. I was always amazed as a child that while she couldn't hear the doorbell, she always knew (from another room!) when we were banging on the piano or playing chase in the house. She read lips and spoke clearly, so people didn't know that she was hearing impaired. I always wondered what it must have been like to be able to hear until you are 9, then never hear music or the minister's words at your own wedding, or the voices of your seven children.

While this is a wickedly rough start with a new type of art project for me, I'm going to continue to play with the zillions of things I can use to make ATC's just for fun. The stash I have of old family photos and newspaper clippings should keep me busy for quite a while.

Reality slap - ouch!

I started following the blog of my friend's sister, an incredibly inspiring and creative artist. Her blog referenced a number of other creative blogs and web sites, so I decided to poke around and look at a few. The first one has me hooked and feeling a little b*)%^$ slapped with the whiny stuffing knocked out of me. She responded on her web site to questions she receives from readers about, among other things, whether or not one can expect to make a living with their art or whether we must "live and breathe art" to get good at it. This writer is one tough cookie. She is very direct in her opinion that we must stop talking about making art and do it, exercising our artistic muscles every day as an athlete does. Her words had me literally sitting back a bit in my chair, a little bug eyed and feeling she was hollering at me. This is not a bad thing. I needed a good wake up slap.

I am motivated. Between the wonderful and kind encouragement of my friend Debbie and the kick-in-the-pants shove that I felt with this artist's words this afternoon, tomorrow begins a new commitment to art, creativity and no more excuses. Every day, I'll do something - an ATC, experimenting with a quilt square, sculpting a new piece for an art doll...this is going to be fun.

The only quilts I've ever made

Two posts in one day?!?

I've been thinking a lot about my friends today. I don't have many, which is funny given that I'm such a social beast. But I choose my friends wisely, which is why the very few close friends I have are so fabulous.

I've known "Curly" since I was about eleven years old. We met when we lived in the Philippines at the same time, both of our father's in the Air Force (my dad was enlisted and quite the rough type; her father was an officer - the subject of a spat or two in our younger days). We have such an incredibly close kinship. As we have grown older, we have become such incredibly different people. I think we love each other so much for the things that are different in each other, for the things we've shared as "sisters," and for which we will always remain the most dearest and special of friends.

Delia is wit incarnate. There is no better description. Good grief, we've seen some wild times with her life (mine is so incredibly vanilla by comparison). She is brilliant, passionate for things that REALLY matter (midwifery, parenting, human spirit...) and full of life in a manner that words can not adequately describe. We don't talk to each other often enough. When we do, it is the most lengthy and delightful blabberfest. We can't have a conversation that lasts less than an hour.

Deb, my beloved partner in stand up comedy. Good heavens, we can share anything. She epitomizes support, goodness and laughter. If I am ever, truly ever in a miserable mood, I know I can call Deb and be laughing in about one minute. That laughter carries me through any rough patch. Did I say she was funny? :-) Who else would let me set their bangs on fire? Or keep my children so I could flee the state for a few days? Or take me for my first trip to a spa and feel comfortable just sitting with me (and a number of indecent ladies!) in an over sized tub, or tolerate my houseful of cats with a nose full of allergies?

Harold. Does the husband count? My heart aches at the thought of my life without him. Thirty years later I'd do it all over again. OK, now I'm getting misty eyed.

This is the short list. I appreciate all of my friends, near and far, and wish everyone had a Curly, Delia, Deb and Harold in their lives.

Enjoying the little things in life

I love sitting in my living room and watching birds dance in the seeds I put out for them in a makeshift bird feeder (aka terra cotta dish on a PVC table meant for use poolside). If I am still, they hang out in large numbers for quite a while. I'm such a cheap date.

