Not Just a Pretty Face

I call this painting "Not Just a Pretty Face." I have another part to it, making it a diptych. This photo is not good - I snapped it in the studio tonight and not outside. Glare is a problem in photographing art - but especially so in encaustic. Very reflective.

Anyway. I know this is weird, but I think I like it. I finished it several weeks ago and have just been looking at it since - trying to decide what comes next - not for this painting, but to continue my theme. I may have one brewing, but I'm not there yet.

I think I will tread and see if my muse will return.

We have a beautiful moon tonight. Papa and I enjoyed watching it shine between the clouds on our way home from dinner in Cayucos. Great dinner!

Not Much

My brain is empty tonight.

I guess I could mention that I enjoyed a lovely cookie baking morning with Roo before getting Buddy from school. After a conversation with the school art teacher, I think I am making progress in getting children's art to display at the art association gallery.

The kids stayed late; I gave them baths and fed them pizza before taking them home.

Tonight I balanced the checkbook in just a few minutes. That is a fine accomplishment.

With that done, I am going to tread for a while.

I am not happy with my art today. I have two pieces I may throw away.

I am looking forward to having Billy time tomorrow.

This is Buddy's drawing of ME peering at an ant farm. He did this after I drew one of him.


Before Buddy, my now six-year-old grandson, was two, he was into rockets. I cut them from construction paper and laminated them with tape. He often clutched several as he left for home. I later learned that months and years after, he still owned them. Then came cars and trains. I modeled them from Play Doh; he lined them up to admire. I tried to encourage him to try his hand at creating, but he wasn't ready.

By the time he discovered fish, he was able to tell me exactly what size to draw, what color, and how he wanted them to look. Again we laminated, and he took his prized fish home. Eventually he became frustrated that I couldn't create the exact fish he wanted. And finally - after I said "show me" 903 times - he tried his hand at drawing. He showed frustration at first but soon seemed satisfied that his fish were better than mine. Joy! For both of us. I was proud. He has been drawing every day since then. His focus and effort often inspire me to work harder toward my own goals. We have hundreds of his art pieces. I think he considers himself an artist, and I am, again, proud.

Yesterday, when we picked him up from school, Buddy showed Papa and me a schoolyard ant hill. Since a current fascination is bugs, he wanted to collect some. Alas, we had no container. With plans to collect the ants later, we came home to research and make ant farms. In the process, I drew a picture of Buddy peering around our proposed project. He said, "Gaga, I think we should save this one." I loved the authority in his voice and that he wanted to keep my drawing - just like when he was very small. He left our house with it clutched in his hands. Even if it is lost on the car floor, now, I know he liked it.

This may help me past my block.

Blocked - I hate that word

I am jealous. Buddy, my grandson, never seems to experience artist's block. Occasionally he will ask, "Gaga what can I do?" But with a little prompt or presented with new material, his creativity kicks in. Perhaps I need someone to do that for me.

Writing and art instructors like to say - and each seems to think she is the only one to say it - that you "just have to show up." Well, that is not always true.

I show up most every day. Some writing and some paintings don't cut it. They are certainly not inspired work.

Maybe tomorrow.

Meanwhile, here is what I am working on for my writing group assignment:

It Can’t Be Too Late

It can’t be too late
To open that door
And climb the stairs
Of opportunity

To hike a hill
And reach a peak
Achieving
Goals not thought of

To plant a garden
With seeds of wisdom
And watch you grow
In understanding

To paint a portrait
Depicting you
With planes
Of light and shadow

To seize opportunity
And reach the peak
With wisdom
And new insight

It can’t be too late


I can't decide if I need to say "you" or "me." And I don't like the line that says "And watch you grow," although that is what I want to say. I will see if my group can help me tonight.

Just thinking

Reflecting on time with the kids a couple of days ago, I remembered these tidbits from them.

Roo said, "Wow, Gaga, the golf course is abandoned!" I should remind you she is four. Abandoned is big for four. She likes big words, and I like it that she likes big words.

Buddy said later, "Gaga, I learn from watching Tom and Jerry." He smiled and paused. I could tell I was supposed to ask a question.

I said, "Really???"

