fun with wordle

"wordle" is a fun site that lets you make "word clouds" out of selected text. I just saw one done from Sarah Palin's resignation speech and it was quite enlightening. Or something.

So, this is the dreaded Artist Statement that I had to write up for the Lewiston show. I should have sent this





And this is the "methods and process" I send for the juries:



This is the sort of site that captures you for hours when you really should be up in your work room getting ready for the weekend. Ahem.

Go try it. :)

Rosa

Because we sometimes don't believe that one person can make a difference, remember Rosa Gibson today.

And she loved her community garden where she grew vegetables and even figured out a way to make use out of some old donated shoes, something that became very popular here.

"People were bringing shoes of their loved ones, of people who had passed and they wanted to fill those shoes with life once again,"

She did so many big things, but there was something about the shoes....

The appropriate thing to say now is "rest in peace", but I doubt Rosa was ready to rest. Maybe I'll just say "well done". And thank you.


........Rosa Gibson.........

drip, drip, drip....

Ok, seriously, it has to stop raining now. Really. The sun must come out. This is abnormal. My house is finding drips it never knew it had. There is one tiny one right behind my chair in the attic, so I put a little plastic bucket there, one that held my binder clips. It keeps the carpet dry, but it also makes me a bit twitchy with the rhythmic ping ping ping... After hours of working, the bucket held about a teaspoon of water. Impossible. I imagined a quart.

The basement is damp, the bedding feels clammy, my shoes squish, my finger tips, I swear, are crinkled as if I had been soaking in the tub.

There is no soothing sound of rain on the roof because it is drowned out (no pun intended) by the sound of rain pounding on the metal of the air conditioner.

All of my work is taking longer to dry because the glue/acrylic/paint/sealer is having trouble drying in the urban rain forest.

Normally, I am fond of showers. Normally, our Summers are warm and sunny, punctuated by the occasional, necessary, refreshing soaker. Maybe thunder and a flash of light here and there. Makes the air smell good, washes the streets clean, greens up the lawn. And then the sun comes back out for a week.

But now, after a run of rain storms that would have made Noah arch a brow, the air smells of mold, the streets are cluttered with damp bits of paper and bits of leaf and seed pods from trees that are heavy with the weight of relentless showers, the lawns are mud.

It makes me want to sleep. I can't sleep. I have a show in a week, a big one. I can't let the dripdripdrip, the sounds of tires on wet pavement, the heaviness of the air sap my energy.

Well, maybe I'll go to sleep early and wake up early and start early and maybe the sun will be out. Yeah, that's it.

The sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow.....

bail out

A rain bail out. That's what art carnies need when a show they count on gets rained on and the people stay home, warm and dry. Granted, it's part of the cost of doing business, but so is making bad loans and so-so cars. Those folks got a break. We just suck it up and hang rosaries on the trees for the next show.

(My Spanish Grandma did that. Hung rosaries on the trees to keep the rain away from an outdoor party. I also remember her hanging beads on a tree to keep the gypsies from taking me, but maybe I'm getting the stories mixed up.)

So, the Roycroft show started out to be a good one and then the rain came and good became mediocre. Then, just to make a long day interminable, a potter who had a corner spot near the entrance decided said entrance was his personal stroke of good luck and parked his truck and trailer IN the driveway so that everyone else had to enter further down and then weave through the other vans and trucks loading up. He did the same thing at load-in but since not everyone was coming on at the same exact time, it wasn't quite as bad. Still rude and annoying, but not quite the inconvenience it became on Sunday. A jeweler asked him nicely to move and he refused. People started schlepping their stuff around his rig, grumbling and tossing snide remarks in his general direction, but he continued to wrap and pack. Finally an official came and told him to pull in, but we had most of our stuff in the van by then. People perplex me sometimes.

Anyway, it was otherwise a good weekend in other ways. Good friends do this show, people I like to be around. That was a real mood lifter. And there was an impromptu wedding reception. An amazing artist married her perfect "prince" in Scotland just days before, so we toasted them with cupcakes at the after show picnic and looked at pictures of their "runaway" ceremony. That was very cool. They are so happily in love.

And now I get ready for Chautauqua. The show that, when you say it's your next one, fellow artists raise their eyebrows and say "Chautauqua? Wow." It's that good. And that hard to get. I am blessed to have been accepted 2 years in a row. I want to be ready this year, with lots of good stuff. It's become important, the season being below average so far what with unanticipated rejections and unwelcome rain storms.

But today I continue to dry out and rest up. My feet and my knees ache, I am sleepy and unfocused. We went to a movie, a real treat in the busy Summer, and the dark. cozy theater almost lulled me to nap.

Tomorrow, it's back to work. Tonight, I have a good book to finish and fudge sauce for my dish of ice cream.

taking one for the team

So, this weekend we are at the Roycroft Campus, a shrine of sorts to the master craftsman himself, Elbert Hubbard, set up amongst the Artisans with "banners" that indicate they have passed the rigorous test of craftsmanship set up by the Institution. 

It is a lovely show with good people in a pleasant setting and it is usually our best June show. Sales were brisk, attendance was very good. But the best thing was a story told by a Roycroft artisan I'll call Ethel.

Ethel has a banner. It is a testament to her artistry in a field that shall remain nameless, but suffice it to say it is a craft that is ancient and lovely and has few people who still practice it. She has a slate of good shows that she does every year and while her sales are usually modest by the standards of most art carnies, it is enough for her needs. She was content.

Then she got juried out of Allentown. Now, I was juried out this year as was a jeweler I know with truly unique work. It was an odd year. So, while I just picked up another show to minimize the financial hit of losing what is usually a good chunk o'change, Ethel marched herself down to the show to see what was going on. She did not like what she saw.

She saw tons of jewelers and potters, she saw some work that looked suspect. But what really got Ethel frothing was the number of empty spots. No-shows. People who got the golden ticket and tossed it in the garbage.  Allentown has no wait list. If the folks don't show, the spot goes empty. Ethel stared at the empty spots and mentally figured her bills and she saw red.

There is no avenue for protest at a show. If they piss you off enough you just find another show for that weekend and don't look back. But Allentown is a really good show for Ethel. She decided to make herself heard.

She marched into the offices of the Allentown Village Society and demanded answers. She wanted to know why there was no wait list. She informed them that if they gave her a spot she could be back with her stuff and set up in an hour. And wouldn't that be better than an empty spot? She told them she counted on this show to pay her taxes and now what was she to do? She said there is nobody else in the area that does what she does and she is right. I've never seen another.  But the show was heavy with jewelry, pottery, photography. She would have been the only one out of 400 with this particular talent. How could they not take her? She informed them that this is serious business for most of us, that it is not a hobby it is our job and we count on making a certain amount of money every year. She said they needed to jury with an eye to diversity and, while they were at it, their categories were hopelessly outdated and difficult for many to fit into. Including her.

Oh, she let 'em have it. They, of course, were just committee members, they had no influence on selection blahblahblah. But I am proud of her. She made herself heard. Will it make a difference? Probably not. There will be too many jewelers, an abundance of potters, mediocre paintings that were juried in simply because they ARE paintings. Those of us who labor under the label "artisan" or "craft" get the balcony seats, the last page of the program, the smallest slate of available openings. 

Ethel will have financial trouble this Summer. Her taxes may be late. That new gadget she's been thinking she'd get in June will not be purchased. But she took one for the team two weeks ago, she marched right up to her problem and faced it down. She did what none of us ever do in this business. We meekly accept the rejections and thankfully gather the acceptances and seldom do we say "Hey! Are you kidding?" 

Thanks, Ethel, You can hoist a canopy in my yard any time. You rock. :)

i must stop watching the weather channel

Over the years I've developed a pretty easy-going attitude towards art show weather forecasts. Because, after all, if it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain. Nothing you can do about it. Just make sure you have everything, including yourself, under the canopy, leave the rug home, bring an extra roll of paper towels. Conventional wisdom is that rain during a festival only keeps the stroller brigade and dog-walkers home. "Real" shoppers come out in the rain. I'm not sure that's really wisdom or just what we tell ourselves.

This weekend is the Roycroft Festival. This is a great weekend for us. Not only are sales usually really good, there is a wonderful atmosphere about the place. It takes place on the Roycroft Campus in East Aurora, a place devoted to the celebration of artisan work. About half of the exhibitors are "certified" Roycrofters which mean they have survived a pretty rigorous jury and interview process and have been determined to be masters of their particular craft. The rest of the exhibitors are people like me, who managed to squeeze into the remaining spots.

It rains almost every year.

Last year was my "grab Toto and run" experience there. A storm came up quickly, I buttoned down the canopy and was standing in the middle of it when a blast of wind hit the newly secured canopy wall, throwing our display shelves like matchsticks. When they hit me on my back and legs, they felt more like logs.

On a positive note, that experience prompted Russell to devise a system of securing them.

The long range forecast for this weekend was pretty good. A lovely Saturday and a few passing showers on Sunday. Perfect. Well, until they got closer to the weekend in question. Now we have rain on Sunday, beginning in the wee hours, reaching a crescendo of sorts, with thunderstorms, at 2 in the afternoon. Two o'clock. Prime time. A few hours before we have to tear down and load the car. Most likely in the rain.

I will not obsess. I will roll up the rug on Saturday and bring an umbrella Sunday morning. I will believe that real shoppers come out in the rain. I will trust in Russell's engineering skills.

I will stop watching the weather channel.

new reality show?

I have to admit that until a few weeks ago I had no idea who Jon and Kate were or what they had 8 of. Oh, I could guess. Their show was on a channel that seems to make the most ordinary life events into television spectaculars. Weddings, pregnancy, childbirth, all get a show. Normal people doing normal things in front of a camera. Odd.

So, of course, when the buzz about these people started, I did what I always do. I googled and TiVo'd. OK, 2 people who had 8 kids under 5 or so. Yeah. my life isn't stressful enough, I have to watch that? Yikes. But I did watch. Once. For about 10 minutes. I saw 8 kids who seemed to be pretty much out of control and parents who seemed to "train" them with cookies. And 2 people who seemed to not be really fond of each other. It was sad and I wondered what people found so compelling.

Now they are divorcing and they scurry to and fro with hordes of cameras clicking away at them and their children and there they are on the morning news and I hear the mother say the most amazing thing. "The show must go on" she says.

WHAT?

I love some reality TV. American Idol and Dancing with the Stars and So You Think You can Dance, shows with people that are meant to be in front of cameras. People with aspirations to perform for a living, getting a shot at it. That's fun to me. This family, however, is just a family. Or used to be.

I guess these 8 very young kids will get no relief from the cameras as long as the parents are convinced that their day to day existence is somehow noteworthy. And more important than those 8 kids, apparently.

So, I'm thinking the next reality show should be about us art roadies. Why not? Have the cameras rolling while we try to fit everything for a show into a minvan, while we prowl the streets looking for a booth number that was just washed off the curb by a passing morning shower. There could be fascinating footage of putting a canopy up, strapping the display down because a tornado is coming, finding a level spot for our chairs. Fascinating stuff.

I picture "talking head" moments with artists "confessing" that the artist amenities for this show were really awful. Boxed donuts! Zoom shot of donut box.

