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December 2006
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February 2007

In the Pink

Orchid

Low skies, grey light, and the anticipation of snow makes me put on a pink turtleneck today. The view from my bedroom could be a study in values and if I were smart, I'd concentrate on sketching that and working on my tonal values.  Instead, I have an early hair appointment and spend a few hours in the salon, where my hair stylist tells me of his youth in Sicily and shows me photos of his rosebud baby girl. The woman who washes my hair, Sonia, who has skintight bronze hair, (something I would die to be able to pull off), almost lulls me to sleep while she washes my hair with rosemary scented shampoo and rinses  with jets of warm water. Then I walk to the corner and absolutely have to go into a shop called "Pink on Palmer" - it was made for days like this,a shop filled with scented candles and luxurious make up and cosmetic bags striped in silks and the most whimsical and frivolous bath soaps and salts and crystals from all over the world.  I hold a cake of creamy, almond heart-shaped soap in my hand and it is as  comforting as a baked apple in the oven.

I'm in the market for some make up, having squeezed the last little bit out of my drugstore foundation. Perhaps they have something a bit more upscale, something that would look good and allow me to skip the dreaded trip to the giant mall that will be the world's biggest parking lot on a cold, dreary day like today. The store is set up like an old fashioned pharmacy, but the shelves are filled with eye-popping color and European packaging and expensive-sounding names. First, I have to get pass the candles. I want to buy them just for their heavy cardboard and metal rivets packaging, unless I buy the neighboring toile fabric covered squat candles that would look so cute on my dresser.  Body creams - hand creams!  I flex my own lobster claws and feel the skin crack around my knuckles.  I am in serious need of a head to toe makeover on a dimestore budget, but this is not the place for that.

Even the check out station is adorable with a low, white painted tables and two boudoir chairs slipcovered in pink plaid taffeta. Would they let me work here on the weekends?  If it were my store,  I'd fill it with jasmine and honeysuckle and rosemary and mint and let the customers use a mortar and pestle to muddle their own fleur de sel. I'd have make up parties for grown ups, when serious, professional women could come in and apply glitter to their cheeks and French eyeshadows in plum and bronze and cerulean blue and  silvers that appear to have once been icicles shipped from the Alps. Shimmer is not something I wear on my middle aged lids, but why is dress up just for little girls?  Perhaps that's it - I should be a make up artist, swooshing a shimmering pink on young girls' lips and dusting bronze on the tip of a nose. Rose-kissed cheeks would appear beneath my powder puff and I would know the tricks of the trade regarding concealers, waxing, and the other extraordinary  glosses and creams that always leave me baffled and longing.

But no, today, I am just a middle aged artist looking for a little relief from mid-winter dead pan skin and the dusky circles that make me tired when I see myself in the mirror.  Warning: do not stand in the midday light, as feeble as it is on this January day, and watch a stranger apply foundation to your skin. There are cracks and crevices and bumps and bruises and veining and hairs that you never knew existed. And now she knows, too.  My only hope is client/cosmetologist privilege and I hope it holds up in court.

I am about to turn myself over top to bottom to their make up artist, hoping that the back of the store holds a warming pan of wax and herbal masque, but Mr. Pom's latest comments about the Christmas bills rings in my head. So I am sensible and come away with only a  French foundation, light as washed silk, a "professional" concealer, (heavy duty use I infer from her comments), which is meant to be mixed with an expensive eye cream (I tell her I have a sample at home), a coral lipstick I'm not sure about  and a sheer pink gloss that gives me the shine of youth that my dried out,  narrow lips lost about 2 kids ago.  I leave the "Crisp Linen" scented candle behind, take a furtive peek at the silk make up bags with the intent of whipping up a few at home, and steel myself to leave the lavender salt scrub and thyme facial mask for another purchase. The owner compliments my hair and I give her the salon's card, only two doors away, and feel virtuous that I have networked for the little stretch of shops.

As I walk back to my car, another boutique calls to me. I stiffen the shoulders and don't turn my head. Last hair cut, two red glitter bottle brush Christmas trees with mercury glass candlestick companions came home with me. Must be prudent! Oh, but in the window there's a quilt done in yellows with a wide, thick red border and a trio of small yellow chunky pitchers atop a red tole tray. I quicken my step as  Mr. Pom's face pops into my head. I'll have to be content to go home and paint a picture of my two red tole trays and ransack the cupboards to find my grandmother's yellow, hobnail water pitcher, though I haven't seen it since we moved.

Today, go out and find a bit of color to bring back home with you. Whether you wear it or display it or eat it, bring some reds and pinks and yellow into your house. I'm about to play with some slubby shimmering fat quarters of silks in jewel tones that draw me like a moth to a flame. Maybe today you will make a tart citron, like Paris Breakfasts, or paint a corner of your house cherry red, like Daisy Cottage.

