New Year, New ?????

I'm not going to give into peer pressure and society to make for a new me this year.  I am just going to continue doing the best I can and not beat myself up anymore.  Maybe the old me can resurface a bit, but only the good parts...

So I went to a Bob Mould concert on New Years Eve.  I love his music and that's the 2nd time I've seen him live.  I missed him this summer when he was playing for free downtown due to agoraphobia I was dealing with last June...so it was extra special to see him this time around.  I have his autobiography to read but haven't delved into it too much.  He writes openly about 'mental health' struggles and I am always game to read about other people's successes in dealing with that stuff.  I'll get around to it soon.  I actually started it and he started talking about abuse early on and I wasn't feeling strong enough to read about it.  But I'll get to it.  Anyway, he put on a great show and it was a fun night out.  The owner of the Metro was hanging out and I smiled at him as we passed each other in the hallway.  He was like, Who are you smiling at me?  Do I know you?  Haha.  But THAT is the person I USED to be...the person who would smile at strangers and might even make a new friend that way.  My younger self.  I want to be more like my younger self.  The good aspects of my younger self, though...not the depressive suicidal version.

I love watching artists do their thing.  I always do my own thing, but I don't have the balls to show it to anyone.  Maybe someday I will, but for now I just do it as my therapy...and that's OK.  Or maybe it's not.  I don't know.  I watched the movie Big Eyes yesterday and what a great subtle art revenge story.  A young naive artist agrees to lie to the public because her husband wants to take credit for all the paintings she creates.  Based on a true story, so it's even better.  I recommend seeing it.  My husband recently invited some gas service salesmen inside our apartment and one of them asked about one of my paintings propped up on the easel.  He asked how much and my husband said, $800.  The guy said he didn't have that kind of money right now but left his contact information if we could work out an arrangement.  It's an old painting I did back in the nineties but I don't think I want to part with it.  Is that weird of me?  Probably.

We lost a great person right before Christmas this year....my father-in-law.  He was kind and wise and full of good humor, even as he dealt with difficulties in his health.  It is a major life adjustment without him, but we are better people to have known someone like him in this life.

I wish you weirdos reading this a Happy Happy New Year.  I am calling you weirdos because you read this thing and never leave any comments for me.  What am I, chopped liver?

day jobs and artistic pursuits

My paintings are all piled up in the living room, a pile of empty canvases next to them waiting for inspiration to hit.  I recently bought some supplies to start a project in which I attempt to actually SELL some paintings but I'm having a hard time getting started.  Family members have looked through my old stuff when they've dropped by and said things like, 'Uh, you need to SELL these paintings and make some money!' (sis-in-law) and 'Hey, these are pretty good.  Why don't you sell them?' (my Dad) and then, my favorite, from my mother:

'What are you gonna do with all of these!?!?!'
I don't know, Mom.  It's just my therapy right now.  (She has also lent us some money a few weeks ago and gave me a canvas with specific instructions of what she wants painted to decorate her family room for her Christmas present this year.)

A former colleague of mine who is a VERY talented artist, way better than me...one of those actual God-given talents in fact... is trying to earn enough money by selling his personal belongings AND commission some pieces to move back here from NYC.  We've always worked retail and everything else was always a hopeful project on the side.  I know how grueling retail can be and I really want some good stuff to happen for him, for a change.  He went to NYC and really tried to make something happen.  I'm hoping his return to the Midwest can provide for some new opportunities.

Another former colleague and friend of mine left behind a retail job to pursue his music full-time.  I'm rooting for him and trying to offer support.  I have absolutely no music talent whatsoever and I truly admire those who do.  My cousins in France do music and somehow get financial support to work on their projects and make a tolerable living.  I get nervous about anyone leaving steady employment to go for their dreams but, you know, taking chances and all...

That's just it.  I don't take chances.  I tried once and wound up falling flat on my face.  I ended up in a psych ward, in fact, was heavily doped up and diagnosed and shunned, and I've never gotten over it.  More than a decade later, I'm still traumatized.  I can't imagine showing my paintings anywhere, in public, for people to see.  I can't muster up the courage to put myself out there like that.  I don't have it in me, even with a never-ending prescription for Ativan.  Nope, can't do it.

And so I keep working and trying to do my best in my day job every day. 

On the flip side, I've recently gotten in touch with an artist and writer to ask him to sign some of his books we are currently selling at the shop.  His artwork took off so big and strong that he got to quit his day job and has made a successful career for himself.  He's like, famous and stuff!  I took his old job years ago at the bookstore and it's really inspiring to see someone in close proximity soar like that.  I'm so happy for him, truly.

