Christmas Memories

When I was growing up, Christmas was the best time of the year. Since I lived in a small town in Kansas where my Dad grew up, most of his immediate family still lived close by. His two brothers, their wives and families lived in the same town and so did my grandparents. We called my Grandmother, Grandma Ruby and my Grandfather, Pappy, as did most of the town. He was mayor for several years and owned the Phillips 66 Gas Station along with my dad at the blinker light on the main highway where it crossed the state road. Pappy had been a farmer until moving to town after World War II, and when my dad and his brothers returned from fighting in that war, they married and settled nearby. I had all boy cousins and a brother, which made me the only Granddaughter. Probably because of that, I got special treatment at Christmas.

Grandma Ruby may have been a farm wife, but she liked the finer things in life. She had an older sister who had married a wealthy man, and she got Aunt Mary’s castoffs when she got a new wardrobe. I remember especially one very beautiful “fur” coat. I couldn’t tell you to this day what kind of “fur” it was, except I don’t think it was mink. But we all thought it was totally luxurious, and Grandma Ruby was the talk of the town when she wore it to church in the winter. Grandma Ruby liked to pass a few things down to me too. One Christmas I received a beautiful Pearl necklace that had once been Aunt Mary’s, and another time the gold locket that my Dad had given Grandma Ruby for Christmas while he was away at the war. It had his Army Insignia on one side, and an inscription on the other. It opened out and had a space for two heart shaped pictures on the inside. Inside was a picture of Grandma Ruby and the other was my dad in uniform. I still love that locket.

But the best gift I ever got was the tradition of the Nutcracker. Every year, Grandma Ruby and I went to the ballet in Kansas City at the old Edison Theatre where various ballet troupes performed the Nutcracker. It was a special treat to get to go. The story always delighted me and spurred on my imagination. One Christmas I told my mom I saw the Rat King under my bed! We always went to the matinee and I always got a new dress – my Christmas Dress – either red or black velvet, taffeta, or one year a bright green wool dress with lace collars and cuffs. Since my birthday was also in December, there would also be the new Patent Leather Mary Janes and colored tights. Grandma Ruby often bought me a “good” coat only to be worn to church and for “special occasions” like the ballet. One year it was soft white wool with rabbit fur collars and cuffs. But no coat or dress could match Grandma Ruby’s Fur Coat!

The Theatre was near the famed Country Club Plaza and afterward we would go shopping on the Plaza with its lavishly decorated store fronts and dazzling lighting displays. Horse drawn carriages fitted with sleigh bells took lucky passengers around the shopping area and there were carolers dressed in the style of Merry Olde (with an e) England singing on the streets. It was a winter wonderland to me, and we would sip Hot Cocoa on the patio of Putsch’s Café and I would think I was the luckiest girl in the world to have such a Grandmother, sitting proudly next to me in her Furs.

She and I also made gingerbread men every year. She had a special cutter that her mother had passed down to her, and it made very large gingerbread men. I remember her showing me how to grease the measuring cup with butter so the molasses would pour out more easily and baking the thin sheet of gingerbread in the middle of the oven. We would then quickly cut the men out of the baked gingerbread while it was still warm. I had to wait a whole day before we could decorate them so that they would crisp up first. She would always draw on the frosting face with her piping bag, and I stuck the gumdrops, raisins, cinnamon candies (she always called them “Red Hots”) and licorice whips on his decorated clothing. She made one big one for each grandchild and then smaller ones to take to church for the children’s Christmas Party. Seems like we made hundreds every year, but I am sure it was just a few dozen.

The boys would all go hunting with Pappy, my dad and uncles. They hunted Prairie Chicken and many times we would have “Partridge” with stuffing and gravy (as my Grandma Ruby called them) for Christmas Eve Dinner before church. The whole family would gather to eat and exchange gifts before Christmas Eve Services. All the grandchildren had stockings that hung from the mantle in my grandparent’s house. We always got oranges and candy canes in our stockings, sometimes walnuts in the shells and small toys. Uncle Joe always gave us all a crisp five dollar bill in a money envelope, and sometimes there were new sox or mittens or scarves that Grandma Ruby knitted.

Aunt Jeanette would always bring her terrible “Ambrosia” salad made of jello, marshmallows, fruit and coconut which no one ate and she and Uncle John would always be at least a half an hour late. They adopted my cousin, Jimmy, when he was just a baby and they always dressed him in too many clothes. He was a patient soul and put up with much fussing. Uncle Joe and Aunt Myrtis had two boys, Larry and Johnny. Larry was born on Christmas Day right after me on the 7th, which made me the oldest My brother Tom was born 5 years later on the 17th, which made him the youngest. Johnny and Jimmy were born the same year. The year I was 5, my brother and my mom came home from the hospital on Christmas Eve and everyone kept saying I was getting a special surprise for Christmas. Since I had asked for my very own pony, I was sure that was the big secret! Imagine getting a brother instead of a pony! Oh well, I grew to love my “surprise” very much.

Grandma and Pappy always put up a small Christmas tree a few days before Christmas which she insisted they cut from a cedar grove on their old farm. I don’t know what the new owners thought about that, but she said she’d been getting their tree from that grove for over 50 years and they weren’t about to stop now. It was never up for more than a few days at any rate, since Christmas decorating didn’t start until around December 20th when we grandkids were through with school and off for vacation. Pappy would take the gas station pick up and go cut one down at the old farm and bring it back every year. She would put it in a bucket of sand and prop up the trunk with bricks to keep it upright. Then she’d wet the sand every day to keep the boughs fresh. It never looked like a real Christmas tree to me since it was cedar, but it always smelled nice. She decorated it with an old string of bubble lights, some ancient silvered ornaments from before the war, and wrinkled chains of colored paper that we grandkids had made over the years. We also popped popcorn and strung them with cranberries to wrap around the tree. She had an old silver star she used for the top each year which was kept packed in its own box wrapped in tissue paper and carefully stored from year to year. All us grandkids helped to decorate it. Sometimes there were tinsel icicles, but only if my dad insisted. He loved it, and she didn’t care for it, but sometimes she’d allow it if he would carefully hang the icicles from the branches. They had to look straight she always insisted.

For some reason, Pappy always insisted we put the bear rug in front of the fireplace at Christmas time. He had shot that old bear in Colorado during a hunting trip years before and had it made into a rug. The head had been stuffed and it had glass eyes and real teeth and to me was very gruesome, but he didn’t think it was Christmas unless it was laid out in front of the tree. I have to admit to a few hours with my head resting on the bear’s head staring up at the tree. It also made a nice place to take a nap if forced.