For the past two days I've observed a porker of a bird in the bowl of finch food. When the pigeons plop themselves down (and their cabooses fill the entire bowl), I have to go out and scold them for pigging out and shoo them away, but this guy is really pretty and has a beautiful song. It's quite extraordinary for us city slickers here in Southern California. I did a little digging this morning and identified it as a black-headed grosbeak. Apparently, they are referred en masse as "a gross of grosbeaks." Who makes up this stuff? Anyway, it's a pleasant departure from the zillions of crows that fly overhead every afternoon (I swear they circle the globe daily as I only see them flying northeast) or the flock of screaming, and I do mean screaming, wild parrots that call this neck of the woods home.

Who knows. Maybe the blue heron that flew in like a pterodactyl and scared the bajeebers out of me a while back will make a return visit to the wild kingdom that is my back yard. That's entertainment!

Big talent in modest packaging at www.fecher-gramstad.com

In 2005 I discovered the work of an amazing artist, Debbie Fecher-Gramstad, in (of all places) a shop in Downtown Disney. Watching me drool in delirium, my husband was none too subtle asking which piece I liked most, the favorite of which I received as a Christmas gift that year. To my dismay, I found the shop gone the next time I was on the hunt for another piece of her work. I found her website and sent an email inquiring about where else I might find her work. She replied with two lengthy emails filled with information, and thus began a long distance friendship with the most wonderful creative spirit and mentor. I can say this now because I asked her permission to post info regarding her site and she said yes, but that she wanted to be able to read this. :-)

There should be more Debbie Fecher-Gramstads in the world. I sit here truly at a loss for words to describe what it has meant to me personally to have someone like her in my life, particularly because we've never had the pleasure of a face-to-face meeting. I have three years (!!!!) of emails filled with evidence of her incredibly generous heart, words of encouragement like none I've ever received before, that have made me smile from ear to ear and cry with tears of gratitude at the same time.

As I read other "wanna be an artist" web sites, blogs or magazine articles, I know I'm not alone in my feelings of inadequacy. Art is so incredibly personal. Some people are compulsive about keeping a clean house, others about being the team-mom-of-everything-for-all-kids, or fastidious about entertaining like Martha Stewart. For me, my compulsion is creativity. Since leaving my office job last year, I've struggled with the response to the question, "So, what do you do?" when I am with my husband's gang from work. These people are former ambassadors, mountain climbers/college faculty, or published authors. How do I reply, "I am an artist?" I often feel like such a phony. I've received some odd comments about my work - people are so comfortable criticizing art! - and have not yet developed the requisite thick skin. I'm working on it!

Then there's Debbie. She has offered to have me come to her place in Washington to work with her as if we have known each other since childhood. She has encouraged me without being patronizing or condescending, and reminded me the importance of art to the spirit. She has actually (gasp!) asked my opinion about the topic for art classes for newbies like me. It is because of her that I put together my studio and have one of her pieces hanging right smack in front of my nose where I work to inspire me to move ahead, be bold and give it a whirl.

Debbie serves as a constant, "Pass it on!" messenger for me. Everyone should have someone in their lives to make them feel good about their passion. I am encouraging my son to take art classes with me this summer so that he remembers the joy of being creative and resists the urge to be self critical when it comes to his art. I will work with my niece this summer on art projects to encourage the same creative spirit in her.

Thank you, Debbie. You rock!

For anyone other than Debbie and I that may look at this, please check out her website and remember the amazing artist behind the work: http://www.fecher-gramstad.com

Was this blog supposed to be about art?

I find myself more exhausted being the mother of just one teen right now than I do find time for artwork. My son got on a plane this morning for Seattle with his middle school band & orchestra. I was fine for a while. Worry set in when I knew they landed an hour and half ago, but still no "We're here" message. I finally got that misspelled text message letting me know they were OK, and I was able to relax. Getting some housework done and knowing it would remain intact for three days is a glorious feeling. I don't know what made me look up in his bathroom when I went in to clean, but I did. And then I started laughing. What in heaven's name would cause a fourteen year old to even think of getting a single square of white toilet paper and sticking it to the ceiling over the tub? Just one. I don't even know how he reached. What a dork! It was good for a laugh, though.

