Show Prep Truths

My first art show is now under my proverbial belt and I am now hopelessly addicted to show life.  The merriment, customers and artist camaraderie are my new drugs of choice (in addition to Starbucks, vintage wool, and thrifting).

 

 Amongst the lessons I learned about timing, planning, and budgeting while prepping for an art show, many truths revealed themselves.  I wrote these down to save my sanity for the next show prep.

1. No one is going to take over your chores.  Buy a biohazard suit because that crap is going to pile up!

2. Kitchen counters make better worktables than studio tables.

3. The dogs will eat at least three creations carelessly left out during emergency Hobby Lobby runs.

4. One creation will meet its end by iron scorching in the final step.

5. My laptop and I will live in a constant antagonistic battle for domination.

6. For every imperfection I see in my work, every one else sees only perfection.

7. I can live on a diet of bananas, Triscuits and Starbucks.

8. One teaspoon of glitter can create weeks worth of sparkle cheeks.

9. Laughter is the best side effect of exhaustion.

10. I have the best family and friends in the world~ who believed in me every step of the way. 

LOVE &  TRUTHS

Tigers Big and Small

The rooms that carry children through high school are obsolete after college whether it's been one semester or four years.  No matter the time away, the lessons learned change our children.  What was important, previously essential, has been rearranged.  There is a new independence, a certain seriousness about life.  Perhaps the realization that the real world awaits truly settles in.

As Emily gets older, I see the excitement in her eyes, coupled with a nervous wariness.  She wants to travel, wants to save every lost animal, wants to make a difference somewhere, somehow.  She is only 18 but has travelled across the US and Canada and has been to the jungles of Thailand.  She has seen more than most do in a lifetime.  But right now, she wants to be home.

 With Emily's decision to return home and pursue school locally, it was time to update her room in preparation.  Gone are the bright pink walls, the high school mementoes, and homecoming mums. Old furniture has been moved out and a spa blue pallet now serves as a backdrop to house her one true love: tigers, big and small. 

I was going to make the bed before taking this picture but Emily's neurotic cat wouldn't let me near the bed.  It's as if he knows she is away at school and he guards her bed until she returns. He thinks he's a tiger, as if the painting on the wall is his self-portrait.  He believes if he acts fierce no one will know how much he misses Emily.  He doesn't understand we've all been doing that for months.

LOVE  &  SMALL TIGERS

To Thine Own Self Be True

Perhaps it is the late fall that has me waxing poetic, but never has Shakespeare seemed closer in truth than this past week. To thine own self be true.

It is often in the following that we find we are better taking our own path (skipping desire to quote the obvious Frost here).  But first we must do what we perceive as expected, "the right thing" even though the norm is at odds with whom we truly are. All experiences, good or bad, hold value if we choose to learn from them.  For every negative there is a positive, every slammed door opens an opportunity, and for every awkward journey there is the chance to turn around. 

Emily has decided to leave UIW after this semester and follow her dream of cosmetology school.  It is where her heart has always been and where she belongs. I've known it since she was a small child spending hours in the bathtub washing and styling the hair of allllllll her Barbie dolls.  The bathroom was a stock pile of those large Barbie heads whose hair could be styled and make-up applied.  They were everywhere like a macabre scene from a B rate horror movie.  But they always looked divine. 

Emily has a natural gift.  But cosmetology school didn't seem to be "the right thing" for her to do when all of her friends were headed off to college.  So she headed off to college, too.  She just needed to know what she would miss if she never tried dorm life in a big city. Turns out all she missed was home. UIW is a beautiful school but it isn't the right path for her. As a Mom, I knew her decision was made early but in true Emily fashion, she wasn't giving up without a fight. But no matter how hard she worked, it just wasn't a labor she loved.  The only advice was to tell her to go in the direction of her heart. 

