Yesterday I did the youtube video that I also posted in my Facebook group. You can watch it, below, if you feel like it. But it made me think about the importance of community and how powerful being a part of, is.
Afterward I posted a more detailed prompt for my Patrons and promised them I’d figure out how to include Discord into the mix so that those who wanted to take up the challenge could post photos there. I had to get my son to help me because I couldn’t remember how to access Discord within Patreon, but thankfully, he showed me and soon I was chatting with some of my patrons, to much hilarity. And I was reminded once more of the joy of being a part of, the joy of having a community.
Sometimes when I can’t sleep, as is the case now, it’s 4am, I’ve been up since 2, I go into the other room and watch YouTube videos. This morning I watched this:
Which again had me reflecting on community, and the power and exhilaration that comes with being a part of something far greater than ourselves.
There is nothing more moving, more emotionally impactful than art, whether that’s in the form of visual or music; art can move me to tears. There are key moments in my life that I remember to this day, such as when my parents took me to an exhibit of Diebenkorn at the Oakland museum and the thrill of being emotionally moved to tears by a painting or the first time I ever saw Wayne Thiebaud’s painting of a pair of black shoes. I was transfixed, mesmerized, and I couldn’t even work out exactly why or watching flamenco dancers at the Joyce Theater and realizing I had tears streaming down my cheeks. Art, music, dance… creative expression astounds, engages, entertains, and is a constant reminder that I’m not alone, that I’m one of many, that whatever I’m going through, others have too.
I’ve mentioned before that I am teaching a workshop beginning this coming Saturday that I am more excited about than anything I’ve taught previously. Finding Your Voice Through Exploration & Creativity is more personal to me than anything I’ve done before and I’m thrilled that it’s almost sold out. I have just 3 spots left in it. Finding your voice is all about finding yourself in your artistic expression and how to do that if you don’t know where to look. It’s about working through fear and recognizing that fear while creating can be debilitating, but there are things one can do to work around it and do the work anyway. Finding your voice is about claiming yourself and creating what only you can create. Finding your voice is about putting ourselves out in the world so that we can become part of a larger artistic community. Finding your voice is the single most exciting thing I’ve had the joy of experiencing.
I’ve been taking Louise Fletcher’s free Find Your Joy taster class and it’s been SO wonderful. First of all Louise is lovely and humble and very, very talented, but also it’s exactly what I needed to encourage me to try painting again.
My first painting after many, many years…
When I was young I wanted to be a fine artist, but the adults in my life (not just my parents) encouraged me to be more responsible (aka get a REAL job.). So I went into fashion design, hated it, then jewelry design, loved it, but ultimately found it not exactly the right fit for me, then found hand stitching, and finally Improvisational Stitching, which has been so wonderful and freeing. I love improvisational stitching, but I also know this isn’t where everything ends. All of this I will be talking about in much more detail in my upcoming workshop: Finding Your Voice Through Exploration and Creativity. I will be sharing my experience with art, design, and evolution as an artist; how I came to improvisational stitching, the things I continue to do, look for and try. The workshop is all about encouraging and helping people find their unique voice. What motivates, what awes and inspires and how to take those things and incorporate them into your art. The workshop is personal and is the culmination of many things that I’ve done over the course of my life. We’re going to have a wonderful, wonderful time of soul searching in a safe environment, cheered on and encouraged to try things we might not otherwise try and we will talk about that inner critic. The one who is sometimes so loud we have a hard time concentrating. Each day is filled with exercises to help us see what’s blocking us, how to work through and around those blocks (and inner critic) and move towards what we love. There are still spots open! So sign up.
I’m a seeker, a life long learner. I got that from my mother. I love stretching and trying new things. I get bored pretty quickly, so improv stitching has been fantastic as the options are infinite. I can incorporate lots of different things into it.
When I was awarded the Artist’s Residency in France this spring, I had a studio and realized how much I needed that so I could work bigger and add paint to my pieces. My husband early into my 2-week residency said to me, while talking on the phone one evening, “So I guess you’re not going to be able to come back from this…”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Having a studio,” he said.
“Yup. Definitely going to be needing a real studio when I get home.”
So guess what? I was gifted part of a studio for the summer and painting was the first thing I wanted to do. And this is where Louise’s free class comes in. It’s all about painting and I figured I’d get some prompts and encouragement to paint again, and that’s exactly what I got and so much more!
