Romanticize Hope

Painting is like believing in a miracle.  Almost like buying a lottery ticket.  Think about it…

Most days I go about my life, my business, as usual.  I sleep in too late and don’t have time to eat breakfast before I go to work.  I get to work and roll my eyes at email notifications, trudge through the mundane routine tasks, find a few moments to sneak in time for coffee and a breakfast snack.  I hang on for dear life until I can get to lunch.  I go through the lunch motions of eating something reasonably healthy and pretending like I enjoy it.  I engage in banter with my colleagues; and after lunch, tick tock, I count down the minutes until I leave for home.  Finally, home I flop on my couch and convince myself that my life is stressful and that my job is unbearable.  I waste away on social media telling myself it is a coping mechanism to escape the treachery of my life and swipe enviously through the fabulous Instagram lives of people I’ve never met and who probably don’t really exist.  Every Monday through Friday I day dream of a life I don’t have and wait on the weekend to arrive so that I can finally LIVE!  But when Saturday arrives, there isn’t anymore living then there was at any other point of the week.  There is laundry and housework and bill paying.  DIY projects litter my house chasing Pinterest posts of what my home might finally look like when, one day, it is perfect despite the facts that there is never quite enough time, money, or skill to get my home to that point of perfection. 

This is true monotony.

Typically, I don’t pay attention to the lottery.  I would rather drive around my hometown with a sack of twenties in my passenger seat and my windows down—at least the local economy could benefit from me throwing money away.  However, occasionally the jackpot gets to some ridiculous number, and like everyone else in the world, I think…why not?  I drop ten dollars on the local convenience store counter for a ticket, too.  I like to buy my ticket as early in the jackpot frenzy as possible.  From the point I purchase the ticket right up until the drawing, I get to believe I have a chance to win.  I get to live in the hopeful dreamscape of what my life could be like.  I could build my two-story, white clapboard home with a wraparound porch, backyard fire pit, and Pinterest-perfect furnishings.  I do like my day job, but I think it would be more fitting for me if it was volunteer work—with $400 million I think I could confidently quit and still be able to make ends meet.  However, I don’t see myself as being the type to while away my time in idleness.  I think perhaps I would open one of those shops where people pick out an unpainted ceramics piece, glaze it, and then the shop fires it for them.  I believe in diversification, so the shop would have a deli counter to order a sandwich and a gallery upstairs to feature the work of local artists.  I could build the life for myself that I was too young to see so many years ago and too afraid to invest in now in my middle years when I feel I have too much to lose if the venture falls apart. This week the Powerball jackpot is hovering around $400 million and I have already bought my ticket. 

For two more days, I get to romanticize hope.

Painting lets me romanticize hope, too. 

An adventure in paint typically starts with me skipping out of work exactly on time on a day when I have a little extra money in the bank.  I go the long way home and stop at the craft store on the way.  I slowly browse the fine art aisles touching all the little jars of texture mediums, staring at the tubes of paint letting the colors seep into my consciousness, and calculate what size canvas I can afford to spread my new art supplies around on.  I am never so nice to a cashier as I am to the ones at the craft store—they are my co-conspirators on the adventure I’m so close to being able to unwrap.  I drive a little faster home than I do on a normal day.  No flopping on the couch on this day—there is adventure and life on the horizon.  My cats love craft store days: bags, plastic, paper, and receipts all strewn through the living room creating a new playground for them while I’m too occupied with my new prospect to bother with them.  The blank canvas and smell of dried gesso is just like buying my lottery ticket.  While working a piece, I get to romanticize the coming together of creativity, meaning, composition, color, and texture.  Each brush strokes moves with the fluidity of hope that this new work will be well-received by the artistic community.  It could be the canvas that opens doors to galleries for my work.  This piece could mean acceptance.  It could mean a new life where creativity becomes my profession.

By no stretch of my imagination do I believe my art work will ever fetch lottery size jackpots, but the hope and promise are the same.  At the end of the artistic adventure, it is never about the money, or the job, or the Pinterest-perfection.  It is always about hope.  People are fueled by hope and you must chase your hope in whatever way you can.

The colorful, dreamy mess of hope.

ROAR!

SHHH!!!  It's a secret!  I don't have an artistic bone in my body...no really, I cannot draw...not even a little bit.  I am reasonably decent at craft work, but an artist I am not.  This is a pretty heavy admission of guilt for someone writing a blog about art on a website dedicated to her own artwork.  But it really is true.

I always wanted to be artistic.  I had a friend in elementary school, Amber, who was incredibly artistic.  Her work was always being entered in some district or state competition, being used for some PSA campaign to stop smoking or buckle your seatbeat, or being displayed in the big glass cases in the school's front office.  Amber was the sort of girl who made others feel inadequate: she was smart, talented, pretty, and nice.  I felt lucky to be her friend so I dared not try to compete with her artistic ability or her in any way.  I laid the notion that I could ever be an artist of any caliber aside and focused on other school subjects.  I enjoyed art passively over the years by visiting museums and appreciating other artists' abilities.  

