A Bipolar Christmas

No title...portrait demo of my favorite Santa
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(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

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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"

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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"

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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.

"Reading"

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Yesterday my son posted his ten most influential books on Facebook, then invited me (among others) to share mine. First of all, here is his list:

1. Our Thoughts Determine Our Lives, Elder Thaddeus of Vitovnica
2. The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine, 5 volumes, Jaroslav Pelikan
3. The Orthodox Way, Kallistos Ware
4. Comparative Indo-European Linguistics, Robert S. Beekes
5. Comparative Mythology, Jaan Puhvel
6. Marc-Antoine Charpentier, Catherine Cessac
7. Hamlet, William Shakespeare
8. Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Molière
9. A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
10. Cyrano de Bergerac, Edmond Rostand
I nominate my lovely wife Jennifer Hortman, my mom Mary Hortman, my old friends Jonathan Waxman and Justin Pankow, and my own undergraduate mentor Dr. Ann Gebuhr.

Isn't he just the smarty pants? So I’ve been pondering all day which books I would select, and in doing so, I’ve come to the inevitable acceptance that my list will not be nearly as lofty as his. And, yes, I’m sure he read Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme in French. I've already admitted that my kids are smarter than me. As is my wont, if I’m going to have to spend time thinking about something, I’m certainly going to turn it into a post. Always killing too birds when I can. 

So the task, as I understand it, is not to name my ten most favorite books, but my ten most influential books. In all sincerity, here they are:

1. Childcraft Early Poems of Childhood

Every time someone asks me what motivated me to become an artist, I come back to this little collection of poems. It was the illustrations. I could just lose myself in them. At first, I was drawn in by them (no pun intended)…later I wanted to emulate them. The illustrations, that is. I can't even pretend to write poetry.

2. The Book of Acts – New Testament

Favorite verse:  (after having been beaten) The apostles left the Sanhedrin, rejoicing because they had been counted worthy of suffering disgrace for the Name.  I remind myself of this passage when I get whiny.

3. Lucy Gayheart, Willa Cather

This is the book that made me realize I like to read. And I have henceforth read with a vengeance.

4. Oh, Pioneers, Willa Cather (okay…I’m a big fan)

(On nearing his death, and after having contemplated his failure, despite all his back-breaking work, John Bergsen) “was quite willing to go deep under his fields and rest where the plow could not find him”.

On a lighter note:

5. The Jeeves and Wooster series, P. G. Wodehouse

I’m inspired by the pure wit and humor of Wodehouse

6. Team of Rivals, Doris Kearns Goodwin

7. Empire of the Summer Moon, S. C. Gwynn

Both Team of Rivals and Empire tap into my love of history. And my kids are related to Quanah Parker, so that made it even more appealing.

8. The Book of Job, Old Testament

Okay…I don’t really enjoy Job. But it is seriously thought-provoking. Really…what is the true meaning of life and on what is our relationship to God based? Faith when things are going our way is easy.

9. The Lonesome Dove series, Larry McMurtry

Just because it’s awesome

10. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

Just because it’s awesome

Now you may have noticed that my comments on each book became shorter and shorter. There's a reason for this. I recently read that it's very healthful to stand for 3 hours each day. I started this post sitting, then later decided to finish it while standing. You can probably decipher the rest on your own.

Seriously...I'm tired of standing. But before I stop...I want to invite my friends Carol McNatt, Nell Velvin, Mamie Downing, and Ellen Key to submit a list of the ten most influential books in your lives. 

Now I'm going to go sit down for a bit.

The Best Revenge

 

"Lonesome Dove"

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(perhaps she's been mistreated by a mean girl)

Living well is the best revenge. That’s what they say, isn’t it? I’m somewhat torn as to whether or not I agree entirely on this sentiment. I agree with it in spirit. In the extreme, it could go something like this:

A homely little girl is teased unmercifully at school. The other kids call her “Speckle Face” (she has many freckles) and “Four Eyes” (because mean kids are so clever with nicknames). “Bean Pole” (also very creative)…”St-St-Stuttering Sp-Sp-Speckle Face” (of course she would be a stutterer). I’m sure you’ve already formulated a clear picture in your mind of this poor, wretched little creature. Or perhaps, not unlike myself, you identify a little too closely with “Speckle Face” (I had a tad more than my share of freckles, wore glasses - once my mom finally took me to the optometrist, who said that I was practically legally blind), and yes, I had “bird legs”. But I digress…

Speckle Face then grows up to be a 1) famous actress 2) brilliant author 3) editor of Vogue (wait a minute…that’s Anna Wintour…she would have been one of the mean kids) Scratch that. 3) CEO of Chase…okay, she would also have been a mean girl, but use your imagination, as best you can. Speckle Face – all grown up now and a famous actress or CEO - is approached by a former mean girl who now proudly proclaims that she was a former classmate. Speckle looks down at her and says, “And what is your name? I’m sorry…I don’t remember you”.  To some, this would exemplify “living well is the best revenge”. Or does it mean more than that?

