Inspiration is a funny thing. It comes in so many shapes and sizes. These days I'm trying to drink it up because I had a dry spell and while at first that is frustrating, after a while it just pisses me off. But it's there. I was thinking I should name a couple things that tingle my artistic spidey senses.
Death is a good one. People, yes, but I've noticed that lots more people have shown more than a passing interest in taxidermy and I can't help but smile since those dead, but somehow frozen-in-time animals have always held a great deal of fascination for me. My dad used to laugh about it. My husband, the hunter, finds it somehow gruesome that his vegetarian wife would want actual animal parts. The hide. The skull. The tail. He is all for the meat, and the rest, as far is he is concerned, the butcher can have to do with what he will. Which means, sell it for some one else to take. But the animal.. the breathing animal that was more than the muscle than gets eaten. It lay in soft grass and sometimes knew fear. What did those ears hear? What did it want to say? Don't you want to hold it and have it say it to you?
Dancing makes for good seeds of creativity... my sister and I are obsessed with So You Think You Can Dance. Hells yes, I said that. So yes, the strange growth of a dancer through the many forms of dance, but also-- Oooo. There are moments in dance. All dance. You see something. A movement that is sometimes big and sometimes would be otherwise mundane. A leap of joy or perhaps the way a dancer's shoulders fall in defeat that conveys such powerful emotion that you, watching, feel your own body react. You shiver or cringe. Maybe your heart skips a beat. All art should be like that, right?
Of course, there is more, which I could talk about endlessly if I wasn't exhausted:
The abundance of color that exists where least expected.
Tracks in the snow. Kafka leaves perfect circles of his bounding run. You can tell his demeanor just by looking at them.
I love the way the afternoon sun bends into the dead tree in my back yard. It was hit by lightening a few years ago and the entire thing died. It's huge, and leans threateningly over our two ridiculously old crab-apple trees.
I tend to focus on the natural things, I guess. The nature that surrounds us. The nature that we draw from within. Instinct. How we interact.
As a side note, I'm looking forward to getting back into posting more photos soon, but my camera is currently taking a break for some extra camera-person loving.
Kafka says, "Hi! Hi! Hi! Hihihihihihihihihihihi! Hi!" And licks the computer. Oh yes, he does. Enthusiasm all over the place for you! Don't you feel loved?
Showing posts with label perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label perspective. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Six things I have learned this week
1. On Facebook, way too many of your friends will ask you to post a note of 25 random things about yourself. Just give in, because then it will be over. (I will say, however, that reading what my friends have to say is so interesting that I want to make a list of my 25 favorite random things my friends say about themselves.)
2. Not moisturizing hands = cracking skin. Ugh.
3. I really like pea soup, as long as it doesn't have ham in it.
4. This is the first winter of my entire life that I have officially been ready for spring to come. I find myself day dreaming about moving to a place that has a more forgiving climate. The whole idea makes me a little melancholy, as I love the snow, and I love Rochester... I have just been too cold this winter, even with all the toasty, cozy fires we have been having.
5. You can indeed force your way through a creative blockade. It might take a while, but you can do it. Just relax and stop thinking.
6. Randomly, when I stick Diet Cream Soda in the freezer at the Desk Job, it starts to grow its own body parts. Including nipples. Disturbing, but admit it... oddly fascinating.
2. Not moisturizing hands = cracking skin. Ugh.
3. I really like pea soup, as long as it doesn't have ham in it.
4. This is the first winter of my entire life that I have officially been ready for spring to come. I find myself day dreaming about moving to a place that has a more forgiving climate. The whole idea makes me a little melancholy, as I love the snow, and I love Rochester... I have just been too cold this winter, even with all the toasty, cozy fires we have been having.
5. You can indeed force your way through a creative blockade. It might take a while, but you can do it. Just relax and stop thinking.
6. Randomly, when I stick Diet Cream Soda in the freezer at the Desk Job, it starts to grow its own body parts. Including nipples. Disturbing, but admit it... oddly fascinating.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
today is a day unlike any other
Today we welcome the new hope, and sweep the cobwebs and dust away.