Buddy said (with a funny little smirk), "Yes, I do. I learn that I don't want to be Tom, and I learn that I don't want to be Jerry." We all cracked up - especially Buddy.

Buddy and Roo somehow discovered (not at my house)Tom and Jerry cartoons and now ask me to find them on the cartoon channel. They say they like the ones with "big explosions." Sound effects follow.

Gourmet club met at our house tonight. One couple, like Papa and me, moved to our town to be child care providers for grandchildren. And, like us, they would not trade a minute of it. How could we not be around to hear their funny stories and conversations, or watch their skills develop?

My hearing is challenged, and I hate it that I don't catch every word the children say.

Homework assigned by GEW

GEW - Rah!

Pouffy and skinny me on the right (Yep, that is a polyester dress I made.)


GEW passed along a homework assignment she completed for a follower of her blog. I am to make a list of seven things I have not mentioned in my blog. Since I haven't blogged very long, my list of interesting (or not) tidbits I could submit is almost endless. But these are the first seven that came to mind:

1. I have to endure looking at old pictures of me with lacquered bouffant hair, blonde Afro hair (because daughter thought her mom would look really cool with that hip hairdo), and an array of other bad dos.

2. When I was about ten, I decorated my huge, rusty, red hand-me-down boy's bike with red and white crepe paper streamers and tobacco leaves to ride in the tobacco parade. This was in the days before I - or most folks - knew that the livelihood of southern farmers could kill you.

3. I used to function fairly well in the academic world. I finished my M.Ed in counseling and then completed almost all the course work for my EdD. I turned down the opportunity to complete my doctorate via independent study - thought I could finish after we moved to Wisconsin with Papa. Not possible.

4. I am GEW's mom and was her high school counselor. I survived her cheerleading years, but barely. As a counselor's kid, she never got special favors - except one. I still laugh to think of the look on her face when she came flying into the guidance office yelling, "Mom! You HAVE to get me out of that trig class." I knew she was right. She and that teacher would not have made it through the year.

5. I was a school counselor and then in private practice. Later, as a pre-retirement folly, I opened a needlework shop and operated it for about twelve years. I taught quilting, embroidery, knitting, and wearable arts. I worked harder than ever and loved it.

6. Papa picked out the house we live in and I didn't see it until I arrived in CA. Now that I have painted most of the walls red, I love it.

7. I used to be skinny. And I didn't know it. I always thought my fanny was too big. I would give almost anything for my old one, now.

Queen Roo

Well so much for a clean studio. We made Barbie clothes, Barbie crowns, and then crowns for Roo and her friend.

Whew!

Look! I cleaned my studio. I can see my work space and find my palette.

I feel good about today - much like the old days when I worked and felt satisfied with what I had accomplished. The difference is that I didn't have to get up early and no one's life depended on my decisions. But we did move in a positive direction for our art association -- at least in my opinion.

When Papa picked me up from "work", he insisted that we go to my official birthday dinner. We had been putting that off. I didn't really think we needed one. We had celebrated well at daughter's house. But, you know, the housekeepers had cleaned my kitchen, I had "worked" most of the day, and a drive up the coast to watch huge crashing waves beat the shore at sunset enticed me. I relented.

Dinner was chanterelle soup served with a viogner; wild salmon, wasabi mashed potatoes, and vegetables served with a pinot noir; and hazelnut chocolate terrine served with port. At Hoppe's. Excellent. It's $30 deal month at the major restaurants. Love it.

So that means I must go tread and watch an episode of Boston Legal - a show I find mostly silly, but one that helps pass my walking time. I must find a show that has a bit more depth.

Oh Dear!

These photos give you an idea of what my studio space looks like. So tonight I definitely need to do something about it. All those little beady white things are pieces of styrofoam:( Styrofoam is not what it used to be. Cutting it causes this sort of mess. Multiply what you see by about 9,703 to imagine what the room looks like. I am postponing my chores.

But the kids had a great day.

Metabolism - Can I blame it?

