Bad Blogging

 

Ceriana, Italy

 

 

 

I've recently learned, having read an extensive article on the subject of blogs, that I've been doing my art blog incorrectly. It seems that when you have an art blog, you should stick to the subject of art, whether specifically addressing painting techniques, how to sell your art...you know. The boring stuff.

 

Anyone who has read any of my posts will understand that I have been - it would seem - a bad blogger. Or a bad artist. Maybe both. But I'm well-prepared for self-recrimination, having had a lengthy history of going about things in entirely the wrong way. I shall expound.

 

I studied piano with a renowned teacher. For about thirteen years. As a student of this very demanding teacher, I had to learn ten pieces per school year, and I had to participate in an audition at the end of each school year, in which a judge would ask me to play several of these ten pieces. Very, very scary. Intimidating is a bigger word. I'll go with that. Anyway...I always got good marks for most things, but every year and on most every piece, I received a nice but firm negative mark for fingering. I don't know why, but I mostly ignored the recommended fingering, choosing to use what seemed most natural to me. Which was incorrect.

 

I could bore you with other examples of doing things the wrong way. And the inevitable self-recrimination that would follow. And much of the time, what would follow that was the continuation of wrong-doing. As I recall, the apostle Paul had somewhat the same problem. So I'm in good company, though I doubt that I could lay claim to any other commonality with him.

 

But. There's always a rebuttal. Especially to anything that is considered to be the standard. If we all adhered to the standard, we'd still be wearing powdered wigs and giant painted black moles on our faces (though I've known a few ladies and gentlemen who didn't need to paint on the mole adornment). Not to belabor a point, but we might still be dressing like the Flintstones and using our feet to power ourselves up. I digress.

 

In defense of my wrongly-written little blog, I believe that art reflects real-life events and emotions. Art is life. And life often leads to art in its various forms. So I will continue to write the way I write, which is often not specifically about art. My life, my thoughts, my opinions, as well as my art, are intertwined in a convoluted, confusing and (I hope) often-amusing stream of consciousness.

 

Footnote. As an adult, I've disciplined myself to play with the right fingering. Most of the time. But I once read an article in a music magazine that suggested that there is an old piano-teaching technique which instructed students to deliberately play with the wrong fingering in order to increase their agility. Ha!

 

I don't get to say "Ha!" often, so allow me this one. The above painting is of a doorway in Ceriana, Italy...an enchanting little town to which I long to return. There may very well be more about my adventure in Italy last summer. But you'll have to wait. Ciao! (How pretentious is that?)

 



The Good Old Days (repost)

 

"Looking Back"

oil

9X12

 

I'm amazed at how much the world has changed since my childhood. I have always explained to my children  that kids in my era were largely ignored by the adult world - at least in comparison to now. There were no blue ribbons for participating...in fact I don't remember that many blue ribbons for winning either.  But then, maybe there were blue ribbons, but I'm unaware because of never having done anything worthy of having received one. Hard to say.

In my day (in my recollection, anyway), parents expected more from sons than daughters. This is especially true of fathers. Yesterday my brother was talking about how angry our dad would get when he (Dad) would pitch balls to him. As my brother put it, "It always made him so mad that I wasn't Ted Williams." True. But then my dad would never have pitched a ball to me in the first place. 

Occasionally, my brother and other little boys would play ball out in a field somewhere (we lived in the country, so fields were not hard to come by). They would always stick me out in the far outfield, where I would proceed to daydream. On one such occasion, a boy hit a ball all the way to the outfield where I was standing...daydreaming with my glove held up in the air. The ball literally fell into my glove. I'm not exaggerating. I was unaware that anyone had even hit the ball, and suddenly the ball was mysteriously in my glove. 