Until I met Made (pronounced Madee).  Made reminded me alot of Amber, but she was a strong girl.  Made was beautiful, smart, a good writer, kind, compassionate, quick-witted, quirky, funny, a fantastic artist, and Made took absolutely no sh!t from anyone.  Seriously!  No one in the entire world was going to rain on this girl's parade. And I adored her for every one of her quick-witted, brilliant comebacks.  

I met Made the year I turned 30.  I was wearing a heart monitor, I had a major surgery, my work life was stressing me out, and I was very distant from my family.  Thirty was a hard year for me.  But there was sixteen-year-old Made sitting in my English class, slaying everything!  And I found myself back in elementary school thinking, how could I be more like Amber.  But this time, I wanted to be more like Made.   

Instead of being intimidated, I started to look to another female as a role model.  Instead of just thinking my smart alec comebacks, I said them--unapologetically, just like Made.  Instead of making excuses for my shortcomings, I owned them and wore them as a badge of honor.  Instead of making excuses about why I didn't know things or couldn't do things, I figured them out for myself.  If Made could do all of these things at sixteen, surely I could do them at thirty.  

Watching Made grow as an artist was the most fulfilling thing for me, though.  I watched the art projects she brought into my class.  I asked her questions.  She didn't have the words to explain what she did or why "it worked," but she tried to talk me through technique.  I would go home and try to replicate her work, but I was rarely successful.  One day, staring at a sobbing wet paper, thinking, "if this would just dry quicker, then it would work," I realized Made worked in watercolors, but I was meant to work in acrylics!  It seems such a dumb realization now, but that moment clarified everything for me.

Amber was good with pen and ink.

Made was good with watercolor. 

I was good with acrylic. 

We are all artists in different ways.

My life up to that point had been like trying to walk in shoes that were several sizes too big or too small, with people ridiculing me for always tripping over my feet and falling on my face.  Yet when I became inspired by Made's tough, sarcastic, self-reliant attitude, I found my artistic skill.

Man! Where would I be today if I had been inspired to be happy in my own skin at ten instead of thirty?  Where would I be now if, at sixteen, I was half as strong a woman as Made was at that age?

Bottom line: Life is hard! You can whine about why you aren't Mufasa or you can own up to being Scar and plot to overthrow the kingdom.  Sure the coupe might get you killed, but at least no one will accuse you of being a whimp or not claiming your own destiny.

As an artist, I'll never have Mufasa's greatness.  But I'm ok with that.  Because I'm tough.  I have good ideas.  And I go at the world on my own.  I might be smitted in the process, but people are going to know I was here. 

Thank you, Made, for inspiring me to roar (as an artist and a woman).   

Fierce and amazing and giving 0 about anyone's opinion.  I love you, Made.  Thank you! 

What Is Normal?

I slide into the warm water of my bath, taking a look around at my concrete board walls, partially grouted tile and wondered what is even happening in my life!  It's 4:33 on a Wednesday, I didn't go to work today, and I'm too tired to do much else with my day besides lay in my tub.  But my question still remains, "What is normal any more?  And how did I even get here?"

Let's spend a moment to review this week.  On Monday, I attended a mandatory pep rally for work.  My school district bused 9,000 professionals to an outdoor sports stadium for a two and a half hour professional development pep rally in 90° temperatures with no shade.  There are a number of problems with this plan, but really, this is just Monday and we need to stay focused here. Suffice it to say that the word, "asinine" was heard a number of times throughout the event.  To add insult to the matter, the extremely expensive keynote speaker told a story that many in our district had experienced first hand and would have been willing to deliver the same speech for free and at an indoor, air conditioned venue and would have done it with considerably less white guilt and condescension.

Also Monday, at 7:00 pm, my air conditioner at home went out.  No, I was not capable of enjoying the situational irony at the time.  I fixed it.  Yes, you heard me right, mild mannered leadership teacher me, FIXED IT.  I'm not talking flipped a breaker, changed a battery fixed it.  I turned off the breakers, went outside to the unit with my 5/16 thingy,  removed the panel, disconnected the burnt capacitor, reconnected the new one, replaced the panel, turned the breakers back on and viola, conditioned air. Seems simple, but I felt like a badass...the a/c repair guy charges me $200 for an $11 part and fifteen minutes of work.  Call me Wonder Woman!  (Earlier the SAME day I could not conquer the gas pump to refill my car, but that's a different story.)

Tuesday, my mother had surgery.  On the way home, the road in front of her house looked jinky with water bubbling up from the asphalt.  I stopped the car, got out, stepped softly on the pavement and realized the bedrock beneath the roadway was giving out: a sinkhole would open up soon.  Got home, called the city to report it, settled mom in, ran after her prescriptions and generally took care of her through the day like she did for me as a kid: lunch, dinner, chores, company, et al while the city worked on the sinkhole outside.  I wrote most of a short story and helped the tv repair guy a bit.  When I finally got home last night, I realized I was headed towards a mean respiratory infection and medicated up before I went to bed.

