Traditions

I’ve been thinking a lot about traditions lately. It’s that time of year when tradition is in full force—Thanksgiving through the New Year. I realized that in my husband’s family once something is done two years in a row, it becomes set in tradition. As such, we now host Thanksgiving dinner and have a small get-together with friends at our house on New Year’s Eve. It’s tradition.

Leading up to Christmas, we go to the Mayor’s Christmas Parade, see the lights on 34^th Street with Greg’s parents and his niece and nephew.  I would say that it’s tradition that we see It’s a Wonderful Life but this hasn’t happened each year because sometimes we don’t feel the need for a good cry. I also would say that each year I make latkes for Hanukkah but this isn’t always the case. But still, we have our traditions. On Christmas Eve, we go to Greg’s parents’ house for their annual Christmas Eve party. On Christmas day, we go to his grandmother’s house—she’s about to be 101 next month—and she’s been hosting Christmas day for decades.  On New Year’s Day, we go to Annapolis, to Greg’s uncle’s house.  All of this is the tradition and I’ve come to love it all. 

Then, there is a measly little day in the midst of it all, when I want to be introspective. That day is December 28^th—the anniversary of my mother’s death (she died 14 years ago). No matter how old I become, I still want my mommy and on that day, it’s not that I remember her more or honor her more than normal. I just want to make sure to take the day into account, even if I don’t say a word about it to anyone else.  The traditions that accompany this time of year, have helped me to separate the holidays from what could always be a terrible time of year for me if I were to let it.  It’s only on occasion, now, that I tear up when I hear Christmas music piping in over the sound system at the supermarket.  It used to always be the case.

Time is this corkscrew that moves forward and spirals around all at once. New things happen just as the circle of the calendar requires us to remember the past and to either celebrate it or memorialize it.  The new things this year: Greg and I got married in October after being together for over a decade (we really rushed into things); my brother and his girlfriend had a baby boy just one week ago. I think about how both of my parents would have loved these two events. 

This year’s traditions were the same but different. We were there but I was distracted.  My dear cat, Sydney, who I often describe as my soul mate (yes, I believe you can have more than one soul mate) had a pretty big health scare.  I couldn’t concentrate on all of the fun I was supposed to be having while thinking about her. After a couple of trips to the vet, lots of medication, and constant supervision, she seems to be doing well.  I may not have been fully engaged in the activities on Christmas Eve or on Christmas Day, but after all of this, I would say I’m about ready to see It’s a Wonderful Life right about now.

Free Your Creativity (from How Design)

Advice for Overcoming Unhealthy Creative Expectations

I Love a Parade...But Not Just Any Parade

The Christmas season got its unofficial start in Baltimore this past weekend with the Mayor’s Christmas Parade.  Sure, the monument lighting was a few days prior, but this parade really gets me in the mood for the holidays. Clocking in at nearly 3 hours, the parade did not disappoint—with a couple of exceptions. I missed the Latino dance troupes and the Buffalo Soldiers and I’m hoping that they’ll be back next year and that the warm temperatures will also return.  By now, if you have not experienced this parade firsthand, you are wondering why this parade is so special?  In all of my parade-watching experience, it is the one that delights the most.

As a small girl, my older cousin Emily took me to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and I remember being most enthralled with just being there.  To watch this parade on television now is beyond dull—it’s too polished, too produced. There’s just no edge to it. And, isn’t that what you want in a parade—a little edginess? The other parade of my youth was the Dairy Princess Parade held the first weekend in June each year in my hometown of Canton, NY.  The Dairy Princess Parade lacked in almost all production value.  I haven’t been in years, but the general gist of the parade was a celebration of the local dairy industry.  A big-rig Kraft truck drives up Canton’s Main Street as part of the parade.  Children are pelted with Kraft caramels. But that’s not the only attraction—there are the fire and police departments from municipalities in the area and some groups representing the U.S. military. The last year that I went, 1999—I was surprised to see the inclusion of a steel drum band (they came in from Canada) and a local chapter of PFLAG proudly walking up the street waving their rainbow flags. Of course, the parade’s star is the Dairy Princess herself along with her court.  The farmer’s daughter is elevated to celebrity if only for the day.