I'll have a couple of days to work on some art. Yeah! Perhaps I'll have accomplished something by the time he gets home on Sunday. If nothing else, I will have been amused while scrubbing toilets.

Proud mom moments

I've been struggling with strep throat for a couple of days now, feeling like I swallowed a marshmallow laced with razorblades, and decided I needed to get at least 30 seconds of sun. So I gathered the junk mail and headed to the recycling basket outside. Motion out of the corner of my eye caused me to glance up; I was horrified to see a little creature, I thought perhaps a chipmunk or mole, floating in the pool. I ran to the pool and scooped it out, hoping I had caught it in time and might be able to save it's life, but it was much too late. This was the tiny bunny we had seen a few times in the back yard, probably trying to get a drink in this blazing heat wave. I couldn't bear to just throw him out. A matter of minutes later, my young teenage son came home from school. I asked him if he would be willing to go down into the gully just behind our house and dig a grave deep enough that the coyotes or cats wouldn't detect it and bury the bunny. He got the shovel and quietly dug a grave, gently placing the tiny bunny inside, then buried him. I looked out the back door and saw my son making an absolutely gigantic cross from fallen branches of the avocado tree, probably four feet tall and three feet wide, to mark the little bunny's grave. I watched him finish and just stand there for a bit, looking down at the grave, and then touch up his handiwork by reinforcing the cross with ties made of morning glory vines. While I tease him frequently about being the cause for my investment in L'Oreal hair colour and the reason God made chardonnay, moments like this make me so proud. My little man with a big, big heart.

Kids, Cooties and Boo Boos

Last week during Spring Break, my son was gifted with taking along a friend for a drop-off day at an amusement park. Those weasels went non stop well into the evening. Unfortunately, he worked up a pretty wicked big blister on his big toe. It's been a week, and it looks awful and infected. Yuck. To add insult to injury, he also managed to catch a cold (I swear, they are created and bred at amusement parks and on grocery cart handles) and couldn't play with his band/orchestra at the Nixon Library this week. Between the cooties and the boo boo, he's a pretty miserable young man. We're particularly concerned because the school band is traveling to Seattle on Thursday, departing at (ugh!) 4 a.m., traveling in a suit and tie, sightseeing all day and not getting to their hotel room until approximately 10 p.m. Can you tell that the person planning four days like this doesn't have any children? Sigh. So last night we were watching Lost (gotta love Netflix - no commercials!) and I heard snuffling sounds in the dark, and wincing motion with his foot. I sat down next to him and asked if he was worried, trying to reassure him that we'd see the doctor today and get him all fixed up for Seattle. He looked at his toe and sniffled, "Does this mean I might be a diabetic like Dad?" The poor little guy. Dad got a blister when we were snorkeling in Hawaii last year and didn't pay attention to the developing infection. I noticed his foot and called the doctor immediately, resulting in antibiotics delivered both by needle and pills. I reassured Kevin that with our family history of diabetes, he has every opportunity to make good choices and head it off at the pass. No more emptying an Easter basket overnight, or downing one of those giant milk carton shaped boxes of fishy crackers in two days. So we're off to the doctor at noon, then we start packing for his trip. We'll talk about art projects while we're waiting to see the doctor to get his mind off of his worries.

This is when I feel like a good mom. With full military dependent medical coverage available to us, my own mother never took us to the doctor, not when we had blister-covered tonsils, or when my sister fell and her bottom teeth cut all the way through her lip, or when I was shocked when my hand slipped into the wires of the pool pump switch (for the year we lived in a house that didn't sit on wheels) when ordered to turn it off in the rain without shoes or a flashlight. Thanks, Dad. Good one. I'm happy to take care of my cootie bug.

Art in the family

When I was plowing through a pile of the most fabulous old family photos and trying to think about art projects in which I could use them (without the pointy hats, crowns and wings - can I say that frequently enough?!?), I started thinking about the artistic talents of my family.