Congratulations, Mr. President, on not just your new job, but also your ability to transcend race, gender and party issues.iconic Hope poster by Shepard Fairey
Friday, November 7, 2008
Pr-I-vacy, please.
It's been a busy week so I'm sorry for the lack of updates.
In the meantime, I got an email from someone asking why I didn't talk more about my husband and, in particular, the Meep.
Not everyone is comfortable being an open book. I don't really mind, but JJ likes to keep it on the down low, so that's why there's not a lot about him.
But the Meep is different. He is our dearest heart. Our most prized possession. And so although once in a while I will throw out a little bone in the form of a story or anecdote, there won't be pictures like there are of the dog (believe me, my son is waaaaay cuter). He is my one secret of secrets, and I am protective of him. I love you Meepie.
Back to Kafka and art soon, I promise.
In the meantime, I got an email from someone asking why I didn't talk more about my husband and, in particular, the Meep.
Not everyone is comfortable being an open book. I don't really mind, but JJ likes to keep it on the down low, so that's why there's not a lot about him.
But the Meep is different. He is our dearest heart. Our most prized possession. And so although once in a while I will throw out a little bone in the form of a story or anecdote, there won't be pictures like there are of the dog (believe me, my son is waaaaay cuter). He is my one secret of secrets, and I am protective of him. I love you Meepie.
Back to Kafka and art soon, I promise.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Day of the Dead (2)
III.
I wanted to tell you a sort-of ghost story as part of the Day of the Dead, but truthfully, I struggled with how to do it. How can a Dia de Los Muertos ghost be only sort-of? If they're alive.
There once was a girl who didn't much care. Didn't. She didn't take care of herself or the people she loved the way she ought to. She took much of life for granted. She walked through it without connecting-- simply blind to much of what the world and life have to offer.
Then she became ill, and went down a long, painful stretch of time where the world turned inside out. Days bled together with uncertainty and frustration. People hovered. Breathing was hard.
Slowly, s l o w l y, the misery of those days began to chip away at the not-caring girl. Her eyes opened little by little, and that life-for-granted, self-indulgent, blind person was peeled off of her. That girl died, and beneath her skins, someone else began to draw breath. Someone for whom life was magical. Someone who somehow took quiet note of each moment as it passed with reverence.
Now, life isn't always nice. It's not clean. It can be mundane. People are horrible to one another. But life is possibilities. A moment can lead in a million different directions. In times of pain, there are still trees; still wind and mountains; still fancy cars speeding by and chocolate.
Exactly ten years ago, on Dia de Los Muertos 1998, I went to the hospital and descended into the strange world where doctors don't have answers and illness and uncertainty become routine. And when I came out of that time, I had changed. It wasn't easy, and I'm certainly not saying that now I'm perfectly in tune with everything and everyone (I had a sharp reminder this weekend of that), but I do know that all in all, I am better off for living through it. The ghost-girl is gone. And although this day is meant to celebrate the life of those who have passed on, today I celebrate that it has been ten years, and I did not pass on. I grew strong, got educated and started taking note.
This is not sad at all! This is part of what made me who I am and I would not give it up for anything.
And so I celebrate that I am, like so much of my art, a work in progress.
So go here to learn a little about something that affects approximately 1 in 5,000 people.
www.hht.org
And remember to open your eyes.
I wanted to tell you a sort-of ghost story as part of the Day of the Dead, but truthfully, I struggled with how to do it. How can a Dia de Los Muertos ghost be only sort-of? If they're alive.
There once was a girl who didn't much care. Didn't. She didn't take care of herself or the people she loved the way she ought to. She took much of life for granted. She walked through it without connecting-- simply blind to much of what the world and life have to offer.
Then she became ill, and went down a long, painful stretch of time where the world turned inside out. Days bled together with uncertainty and frustration. People hovered. Breathing was hard.
Slowly, s l o w l y, the misery of those days began to chip away at the not-caring girl. Her eyes opened little by little, and that life-for-granted, self-indulgent, blind person was peeled off of her. That girl died, and beneath her skins, someone else began to draw breath. Someone for whom life was magical. Someone who somehow took quiet note of each moment as it passed with reverence.
