#inktober52, #inktober, "Eyes"

I've always been a fan of N. C. Wyeth.  I love his lusty, heroic illustrations and the books that went with them.  I wasn't a fan of his son, Andrew.  He seemed spoiled and sulky to me, self-important.  That's the problem with being alive at the same time as another artist.  I can judge them, not just their work.  When he died and his Helga paintings were discovered, I assumed he had an affair with her and was even more judgmental.  I didn't want to like evidence of something I consider wrong -- though as far as I know Helga never admitted to anything other than posing for him.  I watched a youtube video on Andrew and realized I do like his work, and probably would've liked him personally a lot better than his father.  Maybe I need to gain some maturity to get there?

Andrew Wyeth's Helga

What our eyes see is bent by the way our brains think.  We all make judgments despite the biblical admonition, "Judge not lest you be judged".*  Our critical minds make observations which help us get through life, but it's like eating apples.  One apple is good for us.  Too many apples give us a stomach ache.  One judgmental, critical observation may be true.  That doesn't mean all our other judgments and criticisms are true too.

The important thing is to be able to change our minds.  Changing my mind about Andrew Wyeth lets me look at his work in a new way which will change what or how I paint.  On a national level, I'm hoping people will change their minds about social distancing, wearing masks, and climate change (plus who they vote into office!).  Being able to change course is a sign of intelligence and humility.  None of us know everything.  I respect the people who learn and grow through their lives.

Something I didn't expect to discover during the Covid pandemic is that I like masks because they hide fake smiles.  A real smile crinkles a person's eyes.  An old person with a lot of smile crinkles is a good person.  I'd like to draw them.  I want to get to know them.  I want to know what they know, and how I might be still self-deluding myself or unfairly judging others.  Some day I want to be the old lady with the crinkled eyes whom a younger person wants to know because I'll have discovered the secrets to life and laughed through the journey.

The internet is full of false perfection.  We all want to look better, seem more successful, be happier than anyone else.  I see TV commercials about ointments that take away wrinkles and I don't think the people really look that much better.  Other ads promote airbrushing your skin issues away.  That isn't where true beauty is.  I think this makes people look plastic and unreal.  Nobody wants to paint someone that fake, and the best art can exaggerate the flaws we see in ourselves because that's the stuff that shows our character and makes us interesting.  People who love us will love us with our flaws anyway.

Observe, have an open mind, be willing to change course.  You'll do better at whatever you do and will be a much more beautiful person to be around too.

I did a post about drawing eyes.  You can see it here.  I also did a post about painting an eyeball.  I still think about painting a mess of these and putting them on the mantle.

*Matthew 7:1, and a sign that even the unwashed can quote scripture :)

"Princess"

I've been playing with Barbies lately.  I know, it doesn't seem like me.  Maybe it's time to get in touch with my inner child and move past my disdain for dolls?  Well, I'm not actually playing with dolls.  I'm just painting 2-D Barbies, and the more I paint them, the more ideas I have for them.  Maybe this is the point of play?

I recently started a painting (not this one), knowing that most of an object I labored over creating was going to eventually be painted over with something else.  This was an irritating decision, but I decided it's unavoidable.  Enjoy the process.  Experiment.  Be curious.  See where things go.  If it turns out badly, paint over it.  Talk to Barbie.

You can't learn anything new if you insist you already know everything or if you're afraid to try.  If every painting is a masterpiece, it devalues the path to your actual achievements.  Be willing to fail.  Learn.  Grow.

Barbie is a lot like fairy tale princesses.  Pretty and special with her handsome Ken.  She has an endless happily ever after where nobody gets sick or old.  Being a princess isn't all it's cracked up to be if Meghan Markle is any indication though.  Good for her for deciding what she wants her life to be, and good for her to pick a husband who supports her choices.  Live long and prosper.

I think a lot of us are invested in the princess fantasy.  Having a foot small enough for a glass slipper can get you out of scrubbing floors forever.  Who wouldn't want that?  Sounds great.  I hate washing floors.  It's too bad I have average sized feet and I've never met a handsome prince who wants to measure them.

Fantasy is a plus and a minus.  Creativity leads to many wonderful things.  If we can dream of something, we can work towards making it a reality.  If we get mired in our dreams without doing anything, we live in poverty with dirty floors.  We marry the guy who turns into a beast instead of turning into Prince Charming.  We whine it's unfair we weren't born princesses.

Play is important.  Kids have to play to learn.  The more fun the learning, the more they learn.  Who decides when a kid is too old for that kind of thing?  Probably somebody who wants the kid to be quiet or live out the aspirations of the person banning the playing.  Evil step-mothers who envy youth and beauty aren't the only ones who squash the joy in kids.  Sometimes even the best intentioned people take away others' joy because that's the way they think it has to be.  Give those people Barbies.

I've been keeping my thoughts to myself lately because I've been bouncing between outrage and depression as I watch the destruction of democracy in the US amidst others' apathy and misinformation.  It didn't seem very useful to spread those kinds of feeling around.  I've been reading in Robin Hobbs' books instead, in other words, escaping into fantasy.  Kings, queens, princes, and princesses -- they're all great if they're fictional in a fictional world and all the blood is red paint.  Maybe I should paint a Farseer assassin Barbie?