A fuzzy shot of an artist counting the day's receipts while a whispering voice over tells us that Jack had to make enough today to save the family farm and Jack (a) slouching over the cash box in grief or (b) raising a fistful of cash and cheering.

Hey, it would be better than watching someone trying to get 8 children to sit down and shut up.

Meanwhile, this Kate person will continue to get her extremely odd haircut manicured, I assume, weekly, and her husband will escape to someplace quiet. The show must go on. And the only audience that matters, just 8 of them, waits for someone to turn the cameras off so that they can be seen.

father's day

I was realizing the other day that, if my math is correct, I have now lived without my father for as many years as I lived with him. He died before his time from complications of Parkinsons Disease. At the time, his illness was interwoven with the birth of my first child and I was distracted by the conflicting emotions of these two life arcs.

He was, in my mind, the iconic Italian Dad. He worked hard as a cement mason, coming home at night with dusty boots and a pail heavy with tools. He had rigorous meal rules. Pasta on Wednesday and Sunday. The list of things he would not eat is long, but his disdain of turkey made our Thanksgiving meals forever Italian. More pasta. He told bad jokes, teased my Mother about her Spanish heritage, insisting that she had not worn shoes before he met her. And he was probably the most gentle man I have ever known.

It must have been hell for this traditional man to have a hippie daughter. When my picture turned up on the front page of the paper that day in 1969, he woke me by slapping my bedpost with the rolled up newspaper, angry that I lied to him, that I put myself in danger, that I didn't respect the President, but mostly that his buddies on the job site would recognize his daughter as the shouting, fringe-wearing, candle-bearing protester. I never saw him so incensed. I tried to explain but he would have no part of it. He was over it by dinner, but I was more careful after that.

He worried. Always. About money, about his job, about his kids. When I first started spreading my wings and going out at night, in my own car, I would pull in the driveway and see, reflected in the dark picture window, the glowing end of a cigarette and I knew he had been pacing and waiting for me to come home.

It saddens me that Dad missed seeing my brother's son. That would have probably been the highlight of his life. But he danced at our weddings and he died believing he had raised his kids well and that they were happy and settled.

I'm sure that if I thought long and hard I could come up with dark memories. Tempers lost, maybe. But if they are there, they don't count. And this is a lesson I carry as a parent. That the mistakes seldom count. That when the "score" is tallied, what matters is, simply, love.

I remember that when I was 12 years old, a local record store would sell the week's top single for 1/2 price and that he stopped every Friday night after a long day to buy it for me.

I remember taking the bus home from my first job and getting lost. I called him from a pay phone, described the things around me and he came and got me.

I remember him taking my arm to walk me down the aisle and, when he heard the guitars he muttered "Cowboy music? What a country" and that when he let me go there were tears in his eyes.

I remember how he would break tiny pieces from his favorite candy, Peppermint Patties, and give them to my son who would wait, wide eyed, standing with his pudgy hands on Grandpa's knees for the next bite. And I am grateful to my son for insisting he remembers this.

My brother and I joke about our dysfunctional family and its eccentricities. I guess that's how families are. But every so often he breaks into a perfect mimic of one of Dad's favorite lines. "Yeah, go ahead, laugh" he'll growl in a funny, gruff way that brings a memory home and we smile and I know he misses him, too.

Maybe that's the goal. To live your life in a way that, after you are gone, your kids will remember you with smiles and tears both, that your legacy should be that you loved without condition, that you did your best for those you loved.

With that as criteria, my Dad was an unqualified success story.

fixed it anyway

"if it ain't broke..." the common wisdom begins. In other words, once something is working for you, leave it be. Don't mess with success, they say. But sometimes you have success but it feels off somehow and you can't help but tinker.

The item I sell the most of is a photo frame with an offset window. It gives me an area about 4 inches square to work with. I cover them with handmade papers and embellish them. Sometimes I draw a simple twig and berry design with 3D paint, but mostly I do a teeny collage. Torn papers, skeleton leaves, charms, found objects and, most often, a printed quote. Folks really like them. I can sell 40-50 at a good show if I have them. But something was bugging me.

See, what happens after a while is you get "in the zone". The work becomes repetitive, it's hard to do anything fresh, you become a little human factory robot. And when that happens, the job loses what drew you to it in the beginning. Creativity, the fun of discovery. perfecting a widget you envisioned. To be successful in this business you need to be prolific without being stale.

I was reviewing some old photos and came across some frames I had done 2 years ago with a slightly different look. Instead of applying the design right to the frame, I had made a raised area on which to center it. I like it a lot better. It has a more artistic feel to it. I can't remember why I didn't follow through. Anyway, I made one up to see if I still preferred it and I do.



The timing is good, because my next 2 shows are very heavy into the art of craft and that will give me even more of a push to do better.

So, basically, I took the one item that sells the best for me and made it different. I'm either insane or brilliant. I'll let you know it 2 weeks.

ok, how cute are these?

I was having a lemon of a Saturday at 100 American and got to talking to my friend and show neighbor, Cheryl Olney. Cheryl is one of my favorite people on a personal level and an inspirational artist. The conversation twisted and meandered and landed, somehow, on a project I've been pondering for years. And, shazam! Lemonade.

Book artists as a rule love miniature books. And we tend to make pins and necklaces and earrings out of them. This is amusing to us. Hard to explain. Anyway..I could easily figure out the basics of how to do this but I was bothered by one thing. They stay open. An open teeny book hanging from your ear lobe has an insect-like quality.Didn't like it. But I would ponder ways to make a closed book and my eyes would glaze over. People ask for them, so the idea was always hovering. Somehow, in my conversations with Cheryl, the solution came to me.

I went home that night and whipped up 4 or 5 sets. Sold 2 the next day. They truly are charming, I think



I'm still working out a few details, but I made up some cards to display them and hung them with the pins and it made for an eye-catching display. Made people smile.



Had the show been good on Saturday, I would have spent an hour or so putting finishing touches on stock for Sunday. Instead, I took my bruised ego upstairs and got creative. Lemonade.

Oh, and Sunday was a great day for sales after all.

In this business, you have to ride the wave, so to speak. If your nose is scraping the sandy bottom, get up and figure it out. I'm hanging on to this thought since today I lost a good Christmas show I was counting on.

Maybe teeny book zipper pulls?

2 weekends a world apart

So, last weekend was 100 American Craftsmen and this weekend was Fairport Canal Days. 

Last weekend was craft as art, catered lunches from a local restaurant, live jazz. This weekend was craft art mixed with imports and gourmet dog treats, 7 dollar lemonade in a reusable tin cup, elevator music from the steps of the village hall.

Last weekend, 5000 people visited the Kenan Center. This weekend, I heard 50,000 came to Fairport.

Last weekend I caught up with some art show friends I hadn't seen all Winter. This weekend I caught up with some art show friends I hadn't seen all Winter.

Last weekend I made twice as much sales as this weekend.

There are no guaranteed pay days in this business. You go out there and give it a shot, never being able to count on anything. Even the very best show can be rained out. Over the years you learn which shows work for you, which are just OK, which to avoid like a stick in the eye. All the while staying positive, working hard, keeping the creative spark going because, after all, that's what you are selling.

This business ain't for sissies, I tell you.

 

i've been enhanced

Well, I bit the bullet and stopped into the DMV. Quincy is being neutered this morning, so I figured he shouldn't be the only family member to suffer today.

In my mind, I would get there when it opened, be first in line and outta there in a half hour. Oh, Lordy, I do crack myself up sometimes. 

I got there 10 minutes after it opened, not bad, and immediately saw a woman who gave me a clipboard with forms to fill out, a number, and then slammed me against the wall and took my picture. There is a reason Driver's license pictures look like they were taken by Dick Cheney. 

My reason for submitting to this torture is that I live on a border and if I want to shop at the nearest Ikea, Homeland Security has determined I must have either a passport or what they call an "enhanced driver's license", which does not mean my picture looks botoxed. It means I have been declared non-terrorist and I am free to travel willy nilly across the bridge to shop or get Chinese or just ride my bike along the Niagara Parkway. (I have been planning to do that for about 5 years.) I have known about this for several years. The law goes into effect in 2 weeks. No hurry. 

There is a new DMV, spiffy and clean with CNN playing silently at 4 foot intervals, a digital board showing number served, a sound system over which the announcements are actually crisp and spoken by a woman who must have taken elocution lessons. Swiss watch, I'm thinking, until I figured out the system. We have been coded according to the reason for our visit and those of us seeking enhancement are screwed. Only a Supervisor can do these super nifty new "EDL"'s and there is usually only one available at a time. And they have to stop what they are doing whenever someone has a beef. Beefs are very common at the DMV. I settled into my navy blue bench and read what CNN was saying about Sonia Sotomayor. The fact that I can spell that tells you more about how long I waited than anything I can think of.

And, of course, there is the one guy who came to the DMV with a bulging manilla envelope filled with every document he accumulated in his , I'm guessing, 89 years, none of which are required for the EDL. He would step up to the Supervisor every time someone stepped away, waving a yellowed scrap of a document, the Supervisor would shake his head "no" and the man would go back to the bench to rifle through the papers again.  I wanted to yell "He's too old to drive!" but I didn't.  I wanted to yell "By the time I get out of here I will be too old to drive!" But I didn't.

They called my number, I smugly slapped down every required document, in order, face up and waited for my Supervisor to smile with approval..  Nope. That's OK, I was almost outta there. I was sent to another navy blue bench to wait for the opportunity to pay and get the interim license that would prevent the mounties taking me to "the hut" for interrogation when we drive over for a picnic next month.  Unless they look at that picture they took this morning. Then they may detain me just on principle.

I was done in about an hour. Sweet Quincy will not be free until 5. One of us will be wearing a lampshade around our neck. The other will have taken a picture that would be improved by said lampshade. But both will be free of the places that torture you for your own good. 

skipping the party

I'm cooking up some sweet and spicy black beans with rice and putting together my killer guacamole. But I'm not going to the party, I'm sending it off with Russell. 

This is show week and while I'm doing pretty well with stocking up, we are down to hours of productive time and I've saved the toughest for last. Never a good idea but I do all the time.

It's the mirrors. They are not as difficult to do anymore, I've got the technique down pretty well. But I think I put it off because it is the one thing I do that literally has a blank wall for me to look at and transform.

I'll work on it tomorrow, early, when my brain is rested. I'll work on it Sunday when I have a long lazy day to play. I'll work on it Monday when Russell is off to the picnic and I can have the place to myself, quiet, no distractions.

The thing is, once I have the design decided and the paper applied, I love doing the finish. I keep touching the surface to see if it's dry enough to start. It's not like the designs are terribly intricate. I've settled on a few that the people seem to like, staying true to my love for organic and symbolic motif, keeping it real, keeping it simple.

Maybe I hesitate because finishing the mirror means I have to finish the mirror. The brown paper dust cover, the hooks. Hate it. Luckily, Russell does a lot of that for me. He has to, because listening to me cuss out the paper that keeps rolling up and the exacto blade that is never quite sharp enough sends him in to calm the waters.