We spent a lot of time at church during the Christmas season. My Sunday School class always helped wrap packages for donations that were put into the charity fund. The fund was then used to make up Christmas Baskets for the less fortunate in the town. Our choir director owned the Grocery store, so he would donate canned hams every year, and the Ladies Aid Society would stock the baskets with canned goods and a few Christmas treats. We also had a clothes drive every year and people would donate warm clothing and coats. My mom would always put my “good” coat I’d outgrown from the year before in the bin. Several of the church ladies would crochet blankets or make quilts for the Christmas Baskets, and we children would donate small gifts for boys and girls our own age. I always felt sorry for the children who received those puny gifts because it was never anything anyone really wanted for Christmas, mostly they were socks, gloves, pencil boxes, new notebooks and such practical things, and some scrooge would even donate bars of soap. I am sure they needed them, but I always thought they would have liked something frivolous instead. One year I snuck in a whole box of candy bars wrapped up in paper and ribbon, and a bottle of Jean Nate cologne. I don’t know who got those, but I felt better for my subversive gifts.

We also had a Christmas pageant every year, and most years I got to be the Virgin Mary and hold the baby, my favorite part of the play. Other years I was one of the band of angels with my coat hangar wired halo. But finally I got to be the Arch Angel and got to say that famous line “Fear Not, for Behold I bring you tidings of Great Joy!” But I got stage fright and said “Fear Not for Bold! I bring a Tide of Joy”. That was the highlight of my theatrical career, and I don’t think I tried out for any more parts after that.

The pageant was usually followed by singing Christmas carols and then Santa made his appearance and gave us all a stocking made out of red mesh stapled at the top with a tag that said “A Gift for You”. It was full of ribbon candy and nuts. He would then tell us all he’d be visiting us at home later and dash out the back door of the church. Then we’d light candles and sing Silent Night and walk out into the night singing. It was a very nice night usually.

As the years have passed and I had children of my own, we lived many places around the world since we were a Navy family and gone from home much of the time. We kept some of these traditions and created new ones. We still had pageants and Santa visits. We helped with package wrapping and filled Christmas baskets, sang Silent Night and lit candles in church. We made paper snowflakes and chains for the trees and even strung popcorn some years. We made sugar cookies with colored frosting, and hung up our stockings wherever we were. We went home to visit whenever we could and caught up on family stories. We went to the Nutcracker and visited the Plaza. My daughter still makes paper snowflakes for her house windows and tree every year, and now she lets me participate in the gingerbread house making she does with her kids – even if it is from a kit these days. And as soon as Olivia gets a bit older, we will go to the Nutcracker, just she and I. And I might even buy her a “good” coat with rabbit fur. Maybe Cooper will go hunting with his dad. I don’t really remember the expensive gifts, or what we didn’t get or have, but I do remember the joy of being all together and remembering Christmas in our own way. But that is blessing enough, and I still love Christmas best.

New Classes

I am finally getting my new classes organized and moving into a new studio. I will be joining a group of women-owned businesses in a quaint cottage in Vancouver. My new studio space is awesome and I will be holding classes there on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I am still teaching at Clark College, but these classes will be somewhat different in flavor.

The new classes are geared more toward creativity than learning to be a great painter, although that is probably going to be the most welcome by-product of the classes.

We will learn to paint in a relaxing and gentle atmosphere where process is more important than product. My students will learn to paint, but the focus will be on relieving stress, finding their inner artist, and discovering something new about themselves.

VISUAL VOYAGES

By extension, this will also be headquarters for my NEW traveling workshops. I am planning a spring workshop at Whidbey Island, Washington, where a group of painters will spend five (5) luxurious days unwinding in Langley by the Sea during the rhododendron festival. This small seaside village is home to art galleries, restaurants, spa treatments, and antique shops and is surrounded by tulip gardens.

We will stay at an elegant English country inn with a fireplace in every room, wander through gardens to the Monet style lily pond, take a bike ride on the path to the salt water beach through old growth forests, or just sit in the sun and enjoy the sounds of nature from the scenic patio. Studio lessons daily, with side trips to Meerkerk Gardens, spas, antique hunting, bicycling, and nature walks with breathtaking views of Saratoga Passage and the neighboring islands

WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN US? Take this private time to indulge your artistic dreams. Learn to use watercolors to sketch the natural beauty of your surroundings, join photography hikes to record the awe inspiring scenery, or attend journaling workshops that explore your own stories. Meals will be provided except for one lunch and one dinner on the town to explore. Aroma therapy and spa massage included in the price.

For more information, contact my studio, or link to my other blog spot: Visual Voyages • http://visualvoyages.blogspot.com.

Visual Voyages
120 NE 117th Avenue
Vancouver, WA 98684
(360) 944-6692 (Studio)
ladyartprof@yahoo.com

Snow

We got a few flakes of snow today. The first since I have arrived here in my new home in the Pacific Northwest. Snow is fairly rare here being so close to the sea, the winds tend to moderate the temps. While they were coming down, they were certainly beautiful though. Big fluffy flakes drifting down. No wind to speak of, just a gentle fall of snowflakes that instantly were gone upon touching the rain soaked ground. It hardly ever accumulates here, and it needs to be a lot colder to produce more, but it was a great reminder that Christmas is just around the corner.

Just after Thanksgiving, my daughter began to decorate her house for Christmas. The very next day, in fact. Being old-fashioned, I decided it was way too early, but watching how much joy she got out of it, changed my mind.

Her grandmother, my mom, was there to celebrate the holiday. At age 87, this great-grandma was a bit frazzled by the noise and helter-skelter of a two and four year old, but watching them decorate their "kiddie" tree with all their homemade ornaments from nursery school, their construction paper garland, their Barbie tree toppers and their pirate ship ornaments truly made her happy. Then I realized that this early decorating was partly for Meme.

This really hit home when 4 generations of moms, kids, and grandmas started making paper snowflakes together. When my daughter was a small girl, I taught her how to fold plain white typing paper into a square, then a triangle, then smaller triangles, and to cut on the folds to make intricate snowflakes for our windows. She has carried on the tradition and makes snowflakes every year, and has now taught her 4 year old daughter how to do it too. Olivias snowflakes are folded for her, and a simple pattern drawn on, but she enjoys making them and is as proud of them as of her mother's now legendary creations. Lori has taken the simple art I taught her and turned it into a true art form.

It was fun to watch her re-teaching my mother who had once taught me, and me helping my granddaughter hold the scissors and follow the pattern. A truly generational experience.

Afterward, Olivia decided that she needed to do the dance of the sugar plum fairy while she tossed snowflakes into the air....what a Christmas treat!

New Stories

I have been working on some new stories to post to the website, but have not finished them yet. My latest work is called The Star Story, and it is the story my grandmother told me about how the stars came to be in the night sky. It is a charming fairy tale, so I want to get it just right before posting it. It is also depicted on the painting dedicated to my grandmother. I will re-post it here. It is in the upper left corner and is also an ode to Van Gogh, one of my favorite painters.