"Selling Art (or anything else)"

I met a fellow painter not so long ago.  She wants to sell more art.  Yeah, we all want that.  She thinks the answer is Instagram.  Okay.  Do that then.  She did, but her art didn't sell even though her art is good enough to be marketable.  I got to know this woman a bit more and recognized she lacks empathy.  The only thing she cares about her customers is that they give her money for painting whatever she wants to paint.  She talks non-stop about herself.  She's taxing to be around so I quit talking with her.  I'm pretty sure her customers feel the same way and don't like being treated like ATMs.

Art is a collaboration between the artist and the viewer.  If you want money from someone (in any field), you have to give them something they want in return.  You need to be empathetic to what their wants might be, not just to manipulate them into one-time purchases, but to honestly care about what they want to build relationships.

Maybe they want cat art because they like cats.  Maybe they want to feel like they're part of the creative process and their support is a contribution that makes them feel good about themselves.  Maybe they want to be friends with the artist.  There are loads of reasons for people to buy art that doesn't have anything to do with what's on the canvas.  We need to figure out what customers are actually seeking and match efforts to the buyer.  If you create only to suit yourself, then don't be surprised nobody is buying it.

I've been having art flashbacks since visiting the National Gallery in Washington, marveling at the technical skills of the masters, but also trying to define the magic they captured.  In contrast, I've thought about people online.  Most show the world their ideal selves, not the sweat pants torn t-shirt version of themselves eating ice cream.  Some people relentlessly put all their insecurities and vulnerabilities out there.  It's too much either way.  I've got my own problems.  Don't dump your perfection or garbage on me.  Don't get me wrong, I'm happy when other people are happy.  I'm sad when others live hard times. It's just that there has to be some balance and honesty in our relationship.

Rembrandt was hugely successful and made tons of money when he was young.  He lost it all and died poor.  Somewhere in the course of his mistakes and tragedies he learned humility.  His honesty comes across in his later work.  His self portrait is vulnerable.  He was certainly capable of painting himself in Photoshopped Facebook perfection, but he painted himself with flaws.  My heart aches for him across the centuries.

Rembrandt is speaking to his viewers.  He trusted them with his truth because he had the empathy to know others wanted to see that honesty.  That takes bravery, and I think all the masters share that kind of trust and courage.  I think we're missing that today, or maybe it was rare even in Rembrandt's day?

Many people can learn to paint well (or write, program, or whatever).  Technical mastery is a skill.  Put in enough time and effort and you'll master just about anything you aim to do.  Getting someone else to care about your mastery requires more.  You have to have the courage to let people see your flaws for them to actually care about you and what you do.  Relationships and money follow truth.

The above art is from my current painting.  I'll admit it was an itchy, difficult effort to paint a negative.  I took a photo and reversed it to see how well I'd done it.  I'm rather pleased at the results considering the faces are only 1/2" high on rough canvas, and I'm also pleased at the imperfections since it's of my wedding photo.  My ex looks like a zombie and that seems appropriate.  I've made mistakes.  I kind of like seeing that reflected in the art :)

"Technology"

Hey, whaddaya know!  IF finally gave us "technology" for a new word and I just painted a computer mouse.  It's a sign 2020 is going to be an excellent blogging year, right?  Right?  Hope springs eternal.

Every January I look at my previous year of blog posts to remind myself of life's journey.  I've felt like I was very internally focused in 2019 but looking through my posts I did a lot of people things.  Volunteering at the food giveaway has been interesting.  I've been repeatedly annoyed IF forgets to give us new words on Fridays.  I worried about 45 starting a war with Iran last summer.  I participated in Inktober and took some trips.

My dog died last fall.  I still "see" her all the time, and I'm not ready for a new pup -- but I keep thinking about one.  Every time I see a dog I think about the breed's pros and cons.  I'm leaning towards finding a beagle mutt, maybe in the spring.  I'm not looking forward to house breaking, puppy feet on art projects, or furniture chewing.  I'm certain I've mentioned how much I like old dogs who understand how to share a peaceful coexistence.  Bro2 says my new dog will find me when we're both ready.  We'll see, and see what else happens this year.

I'm not much for New Year's resolutions, but I have some goals for the year.  I feel kind of superstitious talking about them like revealing your wish when blowing out the birthday candles.  Hopefully, good things will happen without too many bad things to balance the scales.  I tried to cut back on my caffeine and immediately abandoned that when I got a screaming headache.

I usually try to avoid talking about politics on this blog, but I don't know how successful I'll be at that this year.  The US presidential election will happen in November.  The current president is impeached and his trial in the Senate will probably happen soon.  How am I supposed to be quiet about that?  If he starts a war with Iran I'm pretty sure I'll have to say my piece about it.

It's January in Ohio and my neighbor's magnolia tree is budding.  I have my window open because it's 60F degrees outside.  In other words, I'm pretty sure I'll be thinking about climate change this year.  That's nothing new.  I've been thinking about the environment since I was a child and the Cuyahoga River caught fire, spawning Earth Day and motivating Nixon to create the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA).  To this end, here's a video about the toll fashion takes out on the world by comedian Hasan Minhaj.  Currently, I extend my deepest sympathies to Australians and scorched koala bears.

The mouse above is from my latest painting.  I wasn't happy with the painting, but I didn't want to toss it out or repaint parts of it.  I finally came to terms with my artistic angst and revised the canvas.  I'm much happier.  I don't know why I fought myself so hard about it.  It took much more effort to fight myself about it than to actually make the revisions.  I'm still working on it, and will show you when it's finished, but I'm going to set it aside and work on something else for a while.

I hope 2020 is going great for you so far!