And I get to go do something fun. :)

So, I will clear the work bench and get started. I have the designs done on some of them, that will help. The house will be quiet, I will not be tempted to take just "a small break" to see a movie. (But if you haven't seen "Sunshine Cleaners" check it out).

If I get too antsy, I'll take Quincy for a short stroll about the neighborhood. We can sniff at other people's barbecues and talk to friends who may be finally outside, finally warm, finally in the sun. The flower pots along the sidewalks will be filled with tender new blossoms, the soil black and rich. The sun will be warm but still not close enough to be hot. The leaves on the trees are out in full now, deeper green than just a week ago, they fill the sky with color and hide the sad, broken branches from that October. I'll come back clear-headed, or as close to clear-headed as I get, fresh, ready for more.

I'll be skipping the party, but I've sent food and Russell. He will have stories when he gets home and maybe a leftover goodie or two.

And I will show him the mirrors I made.

what you can't plan for redux

So, the back starts feeling good and I'm back to scooting up to the studio like a gazelle. An old gazelle. An old gazelle with bad knees. An old gazelle with bad knees and enough extra weight to slow an Amtrak express. But scoot I do. Stuff is getting made.

That lasted 2 days.

Open letter to the swamp dweller who smashed our car window: Dear SD, when we saw that our van window had been smashed, we assumed you were after the GPS gizmo and congratulated ourselves on bringing it in at night instead of stowing it under the seat like the cell phone you ripped off a few years ago. But, no, apparently your "prize" was not electronic at all. It was our inspection sticker. We just noticed that it was gone. I have a show next week and I need to drive around a lot. Do you know what it takes to get a replacement? Oh, silly me, of course not. You just smash into people's cars and take what you need. Well, let me tell you that we had to go to the DMV and wait a half hour to be told they couldn't do anything, it had to be mailed. But first we needed a police report. And we had to get paperwork from our mechanic. Did I mention I have a show in a week? So, we are gathering up all these things and then we will have to wait until it gets mailed back. Oh, yeah, that should be speedy. Or we could have the car inspected again. That would have to happen sometime between trips to the paper supplier and the display rental place and the craft store and the art store - risking being stopped by the police at any given moment for not having an inspection sticker because you stole it. Did I mention I have a show in 7 days? Why is that important? Because it is my job. Oh, there I go again, referencing something you have no experience with. There must be a x-rated blog site somewhere in which I could explain to you in simple terms just what you should do with our inspection sticker. But I have a show in a week, so I don't have time.

So, we are driving about with all the paperwork on the dashboard and praying for mercy.

Then, yesterday, I scoot gazelle-like down the stairs to do laundry and stepped in ankle deep water. Surely this was not good. And what was that sound of rushing water? Oh, the hot water tank acting like Vesuvius. Lovely.

I have a show in a week and it better be profitable.

Open letter to the angel across the street: When we were house shopping, we came really close to some other places that were in better shape and had more to offer, but something put us here. A few months later, you moved next door. There are no coincidences in nature. Letting me shower at your house in the morning was just the beginning of all your kindnesses yesterday. You were on the phone to someone who knew about this stuff before my hair was dry. And it continued all day. This was not a one day random act of kindness. You and Marie have been there for us every day. Sometimes with food or a beer, most often with broad shoulders and a listening heart. But not once have I said to you guys "I need a favor" and worried that it wouldn't be granted. Love you guys.

Well, back to the attic. Got a water tank to pay for. And probably a new inspection.

Nothing else could possibly go wrong. Right?

what you can't plan for

"Stuff happens". That's the clean version.

I had a lot of plans for getting my inventory ready by the end of the month, enough for my first 3 shows. Ha. If you want to make God laugh...

But May got away from me. My son came home which was the happiest reason I can imagine for staying out of the attic. Then I had to work extra hours at the theater during the run of "Chorus Line" because they just didn't have enough people. And then the pain hit.

I have a back that "goes out" more than I do. It all started back in the Paleolithic era when I was in college. I was scooting to my part time job, he ran a stop sign. Except for a ridge on my scalp where the stitches were, the only lasting souvenir of that encounter is a weak back that flattens me on a whim.

Oh, I tried many things at first. Doctors, Chiropractors, ultra sound treatments, therapy, injections right into the bad spot, heat, cold, yaddayadda. Nothing. The accident caused a flaw. Period. I deal with it, such a small thing in the bigger scheme of possibilities. All that really helps is time and rest, neither of which I had last week.

So, I schlepp up to the attic one step at a time, sit at my workbench in half hour shifts. Try not to whine.

But today I'm better. I may actually climb the steps to the third floor without screaming and/or swearing. That would be a good thing.

Because my first show of the season is 2 weeks from today. How did that happen?

wise friends

Positive article in Buffalo Spree about art/craft as a business, featuring the Kenan show and 2 of my friends in the business: Cynthia Hand and Bryan Hopkins

Artists in "lean times"

Bryan's attitude about retail mirror mine. :)

artist statement-again

Sigh. Another app, another wrinkle. This time, the dreaded "artist statement". At least this one isn't asking about inspiration and my philosophy of artistic expression. It's pretty straight forward:

Artists must submit a brief statement describing the technique,
material used and any other creative expression of the artist’s work.
Accepted artists are required to display their Artist’s Statement in
their exhibit area.

Now, here's the thing. I can wax poetic about my work as well as anyone, but this will have to be posted where people can actually see it and chuckle at me. It's a dilemma. Especially when those people are some of my snarky art show pals.

Were I to write a true artist statement per their instructions, it would read thusly:

My technique is to do the least amount of work possible to achieve an appearance of hours spent hunched over a workbench. My materials are whatever I can snap up at close outs and the clearance aisle at Joanns. If it's cheap, I can find a way to make it work. My creative expression is "please buy this, I have a mortgage"

OK, got that out of my system. The truth of the matter is I learned to love paper when I was learning to make it. It lets me do whatever I want with it. It is forgiving and elegant. And since it is an organic material, I am inspired to use other things from nature in my designs. Twigs and shells and leaves and such. I can make paper look like metal or marble. I can leave it alone and let its fibers be the art. I can wet it down and mold it to a design. It is even beautiful just piled up in a rainbow on my supply shelves.

But I can't write that, can I? Too schmoopy.

Better get to it.

wordless

That's me this week. Sometimes there are no words. There is my son. Sprawled on the couch, watching TV, with the puppy stretched out along his side. The puppy is on his back, his paws dancing in dreams of play. Just an ordinary night. But it's not. Because my son lives 3000 miles away and this is just one week. One week for us to breathe the same air and do ordinary things together. Where are the words for a Mother to explain how that coming together again feels? I have none. I just brush my fingers over his forehead when I pass by. Memorize the sight of him there with the puppy and his laptop and his iPhone, a comforter over his legs. Still a kid, despite it all. No words.

Saturday we went to the theater to see Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin in concert. I don't have words for that, either. I can't explain how a note sung clean and pure and deep and full can pierce your heart and bring tears to your eyes. How a woman in a pin spot with her arms raised to the sky, her fingers splayed, head thrown back, can make you hold your breath. No words.

Tomorrow, we are going to see Chorus Line. One of my favorites. I know that when they all come out at the end, singing "One", their golden costumes bouncing light, the mirrors reflecting them to infinity, the dancers lifting their top hats in the iconic counterpoint to the joy of the finale, I am going to get all floopy and misty and I won't have words for why that is, either. I mean, I know it's about dreams realized and victory against the odds and overcoming whatever it is that stands in your way and it all culminates in the cheesiest, most uplifting dance number ever staged. But I'll blog now that I won't have words for it.

The next morning, my son goes back to Friday Harbor. No words for that either.

i called your boss today

When you first wandered lane to lane before settling on one, I thought, well, new to the neighborhood. And when you went straight in that lane even though it was left turn only, squeezing me into the traffic on my right, I remembered all those times I realized I was in the wrong lane and had to squeeze over. Sure, when you finally did turn left, there was no signal involved, but, again, no stone throwing here.

Finally, we were on Delaware. Many lanes, lots of room and, hooray!, you settled yourself into the right lane, allowing me to finally drive past you on the left, leaving your annoying driving behind me. Or could I? Just I I drew even with you, your truck came into my lane, forcing me to move into oncoming traffic. Thankfully, the folks in that lane were alert and made room for me. I beeped at you so you would move out of my lane and I looked up at you to get your attention. You looked at me with disdain and spat some insults...into your cell phone.

Ya know, let me clue you in on a secret. If you are going to drive like a whack-a-mole, talking on your phone, forcing people off the road, ignoring all the rules, being a general menace, do not drive a truck with "call 825-mycompany" on it. Just sayin'. Because the right person who is just angry enough is gonna call 825-mycompany and tell the folks there that they employ a traffic menace and give them all the gory details.

Oh, it may not stop you from doing it again, but maybe it will and I gotta tell ya, Felt good.

Oh, and your boss was pissed.

Good news

Got accepted to Chautauqua again. That really makes me happy. Last year there was amazing. It was Writer's Week and my journals and book pins flew out the door. This year it is National Geographic week, not quite as sexy.

Funny thing,. though. Last year I wrote about how they send out this half sheet of paper with "accepted", " wait-listed" and "declined" on it and they highlight one of them. Pretty primitive, but I gushed that they could send it out on recycled catalog pages as long as the answer was "accepted".

Well, this year, I pull the envelope out of the mail slot and it is thick-ish. Drat! Last year I was expecting bad news because the envelope was thin, so I'm thinking that this time they sent back my checks. No. This year they have nice letters and a brochure and a list of hotels.

And a pretty blue slash over "accepted".

Excuse me, I need to complete my happy dance.

earth day reverie

The 1st Earth Day was in 1970. I was in college (yes, I am veryvery old) and Ralph Nader was coming to speak. Back then, Ralph was all about Chevys and what was in your hot dogs and how we were polluting the air/water/earth. He had yet to run for anything as far as I remember. I had done my part, I thought, by infiltrating the St Patrick's Day parade that year with a "radical environmental group" , carrying a hapless trout in a big glass jar, "threatening" to dump said trout in the Buffalo River where it would surely die an immediate death due to pollution. After being politely led out of line somewhere on Main St, we proceeded to the river where we expected someone, anyone, from the media would be there to hear our pleas and give publicity to the river's plight. Alas, they were all otherwise occupied with the parade, finding the dancers and bands and drunks and shamrocks way more newsworthy. We were a sorry bunch that gloomy March morning and I can't for the life of me remember what we did with the fish.

Then, in April, there was Earth Day. The first one. This was exciting. The world was waking up, change was coming! ( I was veryvery young.) And Ralph was coming. He was young, too. He had a shock of dark hair and was perpetually disheveled and scholarly looking. A very romantic figure. I was scheduled to teach that day, earning student teaching credits but Ralph was coming. I called in sick.

I don't remember which building on the UB campus was designated for his speech, but it was overflowing so they put speakers outside so the faithful could hear him. And that was my karma. TV crews filmed the "hippies" on the lawn with their signs and balloons and baseball caps with leaves sewn on them. So it was that my beaming, innocent face became part of the local news that night. I didn't see it, but the principal did. A friend called to warn me. From then on I was known as the resident radical and barely escaped with my 20 credits. My friend teased me about that for years, bringing the story out for laughs and memories.