 

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. ~Shakespeare

 

Beach Walking

The coast has always been ours.  She's a Florida girl by birth, raised between the warm tranquility of Gulf Coast beaches and the raucous waves of the mighty Atlantic. Some of her very first steps were in the white sands of Sanibel.  Now living across the Gulf in Texas, the murky waters of Galveston call us home like the proverbial moth to flame.   Like me, being raised on the Connecticut coast, the beach is our soul soother.  No matter the weather, our feet hit the sand in search of inspiration and rejuvenation. 

 

As much as Kev and I struggle with our empty nest, Emily is having a difficult adjustment to life outside the nest.  College classes, autonomy, and living 300 miles away is taxing and Emily's mind hit overload in recent days.  So this weekend she made the trek home and we immediately hit the shore.

Walking in the waves, picking at half torn shells washing ashore, the worldly woes fall away.  There is no need for words, no need to hash out life's problems.  Only the need to be remains.

On the beach words are useless.  We both see the dolphins playing in the wake, the gulls wading patiently. We both understand the beauty of this landscape. 

To interpret it verbally removes its magic. So we stand together absorbing the world, healing in its simple complexity.

These are the days I treasure.  Watching Emily grow into her own reasoning.  I see so much of Kev in her, and so much of myself.  And though there are essays of logical advice I want to give her I know this is my time to be still.  To just be there as she figures it out for herself.  Hoping she will take flight.  Knowing she will soar.

LOVE  &  SOUL WALKING

Empty Nest Newbie

I entered into the empty nest with the highest of hopes and guilty anticipation of new found freedom.  My daily Mom duties would subside.  The days would be full of creative bliss and cupcakes, and all that other happy crap. Yeah.... That was how it was going to be!  All sweet icing and sunshine.

Somehow I have ended up head first tangled in the briars and thorns of emotions, financial strife, heated arguments, and a stress level that hums at non-stop high frequencies.  Go ahead and try to be creative in that!  My studio still remains clogged with the clutter of moving out.  And with Kev in Bangladesh we get to spend the one hour we are both awake in different time zones arguing about who is more off center in the change.  Awesome. (By the by- Dads feel the emptiness far worse than the Moms!)

Most parents say they are sad in the empty nest- a longing for youthful cheer to be all cherub-like at the dinner table again.  Whatever.  Our house was full of free spirits with very big ideas and a tendency for wanderlust.  So when college move-in day came around I thought there might be a chance to stand still for awhile.  A chance to settle.  A chance to live in the moments that previously were filled with the chaos of parenthood and putting out fires.  I am still waiting. 

Funny thing is, we raised a child to be a free spirit, to embrace the world, to travel, and never settle for ordinary.  So why are we so distraught with the result?  Is it the old adage that we find annoying in others what we don't recognize in ourselves?  Looking at everything that has turned my empty nest upside down in the first trial run, I see me at a younger age.  I was never content to be still, I needed more, craved more of this world: to be where life hummed and buzzed.  I married a man who shared this view and together we have been roaming the world seeking new experiences.  Our daughter came with us and learned by example.  Now she is ready to fly.  Sort of.  Maybe not so much- more like she has her training wings on.  And I am in my nest, hiding my head, trying not to micro-manage her life.

So for now I will be still.  I will shed my preconceived ideas of what my empty nest SHOULD be like.  Nothing has ever been normal, routine, or "as expected" with the family I have created and that is what has brought me the most joy over all the full nest years.

 

LOVE  &  EMPTY NEST NEWBIE

A Restoration Life

After my recent visit home, many people have asked about living in an old house.  Here is my article published in FOLK Magazine's Summer 2013 issue.  Because the issue was only digitally released, it missed many of my usual readers. So here it is in its entirety. 

 

 A Restoration Life

 

The gem of New England architecture is undoubtedly the iconic colonial home.  Stark lined salt box houses wrapped in primitive color clapboards. Stoic and serene, their simplicity speaks to their origins in an austere new world. New Englanders and visitors alike marvel at these beauties, sometimes voicing how cool it would be to buy one for themselves. But ask anyone who owns such a beast and has attempted a quick fix-up project and they will tell you there is nothing simple about these homes.  Ask the maniacs who devote their lives to restoring these confounded structures, and they will weave a tale like that of an early whaling expedition. (Using my best sea captain voice…) The waters were rough, often unfriendly. Many a foe were encountered.  At times it seemed all would have to abandon ship, but in the end the whale succumbed to the will of man. Reluctantly.