"Family 3"

I hope everyone enjoyed their holiday and miraculously lost 10 pounds eating cookies.  Now that I think of it, I didn't get a single cookie.  This seems like a serious oversight since I'm pretty sure fortune cookies don't count.

The view on the way into the National Gallery of Art

I went to Washington, DC to visit a friend.  I suggested going to the White House and protesting, but 45 Christmased in Florida and there didn't seem much point to making signs if he wasn't going to see them.  My friend and I went to the National Gallery of Art instead.  Great art.  I highly recommend going if you're ever in DC.  Even if you don't travel there, the museum has art lectures on youtube.  Look them up and learn stuff. 

I inquired where to find specific paintings I wanted to see and the nice lady made a point of telling me not to miss a little room with Vermeers in it.  I was distracted when she told me this and almost missed the significance of her recommendation.  I peeked around a corner and woo!  Vermeer!  Little gems that I really did need to see, and nobody else in the room to bother my intense examination of them.  Lovely.

David's Cupid and Psyche in Cleveland beats Napoleon any day!

I spent some happy time with Titian, Rubens, on and on and on.  My only disappointment was their only Jacques Louis David painting is of Napoleon.  I mean, it's really well painted, but who wants to look at Napoleon?  The Cleveland Museum of Art has Cupid and Psyche.  Cleveland wins!

The museum has a number of Rembrandts, but I'm kind of specific in my love of his work.  I was thrilled to see his self portrait.  Nothing I can show on the web can compare to standing in front of the reality.  Imagine my little heart going pitty pat at the texture and details.

Detail of Rembrandt's self portrait, but this doesn't do the original justice.
The paint is caked on and has a fabulous texture.

I don't think it's possible to fully appreciate the whole museum in one day so I'll have to go back sometime.  I got online to find these photos of paintings for this post and realize how many things I still need to see there.  It may take me a while to forget how much I hate driving in DC first though.  Once again, I got turned around and frantic driving on illogical freeways.  At one point I had to cross 4 lanes of traffic because they put the exit ramp on the left side.  Who does freeway planning?!!  I was busy hyperventilating after this driving feat and missed my next exit which led me in all sorts of other places I didn't want to go, and they charged me tolls for the privilege.

My friend had to work some of the days I visited so I worked on a new painting.  It was pleasant to have an art retreat for the holidays.  The image at the top is just a part of my latest piece.  I'm rethinking a big chunk of the rest of it and may end up painting over some of it.  I hate it when that happens, but it's my own fault for not starting with a better plan.

I hope you had a wonderful holiday doing what you like most with the people you like best.  Wishing everyone a happy, healthy, successful New Year!!!

"Family"

I was told I died.  You'd think I would've noticed that, but my friend told me he had it on good authority.  I guess I should've asked when and how, and maybe most especially, who came up with this?!  It reminds me when I was a teenager and told Mike had died.  I was with the distraught family when Mike walked in after a weekend of carousing.  He was concerned to see his mom crying.  He put his hand on her shoulder and asked, "Who died?".  Scared her to death herself!  Everybody had a good laugh.  Turned out Mike's wallet had been stolen and the thief had it when he totaled his car.  I guess it wasn't a good ending for the thief, but was a happy relief for Mike's family and me.

My premature death notice was one of those things when you learn the world is smaller than we notice most of the time.  A friend of mine mentioned an acquaintance's name.  "I know him!  I was best friends with his sister when we were in school!"  I happily gossiped and mentioned other classmates from days gone by.  I salivated at the memory of Dave's mom's homemade apple strudel.  My friend repeated some of these names to Dave and eventually passed on my greetings for me.  That's when Dave said I was dead.  Our mutual friend assured him I looked alive last week.  I poked myself and said I was pretty sure that was still true.  I feel ripped off I didn't get a glowing obituary in the paper and condolence cards, though I feel kind of sorry if anyone actually grieved over my premature death.

I might be more fussed about Dave's belief in my non-existence if I hadn't lived through that time when it happened to Mike.  I saw Mike a few years ago and I know a mistaken obit isn't a harbinger of something to come.  Maybe Dave got me mixed up with someone else?  Maybe my ex still spreads lies about me?  Whatever.  Maybe I should have lunch at Kleifeld's Restaurant in Willoughby where I always see someone I know from the old days to prove I'm still here and still trying to make the most out of the time I have on the planet.

Sometimes I'm happy to be included in a large family and the hometown community.  Sometimes it makes me want to scream.  Really, people -- gossip about someone else!  Oh, but didn't I gossip a bit about Dave and others to my friend?  Oops.  Well, yeah, but, you know, public service announcements or something, as I mutter to myself about hypocrisy and try to think up a good rationalization to excuse myself.  I don't spill all the dirt I know about people at any rate.  That's got to count for something, right?  Um, yeah.  Glass houses.

None of this seems apropos to the holiday, but it is the current gossip.  I thought it was funnier than my non-successful trip to the store in search of gifts.  I walked out with a $1 desk calendar for myself and nothing else.  I hate shopping.  I don't know how all the rest of you manage this every year.  I think I'll be taking my own advice from last week and bake some presents.

I'll take suggestions.  What are your favorite sweets to receive?

"Brain 4"

Thanksgiving has happened so now America shops for Christmas.  Well, I don't, but it seems like everyone else does.  The economy depends on it.  It seems to me there has got to be better ways to base economies than just accumulating stuff.  I'm more inclined to give home cooked food.  People eat the cookies or whatever and they aren't burdened with more things to cram into their houses or landfills.