Almost 40 years? Impossible, I think. And what happened? I look around and see some positive change, but I know there is a hole in the atmosphere and the ice caps are melting under the polar bears. It makes me very sad. But the old girl keeps spinning, laboring under our weight and our carelessness. Mother Earth, wishing her kids would take responsibility. Giving life, beauty, even as she struggles



We old girls just keep on.

So, for both of us, do a few good things every day. Turn off the water while you brush your teeth, unplug your chargers, recycle, stop with the bottled water already. Just those few things, what a difference it would make.

Do it for your Mother.

new baby!

Russell comes home yesterday after a mysterious trip to Olean for "wood". Yes, I thought it was a long way to go, but we have a really really old house and a lot of the stuff we need to restore it cannot be found at Lowes, so the concept wasn't all that odd.

He brings in a big box and tells me he bought me a present. A present? In a big box? For what? He is smirking.

Totally clueless, I open it and there is the beautiful baby, skin like velvet, honey colored, nestled in styrofoam to protect her beautiful lines:



Pretty, isn't she?

This is a finishing press, used by bookbinders for..well, finishing...but when Russell saw it at the Book Fair we did last month, he saw it as a tool I could use for binding my exposed spine books. (Now I clamp them to a board with some Sears construction clamps to drill the holes, then I move them to the edge of my work table for sewing.) This press lets me do both without moving the components to different work surfaces, keeps things aligned and provides another pressing. It's a beautiful thing.

I would never have seen it that way, but he did. I would have been tied to the traditional uses of the equipment and passed it by. Now I'm thinking I can use it as an extra press for boards, too. Very cool.

The press was made by TeMPeR Productions. It is worth having just for the workmanship and the silky touch of the wood. All of his things are a joy to look at as well as being wonderful tools for the book arts.

You know, some men bring home flowers, candy, trinkets. My guy sees me and brings home a gift that speaks to my work, validates my progress, encourages me to grow, makes my days a little easier.

I guess I'll keep him.

5005!

That's how many times this blog has been viewed in the past year. Who are these people?

Granted, I can see that some hits came when people googled stuff like "what is the view from the attic in the movie "Clueless" or "room with an attic view". Sometimes they were looking for one of the sites I link to.

But, seriously, a surprising percentage of those stats came from direct hits to this blog. Let's see, subtract me and Russell and my brother and my kid and Max and a few friends in Oregon and some loyal friends, you still get manymany strangers visiting the attic. Pretty cool.

I was going to blog for one year, just to show a "year in the life" of an art carnie. But that exercise has developed a life of its own. I think I'm addicted. There are also a few friends who email me when I haven't posted for a few days. "Are you all right?" Heh.

So, whoever you are, thanks for stopping by. Say hello once in a while.

return to sender

Last night there was an email for me with the heading "travelocity confirmation" or some such thing and it was my son's itinerary for his visit in 2 weeks. I was beyond thrilled to see it. I had been waiting impatiently for him to tell me when he was coming. I replied with one of my usual sophisticated communications. I think it was about 15 "yay!"s signed "mama". And then I went to bed and slept like a baby..or like a Mom whose kid was coming home.

This morning, bleary-eyed, coffee mug in hand, I signed on to my email and there was a letter titled "travelocity incident" with an official looking number beside it and my heart dropped. What had happened. He wasn't coming? Aw, c'mon!

What I read sent coffee into my nose:

Email Correspondence
Response (Sharon T) 04/17/2009 12:50 AM
Dear Valued Member,
We received your e-mail, however, it appears to be meant for another party. Please re-direct your e-mail to the intended recipient.
Regards,
Sharon T
Travelocity Customer Service

Apparently, Billy hadn't sent the itinerary. Travelocity had. Oops.

Well, maybe I gave a chuckle to someone plugging away in a gray cubicle somewhere. I forwarded it to my son so he could snort coffee, too. At least I hope I forwarded it to my son. I may want to recheck that.

This brought to mind an email incident that changed the course of my book arts business.

Some years ago I did what all artisans are encouraged to do. I started a web business to sell my work. I was pretty naive about e-commerce, but I had visions of cash heavy envelopes stuffing my mail slot while I went about my business in pajama pants and a t-shirt, taking many breaks for coffee and TV. *snort*

What I sold the most were wedding guest books. They were quite the deal (pricing has never been my strong suit). The pages were personalized, there was a flyleaf with their names and the date and a quote they chose. But the biggie was that I actually made paper specifically for the book cover, often using flower petals that matched their theme. I think I charged about 50 bucks for them. I was crazy.

Well, I thought I was nuts until I started working with brides and saw what nuts really looked like. But that's another post. Let me tell you about my last bride.

Well, actually brides, plural. It was my first same-sex wedding book. The women were charming and friendly. We actually had a personal exchange going in the midst of the business. They told me about their love story, the wedding, their sadness about the reluctance of their families to accept them. Emails went back and forth as we decided on colors and how the book would be personalized.

They ordered the book in the Spring for a Fall wedding and we decided I would make paper for the book with petals from Autumn flowers in shades of gold and rust and soft yellow. I told them then that I would make the paper when those flowers bloomed and that they would have the book in plenty of time. And that, I thought, was that.

The first warning came in May. When would I send the book? OK, obviously the part about needing the flowers was missed. I responded, reminding them that (as I stated romantically in my "about us" on the site) the botanicals I used were from my own garden and, therefore, seasonal.

OK, they wrote, but when would they have the book?

Now, let me pause for a moment and re-visit the wacky brides theme. I can understand how a person would want to get details just right and I know a lot of advance planning is needed for most of a wedding. But the guest book? You need that on the day of the wedding. It doesn't need to be fitted or reserved or tasted. The worst part of doing the books was the nagging via email. Where is it? Where is it? OK, I am making something just for you, using all your very specific details. The color is sort of plum but more rose with a touch of violet. Flowers on the binding but not too big or too small and in ivory not white. No ribbon please, but some satin cord...blahblahblah. Yep, get that right out for ya. Remember, I was also making the paper. Aaargh!

So, I wrote to them again. I was making the paper from Fall flowers. It was too early for Fall flowers, in fact, the only flowers blooming at that moment were daffodils. I could make pretty paper from those, but realistically, just chill, plan your wedding, I'll send the book in September. Plenty of time.

But can we get the book early?

Sigh.

I responded with a suggestion that since there was obviously some stress happening over the book order, it might be an idea to make different paper. Paper that could be made from botanicals available now. I could make a pretty moss paper and use Fall embellishements.

No, we want Fall flowers. We'll wait. Perfect.

June 1st..Is the book ready?

I was juggling several Summer brides about then. Measuring silk calla lilies to exactly match a bouquet, shopping for flowers that looked Hawaiian for a destination wedding, picking red flowers to make paper for a rock singer's bride who was wearing a bright red ball gown. I was getting real tired of weddings. I responded to the women that perhaps they should consider looking elsewhere for their book since it was obvious to me that I would not be able to give them what they wanted (Fall flower paper) in the time frame they needed (now).

Folks, when you intend to forward a letter, you do not hit "reply". Bride #1 wrote to Bride #2 that she thought they were being scammed, That they should have known better than to just pluck someone from the internet. They would never see their money again. Stuff like that. Stuff I was never meant to see. But I did. It was a message from the Universe. Get out of this business.

I hit "reply" and wrote that although I didn't think they meant for me to see that correspondence I was glad I did because they helped me make an important decision. I was obviously not suited to work weddings. My personality was too laid back, I could not respond to the urgency the participants felt. I needed to work in my own time frame.

What I was saying in really nice terms was "Ya know, I don't need this crap". And I didn't. I thanked them for helping me get out of a business I was just not enjoying. I told them I had already credited their charge card. I wished them well. I provided links to other guest book makers. I said there were no hard feelings.

Oh, there were follow up e-mails. Apologies. Explanations. But I was feeling free. Custom work was too much like a job, I realized. Making books in colors others wanted, decorating them in ways I would never choose and then putting my name on it. No. I posted on my site that personalized books were no longer available, uploaded some pictures of books I designed that folks could buy if they wished, finished up the last of the orders and boxed up a rainbow of silk flowers I hoped to never use again.

And then I did a happy dance.

The women wrote to me a few times. Chatty letters. They obviously felt they had hurt my feelings, but they really hadn't. They had turned a light on for me. The last letter I got said they had postponed the wedding. It was now planned for Spring. They were hoping by then to have helped their parents accept them enough to attend the ceremony. I wonder how it all turned out.

As for me, I have never looked back. I only do custom work now for friends or if I get an offer I just cannot refuse.

Now, when something comes up, like a week of son-shine, I can close the studio door and not worry. Works for me.

Christine

We were not close friends. We worked at the theater together, shared some laughs, some stories. I enjoyed her, liked her very much, came to admire and respect her as she fought the illness that claimed her this week.

She wore black, loved rock and roll and her kids. She was irreverent, funny, smart and did not suffer fools.

The last time we worked together it was just the 2 of us. Improv. There was a seating snafu and she looked at me and said "Don't look at me", she shrugged and held her hands up and laughed and waved me in to deal with it. If you knew her, you got the joke.

She left early that night. She had just started chemo again after a year of believing she was free and she was tired. "I thought I'd get more time" she said, regarding the remission. "Maybe 3 years".

I told her to go home, rest, don't worry about me it's under control. "Rest", I said "So this time you get 10 years" and she looked at me with eyes that told her truth, hugged me and said goodnight. Thanked me for "always being so nice" to her.

I hoped for the best, but that look in her eyes stayed with me.

She was truly a warrior. Brave and determined. Losing the battle does not mean you were not a valiant opponent.

I'll miss you, kiddo.

travel plans

No, it is not too early to be planning our annual September road trip.

Yes, it is true I have made little progress getting ready for the upcoming shows.

No, we cannot go on vacation if I have a lousy season.

Yes, my success plan for this year was to have twice as much stock on hand.

No, I do not.

Yes, I'm going up to the attic and I will make many things every day from now on.

No, I won't but that sounded good.

Yes, I will share where we are staying: Donovan Place

No, I am not worried about being ready for the season.

Yes, I'm going to the attic right now,

light bulb moment

I'm at the computer getting things together for my Elmwood app and I see the A'town app on the computer's desktop so I opened it to see if I could use the same descriptions for Elmwood.

And I'm staring at stuff that makes no sense to me. The descriptions of the books are of work I did years ago. Huh? Was I having a mini stroke here? Then I remembered.

A'town still uses slides. I had forgotten about that. So, back in January , I quickly had some made up and went about the business of finishing the application. But when I looked at the slides, they were defective. I'm sure it was my fault, but the images were cut off at the corner, one of them wasn't cropped so the edges of the material was showing. Weird. Since I had, of course, waited until the last day, there wasn't time to redo anything, so I went into my stash of old slides and pulled some out. I used a couple of slides from years ago. I thought they'd be "good enough".

There are land mines in this business. One of them is cockiness. A show always lets you in, so you get sloppy when you apply. A few years ago I would have found a way to get the right slides made. This year I just sent what I had. It would be good enough. Except not.