Loving your Lawn

These past few weekends, I have been volunteering with a local group called Naturally Beautiful Backyards Program. They promote the use of alternatives to chemicals to reduce the amount of toxic compounds entering the wastestream, local watersheds, and the community as a whole. By reducing toxics in the area, residents, children, and pets can lead healthier lives while contributing to a more productive ecosystem. Besides, it's been so gorgeous out these past few weeks. Unusual for the Northwest - not rainy like usual, but bright, clear, crisp fall days....and the leaves are beautiful. Makes me really feel the "wheel" of the year.

We have been working on a public awareness campaign that is trying to thwart spraying on weed killer on lawns during the fall - the normal practice. Some of the alternatives are using mulch and showing folks how to keep weeds you don't want in your lawn from seeding down in the fall. This is a more labor intensive approach, but we are hoping to provide help. We have started a Teen Weed program that gives local teens the opportunity to earn some money, to share their earnings with the Program, and to provide much needed labor for those who hate this labor intensive chore. WIN-WIN-WIN! We will see how this manages to work out!

All this raking, weed pulling, and composting has given me some new ideas for art projects made from found twigs, maybe some handmade paper with bits of colored leaves in them, and making garden sculpture. I'll let you know if I come up with something!

Being outside always sparks my creative streak!

In Honor of Samhain/Hallowe'en

My granny might not have known what Samhain was, but she was more in tune with the old folk ways than with modern times. The Fall is a good time to plant the seeds of new projects, allowing them to germinate over the winter months, and like Little Orphant Annie, to become more introspective and consider changes to our behavior that might be necessary! I am reprinting one of her favorite poems, by James Whitcomb Riley that she knew by heart and would always recite to us when pumpkins lined the fences and goblins filled the air!


Little Orphant Annie

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you don't watch out! Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, -- An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: -- An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you don't watch out! An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you don't watch out! An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away, -- You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you don't watch out!

New Story

As promised, here is my rendition of the magic spectacles:

The Magic Spectacles

Once upon a time, there was a bonny wise queen. She lived in the land of faeries beyond the hills, away in the West, and her castle looked out over a vast lake. She lived alone now that her laird, the king, was gone away to the Fair Isles, but she was well loved by the people, so she was not lonely. She had ruled in the land over her subjects for many years after her bonny prince had died, and had become a kind and wise ruler, and a grannywoman to all. She so loved her people that she often walked through the countryside to talk with her subjects, and to find out how they fared. Sometimes she watched the sunsets and sunrises or picnicked beside the lake among the revelers there. She was loved by all and knew the toils and troubles of all those she governed.

One day two bandits from a far off country crept into the marketplace to see what there was to steal. They hid in the shadows and watched the stalls to discover who was the most careless with their til. They were surprised to see the Faery Queen walking among her people, speaking to the merchants and even purchasing some small gifts for her ladies-in-waiting from the market vendors. At midday, she sat beside the lake and shared her food with the village children and watched as they gamboled and played beside the waters of the lake. The bairns played their games of tiddly winks, sailed their toy boats, and danced and sang as they enjoyed the day. She was very happy and content with life.

The bandits were astonished by her willingness to mingle among ordinary folk. It was not so in the kingdom they came from, where their own king was miserly and turned the poor people out into the streets if they could not pay their taxes, and took all the best crops and livestock for himself. He was so miserly that he would not even allow them to hunt in the forest for game. The desperate bandits' eyes narrowed as they glimpsed the Queen's fine jewelry and the pouch of gold tied onto her wrist. Their mouths watered at the sight of the sumptuous fare she had laid out before her. The bandits, who had not eaten for days, decided it would be more profitable to rob the Queen than to steal from the marketplace. So they waited in dark alleys and watched from the trees until they could find the Queen alone.

Early one morning the Faerie Queen was seated quietly beside the lake watching the sun rise and the water birds leave their nests and begin to fish. She watched the Flower Faeries gathering dew, and the robins building their nests. She was quite alone and enjoying her breakfast and the quiet of the morning when the bandits drew their daggers, sprang from the forest and threatened to kill her if she did not give them her jewels and her purse of gold. The Queen looked at the two strangers, and quickly put on her spectacles. Then she calmly gave them her purse and the rings from her fingers. She took off her spectacles and tucked them safely away in her pocket. Then she did an astonishing thing. She invited them to share what food and drink she had, saying ”Forever remember that a Faery Queen showed you love and kindness when you showed her only your greed”.

The poor bandits accepted the food, meekly took her purse, and deeply moved by what had taken place, scampered off into the forest.

Word spread quickly about what had happened, and one villager, hearing the tale did as the bandits had done and waited until the Queen was again alone by the lake. He took his dagger and threatened the Faery Queen. The Queen looked up and asked, “What do you wish?”

The thief said, “I have come to kill you unless you give me your gold!” The Queen reached into her pocket and put on her spectacles. Then she took them off again and said to the robber, “No, I will give you nothing.”

“Why not?” stammered the thief. “When two strangers threatened you, you gave them your rings and your purse! Would you do less for your own subject?”

The Queen sighed and answered, “Those two strangers were poor unfortunate creatures. I saw that all they have known is misery and hardship, that they lived under the yoke of a cruel king. They needed the experience of love and compassion to show them another way to live. You, on the other hand, have been surrounded by family and friends and a good and fair Queen your entire life. You lack for nothing. Your only motivation is pure greed.”

“How do you know these things?” asked the villager.

“I know because these spectacles allow me to see into your black heart. They were left to me by your wise king, and upon his death, have passed to me. They allow me to look into the hearts of all my subjects to see what it is that they need. I offer you another kind of compassion by not giving you my gold. So kill me if you must, but no reward will come your way because of your greed.” With that, the Queen arose and walked slowly back to the castle.

The villager broke down and wept. He resolved to change his greedy ways and to remember to be grateful for what he had.

The Magic Spectacles

If you look closely at the picture of the painting I last posted, you will notice in the upper left hand corner a section that has a pair of old fashioned spectacles on a lace doily. This image represents the story of the Magic Spectacles that my Granny used to tell. I am in the process of writing this story down for my grand kids (and whoever else might like to read it). I am finding that my memory is less precise than I had hoped, which has caused me to contact some of the other grandchildren of Granny Giffin's to reminisce about the story.

You will be surprised to learn that none of them remember Granny telling a story about the glasses. I was, certainly. It makes me appreciate the agility of her story telling abilities to think that she told us all different stories, and perhaps ones that particularly applied to each of our own personalities. This makes the story all that more interesting in my opinion.

So I am muddling through a couple of re-writes, and as soon as I have it down the way she told it, a way that honors her particular story telling style, I have promised to share it with my cousins. I am hoping that over time, they will also share their very personal stories with me.

Thanks, Granny. You are loved.