May your weekend be pink and in the cherries.


Worlds Collide

The Today Show has a segment on whether mothers of babies should gather and have a glass of wine.

My God - mothers who drink!!

Only in America.

I suddenly realize that the representative "Mom" is Melissa of  Suburban Bliss.   And she's wearing her Superhero necklace.

Meredith Viera asks her,  "what does the wine do for you?"


I want to move to France.

Right now!


Ever Feel Like Things Are Closing In On You?

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They probably are.


Much as we try to keep our lives Zen-like and free,

And post pretty pictures with pithy, funny words -


shit happens.



It's the stuff of life, the staff of life,

and how we know we're not

dead.

Yet.


The phone rings and rings

both at work and home.


At least we know we're not going deaf.



And the pile of dishes in the sink?


At least we know someone eats


Though no one has time to cook


.

Math A Regents?

Doctor visits?

Hurried trips to the bank?



At least we know that the empty is never, ever

really empty


.

Prizes won and lost?

At least we know that someone's noticing.

***********************


Happy, happy hump day!




You Know I'd Rather Clean Than

make art.


Nah.

But I have been known as the Queen of Procrastination, so this weekend, rather than actually working on the commission due Feb 1, I'm cleaning out the artroom.

Or as The Young One said: "You have more stuff to give away??"

It's not all my fault, I  had to get in there with a shovel from the last two commissions and Christmas meltdown.  I mean, I had to close up the ironing board so I could get at the desk and the closet, which meant I had to put away the foam core board on top of it, and that meant I had to put away all the acrylic glazes and the glass glitter and the dried-up brushes and glitter gliltter everywhere.

When we moved MM back to school in September, we were in Walmart for our once a year buy the boy underwear, socks, and industrial-sized packages of Ramen noodles,   I found some very cheap apothecary jars with metal lids. They've sat on the floor of my artroom since September and yesterday, I finally starting transferring stuff into them.

So now I'm overhauling the whole room, getting rid of all the Clementine and plastic storage boxes, repainting, and making the room more efficient and, well, pretty.

The Sister The Teacher was here yesterday and she took 4 big bags of stamps, embossing powder, and paper for her school. Cause you know what? I'm not stamping anymore, and though I could spend days uploading all of it to ebay or etsy and make some money, I already have a full time job and hoard my free time for art making, not making more money from art supplies.

I did keep my favorites that I can still use in backgrounds - numbers, letters, basic shapes, postage-type stamps. I even kept some embossing powder - I'm still a magpie and will always find a little touch of antique gold EP to be just the thing a picture needs.

And I'm a fool for all those gorgeous scrap papers, but I weeded out everything that looks too much like something else and just kept sheets in color ways that inspire me and of prints that can be used in anything, like harlequins.

More and more I find myself drawn to just paint and brush, paper, fabric snips, and beads. I don't think I'll be making anymore assemblages and though I would dearly love to have the time to make all the jewelry I'd desire, it's not to be for this part of my life. But just think how much fun retirement will be!

No photos yet, still a big mess in there on the table tops. Off today to find more jars. No Walmart around here, but I'm going to try Target and Linen 'n Things.

This week, pack up several bags of the art stuff you've outgrown. Visit a local school and donate it to their art room. You'll feel very virtuous - and suddenly find yourself rediscovering what you do have.

And leaving room to make more art!

And now I have to go paint. Really. Though that armoire could use a good straightening.....


Mid Winter Mid Week Middle Aged

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Remember the novel about the middle-aged invisible woman? I can't remember the name or who wrote it but the gist of it is that the woman is middle aged and everytime she looks in the mirror, she sees anothe piece of herself disappearing.

Mid-winter, mid-week, I can feel  relate to this feeling.

Especially if I'm standing in front of a window such as this.

Though I have to say then even twenty years ago and #$^%#@ pounds lighter, I would walk past this window and not turn my head.

The first dress: funereal.

The middle outfit: laughable.

The third dress: beautiful but completely unforgiving.

Honestly, let's talk: what woman in the world is wearing the middle outfit? Angela Jolie? Maybe Twiggy 25 years ago?  Is the Marquis de Sade designing for Madison Avenue now?  Very fitted, high waisted uh, "pant", with horizontal, sheer stripes. I think it's what they make models wear to remind them not to eat that cookie. Or drink water. Or breathe. 

If this came in my size, my thighs would have to be given a seat in the United Nations as a newly recognized country. Actually, it looks  like something they wrap you in after you have liposuction.