As I coordinate details for an upcoming art show to showcase two local artists at the shop, I think about my role and life in the artistic universe.  It is a subtle one, and I'm comfortable with that.  I don't want any big things for my life, but I truly want them for other people.  I understand the depths of artistic pain and depression and self-expressionism and creativity and mania and strong pursuit.  I understand certain elements of the commercial aspects of artistic success and the glamour behind becoming a commodity to make other people rich with your talent.  I'm not that talented person who 'has what it takes,' but I'm a supporter of those who do.  In this world of harsh criticism and endless bankable marketing opportunity, I'm the good friend who will stand on the sidelines and cheer and support those whom I care about. 

I have learned that this world can chew you up and spit you out real quick (or just throw you in a psych ward and analyse you to death).  But I believe in survival, and rebirth and renaissance, and friends lifting one another up, and the good guys getting to the truly good stuff that is so well-deserved.

And as far as my writing endeavors go?  Maybe someday I can spit out a book.  I've learned, am still learning, and will continue to learn for many years.  If I could somehow formulate my experiences into a helpful tale, then I will do just that.  I put my heart and soul into everything I do, and if my vulnerabilities find a light and a connection then so be it.

art therapy group

So with the help of my therapist, I have located an Art Therapy group at a wellness center.  I was nervous as all get-out to attend my first group, but I got on that bus and took an extra Ativan and made it to the session.

The first session was odd because I was the only one to show up!  It was just me and the facilitator of the group, so we spent over an hour working on two separate art therapy projects to get started.  I spent the first half hour coloring in a mandala and discussing it afterwards.  Coloring, throwing paint on a canvas, doodling....all things I do to rest my anxious mind on my own and now I had someone to actually discuss the WHYS of how it's therapeutic.  The second project was even a bit more childlike and 'freeing' to do and I was so happy I went.

The group has been starting to build and I'm getting to know a few others, slowly.  It's hard to open up to a new group about stuff, but I love the artistic exchange of the group.  Everyone is so critical of their artwork they create, yet it is designed as a 'no artistic talent' needed group and none of us are masterpiece painters.  But they BECOME masterpieces once we tell each other what we like about each others creations and we lift each other up.  No criticism, just mutual respect of the EXPRESSIVE OUTLET in which we share our emotions and feelings.

It's exactly what I was looking for with the 'art' I create. 

I wish the real world were as gentle sometimes.

Embellishing old paintings

Here's a bad snapshot of my current easel set up.  I started this painting in 1996 after visiting the Taos Pueblo during a trip with family to New Mexico.  There was an elder visibly pissed off at people taking photos of him like he was an animal in a zoo.  Despite his irritation people continued to take pictures and I decided I was going to paint it once I got home.  No photos for me, thanks.  This painting went unfinished for many years until I picked it up again a few months ago and started adding my own surreal embellishments which 18 years of experience have since colored my life.

It's a fun exercise to 'edit' paintings.  That odd little window stuck between nowhere special in the interiors of the home were probably a genuine point of perspective mistake I did at age 19, but now I kind of like it....

There's still more embellishing to do.  I'm having fun with this one.

Impressionism, Fashion, and Modernity

I spent the most lovely afternoon at the Art Institute, hopping around to visit some of my old faves and taking a peek at the Impressionism, Paris, Fashion, etc exhibition which is going on through September.  I usually shy away from the big blockbuster shows because it's usually so crowded one can't even get close enough to read the curatorial blurbs about the artworks.  But I packed all my patience and curiosity to weave through the crowds and enjoyed it all so much.  I absolutely fell in love with this one:

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shop_Girl_(Tissot)

....because there is so much going on, so many stories and sights to take in every day while keepin' shop.  It makes me smile when I encounter a painting that looks back at me like a mirror of sorts.

I remember visiting a museum in Rouen while I was staying there for a few months and catching my first glimpse of the old corsets made of iron. Quelle horreur!!  What various degrees of beauty we surpass over the eras...and how do these trends even begin?  How did the corsets and bustles aesthetics come to fruition?  Did it start in an instant with one very first painting depicting this new found 'beauty' in its image?  Especially after an era of the more 'plump' and natural images of women were recreated in paintings for so many years before?  It's just amazing to me how sometimes what seems such a superficial fashion trend can depict so much more as you start to discuss and peel away the layers...

I cannot comprehend all the modern fashion trends and the rage...the sensation...that they all create.  I look at fashion magazines and see clips of the runway.  I don't always get the appeal.  And I am certain I am not alone in this thought.  My very first trip I took by myself to Paris as a teen opened my eyes to a whole new idea of expressing oneself through individual style.  I remember standing in line in Passeport Controle at Orly and Betsey Johnson was standing next to me.  I remember the Parisian girl my age directing me to the baggage claim turnstyle and her red patent leather platforms.  Fashion is such a small detail in the big grand scheme of life and all things of utmost importance....but it certainly blends together to help create an experience.

turquoise

I experienced a strange day today.  Still getting used to my commute two days a week to a new suburb, I've been playing around with all the different public transport routes.  And sometimes they are disastrous.  Or maybe not.  Depends how you look at it, n'est-ce pas?

