New year, new intentons. Right....

Not particularly happy today.  Spent an extra half hour in bed, and both dogs couldn't make it to the back door without unloading.  God bless Resolve.  Went back to bed after we all had breakfast and another walkie-poo, and binged on Divorce on HBO On Demand.  But, once again, dogs were crossing their legs, so I am up, showered, dressed, and still doing nothing.  I have nightmares about camping on the couch, watching Keeping Up with the Kardasians, or Say Yes to the Dress.  Couch potato hell.  So far, not happening.  Here I am, writing!  Big atta-girl.  Next comes some piano playing, picking away at simpleton songs I used to breeze through.  Bought the damned thing, now must justify it.  I actually like it.  I think.  I want things to change this year.  Sadly, that means doing things differently.  and that is hard.  Well, not a easy as doing them the same. 

Adios, 2016 aka I'm glad you'te gone, you crappy year, you.

Long time no write.  Lots to tell here.  Let's see.  I just lived the most awful year in a month of years.  Mother is dead.  This is good.  Her punishment lived on, though.  She took away most of my inheritance, rather gleefully, if you ask me.  That is how the year began.  Then, in February, here came Beatrice, pictured here with her big sis, Nora, and blessings abounded.  Then a big brouhaha erupted around little old me in the fellowship, and I got ostracized from my sisterhood.  Sigh.  That is okay.  I saw the big picture, and no one else did.  Then my landlord got a bean in her butt and began doing "improvements" to my little yellow house.  Like a deck that remained half finished for months, followed by sidewalks that got torn up and turned into miniature mountains of detritus all around the front yard.  And then, surprise, I got notice to vacate in 60 days.  Lucky for me I am prescient, and had already explored my options, which leaned heavily toward buying a place.  Rentals in our area are astronomical.  And, as luck would have it, I stumbled on a manufactured home just a block away from the yellow house, now known as the forever house.  It is mucho larger, mucho prettier, mucho newer.  Huge kitchen, three bedrooms, one of which is now my mucho bigger studio.  So the year ended on a high note, after the horrendous move, which, surprise, did not kill me after all.  And now, here I am, in business again.  And, once again, getting back on track.  And speaking of tracks, there is this train that choochoos through our town on a regular basis, empty.  It is the "test train", we are told, but I think it is just a giant economy sized train set for some developmentally delayed guys who just like blowing the whistle.  Life is remarkably surreal at the moment.  So bring on 2017.  It couldn't possibly  be worse, or better, that its predecessor. 

Me, hanging on someone else's wall!

First gallery show.  Wow.  Even I am impressed.  And everything looked worthy.  Well, almost everything.  One piece will get more attention when I get it home.  I was a painting tornado this last month, putting this all together.  Lots of fun doing it, too, as you can see.  What a way for an adult to spend her time, splashing paint around.  My favorite moments in kindergarten were standing at a tiny easel, painting with poster paints. Sixty six years later, and the same thing is happening.  I gave almost every piece I entered into this show a companion.  These are the wabisabiest pair, Chance of Rain and Summer Storm.  They should always be hung together, right?  So dash right out and buy both of them!

Happy accidents...

I decided the cat needed a companion piece, so I cropped a pic of Punk and diddled this up yesterday.  I was laboring over it when I got just the stroke I wanted, there, in the middle of his forehead and I went, oh.  That's the ticket.  So I loaded up my brush and went for it.  Result is really fine.  It is what I was aiming for.  That seldom happens, getting the idea out of my head and onto the surface.  So here is Dog, companion to Cat, and ever so satisfying. 
And wonder of wonders, Comcast sent me my $100 prepaid VISA without me even whining about it, and in the very same batch of mail, there was a catalog for Riley Street's Fall Sale (big art supply store, Disneyland for artists).  I am headed there soon to stock up on canvases.  Blick will supply new pigments.  Oh, the joy of new art supplies!

Please, no applause...