My parents were two such restoration maniacs.  They possessed the Yankee ingenuity, the iron wills and perseverance necessary to spend fifteen years restoring their 1759 Connecticut colonial.  My brother and I would be the unwilling deckhands in their quest for historical accuracy.  Weekends were not meant for relaxing when I was a kid.  My friends knew not to call or knock for fear they too would be drafted into service.  On any given morning, I could wake to the sound of a buzzing table saw sometime before sunrise.  The battle cry of the “Great Restoration” declaring another Saturday would be spent holding up sheet rock, hauling debris, and sweeping up dust held captive for centuries.  This scourge for preservation would last throughout my childhood.  It was a war my parents appeared to enjoy, much to my dismay. Though I didn’t know it at the time, the days working with my parents would build a strong foundation for my future.

When I was in elementary school I regarded my home like a dangerous lair with wide planked floors, low plaster ceilings, and skinny staircases leading into dark crevices.  Any visitors taller than six feet left with a cramped neck and a bruised forehead from a low flying beam.  One bedroom’s floors sloped so badly my brother and I could roll from one side of the room down to the other.  At times we had to watch our feet as we navigated repairs between the bedroom floor and dining room ceiling.  Complaining was not allowed.  If we fell through, it was because we weren’t watching our step. There were no hallways.  Each room connected to the next and the only bathroom was the very last room on the second floor.  Anyone needing to use the toilet, had to go through my room to get there. Privacy was often a luxury surrendered when one wishes to live authentically in a colonial house. Our home was in a constant state of architectural chaos as one by one, each flaw was corrected.



Cerberus, as I affectionately referred to my childhood home, was also pure magic.  For every wall that came down, or floorboard pulled up, treasure waited to be found.  Colonial coins, papers, signatures on wooden beams spelled out the mystery of the home’s earliest residents.  Digging foundation supports or gardens yielded thick old glass bottles, clay tobacco pipes, flatware and discarded pottery.  Part of our backyard was an 18^th century dumping ground.  As a child, summer hours were whittled away under the oaks, trolling away layers of dirt on archaeological digs.  Using giant old antique encyclopedias, my parents and I would research china patterns and coins to identify my finds.  It was like growing up in a museum.  Every day was an opportunity to learn from an artist, an expert in hands-on history.

My father hand-planed fireplace panels, plastered walls, wood shingled the roof, re-wired, re-plumbed, and restored original floorboards.  Wooden planks too far gone were re-purposed into period furniture and trinket boxes which remain in the home today. Only when the chimney needed to be replaced were outside professionals brought in.  Otherwise the entire home was meticulously restored by my family.  

 

My mother weaved her own baskets, participated in a quilting circle, dipped her own candles and strung miles of greens into wreathes and garlands for holiday celebrations.  I remember years of watching her hands work small tools around a white painted banister until the original finish was revealed- a deep maple syrup brown flecked with age, smooth from centuries of hands securing their steps down the narrow stairs.  These same steps would carry me through seventeen years until I was ready to leave for college. 

My life would take me far from my beloved home, but I am lucky that my parents still live there.  I can go home and see their years of hard work still standing strong.  Somehow I also still here that distant whirr of a table saw! The lessons I learned in the restoration years have become my own guiding principles.  The beauty is in the details.  Never do shoddy work thinking no one will notice.  Every small stitch is vital, every hand forged latch necessary.  Never turn away from your heart’s desire, no matter how daunting the road to attainment. Never quit what you have started.  Know it is okay to ask for help. Most importantly, never underestimate the power of teamwork.  With the right people by your side, even the mightiest of whales can be captured.

To read the original article and see more from FOLK Magazine click on the link below.

http://issuu.com/folkmag/docs/digital_folk_summer

 

LOVE  &  RESTORATION!

