That's what I felt when I was creating it and that was my story behind it. But then her thoughts started to waver, and I could see her flitting between emotions. Maybe her judgement wasn't as secure as she had thought; maybe she was questioning prior views. Maybe she was...
Well, I had 2 canvases I prepped for tonight. As I waited for them to dry, I made myself a nice cup of hot tea. I carried the tea in one hand and a glass of water for my paints in the other. Now, I keep my beagle, Ebert, out of my art room, because it can only come to no good. However, my two hands were full, and I couldn't keep my boy from running in. No problem yet. I tried to cajole him out. He came forward and retreated--he's smart--and apparently good at the fox trot...step forward and step back. Suddenly he stopped the dance and started rubbing his neck on...something. What was it? I look, and then I freeze.
Nooooooooo! He had somehow dislodged the top off of a paint tube. And not just some watery, easily removable paint. Only the best paint for my dog. Winsor & Newton Galeria Cerulean Blue Hue. Nice, thick acrylic paint all over. I took a quick picture of the tube, but it looked so innocent, like it was a tiny squish of paint. Unfortunately, the vast majority of it was all over Ebert. His white chest was now bright blue. Blue paw prints trotted out my art room and down the hall. I managed to grab him and got him into the bathroom. My orange pants, purple top, boots, bathtub, and wall now covered with blue paint, too. Luckily the hat that I was wearing for some reason remained unscathed. Forty-five minutes later, I collapsed back in my chair, took a sip of now, ice cold tea, and started painting my Friday night. Oh, Ebert!
I read an article today about why people might not like your art. One of the points was that it wasn't "in style."
Oh boy. (That's putting it nicely.)
I hate rules. Not the rules that are put in place to protect people, like driving on the correct side of the road. I actually wish there were rules that said you should say "please" and "thank you." Be kind. That would be a nice one for people to adhere to in a day.
What I mean to say is, I hate rules that say you should wear this and not that. You should feel this and not that or at least don't feel it all too deeply. You should live your life this way and not that. You should make this kind of art in order to be fashionable or profitable or to be famous or to stick to one style. Pleeeeease don't tell me how to live my one and only life.
Well, listen. I'd love to sell all my work. I'd love to be famous. But I wouldn't love to curtail what I'm feeling so I make sure that I fit in with the current mindset of society. I mean, what's the point of that? Maybe if you're just aiming for world domination. I guess that might seal it, while you simultaneously feel like a fake or dead inside for not expressing how you really feel.
One of my favorite sayings of "getting on with it" comes from the book and movie of the same name, "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil." When the hormone-treatment-taking transvestite, Lady Chablis, says to John Cusack (John Kelso), "It's like my mama always said: 'Two tears in a bucket, mother fuck it.'" (That's not putting it nicely.)
I already know that my style of art is not everyone's cup of tea, and that's o.k. I do hope that some people like it--I even secretly wish someone would love it. But in the grand scheme of things and in the quest of living life with some kind of truthfulness, I hope I like my art most of all.
This morning I was flipping through an art book and came across a page of small-boxed colors. The first one that caught my eye was "violet." When I read that word and saw that color, I took myself out of this frigid February and suddenly found myself walking home with my elementary school friends.
Not far from our grade school was a huge hill that would magically become covered with inky purple violets in the spring. We used to pick all these pretty flowers in our chubby little kid hands and take them home to our moms and/or grandmas. We would clutch them as we walked down the hill, over a creek, and down and up a huge, black-topped hospital parking lot. Those poor little wilted bundles of purpleness were gasping for vases of water waiting at home.
The other constant I remember was unpeeling the wrapper from a Tootsie Pop. Seemed like we always had one as an afternoon treat on our way home--victory after wading through new spelling words, cursive writing, and complex "greater than" and "less than" math problems. Freedom was marked by these sweet treats. And we'd always re-enact the Tootsie Pop commercial. Anyone remember it?
"How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?".
Isn't it just so innocent?
Things did seem so much more innocent when I was a kid. And, I know I'm not the only one who thinks that. I think something good was going on in births in the mid- to late- '60's. See, look at the big four vocalists from that era.