Now, life isn't always nice. It's not clean. It can be mundane. People are horrible to one another. But life is possibilities. A moment can lead in a million different directions. In times of pain, there are still trees; still wind and mountains; still fancy cars speeding by and chocolate.
Exactly ten years ago, on Dia de Los Muertos 1998, I went to the hospital and descended into the strange world where doctors don't have answers and illness and uncertainty become routine. And when I came out of that time, I had changed. It wasn't easy, and I'm certainly not saying that now I'm perfectly in tune with everything and everyone (I had a sharp reminder this weekend of that), but I do know that all in all, I am better off for living through it. The ghost-girl is gone. And although this day is meant to celebrate the life of those who have passed on, today I celebrate that it has been ten years, and I did not pass on. I grew strong, got educated and started taking note.
This is not sad at all! This is part of what made me who I am and I would not give it up for anything.
And so I celebrate that I am, like so much of my art, a work in progress.
So go here to learn a little about something that affects approximately 1 in 5,000 people.
www.hht.org
And remember to open your eyes.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Day of the Dead
I.
My mother's mother loved margaritas. We called her Clancy, although her real name was Lois Meagher. She came from a big family and grew up poor in Cumberland Furnace, Tennessee. "Clancy" suited her better than "grandmother," although I'm not sure why I called her that. She sang like a bird. She could be as silly as a girl but undoubtedly the word I've heard most to describe her, in any circle, has always been "classy". She wore ironed gloves and her hair was always perfect. She was infinitely poised.
She was beautiful. Really beautiful, with a killer smile.
My mother has told me that when she was little and they would visit Tennessee, the moment my grandmother's foot touched southern soil a southern accent would spill into her speech like honey. When I was young and we were alone for a day, she would watch All My Children with me and let me paint my fingernails with her army of polishes. She fed me Dixie cups of mini marshmallows and had the cleanest house I have ever seen. She would take me to the pool to swim and would look Fantastic. She always had plenty of cheddar Goldfish crackers. She collected owls.
She died gracefully, which was not easy, but my grandmother was the strongest woman I have ever met.
When we see rainbows we say, "there is Clancy," and at my wedding, the weather ran from blustery to foggy to rainy and hot, but she made an appearance after dinner, reaching from one end to another across the sky-- a pure stretch of almost solid color against the steel gray of the clouds. It was so vivid. I didn't even think to make sure someone got a photograph. But I'm not upset about it. It was still a perfect moment.
I won't be having a margarita, but I will be drinking some wine. I also will be cooking a full dinner, which she did almost every day. It's a real rarity for me. I love you Clancy. She also made the best pecan pie, and I thought you might like to have the recipe for it yourself. It's ridiculously easy and always tastes like a dream.
Clancy's Pecan Pie
3 cups whole pecans
1 cup light corn syrup
2/3 cup dark brown sugar
3-4 eggs (depending on size)
5 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
Preheat oven to 375 F. Line pie pan with dough and refrigerate. In a large bowl, lightly mix all of the ingredients except pecans. Once they are well blended, fold in pecans. Pour into the chilled pie crust, and bake on the lowest rack in the oven for 50-60 minutes. Let cool for 5-6 hours.
I don't know why there is the whole unsalted butter/additional salt thing going on, but I do know if you use salted butter it doesn't taste the same.
II.
Brian made me laugh when I was feeling my most geeky and alone (ninth grade). My all-girls school and his all-boys school had a mixed show choir and that's where we met. We were both awkward. He had a beautiful deep voice. He loved to cook.
Years later, I ended up hanging out with Brian on an almost nightly basis. He still made me laugh and feel at ease. He still loved to cook. He had a huge heart that he wore on his sleeve. He did not give himself credit, and he didn't allow himself a break, although he deserved one.