The Mayor’s Christmas Parade is a spin-off of the small town parade. It has the beauty pageant winners and the local firefighters and veterans’ groups. It has high school marching bands.  It even has Santa Claus as any good Christmas parade should. But this parade is backed by an enormous helping of irony, self-aware and otherwise. And, that is what makes it so special.

The first year that I encountered the parade was the best of all because it was so unexpected. In fact, we didn’t even know that there was a parade there that day—we just stumbled upon it.  It was an exceptionally warm December day so there was no need for a jacket. The parade opened up with the shrill sounds of a steam calliope as it made its way down 36^th Street (a.k.a. The Avenue). There was a Harley riding Santa, a gigantic cross riding down the street, and Boumis—lots and lots of Boumis, wearing their Shriner’s caps, or dressed as clowns, or riding magic carpets, or ATV vehicles. The most memorable float that year was the POW-MIA float which is so absent from many other Christmas parades. This float portrayed a vignette of a soldier being held prisoner in a makeshift jail while a woman in a rice paddy hat aimed a rifle at him from overhead. There was Underdog Lady. There was also the Boumi Shriner’s child burn victim float in which a real, live Shriner stood behind the wheelchair of a fake boy whose head and legs were wrapped in bandages. The parade ends with Santa in his sleigh, but not that year. That year, the scantily clad Hooters Girls brought up the rear, so to speak.

I wish that every year, the parade could be just that good. It’s a tough act to follow and even tougher if there was snow or frigid temperatures to contend with. But this year—the weather cooperated—and the major components were there. Lest one think that it’s just an opportunity to make fun of the people in the parade—whether it be the strange group of furry mascot wannabes, or the overweight tuba player who really shouldn’t wear white polyester, or the girl on the manger float who was clearly NOT amused—it doesn’t matter.  It’s how we get ourselves in the spirit of the holidays!

By the by, the biggest hits at the parade were these guys--who cleaned up after the horses. Now, that's the toughest job in show business!

Heed the Signs

I just saw this and thought I'd share it. http://www.buzzfeed.com/jpmoore/this-is-how-you-advertise-for-an-art-school

Say What?

Several years ago, a student came up to me and sheepishly admitted, “I don’t get sarcasm. I really can’t hear it at all.” It was almost sad the way she said it, knowing that she was missing out on something—like she was in a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language—after all, I’m not the only sarcastic person around. I didn’t know what to say to her. She was basically telling me, “I don’t get you.” I wasn’t even aware at how often I was using subtle inflections in tone in my communication.  I felt sorry for the girl, unable to hear these nuances to perceive a meaning beyond the words being spoken.  But unlike many people who don’t get sarcasm, she at least recognized the issue. I was brought up on sarcasm and maybe that’s how you have to be in order to “get it”.  I’m now aware of good friends of mine—people I like—who don’t get it. When someone says something in a sarcastic vein around them, they respond, “really?” and then this is followed up by the sarcastic speaker saying either “no, I was just being sarcastic,” or perhaps in a double-sarcastic whammy, the speaker will say, “Yes, really.”  The listener becomes even more perplexed after that retort and everyone has a good laugh.

At any rate, I bring this up not because I want to point out how evolved those who get sarcasm are, but because it points out something that I appreciate about language—something that my mother told me under different circumstances all the time, “It’s not what you say, but how you say it.” This is why WRITING AN EMAIL IN ALL-CAPS CAN SIGNIFY THAT YOU ARE YELLING, or why you pick up the phone to tell someone something rather than email them, afraid that they will miss the “how you say it” part of your message and get their nose bent out of joint.  It’s why “drop dead gorgeous” can be descriptive (“wow, she was drop dead gorgeous.”) or a directive to your prettiest enemy. It’s the slight shift in one’s voice that can change the meaning—and this makes me happy. It’s the little things in life, after all. 