I woke up feeling pretty awful.  Made all the arrangements with work at 4 am to call in sick and I tried to spend the rest of my day in bed: finished the story, wrote this blog post, did some short communications things for work, etc.  I checked on mom, took care of my own meals, you know, adult stuff. Until I slide in the tub just now looking for a solution to my body aches.  

That's when it hit me...this is normal.  This is my new normal.   Somewhere along the way normal became, "meh, whatever life throws at me."  And what is that all about?

I bought a new range last weekend.  The door of my previous range managed to lock itself shut.  Luckily I got the food out that time, but I am not going to chance it again.  As I was shopping for this new range, I found that they had a price window from $300 to $3000 dollars (maybe more...the sales guy clearly could tell I wasn't that into this purchase to be bothered with anything higher than three grand).  I don't know what to do with that information...first, aren't they called ovens...what is a range anyways?  Second, I only have one guiding premises on the purchase of this "range": does it get hot?  That's it.  That's all I know to ask...and I'm not a terrible cook.  But, this is the new normal.

So I ended up purchasing a new double oven range to be delivered to my house....some time in the future, we will call you.  Knowing about my mom's surgery, I called them when they didn't call me first.  I said, please don't deliver this week.  They said no problem, your new range is at least fifteen days out anyways.  (What?  Are you forging the metal special for my oven from elven steel? Hope I didn't pay for that upgrade.) Later that next day, I get a text message saying the oven will be delivered on the day of mom's surgery....because this is the new normal.

I'm writing this and thinking of all the things that have become normal in life: five tries on a new washer to get a blanket all the way through a wash cycle, recycling centers that don't accept glass, check out lines that don't accept cash and have no cashiers.  The modern world is baffling and this is the new normal.  I am so often irritated at the pile of things that stack up and prohibit me from painting.  I become angry with myself over my laziness.  It's nice though to take a moment and reflect on how not normal everyone's normal has become.  That way I can reassure myself that everyone else is struggling with the same disconnect with reality that I am in a time of mass shootings, racism, reality tv star presidencies, misogyny, rape culture, and denial of global climate change.  We are disconnected for a reason: normal no longer makes sense.

Just the normal view of my not normal, partially finished bath tub.  Not enough tile. No showerhead. But the chandelier is up!

Choose Life

I love watching butterflies.   The bright eradicate burst of colors waving on unseen breezes is a waltz I attempt (albeit poorly) to emulate with my paint brushes.  I choose to see art work as reflection, emulation, and commentary on life which adds to the total sum of human existence and human civilization.   That is a mouthful, but if art does not have that purpose and humans do not have that expressive need coded in our DNA, then how have so many societies over time and location developed artistic expression?

I prefer to reflect on the life of human emotions through the stokes and forms of animals.  Animals inspire me.  I am not a talented enough realist to depict the confident swagger of my cat, Goose; but cool grays express calm and confidence in my work.   I will never capture the dance of two butterflies in flight on my canvas, but their quick foxtrot does sally forth in my brush strokes and textures.

I don't know that these observations have necessarily made me a better artist or a more insightful person, but I do know that I enjoy my day-to-day life more now that I am aware of this tendency.  It isn't that I, "stop and smell the roses," so much as that I am willing to stop my hurried trip from my classroom to the office at work to persuade a young gecko off a dangerous sidewalk onto the safety of a wall while marveling at his jerky, slithering saunter.  It is afterall the simple things in life, right?

Regarding all of the,  "commentary on life which adds to the total sum of human existence," stuff; humanity has perfected work so much that "work" infiltrates our entire existence.  However, the end goal of work remains the same: to provide food and shelter for survival.   In perfecting work, we have escalated our own "standards of living" so much that we have come to feel we never "have enough" and the solution is often to "work harder."  Yet perhaps the real solution lays in accepting what we have, working less hard, and enjoying the things around us we are never able to truly "own".

But enough of my diatribe (which ironically is being written on my smartphone with my data plan all paid for by yours truly working way too hard), tonight put down your smartphone, turn off your TV, skip dinner, go sit outside in the dark and wait.  See what life swoops into your existence.  Savour it.  May you be blessed by the kamikaze flights of bats.  Perhaps you'll be presented with the show of a hunting owl.  No natter life presents itself, enjoy it.  Enjoy the single-mindedness of mosquitoes, the engineering genius of spiders, and the opportunistic trickery of raccoons.  Let life wash over you in order to keep your own existence in perspective.  And if it happens to inspire you, then create with it in whatever manner your talents allow.

A particularly beautiful and well-groomed young lady I had the pleasure of meeting in a hotel parking lot in Tallahassee. Her polite suspicion was quite enigmatic.  I have not yet figured how to bring it to my canvas, but it is a new and interesting puzzle.