My mother was always a bit on the whacko side. At family gatherings, she would regale us with stories about her life that were absolutely fiction, delivered as if she absolutely believed it all. I remember her talking about this class she took about ancient hieroglyphics, or the one she took about law or Chinese. In reality, she graduated from high school, got a job in a department store, got married within a year of that and took a class about office equipment when I was in elementary school (offered through her employer for all of the secretaries). The family, including her sister, agreed that she just wasn't happy with her real and very simple life, so she was just making one up that was much more interesting. My stinker of a husband would always make the same declaration in the car on the way home in a Monty Python voice, "...and then I had teaaaaa with the Queen...." to which we would cackle and figure whatever makes her happy is fine. The thing is, she really had some remarkable talent that she never shared with much of anyone, but for which she would have been recognized (as she clearly desperately wanted) as being very talented and gifted. She had a beautiful singing voice, and had remarkable talent with water colours. I remember finding a postcard-sized painting of a bird on the branch of a flowering tree, unsigned and unframed, tucked in a little nook of her desk at home. When I asked where she got it, she replied that she had painted it. I was floored. I was sixteen years old and had never seen her paint. Sadly, she passed away at age 63 just twelve years ago and my father donated everything he didn't need to survive in the home, so it's gone. There is nothing left - none of her artwork, no recording or home video with her singing, nothing. What a tragedy.

My younger sister was a remarkable sketch illustrator. I say "was" because right now, I understand she wanders between marriages and shelters, the victim of decades of alcohol abuse. She was a frequent runaway beginning at age 12. Unsuccessful in school, she ended up in one of those continuation schools for delinquents. She used to doodle the most fantastic drawings, complete with dragons, castles, waves crashing against cliffs, all in the most remarkable detail and with just plain paper and a #2 pencil. She illustrated the entire yearbook that final year she attended school, I believe her junior year. Then she quit it all and life was downhill like a rocket from there, with nothing to show for her talent. I tried and tried to help her, got her to take a class at the community college by taking it with her, and tried encouraging her to finish school and get a job using her talent. Booze called louder and won.

My older sister is a wonderfully warm and creative woman with a lot of familial challenges - big family, not everyone on track - but she works with it and is a great mom and grandmother. She has the most remarkable artistic skill as a painter, and sculpting (including making jewelry) with polymer clay. When I was about 12, I commented that I loved the sets of posters advertised in the back of comics. I saw one of a lion with a little kitten that I thought was cute. For my birthday, she painted it. Just like that! She looked at the tiny picture in the comic, and painted an exact copy. She is an amazing oil painter, but spends her time these days with polymer clay projects, some sewing still (I think), and other crafts. I believe she could become financially comfortable making a career in custom tromp l'oeil work, but she is content with what she is doing which I think is great. I love the passion with which she talks about her current projects and ideas. I wish I could paint like her. She rocks.

So I'm feeling pretty darned blessed about life today. I used to worry that one day I'd be gone, and there would be nothing left behind to say that I'd been here. Looking at all these old family photos, there are so many people who have left us and for which there is no sign that they were ever here but for the photos in a box in my house. On the other hand, I have the school primer that was my grandmother's at age 12 in 1903, complete with a story that she wrote on loose paper and attached with a single straight pin to the inside back cover. What a fabulous gift to have that reminder of her, and the reminder to leave art in the family, for the family.

Recovery from the sagging mood!

I don't know what was wrong with me yesterday. Good grief, but I was a whiner! One of my best friends (and the funniest woman I know) called me on her way home from work yesterday. That's all it took to kick me in the fanny, get me laughing and alter my mood. We talked about the challenges with leaving a great job with non-stop interaction with a LOT of people, to quiet days home alone with the TV on in the background for company. This was followed by afternoons with an argumentative teen, and I finally just hit a wall. When Deb and I tell each other the stories of the day about our kids and spouses, we can laugh (and make fun of them to crack ourselves up), and put life back in perspective. I always told my husband that working at a hospital for eight years put life in perspective, and I had lost track of that for a while. Thank God for girlfriends!