I recently lectured a couple of my friends about buying kids too much plastic.  I felt guilty afterwards as both friends are enthusiastic grandmas who want to spoil their grandchildren -- but maybe they are exactly the kinds of people I should lecture about plastic?

Think about it, we ship oil across the world to be turned into plastic in a third world country, or we buy oil from the Middle East with its problems, before shipping it to the third world country.  Making the plastic is a toxic mess that gets into the air and water, poisoning the underpaid workers and getting into the global environment.  Once the all-important plastic stuff is created, it's shipped back around the world where it will be used for a short time before it's thrown away.  This doesn't even factor in the excessive plastic packaging, or the trees that are cut down for all the Amazon shipping boxes, or the fact that there are oil spills and other mistakes that dump plastic in the oceans.

When I visit the homes of people with children, I'm amazed at the amount of stuff little kids have.  It's crazy.  The kids don't even play with all that stuff.  One family has a couple of T-ball stands in the back yard.  I watched the boys have a good time whacking plastic balls with plastic bats.  That's nice, except I drove home and thought about the old days.  T-ball was a wooden post nailed to a wooden X base.  The ball was leather stuffed with who knows what, rat fur as far as I know.  Renewable resources at any rate.  The kids learned to hit the ball, then they didn't need the T anymore.  The wood was used for something else or it returned to the Earth by rotting in the backyard, but the plastic T, bat, and ball exists forever and probably end us in a bird's stomach.

I know, I know, some of you adore Christmas shopping.  You love spoiling the kiddies.  I know nobody wants to be lectured.  At the same time, can I suggest that you buy more Earth-friendly gifts?  Cuddling a kid on the couch and reading a book together is good.  Every kid (and adult) loves cookies.  Maybe you could make a snuggly stuffed animal or blankie for them?  I'm not anti-gift, I'm just trying to stop people from giving their kids their weight in plastic every year.  Give them experiences and memories.  Take them to the zoo or make crafts together.

I did this Christmas art for the Mensa Bulletin's December issue.  It doesn't have much to do with "brain" other than encouraging people to use their brains a little differently when shopping.  Illustration Friday has forgotten the meaning of Friday in its name.  Oh well, if they don't follow the rules that frees me up to ignore the rules too, right?

I hope everyone has a happy, cookie filled, plastic-free holiday season!

"History 2"

I started writing a post last week, complaining about being responsible, irritated I wasn't off partying when I had a perfectly lovely invite to NY.  The US president, Turkey, Putin, and Saudi Arabia were giving me migraines.  I was annoyed IF didn't give a new word.

I threw up my hands, made a quick call, packed my bag in minutes, and left my aggravations at home.  I'm pretty sure it was one of my better decisions even though my deadlines look a lot worse this week.  What's the point of living if everything we do is responsible?

The leaves between here and there are starting to turn.  I'm sure the drive would be even prettier next week, but it was pretty enough.  I ate a hearty breakfast with my friend and admired the view from the cafe window.  I took her dog for a walk and shot photos of apples just because.  I woke to the sound of Lake Chautauqua lapping at the shore just outside the bedroom window and heard the birds calling.  I quit thinking about deadlines.  Mostly.  I vented my frustrations of world affairs with like-minded people, drank wine, and enjoyed a BBQ.

My friend suggested a trip to Roger Tory Peterson Instituteof Natural History.  I was only mildly interested in going.  I grew up with Peterson's field guides; Dad and I used them all the time to identify the wildlife that surrounded us in the woods.  I just didn't think of Peterson's work as very exciting.  It's anatomically correct images s of the minute differences between birds and such.  Important, but kind of boring.

To be fair, I was right about my expectations on the 2nd floor of the museum.  It's full of carefully painted, perfect variations of birds.  The ground floor far exceeded my expectations.  Peterson painted much more than his field guides.  One painting shows a dragonfly carrying off a hummingbird.  I loved a painting of a majestic golden eagle, oh wait, I love the next painting more!

There is also a current exhibit of Guy Coheleach's art which I also greatly enjoyed.  I turned a corner and felt my heart leap at a fish painting.  Awesome, lovely, how did he do that?!  I peered at his paintings with the full intent of stealing, em, being inspired by, some of his techniques.  I happily pointed out various paintings by both artists to my friend with the suggestion that any of these would make great presents to me.

I wandered the halls and felt happy in a way I haven't felt in quite a while.  The RTP Institute is devoted to natural history and art, 2 topics very close to my heart.  The pretty building is nestled in the woods.  I was with a dear friend and a teenage girl who was wide open to the experience.  The guy who tended the museum is a doppelganger of my recently deceased friend, with the same kind of Labrador friendly attitude.  We chatted over a tank of Hellbenders and he affectionately told us all about these endangered giant salamanders and even posed for a picture so we had evidence of his spitting image to Danny (which I unfortunately don't have as it's on my friend's phone).

Lesson for the week: when invited to do fun things, go.  Some responsibilities can wait.

"History" "Ancient" #inktober and #inktober2019

The other day a friend called and asked for help raking leaves.  I warned him I was in shorts and he joked about my marble legs seeing daylight, asking what kind of columns my legs were.  I promptly replied, "Doric".  He laughed and said, "I thought so!"  I laughed because he understood my answer even though he didn't suffer through 4 years of art history classes in college.  Ah yes, nerd humor.