A good lesson. Well, several actually. Don't get cocky and don't wait until the last day. Now this is something I know but it needs to be stamped into my spongy brain with a branding iron or something.

The branding iron today was a letter from Allentown with my slides inside. Sorry.

That's OK. You taught me a lesson, never a bad thing.

Plus, Roycroft said yes and Fairport thinks they have room for me. So I will have 3 shows after all and the one I lost was the least profitable of the 3.

Oddly enough, it's all good. Go figure.

a network

That's what we art gypsies have. Artists on the surface, carnies at heart, setting up our traveling shows, enticing you in with our cleverness. And all of us connected, somehow, by our addled creative brains and by a shared psyche that makes us feel at home under a 10X10 canopy. A network.

We share our frustrations and successes freely. Last year, a woman I mightily admire, who also exhibits as a paper artist, won best of show and, when her name was called, I sort of yipped and applauded wildly. A customer turned around and asked did I win? I said, no, someone I really admire did and she thought that was so special. Not in our world.

(yes, there are curmudgeons and unpleasant people, too. I choose to ignore them)

So, when I was feeling frustrated by the application process yet again, my friend Conard sent me words of wisdom and turned me back on the path. Then another friend, the memorable and talented Don Olney, husband of the equally talented and memorable Cheryl, sent words of commiseration and nuggets of an idea for alternative paths we can take.

I will connect with Don about Buffalo's Urban ARTisans, maybe send him scurrying off to book hotel lobbies all over Rochester. And maybe at Kenan we can schmooze about it over snacks in the parking lot. Network.

We are happy to be members of the new Burchfield Penney Art Gallery and, while visiting the gift shop, I was pointing at things and saying "Look! Annie's jewelry! Molly's journal's! Anne's photographs...and on and on" The shop manager said she was so impressed by the camaraderie and lack of competitiveness between the local artisans. Me too.

So, today, when I was comparing dates with someone else anxious about the Allentown notices, I found myself really hoping she would get in. It is her best show. Sure, I still want to open my letter and have that ribbon fall out (A'town has us wear these ribbons that look like you just were voted prized heifer at the fair), but I really want her to get in, too.

Because the network is made up of all of us, connecting, bitching, praising, gossiping, sharing, whining, celebrating. We need it, because nobody outside of this life could ever understand it.

We need each other.

bracing

Well, it isn't looking good for Allentown this year.Seems like most folks have their "yes" letters, but not I. This is not good because, if I remember correctly, A'town sends out the yes letters first, the no letters next. Not a good sign. And really unexpected. Since I'm pretty sure Roycroft will also be disappointing, I'm adjusting my plans.

So, with a deep breath and Conard's "don't angst" advice still fresh, I am off to the studio to get book pins ready for my merchandising blitz to libraries. If I get enough of them to bite, it will replace the lost A'town income. It would also be a cheaper way to sell my widgets.

Then maybe I'll contact those shops that have been wanting my things. Why not? I guess it doesn't matter how you sell your work, it just matters that you sell it.

Eye on the prize. Leave your angst at the door.

I'm trying. I am.

oh, my friends...part 1

My last post was the predictable application season whiner. Two of my friends from the art show world left comments, both of which were enlightening to me.

First was Terry, who writes a blog of his own about this crazy life: Changing Lanes

Terry's wife is a mega-talented bead artist and they travel about to shows together. I think Terry has called himself her "roadie" or something in the past, but I think he most likely is her rock. We commiserate at times about the irritations of this business. His comment reflected that and it made me chuckle.

Then there was my friend, Conard. With his wife, Sandy, Conard handcrafts beautiful leather items and has grown a solid business. I have known him for a long time now and he has been a trusted source of wisdom about this life. But there is more to him than wisdom born of 30 years as an artisan. I can't do him justice in a blog, but suffice it to say he is connected to this world and this life in a way that, to me, is a combination of hard-nosed reality and rich spirituality. We have had many wonderful conversations over the years that had nothing to do with art show life. He always makes me think, he turns a light on for me. His comment was to focus on the positive, visualize where I wanted to go, take my power back. As usual, a few words from him and I feel a shift. He's right, of course.

He made me think. Why the angst, I asked myself? Why the irritation with a process I have come to know very well over the past 10 years? And, since Conard had turned the light on for me, I looked around and there was my answer, smirking in the corner of my addled brain.. I'm a control freak. Oh, yes, yes I am. And this process is control freak's nightmare.

No control over your season, over your money, over your business. Ack! The brain rebels. Well, my kind of brain does.

But my friend is right, angst is counter-productive. Focus on what you want. And you will have control. Well, well.

There is more to say about art show friends. A comment by a gallery shop manager had me thinking about this as a topic the past few days. I will write about that, but these 2 buddies jumped the line. They both have hugs coming. :)

Terry and Betty

Conard and Sandy

a stamp and a prayer

That phrase keeps running through my head as I assemble my applications for the year. You jump through all their hoops...slides or CD's or photos. Pay now or pay later. Write an essay /write a description /write about your process /write about your artistic vision. SASE. Photo of you at work. Must be postmarked by. Must be received by. If you're late, you're toast. Or we'll charge you extra. Or we won't even open the thing.

So you send it all off, on time, and then you wait. You wait for them to get back to you while the clock ticks away and the opportunity to add another show evaporates as the deadlines whoosh by. So, if they say "no", you are staring at a gaping hole in your calendar. A hole that means, in effect, you're out of work.

I know I whine about this on a regular basis. My whining gets even more annoying when they want payment in advance. But this is the part of the business I hate. Hatehatehate. I've got a bunch of apps out there now and, so far, I only know the answer to one. And the season starts in 8 weeks. Ack!

Now, I accept that part of my problem is that I am not motivated enough to market my work though other venues like shops and on my web site. The few shops that have my stuff literally had to coerce me. Of course, when I visit a shop and see work by friends all lit up and saying "buy me", I realize I'm nuts. I need to work on marketing. I do. I will. Soon.

But, for now, I dash to the mail slot hoping to get a glimpse of what the future holds. Usually it holds a sale flyer from Aldi.

Oh, and note to the show organizers out there: My artistic "vision" is that I get to eat on a regular basis and, if I'm really lucky, pay the mortgage.

But, hey, take your time. No rush. I'll be over in the corner conversing with the Lord.

Buffalo small press book fair

Well, that was fun. This event would have drawn me, even if I wasn't part of it. Books, zines, prints. Heaven. No, I didn't make a ton of money, but I was surrounded by things I love and people who love the things I love. And it was walking distance from home. The organizer, Chris Fritton, does a great job. An artist himself, his love for the medium evident, his quirky, bemused exterior a foil for the disciplined organizer beneath.

The fair was at the Karpeles Manuscript Library Museum, a beautiful old church re-worked into a bright gallery. At setup, it was hard to envision what the the fair would be like. It was just tables and tables, row upon row, like a maze.




We were each to share an 8 foot table and it was a challenge to get all my stuff on 4 feet of space, but I did it



Then I had time to check out the museum before the people came. I was in awe of how things used to be built. The care and the artistry. We'll probably never see it again.





I got to share my table with the lovely Sandie from St Catharine's "over the ditch". She told me how most photos don't turn out so I shouldn't feel bad, but I managed to catch her during one of the 5 seconds she wasn't smiling and my shots of her amazing cards didn't come out at all. So I feel bad about that.



But I did get pictures of some of the other interesting, creative vendors all around me










That last picture is one of the printers/artists drawing in one of my books. I love that.

It was a good day, an inspiring day. Sometimes the best thing that happens at a show is that you get to feed your soul, stoke the creative fires, connect with like minded folks and get some encouragement. It was all that and I sold stuff, too. A good day for me.

People came from all over, filling the gallery, supporting artists that came from 2 blocks away, from 2 states away, from Canada. They experienced a thriving art sub culture, visited a vibrant, diverse neighborhood and an awe-inspiring gallery space. A good day for the city.

Great job, Chris.

24 minutes 'til Spring

Happyhappyjoyjoy

This has been one hell of a Winter. Not a whole lot of snow, but cold. Bone cold. Toes cold. Floors cold. The kind of winter that keeps you curled up in a chair with a quilt on you. That sends you to bed at 9, just so you can get under the covers. The kind of winter that exhausts you, just because you seem to be constantly dealing with it.

Yes, I'm sort of making excuses for why I haven't been better at getting ready for the coming season. But it is the first day of Spring and I feel myself thawing.

Of course, first I have to finish up the books for tomorrow. It's kind of nice, being able to focus on just one thing. I experimented with making an actual collage on canvas board to glue onto a book cover. The jury is out. I slapped it together, grabbing bits of ephemera from boxes and tins and bowls on my work table and it sort of looks like that. But I think it is something I want to pursue. Later. Right now i have to try to pry the one I did yesterday off the book and finish the others.

12 minutes to Spring. Maybe I'll go for a walk first.

getting out and getting ready

The Buffalo Small Press Book Fair is this Saturday and I need to get ready. But Spring is messing with me, so I need to get out, too. I compromised. An hour in the attic, an hour outside with Quincy. His first real excursion into the neighborhood.

I decided on two parks. A controlled stroll through Bidwell Parkway. He'll be a regular there once the Farmer's Market starts up again. 

It was muddy and we were the only ones there for a long time. He sniffed every blade of grass and was totally focused on exploration.  Finally, a couple with a boxer came, but warned us that their dog wasn't social, so Q could only watch from a distance.  We headed for the water.

As we pulled into LaSalle, I could hear a commotion, even with the windows up and the radio on. Quincy's ears perked up and his head tilted to and fro like a bobble head. I pulled over and there, smack dab between us and Canada, was seagull gathering of some sort. From the familiar intensity of the cries, I could only assume there was food involved, but there were hundreds of them. Flying and landing. Soaring and diving.  Calling, calling, calling. It was intense. Well, I thought, it is Spring after all.

A few feet further and more commotion. This time, honking. A flurry of flight and then this couple

content to stay behind and float and soak up the warm air. I imagined them chatting. I imagined them wondering what was up with those tacky seagulls.

While I focused my camera, Quincy was focused on the water and when I lowered the camera, there he was, under the railing, leaning over the wall, staring at a stick. A stick frozen into the Lake. A stick that was apparently calling to him. 

He was on a leash, but that led to even more horrifying images. I was able to pull him out of there without either of us having to brave an icy plunge. I have to remember that this is a puppy. A puppy with absolutely no concept of danger. Or height, for that matter. A puppy still small enough to scoot under the rail.

On we went, following the path along the water. (is it lake or river at that junction? I never know exactly where one starts and the other ends. I think at the marina?) One more feathered gathering. Ducks this time. Bunches of ducks. Horde of ducks? School? Herd? Whatever. Many. It looked like all these guys were finding spots of open water to float on. I wondered where they were all Winter. Boca? 

So, Quincy got to meet the neighborhood.  And I got to walk outside wearing a sweatshirt instead of a ginormous padded coat. There was open water on the lake and buds on the trees.

I think it was a good day. Yep, a really good day.

off to a good start

It's a "yes" from Kenan.   One down, millions to go. Or so it seems. 

The application dance slows for just a moment, takes a bow, then forms a circle for the next round.

Back to finishing the Canandaigua app. Cue the music...