Then my wonderful husband came home after yet another thirteen hour day of million mile an hour hard work, poured me a glass of wine, and sat down to encourage me to become more confident in my art, to take classes so that I could meet more of "my peoples" and spend time with others with passion for creativity, and to stop feeling so compelled to keep a spotless house when there was an empty studio. How many people have that luxury these days? My husband encouraged me for months to be OK with leaving my office job so that I could enjoy exploring creativity. There are no words to express my gratitude for his generosity of spirit and his support. I am a very lucky woman.

So today I am making some art-driven decisions:

1) Establish studio time every day;
2) Play with art materials every day without adding the pressure to create a masterpiece;
3) Continue to refuse to incorporate any pointy hats, crowns, wings or bird-in-a-cage images in my artwork (no offense to those who do, but I just can't add myself to the list!);
4) Blog without whining. I can have emotions other than perky, but I can't just whine.

I think that's a good start.

Sagging mood

I am so depressed these days that I can't manage to get up the muster to be very productive. I am overwhelmed by a sense of failure in nearly every area of my life. My self criticism is the loudest thought in my head. There has got to be some way to get back on track. With so much to be thankful for in my life, I am finding myself wallowing in everything that isn't right. I see the Facebook comments of my friends, all of whom seem so normal and happy. Why not me?

Signing up for art classes at an upcoming quilt show (not quilting classes!) was surprisingly hard for me. It meant going public about taking art seriously, for which I continue to feel a bit of a fraud. Sheesh, will I ever get past this??? There will certainly be others with little to no previous instruction, and it certainly wasn't unreasonable to sign up for a class described as appropriate for all experience levels. Yesterday the confirmation for my spot in these two classes arrived, along with my name tag and directions on finding the class. Reality strikes. I've always told my kids when they were at that awkward self-conscious stage that they aren't so interesting as to command the attention of every passerby. I should be taking my own advice. The instructor is published, making the whole experience a bit more intimidating, but exciting. I will finally be able to acquire advice and direction that will let me take my own art a step further. Yeah!

With my studio finished, I find myself just stuck. I feel the way I recall reading that kids with ADD and ADHD feel- there are a million thoughts and ideas swirling simultaneously in my head, but instead of being inspired to act on any one of those thoughts or ideas, I feel more like a deer in headlights. Time to work on that too. One of my art books included a suggestion to just do one little project a day, trying techniques as opposed to trying to create a masterpiece. It couldn't hurt.

Wanted: Creative Friends

Finally, I've discovered that I have a lot in common with an "old" friends with whom I've recently reconnected after many, many years. She is creative and enthusiastic, sharing many of my interests and aspirations for things yet to be tried. I guess I hadn't realized how much I longed to have a friend with whom I could share ideas about painting, grout or wire and who would get it! While this reestablished friendship is long distance, I'm thrilled to have someone with whom to swap stories and ideas. That alone inspires me to get to work.

Years ago a friend of mine that appreciated real craft, real art, confessed (in a joking manner) that she auditioned friends for their artistic talent. When I pushed a little for clarity, I realized that there was some truth behind her joke as evidenced by the wide array of beautiful artwork found in every room of her house. There was the beautiful handpainted (by a friend) rocking chair on the front porch, the stunning paper party hats (created by a friend) for her daughter's birthday party, the fantastic pillows created using hand-carved wooden blocks, the design completed by hand painting (by a friend), to name just a few objects. I felt privileged to be a part of the gang and enjoyed meeting her artist friends. I wished then and still that I had even a smidgen of their talent. I wish that I could spend time with people that are so inspiring. Where are they????

This friend and I have since lost touch, and she now lives quite a distance away. I miss her and her family very much. I no longer have any connection to those artsy friends of hers whose mere presence inspired me. My own friendships have developed through work and my children's schools. While we clearly have some things in common, how can it be that not one of them shares an interest in art with me?

So I will relish this rekindled friendship both for our shared past, and for our current shared interests. I will make the effort to broaden my own artistic horizons and hopefully expand that circle of artistic and creative friends.