I SWEAR I read the train schedule last night and saw there was a 9:48 train.  So the Mr. drives me a few miles across town to the stop and I stand at the platform and wait.  And wait.  And wait.

An elderly grandmother walks up to me, as I was the only person standing at the platform, and asks me if I've seen her granddaughter get off the last train.  It was a scorcher, and I was sitting in the shaded hut sweating like a pig while trying to fan myself.  I told her there were quite a few folks who got off the last train and wasn't too sure if her granddaughter was one of them.  She saw me sweating and asked me if I wanted to sit with her in her air-conditioned car to wait for the train.  I assured her I'd be fine (not wanting to go into the details with a complete stranger how my medication makes me sweat profusely) and she wandered off to look for her.  A few minutes later a young girl new to the city asked me if she was standing on the right platform for the outbound.  I told her yes, and that it seemed like the train was late.  She then informs me that there is not another train for over an hour.  WHA!?!?  I immediately panicked.  Of course, I check the schedule again on my phone and I had erroneously (or subconsciously?) added an extra 9:48 train in my head.  The Mr. turned back around and drove alllll the way back to pick me up and drive me to work so I wouldn't be late.  I walked with the new girl and asked her if she was going to wait for an hour at the platform.  She was unfamiliar with the area and I pointed out a nice cool coffee shop for her to wait.  She thanked me, I thanked her, and we were on our way.

As I walked down to the street again, the grandmother was still walking around with her cane looking for her granddaughter fifteen minutes later.  Some weird strange force compelled me to look a block away, across the street and pointed, "Is that her sitting over there by the diner?"  The grandmother's panic turned to surprise and I walked a few difficult steps with her to the corner and she exclaimed, 'That's her!  You found her!' and continued to thank me profusely for being there to help her.

So somehow it was a little slab of destiny or whathaveyou that guided me there to that platform at that particular time.  I ended up getting to work with fifteen minutes to spare, just enough time to slam down an iced mocha, but broke two fingernails within minutes of being there.  Weird.  And it was busy busy buzzing all day so the day fleeeew by...

But the commute home was a two-hour one.  I came home to stare at the canvas I painted turquoise yesterday.  I was trying to watch a documentary about autism that I picked up at the library but for some reason I kept looking over at that turquoise I painted yesterday.  What is it about that color that grabs me?  I'm sure any qualified color theorist would have a quick answer.  But I stared at it for so long that I am having trouble picking up another color to complete the third part of a five-piece set I have been working on.  I dunno.  I guess the right time will appear again and I will just know when to continue on...

Je suis mon propre guide.

"I am my own guide."

I often think about the journeys of others, and while that may not always be a healthy activity, I do wonder about many-a-things.

Sometimes I wish I were Philip Glass so that I could compose all that must be said without actually having to say it.  My paintings I am working on are small and ordinary and do not properly convey what is inside of me.  But it's there, and I know it, and it has taken me a long time to realize that it does not matter if others cannot see it.

My relationship with God gives me great comfort.  I find myself alongside atheists and fanatics and opposing religions and righteous Bible thumpers each day and subsequentally feel my own relationship with God even more calming.

In the arena of Mental Health, there is a tendency among some patients to think they ARE God.  And conversely, there are actually some professionals within the field that may even behave similarly.  I still feel stress when I think about the admitting nurse during my 2nd round at the hospital and how JUDGMENTAL she was of me during my 10 day stay.  This was all based on the fact that I said something about 'not sure what to believe at the moment.'  She stood up and metaphorically spit in my face when I answered one of her examining questions.  My heart felt like it was going to stop beating at that moment.  And that is when I learned that Doubt was a metaphysical force.

In any moments of Doubt that I encounter in the future, I shall close my eyes and meditate on some of the purest moments I have ever felt.  I have encountered more than enough moments with God to make me a great believer that there is something beyond us....

Some people find this frightening and scary and too intense to contend with in their daily lives.  Not for me.  It is something that lives inside of me.

And I know that the 'delusion' of the Mexican janitor who came to talk to me in a waiting room of a hospital when I was all alone was merely there to comfort me in a time of need when he pointed to his name tag and it said "Jesus."  I didn't ask him to come talk to me.  He just simply appeared.  When I told him my story and asked him what to do, he answered me by throwing his arms around as if to lift the air up all around him.  He also was feeling a little down on himself for simply being a Mexican janitor and that nothing important or significant ever emerged out of Mexico.  I even counseled him and told him about Frida Kahlo and her important contributions to the art world.

So even if my mexican janitor friend was merely a clinical delusion that must be stopped with MEDICATION MORE MORE MORE MORE MEDICATION, I will NEVER forget him walking down the hall as I went on to write foreign alphabets on the chalkboard with fellow patients, looking back at me with a big smile on his face and waving...