Stories

This week I promised to put some of my writing online here on the blog for members of my writer's group to read. This painting is of my Scottish Grandmother, Emily Jane Giffin, affectionately referred to by most folks who knew her, related or not, by Granny Giffin. This painting is dedicated to all the stories she told me as a child. Please notice the Celtic Cross in the design of the painting adorned with Celtic Knot work. These are all original designs, but the layout itself mimicks the leather book shrine covers made by monks in the 7th and 8th Century in Ireland and Scotland. They were often encrusted with jewels and fine gold filligree. Although mine is made of encaustic wax and paint, it gives the feeling of the embossed leather of the old book shrines, and Granny's portrait takes the place of the Saint's portrait that would have originally been found on the cover. Each of the divisions represents a story that she told me as a child.

I am in the process of writing down all those stories, but in the meantime, here is my latest writing on what it was like to have such a magical Grandmother.

On Being Magic

This week, I found out I am not magic. It was a blow to my self esteem, and I am still somewhat doubtful that the facts I have learned about this “magic business” are true.

When I was young, I had a steadfast belief in many things that the adults in my life seemed to think was nonsense, or to quote my mother “utter foolishness”. Those adult opinions did not stop me, however, from believing not only that I was magic, and that I lived in a world where magic was the natural order of things, but that magic was everywhere, if one only looked. If the grown ups in my life could not recognize it when they saw it, I assumed it was because they didn’t want to.

Fortunately for me, I had a grandmother who encouraged me and allowed me to tell her all about my magical world. Granny told me that in Scotland, where she was from, almost everyone believed in magic, especially faeries. Not surprisingly, she was my favorite grown up.

By the age of 5, I had decided that my cat Snowball was really a fairy queen in disguise. She was a rather large cat, very regal with long fluffy white fur. She had a beautiful pink nose, bright green eyes, and wore a tinkly little bell on a silver chain around her neck. She liked to sit upon pillows and meticulously wash her face and paws both before AND after eating. She allowed me to pet her long silky hair and scratch her chin when she was in the mood, but completely snubbed me and walked away from me with her tail held high in the air at others. She was my confidant, and my only solace when we had to move to a new house, far from my granny, from my favorite tree fort, and my best friend Betsey.

However, I felt as long as I had Snowball around, I was still being watched over by faeries.

One of my magic talents was that I could speed up or slow down time. I often experienced hours that fled by so swiftly that it seemed like only a minute or two had passed. This usually happened when I was happily occupied playing in the yard or drawing in my notebook. I often drew my all but invisible faerie world and the wonderful sprites I encountered there. However, these creatures were very shy, and I could only catch a fleeting glimpse of them from time to time, so my imagination filled in the rest. But if anyone suggested that they were not really there, I would show them my drawings as proof. Usually just in the middle of finally figuring out which tree they were hiding behind, not a minute after I’d started my search, I would hear “Time for Supper” and have to go scurrying into the house. I could have sworn only a minute or two had passed since I’d had lunch and come outside to play. I vowed that I would have to learn how to control time better and try to figure out a way to make my faerie hunts last longer.

The problem was, I didn’t seem to have much control over my time shifting abilities. I could also expand time. This usually happened when I least wanted it to. For instance, spelling and arithmetic seemed to go on forever, not to mention the preacher’s sermons. Those hours seemed to stretch into many more minutes than the clock allowed. Sometimes it worked to my advantage though. Some of the best stretches of time were when my brother, Tom and I would go cloud watching. We had a favorite place to watch clouds. We would climb over the split rail fence that surrounded our neighbor’s pasture and lie down right in the middle of the field so that the tall grass stood over us. We had to pick a time when the cattle were grazing in the south pasture, so we’d have the field all to ourselves. Of course there had to be clouds in the sky, and it had to be warm enough outside to lie down on the ground. Finding a spot free of cow patties, we would lie down on our backs with our arms behind our heads and stare straight into the sky. Lying there, we could smell the sweet grassy smells, and maybe a whiff or two of cow pattie combined with the honesyckle vines that grew over the split rail fence - not an altogether unpleasant smell. When we were settled in and all was quiet, we could hear the buzzing of the bees, the rustling of the grasses and feel the warm sun on our faces. We would look straight up and watch to see if the clouds formed themselves into any recognizable shapes. As we lazily passed the long afternoon, my brother would point out cloud horses and cloud tanks and maybe an Indian or two, while I saw faerie castles and dragons. When the clouds passed overhead, you could feel the cooling on your skin and see the silvery gold haloes around the clouds. We decided that only the faeries could have hidden so much gold in clouds and that it must be the source for filling the pot at the end of a rainbow. Although we looked, we never did find where the rainbow ended.

When I started to school, my magical powers expanded. Sometimes, late at night or very early in the morning, I would look at my hands, or my knees or feet and they would seem to grow or shrink. Other times, my bed seemed to get very large and almost swallow me up, or get so small that I felt as if I would fall out. I felt like Alice in Wonderland going from very large to very small in the wink of an eye. Sometimes the feeling would last for hours and keep me clinging to the side of my bed until the feeling went away. Gradually I got used to the feeling and would get lost in watching everything shrink or grow. Other times, things would seem perfectly normal, and I never knew when the shrinking and growing would start again.

I would also experience the feeling when I was having my hair washed. Mom would roll up a towel for a pillow at the edge of the big kitchen sink, and I would climb onto the counter and lay on my back with my hair in the sink and my neck on the towel. Sometimes I would stand on a chair and bend over forward so that all my hair would hang down over my face and into the sink. The sink had a sprayer next to the faucet and mom would use it to wet my long hair while she put one hand over my eyes and scrub or spray with the other. It was during those times with my eyes closed that I would see images on the inside of my eyelids that seemed to grow and shrink as I squeezed my eyes shut tight to keep out the water and the shampoo. I once asked my mom about it and she said that I was squeezing my eyes shut too tight and that was making the blood rush into my face and causing me to think I was seeing things. Personally, I think it had something to do with a hair curse.

I had indeed been cursed with magical hair which grew faster than most peoples, was very thick, and was RED. No one else in the family had red hair. I don’t know who put the curse on me, but my mother would sometimes say I had hair like my grandmother, which was just plain silly since hers was white - so I guess she was cursed too. I didn’t much like getting my hair washed since it would be full of tangles afterward, and brushing them out would always hurt as mom tugged the comb through it. Sometimes she would make pincurls in my hair and push bobby pins through my hair so I would wake up the next morning with curls. I never liked to sit still long enough for her to pin my hair. It was that time stretching thing again that I seemed to have no control over. Most of the time the pins poked my head and I would pull them out in the middle of the night, and still my hair would not be dry in the morning. Most of the time, the only way to get my hair dry was to go outside in the sun and let it dry naturally, or put it into braids and wait for a couple of days. Letting it dry outside still took several hours and of course didn’t work in the winter.

My Granny finally told me that having a lot of thick hair was not really a curse, even though it might seem like it at the time. She said she believed that each hair represented a memory that led directly to my brain, and that the more hair I had, the more thoughts I would have, and the better my memory would be. I liked that idea and was finally happy I had such a lot of hair. She was pretty good at turning curses into blessings.