"standing O" for American Style Magazine

The Publisher's Note from the current issue of American Style magazine:

I know, I know. The economy is tanking, people are worried about money, jobs and the dwindling balances in their 401(k)s, and suddenly we’re all a nation of savers, not spenders.

Admittedly it’s rough out there. But I really think it’s high time that we all just stop, take a collective deep breath and begin to focus on ways to be creative without breaking the bank.

Not possible? Au contraire! It’s a matter of choices. Do you really want to pull in the rug, bar the door and sit out the recession feeling sorry for yourself? Wouldn’t it be better to pull up the shades, let in the sun and channel your inner artist?

There are myriad ways to tap into the creative side of life. If you’re savvy about looking for what’s available at a price you can afford, you can soak up as much art and culture as your calendar can hold.

Think about designated free-admission evenings at museums, exhibition openings at local galleries and any one of the hundreds of craft fairs scheduled in the coming months all around the country and you’re off to a good start. Not only will getting out into the arts community give you the intrinsic pleasure of surrounding yourself with beautiful things, it carries an added bonus: you’ll be standing up for artists and arts organizations who, in these unsettled economic times, greatly need our continued support.

Now this has been my rallying cry for a while. You may be putting off buying that new TV or car or appliance, but you can bring home something fun and colorful from an art fair. Makes you feel good, it brings a little bit of the pretty into your life.

And we need to feel good. The news has jumped on this economy thing with a passionate zeal. I am not burying my head in the sand. I know there is trouble. But I would like to watch a segment on cooking that doesn't feature 8 ways to use leftover stale bread. I would like to watch a fashion show that isn't about how to look like a million bucks by buying clothes at Goodwill. I don't need to be clobbered over the head about the recession every time I pick up a paper or turn on the TV. I get it.

But most of us still have jobs, our homes are not in foreclosure, our banks have not stolen our savings accounts. Most of us are anxious, maybe a bit angry, but not yet desperate. Most of us still need a shot of feel good every so often.

I believe that there are 2 types of depression going on here: economic and psychological. I can't do much about the former, but this Summer, on city sidewalks with my cronies set up all around me, I really think a little bit of art and craft can help the latter.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

a night at the gallery

The inside of Grant Street Gallery is wonderful. A wall of windows, a wall of bleached brick, 2 white walls and a brown tin ceiling. I don't know what the space was before, but what it is now seems to be its destiny. The doors are old and the paint is peeling and I hope they keep it that way.




We set up simple displays of racks and tables, laughing and catching up as we went about the business of illusion. It is a joy to work with people you truly like. Hell, I actually love a few of them. 

There was even "Celtic Lemonade". That's Anne Bliss  in her great cap. Wish I could wear hats and look like that. If I wore that hat, people would cross the street when they saw me coming. Trust me.



The space started to fill with life and light and color and I knew I was going to enjoy this night, no matter the sales.




The core group of Urban ARTisans was represented:

Chary Robbins




Anne Bliss




Nicole Ambarchian





Anne Peterson




Paul Morgan of Avalon





Then there was me




and the wonderful whimsy of Carol Wannamaker's "Crow Biz"





the exceptional pottery of Steven Appler




Robin's fun and colorful Aremel soaps






T-shirts from CityLove




There truly was something for everyone, incredible for such a small show.

As night fell, the gallery became a beacon of light and warmth on the street, a block that had been dark and unwelcoming for years was now alive.




The coffee shop was filled with people and music, and many wandered over to see us when the guitar player took a break and announced our presence. All night, until the end, visitors came.





And they bought stuff! What more could you ask for?


A reclaimed storefront dressed up in its gallery clothes, spilling light onto the street, a hint of Spring in the night air, good friends and good art, green lemonade in plastic cups. I am shedding winter like a tattered coat and it feels really good.

object lesson

I had a revelation at breakfast this morning.



These are not pretty eggs. As much as I love to cook, I cannot fry up a couple of eggs and have them look pretty. The technique escapes me. So, I sighed and pondered the plate and a light went on. Those eggs were going to taste fine. The yolks were just soft enough for dunking, the whites had a slight crispy part underneath. I didn't burn the toast. What was my problem? Russell always tells me it doesn't matter, they taste good, but I had this cook's mentality. Or maybe I have an "artist who cooks" mentality. The color has to be right, the proportions. I have been known to add more corn to a recipe because there wasn't enough yellow. When I bring home a bunch of veggies from the market I sometimes arrange them in the drawers to showcase all the colors. It pleases me. I am, of course, whacked.

So, anyway, it came to me that I was applying this perfection principle to all the wrong things. Food is about hunger, art is about fun. Where does perfect enter this? Nowhere. Granted, there are manymany places in my life that could use a touch of perfectionism. I will attempt to redirect there.

Because Russell will always like what I cook and never notice the color ratio. Someone will love that journal that didn't come out the way it looked in my head. I've made enough stuff in my life that was made more interesting by slapping a piece of something over a mistake.

I guess what I felt was freedom. Freedom to enjoy the broken yolks in my life, whether they be art or breakfast.

catching up and gearing up

What can I say? It's been cold, I've been working a lot of hours at the theater, Quincy the pup needs a lot of attention. But this week my supplies started coming in and I have my first show of the year Friday so it's time to end the hibernation.

I haven't exactly been idle since last season ended. I got my web site up and running. 3 applications have gone out. I redesigned my business cards and packaging. But I haven't been in the studio except to clean and THAT was a massive job. So yesterday I went up and got 3 miniature books ready for the press. It felt good. Like stretching after a good night's sleep. Like walking off sore muscles. Like that first cup of Love Buzz in the morning. I remembered that I like doing this stuff.

Friday is a small show in a small gallery. Just 8 of us, but there is something special about the venue and the group. The group running the show is Urban ARTisans, 5 excellent artist/craftsmen who market themselves and their work by setting up in unexpected places to the delight of the people who find them in office lobbies and hospitals and, like Friday, in galleries. I am delighted to be among them this week, especially since a few of my favorite people are part of this group.

As for the venue, this is a story, too. The corner upon which it stands had been, shall we say, less than glamorous? Grant and Lafayette is a gritty urban corner in the middle of a poor, hard knock neighborhood. The main attraction had been Guercio's, an old world style Italian market that draws the "yuppies" from adjacent neighborhoods who drive or bike in to get good prices on truffle oil and imported cheese and scoot right home. But a year or so ago, a woman, grieving for a lost son, looked at this corner property that had been many things over the years and decided it was speaking to her. She made a coffee shop, a gallery and studios. People scoffed. Not anymore. Here is the story. It's wonderful:

Sweetness 7 and Grant Street Gallery

We went to the coffee shop yesterday morning and loved it. We saw a lot of people from the neighborhood there, people that you would normally see at Spot, the coffee shop in the "good" neighborhood, the trendy neighborhood. They were staying this time, not scooting home with a baguette and a chunk of fontinella. They were greeting friends and drinking really good coffee. You get no choice here, it's one coffee and it's really good. It was strangely relaxing to be free from deciding between Kenya and Zimbabwe, between vente and tall, "One coffee please". It's great. We had gone to Guercios for avocados and stayed for breakfast at Sweetness 7..an egg sandwich on a big, soft English Muffin roll, cheese oozing from the sides, a big sloppy slice of tomato. Yum.

So, one more coffee and then I go to work. It will feel good, I think, to shake off the Winter haze that has been clouding both sides of my brain, to think forward to Spring. I'm tired of being cold and I realize now I'm also tired of being lazy.

the windows of artspace

I'm one of those voyeur types who is fascinated by the windows of other lives. Not sure why, but I am drawn to undraped windows, by people who light up their rooms like a diorama for the world to see. You can imagine whole life stories based on how they hang the artwork or what kind of lamps are lit. Even tiny clues are fun to ponder. A purple glass moon hanging on a thread from a window lock. Tulips in a jar on a windowsill.

So, when we stopped for gas the other afternoon, across from the many-windowed facade of Artspace, it was pretty natural for me to grab the camera and try to capture vignettes. Who would have more intersting windows than artists?




What do the little hints reveal about the people inside? One looks like it has little stickers all over it. A child's room? How cool for a kid to live in an "artist colony". Are those little prayer flags?









I love that there are paintings propped up, facing the street. Look at me, they say.

Most likely, my imagination gives more color to the unseen lives inside than reality. But it's fun to picture, to make up a whole story based on the silhouette of a lamp.

and then you wait

After you google maps to see how close some of your friends live to the site, and you take a deep breath because at least they are safe, you wait. Wait for the reason a plane falls out of the sky. Wait for the list of names, a list with "many locals" on it. Wait for the next jolt.

Trite, but true, that "can't believe it happened here" feeling. So many times, tragedy after tragedy, watching the footage of strange neighborhoods in strange towns, dealing with the unexplainable. A safe distance between you and "them". But there are no strange names in the news this morning. No safe distance.

Life twists and turns and hands you surprises. An old friend in a ticket line, a big, red dog bed in front of the fire, a letter with good news, a sudden illness, a plane falling out of the sky, finding a child's long ago drawing of blue penguins.

It's all of a piece, I'm thinking. Pieces of a life, patched together. Light and dark. Joy and loss.

Things to ponder while you wait.

disturbing trend

When I first started doing art and craft shows about a dozen years ago, it was unusual for the organizers to require advance payment. If they did, I'd shine it on. It irritated me and made me feel not so good about the show.

Why? Well, come along with me and walk a bit in my glue spattered shoes.

First, let me do away with some urban legends. Contrary to what you may hear, most art show artists are not "rolling in it" and we do actually "work". A lot. For many, the business is seasonal and dependent on big things like the economy and the weather as well as small things like booth location. Every year is a crap shoot. There are no guaranteed pay days in this business.

So, with that out of the way, let's talk about my growing irritation with show organizers and the trend toward paying "upon receipt of application" instead of "upon acceptance". Well, actually, the phrasing says it all. They want my money, paid in full, while they consider whether or not I will actually be accepted into their show. This often takes months. Meanwhile, they have hundreds of my dollars, dollars I cannot use for supplies or taxes or other show applications. If I do not get accepted, that money was "spent" on nothing but padding the bank accounts of show promoters. Multiply this by a dozen shows, and now we're into thousands of dollars I have invested in show futures.

I am not a gambling woman.

Now, I could possibly accept this practice if they would simply shorten the time between application and notification. But the wait is usually months. A show I applied to in January will notify me in April. My $200 waits in their bank account until then. What are they doing during that time? I dunno. Enjoying collecting interest on the hard earned money of artists, I'm thinking. Oh sure, if I am denied, they will send me a refund. Gee. Thanks. Now that it's too late to apply for another show, maybe I'll do something frivolous with the money. Like, buy food?

I have tremendous respect and gratitude toward the shows that take your jury fee now, let you know within a reasonable amount of time whether you have been accepted, and then collect payment on a date previously specified. How civilized. How respectful.