Every year I look on with interest at other people's submissions for Inktober.  I keep meaning to do something for it, and then, well...  Okay, I procrastinate and make excuses.  Yesterday, I found a pen on my desk I kind of like.  IF was days late with the weekly word, I saw the Inktober list, and the universe collided into actual action.  I'll sum up my expensive college understanding of Greek columns for both IF's "History" and Inktober's "Ancient".

The first "order" is Doric.  This is the simplest style with a square on top of the column.

The second order is Ionic.  This style is recognized by the big scrolls at the top.

The third order is Corinthian.  This is the fanciest style with leaves and other decoration.

Really, do you need to know any more than that about Greek architecture?  Yeah, you can learn more about their buildings, but I think this is all I've needed to keep in my long-term memory.  These styles were taken by the Romans and many other cultures.  The US uses them extensively in government buildings as a way to harken back to the first efforts at democracy with the hope for the timelessness and solidity of that ancient realm.

Part of me really wants to write about current political events in the US.  Another part of myself is screaming at myself to shut up about it.  Just let things play out and hope for the best.  Maybe the only real answer is to let a little of this leak out in this post?

We're living in history right now.  The president will be impeached.  That's a foregone conclusion because the House of Representatives has the numbers and intention to do it.  Then the matter will go to the Senate who has the duty to decide whether or not to evict the president from the White House.  The Senate is ruled by the president's party, so actually firing him is probably unlikely, but it could happen depending on what comes up during the trial.  I feel like I'm reliving my childhood during Nixon's impeachment.  I can't stop watching today's news just like I obsessively watched it back then.  I'm really tired of reality TV and wish for a calmer political climate.

I'm also very taken by Greta Thunberg, the Swedish teenager who passionately spoke to the United Nations about climate change.  She's right about it all.  The world leaders bicker about stupid stuff and don't seem to actually do the things they need to do to protect our world.  This too is our living history.  If something doesn't change I don't know if there will be anyone left to read about it in the future.  I wish her success in her mission and hope.

I don't know if I'll be diligent with more Inktober drawings.  I'll give it a try.  People of all levels of ability participate.  If you'd like to play, go to the site here.

"Street"

My knee is permanently scarred from a close encounter with a tar and chip street.  I also lost my virginity in the bicycle accident as I was riding a boy's bike and the bar slammed my pelvis in a bone crushing way.  Okay, maybe I didn't technically lose my virginity, and I didn't even know what a virgin was at the time, but tell it to my younger self as she clutches herself in the grass and tries not to vomit at the side of the road.

Other than picking tarry rocks out of my knee, I kind of liked the tar and chip road.  The tar bubbled and oozed on hot summer days.  I skipped around and popped bubbles.  I squiggled my bare feet in thick, black splotches.  It's not like there were any cars getting in the way of my fun.  I'm sure Mom loved the black tracks I made across the living room floor when I got home, but I often cleaned my feet first with gasoline.  Yeah, very healthy.  I feel kind of whoozy at the memory of the fumes.

Can you really remember being a child?  Not just a mental picture like a snapshot in a photo album, can you feel the sun on your head?  Smell the pine trees and tar?  Hear the crickets chirping and the breeze blowing?  Taste Grandma's cooking?  See your own small body by looking down?

Creativity seems magical.  Ideas can feel like divine inspirations we draw from outside of ourselves.  Yet, I think most of creativity has real, tangible sources like observation and memory, skills all of us can develop.

I have to think a minute to remember what I had for dinner last night.  Pea soup.  Why bother remembering?  It doesn't matter unless I want to describe it to someone else -- and creating is all about sharing something.  If you want someone else to like your creations, appeal to a person's senses, the more senses the better.  My pea soup has a lot of potatoes in it, carrots, snow peas... This is a shopping list.  My stomach growled when the microwave dinged and I burned my fingers when I lifted the hot, creamy soup amidst the wafting cloud of thyme and tarragon... You see, more senses, more details, more interesting.

It's the same with painting.  Many people draw something floating on a white piece of paper.  Give it a background!  Give it a shadow!  Remember how things look in real life.  Memory isn't magical.  We all have it.  Look around in your brain and see what's in there.  Maybe your childhood street was cement.  Maybe you chalked pictures on it?  Can you taste the smell of chalk dust?

Then, after you've worked so hard to remember things and add details, start eliminating.  If it doesn't add to the story you want to tell, erase it.  In writing, I've decided I don't need the word "that".  It's often a waste of space and I use it a lot.  Delete.  In a painting, maybe I put too many petals on a flower.  Be willing to paint over, write over, everything unhelpful to your project.  When I first wrote board reports, I thought I had to tell board members and bosses everything I thought was important.  They don't care and don't have time to read it.  I changed my ways and got praise for my 1-page, bulleted reports.

The painting above wasn't meant to be anything, and I just photoshopped street lines on it for IF's word for the week.  I created the painting by fooling around with some cheap supplies and thought I'd use it as a background to something else.  I like bits of it though, and now I'm not sure what to do with it.  Maybe I'll use parts of it in something else, which is part of creativity too.  Experiment, play, pop tar bubbles on the street and see where the road takes you.

"Politician"

I effected government this week!  There was an emergency city council meeting for community feedback about erecting an apartment building for seriously disturbed and/or addicted people a couple of blocks from the schools and public library.  I had misgivings and went to city hall to find out more.