I would like to. Thyroid? The doctor says I can lay some of the blame there. Reality? I need to eat less and move more, and I hate it. The older I get, the harder it is to maintain my ideal weight. I have more time to cook. I have more time to go to lunch. Food is available. I have to feed kids. Papa is home and he eats. No one is pushing food in my mouth, but temptation abounds.

And I really really do have to eat less to maintain the same weight. And moving is harder. Or should I say moving enough is harder.

Now that my DVD player is up and running and a friend loaned me a whole season of Boston Legal, I am treading regularly. And I do eat right - except for special occasions when I splurge. Like most days. Each one is special. Yesterday, lunch with my friend. Today, pizza party for my grandchildren. Tomorrow, lunch with a friend.

Sigh.

Sushi Day

Yesterday I went to lunch with a friend I had not seen in a couple of months. Her mother has been ill and the friend had broken ribs and a wrist - and that's the short version. Life has treated her harshly for a while. She wanted to be pampered, and we wanted to visit. We decided to eat sushi, drink Saki, and then have a foot massage. The newspaper ad my friend had clipped showed two foot spa locations and clearly stated that they accepted walk-ins.

I enjoyed my rice bowl; she liked her noodles and loved her sushi. Happy with lunch, we drove to the spa location closest to the sushi place. It's in a little strip mall and is nondescript, nestled between a bagel shop and a nail spa. We stepped through the door into a serene, steamy, aromatic, Asian room. Soft oriental music played, and no one talked. We stood there, not wanting to intrude. One masseuse saw us, made eye contact, smiled, and said nothing. We stood. We looked at each other and probably shuffled our feet. Finally the smiling woman broke the spell with a hushed voice, "A point ment?" Us:"No appointment." Her slanted smile showed very large teeth. We waited. We waited longer. We waited and smiled. Friend and I looked at each other, questioning. Then a man tiptoed from behind a screen. "You come back. Thirty minute." My friend smiled and repeated, "Thirty minutes." Smiles, nods. We all smiled some more.

Back out in California and having no luck finding the gelato my friend craved, we ordered skinny decaf vanilla lattes at Starbucks.

At the foot spa thirty minutes later - Spa guy: "You have appointment? You come back thirty minute." Friend: "You already told us to come back in thirty minutes." Guy: "You come back thirty minute."

I have to stop here to say that on our second venture into Asia, we both noticed a handsome, chiseled, bare-chested masseur. Somehow his perfect bare chest came off as a too-obvious marketing ploy. Or added a touch of sleeze.

Determined, my friend suggested we try the other location. By that time I was not very sure I needed a foot massage, but I was enjoying time with my friend. And she really really wanted that foot massage. So we drove across town. We entered. Same moist, spicy fragrance. Similar music. Very quiet. Spa guy crept from behind a dark, carved screen and whispered, "You have appointment?" "No appointment," we whispered back. He gave us a look somewhere between pity and impatience. Condescending, maybe. And at the same time, obsequious. He whispered, "You make appointment, then you come back?" He offered a thin smile.

I suggested we go for a pedicure and ask for the deluxe treatment.

Tina: "Hi Flo, you want ped-cure?" Friend and I nod. "You pick color." Thanks Tina.

Pansies and More

While Haitians - who probably had a pretty terrible life anyway - are dying and suffering, I spent another flawless day, comfortable and content. Sobering.

This morning I just had to snap a picture of these pansies on my back patio. I love them because I find their little faces enchanting. More importantly, I associate them with my grandmother. She had a way with flowers and planted pansies every year. When I live in a good climate to do so, I try to plant them, too. Pure nostalgia. So these are a nod to Big Mama.

Roo and I spend another one of our girly mornings. Cookies, valentines, cartoons. I do believe we will be ready for Valentines Day this year. Later we picked up Buddy from school and I took them both for haircuts. Later, while Papa and Buddy took a nature walk, Roo and I snuggled and watched more cartoons for just a little while. Maybe a little too much TV today.

Now that my DVD decided to return, I am finding my treading easier. Whew, good.