I got up early today and got butt to morning meeting, very spiritual and inspirational, and on my way home I crossed the last of the I-can't-sleep-until-I-get-this-done list.  I got the car serviced, only 1300 miles over its scheduled oil change.  It is now officially geriatric, having racked up over 100,000 miles (in 12 years), and I knew this was going to be more than the usual $45.00 super-duper oil change, and yes, it cost me $132, which was actually less than I had feared.  Yay, me!  Yay, Ford Focus!  Other recent accomplishments were paying the sales tax, always a mysterious process because I include it in the price of my work and must back it out again and I never know the current rate and can never remember all the digits I need to get into my account online.  Sigh.  I got that done and then wrote the last check for my upcoming trip to Italy, Greece, and Turkey.  Yay, me!  Then I got to the vet to get the super-duper extra-strength mega-expensive flea medication for the pooches.  Yay, me!  I got Punk to the groomer and he is all spiffed up and much less likely to get burs caught in his beard.  Yay, me!  So, I thought, after all these wondrous accomplishments, it might be a good day to walk to the art supply store, a mere mile away, and get some more canvasses for the opus I am creating for a show I am having in September in (gulp) a gallery.  Except that I am still here, noodling around Facebook or playing Forty Thieves Solitaire.  Well, decompression isn't a bad thing either.  Oh, and here is Cat One, probably a new series.  Wabisabi cat.  Yay, me!

Wabisabi, again...

This is just so much fun!  Big painting for me, messy but (I hope) artful.  I don't know what artful is, but I know it when I see it, and especially when I don't   Wabisabi is right up my alley; free and kinetic with lots of movement and fiddling around with palette knives and putty knives and sponges and a spray bottle as well as big, big brushes and gobs of paint.  A trip to Blick is on the calendar for several more of these cradled boards.  Don't even need to frame those suckers!  How great is that!

Wabisabi me...

Once upon a moment, I took a "friend" with me to help me mat and frame a favorite photograph.  She perused it as we stood at the counter in the artsy frame shop, and finally said "Well, there is all this little crap in the flowers."  Gee, you think?  It was lovely pink blossoms glistening with dew in the freaking GARDEN, what did she expect?  And I decided two things then; she was not good friend material, and my art was always going to be about imperfection.  Later, in school, I was introduced to wabisabi, a whole school of imperfection that the Japanese have cherished for centuries.  And whenever I get tired of laboring pickily at a piece, which I am wont to do on occasion, forgetting my emblematic work, the all-over-the-place colors and worshiping the delight of showing my process to the world, I do something like this piece, very fast and with a lot of elan.  And sometimes it just comes up like a little miracle here in the tiny studio in the little yellow house, and proclaims itself wondrous.  At least, I think so.  More coming. 

Help me! I'm atuck on mushrooms!

It all started at Blick, where I fell in love with these little 6 inch square canvases and thought, gee, let's paint a tiny opus of something.  How that morphed into mushrooms is anybody's guess, my mind just works like that.  This is No. 2 in the series, and it began with a violent green background with abyssmal blue shadows.  I was meditating yesterday and saw that my first image was way too out there, so I played with it today, and now it is kind of sweet.  Messy, but sweet.  They are kind of joyous fungi now, all plump and pink and ready for the marinara sauce.  I haven't worked in paint for a while, unless it was to slap it around in an abstract kind of manic way, and it was a challenge.  Do I work all tight?  Answer to that is NEVER.  I am not a picky picky person.  I just slapped here, too.  Don't like it?  Put on some more paint.  More coming.  This is FUN.

What's the use, and other meaningless stuff...

