I'm working on a wonderful painting - two little girls, sisters, holding hands, in a field of flowers. Whenever I paint people, I'm always amazed by one very profound fact: if I paint a person exactly they way the look, it will never look like that person. I know. It's very strange. I've examined this anomaly from a variety of perspectives. I can line up a building from graphs and copy it exactly and it looks exactly like the exact same building. I can line a person up from a graph and copy it exactly and it looks like a deformed freak.
Whaddup with that? To paint a person who looks like a person, this specific person, I have to draw not just that person, but that which is not that person. The girls' faces take shape by painting the sky behind them, not just the shape of their features. It's not a matter of painting precisely they way they stand, or the tilt of the head, but the imprecision of it - there is a spirit there that colors a person that is beyond the reach of physical technicalities.
The smile is dead on exactly the smile on the girl's face, but it's totally wrong until the sky behind her open mouth fills in and then the smile takes a substance it hadn't felt before. There is no obvious pink right there on her cheek in the photograph and no blatant highlight in the middle of it, but it is there and she doesn't look at all like her self until that is added.
I always surprise myself regardless of what I paint. I learn something about the subject. I learn something about myself. I learn something about God. In landscapes, in animals, in people, in every living thing, there is something more than the physical parameters of the thing. If you only capture the image, it will look all wrong - only when you reach in deeply to capture the spirit will it look anything like itself.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Help Me, Jesus!
http://www.mcssl.com/SecureCart/ViewCart.aspx?mid=69B05C52-18FC-4A5B-9C3D-DABD0C2FEA08&sctoken=6467530115804a83aa735f0043b562a5&bhcp=1
This is a link to a book that promises to teach me all I need to know to market my own art for worldwide sales and big time money. So, does this artist really make the money marketing her art or does she make money selling her book to slobs like me who haven't figured out anything better than art by extortion - ie, I paint a lovely picture of YOUR grandchild which you then want so desperately you'll pay (nearly) anything for it. And like, what do I want with a portrait of your grandchild anyway? See, art by emotional blackmail! so, look in the column to the right and click on the donate button so I can buy the book, or leave a message as to why you think this book (and its ilk) is a total ripoff not worth my time, and keep up the blackmail art (please include photo of child, grandchild, dog, granddog, cat, etc.)! Thank you for your support.
This is a link to a book that promises to teach me all I need to know to market my own art for worldwide sales and big time money. So, does this artist really make the money marketing her art or does she make money selling her book to slobs like me who haven't figured out anything better than art by extortion - ie, I paint a lovely picture of YOUR grandchild which you then want so desperately you'll pay (nearly) anything for it. And like, what do I want with a portrait of your grandchild anyway? See, art by emotional blackmail! so, look in the column to the right and click on the donate button so I can buy the book, or leave a message as to why you think this book (and its ilk) is a total ripoff not worth my time, and keep up the blackmail art (please include photo of child, grandchild, dog, granddog, cat, etc.)! Thank you for your support.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Happy Happy
I heard a commercial on the radio today. You've probably heard it too. It's for one of those over prices under perform health care plans. It said, in a sincere, perky, female voice "Happy people are healthy people." I've heard this before. It wasn't the first time. It was the first time I had excess time on hands in which to really consider the theory. Since the ad admonished me to be happy so I could be healthy, well, I had to consider what all that entails.
Here's what I concluded: Happy people are healthy because THEY AREN'T SICK. Sure, I know that's easy to say, but let's face it. More and more body parts hurt every day. This does NOT make me happy. It isn't ruining my life just now, but it is working my nerves. Worked nerves don't lead to happiness. Chronic pain doesn't either. Unemployment is also a super big downer. Unemployed people low on money and resources with chronic increasing pain are usually not classified as 'happy people' although they aren't always necessarily unhappy.
What, exactly is a happy person? Right off the bat, I think of the basics: meaningful work, good enough pay, friends, family, balance of work, fun, hope, faith, feeling good. This happy person has a job, or at least a meaningful, reliable cash source. This happy person also has health care, regular, reliable, care that includes dentistry every 6 months, wellness checks for all those things you want to catch early so the don't make you sick. Happy person has a significant other with whom to share all this good, basic happy stuff. Then again, some studies suggest that only men are really happy with that significant other and heterosexual women are usually happier over 50 and not married. I haven't read any lesbian studies, but from what I can tell it's about 50/50 for who's happy and who isn't. Finally, ant it's certainly not official, but I bet hard cash that happy people don't gain weight as easily as the rest of us either.