Kurt Cobain - Nirvana 2/20/67 - 4/5/94
Chris Cornell - Soundgarden 7/20/64
Layne Staley - Alice in Chains 8/22/67 - 4/5/02
Eddie Vedder - Pearl Jam 12/23/64
And please don't forget other huge "grunge"/alt lead vocalists:
Mark Arm - Mudhoney 2/21/62
Mark Lanegan - Screaming Trees 11/25/64
J Mascis - Dinosaur Jr. 12/10/65
Buzz Osborne - Melvins 3/24/64
Andrew Wood - Mother Love Bone/Malfunkshun 1/8/66 - 3/19/90
ANYWAY, I remember Kurt Cobain saying the following in AJ Schnack's 2006 documentary, "About a Son":
"I've always felt like my generation was the very last innocent generation, ya' know. When there was television that wasn't violent. We didn't have cable, we had "Sesame Street," and "Speed Racer," and "H.R. Puff 'n' Stuff" and that's it. Everything was a total fantasy. Everything was just very basic and just medieval compared to things nowadays. Kids are just so advanced and expected to be so much more advanced than they are."
My friend Shelley's husband, Dan, says that when we were kids, everyone would watch the same t.v. shows. He's right. I remember when we would all come to class and everyone would talk about "Laverne and Shirley" and what happened on "Happy Days" and Jimmie Walker saying "Dy-no-mite" on "Good Times." We all watched the same shows and all related to them together. So many choices now...Dan says that the only thing remotely resembling that bonding in school the next day is when kids ask, "Did you see such and such on YouTube?"
O.K., sorry for this long stroll down memory lane. I just find myself tasting a cherry Tootsie Pop and smelling the lingering scent of violets. They stayed with me longer than I thought.
This is my friend, Yvonne Glasch. In the last year, we've probably been at 5 art shows together. She is a knitting dynamo. I mean, the woman simultaneously knits standing up while talking to people and walking around. One night she went home, studied some knitting pattern on the computer, and the next day had 6 long boot socks made within about a 1/2 an hour of the show's second-day opening. Hats, scarves, mittens, boot cuffs, berets, you name it, she's got it. She was a hairdresser for over 30 years and now she's accessorizing hairdos. And one final thing, Yvonne is a real broad. A fabulous woman who knows what she wants and has "things she wants to do."
I mean, I just couldn't figure out how she could fly through all these skeins of yarn and whip out high-quality product with the speed she does. THAT IS, UNTIL the following little exchange occurred:
I said, "Yvonne, let me take your picture."
And she replied, "Oh, let me wipe this powdered sugar from my cookie off of my nose."
WHAT!?!?!?!?! Where was this so-called cookie?! Powdered sugar, eh? Speedy hands of knitting wonder finally explained! (-;
Ha! ha! Just kiddin' folks. As far as I know, the only lines Yvonne did were knitting lines. (-; And she's such a good sport--she agreed to this story for the sake of art. See what a grand dame she is? I'm still going to call her Antonia Montana. (Surely you know, Tony Montana from "Scarface.")
P.S. The little Tool Close-Up circle holds Yvonne's weapon of choice. Bamboo knitting needles that knit in a circular pattern. Now, I know nothing about knitting, but I think it is so cool how every field--knitting, painting, drawing, jewelry-making, hydraulics, etc--how everything has tools and vocabulary and it's own world associated with it. Isn't that so neat? (-:
For our recent anniversary, my husband and I headed to Wisconsin for a couple of concerts (Bob Dylan and Mark Knopfler from Dire Straits was one) and an art show. We always take our cat, Norman, along on overnight trips, because he needs 2 insulin shots a day.
Here is Norman's story. Kenny had been leaving food outside for him for some time. One snowy November night in 2004, K. was lying on the couch recovering from surgery when he heard scratching in the food bowl outside. He opened our door, and there was Norman. We had never been able to get close to him, but this time he came in from the snowy cold. Now Norman is a BIG cat. The biggest one we personally have come across--not just heavy (top weight was 23 lbs.), but, long legs/big-bodied overall. We could feel bumps on top of his head and around his eyes, which we later found out were a spray of shots from a BB-gun. We ended up having 9 BBs removed--incredibly, none had hit his huge, beautiful green eyes. Anyway, that's the sad part. The happy part is, we had him in our possession when we realized he had diabetes, and he is now healthy, happy, lazy, and incredibly spoiled.
AND, apparently, GASEOUS! As we were driving along in our little truck, Kenny with coffee in hand and I with book, we suddenly smell the absolute worse smell! Here's how it went down.
Kenny: "Did you fart?"
Me: "No, did you?"
Kenny: "No..."
Kenny and I simultaneously: "NORMAN!"
Me: "It smells like Brussels Sprouts! Since when do cats fart? We're sooooo lucky!"
Actually, we're very lucky to have Norman...just not his gas bombs!