2nd attempt at painting again…
I did six of these and had so much fun!
And then I hit a snag. I had one of those days where the voice in my head told me everything I was doing was awful. So I did what I’ve learned to do over decades of dealing with this voice. I kept going anyway, though I must admit there was little pleasure to be had… and when the voice became too insistent I went back to doing some hand stitching on La Bête, which is soothing and lovely.
Gimp French Knots, Added Wool with Ribbon Roses, Feather Stitch
And the next morning I woke up and went into the studio and began working on the piece that had me down and feeling like this whole painting idea was a bad one. And do you know what happened? I decided I rather liked it after all.
And then I decided that I wanted to try doing something I’d never attempted before. Doing an abstract piece using a photograph as inspiration.
I tested this idea out in my sketch book first.
And then I tried to recreate this on proper paper, but the size is off and I actually like the one in my sketch book best, so that was interesting!
It became too elongated. I like the square shape that I did in my sketch book. I may try this again with a square piece of paper.
I also played with some black paper using only black, white and red paint.
Anyway, the whole experience has been nothing short of amazing and so, so informative and just beyond wonderful. I’m loving my time in the studio where I go from painting to stitching and then back to painting and now can incorporate both in my work, which feels even more amazing. I love that as I learn new things my work changes. I love that just because I enjoy something I don’t have to stick with just that and do nothing else. I love that I continue to explore and grow and the work shows that as well.
I’ve tested positive. It was bound to happen, and yet, somehow it still caught me off guard. Even with two vaccinations and the follow up booster the virus managed to worm its way into my system. Blinding headache, but I’ve been getting migraines for over a year now, so thought this was some new horrible post menopausal progression that was the new normal. Took migraine meds. Nothing. Doubled the dose and finally had some relief. People who have chronic migraines talk about being in so much pain they’re nauseous and even vomit. I stopped just short of that. The feeling of exhaustion I attributed to my mother’s memorial service, losing her, missing her or some combination of all of the above.
But in the end, I’m a New Yorker. We’ve been through some pretty horrendous times when it comes to covid so when there’s any sign of fatigue, sniffle, anything out of the ordinary, get tested.
Negative. Whew. Dodged the bullet. Again.
Then the feeling of being chilled, even though it was a beautiful spring day. Sunny, in the 70’s. We haven’t started using our air-conditioning yet. I check the thermostat. 75 degrees inside. I’m happiest when it’s 70 or maybe 71, so this was odd as normally I’d be warm. Decide to test myself again, just to be safe. And there they were, those dreaded two lines. Grab a mask, start texting everyone I’ve come in contact with, cancel any appointments that can be postponed.
Instinctively reach for my husband’s hand, sense his reluctance and draw back. Right. I’m a walking viral infected vessel for the foreseeable future.
Still I was able to conduct my Patron’s Ask Me Anything Zoom meeting. I did a demonstration of how, with photos, and in real time, I evaluate a piece, the things I look for to help me decide what my next step might be by looking at value, composition, mark making, etc to give me ideas and direction. I use lots of photographs and annotate them. I even have one piece that isn’t quite right yet, this is a perfect example of what I’m talking about.
Afterwards another call, immediately after my Patron’s Zoom, but I’m still well enough and the distraction is nice. Besides it’s always great to see other’s work evolve and take shape.
New meds, Paxlovid, are delivered, the young man delivering this new medication door to door is maskless. I restrain myself from scolding him. He’s a grown man, after all, surely he knows the risks. He’s delivering medication to people with covid…. it’s impossible for me to understand the thinking. Everything’s political now, taking precedence over common sense and our collective well being. Still I worry about him. I fall asleep at 7:30 with his face in my mind.
It’s morning now, I’ve taken my 2nd dose of Paxlovid. Am I any better? Is it working? Did I wait too long to start the medication? Who knows. I think I’m feeling a little better, maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to say.
I go to gratitude. Because this life is so fleeting and then we’re gone. Laughter, kindness, random acts of care and thoughtfulness is always the way to go. There’s so much pain and suffering out there, am I part of the problem or part of the solution? These are my go-to thoughts, especially when I don’t feel great.
My brutal, brutal migraines are Covid and not the new norm. Yay!