Of course, everyone was shocked (no one more than me), and delighted. They made a big fuss over me (people had to make fusses over cute little girls, you know), and I was at least clever enough to have kept my mouth shut and to let them think that I was as competent as they were. Well...that was probably wishful thinking on my part. I don't think any of these little boys or their dads thought for one moment that I was in any way competent.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if we didn't - in some ways - get a better overall education back then. I know that school is harder now. Certainly the math is harder. But then...we had no computers. No internet. Research papers had to be typed on a typewriter. An actual typewriter. Or written by hand with no mistakes. 

And back to the issue of "adults largely ignoring kids"...for those of you who grew up in the 50s and 60s...didn't your parents let you roam all over town and (in my case) country with no regard to specifics and no regulations except to "be home by supper"? So we learned a lot of things hands-on.

I will end this rambling "back in my day" post by relaying a conversation along these lines with my cousin Tricia a while back. She reminded me that 1) when she would visit me, we would walk about two miles on a little-traveled road to a gas station on the highway to buy cokes and candy cigarettes. She remembered that one time a couple of men stopped and asked us questions/directions...or something. She's just sure that one of them looked like the serial killer Otis Toole. In hindsight, of course. And 2) she reminded me that she and her siblings/friends used to love it when the truck came by to spray for mosquitoes, because they liked to follow the truck and play in the spray as if they were at a water park. Of course, there were no water parks then. But in theory, it was much like a water park. Except for the toxicity.

I'm surprised we're still alive. Large numbers of us, anyway. And most of us are no worse for the wear. And I suppose having been largely ignored by the adult world has prepared us somewhat for old age, in that now we are largely ignored by the young. I can hear "The Circle of Life" playing in my head now. It's hard to be me...



Re-posting "Experimentation"

Thought this one was worth posting again.

"Katie"

11X14

oil

I have, in fact, been painting this week. Sometimes I have a painting job to do – a commission, or a request for more lighthouses, landscapes or…whatever, from a gallery. But sometimes when I’ve finished a piece, I have leftover paints on my palette. And since I don’t want to waste perfectly good paint…I will experiment. It’s one of my favorite things to do, in my artistic life. Sometimes.

The only drawback is that, as in any form of experimentation, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I like the experiment enough to incorporate it into my painting style. When the experiment takes a wrong turn, then I question my own worth as a human being.

Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But experimenting brings both agony and ecstasy. Are any of you old enough to remember that intro to the “Wonderful World of Sports” (or some such overblown title)? Remember when the announcer got to “the agony of defeat”, and that poor skier went flying uncontrollably off the ski jump and into the crowd? That poor guy. I wonder if his name was Hans.

Anyway…occasionally I have an experiment that goes wrong, and for the rest of the day (or week) I feel like poor Hans. Why did I ever think I could be a painter? I could be an accountant sitting at my desk like a regular person…with a regular paycheck. But who am I kidding? I hate numbers and math way too much to be an accountant. 

Hans had to ski…I have to paint. Fortunately, last weeks’ adventures in experimentation went okay. I don’t know that I’ve made any kind of mind-boggling breakthroughs, but every experiment has value. Even the ones that go awry. At least you can incorporate it into your artistic toolbox under the title “never, ever do this again”.

And even more fortunately for me, unlike the pitiable Hans, a mishap in the art studio seldom results in broken bones. And I seldom have to do math.

I wonder whatever happened to Hans. Now that’s all I’ll be able to think about for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes it’s hard to be me.

 enjoy!

Challenges

.

 

"Sophisticated Lady"

14X11

oil

 

As the title of this post implies...I've had a few challenges of late. I won't go into great detail for those of you who have already heard (to the point of retching) about my woes.

 

Around the end of May, I fell and broke my right shoulder. Yes...I'm right-handed. I won't say much about the particulars of this calamity, since it involves stupidity on my part. In the midst of this, it was discovered that I had a mass in my lung. Scary.

 

I'll skip over the long, drawn-out saga that followed and just cut to the chase and let you know that I'm fine. It is a nodule caused by a fungus. A very old fungus it would seem, since there's calcium in it. Everything on me is old.

 

Even the condensed version is tedious. But at least it's informative. Boring. But informative.