It Can't be Too Late - Say It Isn't

The two prompts chosen for my writing group’s next meeting are “it can’t be too late” and “full sexual adulthood.” I don’t remember who submitted these prompts. I believe they came from the same person, and now I fear the two are related. Since I am not comfortable writing on the second (What does THAT mean?), and because “it can’t be too late” is a recurring theme of mine, I will pick that one. I suppose I could just print out my blog for writing group, and my assignment would be done. But since I like to put real effort into the writing I share with the group, I think I would be cheating. Even so, I can at least brag that I have been journaling almost every day. I have been writing in a casual, off the cuff way here, and I want writing for my group to be a bit more polished, if not more serious. Well, I don’t mean serious like morose, just more……something.

Until a little over a year ago, I wrote for She Magazine, and my deadline was the 18th of the month. Writing group meets on the fourth Monday, so meeting day found me spit shined and prepared to share. Now, without that deadline, I have noticed that I don’t write as much. I don't work as hard at it as I once did.

I didn’t start writing essays for the magazine, I wrote them for myself and, perhaps, to share with loved ones. My intention was to record family stories before they were lost to my family and me. When I began, I didn’t focus on crafting great sentences; I just preserved the stories on paper and tried to fully express how I felt about people and events from my childhood. Then writing became a passion. I added it to the list of all my others. Finding time to paint AND write presented a challenge. I did paint, but for several years I wrote and wrote and wrote even more. A few months after I began, out of the blue, She’s editor invited me to submit an article about “looking back.” The first story I had written fit the bill. I’ve asked her why she approached me, and she says she “just had a feeling.” Go figure.

I enjoyed that venue for my writing - and occasionally for my art - for six years. My essays gradually developed into a record of life with Buddy and Roo, caring for my mother in her last years, my own aging issues, as well as assorted, more frivolous themes. I took a writing class, thought more about how I was building sentences, and edited older stories. But in time I wanted to paint more. And I no longer lived in South Carolina, so reader feedback faded. I couldn’t run into someone who'd read that month's article and have them share the memories my essay triggered. After I collected all my writing into books for family members, I felt done for a while. I had finished that book.

Now? It can’t be too late to write more. It can’t be too late to write better. And it can’t be too late to be a better painter. Can it?

Gotta go tread.

A New Box of Crayons

Seven years ago, as I prepared to move to California, I wrote the following essay for She Magazine, a small South Carolina publication. I looked forward to living near my daughter, meeting my new grandson, and finding another fresh start. Now, in January of 2010, I have difficulty believing that seven years could have passed. Just this last weekend, Papa asked me if I feel at home here, now. I said that I did. I certainly do. And now I don't want to move - a contrast to these thoughts from 2003:

A New Box of Crayons

Do you remember how you used to feel when you opened a new box of crayons or a new pack of notebook paper? Somehow opening that box, sniffing the wax, and examining the pristine points of each stick thrilled me. Just owning a whole pack of notebook paper was an upper, and turning to a clean page in my binder always pleased me. Sharpening new pencils, smelling the fragrance of the wood, and writing with that new, perfect point did, too.

I still experience that thrill. I feel wealthy when I buy a new notebook, a new pack of printer paper, or a new pencil. A new bottle of my favorite paint, a new paintbrush, or unused eraser provides a rush. Pulling out an unspoiled sheet of illustration board presents a challenge but lifts my mood. A new needlepoint project or fabric for the next quilt is better than the old. Pouring out the last of the shampoo gives permission to open a new bottle. I want to use up the last bit of soap so I can unwrap and savor the fragrance, the smoothness, and the way a new bar feels in my hand.

I enjoy new clothes, but not because I look way better in the new ones. They are, well …… new. I feel the same about a freshly made bed or clean towels by the shower. A sparkling kitchen after I clean up the dinner dishes boosts my spirits and gives me the false hope that it will stay that way.

I like new beginnings and anticipate what lies ahead. I tire of the old and crave opportunity to change. With each new year, I want to start something fresh and different. When I start over, I expect to improve. Each new beginning is a chance to prove I am really better than I have seemed to be before.

Several years ago I heard Hugh Downs say he needed to be repotted from time to time. I feel that way, too. Though I must have been a little anxious about the future when I moved to Florence, I mostly remember the excitement of starting third grade in a different school with a new teacher, brand new books, and, of course, new paper, pencils and crayons. I could look forward to the challenge of finding my way around and making new friends, too.