Maybe Speckle just grows up to be a happy, productive adult, surrounded by friends and family who love her and the mean kids grow up to be unhappy alcoholics with terrible relationships. I mean…”revenge” implies a negative consequence. Surely there’s revenge in this adage.

I once watched an episode of “Phil Donahue” (many…many years ago) and the guests were adults who were teased and taunted in school. In the audience were some of the former mean kids who had teased them. It was interesting to watch, because the mean kids – now grown up – still didn’t really get it. They mostly made excuses for themselves. And I would imagine that they probably had some little meanies of their own at home, thus adding to their tendency to make excuses.

So the adults on the stage – the ones who had been teased – received very little or no reparation. But it was also pretty obvious that they had much more character and depth than their former classmates in the audience. The grown-up meanies appeared to be empty shells. But is having better character enough revenge? As previously stated, the word “revenge” is embedded in the phrase. Where’s the revenge?

Maybe this is at the heart of my dilemma. Maybe my issue is with the “revenge” part. If Speckle is really living well, she has no vengeful thoughts toward her former oppressors and only wishes them well. If she even remembers them at all. As for me…

 I – like most of you, presumably – have been treated badly at times. Really badly. I wish that I could say that, like the delightful Speckle, I have no bad feelings whatsoever toward my meanies. But that would not be entirely true. I am able to put such things out of my mind, and I don’t wish anyone true harm, but sometimes I think I would enjoy poking them in the eye a couple of times.

I suppose that my philosophy in regard to this topic is that, while forgiveness and living well (whatever that means) trumps meanness, a little eye-poking would be enjoyable…with a single little tear rolling down the meanie’s cheek in a symbolic display of forced contrition.

Of course if you grow up to be a beautiful model, actress, or CEO…eye-poking would just be superfluous.

Black and White

Breaking my usual rule...a photo. But one day I'm going to paint this. Close enough.

My granddaughter has been staying with me this week. I love it when she comes for a visit, for any number of reasons…not the least of which is that she’s interesting. A little quirky. I don’t know where she gets this.

She is a person of routine. She enjoys sameness. For example, she likes to get up early, walk to the donut shop, whereupon we are to purchase precisely 12 donut holes. No more. No less. Then we walk to the neighborhood coffee house, order coffee for me and milk or hot chocolate for her (there is at least a modicum of flexibility here), and we sit and eat our donut holes. On other days, we stay in and I make her exactly 2 pieces of bacon and two toasts...one with strawberry jelly (it must be strawberry) and one without.

We can have some variation in routine during the late morning through afternoon, but we must be finished with said routine by 6:00 so that she can watch “The Lone Ranger”. Yes…the one from the 50s. In glorious back and white.

This is one of her quirks. She likes old TV shows that were filmed in black and white. “I Love Lucy”…and she likes her some “Roy Rogers” (I never fully realized just how lame “Roy Rogers” was until I sat and watched it with her one day). But I wonder…is this quirkiness on her part, or does it make complete sense?

I think it may be the latter, though she does come from – as my brother once aptly said in regard to our family – “a long line of crazy people” and a certain amount of eccentric behavior is to be expected. But doesn’t it make sense that an eight-year-old would enjoy a purely black and white story of good vs. evil? Simple and unpretentious. No Oscar-nominated performances and no Pulitzer prizes for literature. Just a man in a mask (which apparently completely obscures his identity) whose compulsion in life is to right all wrongs, and to do so anonymously.

I write from time to time about the differences in the way people of my generation were raised, not only by our parents, but by society in general. Go play. Be home by dark. Or one of my favorites...she'll get over it - kids are resilient. But I think that in some ways we were the better for it (assuming we survived all the broken bones and bug spray). “Roy Rogers”, “The Lone Ranger”…”Looney Tunes” were written specifically for kids and not for their parents. And they certainly were not written for the NEA or any other educational organization. We may have been under-protected, but at least we got to just be kids for a while.

I suppose I’m making the case that children are comforted by black and white, and that the shows of that era may have been onto something, whether accidentally or purposefully. This is right. This is wrong. The Lone Ranger and Tonto are good. The bank robbers are bad (perhaps they didn’t eat their vegetables, brush their teeth and drink their Ovaltine). 

Of course, eventually they’ll have to realize that there is gray. And that most things are multicolored and complicated. But for a while…they can revel in the innocence of glorious black and white.