Just a face today. Actually, I had many ideas, a couple different plans of what I was going to draw; I can't do them, though. Maybe I'm just tired from an art show this weekend. Maybe it's because I spent too many hours researching some things, making connections, networking, posting things on different websites. All were fine, some great, while they were happening, but then a strange thing happened.
It's like I'd spent that time meant for creating to do business, and it drained the urge to make art from my veins to the floor. And I feel like I can't draw a line...or at least not a fine line, not a detailed line. But I can draw a think line, a loose line, a black line...a freeing line.
What's wound, must be unwound.
Do you know the Bruce Springsteen song, "57 Channels (And Nothin' On)" from '92? For me it's like 57 ideas, but nothin' seems right (or wants to come out in focus).
My desk after the art show--materials and ideas for future paintings. Can't find anything easily...
I bought a bourgeois house in the Hollywood hills
With a truckload of hundred thousand dollar bills
Man came by to hook up my cable TV
We settled in for the night my baby and me
We switched 'round and 'round 'til half-past dawn
There was fifty-seven channels and nothin' on
Well now home entertainment was my baby's wish
So I hopped into town for a satellite dish
I tied it to the top of my Japanese car
I came home and I pointed it out into the stars
A message came back from the great beyond
There's fifty-seven channels and nothin' on
Well we might'a made some friends with some billionaires
We might'a got all nice and friendly if we'd made it upstairs
All I got was a note that said "Bye-bye John
Our love is fifty-seven channels and nothin' on"
So I bought a .44 magnum it was solid steel cast
And in the blessed name of Elvis well I just let it blast
'Til my TV lay in pieces there at my feet
And they busted me for disturbing the almighty peace
Judge said "What you got in your defense son?"
"Fifty-seven channels and nothin' on"
I can see by your eyes friend you're just about gone
As she stared into her mirror and practiced her smiling sneer, Celeste vowed, "NO ONE is going to win the "My Bloody Valentine" contest except yours truly."
Two-tone highlights, unfiltered camels, blood-red lips--ha!--that golden vampire stake was hers for the taking!
Here's a beautiful serenade for you on this day of love. I saw Chuck Prophet a few years back. This is my absolute FAVORITE song of his, "No Other Love." And my favorite little part is 2:09 to 2:16--the swelling of the strings, his holding the note longer than at any other time. Beautiful! (By the way, the woman to his left in that clip is his wife.) It was also used in the Hilary Swank/Gerard Butler movie, "P.S. I Love You."
And here's a nice, romantic first kiss scene from the aforementioned film.
Now, back to Valentine's Day. Ta, Ta!
Here was my chocolate-covered cherry martini for the evening:
And here was my parmesan-crusted chicken with caper butter (chicken parma) from the Uptown Grill:
Last night as I was stripping off my bra, something fluttery and white caught my eye. I turned to look, and it was a fragrance-free Bounce® sheet! I'd been wearing it all day tucked inside of my leopard-print brassiere. I must admit, my breasts have never felt so soft--or antistatic. (-;
Thought I would try something completely different today.
I had some tissue paper and Mod Podge staring at me and a howling wind outside. That's all there is to it.
Can I just add, I used Tissue paper, Mod Podge, rose beads, acrylic water-based paint marker, paint marker, graphite, heavy-duty glue. I feel as high as a kite flying on this imaginary spring day.
Back in the early 90's--geez, I can never get away from givin' the age away--not too long out of college, I had a job as a technical editor at the National Center for Supercomputing Applications (NCSA) in the Software Tools Group (STG) at the University of Illinois. I wrote all the documentation manuals for all our programmers as well as interviewed scientists nationwide for our national publication. I helped create CDs for graphical images (this was actually something back in the day); acted as a film editor for promotional items; supervised other editors; traveled to NYC, Las Vegas, etc. for writing and computer conferences, blah, blah. (See how eloquent I am? Ha!)
Now before you want to throw-up and say, OMG, please rescue me from this boring vitae of self-aggrandizement and braggadocious nonsense, you would throw me a tearful crumb and want me to tell you these things if you knew how far from early, promising career potential I have fallen. Currently I am viewed as quite dispensible.