Today I am pondering meaning.  Purpose, for the more literary folks out there.  Why am I here?  Why are we all here?  Well, I know that a whole big bunch of things had to happen to bring us together in this cobweb known as civilization.  Like, there had to be a BIG moon out there, to keep our little mudball from wobbling too much allowing for stable climate zones so we could stop that annoying hunter/gathering thing and settle where we could grow food.  And certain animals had to be domesticated, like dogs who found our garbage better prey than the four legged kind and in gratitude provided a state of the art warning system against intruders and predators.  And horses that greatly improved our transportation and hauling capabilities.  And cattle who conveniently stayed where we put them and gave us milk and cheese and steaks and leather clothing.  Whoopdidoo.  So, here we all are, strangely bipedal creatures who are vulnerable just by virtue of walking on two instead of four legs, I mean, all that stuff sort of hanging out there so tenderly, with big brains on top of skinny necks, running the whole show.  I just listened to a TED talk about the nature of reality.  This is not the first sojourn I have made in this direction.  There are times when I am driving somewhere, and feeling how ridiculous this world is, all these fragile creatures encased in metal cages on wheels, hurling themselves forward at alarming speeds, counting on fortunate circumstances to arrive safely wherever they feel compelled to be.  Surreal.  I have also had more than one moment where I felt that were I not there, there would be no there there.  Think about that for a moment.  Whatever, this guy on TED says that reality is like icons on my desktop.  It lurks behind the imagery.  And getting back to purpose, I think I need to cast my reality out into the netherworld, and realize I am in the net, too.  Connection.  That's my purpose.  In some regions of my tiny life, that is not possible.  I cannot connect to my mother, who sees me as her Pontius Pilate, perpetually nailing her to the cross of her own construct.  That reality is very interesting, and totally a fantasy.  Fortunately, there are many who are happy to connect with me, and with whom I am happy to connect.  There is a wonder in shared consciousness.  Even when it is directly oppositional.  Okay, my brain is now sufficiently fried for this Saturday afternoon.

Must, should, AAARRRRGGGH,,,

It is a sunny but still cool day here in halcyon Northern (drought-ridden) California.  I have had my semi-weekly very short shower, after all, at my age, all I really need to do is swipe the dust out of the cracks and folds every so often, anyway.  What to do today?  Maybe the same thing I did yesterday - nothing.  Oh, I hit Trader Joe's for necessities like yoghurt and flowers, and I did most of a meeting.  My head hurt.  I went home.  I think a good thing to do would be hit the hardware store for some masks to shut out the dreaded pollen and weedwhack my yard of shame.  The neighbors would be ever so happy.  Or I could curl up in the living room and stare at the vacuum cleaner that is still sitting there waiting for the Resolved carpet to dry.  Do you think 28 hours is long enough?  Okay, not very productive at the moment.  There are a couple of paintings waiting for attention, too.  Oh, well.  It will all get done.  Some day.

The morning mull...

While I sit here in the front office/library./meditation room, the television is merrily burbling in the back (front) room.  I feel guilty that those folks are acting their hearts out, and I am not paying them any attention at all, other than background noise barely audible over the fan that is blowing mercifully cool air about.  It is 10:45 AM.  I have been up for an hour and 15 minutes.  When I can, I sleep in.  Isn't that the ultimate statement for a retired person?  Consider that for 40 years, I rose before the sun to travel, sometimes more than an hour one way, to a windowless office, often without the requisite 9 hours my body needs, took naps in my car at lunchtime, and came home to husband and/or children who required more care, I feel I deserve my sloth.  Dogs are not particularly happy since it seems unlikely I will rise soon to fill their bowls.  They look up hopefully every time the clicking of the keyboard ceases.  No hurry.  No one is looking for me for, oh, another hour and a half.  I had my semiweekly shower yesterday, and the bed is (somewhat) made.  Big question is the usual what-to-wear.  I have this dandy long black and white striped skirt and the top I ordered for it in abeyance.  Also have a sweet tunic in creamy yellow I could layer over white leggings.  Or the new gray leggings with a white shirt tunic.  Oh, this is all very exhausting.  I will just surprise myself.  Soon.

The non-fat latte day...