How to create more free time for art

1. Wash the same load of laundry a couple of times. It takes less time than folding all of those stupid cloth napkins we insist on using. The house will smell great, and everyone will think you've been working really, really hard.
2. When you do finish the laundry, give someone ALL of the socks. They can fight over them later and you save yourself the time to sort.
3. For really cluttered rooms, grab a cardboard box and a tape gun. It's amazing how clean it looks when you grab everything, shove it in a box, tape that puppy shut and drag it to the garage. To heck with the contents.
4. When solicitors call, just answer the phone and set it down in front of Sponge Bob or some other cartoon. The solicitor is tied up and your phone won't ring for a while.
5. There's ALWAYS more room under the bed for one more thing you don't want to look at and can't think of anywhere else to put it.
6. Kids room a mess? I get a broom, sweep it all in a pile and shove it in a garbage bag. They can sort it, or I can toss it. It saves us all hours.
7. There's really no such thing as something that's not dishwasher safe if you hate washing dishes.

Time to paint! :-)

Grumpy on the first day of spring

I've been writing as if anyone other than I will read this blog, always worrying about how I'll come across. Not today. I'm so incredibly grumpy and I want to snarl for a minute.

I fussed and fussed on here for a minute, then read what I wrote and hit "Delete." I can't just complain when I'm a big contributor to the issues making me so grumpy. If I'm tired of babysitting everyone through life, I have to stop doing the babysitting. I'm going to let my husband forget his assistant's birthday on Monday because I've reminded him more often than necessary and it's his issue, not mine. He's an adult. I've given my son the same lectures about how important school and good (even just decent!) grades are as he's about to enter high school, and he just doesn't care enough to make an effort (other than getting the requisite passing grades). I can't care on his behalf and have that make any difference. I can keep complaining about not getting into the studio, or I can get myself better organized and schedule studio time just as I had meetings on my calendar when I worked in an office.

Time to quit fussing. I feel a little better.

More on the issue of "self-taught"

I recently read Mary Englebreit's bio and was thrilled to see that she did not attend art school beyond high school courses. Yeah for hope!

Is "Self Taught" the kiss of death for an artist???

As I'm wrapping up the studio and actually getting it into a condition that will allow me to work, I'm busy sketching and jotting down ideas for future projects. I like looking at Etsy to see what other artists are doing and to get a sense of whether or not there's any market left given this stinky economy. On the one hand, I'm as intimidated as hell with the artists' bios that go on at length about their MFA from this fabulous university, followed by gallery shows all over the globe. Then I stumble on web sites or printed articles about people who are, in my opinion, great artists and describe themselves as "self taught." I dread the conversations with my husband's work associates (he's a senior administrator at a large university) when they ask (if they bother, because I AM just the wife), "What do you do?" I feel as if I must first apologize for no longer having an office job (it was a great job at a hospital, but then they ask if I am a nurse or doctor, to which I must justify my life and responsibilities for all radiation safety, contracts, etc. and watch their eyes glaze). When I explain that I have "retired" from the world of suits and pantyhose to follow my passion for art, they start asking questions about where I studied or with whom. Some of these people collect the real thing - they have Picasso hanging in their home, among other "real" artists' works. Now I want to change the subject.

I twitch in discomfort and reply that I have learned on my own after years of playing, expirimenting, enjoying inspiration provided by knowing other artists or following their work. Do we have to have permission to use the label artist because it was not bestowed by an institution of higher education? I went to high school with John Lasseter (Pixar) and can tell you that I remember distinctly attending a show of art work by the students, particularly two of his huge paper mache sculptures. I remember thinking that this guy was a seriously talented artist, and he was only a senior in high school. I never even took art in high school, but can't imagine my life without being able to release the creative drive that I can't explain to people who just don't have that compulsion to create something out of bits and pieces.

Perhaps I just need to relax about answering the dreaded question. I am self taught, and I'm not too lousy at it all if I do say so myself. Even if it is privately or anonymously here on the web.

Time to sketch.