As I grew older, though, I lost some of my magical powers, although I maintained my belief in the possibility of it.

But ,this week my belief system is a bit strained. I watched a medical show on TV that told of a peculiar medical condition called “Alice in Wonderland Syndrome” that caused the sensation of things appearing first large and then small. The program chronicled a family whose multi-generational members all experienced this very real phenomenon and had volunteered to be research subjects. They had their brains mapped by researchers to try to document it. As I watched the show, I realized that this might have been what had caused my sensations when I was a child, and it was both a relief and a disappointment to learn that at least a portion of my powers were medical in nature.

However, I have not given up believing in magic altogether. I still get premonitions from time to time, and dream of faeries, and occasionally I can even stop time when I am hurrying to an appointment and still make it on time. I will have to ask my granddaughter if she sees things in the same way. She is 5, has beautiful long thick hair, and believes in faeries anyway, so even if she does have the condition, she and I will know that we haven’t lost all our powers at least. Besides, she has also made time stand still and stretches my enjoyment of the hours I am in her company. And she definitely is a fairy princess.

Journals from the Heart

Recently, I joined a Writing Group. This wonderful group of ladies (and a few gentlemen) meet weekly to share stories and to support each other in writing the stories of their lives. Some of the members are writing their entire life stories, some are just writing on topics they find interesting or that will enlighten and amuse the next generation, and some are using the writing as a way to sort through the ups and downs of everyday lives - more like a diary or journal. Whatever the reason, this lively group comes from all walks of life, and meet together for a few hours each week to share the laughter, tears, heartaches, and shared memories many of us have growing up in middle class America.

I was surprised at the wide spectrum of experiences and stories. I listened as stories unfolded of our memories of learning how to drive, driving boyfriends' cars into the ditch, travel stories, being naughty (very important for future generations to hear), descriptions of life growing up on the farm, early memories of our first homes, traumatic events that had been supressed, and light hearted looks at all the events of our lives that make us who we are. These were great stories, great to hear, and the writing was excellent. The stories were real, full of poignancy, humor, and grace under fire. In short, they were the stories of real people's lives, and I thoroughly enjoyed them all and meeting the folks behind the stories.

The most important point the leaders seemed to make is that you didn't have to be an accomplished writer in order to write your own story. Some asked, why write these stories, but as I listened, I began to recall snippets of memory from my own childhood and early adulthood that I realized were events that our kids and grandkids would never experience. This alone is a great reason to commit your story to writing. How I would have loved to have read stories about the life of my grandmother as a young girl, or to read my great grandfather's diary of the First World War. I realized that although we may not feel our stories are special or even memorable, future generations might be more interested in our lives than we think.

I'd like to encourage you mature adults out there to commit your stories to paper if you haven't already started. With the current craze for geneaology and storytelling, you might just make a lasting memory for a generation yet to come.

Remember, it's your story, and only you can tell it accurately. Give it a try and let me know if you too, don't get a great deal of enjoyment walking down memory lane. This would make a true gift of the heart to your children or grandchildren someday.

If like me, you also like to draw or paint, why not make it a picture book, or add some photos. Get as creative as you like, but get it down on paper!

Sharon

The Heart of the Journey

Life is a sacred journey, and at its center is our heart. The journey is about change, growth, discovery, movement, transformation, continuously expanding our vision of what is possible, stretching our souls, learning to see clearly and deeply. It is about listening to our intuition, taking courageous challenges at every step along the way. We are continually on the path... exactly where we are meant to be in that moment... and from there, we can only go forward, shaping our life story into a magnificent tale of triumph, of healing, of courage, of beauty, of wisdom, of power, of dignity, and of love.

My favorite symbols are labyrinths because they are both new and ancient and they relate to wholeness. A labyrinth is an ancient symbol with which we can have a current, direct experience. We can walk it, we can trace it with our finger, we can linger in its center and contemplate our past and our future. It is a metaphor for life's journey. It is a symbol that creates a sacred space and place and takes us out of our ego to "That Which Is Within." A labyrinth combines the imagery of the circle and the spiral into a meandering but purposeful path. The Labyrinth represents a journey to our own center and back again out into the world. Labyrinths have long been used as meditation and prayer tools.

Labyrinths and mazes have often been confused. When most people hear of a labyrinth they think of a maze. A labyrinth is not a maze. A maze is like a puzzle to be solved. It has twists, turns, and blind alleys. It is a left brain task that requires logical, sequential, analytical activity to find the correct path into the maze and out. A labyrinth has only one path. It is unicursal. The way in is the way out. There are no blind alleys. The path leads you on a circuitous path to the center and out again. A labyrinth is a right brain task. It involves intuition, creativity, and imagery. With a maze many choices must be made and an active mind is needed to solve the problem of finding the center. With a labyrinth there is only one choice to be made. The choice is to enter or not. A more passive, receptive mindset is needed. The choice is whether or not to walk a spiritual path.

Sometimes it's not the destination that is important, it is the journey.

Happy Journeying.

Sharon

Passing the Torch

As August draws to a close, and September starts, I have finished a few more pages for my friendship journal and am preparing to send it off to my friend, Judy. It will now be her turn to craft some pages for the month of September, and when she is done, I will get it back to read and add more pages. I love this idea more and more. I hope she enjoys looking at these pages as much as I have enjoyed making them. These pages are about our art journey together and all the things she loves. The passion page is about our mutual love of books. She collects frogs and also collects dolls, and these pages remind me of all the fun trips we took to Kansas City shopping. What a fun days those were! I really miss her.

What'll I Do?

What To Do When You’re Blue

One of the things I like to do (besides paint) when I am feeling sad or down, or just plain bored is to make a “Things I want to do” list. This gets me out of dwelling on what went wrong in the past or worrying about the present, and gets me into looking forward to projects for the future.

So here’s my partial list:

Live in a beach house
Improve my Italian
Paint 100 great paintings before I die
Make love again
Learn how to do my hair
Stop saying I told you so
Go back to Italy
Learn to salsa
Find my soulmate or at least fall devastatingly and totally in love with someone devastatingly and totally in love with me
Get a massage
Ban tattoos

Plant more flowers
Find a job I love
Loose weight for good
Care for myself better
Paint my walls sky blue
Design my own furniture
Go to the Greek Islands
Learn to play the piano
Get my teeth whitened
Find a cure for arthritis
Make more books and journals
Not have to retire until I’m 70 unless I want to
Write a book
Go Kayaking
Sing on stage
Teach Abroad
Draw better
Get a pedicure

You get the idea. What would be on your list?
Sharon

The Art of Becoming

The Art of Being Myself

This summer, more than any other, I have become conscious of my age. Up to this point, I have had a few aches and pains, noticed the passing of time, but have always felt young at heart, busy living life, and on the go. I am a late bloomer, not going back for my advance degree til I was past 40 and changing careers. I have always looked toward the future as a bright happy place where I can continue to fulfill my dreams, work toward finally becoming accomplished at my craft, and having a feeling of ease. I still think of myself as becoming, not having arrived yet.