My mother's mother loved margaritas. We called her Clancy, although her real name was Lois Meagher. She came from a big family and grew up poor in Cumberland Furnace, Tennessee. "Clancy" suited her better than "grandmother," although I'm not sure why I called her that. She sang like a bird. She could be as silly as a girl but undoubtedly the word I've heard most to describe her, in any circle, has always been "classy". She wore ironed gloves and her hair was always perfect. She was infinitely poised.
She was beautiful. Really beautiful, with a killer smile.
My mother has told me that when she was little and they would visit Tennessee, the moment my grandmother's foot touched southern soil a southern accent would spill into her speech like honey. When I was young and we were alone for a day, she would watch All My Children with me and let me paint my fingernails with her army of polishes. She fed me Dixie cups of mini marshmallows and had the cleanest house I have ever seen. She would take me to the pool to swim and would look Fantastic. She always had plenty of cheddar Goldfish crackers. She collected owls.
She died gracefully, which was not easy, but my grandmother was the strongest woman I have ever met.
When we see rainbows we say, "there is Clancy," and at my wedding, the weather ran from blustery to foggy to rainy and hot, but she made an appearance after dinner, reaching from one end to another across the sky-- a pure stretch of almost solid color against the steel gray of the clouds. It was so vivid. I didn't even think to make sure someone got a photograph. But I'm not upset about it. It was still a perfect moment.
I won't be having a margarita, but I will be drinking some wine. I also will be cooking a full dinner, which she did almost every day. It's a real rarity for me. I love you Clancy. She also made the best pecan pie, and I thought you might like to have the recipe for it yourself. It's ridiculously easy and always tastes like a dream.
Clancy's Pecan Pie
3 cups whole pecans
1 cup light corn syrup
2/3 cup dark brown sugar
3-4 eggs (depending on size)
5 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
Preheat oven to 375 F. Line pie pan with dough and refrigerate. In a large bowl, lightly mix all of the ingredients except pecans. Once they are well blended, fold in pecans. Pour into the chilled pie crust, and bake on the lowest rack in the oven for 50-60 minutes. Let cool for 5-6 hours.
I don't know why there is the whole unsalted butter/additional salt thing going on, but I do know if you use salted butter it doesn't taste the same.
II.
Brian made me laugh when I was feeling my most geeky and alone (ninth grade). My all-girls school and his all-boys school had a mixed show choir and that's where we met. We were both awkward. He had a beautiful deep voice. He loved to cook.
Years later, I ended up hanging out with Brian on an almost nightly basis. He still made me laugh and feel at ease. He still loved to cook. He had a huge heart that he wore on his sleeve. He did not give himself credit, and he didn't allow himself a break, although he deserved one.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
my new fave.
Remember those wasssup guys from that beer commercial? Eight years later, this is wonderful.
Happy Blogtoberfest! I know this will be my last post and it's been a blast! Don't forget to thank Big Cat!
Happy Blogtoberfest! I know this will be my last post and it's been a blast! Don't forget to thank Big Cat!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Blog Action Day 2008 - Local Poverty
Some years ago, after a long night of drinking and dancing, some friends and I went to a local (then open 24 hours) landmark restaurant, Nick Tahou's, and each ordered their famous Garbage Plate. When we were done I had eaten maybe a third of mine ( I was already full with beer) and, as this was still in the days when you could smoke in restaurants in New York, we lit up (yes, yes, I know... I quit a long time ago) and all began knocking the ash onto my partially finished meal because there was no ashtray on our table.
About twenty minutes later, we were still talking, smoking and ashing all over the same plate when a homeless man came up to the table. Thinking back, he must have been in his 40s, was missing several teeth and must have been wearing at least six layers of clothes. I think he had been sitting across the aisle from us most of the time we were there, nursing a coffee, but none of us had really noticed him.
"Excuse me," he said, holding out an ashtray and pointing down at my plate, "can I trade you for that?"
We looked at each other, and I slid the now grey, ashy plate across the table to him, as he set down the actual ashtray with a breathless, "thanks!"
He then sat back down across the aisle, dumped ketchup and hot sauce on the whole pile, and began to eat.
"Wait", we said, "there are cigarette ashes and butts all over that!"