I was able to get this new medicine quickly from our GP (who also has Covid). We compared notes on symptoms and next course of action.
My husband, who is recovering from surgery is testing negative. So far so good.
My children are both negative.
I’m upright and able to type this and even maybe have put a few coherent sentences together.
It could be so much worse.
Thinking of all of you and hoping you are safe and well.
This weekend we flew to Aspen for my mother’s “Celebration of Life.” I forgot to take photographs at the Celebration, but I did take a couple when we arrived or I should say, barely arrived. We were the last flight to get in. When we landed one of the guys unloading the bags said to me, “you are SO lucky!” I thought he was referring to our bags and said, “Really? You mean our bags almost didn’t make the flight?”
“No! Ten more minutes and the plane would have had to turn around and go back.”
Evidently the visibility was deteriorating by the minute. So yeah.
Arriving in Aspen
Herbert Bayer Sculpture outside the Aspen Institute
Surrounded by family and good friends, the Celebration of Life was a beautiful tribute to my mother with an outpouring of love, memories, laughter and sadness. But mostly joy. Joy that I am fortunate enough to have such a big, wonderful family, with lots of siblings, and extended family, all of whom I love and am close to. I was able to spend time with one of my nieces that I haven’t seen in ages, and spend time with cousins, distant cousins, extended family and many, many friends. And then, dancing around the edges of all of that was my mother. My beautiful, smart, complicated, funny mother.
Mom in her 30’s
Prior to flying out west I was feeling a bit grumbly about the whole thing. It’s not easy flying out, it’s expensive, I didn’t want to go, but lurking under all of that grumbling was the feeling that this was the final goodbye. By coming out to where she lived and having this very public “ceremony” we were closing a chapter. And that… that felt far too painful to contemplate, much less really feel and be acutely in touch with. That we also arrived in a snow storm, with flight delays and everything else that comes with traveling with four other people, it seemed to confirm my feelings that all of this should have been done via Zoom. And then something bizarre happened. On the final leg of our trip getting there, I was seated next to a young man who was going through a really, really difficult, as in life transformative, time. He kept apologizing to me for spilling his “guts” and reassured me that he never does this. He poured out his troubles during our 45 minute flight and told me what was going on with him and it made me realize how important rituals are. How ceremonies aren’t for any one person, but more for the collective group, the family, the community and in our recognition and attendance we heal individually, but also together.
My mother dressed in a Tweety Bird Costume during one of her many costume parties that we had up at the ranch.
Mom deadpanning while wearing her polar bear hat one Christmas on the ranch.
As it turned out, one of my brothers was quarantined in Brussels with Covid and so couldn’t get out and another of my brothers was unable to come, but attended via Zoom, as did a number of other people.
We started the ceremony with a pianist playing Mozart and ended with Ragtime, one of her favorite genres. Everyone who spoke, spoke eloquently about my mother and there was laughter and memories and sadness and connection. The following day I fell apart. It was as though I’d been holding things together up until that point, but then couldn’t keep it up. I felt exhausted and completely and utterly overwhelmed with feelings: grief, sadness, love, gratitude and everything in between. Thankfully I was with family. Family my mother was once the matriarch of. She is gone now and yet she resides in all of us. I can just hear her adding, “a dubious distinction…” I’m so, so grateful to her, and to all that she left behind.
During this bizarre time of Covid any gathering has the potential to be a superspreader event and while I am keeping my fingers crossed that this was not one of those events, I have already heard that 6 people who attended have now tested positive. My immediate family has not, at least not yet, but we will continue to monitor ourselves.
Terror. That’s a word they never mentioned in art school.
Color theory, art history, figurative drawing, these were all pre-requisites; considered the very foundation of any good education in the arts.
Terror? Fear? Not so much. Neither of those words or any words like that, were ever uttered.
And yet… who doesn’t feel fear and even terror, at some point, when creating?
As children, we run headlong, without thinking, without concern, without fear, and we create. Using mud and sand and sticks and our fingers. We don’t pause and reconsider. We don’t think – but maybe this isn’t a good idea. Yet somewhere along the way we learn to be fearful. We learn that being creative opens us up to criticism, anger, even rage and perhaps violence. Suddenly what came naturally to all of us, no longer feels natural. We tell ourselves that we aren’t “creative types”. And yet, I would argue that we are born creative.