The fact is, the things that lead to good health, are the same things that lead to happiness. The things that lead to happiness, take you straight toward good health. At least for a while. Age is bound to play some dirty tricks. so, while we're legislating taxation and fines for Coke vs Diet Coke, arguing in favor of healthy food legislation and banning tobacco, drugs and other 'unhealthy lifestyles' and shunning those not so inclined, perhaps we might want to consider demanding those tings really do lead to good health. Happiness. It's not just for rich people any more.
Here's what I concluded: Happy people are healthy because THEY AREN'T SICK. Sure, I know that's easy to say, but let's face it. More and more body parts hurt every day. This does NOT make me happy. It isn't ruining my life just now, but it is working my nerves. Worked nerves don't lead to happiness. Chronic pain doesn't either. Unemployment is also a super big downer. Unemployed people low on money and resources with chronic increasing pain are usually not classified as 'happy people' although they aren't always necessarily unhappy.
What, exactly is a happy person? Right off the bat, I think of the basics: meaningful work, good enough pay, friends, family, balance of work, fun, hope, faith, feeling good. This happy person has a job, or at least a meaningful, reliable cash source. This happy person also has health care, regular, reliable, care that includes dentistry every 6 months, wellness checks for all those things you want to catch early so the don't make you sick. Happy person has a significant other with whom to share all this good, basic happy stuff. Then again, some studies suggest that only men are really happy with that significant other and heterosexual women are usually happier over 50 and not married. I haven't read any lesbian studies, but from what I can tell it's about 50/50 for who's happy and who isn't. Finally, ant it's certainly not official, but I bet hard cash that happy people don't gain weight as easily as the rest of us either.
The fact is, the things that lead to good health, are the same things that lead to happiness. The things that lead to happiness, take you straight toward good health. At least for a while. Age is bound to play some dirty tricks. so, while we're legislating taxation and fines for Coke vs Diet Coke, arguing in favor of healthy food legislation and banning tobacco, drugs and other 'unhealthy lifestyles' and shunning those not so inclined, perhaps we might want to consider demanding those tings really do lead to good health. Happiness. It's not just for rich people any more.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Life's Messy
Life is messy. Pay attention, all you neat freaks, you tidiness junkies. Some days, you just can't get around it. There will be mud. Muck will invade your order on every level. Crap will mate, reproduce and explode all over your psyche. It just will. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. You can run, but you cannot hide. Life will hunt you down and find you out.
We all do try to avoid those places in life. We would rather have order. Clean is the preferred state of things. We dust, scrub, tidy, clean, vacuum. But, nature (and dogs) abhor a vacuum. Some days, you just can't keep it clean.
Some days, the phone rings with the call you don't want. The doctor gives you that look as she walks the long hall to where you are. It can be as simple as a devoted pet in the last throes of life on the new carpet, or a life long companion in a nursing home. Sometimes you see it coming straight for you, but more often it will blindside you on a Tuesday afternoon. Even when you know it's coming, it's final reality will jump up out of the shadows and knock you down.
There is great life in death. There is much gained in loss. Letting go is not easy, it's dirty, it's complicated, it's painful, but in those moments holding a hand, wiping up messes, screaming at God, absolutely hating where you are and what you are doing, there is great living.
Whatever you do or don't do in life, don't miss out on the messy parts. That's where the life is.
We all do try to avoid those places in life. We would rather have order. Clean is the preferred state of things. We dust, scrub, tidy, clean, vacuum. But, nature (and dogs) abhor a vacuum. Some days, you just can't keep it clean.
Some days, the phone rings with the call you don't want. The doctor gives you that look as she walks the long hall to where you are. It can be as simple as a devoted pet in the last throes of life on the new carpet, or a life long companion in a nursing home. Sometimes you see it coming straight for you, but more often it will blindside you on a Tuesday afternoon. Even when you know it's coming, it's final reality will jump up out of the shadows and knock you down.
There is great life in death. There is much gained in loss. Letting go is not easy, it's dirty, it's complicated, it's painful, but in those moments holding a hand, wiping up messes, screaming at God, absolutely hating where you are and what you are doing, there is great living.
Whatever you do or don't do in life, don't miss out on the messy parts. That's where the life is.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
WWYD?
Okay, I'm not exactly a poster child for fundamental christian principles. I'm not really even christian. Except that I am a Universalist: I believe in the fundamental truth of all faith. I do believe in something other than life in this dimension as we know it. Something bigger. Something greater. Something more. I also believe that we are incapable of really knowing what that is.
It's not uncommon for people experiencing dark and frightening times of life to seek greater wisdom and power. I have done that. I have asked. I have been offered otherworldly guidance. I have blindly followed. Blindly. And I mean that literally.