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And for those of you on the other side of the country, where your whole world pretty  much looks like this window, I offer you the consolation that daylight savings time starts on March 7th!  Less than 8 weeks away!  How cool is that?

My midwinter coping strategy for you this week is for you to take out all your winter clothes and throw out/give away all the following:

  • any sweaters/t-shirts with stains
  • cords with baggy bottoms or knees
  • sweaters that have more pills than your medicine cabinet
  • coats with ripped linings
  • bulky sweaters that make you look pregnant
  • pants with stirrups

Buy yourself something for spring, preferably in a luscious color, preferably in a silk blend.   I have my eye on a cute pair of flats in black and white patent.

Shoes_3  





I can already hear the Easter bunny.


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Down by the Sound, there's a bench waiting for us.

And the sun is struggling to rise.

The wind picks up the summer salt

Blesses us with the crystals.

But for today, the fog mummifies our thoughts.

Swaddles us in packing cotton as we drive home.

MM is in his little apartment.

Waiting to start his internship.

Harder to leave him there than at school.

He seems unfazed.

We have an empty feeling.

A raw space in the nest.

I tumble into bed and sleep the afternoon away.




Recharging

100_2420 Quiet and sleepy, we seem to be making up for the energy expended over the holidays.

Winter's usual bone-wearying fatigue is mild, along with the weather this year. Mid-January and my lilac by the front door has swelling buds and the lawn has fresh, green grass coming up.

We're not sure whether to tune up the snow blower or the lawn mower.

Yet, our bodies know it is winter. There's no spring in our steps when we jump out of bed before dawn. It's the light, you know. And I'm sad as each house on our block take down their Christmas lights and the whimsy is extinguished for another year.
I've been through more than two score of Christmases, but this year, I finally began to understand how much the human spirit needs "holiday".  Those sometimes garish Christmas lights were transformed for me into talismans against the darkness. Graceful swags of glittering colors, silly plastic ornaments, even those hideous inflatables, are all a show of courage against stark, black nights of the soul.

But once those twinkling Santas and nodding deer are packed off to the attic, the nights are dark again. Time to find another symbol of spring and so I'm off this weekend to find an orchid for my office. I've cleaned off my desk and shredded a ton of documents. I've entered the New Year with a resolve to at least keep my work space organized and pristine, even if the work itself will never be so. All it's missing is the graceful curve of a ballet dancer of a stem, and the elegant, simple blossom bud nodding on the end.

Find a wide, shallow bowl, fill it with gravel and water and force some bulbs. Fill your house with fragrance and color. I may try forcing one of those lilac branches. A first for January? I think so.



Houston? Houston!

The power cord to my Power Book starting sparking the other day and died. After trying to buy a new one, I've discovered that the power cord to Power Books are notorious for this little feature, and due to their failure to live strong and prosper, they are sold out everywhere. So I am waiting for a faux one, which is supposed to come this week, as opposed to an authentic one, which will take 3 to 4 weeks.

Please be patient while we attempt lift-off. Right now I am using the husband's heavy, pinchy, HP. Yes, pinchy -  I feel like I'm typing on concrete.

So I'll be back soon, hopefully, with tales of painting and other exciting adventures lined up for spring.


When Pigs Fly

I'm painting.  Two pictures - in a series, no less. Painting out of my head, with whimsy and silliness. Seriously, there are enough serious artists out there. I won't ever pretend to be one. I don't have time - doesn't it take decades?  I'll never take umbrage at being called an illustrator and not a fine artist as long as what I'm illustrating is out of my own head. Ha! Who am I kidding? I'd be thrilled to be called an illustrator. Thrilled to be asked to illustrate something.

The end of the year has brought some release for me.  An inner spring unsprung. I felt it give about a week after Mr. Pom hit the deck with his chin.  I'm not sure what my painting has to do with the incredible relief we felt when he seemed to have suffered no whiplash, strained back, busted disc, broken jaw, or any other nightmare that would render him disabled.   

This little quirk of fate was like wishing upon a falling star. We hoped it would be true but knew deep down it could never happen. And then it did, or rather didn't. Nothing happened. He recuperated and was back to normal. Maybe pigs do fly.

Maybe I could shut up and stop talking about painting and actually paint.  Stop researching developing a style and actually develop a style.  Out of my head. Silly pictures about things near and dear to my heart. With no deadlines, no commission, no push for publication or sale. Just for me. And some significant others.

So I have to go now. Gotta paint. What am I painting? All in due time, my friends. For right now, it's just for me.


Anybody else crying while watching Mrs. Ford get out of her wheelchair to walk down the three steps with her sons on either side, and then tell them she wanted to walk the rest of the way behind her husband's casket as it is carried by the pall bearers to the burial plot?