Surprise!  I got up early enough to get to my favorite meeting, and procure for myself a non fat latte, too.  I did a medium this morning, not my usual larger than large.  Trying to be circumspect in my old age.  Great time with my gang, then home to get grunged up with hopes of doing something, like vacuuming or weed whacking, neither of which happened.  Oh, I did stop at Target on the way home, for an avacado, spinach wraps, a sweet new pitcher, some raspberries, a pack of 9V batteries (smoke detector somewhere in the little yellow house is chirping at me) and the can of Resolve I went in there for.  Then the doctor called, verified dreadful infection, and off I went again to Costco for pills, where I had to wait 20 minutes, so I spent another $71.  Can't remember much about what I bought. 
Whipped cream, for sure, and a sweet pair of gray leggings, pair of bluejean capris, etc.  Really necessary things, of course.  Now waiting to digest yogurt I ate before I remembered I cannot take this antibiotic with milk products.  Oh, and it may make me drowsy, as well as sunburned.  Yay.

The dogs and I are trapped in the computer/music/library/meditation room while the nice man installs the new water heater, necessitated by the mushrooms that grew out of the baseboard by the water heater closet.  Big hint that something was going on behind that door, which was swollen shut.  Oh dear.  Anyway, I am assured that this water heater will not be as good as the one before it, and isn't that always the way?  What ever happened to chrome bumpers on automobiles?  Like, one little bump and you have to replace the whole thing.  $1500 later, you still have a piece of crap bumper.  Okay, doing some gratuitous griping here.  I am blessed to have the little yellow house, even if it does grow mushrooms in the laundry room, which one must traverse to get to the front room,. which is in the back.  Oh, it is all just wonderful here.  And poochies are all saddled up for their trip to the vet this afternoon.  That will be fun, too.

That little old phony baloney, moi...

I don't know which is worse; to make a doctor's appointment and find out nothing is wrong, or find out something really is.  I figured it would be a good idea to get the old bones scanned before taking them to Europe this fall, and knowing my PA, she was going to tell me to come in, so I made the appointment.  Plus, I was kind of thinking something was a little off, like I would get so sleepy I could not sit up, or my joints would ache, or I would get chilled.  Sometimes.  So off I went at the crack of dawn (MY dawn, not yours) for my 9:20 appointment.  BP is sterling, vitals are, well, vital.  However, little UTI, and probably, little sinus infection, too.  So, I am not that big a phony after all.  Soon, I will be off to Costco Pharmacy for DRUGS.  No more hubris because I was the only senior citizen on the block who had no prescriptions.

It's my birthday.  Not a terribly significant one, that was last year.  Seventy big ones.  So, now seventy one.  Hair is naturally silver.  Other hair no longer grows where it once did, and now adheres to upper lip and lower chin.  Glasses are permanent fixture, not just for up close work.  It could be worse.  I can still put my panties on standing up, bend down to pick up the dog toys that litter the little yellow house, and I wield a mean weed whacker.  So, not entirely depressed here.  I got feted on Saturday, Sunday, and today.  Tomorrow is another celebration.  I am thinking that one will include cheesecake.  And just like usual, summer seems to have arrived.  For most of my life I thought I was born in the summer because school always ended around my birthday (I actually graduated from high school on this day, 59 years ago).  I now know I was born in the spring.  I like that.  My only sad note is that mother is still not acknowledging me (long story, some dementia at 94 which only magnifies her earlier disdain, sick sick woman).  Therapy in on the horizon again.  I will know who I am before I die.  Yes, I will.

Close, but no cigar...

I work very hard when depicting the animals to keep their essence and shy away from anthropomorphizing them into Hallmark card cuteness.  Just couldn't do it with this creature.  And I am far from satisfied with her even now, just tired of smearing pastels around for a while.  It is the ultimate ennui of artists when their vision does not materialize on the paper or canvas.  Sometimes it is something better, something magical.  Often it is not.  Whatever.  Every piece teaches me something I need to know about this craft.  I think this one taught me to focus better on the subject.  Head was too big, eyes too far apart, body to thick.  AAAAARRRRGGHH!  Still, it was fun.  Now to put her away, start something new, with lessons tucked into my pocket for future reference.

Back in the saddle again...