Slowly, that is changing. A lot has happened to me this year. I quit my teaching job and moved across the country to get out of the heat of Arizona thinking I could easily step into similar patterns here in Washington State and be closer to my family, and my grandkids, find another teaching job and keep going down my planned path. It hasn’t exactly been that easy.

This summer, I have struggled to find my niche. I have not found a permanent teaching position, but am to be an adjuct art professor at the local college. So I have been applying for part time jobs to tide me over until my teaching job starts up again. One can starve on an adjunct’s pay. I am luckier than most since my salary is supplemented by a partial government retirement pay that I receive from being an ex Navy wife of 20 years, and I also have my medical needs covered. So I am better off than most. But more than financially, I feel raring to go, ready to be a real professor, to be the expert I worked hard to become. But finding a new job with the perfect combination of security and benefits, along with enough challenge and interest is tough. I am beginning to suspect some ageism. Not overt ageism, that would be illegal of course, but there are subtle hints. The committee member who calls me Ma’m…a longer than usual discussion of their retirement plan….my daughter’s hand on my elbow going up stairs. Subtle.

There’s nothing that will make you feel older quicker than being around grown children and grandchildren to remind you that THEY are the young ones, and I am at least middle aged. I’m slower, noise bothers me more, I wear out before they do, and I can’t run after them effortlessly like I used to.

Now you say, well, isn’t that normal. Of course. So I don’t know why it came as such a shock to me that I am aging. We baby boomers do tend not to go quietly. But on giving it some though this summer I realize I do have something they don’t. Wisdom and experience. It sort of comes as a shock, but a welcome one.

I realized this when my granddaughter was in the hospital. My daughter Lori, who is such a competent person and a wonderful mom, needed my help and advice. She didn’t know what to do, or who to turn to. Being there, even without all the answers was kind of nice. Feeling needed, depended on, secure about my answers, and feeling valued means a lot.

My Celtic ancestors would have been better prepared. Being a Wise Woman of some age was a truly honored position in that culture. Even my own Scottish granny, a healer and wise woman extraordinaire, was revered for her knowledge of herbs, healing, and practical wisdom. She was a woman who allowed herself to acknowledge her age and her wisdom and yes….even her power. I never thought of her as old, although she had snow white hair done up in a bun. She was always lively, quick witted, and very entertaining with her stories and antecdotes. She was revered by all who knew her, and she lived to the ripe old age of 93 – sharp as a tack right to the end.

This realization has actually allowed me to be more comfortable with my slower pace. I am ready to consciously define myself as wiser and stronger, and yes, even more powerful. Turning down the Art Nazi job was an exercise in that power, and being able to come to terms with the process of resettling at a slower pace than I had anticipated are good examples of becoming more secure in my ability to care for myself, and find the right niche here in the Northwest for myself. This blog has become a way for me to teach, speak, and quietly inspire myself and others – all women – all people who wish to embrace that inner quality of resting with uncertainty, while having faith that life will be kind to us. This inside knowing feeling is one I have finally begun to listen to and trust.

My life will still be full of blessings and challenges in equal measure, no doubt, but I am happy for now just to tell my stories, one-to-one, to name my blessings, to treasure my truths, and share the harvest of life experiences. I am beginning to feel strengthened by your stories as well, like my friend, Karen, of my last post, like others who are going through their own life changes whether it’s divorce, a new job, becoming a parent or grandparent for the first time, traveling to far away perhaps unsafe places, dealing with aging parents, or illness or whatever challenge life throws at us.

Empowered from within and strengthened by our connectedness, I claim my place as a wise woman in my family, my community, and my world. I encourage you to do the same. I’d love to hear your stories, and I promise to continue to share mine – as long as there’s an audience.

Take care,
Sharon

The Heart of Recovery

I just got off the phone with my dear friend Karen who survived the Katrina catastrophe and we were talking about getting things back to normal. We decided there is really no such thing. All of us go through stressors in our lives and she was saying that she was still finding it hard to cope with some things, and that many folks who were so optimistic a year ago, were now showing signs of depression and weariness over the everyday challenges they are still facing.

No doubt. Stress on that magnitude is hard for most of us to imagine. And for most of us, after a period of high stress, life moves on and we “get back to normal”. In New Orleans, things are much improved, but still a long way from normal. She was saying that she really thought she had been OK right after the storm because their house and her studio were still intact, and other than some shutters, a balcony, and a column on her porch, their losses were minimal. I suppose by comparison, those things were small, but that doesn’t mean that she and her husband didn’t have to deal with the problems all across a city with not much infrastructure. She said she felt a bit of survivor’s guilt as well. It’s hard. I cannot believe the amount of post traumatic stress that many of NOLA’s citizens must feel. Some will come back eventually, many never will.

Her husband is a doctor, a surgeon, and I actually watched with the rest of the country on CNN as they were airlifted from the hospital roof days after Katrina hit. They relocated to Tennessee close to their daughter temporarily, and her husband continued to practice there, and volunteered back in NOLA as well. She said many people came back to NOLA two months later, after the electricity came back on, but they were in Tennessee until January. And have been trying to get things fixed, redone, repainted, repaired, etc. and get on with their lives ever since. NOLA has become the murder capitol of the world with not enough law enforcement either. She says there are no such things as “handy men” in NOLA, and that the psychiatrists are so stressed they need psychiatrists! Even after almost two years later, some people still aren’t back in their houses, there is no insurance to be had, not nearly enough readily available building supplies, not enough workers, not enough anything,

Even though the French Quarter was not severely damaged, the tourist trade is still off (my friend jokes that surely folks would want to come to the murder capitol of the world!), but it is a black humor. But she said even though most of the city is still like a third world country, you can still eat at a fine restaurant, stroll down Bourbon Street and pop into a jazz club. She says it feels more like a small town with people you hardly knew hugging you in the grocery store saying things like “Oh you’re back. It’s so good to see you again”.

Although some people appeared to go through the hurricane rather unscathed, symptoms of post traumatic stress can sometimes move them into a deeper darker crisis. Disappointment, restlessness, and dread still tiptoe in on little cat feet, and can turn into elephants if steps to avert the depression aren’t taken. My friend Karen seems to be able to recognize when that happens, and anniversaries of the event can sometimes trigger some strange feelings. So on August 29, 2007, please keep New Orleans in all your prayers and encourage those you know who suffered from this terrible event in our shared history to continue to take good care of themselves and to feel free to still be affected by it.

Fortunately, my friend Karen is an artist, so she has some creative outlets that help her deal with stress in very healthy ways. Keep making art, Karen, and know we love you.