 

So...challenges. The up side to trials is that it's nice when they're over. I'm back to normal - for the most part. Normal for me, that is. I'm sure you all have your opinions as to the degree to which I am normal.

I have a portrait demo coming up on Sunday. Always a challenge...attempting to do a decent portrait in an hour and a half or two. While an audience watches. Which reminds me. Maybe I should prepare for that.

Somewhere in the Middle

 

"Yellow Bird"

 

 



I know...such a clever title. But in my defense, it's hard to come up with clever titles for birds you've never actually met. I cannot claim intimate knowledge of this little guy...but I think he's cute.

This is one of several recent small paintings I did as gifts. My fellow artists will understand when I say that I learned a long time ago to be cautious in giving my art away. Choose your recipients very carefully. This brings me to my topic. My fellow artists will totally relate. My non-artist readers...well, I hope it gives you insight. Or whatever.

The first time I did the "Celebration of Fine Art" in Scottsdale, I was somewhat naïve about selling my own art. Actually...I was completely naïve. I had no idea how to price my work. There are about 100 artists who participate each year at the "Celebration", so the first thing I did was walk around the tent and check out other artists' prices.

Holy crap...I have seriously under-valued my work in the past. That was my first thought. Followed by Holy crap...these artists think very highly of themselves. But I figured out quickly that these other artists were experienced enough to understand the psychology of buyers. If one artist's work is substantially lower than another's, the buyer wonders why. Sometimes - especially in the realm of art, in which most people don't have a great knowledge of art and not nearly enough confidence in their own taste - buyers just assume that a lower price is an indication of inferior work.

I know. It's crazy. And you may be an exception to that. But it's generally true. So I did the logical thing. I priced myself somewhere in the middle. That would describe a surprisingly substantial apportionment of my life. Somewhere in the middle. Size?...somewhere in the middle. Intelligence? somewhere in the middle, I suspect. The middle is okay. And at the end of the day...it doesn't really define one's true value, does it?

Uh, oh...I think I just veered slightly off-topic. Typical. Ability to stay on task?...somewhere in the middle. But then, there has to be a connection between the way we value ourselves and the way we value our work. Maybe I'm not so off-topic after all.

So much for philosophy 101. Never look to an artist for philosophical reasoning...

 

 

 



"Mom's Kitchen"
 

 

No...you're not imagining things. I have a new post. I am going to bring you all up to date on the goings-on in my life. And in doing so, hopefully you will understand why I haven't been posting.

 

My mom passed away in December. No...it was not a shock. She was almost 96. She had a very good run. Though the last two years were somewhat nightmare-ish. Anyone who has dealt with a parent/loved one with dementia/Alzheimer's will understand that statement.

It wasn't the death I was unprepared for. It was the aftermath. Deeds. Wills. Division of land. The paying of taxes on said land for the past year. But really...even that is not so monumental. The real challenge has been going through the household belongings and memorabilia of a 95-year-old who lived in the same place for over 70 years, along with memorabilia given to her from almost everyone she ever met. It would appear that she never threw away a card of any kind. Or a photo. Letter. Stamp...one of the items I've come across is my long-deceased uncle's wallet and driver's license. I guess she thought that she might have need of it at some point.

I've also found some meaningful things, though I remind myself that I would be no worse off for not knowing of these meaningful mementos. For example, I found a $500 Confederate bill in mint condition, along with a $50 Confederate bill which was in awful condition. I had them appraised and found that the $500 bill was just a copy, and the other was in such bad shape that it was also worthless. So...if I just threw everything onto a big pile and burned it, I would probably be able to save myself a lot of anguish.

I've had some other things on my plate, but I don't think you really want to hear about it. The aforementioned organization of all my mom's worldly goods (which hopefully will lead to an eventual estate sale) is far from over. Anyone got a match? Lighter?