Sometimes I go on an artist hiatus.  I never really plan to do this.  It just sort of happens, and I look up and say, jeez, I haven't painted in so long.  And I wonder if I can still do it.  My walls are laden with my work.  Surely that should stand as incontravertible proof that I can.  And it doesn't because I forget the experience of the painting, and no amount of framed oeuvres are going to convince me.  It takes getting out the pastels, taping the Tiziano paper to a board, choosing an image, and beginning.  And then, there it is, again.  Most of what I hoped to get is there, on the paper.  It is an amazing thing, over and over again.  God I love doing this.  

Everything is surreal, part IV

Well, I am listening to Mahler.  Even I am impressed.  I have successfully poopooed him all my 70 years, but I decided that if I am going to be an art music afficionado, I need to broaden my taste.  So I ordered a set of all the symphonies minus one.  I guess he wrote on stinker in ten.  Pretty good batting average, Gustav.  And in spite of some rather abrupt volume shifts, I find his music really romantic.  If he hadn't written such looooooonnnnnng works, longer than the staying power of the average human bladder, he might actually be popular.  Or maybe he is, and I just didn't know it.  Nevertheless, here I am, steeped in culture.  Other jarring things happened today, too.  Big bang not too long ago announce yet another collision on the very busy cross-street to my halcyon little neighborhood.  I trooped down to get a gander.  Sweet little old lady was being trundled away in the ambulance.  Little dear was just planning on some shopping at the market, and out of nowhere, a pickup slammed into her.  There are a couple of these dustups a year.  I am really careful when turning out of my country lane onto this thoroughfare.  It is a war zone.  And then, oh, this is the worst.  My favorite character on Days of Our Lives got snuffed out.  Just like that.  No warning, and really, folks, this is just too much.  I have been watching faithfully since 1997.  I am breaking up with you!  No more DVRed episodes to faithfully attend to.  Done. 

Watercolors, bah...

I think I suck at watercolors.  Part of the reason is that I work very fast and don't pay enough attention to what is happening on the surface and they freaking run around with a mind of their own.  They just won't behave like oil or acrylic will.  So, impatience, number one artistic character defect.  Sometimes, though, something interesting happens all by itself.  It could be some colors that meld together, or a tiny detail that didn't get smeared around.  I pulled out a stack (one of many) of watercolors I did in a class a couple of years ago and gave them the test; what would they be if I framed them.  Amazing things happen when I put a mat around a painting.  Doesn't matter if I like the painting or think it worthy of framing.  It's like putting a bum in a tuxedo.  Suddenly, wow, it looks so, well, legitimate!  I am of the mind that an audacious artist could put a mat around anything, slap it on a wall, and somebody would think it is art, fall in love with it, and buy it, even at the slightly inflated price I put on my art, because if I don't value it, no one will.  In fact, I think you must love a piece of art to purchase it, and that should be a tiny sacrifice.  Then the artwork will be the balm for that little wound in your bank balance.  Newest thoughts from an admittedly insecure, neurotic artist.

The thing about blue and white shirts...

My favorite blue and white shirt got a hole in it.  Not a smallish hole that one could stitch up on the inside with just the faintest pucker to attest to its existence.  Oh, nonono.  A great honking hole that would showcase my admittedly more evident than usual collar bone.  The rest of the shirt is likewise as fragile and thin from multitudeness wearings and washings, a couple of decades of love.  What is more appropriate as a blue and white shirt for a trip to the Cafe for a non-fat latte and cinnamon walnut croissant on a Sunday morning?  There was a time when I had to be trained to change out of my workaday outfit every night when I came home.  Now I live in those comfy, roomy garments that are soft and well-loved.  I missed my blue and white shirt.  Actually, I still have it, on a  special hook in the itsy bitsy closet, where I can adore it on occasion.  And, blasphemies of blasphemies, I replace it.  My new blue and white shirt is not striped, that would be like buying a puppy just like Boo and hoping for the same dog to show up.  No, my new blue and white goto shirt is blue with tiny nosegays of white flowers in between very discreet polka dots.  It, too is soft, already, and worthy of having croissant crumbs caught in its cuffs.  God bless Anthropologie.