That having been said, she probably does have a genetic disposition for eccentricity. Her dad (my son) - for many years - had his own imaginary kingdom over which he was the absolute ruler. The kingdom changed from time to time, but one thing always remained constant: he had no parents. And in high school he pretended to be a French exchange student in one of his classes. For a year. But that's another post. 

Museless

"Contemplation"

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I was going back through some of my older posts, and came across this one. Since I'm feeling quite museless today, I thought I would re-post this little ditty.

I suspect that most artists would relate to my state of mind this week. I am uninspired to paint. Yes, it happens. But I must persist in spite of that inconvenient truth (apologies to Al Gore, though I doubt very much that he will ever read this).

So artists/writers and other such creative types are supposed to have muses…right? I suppose it’s not to be taken literally, but I get it. As artists (whether painters, musicians, writers, or whatever), we have creative impulses that are not science-based, but more…ethereal. So we’ve created an entity that embodies that factless notion. The muse.

The problem for me is that my “muse” is inconsistent. I call her Aunt Clara. No doubt you remember Aunt Clara from “Bewitched”...Samantha’s aging aunt with the colossal memory problems, who sporadically dropped in through the chimney, and stayed just long enough to create chaos. BUT…she had inspired moments. As I recall, she once caused the blackout of the entire eastern seaboard. That’s awesome. And didn’t she once turn the Tates’ kid into twins? Hilarious (Larry Tate...what a jackass). But mostly she just screwed things up.

So that’s the inconvenient truth of my artistic life. I’ll have to press on without Aunt Clara, and hope that she shows her ash-covered chimney-face as the week progresses. And who knows? Maybe I don’t really need her after all. That’s ridiculous. Of course I need her. We all need inspiration…

But maybe the inspiration comes with nitty-gritty work. First comes work…then the muse. After all, the muse can’t do much with an artist who has no skills. So for all my fellow artists out there…just keep putting the brush to the canvas. And assume that the muse will show. At some point. Hopefully without a blackout of the eastern seaboard...

 

Better Days

"Better Days"

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I confess that I don't actually know what the title of this piece is. Yes...I painted it. But it's in a gallery in Maine, and I'm sure the owner has thought of a much more romantic title to bestow upon it. But I'll give myself a little license (artistic, that is), as the painter of said piece, to confer upon it a title that fits my topic and mood for the day.

It could be a sunset. It could be a sunrise. "Better Days" could imply the hope for an end to a ragged patch, with the prospect of better days to come. Or...as in a sunrise, it could convey that "Better Days" are already in progress, with the expectation of a glorious day. I'm not altogether sure which of these scenarios actually applies to my current disposition. It's probably a little of both.

Things are going pretty well for me in regard to my art. I've had a good month...with (hopefully) the beginnings of a good working relationship with a new gallery. Sunrise, expecting more good things to come. But...

There's always a but. Maybe some people have no buts. No...I don't mean butts, though that is also true. Some people have no butts. But I am not one of them. In either connotation. I suppose that a lot of my current buts are age-related. My remaining parent is, presumably, near the end of her life. A few months? A year? Two years? And it's not a quality life. Sunset. Sunset with remnants of battered and broken fences, but with the hope of better things to come. Heaven is within grasp.

But then, I guess that's just how life is for most of us. There's usually a but or two. I just got a promotion with a big raise!!! But my laptop died. So I suppose if we tap into our inner-Pollyannas, we can just be happy we got a raise...so that we can make a down payment on a new, fancier laptop. Apply example accordingly.

And both views of "Better Days", the painting, or "Better Days", the state of mind, impose a certain hope. Both sunrises and sunsets are beautiful and hopeful. What a gorgeous sunset...it's almost time for Shark Tank! Or What a nice sunrise...time for a nice cup of coffee. I think I'll get dressed and go over to Coffee Love and see who's there.

As for people with no butts...I really don't know what to say to you.

In the Old Days...

Untitled watercolor by Jordan Hortman

Before I begin, let me explain that this is not my work. This is the work of my daughter Jordan. I asked if she would mind if I posted a few of her paintings, and she relented. The words (I think) are from a poem she wrote. If I recall, the poem is a villanelle. Spell check is just certain that I actually mean either Evansville or Neville. So I checked to make sure the spelling was correct. And it is. A villanelle is a short poem of fixed form, written in tercets (spell check thinks I mean intercepts), usually five in number, followed by a final quatrain, all being based on two rhymes. Don't ask me to elaborate on this, because I will be unable to.

I've long since had to accept the fact that my kids are smarter than me. As is my granddaughter...but at least she doesn't know it yet. Well...she probably suspects it, but she can't prove it.

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. All this reminiscing has made me very tired. I think I'm going to go nap for a while. I wouldn't mind in the least if some of you shared your own memories. Including those of you (I know there are a few) from other countries. What are your stories? 

Talk amongst yourselves. I will be napping.