The Even Side Of The Street

Something happened this weekend on the roads between Goliad and Galveston.  I realized that after 20 years of marriage and 40 years of friendship, my husband and I don't agree on the basics.  Oh we love each other with a kind of love that just feels like we've traveled through many lifetimes together.  We are true soul mates. But ask us to agree on something like artistic vision and we will defend our separate grounds with gusto. 

 

 
 Standing in the middle of the empty road somewhere outside of Tivoli, Texas, as I was framing up a perfect shot of the sun kissed fields with my iPhone, Kev put the car in drive and started moving on down the road.  He'd had enough of my artsy ways.  I've come to expect these limitations from him.  After all, he was from the even side of the street.

 

Growing up across the street from one another, his house number was 360, mine was 363.  He was from the even side of the street.  The OTHER side of the street. One of THOSE kind. It's the fundamental difference that has divided us like an asphalt river all these years.  It's as black and white as his thinking.  The even side of the street was home to the engineers, the mathematicians, and the architects.  My odd side of the street was where all the historians and free thinkers lived. We were the preservationists, the art teachers, and the activists. 

Road trips lend credibility to the even/odd debate.  Kev prefers a map.  I prefer driving on instinct.  Kev likes Willie Nelson where I like Sublime (though one could argue these two artists are joined by their mutual affinity for weed).  Kev enjoys righting the wrongs of offensive drivers whereas I am just thankful no one caused an accident.  I will stop the car every 5 feet if the sun changes the photo composition ever so slightly.  Kev will roll down the window so I can catch the sun's changes at 80 mph.  If Kev finds a souvenir he likes, he buys it.  I will consider the price and determine I can make one myself... and then regret not buying it because I know I have 654 "things I can make" ahead of it.  You get the idea. 

Luckily we don't sweat the small stuff.  And though there are days we wonder what it would be like to find a mutual fascination somewhere between Shakespeare and the poetic voice behind Eminem's twisted lyrics, we've always enjoyed a healthy debate on even and odd.  But every now and again, we are tempted to drive off into the Texas sunset, leaving the other in the middle of the road.  But we'd always come back.  At least I would.

 

LOVE  &  SOUL MATES

The Artist At Rest

In a recent conversation with my artsy bestie, Ashlie Blake, aka Painting Bliss, we couldn't figure out what was up with the universal stalemate going on this summer.  We ended the spring with a bang! Published artwork, debut articles, and creative abundance.  But just like a kid mid-summer break, the doldrums have swept in!  No schedule, bad eating habits, and vacation slacking has taken it's toll.

"We are not lost and hell-bound!" We assured one another, "We are transitioning." 

 Now is the time for inaction! A self-gentle allowance to put down the work and enjoy our families, our friends, and all the silliness we put aside when we are hard at work.

 

 Time to hear the subtle changes happening around us. The deepening laughter of our children as they grow older, their nudges for independence, and our own vocal wavering as we reluctantly let them go to play a little farther from the safe shore of our arms.

Time to sleep in a bit later, take that nap, and admire the very good works of others instead of forcing our own growth.  Strong roots are not formed under duress.  And though we feel guilty if we aren't creating everyday the truth is no one, no thing, can perform 100% of the time. 

 So let us be still.  Let us listen to the universe and rest as we take it all in. After all, summer is a time of transition, marking the end of one growth spurt, and preparing for the next.

So to Ashlie, and all my dear friends, rest now.  We are not lost.  We are transcending.

 

LOVE  &  GROWTH

Twenty Years Later

It's a question most newlyweds ask themselves, half laughing, half dreaming after the vows are said and the bind is legal; "I wonder where we'll be in 20 years?" Asking and never imagining the twisty turny journey of the years ahead where the brave hold fast and a deeper love transcends expectation.