I didn't have much notice so I couldn't research anything to form an opinion.  No one else had much notice either.  All were outraged council tried to slide this by without public input.  The emergency meeting was only held due to quick actions by 2 council members.  I've never seen city hall so crowded.  People were jammed shoulder to shoulder, butts to tummies, and most couldn't even get in the room -- but they shouted and clapped from the jammed lobby.  It was hot in more ways than one, but we all stood for hours in a crowded room without air conditioning during suffocating high temps and humidity.

The pretty spokeswomen for the project appealed to our empathy.  Sick people need a place to live.  Are we a hard-hearted community who would turn these unfortunate people away?  I think most of us care about mental health and caring for those who need help, but the pretty women lectured us so long the angry horde started yelling at them to shut up with their sales pitch.  This is unusual in my town.  We're polite, not like our neighboring city and my hometown.  Those council meetings are legendary.

It turned out the residents would be very minimally supervised and could come and go as they pleased.  The city would get a 1-time payment of $100,000, no property tax would be charged.  No income tax would be earned as the residents would be too sick to hold jobs.

The citizens were allowed to speak, and some spoke really well.  I felt a sense of community with people who've lived here for decades and even generations.  At the very end, I  spoke up and said I'd listened to what everyone had to say.  Others had voiced my immediate concerns when I heard about the proposal and I summarized their points, dinging the mayor for his lack of research and community involvement. 

I raised a point others were too nice to say about the geography of my town.  We're close to the big city, but just inside the county line of suburbia.  With easy freeway access, we already struggle to deal with the drugs and crime leaking over the border.  We're a tiny city and our police have too much to handle.  (The police chief loves me now.)  The money offered by this for-profit company would be gone in no time for police, roads, etc.  The company didn't offer guarantees the residents would take their meds.  If one of them committed suicide, it would be our people cleaning up the mess. 

The pretty women spoke about how we should care for the troubled in our community, but these weren't "our" people.  We're happy to take responsibility for those in our small city, but we can't take on the big city's problems.  I talked for my whole 5 minutes, and I'm pretty sure everything I said was on point.  The council president nodded as I spoke and I got a round of applause from the angry horde.  I'm patting myself on the head for speaking well at the right time.  Yay!!!  I was flushed with the joy of accomplishment, or maybe heat stroke?  Did I mention there wasn't any AC?  Plus, I hate public speaking.

The police chief gave the grim stats of another city with one of these facilities.  He reemphasized my point the company wasn't offering enough to cover our costs to host them.  Then, it turns out the property is a cemetery without head stones.  You want to dig up a graveyard to put unsupervised severely mentally ill people by a school?!

Some councilmen still voted for this mess despite the angry horde.  I think they got together with the company's pretty women over drinks and forgot politicians work for us.  Now I know who to vote against next time, but the majority of council voted it down.  Yay for the people!!!

Let me add a point about caring for mentally ill people.  We should.  It's the right thing to do.  People who need help should have a place to get it.  It's just city planners need to use their brains about where such facilities are placed and listen to the people.

"Mysterious 2"

There were quite a few white apricots left over from the last food giveaway.  I took them home and canned them.  Since some people seem to hoard my pint-sized canning jars, I had to put the apricots in quarts.  I dislike doing quarts as it takes more hot water and everyone eating my bounty is a single person.  A quart of anything is a lot for 1 person.  Whatever.  The apricots went into the quarts and my single people snatched them up.

I also canned some papayas, but that meant I had to do 2 batches of canning.  When I took the jars of apricots out of the hot water, the water level dropped when I put in fewer jars of papaya.  Again, whatever.  I was hot and tired.  I just wanted to finish the steam bath I was getting on the hottest day of the year.  The jars looked sealed when I was done.  Since I'd run out of room in the kitchen, I put them in the outside sunroom to cool.

A couple of days later, I decided the sunroom was probably too hot for the jars.  I brought them inside and ignored them for a few days.  After a while, a not quite unpleasant and mysterious odor seemed to be in the kitchen and I couldn't find the source.  I also got invaded by carpenter ants.  Now, I'm betting you see the connections in this story.  I didn't.  I went on an increasingly frantic ant murdering spree until I picked up a jar of papaya and saw it was swarmed with ants.  The lid had popped off and there was an interesting, bubbling science experiment inside.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, compost fermenting papaya, wash everything... there were still ants.  I was losing my mind about then.  I finally found a second jar had exploded papaya all over the crowded table, the chair, the floor... There might've been some cussing.  Sooo, lesson for the week as stated by one of my apricot recipients, "Don't experiment with the rules of canning!"  Excellent lesson.  I'm hoping the ants died from botulism.

Properly canned papaya and apricots

On a happier note, I've been painting more flowers.  Bro2 said my other flower painting made him think of chakras, so I did this painting with that in mind.  Per Google, chakras are "(in Indian thought) each of the centers of spiritual power in the human body".  You can think of that as energy flowing through your body.  When all is healthy and good, it flows in a direct line bottom to top and you radiate joy.

You may have noticed some people aren't radiating joy.  They probably have a blocked chakra(s) and ought to meditate on the blockage.  Chakras are like Maslow's hierarchy of needs.  Each chakra is color coded.  From bottom to top:

root (red) - safety, stability

sacral (orange) - joy, sensuality, emotion

solar plexus (yellow) - will, power

heart (green) - relationship, love

throat (blue) - expression, communication

3rd eye (purple) - clarity, wisdom

crown (white) - transcendence

I have to wonder where black carpenter ants fit into the pretty chakra rainbow?  My flower has quite a bit of white in it though, so maybe I've transcended my cussing ant murdering spree?