You need the money early to finance the show? No prob. Have your jury set to go 2 weeks after the deadline and get the results out to us within a week. How hard can that be? I mean, you know that you will be having a jury, so let them know in November what the date is. If your deadline is, oh, January 10th, Tell them to be there on January 24th. That gives you 2 whole weeks to get your PowerPoint presentation or your slide show ready for them. Have your jury party, choose your artists, insert their names into the "to" part of the letter you have all nicely done up in your computer and send them out. By my calculation, you will then have been sitting on my $200 for just a month and THAT I can tolerate. What you are doing between January and April, now that confuses me.

Well, that's my rant for the season. I've ranted about this before. It just gets worse. I got out the application for a late Summer show this morning and saw that they , also, now want my money in advance.

I'm just glad the suppliers I use aren't asking me to deposit a thousand bucks with them just in case I decide to buy stuff. That could get scary. But that wouldn't happen. Because, you see, in the real world, when something has a price, and you pay it, you get something back. Period. They don't say they'll get back to you, let you know if you can actually have the item you paid for. That would be silly. That would be nuts. That would be outrageous!

That would be show fees.

is it just me?

These things just rattle around in my head, keeping me awake when I'm trying to nap.

How do we know the rodent saw his shadow? Does he point at it and shriek? Sniff it? Try to mate with it? What? A few old guys in top hats stand around a rabbit hole, looking officious, and declare yay or nay. I'm not sure what's worse. Old guys channeling the intimate thoughts of groundhogs or having every major media outlet covering it.

Super Bowl commercials cost a gazillion dollars and the best of what we get is raunchy adolescents fantasizing about naked race car drivers, breast implants, nailing your boss with a snowglobe to the nachos, men injuring each other with macho things like bowling balls and one for flowers that insults women in all their vulnerable places. Really? Who is the target demographic here? 16 year old boys? I got news for you. They are not going to spend money on your product. They're too busy trying to find naked pictures of ....anyone. I say next year all ads should be written by and for women. We watch the game, too, you know. We have senses of humor. Really. We spend money and you don't have to get naked for us. Really.

Why is my puppy afraid of dogs? He IS a dog.

If you know the answers to any of these things, please let me know. I need sleep.

taking a pass

So, yesterday I was supposed to bring stuff in for the Decorator Show House. I was pleased to be invited again, and I decided that this time I would follow through. That was 2 months ago.

Then my sweet dog died and I was busy crying all the time. The weather turned to the Arctic channel and my studio could be used to store meat. If we ate meat. I had 2 important shows to get apps out for and I made new stuff for that. I actually got my web site up and running. I was working 3 days a week at the theater. Then, in a moment of weakness, encouraged by people who love me and wanted me to stop crying, we got a new puppy.

Even with all that, I intended to get things made for the Show House. I did. It was going to be fun and I had plans to meet up with one of my favorite friends after the jury setup for coffee. Then I got sick. Oh, not tragically sick, just a flu/cold. The kind that makes you look at life with squinty eyes, causes your ears to ring so loudly you miss phone calls, puts a tickle in your throat that makes going to the movies a bad idea. Piffle. Still gonna do it. Even when the tickle turned to a wheeze and then a rumble, still gonna do it. I had a whole day.

I decided to take a short nap, recharge, and spend a few hours in the studio getting things together. Remember, in my life, procrastination is an art form. I curled up under a comforter in the afternoon sun and woke up, almost 4 hours later, in the dark.

Surrender. You win, life. Hot tea with lemon and honey coming up. Emailed my friend and rescheduled coffee. Bless her, she offered to schlepp my stuff in for me, but I told her I just couldn't make it happen.

It's a conversation I've had with folks in this business over the years. Creativity-v-necessity. Can a creative person lock themselves in a room and just "make it happen" by force of will? I don't think so. I have to go to the studio with anticipation and a brain that is churning or it is a disaster. I've tried scheduling my work. I've tried just sitting at the table in a Zen mood, waiting for inspiration. I've tried spending an hour doing routine "grunt' work, like cutting and hinging book board or just making covers. That's too much like a job. But when I'm having fun and both sides of my brain are awake, I can stay up there for hours and make things that I'm proud of.

So, I have learned to accept that I work my way, in my time, at my pace. I would probably be more successful if there was some self-discipline thrown into that equation, but then I might as well go back to government work. Many well-meaning people have offered suggestions about how I could/should handle this little business of mine. But, you know, the keywords are business of mine. For better or worse, richer (hah) or poorer (more likely), this little shop is mine.

Come May when friends are reaping the benefits of a lucrative gig at the Show House, I'll be attempting to lubricate these old joints well enough to actually kick myself. I know that. But this morning, with a puppy whimpering for attention, a head and chest stuffed with cotton, a warm bed beckoning me to return for more comfort, I'm taking a pass.

And waiting for inspiration.

in search of jury slides

Well, here at Procrastination Station, the application for Allentown, our town's biggest, oldest and first art show of the year sits ready to mail. Just waiting for the slides.

Yes, they still want slides of your work. Why? (she whined). Most places have moved on to CD's of digital images, many have online submissions so you don't even have to deal with the ubiquitous SASE. Not Allentown. Slides. Sigh.

Now I do have pages of slides from years of doing this, but I have actually gotten better at what I do over the years. Who knew? So, I need some new slides. I knew I was going to need them. I've known for weeks. When did I decide to get them? Monday. Called our local camera/photo store. The one that always did this for me. Nope. Now they send it out and it takes a couple of weeks. Huh? Called a place I used last year when I needed slides right away (procrastination is an art form I have honed over the years) and they no longer do them. I was getting a sinking feeling, but they told me not to panic, there was a place that did it.

I went to the web site for this place (Campos Photography) and saw that they used a service called "iprint at home". Lordy how I hate cutesy names like that. Grr. I had no choice. Registered, read the directions which seemed way too simple, uploaded my images, picked a place where I could pick them up, paid the fee which was very reasonable, hit "send" and resigned myself to not doing Allentown this year.

A few moments later I got a confirmation e-mail, assuring me that the slides would be there the next day. Oh, sure, I sniffed.

Then, the next day, the email telling me they were ready for pickup came. No. Really? Cool!

Now, we haven't picked them up yet, we'll get them this morning, but how cool is this? I know that only art show carnies will be interested in this miraculous slide story, but that's what the blog is, after all. The life and times of an art carnie.

Do you know what this means? It means I will actually have the application for this show in the mail 2 days before deadline. Two whole days!

Baby steps.

http://www.iprintfromhome.com

sorry, Quincy

Our friend, Don, has drawn my attention to the fact that I misspelled the type of dog Quincy's Mom is. She is a Catahoula Leopard Dog. Apparently, I was channeling melons when I wrote of her earlier.

He looks very black lab-ish, but pictures of the Cata...Chapa...Calahop...oh, whatever. Pictures of his Mom-dog as a puppy look almost the same. I guess we'll see.

You know, you can actually have a DNA test done of your pup to check the heritage. I don't know how much of each breed a mutt retains and, besides, that is such a very Jerry Springer-ish thing to do. I picture the neighborhood Lab high-fiving the Spaniel next door when the father is declared to be a Corgi.

Oh, Quincy knows his name already. And he cries to go out to pee. When I didn't bring him inside fast enough (he gets cold fast), he learned to climb the steps and scratched at the door.

Maybe he's a Cantaloupe Einstein Dog.

and then there was Quincy

So, after I poured out my dog angst, I felt better and we talked. Russell really felt strongly about rescue and after being gob smacked by the "family dog having doodles" people, I was seeing my desire for a designer dog as selfish at best, misguided at most. We decided to take our day off together to visit shelters and see if my heart would open enough to let another dog in.

First stop was, of course, the SPCA. Such good people. So many beautiful, lonely dogs, but few puppies. It hurt my heart to see their pleading eyes, but I also saw a few of them taken from their rooms and brought to the play area to meet new owners. That was good. I started to get this warm feeling...

We made another stop at the whisker wag'n, but there were only 2 dogs. Beautiful and adult. I knew we needed to bring a baby home because the cats would eventually get him in line.

Then we went off to Pet Connection in Marilla that specializes in Maternity and special needs rescue. There were dozens of puppies on their web site, but only 6 or 7 when we got there. They were all adorable. Our conversation with the volunteer tending them was heartening. This seemed to be a good place, a caring place. We played with a few puppies and I began to accept that I wanted to bring one home. We had almost made a decision when I asked to see the little black dog sleeping with his face deep in the corner. I am not partial to black dogs, usually, but I figured I was there, better see them all. Russell reached over the warm, wiggly mass of sleeping pups to pick him up and as he turned around I saw the round, jowly, sleepy-eyed face of our newest family member. It was a face that made you laugh. So black that his fur shines like polished granite, so black that when he curls up to sleep you can't detect head from tail. There is a small white slash on his chest. He has one white toe. Those things help find him in the dark. I said "You are my new dog and your name is Quincy" (I'm not sure where the name came from, except that I had seen things about Quincy Jones a lot recently. And He is very cool...I dunno. Just popped out.)

We were OK'd by the shelter after filling out some forms and answering some questions. They gave us a bag of goodies for Quincy, a big bag of Science Diet puppy food, a certificate for his first checkup with our Vet, another to have him spayed for free. He has had shots, been dewormed, has a microchip under his skin. Amazing.

He cried all the way home. Pitiful, sad cries that a google search told me was mostly him calling for his "pack". Aw, man.,We made a quick stop at the pet store to get a tiny collar and leash so he could be walked. A tiny BoBo, baby chew bones, back in the car.

First stop was not our house, but the house across the street to meet his extended family: Mama Jo, Auntie Ree, Foster and Ellie. 2 humans and 2 dogs that will be his new "pack"

And then home. Dismayed cats, a puppy that cried almost the whole night unless he was being comforted, trying to train a baby dog to pee on ice. He is afraid of cars and sirens and loud noises. He is fascinated by the TV. He slept in our bed, warm and comforted, waking us when he needed to go out. To hell with crates. This is a family.

Today he is dashing about, under our feet, has been scratched by one cat and dismissed by the other. He cries to go out and we are astonished by that. And he almost always makes it. He eats out of his new bowls, curls up on his blanket and chews his toys, but still whimpers for comfort which he gets.

Auntie Ree gave me a tile with Jake's picture on it, a picture that shows his beautiful eyes staring right at you. I have taken to stroking his ceramic nose in the morning. It is oddly comforting. I will miss that dog for the rest of my life. That's just the way it is. The new puppy wiggles his way into your heart, though. Let's you use that doggy love. It helps a bit.

And so this is Quincy



And this is a link to PetConnection

http://www.petconnectionprogramsinc.com/Home.asp

They said they had 89 puppies being weaned and made ready for adoption. They also could use donations of money, time, blankets, etc.

Oh...by the way, Quincy's Mom is a Catalhoupa Leopard dog. Really. His Dad is nowhere to be found, his identity unknown, as is his breed. Quincy looks a lot like a Lab right now, but you never know what a mutt will grow to be. The President laughingly refers to himself as a "mutt". He grew up just fine.

paws for thought

Today it is a month since we lost our most cherished Jake, the world's most special dog. Put your hands down, this is not a debate. I'm sure your dogs are all very wonderful. Jake was...Jake.

Anyway, I miss him, but I also just miss having a wagging tail and happy bark when I put the key in the lock. I miss hot breath on my face in the morning, waking me up for a walk. I miss making room on the bed for a 3rd furry body. I miss the love.