Hubby and I will spend our 20th anniversary in San Antonio, bringing our only child to her college orientation.  Texas would've been my last guess on my wedding day. Just a year prior to our wedding we had fled the great state of Texas after a failed grad school adjustment at Baylor.  It's a hard transition at 21, from liberal Boston to ultra conservative Waco back in the day of the Branch Davidians.  But here we are.  Yankees turned Texans.  With a Southern child who says y'all, loves her guns and cowboy boots. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've never not known my husband.  We grew up across the street from each other, went to the same high school, went to proms together but not as each other's date.  We went on double dates together, but not as each other's date- even though we'd be playing footsie with each other under the table.  It wasn't until one June when we were both home from college that we started seeing each other as more than just friends.  We figured it was just a summer thing, an odd curiosity, an unusual blip in our life long friendship.  But once September arrived and we returned to our separate colleges, we simply couldn't shake the idea of "us".  Four years later, we married.  My mother swore it would never last.

Twenty years seems like forever when you are 23, but as we all know it zips by with bullet speed and suddenly what was once the fodder of late night discussions is now all written in a shared history.  Looking back, it was twenty years of magical memories and grueling challenges. No matter what we faced, we always stood by each other, defended one another, and put our selfishness aside to be certain we stayed strong as parents, friends, and partners.  Marriage is hard work but yields great reward. And so on our 20th anniversary, as we sip margaritas on the River Walk, I can't help but ask my Hubby, "I wonder where we'll be in 20 years?"

 

LOVE & SOUL MATES

Anchors Aweigh!

This is it!  The graduation weekend is here! Family has arrived, rehearsal is done, the big show is tomorrow morning and then I have officially reached that pinnacle of raising a teenager: the high school diploma!  The chains of high school drama, district boundaries, and attendance mandates have been flung off and the brave new world seems suddenly wide open with possibilities!

My daughter has already been to 90% of the US and Canada so when thinking of the ultimate graduation celebration destination we chose Thailand.  This time next week my daughter and I will be somewhere in the sky jetting off to meet Hubby who will be working in Bangkok.  Hubby has filled our heads with the sights and sounds of this exotic city and we are ready to leave behind the familiar for the great unknown.

With a 22 hour flight in my near future I have planned a very special anchor project that travels light with minimal fuss.  Yep- it's time to unfurl the travel cross stitch pack and needlework my way to the other side of the world.  In prep for a November art show in Galveston, I have designed an historical sampler centered with a giant anchor and southern charm.  (Sneak peeks to come in future posts.)

Anchors are iconic coastal life and ring in the summer with a promise of new memories and colossal adventures.  Now that Baby Girl is 18 and a high school graduate, a new chapter in our relationship begins.  I see her as a young adult about to set out on her life journey- one that includes the dreams of far off places, making a difference and discovering a new world to call her own.

 

LOVE  &  ANCHORS AWEIGH!

Summer Teal

Twelve years of school are winding to a close, college acceptance has been achieved, and vacation plans are now pen marked on the summer calendar.  Relatives will be arriving this week for graduation celebrations and laughter will replace the hectic hurry of the school year.  The squalor in the parlor has been neatly tidied and I am left to contemplate the simple joys in front of me.

Teal has always been my serenity color.  It calms me.  Soothing as the sea and crisp as line-dried linen, I could swim in this color forever.  It is the siren shade of fresh starts and reminds me that I have two months before Baby Girl leaves home and starts her new life three hundred miles west in San Antonio.  I think of all the blessings that have paved her path and I am so thankful for the journey of motherhood. Teal was Baby Girl's nursery color eighteen years ago, so perhaps it's no coincidence I am craving this color palette today.

She is wood and crystal.  Stubborn, like her father, and beautiful (like her mother- snicker snicker snortle!)- she is a simple country girl with the complexity of prisms in sunlight. I don't worry about her going off to college because she is a traveler at heart- a student of the world and she is not one content to be confined.  I know letting her go is the beginning to her own spectacular journey.  So for the days and weeks ahead I will enjoy the simplicity, wander our vacation world, and enjoy every moment alongside the teal waters under the rotund Texas sun.

 

LOVE  &  LETTING GO