Love,
Sharon

The Heart of Creativity

The Creative Heart

Contrary to some opinions, artists are not necessarily
talented or different from ordinary folk. We are all naturally creative and have unique qualities that are authentically ours just waiting to be expressed in some form. Whether you are a writer, a singer, a painter, a cook, an entrepreneur, or a parent, you have a unique way of bringing your ideas to the world.

It is not uncommon, however, to feel blocked or stuck sometimes. Usually this means we are not taking time for creativity. We tell ourselves we don’t have time, or that it is self-indulgent. We don’t feel justified in making creativity a priority in our lives. Sometimes our “inner critic” gets in the way telling us we are not good enough, or that we shouldn’t be wasting our time.

Usually this is counter productive. We should be listening to our hearts, not our “shoulds”. Allowing ourselves to be creative has a lot to do with our passions. If we are daily involved with something we love, we grow our passion. And passion leads to doing something about it….whether that is creating a special space to work on your scrapbooking, or making every Wednesday night Gourmet Night, or starting a blog…it’s important to express your creativity on your terms.

Doing something that satisfies the creator in you is like it sounds. It can be akin to a religious or mystical experience. Indulging your creativity can often take your mind off your troubles, give you a sense of accomplishment, or help with loneliness or even fatigue. People even say it is “healing” to get lost in their creative process. And it is a process. It takes practice, time, and a fair bit of dedication to get really accomplished with your creativity. So don’t get discouraged if your first few attempts at whatever you’ve decided to do aren’t as “stellar” as you’d hoped. Just keep going and see where it leads you.

Primarily most artists work to please themselves. They express something within them that needs to come out and see the light of day. Some artists never show anyone their work, some can’t wait to share it with the world. Both forms of expression are equally valid. Whatever you do to express your creative side should please you first. If other people are also interested in it, then it is a bonus. But the primary pleasure you derive from being creative is in the “feeling” it gives you. It’s all about the passion.

So don’t just sit there….create!

Have a happy day.
Sharon

Tips

1. I have found that I like writing and drawing with water color pencils in the journal. That way if I want it to have a bit more of a "painterly" look, all I have to do is add the water, and all those hard edges soften.

2. I also like using a mix of watercolor and acrylic.

3. If I gesso the plain pages first, I can paint/stain over it and the pages have wonderful texture. If I paint gesso in swirls, it makes a swirly raised pattern with ridges to catch the stain. If I "comb" the gessoed pages, I get a "linen" look to the pages.

4. I like to paint over or stain black and white photos, or images to give an aged appearance to the pages.

5. I've mixed typed messages with handwritten ones for a variety of looks.

6. I also like to sew fabrics and papers together to let the stitching shows. I also tried adding buttons, ribbons, small metal ornaments, and next week I am going to try embossed metal sheeting to see how that works.

Sky's the limit when it comes to creativity!

Journal Update

Here are some new pages for my friendship journal that I have been working on lately.

These pages have the letter I wrote to my friend suggesting the project. I treated it like it was an invitation complete with fancy stationary and a frosted envelope. We are all about making life beautiful, so she got the "beauty" treatment. Other times we're wild and woolly, but not today!

This is the actual letter that goes inside the envelope.

This page is about the first time we met in art school at the University of Kansas. Can you see the easel I drew over the writing? The clock and references to time are both about it being some time ago, and about us being a bit older when we both started. We hit it off right away since we both felt a bit out of place in a studio full of 18 year olds! It was nice to find a friend!

Better today!

Little Livy is doing much better today. Thanks to all of you who asked about her and prayed for her. She is going back to school for a 1/2 day today and is keeping liquids down well. Nana (that's me) brought her one of my special green tea blends flavored with cinnamon (her favorite) and made dinner for the family last night since they have been run off their feet with work, moving into a new house this weekend, and a sick child in the hospital. What are Nana's for? Livy has decided she likes Miso soup, and it has some remarkable ingredients in it to help heal stomach linings, so that is her lunch and sometimes her supper for a few days, along with the pedialite, jello, juice, and any clear liquid we can get down her. If she toleraters these well, her Mommy says she can go to applesauce and maybe a few noodles in her soup. Trying to avoid doing an endoscopy which is pretty invasive just to find out that she has gastritis...which would be treated as we are now. They have already ruled out anything major, except maybe an ulcer, so we are trying to let the body heal itself. Always a good idea in my opinion. I say "we" but it is mostly her mommy and daddy making the decisions of course, and I am the support. Keeping her hydrated and nourished is a challenge at home without an IV, especially when food makes her nauseous, but the soup and the green tea seem to be working.

I am looking forward to the day when I have my active little girl back again.

Olivia

My life has been consumed since last Monday with one sick little granddaughter. She started with flu and it just lingered on and on. She has been throwing up for 10 days straight. She was on an IV and in the hospital after 5 days of it, when she got dehydrated, and even then kept throwing up bile or anything we managed to coax her to eat. She wouldn't even suck on a popsicle. The doctors have run every test known, poor little pincushion, and still she languishes. She went home for a night or two thinking her own bed and familiar surroundings might help her get back to normal, but she had a dreadful night of throwing up again, so it's back to a specialist today. She is going to a pediatric gastrointerologist....how much more specialized can you get? We are all flummoxed as to what is causing it since she has no known infection, no fever, blood cells are normal, and her bowels are OK. It's just a mystery. And in one so young, to see this little girl who is normally a firecracker, lay in bed and just stare into space scares my heart. Those of you who pray, please do. I'll keep you posted.

Sharon

Color Personalities

As you can see from this stock photo, color makes an impact in any art work. I have a strange way of looking at color. I have always associated certain colors with the people in my life. I guess it's because they are so evocative of personality or mood.

For instance, my mother, aged 87, is a bit prickly. I think of her as bright orange, or maybe lime green like cactus. Depends on her mood.

My son-in-law, Mr. Calm is dove gray, almost serene blue sometimes, but rarely.

My daughter, who is a lawyer, but also the mother of two, ages 4 and 2 is purple to me, always an energizing color.

My grandkids are rainbows, although Olivia loooooooooves PINK. Cooper is just everywhere.

When I think of myself, I see turquoise. I love this color. It makes me feel alive.

My red-headed friend Judy is golden. She always looks sunkissed.

My son is in the doghouse right now, so he is sort of muddy green in my mind. When he's on his best behavior, he's more lively - then he's bright blue, like his eyes.

Do you have a color?

Art Nazis

Today I interviewed for a part time job teaching art at a local private art school. It is not necessarily a prestigious place, but the adults and children I saw on their website looked like they were having fun and producing some decent art work. I thought it would be a good summer part time job while I waited for my classes to start at the University. I had an electronic portfolio of my work which I gave them on disc, but they had asked to see some originals besides. I hate to brag, but I don't have a lot of pieces lying around my house, as I have sold a lot of them recently and some are in storage or loaned out to the University. but I did have a few abstract landscapes I've been working on this summer and some fresh watercolor florals which I laid out in front of them.