One day, I walked away from my life, my career, my ambitions, my education, my house, my belongings, my everything. I gave up. I had worked hard. I had a good education. None of that mattered. Security never existed. I couldn't count on anything I had ever believed in. Quite the contrary, I could count on everything I had believed in to be fundamentally false. What then?
I got a lot of advise. I tried a lot of things. I went in any number of directions. I do remember reading a lot of religion. I remember laughing at some of things I read. "Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt. Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, leave their town and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?
Wow. That's some instruction. Not that anybody would really do that. I certainly wouldn't. And even if someone did, not every body can. Because then there would be no towns, no homes, just a lot of lost souls wandering around seeking kindness from strangers. Would that really be a better world? No. But, then, if you take Jesus seriously, you are probably smart enough to realize that everybody isn't going to do that. And Jesus, being omnipotently smarter than anybody else, obviously knew that as well.
In truth, that's what I did. It was never what I intended to do. I made no deliberate plan and set out to accomplish it. In hindsight, I realize that doing so would have been contrary to the purpose. I just asked a question. In prayer, I wondered, cynically, what life would be like if I were to really do that. In fact, it's really only been recently pointed out to me that I did this, am doing this. It's very odd to me to look back and make that connection.
Truth is, we all have a gospel, all our own. We preach it every day. In our thoughts, our acts, our works, we spread our gospel as we go. what we have, what we do, this is what I cherish most. Often it is our children, our hobbies, sometimes it's our work, for many it is the public recompense we value most. What I am worth to the world in terms of dollars and cents - very real, very tangible, very necessary appreciation. We truly cannot live without it.
As an artist, and occasional writer, I accept that my recompense must often come in smaller increments, further apart, than most in our culture enjoy. When survival depends on having the gold and silver to pay the tax man, the corporate supplier of food, water, housing, transportation, then there is so little left over for things like beauty, decoration. Somehow, since starting this journey, I have always had enough. It hasn't always felt like enough. It often felt way too close to a day late and a dollar short. I've learned there is a wide gap between what I want and what I need.
We can all live with a lot less. Try it. For a month. Use only what you absolutely, bottom line need. You will quickly find that beauty, kindness, laughter are absolutely mandatory.
It's not uncommon for people experiencing dark and frightening times of life to seek greater wisdom and power. I have done that. I have asked. I have been offered otherworldly guidance. I have blindly followed. Blindly. And I mean that literally.
One day, I walked away from my life, my career, my ambitions, my education, my house, my belongings, my everything. I gave up. I had worked hard. I had a good education. None of that mattered. Security never existed. I couldn't count on anything I had ever believed in. Quite the contrary, I could count on everything I had believed in to be fundamentally false. What then?
I got a lot of advise. I tried a lot of things. I went in any number of directions. I do remember reading a lot of religion. I remember laughing at some of things I read. "Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt. Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, leave their town and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?
Wow. That's some instruction. Not that anybody would really do that. I certainly wouldn't. And even if someone did, not every body can. Because then there would be no towns, no homes, just a lot of lost souls wandering around seeking kindness from strangers. Would that really be a better world? No. But, then, if you take Jesus seriously, you are probably smart enough to realize that everybody isn't going to do that. And Jesus, being omnipotently smarter than anybody else, obviously knew that as well.
In truth, that's what I did. It was never what I intended to do. I made no deliberate plan and set out to accomplish it. In hindsight, I realize that doing so would have been contrary to the purpose. I just asked a question. In prayer, I wondered, cynically, what life would be like if I were to really do that. In fact, it's really only been recently pointed out to me that I did this, am doing this. It's very odd to me to look back and make that connection.
Truth is, we all have a gospel, all our own. We preach it every day. In our thoughts, our acts, our works, we spread our gospel as we go. what we have, what we do, this is what I cherish most. Often it is our children, our hobbies, sometimes it's our work, for many it is the public recompense we value most. What I am worth to the world in terms of dollars and cents - very real, very tangible, very necessary appreciation. We truly cannot live without it.
As an artist, and occasional writer, I accept that my recompense must often come in smaller increments, further apart, than most in our culture enjoy. When survival depends on having the gold and silver to pay the tax man, the corporate supplier of food, water, housing, transportation, then there is so little left over for things like beauty, decoration. Somehow, since starting this journey, I have always had enough. It hasn't always felt like enough. It often felt way too close to a day late and a dollar short. I've learned there is a wide gap between what I want and what I need.
We can all live with a lot less. Try it. For a month. Use only what you absolutely, bottom line need. You will quickly find that beauty, kindness, laughter are absolutely mandatory.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Charity
I'm something of an Antiques Roadshow freak. I love it. I'm sure I'll get that priceless prize at the garage sale, thrift store, trash pile on the side of the road. Whatever. I've always loved digging through attics, basements, boxes, just for the thrill of discovering what's in there.