And now they are singing "America" a cappella.

That's it for my composure tonight.

It's been a long day - gotta find the merlot.

I


Let the Year Begin!

We are trying to get the new year started, but we appear to be stuck in the gate.  I was the first to be laid low by a bug on New Year's Eve and I valiantly dragged myself into the restaurant, ate my five cocktail shrimp, had five sips of champagne, and then declared myself done. By the time we got back to the motel, Mr. Pom was slip sliding into stupefied sleep, the first symptom, and the next day, The Young One spent the ghastly 6 hour ride home lying as horizontal as her aunt would allow, and moaning for her bed.

So instead of us all returning to work and school Tuesday, we stayed abed, calling piteously to one another for tea and toast. I did rouse myself by the end of the day to make a beef stew and though we were all salivating at the aroma, by the time it was poured into the bowls, The Young One and I eyed it suspiciously and nibbled round the edges, and then shared some Xantac.

I had that back-to-school anxiety last night and had a hard time sleeping. Poor Mr. Pom was banished to the spare room to contain the snoring .  This morning,  we all jumped out before dawn, and Mr. Pom and The Young One were gone before 6:30 as she had her first of pre-softball pre-practice workout. I felt a lot better and was just finishing The Blow Drying of the Hair (shorter cut before Christmas - love it!) at 7:15 when The Young One came back home, eyes red and swollen.

Seems she was doing the 50-yard dash or some other sadist ritual at 6:45 in the gym when she felt her vision blurring and hearing going and the next thing she knew she was lying face first on the gym floor with her friends on the verge of hysteria over her. The coach, such a wise man, told her to sit out the rest of the training, then dismissed her with the others to go to classes.

Don't worry - doctor said she was dehydrated, punky from the virus, hadn't eaten breakfast, and since she was only out about 15 seconds, probably nothing more than that.





But - Is your blood pressure rising with mine?

Are you about to pick up the phone and call me to tell me to march down there and ask this man what the hell is he thinking of when a kid he barely knows faints in a dead heap during practice and you don't send her to the nurse or at least the office to call her mother??

Are you ready to go down there and march into his office and tell him you could sue if there's anything wrong with her, and that she has a big bruise on her cheek and forehead and was afraid to make a fuss since it was the first practice session???

And just how long has he been coaching????





Yeah, I did nothing. Even the pediatrician agreed that I could do nothing since The Young One was practically in tears that I would do anything at all because she hasn't made the team yet and can't piss off the coach....

Day One of the 6:30 a.m. practice. And to think I was worried what she would do after practice for the hour before first period. Why, she'll just faint and come home!

And if anyone from my job is reading is this, I swear I'll be in tomorrow. No really, you can assign me a jury trial, I'm so sure. Mr. Pom is on emergency alert.

As for today, I could take down all the Christmas decorations.


So I think I'll just paint.


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Thank you all for your well wishes for the new year. I am constantly amazed by the power of the Internet to bring together people with similar interests from all over the globe. My life is so enriched through the friends I have made by this blog and on email lists, some of which are, unbelievably, almost ten years old. Many good tidings have come to me from the friendships that have evolved over the web and I feel so fortunate to be living in this time when the Internet and blogging is still new and exciting. What an extraordinary venue to get your writing and art before a world wide audience! I have received more loving and heartfelt messages via the blog than I ever do regarding the words that make it into the print media.

My kids tease me that I am always with the laptop in front of me. I'm sure they will have much fodder when they write their own books as to what I wrote about them on the blog and how neglected they felt. "Mummy had a wall about her - no, I think it was her laptop monitor!"
But seriously, all my family checks on the blog to see what is going on. My sisters comment, my mother reads surreptitiously, and my kids complain when I don't mention their latest accomplishments.

And a special thanks to my sister, Marietta, whose beautiful photograph of the bay is my new winter banner, and to my daughter, The Young One, whose photograph of the Chatham Light graces this post.


There is a human dimension to the web that makes the lives I read about sometimes more vivid than the friends I know in real time. And like any other human venture, sometimes lives are frail, illness erupts, accidents devastate families, marriages fall apart, and deaths occur. We feel the pain of those on our blogrolls as deeply as we do those we know in person. Triumph and despair, frivolity and sorrow, ubiquity and import. The human drama is full fold and intense.

Thank you for sharing your lives with me. Thank you for listening to my tales, to my complaints, to my tiredness, to my elation, and the very ordinariness of blessed life.


My wishes to all of you for the year are companionship, soft pillows, candles to light, sweets to share, dogs to walk, cats to purr, music to play, sunsets to watch, sand between your toes, and always, friendship at your back.