So...you're reasonably up to speed. I will try to get back to my usual routine of posting. Yes...I have been painting here and there. The painting above is an oldie. It is indeed my mom's kitchen window.
And a representation of yet another life well-lived.

 



A Bipolar Christmas

No title...portrait demo of my favorite Santa
16X20
oil
 

(This is a re-post from last year. It pretty much sums up my mixed feelings in regard to "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year".)

I love/hate the holidays. So much pressure to be happy. Such pressure to enjoy being immersed in the bosom of one’s family…recollections passed around from one family member after another regaling all the idiotic things you said and did as a child/teen/young adult (or last year, for that matter). At a recent family gathering, an aunt starting recounting one of her favorite anecdotes concerning her daughter (my cousin) to a distant relative who had not had the pleasure of this story. The daughter said, “Mom…no. Seriously. NO!” My aunt gathered all the self-control she could muster and stifled herself - to my disappointment. What can I say? It was a funny story. And not about me.

Some examples of embarrassing childhood stories…this same cousin (you know who you are) and I built elaborate floor plans out in the yard by raking leaves into imaginary walls which delineated the rooms of our mansions (approximately 36 square feet or so…mini mansions), in which we lived with our pretend husbands Pat Boone and Rock Hudson. I was married to Rock Hudson (of course I’d be married to a closeted gay man). We also wore towels on our heads, pinned back in such a way as to signify long ponytails (it fooled no one) and then we would pretend we were dancing on “American Bandstand” with imaginary boyfriends. And just think…these are the stories I’m willingly sharing. 

 

But then…there’s the food. And the happy childhood memories, towel-heads notwithstanding. I remember playing our family version of war games, in which my uncles (both WWII vets) would chase us kids through the woods throwing acorns at us. Gosh…that sounds cruel. But we LOVED it…such an adrenalin rush. We would even occasionally try to retaliate, but we were hopelessly outmatched.

Even now, I’m falling into the holiday trap…conjuring up memories of childhood, and family and friends who have come and gone. Happy. Sad. Conflicted. Stressed. What to buy for Aunt Rose? Okay, I don’t have an Aunt Rose. But you get my point. Right? Or am I just neurotic? Never mind…I think the answer to that question has long since been established.

But then…there’s the chocolate-covered cherries. And family anecdotes NOT about me. And young children with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. And Christmas music (enjoyable for the first couple of days). And “It’s A Wonderful Life” (enjoyable for the first 30 minutes). And the food, though I think I may have previously mentioned that.

Then there's the bipolar musical experience. Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas”…but then there’s those dogs barking “Jingle Bells”. Horrible. “Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire” as sung by Nat King Cole…glorious. “Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire’ as sung by Justin Bieber makes me want to taser someone. Fudge…fruit cake. Whiskers on kittens…bee stings. Ying…yang. I guess you have to have the bad stuff in order to truly appreciate the good stuff.

Well…I suppose I might as well just dive full-force into the eggnog-fruitcake-fudge-"White Christmas"-"A Christmas Story" for 24-hours straight - "Jingle Bells" melee and ride the bipolar holiday rollercoaster open sleigh with childish abandon. Sans towel.

 

 

 

Fun at the Library

Untitled

20X16

oil

 

Yes...I'm still using the library computers. Yes...I'm still laptop-less. I'm not the type of person who is given to exaggeration. Keep that in mind when I disclose to you that the man two computers down from me is talking to himself. Sometimes in a whisper. Sometimes in a rather deep and resonant voice. Always followed by a long, breathy sigh. I'm pretty sure he's single.

 

I will carry on as best I can. As I explained in my last post, I can only pull up photos from Picasa Web, and I am therefore limited in selections that might fit my posts. The above painting has long-since been sold, and I can't remember the title, but it does - if one looks at it in a certain way - appear as so the subject could be pulling her hair in distress. So in that regard...it does fit my mood somewhat.

 

I actually love this pose. Those of you who are truly observant will note that I also have a black and white version of this, though they've both been sold. Since I still have the photo reference, perhaps I should take yet another stab at this moody little piece.