Now, I'll tell you why I'm looking back to a golden age. (-; A nearby, small town is having their annual Mardi Gras parade and celebration tonight. It started me thinking about New Orleans and one NCSA computer trip to the Big Easy during Jazz Fest. I have all sorts of stories about that adventure, one of which had me standing alone on a dock. Picture me on the left-hand side, here:
So, why I was alone there--originally coming with a group of about 20 people--I can no longer remember. I think I was using a pay phone! And then I hung up the phone, and there was a homeless-looking man suddenly beside me. And when he turned towards me, rather he lunged toward me, a fat rat was on his shoulder. He was trying to scare me, of course, and somehow, I acted like a cool, mint julep.
"Oh, that's so cool," I calmly say.
He doesn't believe me. He lunges towards me again.
"Does he have a name?" I continue my Steve McQueen impersonation.
"Ha, I know you're scared of it," he laughs.
"I say, no, I'm not. My boyfriend has one," I lie. But you have to lie when you're alone on a New Orleans dock with a strange man bouncing towards you with a rat on his shoulder. Let the rodent sniff at his cheek, not mine!
And then, a funny thing happened. He seemed to believe me. And then we talked for awhile, and his blazing eyes--the man, not the rat--crinkled into a kindly squint, and the rat started to look more like a guinea pig. Um, with a long-ass rat tail wrapped around his owner's neck.
Somehow, I made an excuse and got out of there. No matter how gentile it ended up being, a girl must take care of herself. Ultimately, though, it just goes to show that in the presence of fear, sometimes a little conversation goes a long way. AND, everyone likes to show off their pet. (-;
Do you think the use of baby powder rises significantly on Friday mornings? Not because babies need their diapers changed more frequently that day or there is a preponderance of diaper rash breaking out. It's because we're tired, ladies, and that last day of the week...
we sleep in a little too long, and
the clock is ticking, and
our hair is a little greasy, but not too bad, and
the baby powder is just staring at us, and
Angelina Jolie puts a little in her hair, and
so does Rebecca Romijn, and
they look fantastic, so
why wouldn't I?
And so it goes, but somehow I never end up looking like a super model. Instead, I have a whitish cast to my hair that still ends up looking limp by the end of the day.
So, I go to have dinner with a friend at a local Chinese restaurant. I took off that stocking hat (or do you say cap?). I'm thinking now, what a good friend, to stare at that hair for a few hours and not say, "Good gracious me, girl, get some dry shampoo and a curling iron out." Anyway, we sat and talked forever, and then I came into the house and looked into the mirror, and lo and behold, my stocking cap was sticking off my head EXACTLY as depicted below. I mean, it was one phenomenal, crazy, crooked, knitted creation rivaling "The Cat in the Hat." I burst out laughing! What the heck? And complete with baby-powdered, strangly hair. What a sight! If I just added maple syrup and matted it a little, I would totally be on my way to the land of dreads!
La, la, la. So, I had a completely different painting in mind for today as I walked into the house, but this one usurped it. Kept my cap on the entire time I painted and wrote--have to feel the passion on my head. I love the watery pink background on this one. It reminds me of when you are coloring Easter eggs with those little tablets and vinegar, and you're so excited to see the color changing that you take the egg out with your hexagon-shaped copper wire lifter before the color fully adheres to the white shell. Watery pink. Dreamy background for stocking hat loving baby powder.
I fiddled with the dark blue on the cap after I took the pic--I like the shading on it better now, but I'm running out of time, peeps. No time to post the updated one. Still love it! Mwah!
This is a complete understatement. I would love to expound, but some other time.
I've had a rough week. I want to do just what this girl is doing. Sitting in a chair, legs crossed, reading a real, honest-to-goodness worn hardback book. A book smelling of aged paper, velvet to the touch, that will take me to other worlds.
Here's another gal that's one of a kind. My friend Cassie Bruce is funny and smart as a whip. And see, she has one of those sharp, quick-witted minds--like acid laced with honey. (-; Cutting edge, man, but a heart of gold. Watch out for Cassie, world, she's the type that people underestimate, and she's got more going on than anyone knows.
My friend Shelley says we're like that, too. That people underestimate us and don't realize that we're smart, because we laugh a lot. I'm laughing now! Boy, could we/I sound any vainer? ¡Dios Mio! (I'm going to leave the admission, though, because sometimes that's what good friends say to each other.) But, Shelley, Cassie, and I like being "Columbo-like" (hmm, the 2nd time I've mentioned Columbo is this blog. One of my childhood idols? Perhaps, so!) I was little, little when my mom used to watch Peter Falk fumble and mumble his way through investigations. People always slipped and told him little snippets of details that would skewer them like a shish kebob in the end, because they thought he was dumb-dee-dumb-dumb.