Since that year I’ve survived many repottings. Each provided challenges, and each provided thrills. Beginning junior high and high school, going away to college, marrying and moving far away, becoming a parent, going to graduate school, starting new jobs, returning to Florence after many years, and opening a business have all been opportunities to feel the exhilaration of a fresh start.

And each year as I take down the Christmas tree, put away the decorations, and return the house to order, I feel the transformation is a little like some of the bigger changes in my life. Cleaning up after the holidays and welcoming a new year mark a time to start over - a chance to do better. I always think the house is going to look neater, and I am going to be more organized. I am certain I will paint a masterpiece, write a perfect story, finally make my red and cream quilt, and find my life’s purpose in the new year.

2003 should be no exception. I face it with some trepidation and with a sense of adventure and great expectation. This year I will move again, become a grandparent for the first time, try to stay retired from most of my careers, and face the challenges of finding my way around and making new friends again.

When I try to imagine how my life will be different a year from now, I find that I can’t picture it or imagine just what I will be doing. It will be a fresh start. Thankfully, I keep my family, all my old friends, and beautiful memories as I begin this new journey and anticipate the next new box of crayons.

Hooray!

Found!!! The DVD player!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hooray!

Treading Softly

Well, maybe softly and slowly. In days past, I would finish up my artwork for the night and then tread for about forty minutes. But because I was nursing a bum foot, I haven't walked on my treadmill in many months. My foot is better, now, so in early December I began walking the dog in our gorgeous weather. I loved getting outdoors to walk with the advantage of wearing out the hyper dog. Then I was sidetracked - long story. My chain of walking days was broken. Then the holidays passed and my schedule picked up - making my midnight walks more convenient than outside walking. So back to the treadmill it is.

Usually, as I walk, I watch a DVD on my portable player that fits right up on the front of the treadmill. Now I can't find the player. How can that be? I suspect Roo and I moved it so she could watch a favorite DVD. If you were a DVD player, where would you hide? Maybe the housekeepers tucked it away in a tidy spot, but I can't imagine that I didn't find it in my recent rant of organizing, purging, and cleaning.

So I have just relied on my new i Pod to make my walking time go faster. Sadly, even though my cello album is beautiful, music didn't help as much as the distraction of following a movie. I like to walk 40 or 45 minutes. Tonight I made it for 32 and that seemed interminable. As I walked, though, I noticed that I can take long, slow strides rather that short, fast ones and find a zone of relaxation. I actually discovered the approach a while back, but needed some reminding. It's like life. If I slow down and relax, even though life's treadmill is moving along at a consistent rate, I can feel calm and enjoy what I am doing.

But where the heck is my DVD player?!

Eye Candy

Today was a hectic day filled with calls, errands, and meetings. Right in the middle of hurrying around, though, I had to stop my car and wait for two deer to cross the road. In spite of my rush to complete errands and make the art center in time for two meetings, there I was - stopped, just waiting for those two beautiful animals to saunter by. OK, I thought. I think I needed this. Perhaps the deer can get the credit for some sticky situations working out fairly well. The deer were certainly eye candy. Of course I didn't have my camera.

Bounty

While most of my family and friends are shivering, I have just harvested lettuce for tonight's shrimp salad and have picked red roses for my table. Our California Central Coast weather is wonderful. How cool is that?

Happy 69th Birthday to me

I have just enjoyed a perfect birthday. I slept in this morning, then had a nice long talk with my big sister. I ran a couple of errands around noon, loving the weather as I hurried around town. While the rest of the country is freezing, we are wallowing in the pleasure of 67 degree days with sunshine.

Probably the one thing I could grouse about today is that I spent several hours working on art association business. But that was later in the afternoon - right before and after my leisurely haircut with Jessica.

At five Papa and I drove over to the daughter's house. She cooked yummy Mexican, Buddy and Roo had made cards, daughter and son-in-law gave me a card and a book along with a promise for brunch with the daughter. Oh, and I can't leave out that the son-in-law makes the best margaritas in the universe, and I consumed more than ever in my life. We capped the festivities with a Sacher Torte (chocolate cake) and port. Wow!What a great evening.