 

I've been considering posting portions of a book I wrote a few years ago about my adventures as a working artist in Arizona. I would like to publish and sell it on this website as an eBook, but I'm too computer illiterate to do so. Any and all suggestions will be welcome.

 

Okay...seriously. I can't even concentrate. A librarian (poor soul) is having to explain the complexities of copying and pasting to my neighbor. If I were to type the conversation that has ensued between them...I'm pretty sure you wouldn't believe me. 

So I will end this short post in the hope that soon I will be able to post in the privacy of my home on my own laptop. And...let me know what you think about the eBook idea. Of course, you'll have to explain how to do it. But at least I do know how to copy and paste...

 

 

Public Nuisance

"Grandma's Kitchen"

oil

20X16

I am currently without laptop. Laptop-less. As a consequence, I'm writing this post from a public computer in the library with all the other poor computer-less creatures. 

And on this the second week of laptoplessness, I am becoming more and more aware of why using a public computer is not the preferred status. Every day there's at least one man (it's always a man) sitting next to me who is making the most deplorable noises. Grunting noises. Repetitious and overwrought exhales...about every 8-10 seconds. Why do some men have to make such a commotion over simply breathing. I want to turn to them and say, "Excuse me, could you just stop breathing for a while?"

 

Even as I type this, a young mouth-breather just plopped himself down in the chair next to me. Even though there are plenty of other computers available. Am I too sensitive? Maybe this is one of the reasons I'm single.

Ordinarily, I would not have chosen the above painting for this post. But I can only access paintings I have on the Web, so...there it is. I painted this many, many years ago. It is - as the title states - my mom's kitchen window. Anyone who's ever been to my mom's house will immediately grasp that I have done quite a bit of editing. My mom is like a bag lady with a house...just one small step away from hoarder. Nonetheless...I was always intrigued by the light effects on all those colorful bottles.

Oh...the young mouth-breather left. But a lady with very pungent perfume has taken his place. My tolerance level is fast approaching. So flowery. It's like I've plunged my head into a vat of Jasmin petals and orange blossoms. Head starting to hurt. And now another mouth-breather has taken the place of the former...only this one is dressed like a young Mormon missionary. I'd better get out while I can...

Experimentation

"Katie"

11X14

oil

I have, in fact, been painting this week. Sometimes I have a painting job to do – a commission, or a request for more lighthouses, landscapes or…whatever, from a gallery. But sometimes when I’ve finished a piece, I have leftover paints on my palette. And since I don’t want to waste perfectly good paint…I will experiment. It’s one of my favorite things to do, in my artistic life. Sometimes.

The only drawback is that, as in any form of experimentation, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I like the experiment enough to incorporate it into my painting style. When the experiment takes a wrong turn, then I question my own worth as a human being.

Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But experimenting brings both agony and ecstasy. Are any of you old enough to remember that intro to the “Wonderful World of Sports” (or some such overblown title)? Remember when the announcer got to “the agony of defeat”, and that poor skier went flying uncontrollably off the ski jump and into the crowd? That poor guy. I wonder if his name was Hans.

Anyway…occasionally I have an experiment that goes wrong, and for the rest of the day (or week) I feel like poor Hans. Why did I ever think I could be a painter? I could be an accountant sitting at my desk like a regular person…with a regular paycheck. But who am I kidding? I hate numbers and math way too much to be an accountant. 

Hans had to ski…I have to paint. Fortunately, last weeks’ adventures in experimentation went okay. I don’t know that I’ve made any kind of mind-boggling breakthroughs, but every experiment has value. Even the ones that go awry. At least you can incorporate it into your artistic toolbox under the title “never, ever do this again”.

And even more fortunately for me, unlike the pitiable Hans, a mishap in the art studio seldom results in broken bones. And I seldom have to do math.

I wonder whatever happened to Hans. Now that’s all I’ll be able to think about for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes it’s hard to be me.