It's like being a Rocky. And while I drew and painted and wrote tonight, I cued up "Rocky" on my computer and watched/listened to it. I like tender-hearted underdogs. Maybe because I'm feeling that way right now...or maybe it's because I see people like Cassie, working 2 jobs, raising a little girl with her man, going to school, and being smarter and more wonderful than people know.
This is a little conversation we had today. P.S., this looks nothing like Cassie. ha! (-;
Me: "Your hair looks cute. You parted it differently today."
Cassie: "It was cuter in the morning."
Me: "What happened? A hat? The wind?
Cassie: "Life."
There's all sorts of full-length "Columbo" episodes on YouTube. Here's just a little peek at him for all you youngsters out there. I had forgotten that he was always referring to his wife. (-: I told you, I was just a itty, bitty pipsqueak then!
The soundtrack is great, too, and every time I even say the movie's name, I hear the theme song--"Barcelona" byGuilio & Los Tellarini--swirling around me for an hour afterwards.
Did I eat too many raw oysters last night or do these 2 look almost identical?
SUPERBOWL XLVII
This is going to be an extra-emotional one.
Baltimore Ravens' John Harbaugh and San Francisco 49ers' Jim Harbaugh--brothers-in-arms...well, not for today.
If you don't know what's going on, here's a little catch-up:
Check HBO Sports link below for a great interview with the brothers and father (couldn't they have asked the mom one question? Loved the story about the apple butter sandwiches!)
A few weeks ago I watched Cary Joji Fukunaga's 2011 version of "Jane Eyre" with Michael Fassbender and Mia Wasikowska. There is a scene, where Mr. Rochester (Fassbender) is speaking to Jane. He is intrigued by her; she possesses an innocence and lightness of mind--even though she has suffered greatly in her short life--that he has lost. At one point he stares at her intensely and says,
"You transfix me, quite."
It was...arresting. I think I caught my breath.
What a beautiful wording...putting that "quite" on the end of the sentence. Of course, the fact that Michael Fassbender uttered them in a low, deep voice, with piercing blues eyes did not hurt.
In January 2004, James Lipton aired an interview with Russell Crowe. Lipton always asks actors the same questions at the end of the interview, one of which is, "What turns you on?"
Russell Crowe replied, "A well-constructed sentence will give me chills." I completely understand.
"You transfix me, quite."
Here's another great one from the movie:
I struggled with this painting. His face came and went as I reworked it. It looked good, and then I lost it. I wanted to portray him "lost in grayness"--the color of his torment--contrasted with the soft green and violet of the plants growing out of the grayness--the possibility of lightness with Jane. I guess it was apropos that is was a struggle, as their love--and what stood in there way--was a struggle.
This is the man I was watching (Day 37. "I'm So Tired, a.k.a that darn YouTube") on Youtube on the Irish "Late, Late Show." And the bizarre twist was, right after I had seen "Jane Eyre," I saw Fassbender in "Shame" on IFC (Independent Film Channel)--or Sundance Channel. "Shame" is about sexual addiction. And as you may suspect, Michael's blessings of physical attractiveness extends to every area...ahem. Here's the thing, though. This man is such a great actor...so unbelievably talented. So much so, that even in the midst of the most graphic sex scenes, he can convey miniscule pleasure overcome by painful desperation. His despair in his addiction is palpable. What an incredible actor.
Today was supposed to be my big reveal on why I was up all night (see Day 37 "I'm So Tired") and also the launching off of my month of "Love."
Forget it.
Today kicked me to the curb. We had a 16 degree below zero windchill factor as students and staff alike walked from our faraway parking lots into college today. A student walking behind me said to her friend, "I feel like crying." It's that brutal. The cold is so oppressive. I used to be a winter girl, but I'm starting to finally understand why fragile-bodied retirees flee towards the sun, their flaky, phyllo-dough skin yearning for warmth.
And why wasn't that bird flying toward the equator? Yesterday I saw a red cardinal outside our building window, and he has been on my mind ever since. There were several birds flitting around a bare-branched tree. I watched the cardinal rise toward the branches and then fall back to the ground. Was it injured? It didn't look like it had a broken wing. Soon it was the only bird left. I wanted to go rescue it from the balmy 8 degree below zero windchill, but suddenly it was pecking at the ground for/at food.
I started pecking inside my brain and pulled forth 5th grade. Cardinals don't migrate in the winter. And, they mate for life. Maybe this is a love story after all. I'm still worried about that little guy, though...and myself as I start to consider where I can migrate until the spring equinox.