(Papa had already given me a new ipod and my favorite perfume. Good choices! Love them.)

When I returned home, my little sister had called to leave a birthday message. And I found many birthday wishes on Facebook. All this made turning 69 a little less painful than it might otherwise have been.

The pain is associated with those humble feelings of not having accomplished much in these 69 years. I suspect this will be a thread throughout this blog. At 63, I felt near panic at how little I had done.


On Being Sixty-three

Gently she’s borne from sandy earth and rusty slopes
To learn, give birth, nurture, teach, tear, mend, measure, explore
And love as her days unfold into years, decades
Without notice.

Restless now, she stretches toward entreating voices
And dimly burning candles of imagination.
For in her secret gallery passions and dreams languish
Unnourished, waiting for breath.
Words and brushstrokes clamor for audience.
Fearing extinction each calls, invites,
Playing tunes to court her.

She must see. She must hear
And tend the flickering flames
To flower before her time has passed.


Then I moved into a phase of feeling fairly satisfied. Now I am back where I was six years ago. Cycles of discontent? Hmmm.

I will say though, if just to soothe my soul, that usually at the end of a day I am content that I have accomplished most of what I could do and have enjoyed leisure time, too. But then when I add it all up - not so much.

When I think about the time spent with Buddy and Roo, all the paintings I have completed, the time spent working for the art association, all the tidying required by the above activities, the little bit of writing I have finished, I feel slightly - only slightly - better. I think the way to resolve the conflict is to just get over it. Can I manage that? We shall see.

The resolution of the conflict seems far away, though, as I scan my body for all the aging indicators - bumpy legs, awkward movements, stiffness, forgetfulness - all telltale signs that time is passing and I need to take action if I am to accomplish more. Then comes the question of why I feel I need to do more. Don't know. Not at all. Why are others I know content to read, nap, play? Dilemma.

A Typical Gaga Day

After ringing the doorbell and pulling the chain on the knocker bell thing we have on the front door, Roo burst in demanding to make valentines. Already?! Here is what happened.



Next was exploring my "treasure chest" and playing school with her mom's old rag dolls.



Ooh! Almost time to pick Buddy up from school. Gotta get ready.



Here's Buddy. Sling and all.



Next was a trip to see new elephant seal pups - about a 45 minute drive. On the way we made an emergency stop for Gummy Bears and licorice.



Time to take the kids home and enjoy the end of the day. We came home to this and a nice Mexican dinner.



All and all a satisfying day.

Thirteen!

I just read this: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/node/3475980. Thirteen!!!! Good grief. If I let myself dwell on this thirteen year old, I could feel less than satisfied with my own accomplishments.

OK, so I haven't written a novel. But I hung eight paintings at an investment firm yesterday. I think this is their favorite.

Mother came to visit

Papa bought an ipod for me today - a birthday gift. I bought new music from Amazon, learned to sync my ipod, and downloaded all my music onto it.

Somehow in the process, without realizing I was doing it, an old file my nephew-in-law sent me several computers ago, was transferred to my pod. So right in the middle of my music I heard my nephew-in-law and my mother (she died in 2006) chatting about education in the old days. During most of the interview, she was reading what she had written in preparation for the phone conversation he was taping. Toward the end, however, their exchange became more casual and I was able to hear her laugh. How cool is that? And earlier while I was cleaning the kitchen and listening to music Mother would have loved, I had thought how nice it would have been for her to have a device like my pod - one of those times I would like to run to her and say, "Look! Listen!"

2010 intentions

I just read a fellow encaustic artist's (Alicia Tormey) reflections on the new year. Rather than proclaiming resolutions, she has decided to call her plans for 2010 intentions - perhaps a more positive approach. One of her intentions is to work toward becoming more authentic. Art forces one to do that, I think. When I don't feel I have been true to myself - in my art or in interactions - dissatisfaction ensues. I hate that.

As opposed to art, authentic writing seems to require serious disclosure. I am not sure I am ready for that. But now that I will be 69, when will I be ready? Hmmm.

My Buddy

Go here to read about Buddy: http://goodenoughwoman.blogspot.com/