Past Tense

This is how it started:

It seemed so simple at the time--too simple maybe. I had been struggling in grad school following my mother's death in the middle of my first year of school.  I tried to create meaningful work but it didn't resonate with everyone else. Nobody got what I was trying to say with my paintings. Professors went to great lengths to tell me that I was over thinking my work, basically instructing me to lay off the heavy thinking for a while. Clearly, they didn't understand the agony that I was experiencing with the loss of my mother. Didn't they know that it was all I could do to just be in the studio in the first place, let alone create beautiful paintings? If anything, I wanted to convey the meaning behind the hurt, but the imagery that I chose wasn't going anywhere.  The oddball among the group of work that I'd done, this two-paneled piece with two simple words got all of the attention from the panel of reviewers in my studio at the end of the semester.  Nobody gushed or wrung their hands in grief while looking at this piece. Instead, they were able to imbue their own experiences upon it and the sense of "is" being turned into "was" in a mere moment was felt universally.

So began a big phase of my work in which words became the subject of my art work.  The words themselves contain meaning so manipulating them in the work became my challenge and in some ways my calling. Sometimes serious and sometimes funny--words became the tool to tell my story visually.

Shortly after the "Past Tense" piece, I did a piece on that serious note--working out the feeling of loss that I was experiencing. When someone close to you dies, people will tell you that "life goes on" and it's true. But, how could it and what if it really does go on?  The devastation of forgetting the cadence of my mother's voice complete with its thick Long Island accent, or the sound of her laugh, or the way she looked when she smiled...that would be terrible to lose. Yet, memories fade and I was completely aware of that being a possibility.  I made this piece, "The Forgetting" to recall the layers of memories, some prominent and some floating off into the distance.

The same word, "remembering" is hand-printed in pencil over and over, dozens of times. The repetition of writing the word so many times--to meditate on it again and again--could possibly help save each memory from evaporating with time.  The choice of pencil was important as a medium--so basic and easy to use--but something that can ultimately be erased.

Over the years between then and now, I've come to use words in much of my work (not all)--and I am still excited at how simple words and phrases can continue to fascinate me.

Black Friday

Oh, did I mention that these word pieces are for sale? They are. And, there will be more posted shortly. I'll also give some examples of some previous pieces (not for sale) so you will get the gist. How much are they, you ask? Well, it depends--but generally speaking, I'm pricing them at $100 per piece. Most are about 8" x 10", some are a bit bigger and some are smaller. In the spirit of capitalism--I mean, the holidays--I'll strike up a deal if you purchase multiples.

I'm learning that this self-promotion thing is not for the faint of heart...

Thanksgiving

Turkey is overrated. There, I said it. On the other hand, stuffing rocks. And, pumpkin pie too.  I will say that this holiday that always struck me as a bit boring as a child, is much improved with an "Arrested Development" marathon and my appreciation of spending time with Greg and his family.  Now that it is tradition (three years in a row!) to host Thanksgiving, I'm glad that we have a low-key affair which ends up in a crokono game enjoyed by old and young alike. But enough about Thanksgiving, the holiday.

More about thanks giving, the sentiment that I have now that I'm starting to get my creative groove back. Greg pushed me to hang up some of my old work around the house a few months ago and recently when we had folks over there was a very positive response to some of the pieces that were part of a series that I did years ago.  Enough positive feedback that a friend asked to buy some.

Here are a couple that Joab is getting on Sunday.

I'm now inspired to do more and have a few up my sleeve that I'll post once their ready to go.
In the meantime, here are a few others that are hanging up around the house:

More to follow...for now, I've got to sleep off some of that stuffing...

For the Love of Blog

I am writing this blog under duress. I have never written a blog nor have I ever wanted to write a blog. But my husband, who thinks he knows best, is encouraging me, or rather, forcing me to write this blog. Don't worry, he's not standing over me giving orders. That would make for a short relationship (and while we've only been married a month, we've been together for nearly 12 years). He just wants me to come out of my art-making/writing funk--the one I've been in for several years now. To be honest, I'd like that too. But, first you need to know how this funk got started in the first place. The poverty of being a recent MFA graduate, scraping by on several adjunct teaching positions and odd jobs helped a lot. While my full-time colleagues in the art departments where I taught had ample time for the studio, I burnt out far too quickly.  About four years in, I'd say. 

Now, a bunch of years later, I'm slowly shaking it off. I've got some new things to show and some old things that I'd like to share too. So, here it goes.