Delusion or not, dear doctor, my imagination did not work entirely on my own to create that experience.

God is with us.  I no longer have any doubts about that.

I also think Jesus may have even had a comical side to him that people never knew about.  He is also a fantastic wedding cake designer.

sometimes it snows en avril

while staring at my blank canvases wondering what to fill them with and watching the PBS Buddha special, the following thought came to mind in regards to my own life journey:

was i in the wrong place at the right time?
was i in the right place at the wrong time?
was i in the wrong place at the wrong time?

OR

was i in the right place at the right time?

roadtrip to cleveland

i took a few consecutive days off from bookslave-land and hopped in the passenger's seat of my mother's car and drove 7 hours to cleveland, ohio.  we saw the rock and roll hall of fame and the cleveland museum of art (which was amazing and FREE!) and the house from the Christmas Story movie.

we drove the toll roads through northern indiana, through toledo ohio and saw all the landscapes that are permanently etched into my mind.  farms after farms after farms.  cornfields, amber waves of grain and not much more than that.

 (john rogers cox's gray and gold 1942)

these visuals growing up are what made me ponder and think and wonder and, essentially, chip away at boredom.

hours in the schoolbus, winding around old country roads for an hour to and from school, my mind jumpy and anxious for the next time i'd see something spectacular and amazing and new.

open lands.  vastness.  solitude.

until you arrive into the next big midwestern town with a museum or two and you peer at sargeant pepper outfits or zztop drums or mick jagger's jumpsuit or flavor flav's clock.  and in another building you see thousands of damien hirst's dead butterflies and another roomful of shining armor and impressionists and realists and more rodin sculptures and another excerpt of picasso's blue period you missed in paris and just when you though monet made you yawn you discover something different....

and then you're back in the cornfields all over again. with plenty of time to think about what just flashed before your eyes.

and then, if you're not in a rush, you can take the scenic route back to chicago through amish country.

and when i get stuck in that cornfield again, i reflect on these trips and assure myself that life does not breed constant chaos.  it's just a perpetual journey through cornfields to cultural deluge and back again.

i'm not sure where i fit into the grand scheme of things nor where i belong, but i always know that kind of cornfield thinking will see me through.

OHIOOOOO!

Angling for an Angle

as I take a break this Sunday from freeze-drying my winter clothes , I find myself in a pensive mood....contemplating everything from an aching hip to work to deciding if i really want to hear Iggy Pop chante en francais.

Comme d'habitude, I'm all over the place.

It would be incredible to make a living from my creative energies, or at least I would think that to be true. But then again I look at the implications of adding 'business' to any kind of pleasure or hobby and the outcome, I would suspect, might be anything but joyful.

Do you ever watch that Simon Schama's Power of Art show on PBS? I look at our contemporary, lightning-speed society and I wonder where future masterpieces may be found. It's hard to say. What is fleeing from us now? The high cost of mega-wattage, picture-perfect celebrity or the slow-cooked souls standing in dim corners with empty pockets and displaced talent?

Too much to contemplate on a dreary June afternoon in the big gray city. I leave you with a youtube clip. The ballad of an unfortunate Extra, bemusing David Bowie into song. Bwahahaha....

Bob Ross Days

The husband finished training in his new job and therefore is settled into his 3-12am shift.

I don't see much of him. For awhile. It's a lot to get used to.

Cooking for one, hanging out alone, sitting on the bus alone. Again.

But in the big grand scheme of things, more people are roaming out there alone than we probably estimate. I notice patterns in the behavior of several of my regular customers, and even among the folks who seemingly have incredibly active social lives. They tell me all of these wonderful grand plans and plentitude of activities to keep themselves busy, and I listen and listen and listen. "Really?" I think to myself....

I suppose for those with children this concept of being 'alone' is alien. To know you have an extension of your self, your creation, breathing life and looking always in your direction...perhaps solitude becomes a thing of the past. I do not know. Does it?

I look at my cat and she seems to say, 'Oh. Hey Mom,' as she slithers back under the bed.

But I know that I have overcome enormous struggles and have learned to cope with doubt, isolation, and all the nastiness that life's difficulties bring forth and I am stronger and wiser for it.


"I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries."
-Simon & Garfunkel

In these times of 'isolation,' for lack of better word, I do turn to certain figures for inspiration. Particularly when you've gone through your phone list and left about ten messages for others who are busy out there doing other things.

See, when Bob Ross found himself alone with a canvas and a low budget television camera, he might talk aloud to himself and say something like this:

"Little more black, little more blue. And we'll just put that in using little crisscross strokes or--or little X's, whatever you want to call them. Whatever."

And in the course of 20 minutes, he'd have a new landscape to reflect upon.

What a beautiful man he was....

I want to get out my supplies now and invent.

"There."