"Hmmm,...interesting. Yellow skies, heh? Interesting. Is that a sunflower? "

I knew I was in trouble. I hate it when people say "interesting", that's critic speak for "I don't like it".

As the owner continued to interview me, she peppered me with questions about my work, my teaching methodology, my stance on "concept art" (said with a curled lip) and before I could answer any of her questions, she launched into a soap box speech about how "true art" was being able to draw or paint something realistically. I quickly got the idea that, in her opinion, there was only one way to look at art - her way.

When she came up for breath, I mentioned that I had taught "Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain" - Betty Edwards' method of helping students perceive drawing without the filters of how things "should" look and said I thought Betty's methods freed up a lot of beginners to experiment and gain a sense of joy and play in their art work. That was obviously the wrong thing to say. She told me they taught "real" art at her school, not learning to draw things upside down (one of Betty's methods to get you to look at positive and negative space rather than the lines).

E-X-C-U-S-E M-E!!!!!!

This is the same woman who wanted to know what my MFA stood for. When I told her, she said, "Well just because you have a degree in art, doesn't mean you are a good artist". True, but what training had she had? None it seems. She proudly told me she is self-taught. Also perfectly fine, I don't think you necessarily have to have a degree either, but it's good to have an appreciation for different styles of art. She proudly showed me her own art on the walls of the classrooms, and those of her students and other teachers. All the other teachers were former students of hers. I realized I'd be the maverick if I got hired. Their paintings were technically very good. Proper proportions, well integrated color harmony and good compositionally, but they were all a bit stiff and lifeless - much like their teacher in my opinion. She explained that they learned from copying photographs down to the last little detail.

As I say, there was some remarkable work shown, children of 7 and 8 rendering landscapes with an incredible amount of detail and precision, down to the needles on the trees, and the cast shadows in the snow. Amazing detail for kids that young. But her teenage students and her adult students' paintings looked about the same as the 8 year olds'. They didn't seem to possess any individual style or verve. they were all a bit flat, no depth of field, and repetitious. I didn't say this, of course, because at that point, I was still considering working there. But it began to sink in that this woman was an Art Nazi.

I had a few of those in school too. They had perfected a particular technique and had it down cold, and they expected their students to imitate their work. In my opinion, these Art Nazis can kill creativity in their students faster than a duck on a june bug. Forget having confidence in your own ability unless you are a good copyist. It's unfair to ask students to imitate a teacher's own style with no regard for individual sensibilities. I once tried to emulate one of my favorite teachers who had an elegant spare oriental style. I failed miserably because I am rococo all the way. But instead of discouraging me, she told me to "lean into it" to see where it led. I always admired her for that. I feel it is the responsibility of a good teacher to encourage experimentation, to allow for an opportunity to try something and perhaps to fail, and to learn from those experiments so that each artist can develop that unique visual literacy I spoke of in my last post. Art Nazis will kill that impulse every time.

So I am rebelling. I am not taking that job even if she offers it (which she probably won't). I think art should be satisfying on all levels, should be fun, and freeing. I don't believe in oppression, drudgery, and drawing cones and spheres over and over to make sure you get it "right". Sure you have to hone your craft. You have make a lot of bad drawings of cones and spheres, some atrocious paintings, and start and stop a million times, but there should be a measure of joy and freedom of expression mixed in too. Throw in an apple or a pumpkin with your spheres, put ice cream in your cone, or set it on a clown's head...have some fun, loosen up, and don't take yourself so seriously. That is the kiss of death for an artist.

So all Art Nazis take notice, the fun police are out to get you!

As I always say...paint from your heart!

Sharon

Missing Italy

One of the things I miss the most about Italy is the coffee. I taught and studied there for a year in 2000/2001 in Florence, and I really loved it. Not only did I get to study art, I also lived in a real Italian neighborhood in the center of the city not far from the Duomo. I tried to learn as much Italian as I could (not enough though) and learned to live like a native! (Well, almost).

I had an apartment on via Alfani just up the street from San Marco and before Sant' Annunziata. My next door neighbor was a sweet Italian grandma that I only ever knew as Nonna, but she came with a dish of food and a friendly smile, and a blurr of shotgunned Italian the first day after I moved in. We could barely communicate, but she became a wonderful friend. My other Mama.

She taught me how to use the funny little coffee pot that came with my furnished apartment, and I immediately fell in love with Cappucino. The pot allowed me to heat the milk at the same time and I got addicted quickly. But Tuscans only drink it for breakfast. The coffee bars around Florence cater to tourists though, so you could get it at a bar any time of the day....often with a beautiful design carved in the foam by the talented (and often very sexy looking) baristo. I was told that if he swirled a heart on top, rather than just a squiggle, it meant he was flirting with you. I am not a young thing, although single, and I don't know if it was true or not, but it was fun to think so. Italian men are huge flirts and they seem to enjoy women whatever their age!

This dedication to customer service was true of all the Italian vendors I met. They all took an enormous amount of pride in their work. Fruit vendors in the Mercato Centrale vied for your business by claiming to have the juciest and the best, hand picking it from their selection, carefully wrapping it in tissue like a small gift and making sure they put in a bit extra or a small sample of nuts or an exotic fruit to insure you came back again. The vegetable vendors did the same, always including a small bundle of aromatics for soffrito (celery, onion, carrot, a little parsley) since every Italian started their soup or sauce with these ingredients. No one hurried, and no one complained. Probably because they wanted the same individual attention when it came their turn.

Even the the waiters at the local pizzaria treated me like a VIP. I had a favorite ristorante and went there about once a week while I lived in Florence, often times bringing students or visiting family or friends with me. After awhile, they got to know me, called me "professoressa", and argued over who would wait on me. All the waiters were young gods who made my female students sigh, and it was very flattering to be treated as preferred customers. After about two months, two of the sons who worked in the business asked me to meet their parents who operated the restaurant. Mamma was the cashier, Papa was chef in the kitchen and made the lasagna and other fresh dishes in the back, and the cousins tossed pizza dough to bake in the brick oven where we patrons could watch. They tossed dough with a flourish, and served it with a smile. They all gave you personalized service and if they were serving or helping you, no one else existed. You did not get rushed service if they were busy, you got your full measure of attention, and were treated as if you were the most important customer they had. This was not a 4 star restaurant, this was the local pizzaria. They became my "Pizza Boys". They practiced their English, I practiced my Italian. On a quiet night, Guiseppi (the youngest ) would do his homework at my table while I sipped my after dinner coffee and we would talk. His brother Antonio wanted to move to New York and start a Pizzaria there when he got older. He told me he was looking for a rich American wife! They were sweet boys and I felt honored to be included in their little family. Can you imagine anything like that happening here in the US?

Another example of art of the heart - in more ways than one.

Sharon