"I know," he replied, between bites, "that just fills you up more."
I have never felt so much like a fool as I did right then.
Poverty is not just about countries devastated with famine or choked by war. It is about your city, town and neighborhood. It is about the people that desperately look for help at churches and community centers; it is about children on the school lunch programs who lack adequate medical care.
You don't have to go far, so here are 88 simple ways to fight poverty.
About twenty minutes later, we were still talking, smoking and ashing all over the same plate when a homeless man came up to the table. Thinking back, he must have been in his 40s, was missing several teeth and must have been wearing at least six layers of clothes. I think he had been sitting across the aisle from us most of the time we were there, nursing a coffee, but none of us had really noticed him.
"Excuse me," he said, holding out an ashtray and pointing down at my plate, "can I trade you for that?"
We looked at each other, and I slid the now grey, ashy plate across the table to him, as he set down the actual ashtray with a breathless, "thanks!"
He then sat back down across the aisle, dumped ketchup and hot sauce on the whole pile, and began to eat.
"Wait", we said, "there are cigarette ashes and butts all over that!"
"I know," he replied, between bites, "that just fills you up more."
I have never felt so much like a fool as I did right then.
Poverty is not just about countries devastated with famine or choked by war. It is about your city, town and neighborhood. It is about the people that desperately look for help at churches and community centers; it is about children on the school lunch programs who lack adequate medical care.
You don't have to go far, so here are 88 simple ways to fight poverty.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Deer in the Woods
You must be pretty sure I've been hibernating, but I haven't been. It's been summer people! The weather in upstate New York has been wonderful! There's a puppy to take care of! Some updates for you:
1. Name that Puppy Update: His name is Kafka (Chindi's Metamorphosis) and Anne, who commented in with that suggestion, received a series of puppy kisses pictures, and a short, puppy-tongue filled video. And now he has almost tripled his weight.
2. I've finally opened an etsy store. More in a later post. I've got a number of new drawings to post too.
3. I love my blood sister, non-blood sister (in-law) and my best friend, but I don't spend nearly enough time with them. I love the men in my life too (I have brothers galore), but sometimes a girl just needs to get with her ladies.
4. If I have learned one lesson this summer it is to take more vacations.
5. Sarah Palin. WTF?? Please don't vote for someone because they have a vagina. Please vote because you agree with their politics and are sure that they know what they are doing. Something to consider: She doesn't believe in the theory of evolution or that mankind has anything to do with global warming. And that doesn't even scratch the surface of her grand "Alaska is close to Russia" argument for foreign policy. When McCain unveiled her, I didn't sleep for three nights because of Palin nightmares.
6. The deer still come around. This morning, not 35 feet from my living room window, stood an enormous 10 point buck. Incredible.
1. Name that Puppy Update: His name is Kafka (Chindi's Metamorphosis) and Anne, who commented in with that suggestion, received a series of puppy kisses pictures, and a short, puppy-tongue filled video. And now he has almost tripled his weight.
2. I've finally opened an etsy store. More in a later post. I've got a number of new drawings to post too.
3. I love my blood sister, non-blood sister (in-law) and my best friend, but I don't spend nearly enough time with them. I love the men in my life too (I have brothers galore), but sometimes a girl just needs to get with her ladies.
4. If I have learned one lesson this summer it is to take more vacations.
5. Sarah Palin. WTF?? Please don't vote for someone because they have a vagina. Please vote because you agree with their politics and are sure that they know what they are doing. Something to consider: She doesn't believe in the theory of evolution or that mankind has anything to do with global warming. And that doesn't even scratch the surface of her grand "Alaska is close to Russia" argument for foreign policy. When McCain unveiled her, I didn't sleep for three nights because of Palin nightmares.
6. The deer still come around. This morning, not 35 feet from my living room window, stood an enormous 10 point buck. Incredible.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Perspective.
If you do anything today, you should read this post from Mackin Ink.
Even if you don't feel like it now, your heart will grow three sizes today, just like the Grinch.
Even if you don't feel like it now, your heart will grow three sizes today, just like the Grinch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