The same thrill of discovery is achieved weekly on my favorite PBS show. The sweet old lady who spent twenty-five cents at a yard sale has an original Picasso. Too good to be true, but there it is. What's not to love?
Last night I watched in horror. A sweet little old lady proudly claimed an original artwork from a famous watercolorist. She found it at a silent auction. A school was raising money for scholarships to give to students who didn't have the money to attend the highly regarded private school. Mrs. Sweet Little Old Lady PROUDLY recalled how she bid seventy-five cents for the priceless work and the hovered around to make sure nobody outbid her!
WTF??? Am I the only one appalled? Is this behavior we want to encourage? I certainly hope not. I've been to numerous charitable auctions, silent and rowdy, and felt the point was to get the money to the charity, rather than expect a windfall take away. I've even applauded when raffle winners turned over the proceeds won to the charity involved. I've never won said raffle, so I can't vouch for what exactly I would do if I did win the color tv (or whatever). I'd like to think I'd be magnanimous.
I know I'm not the best person I would like to be, or even could be. I dance a fine line some days, knowing what's right, just not being fully committed to the personal wisdom of it (like the above paragraph - I did delete the series of nasty names I called the old bitch). But, there I go again.
It's not up to me to judge. But, when I see Gilbert Godfried celebrated in spite of spiteful anti Japanese 'jokes', or Mel Gibson praised in spite of just plain stupid meanness, or Charlie Sheen selling tickets and getting good reviews even though he beats women and isn't even allowed unsupervised around his own children, or old ladies cheaping out on a charity I just can't help but thing that maybe we are sending the wrong message about really matters. And in case you wondered, it isn't money.
The same thrill of discovery is achieved weekly on my favorite PBS show. The sweet old lady who spent twenty-five cents at a yard sale has an original Picasso. Too good to be true, but there it is. What's not to love?
Last night I watched in horror. A sweet little old lady proudly claimed an original artwork from a famous watercolorist. She found it at a silent auction. A school was raising money for scholarships to give to students who didn't have the money to attend the highly regarded private school. Mrs. Sweet Little Old Lady PROUDLY recalled how she bid seventy-five cents for the priceless work and the hovered around to make sure nobody outbid her!
WTF??? Am I the only one appalled? Is this behavior we want to encourage? I certainly hope not. I've been to numerous charitable auctions, silent and rowdy, and felt the point was to get the money to the charity, rather than expect a windfall take away. I've even applauded when raffle winners turned over the proceeds won to the charity involved. I've never won said raffle, so I can't vouch for what exactly I would do if I did win the color tv (or whatever). I'd like to think I'd be magnanimous.
I know I'm not the best person I would like to be, or even could be. I dance a fine line some days, knowing what's right, just not being fully committed to the personal wisdom of it (like the above paragraph - I did delete the series of nasty names I called the old bitch). But, there I go again.
It's not up to me to judge. But, when I see Gilbert Godfried celebrated in spite of spiteful anti Japanese 'jokes', or Mel Gibson praised in spite of just plain stupid meanness, or Charlie Sheen selling tickets and getting good reviews even though he beats women and isn't even allowed unsupervised around his own children, or old ladies cheaping out on a charity I just can't help but thing that maybe we are sending the wrong message about really matters. And in case you wondered, it isn't money.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Divine Miss Emmy
I've officiated at any number of funerals for pets. I never cease to be amazed. There is a ritual that dogs know. All dogs. The largest dog funeral I officiated had twenty dogs in attendance. My dog, Mongo, had to be put down. She was a fifteen year old lab mix with severe arthritis who had suddenly lost her sight. She had to do stairs and couldn't manage it without eyes, unless I carried her. I couldn't spend every minute with her and she didn't want to be where I wasn't.
She spent a lot of time at one particular farm. There were ten dogs that lived there full time. Another five to ten dogs were frequent farm visitors. They all came to say goodbye to Mongo. We brought her home from the vet's office. From the truck, she rode the wheel barrow to the little cemetery. Someone brought a little yard angel to sit beside her. I had dug the hole earlier. Mongo had sat beside me while I worked, content to be near me. There was a half of a chocolate cake left over from the weekend, so I fed it to her. She loved chocolate, and stole it whenever she could. She had to have known something was up when I gave it to her.
Friends came over to help me, and to comfort us both. I took a break. Mongo took a nap. In the hole. Any concerns I had over whether or not it was a good fit were at least dispelled. It took tugging, pulling, laughter and tears, and a pack of hot dogs to get her out of her grave and into the car and off to the vet. Talk about ironic.
