Challenges

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"Sophisticated Lady"

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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
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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

Untitled

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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.