Just in case

"Fox"

I've discovered painting restoration videos on youtube.  They're so soothing and fascinating.  I suspect many people would see them as dull as watching fishing (which I also like), but I don't smoke pot, so you know, calming, ohhhmmm.  Fewer calories than chocolate.

I know art in a photo or video isn't the same as seeing it in person.  On the other hand, extreme close-ups of intricate details of Queen Elizabeth's dress isn't something I'll probably get to see in real life.  How was the lace painted?  Look at those pearls!  See the shadows on the embroidery stitches!  That's info I can use in my own work in the future.

Restoration is often a war on abuse.  One video showed a painting that had been ripped when it fell into a chair.  Nooooo!!!  Maybe you non-art types can't understand how seeing that damage could make me cry, but some of you can relate.  It's like seeing starving children and abused puppy commercials on tv.  Okay, maybe some of you don't care about that either.  There's no hope for some people.

The invalid painting is lovingly placed on the table for pre-op.  Nails are removed, dirt scrubbed off, yellowed varnish stripped away, holes patched, edges reinforced, old retouching removed... I'm sure all of this is tedious beyond belief and keeps cotton swab companies in business.  I keep thinking the restoration sometimes takes more work than creating the painting in the first place.  Eventually, the restorer gently dabs on new paint on the injured parts (the part I wish I could do) and a new coat of varnish seals it up for the next 100 years.

Proud before and after photos play at the end of the video, often with emotional music.  The baby has been saved!  Let's all rejoice together!  Onto the next abusive disaster.

There's something wonderful and lovely to think someone might like my paintings well enough to take care of them after I'm gone.  It makes me happy to look at my great aunt's art hanging in my computer room.  I hope someone else treasures it after me.

I saw multiple people messing with their phones while driving this week.  Nothing they were doing was important enough to put my life at risk.  They crossed center lines on the road but probably thought they were driving fine.  Everything these days is aimed at the trivial and immediate.  I think everyone would be better off if they slowed down and thought about what will be important in 100 years.

Think of Queen Elizabeth.  She had small pox as a child and used lead makeup for the rest of her life to cover the scars.  Once a week she cleaned it off with mercury.  I'm sure this seemed real important at the time, but it slowly killed her and made her look worse.  Her skin turned gray and her hair fell out.  Who knows what it did to her brain cells.

My advice?  Don't text and drive.  Watch paint dry.  Take life slower and don't worry about how many people "like" you at this particular minute.  If you want to join me in watching painting restorations, try this one by Julian Baumgartner.  I find it fascinating that he could rescue a painting on paper that was mounted on wood.

The art above is a detail from one of my recent I Spy paintings.  You can see I have monkeys in it but no foxes because Illustration Friday thinks the F is for Mondays lately.  Maybe I'll give you a fox next week if this pattern continues.

"Farm"

I went to college with a guy who was a really good artist.  I felt inadequate when I saw his homework in class every week.  I aspired to get better at my craft, but also recognized some people are just superior.  Imagine going to class with Rembrandt or Caravaggio or Da Vinci.  At some point you have to acknowledge some people have a magic the rest of us can't achieve.  I settled for working hard and knowing some day I'd be able to say I knew him when.

Part of my flawed thinking of the time was that my friend and I looked at the world in very different ways.  He was an action guy.  He saw the world with a wide lens and a fast shutter.  My world is much slower.  I look at one still thing intensely.  I couldn't be him, and it was wasting my time to try.  Comparing myself to him made me feel plodding and less than, a draft horse to a gazelle, but I was determined to succeed as best as I was able.

After college, I interviewed with a man who sneered when he read my resume.  "Spoiled, self-entitled snots go to your college!"  What?!!  I remembered the experience as a lot of sleepless nights of hard work with the best of mutually supportive friends.  My interviewer named my old classmate as a guy who thought he was God's gift to the art world.  My friend did have an ego, but I thought he deserved it.  He was really a great artist.  "He doesn't respect deadlines!  There are guys who have worked 40 years who are better than him!  Nobody will hire him!"  I was shocked as I listened to about a half hour of diatribe against my old friend.

I didn't get the job either, but I learned valuable lessons.  Keep your ego in check.  Meet deadlines.  Art hirers share info about artists so keep your reputation clean.  Most employers would rather have a draft horse than a gazelle.

At the job I did land, a big part of the job was paint cans.  Have you even bothered to notice art on paint cans?  Of course not, but somebody has to do it.  Hand with paint brush, hand with paint roller, hand with paint scraper... oooh!  A full body illustration of improper use on a ladder!  Yes, my ego was definitely kept in check.  I stayed employed.  I was grateful when my reliability led to better projects and eventually better jobs.

I don't know what happened to my old friend.  From the sound of it, he probably had to move to the other side of the world to get a job.  Maybe he paints houses now?  I thought he would be the one to become famous but I haven't seen his name or work again.

The point is you don't have to be best.  In the billions of people on the planet there is only one "best", and since art is subjective, we don't even know who that person is who will be remembered a couple hundred years from now.  Just do your best at whatever you do.

This painting is my latest.  You may notice there's a Grimm's Fairy Tales in the background, but don't confuse this with what I told you about my childhood Grimm trauma.  After our book burning, Dad got me an album where Danny Kaye gently told me stories with less mutilation and blood.  Well, it's still Grimm, but it was better.  I don't really understand why Dad thought I needed Grimm in my life.  Do any of you remember record albums?