Every. Single. One. Of. Us.
Creating doesn’t have to be on paper, it can be an idea, a vision, a way of thinking. Each of us has a unique mind, shaped by our experiences, our interactions, what we love, our passions, where we were born, the families we were born into, the land upon which we were raised.
So where does this terror come from?
Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of rejection, fear, fear, fear. We are taught to be “sensible”. We are taught to not “dream too big”. We are taught to not “waste time”. We are taught that to create is a luxury. But what if what we were taught is wrong?
Moving through fear, even terror is one of the most exhilarating, transcendent things I’ve ever experienced. It is what connects me to other human beings. It is what connects me to my creativity. It bonds, unites, and can bring me to my knees. It’s what causes me to rediscover the unadulterated beauty and joy of my innocence, that exquisite time before I learned to feel fear.
If any of this resonates with you, consider enrolling in my new workshop: Finding Your Voice where we will use various prompts, words, exercises and even stitching to break though our fears and find ourselves in our work.
It must be said that it was a rocky start as my attempts to speak French began with a faux pas.
I arrived in Paris, breezed through customs, got my bag, navigated the taxi line and after the required salutations said, Tu prends les credits carte? Which means “Do you take credit cards? except that I used the informal you, as though we were old chums, which is considered rude, and just a little disrespectful, thus solidifying the stereotype of the “ugly American.” My apologies to my fellow Americans out there.
There was a silent gasp. I swear I heard it. And then, being the elegant man that he undoubtedly was, he politely responded, using the formal you, with something like, Bien sûr, mais si vous avez en espèces, ce serait apprécié. Which means: Of course, but if you have cash, that would be appreciated. Realizing my mistake, I said, Je suis désolé, mon français est terrible, mais je fais de mon mieux. Meaning, I’m sorry, my French is terrible, but I do my best. I’m not sure that softened the blow, but I couldn’t think of what else to say. The remainder of the long cab ride to my hotel was spent in silence.
Needless to say, I paid with Euros.
Still, not to be deterred, I attempted to check in speaking French, but before I could get past the initial, bonjour, j’ai une réservation… he responded in English.
Now it must be noted that I’ve been practicing my French dutifully every single day for the past two years in anticipation of this trip and was really hoping to practice and maybe even have a conversation, albeit a rudimentary one.
However things went off the rails when the nice woman from housekeeping came to ask if I would like her to return with a vacuum cleaner because of some dirt that had fallen while the guy was trying to fix one of the black out blinds that wasn’t descending properly. Now I know the word for housekeeper, femme de ménage, but I have never heard the word for vacuum cleaner.so I finally said, Pardon, je ne sais pas ce ça – Pardon me, I don’t know what this is, Who could blame her when she looked around in confusion. What I meant to say was, I’m sorry I don’t understand what that means, but I was getting tired and couldn’t think clearly. She then apologized and continued in perfect English.
Even when I sat down to have un cafe at a little Parisian restaurant on the Seine, and I successfully ordered in French and even was able to have a two sentence back and forth, feeling flush with my success I was utterly deflated when the waiter began replying in English. Still, I insisted, somewhat comically to continue in my very bad French, while he replied in English and here’s the thing – just about everyone in Paris speaks English much better than I speak French. Seriously small children have a leg up on me. Though it must be noted, I did not attempt to carry on a conversation with any small children, all parents will be relieved to know that.
I did manage to take the metro, I was extremely pleased with myself, and even figured out how to transfer and purchase a ticket using one of the many machines they have. But when I tried to insert the ticket into the machine, all bets were off. A nice young man finally came to my assistance to tell me that, yes, you put the ticket into the slot and it spits it out just beyond. All was well.
There were countless instances when I couldn’t think quickly enough to respond in French to various things, such as when a group of young men passed me as I was walking along the Seine. One young man said, Bonjour! and then followed that up with, Tu es très jolie! You are very pretty. What I wanted to say was, Merci, mais je pourrais être ta mère, Thank you, butI could be your mother, but instead I just kept walking, which was probably just as well. Oh please, I qualify for senior citizen discounts!
Still, tomorrow is another day and who knows what lively conversations I may attempt?
For those of you who’d like to see some video and photos of my first day, you can watch this short YouTube video.
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