When we came home, the dogs were sitting quietly in the yard, waiting for us. We loaded her into the wheel barrow and they followed behind me as I took her to the grave. There they watched while I placed her gently in the ground. They looked at me, as though they fully expected me to say something. So I did. I talked about the joy she gave me, the weird way she barked at airplanes, her love of forbidden chocolate. I said a little prayer. Then, one by one, each dog walked by the grave, nudged her, sniffed, went back and sat down. I covered her up, gently put the rocks around the space to mark it as hers. When I was done, Jake leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Those inclined to do so joined in. Then, they took off running full speed up the mountain.
Emmy has been sick a long time, but had an attitude and enjoyment of life that belied her diagnosis. This week, though, she quit eating. Dogs have their ways of telling us when it's time to move on. Mongo didn't like being blind and I knew what she wanted - napping in her grave was only the last clue. Emmy loved to eat. She would eat everything. She could eat more than Webster who is four times her size. When she quit eating, I knew. I think, too, she didn't want Donna to see her that way, but to remember her royal demeanor. Donna knew, and we had talked about it, but it wasn't obvious when Donna left on a trip. It was obvious later. Donna knew I wouldn't let her, or any dog, suffer needlessly. She didn't give me the job, but I offered to take it on if it became necessary. She trusted me to know when that might be.
Abbey, Savannah and Webster came today and watched as I put Emmy in her own little grave. I planted an azalea with her. They each walked over to Emmy, sniffed her, nudged her, then sat respectfully and watched as I finished the work. I said some words, about how much she loved Jean, loved to eat, would push Webster away from his dish and polish off his dinner, push him off his bed to nap there, prance past the other dogs languishing in the ninety degree heat to go loll about in the air conditioning inside. Then I said a prayer. On cue, Webster leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Abbey and and Savannah joined him. Goodbye Miss Em.
She spent a lot of time at one particular farm. There were ten dogs that lived there full time. Another five to ten dogs were frequent farm visitors. They all came to say goodbye to Mongo. We brought her home from the vet's office. From the truck, she rode the wheel barrow to the little cemetery. Someone brought a little yard angel to sit beside her. I had dug the hole earlier. Mongo had sat beside me while I worked, content to be near me. There was a half of a chocolate cake left over from the weekend, so I fed it to her. She loved chocolate, and stole it whenever she could. She had to have known something was up when I gave it to her.
Friends came over to help me, and to comfort us both. I took a break. Mongo took a nap. In the hole. Any concerns I had over whether or not it was a good fit were at least dispelled. It took tugging, pulling, laughter and tears, and a pack of hot dogs to get her out of her grave and into the car and off to the vet. Talk about ironic.
When we came home, the dogs were sitting quietly in the yard, waiting for us. We loaded her into the wheel barrow and they followed behind me as I took her to the grave. There they watched while I placed her gently in the ground. They looked at me, as though they fully expected me to say something. So I did. I talked about the joy she gave me, the weird way she barked at airplanes, her love of forbidden chocolate. I said a little prayer. Then, one by one, each dog walked by the grave, nudged her, sniffed, went back and sat down. I covered her up, gently put the rocks around the space to mark it as hers. When I was done, Jake leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Those inclined to do so joined in. Then, they took off running full speed up the mountain.
Emmy has been sick a long time, but had an attitude and enjoyment of life that belied her diagnosis. This week, though, she quit eating. Dogs have their ways of telling us when it's time to move on. Mongo didn't like being blind and I knew what she wanted - napping in her grave was only the last clue. Emmy loved to eat. She would eat everything. She could eat more than Webster who is four times her size. When she quit eating, I knew. I think, too, she didn't want Donna to see her that way, but to remember her royal demeanor. Donna knew, and we had talked about it, but it wasn't obvious when Donna left on a trip. It was obvious later. Donna knew I wouldn't let her, or any dog, suffer needlessly. She didn't give me the job, but I offered to take it on if it became necessary. She trusted me to know when that might be.
Abbey, Savannah and Webster came today and watched as I put Emmy in her own little grave. I planted an azalea with her. They each walked over to Emmy, sniffed her, nudged her, then sat respectfully and watched as I finished the work. I said some words, about how much she loved Jean, loved to eat, would push Webster away from his dish and polish off his dinner, push him off his bed to nap there, prance past the other dogs languishing in the ninety degree heat to go loll about in the air conditioning inside. Then I said a prayer. On cue, Webster leaned his head back and let out a long, loud howl. Abbey and and Savannah joined him. Goodbye Miss Em.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)