It's Sunday as I write this and once again there wasn't a word on Friday.  Start a new tally for lateness.  Did I mention anything about deadlines and reliability?  Let's count my Schwinn Racer (which was the best bike ever) and the canoe license towards last week's prompt of "transportation".

Revision... Monday has given us a new word, "Farm".  Okay, same art but let's say the stick with string counts because it's used to make straight planting lines in the garden :)

"Imaginary Friend 2"

I was a painfully shy child.  I was okay with people I knew, but I didn't know how to talk to anyone else.  Dad noticed and took me to a Lake Erie breakwall.

"Ask that man what he's using for bait", he said as he nudged me towards an old man.  I'm sure my face showed panic, so Dad asked the old man himself.  They had a chatty, friendly little conversation before Dad took me to the next old guy.  "Go on", he said.  I nervously asked the man what he was using for bait.  The guy stuck his hand in his coffee can and showed squiggly things that he said were good for perch.  Next guy used minnows.  Next guy used a lure.  I learned what every old man on the lake used for bait.  I learned a lot about fish and fishing.  I wanted to talk to old guys every weekend after that.  I still like old guys.

Learning how to talk with other people is feeling like a lost art.  Everyone is glued to their phones and checking out how many likes they've gotten.  They watch TV shows where even the camera people seem afraid to make eye contact with someone they're filming, shooting them from the side or back while that person talks to an invisible subject off screen.

We need eye contact.  We need real conversations.  We need real human interaction.  We need to communicate that in our work, no matter what kind of work we do.  I think this is obvious for artists, but think about engineers designing products that regular people can't understand even with the engineers' incomprehensible manuals.  The better we understand others, the better we'll be at everything.  We learn to understand others by actually talking with them.

I've learned about Swedish death cleaning from a friend of mine.  That's right up there with Marie Kondo's get rid of everything that doesn't bring you joy.  I know I've mentioned I think this is all crazy, but to each their own.  If pitching your belongings makes you happy, then I'm happy for you.  I'm even happier when I get gifted stuff you don't want.  That's how I ended up with a big bag of wooden balls.

To show my appreciation for craft gifts, I painted one of the balls for my friend.  I made it a blue eyeball since she and her kids are blue-eyed.  She loves it.  She even loves the bloody underside of it (which I somehow neglected to photograph).  Glad to share some giggles over craft balls.  She thanked me and gave me a big bag of corks.  I'm still not sure what to do with those.  Any ideas?

I didn't get a new word last Friday so I decided to wait and see how long it would take for a new word to show up.  Still waiting 2 Saturdays later.  I hate that.  Do what you say you're going to do, or at the very least, tell us why you aren't doing it.  Communicate!  Didn't your father teach you how to talk to fishermen?!!

(If I need to comply with the ancient IF word at all, this is where I say you can practice talking with your imaginary friend.  Or maybe, talk to the hand?)

"Imaginary Friend"

I had an imaginary friend named Sally.  She was all sorts of wonderful.  She was the kind of girl to hold hands with while skipping and singing, pausing only to jump in mud puddles or to look at bugs.  She played nice in the sandbox, never thinking to hit me in the head with a metal truck.

I wonder what happened to Sally?  Did she grow up and marry Prince Charming and have 2 perfectly wonderful children?  Did she become an neurobiologist or a world famous musician?  Perhaps all of the above?  I hope she had a perfectly spectacular life.  I miss her.  I wish we'd kept in touch.

I felt pressured to give Sally up back then.  Mom wouldn't let Sally have a plate at the table.  Dad didn't want to take Sally fishing with us and I had to leave her at home.  My sister was more straightforward.  She made fun of me for indulging in fantasy while my parents exchanged looks with each other making it clear they agreed.  Stick with the real world.  Fantasy is next to crazy.

Sally went underground for a while.  I talked to her in my head instead of out loud.  I showed her the bugs I found.  I made her parts of our sandcastles.  I knew she was fantasy, but I was lonely.  The Glen where I grew up was filled with natural beauty, but it had very few children my age.  Sally brightened my days until I got a tiny, green turtle.  Then all those bugs became turtle food, and nobody seemed to care when I talked to him.

I think we give up too many things to count as we get older, so much so that we can't even remember what we used to have.  We forget to play and imagine.  We learn to fit in, but we're ghosts of our original selves and we spend too much of our adult lives trying to get some of ourselves back again.

I felt cursed by loneliness when I was a child.  Sometimes I look at it now as a gift.  With only myself to talk with, I decided for myself what I thought and felt.  When I got older, I was comfortable challenging societal norms when I experienced peer pressure.  Of course I had that sister who made fun of me, but I mostly didn't care what she thought.  After all, I didn't approve of everything she said and did.  Live your own life and leave me alone.

While I didn't have many kids to play with, I did have quite a few old people, some of them as lonely as I was.  They were a gift in a different way.  One old lady was charmed to have tea with my imaginary friend and hospitably put out a plate of cookies for Sally (which I helpfully assisted Sally in eating).  I had serious conversations with my old people and discussed issues I was hot and bothered with, issues I'm pretty sure I haven't even considered since.  Maybe they'll matter again when I'm old?

Sometimes the challenges we face turn out to be part of what makes us special.  Sometimes they cause us to look in different places than we would if everything was the way we wish it would be.  Everyone has something unique about their experience, and that uniqueness is what makes each of us important in the world.  Each person's story is its own piece of art.