Russell sees me shed tears almost every day still and hopes a puppy would cheer me up. I think it would help and I'm almost ready. But here is the dilemma. I don't know how to do this.

When we got Jake, apparently we got him at a "puppy mill" Who knew? The guy was definitely a broker of puppies, had several types at his kennel. Jake was from the guy's own Golden and a woman in the same small town. (or so he and the AKC papers said). The pups all looked happy, many were outside playing in grassy pens. A few were in the main building, we had fun looking at them all and playing with them. But I had Jake in my arms and, as far as I was concerned, the deal was done.

And Jake was wonderful. More than wonderful The cancer that killed him was not the fault of the kennel, unless you subscribe to the theory that over-breeding popular breeds leads to that sort of thing. I have no idea.

So, my dog-buying ethics firmly in place, I perused shelters and rescues and the local classifieds. And there, in the paper was an ad for goldendoodles (my first choice for a new puppy) in the 'burbs, lady sounds very sweet. She says the puppies are from her family dogs, live in her home, played with by her kids, not a puppy mill. First litter for her dog, etc. Sounded perfect, price was right, I wasn't ready. But I thought about those dogs for weeks. Tuesday I left her a message. DId she still have puppies?

No answer, no message. They were gone, back to the classifieds. And there, same phone number, same cute picture of the puppies, was an ad for the parents. A 3yr old Golden, an 18 month poodle. "Just had their first litter of doodles" the ad read. What? You're selling the "family dogs" that live in your home and play with your kids? A 3 year old dog?

I hate feeling stupid.

My friend, Marie, has taken to sending me e-mails with links to darling strays at all sorts of shelters. "How about this one?", an email will read. Or "Take a look at Jasper".

None of them appeal to me. Maybe because none of them are Jake.





Maybe I need a little more time.

i'm trying

Really. I went up to the studio, saw my breath, reconsidered. I did stay up there long enough to cut some cardstock for my collage cards and I printed my new logo (with web site!) on the back.

Yeah, big deal. The first month of the new year, the year I was going to get off to a roaring start is winding down and I have managed to print my name on a bunch of card stock. Cue the trumpets.

In my defense, it has been insanely cold and our 3rd floor is unheated. Oh, I could keep the door open and let the heat up there. Uh huh. And I could shred dollars and use them for the litter box, too.

The answer is to find things to do downstairs. The problem is that most of what I do is pretty messy or requires equipment. A few weeks ago, during my cleaning frenzy, I put together a box of beads and spacers that I could use for bookbeads, so I rescued it from the attic igloo and made up a few while I sat by the fire and watched TV.



No, they will not make me rich. They are little baubles that I have in a basket near the books, an accessory. But it's something. A start. And I didn't get frostbite making them.

Baby steps.

sounds good to me

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

President Barack Hussein Obama
January 20, 2009

wish you were here

"Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight."


Dr. Martin Luther King
April 3, 1968

looking forward, looking back

I had a lot of grandiose plans last January. I think I was going to make lamps, learn to take amazing pictures to grace my journals, etc. Oh, silly girl. How long you been doin' this now?

Writing this blog over the course of a whole season, from applications to the last gift show, has been like a little searchlight in my addled brain. The common wisdom is that creative people are just not business people. I don't think that's always true, but it's real true for me. At my part time theater job, I've heard some people opine that when you have theater people trying to be business people and business people trying to be theater people, it's just going to be a problem, no way around it.

Well, the theater makes a profit, no reason I can't. (she said, defiantly)

Last year was good for us. At the beginning, my fellow art carnies were predicting that it would be a really bad year because of gas prices and then because of the economy. But, show after show, the surprised reaction was that, once again, for most of us, it had been a good weekend. Better than the year before.

Why? C'mon. Who am I, John Kenneth Galbraith? Please. I do have an opinion, of course.

I think it's a combination of two things. The first is practical...people cut back on things like vacations and new cars and appliances, so they had more money for small luxuries.

The second is emotional. When things are getting ugly and sad you are drawn to things festive and pretty.

Hey, Mr President-elect, got a Cabinet job for me?

Now, how this will work out for 2009 is anyone's guess. There is much to be excited about but even more cause for worry. But what can you do? I am tethered to this life out of love and necessity. Adjustments will be made, fingers will be crossed.

So..here are the decisions for 2009 that I will most likely sneer at in 2010.

After a dozen years in this business, I know what sold and what didn't. Getting bored with something is no reason to stop making it if it sells. The things I make for 2009 will be the things that have sold for me over the years. No more perusing art books for inspiration. I have inspiration. Food.

Little sales add up to big weekends. I never, ever, had enough collage cards. At any show. I raised the price to $4, which is still on the cheap side for comparable work, and continued to sell out every show. I need to have hundreds of them every weekend. Which means I need to start now. They are very inexpensive to make but not easy.

More little sales...the little desk top collage quotes I sell for $7 were popular again. Book beads. a couple of bucks apiece, easy to make, fun. Adds up.

My journals, the heart of Simplesong, will get more cover embellishment. I'm going to work on cast paper designs for them. The raised collage cover was always a good seller. Need to make more of those.

Mirrors. They have been surprisingly popular and I am getting better at it. Now, those are not easy, but I am almost always pleased with the final product. They are my most expensive item, so I need to have enough of them just in case.

Bowls, bowls, bowls. When I was perusing my picture files for jury slides. I remembered how much I liked making those. They weren't a great seller, but the people that appreciated them really appreciated them. They will be my fun project for this year. If I don't get a lot of them done, no loss, but I will get to play with paint and powder. You need to keep the creative spark going when commerce takes the front burner.

More shows. Russell and I disagree about this, but he has more faith in me than I do. He thinks I should make exciting, expensive things and sell them at very high end shows. Then I only have to do 4 shows a year.

He loves me, what can I say? Thinks I can do anything. Very cute.

The reality is that i just don't make big, expensive things. I wouldn't know one if I saw it and it is just not in my DNA to be "that kind" of artist. As for the better show idea.. you just don't show up at the Smithsonian with your RubberMaid totes. I think I create some pretty nice work, but I am a definite mid-range artisan, so there will be more apps this year.

That's a pretty good plan, I think. If I really start working on product now, there is the possibility of a pretty good year.

I let you know how it worked in January ought ten.

afterbirth

Well, the site is up but the labor pains continue.

Don't worry. I'll stop the clever word play now.

Some browsers can't see it. Some see it but the text is all floopy. ("Floopy" is a technical term known only to us computer experts.)

My fancy font shows up but I seem to have sacrificed a lot to get it that way.

I keep working on it, but some of the thrill is gone.

The answer, I guess, is to accept it for what it is. Recognize its limitations, appreciate what it does well. Show it off to friends and if some don't like it, so be it. It serves a purpose, but it can never be all things to all people.

I'm thinking it's sort of like marriage.

how cold is it?

The water in the cats' dish froze. They were not amused.

The ignition in the van had to be thawed out with a hair dryer so we could start it.

I'm wearing shoes in the house.

I'm going to visit my Mom because I love her. And because her house is usually warm enough to grow orchids.

I'm trying to embrace Winter, but it ain't huggin' me back.

birth announcement!

She has been delivered

http://www.simplesongstudio.com

There is a slight glitch. Some browsers don't display the photos. It's only one or two so far, but I need to figure it out.

It is just a brochure site. No shopping cart, no fancy animations, no music. Just stuff about my stuff. A little bit about me.

But, I have my name back and it's on the internets.

This is good.

sometimes it takes me a while

So, one of the tasks I assigned myself for January was to get a web site up. Nothing fancy. Information only, no shopping cart or anything. Last night, curled up in my big chair, American Idol on TV, a list of cheap or free sites garnered from friends at the ready, I leapt.

And landed in PC hell.

"Hi. My name is Pat and I'm a MacHead."

"Hi Pat!"

The first place was specifically MicroSoft (shudder). The next offered Linux whatever that is. The third seemed happy to allow this ragtag OS in, but it was like being assigned the broken desk, the office with no windows. Pun intended. I was stuck with 2 fonts and uploading my pictures took 15 minutes (or 7 Idol auditions). But wait! I could upgrade to Site Builder PLUS! Oh hurrah. I would have fonts, I would have options, I would have....

"I'm sorry. This program is not available for Mac. Would you like SiteBuilder Lite?"

What? Am I building a site or buying a beer? No, I do not want the Lite program. Cancel me.

"I'm sorry, to cancel you must call our offices at..."

Aaarrgh.

The bikini girl was singing on Idol so I knew it was getting late. They always save the "interesting" contestants for later. I would have to call in the morning.

Now, I'm not sure what happened in the morning to re-engage my brain cells. I was sitting at the big 'puter waiting for my coffee to brew and I remembered. My Mac mail account had web pages. I clicked on the account and, sure enough, free web site, host my domain name for free, beautiful templates, language I understood.

In 30 minutes, I had 3 pages done. In the special font I found for my business. Photos were drag and drop. All the elements could be dragged about at will. I was laughing out loud at the sheer fun of it.

In a few hours, once my domain name has been morphed (or whatever the techincal term is) onto my site, I will post the link.

While we wait, shall we contemplate the utter superiority of everything Apple? People always point out compatibility with all those PC programs as a reason to stay PC, but I forgot the prevailing wisdom about why it doesn't matter.

You don't need them.

Sorry, Steve, I forgot.

yep, I did it again..

Sent out my first app of the year with 1 hour to spare. Literally. The PO closed at 5:30, Russell dropped off my app at 4:30. I was going to be sooo organized this year. Well, one false start does not a season make. Allentown is due in a few weeks. Maybe I can get that one out a day early. Baby steps.

The first app, as usual, is for 100 American Craftsmen at the Kenan Center in Lockport. I've written of this show before. I love starting the season there with the Spring show and ending there with Christmas. I've only been shut out once, and that was wait list, not an outright rejection. But I sweat it every year. Some really wonderful people are turned away. I'm lucky that my medium is an unusual one.

This year was especially difficult because of the dog thing and being so depressed. Plus, they always have the deadline so close to Christmas. There is no time to regroup. At the artist meeting last year they made a huge deal about jury slides and how we really need to send new ones every year. More pressure. I pulled out some pictures I took during the year and I made a new mirror that we ended up photographing this morning at 8:30. I had to be a work at 9:30. Livin' on the edge, I am. A rebel.

So, anyway...here are my jury slides for the first app







And the booth shot



They were totally obsessed with booth shots at the meeting last year and the app had a whole page devoted to it. How to design your booth, what to avoid, people who would "mentor" you, etc. OK. I noted that we had built new shelving for the left wall and added a screen. I did not write "please, oh please, love me" that was implied.

So, I have dipped my toe in the cold water of maybe/maybe not for the coming year. They will come at me fast and furious for the next 3 months or so. I am truly going to organize it all this weekend. Truly.

I was" invited to apply" to be in the Junior League Decorator Show House gift shop this year. They have invited me before but I never followed through. This year I was approached by one of the women associated with it at the Gilda Show and she said she thought my things would be well received. I know friends who do well there and, actually, it is nice to be asked. Now, for this jury, you bring in your actual things, they take you to a display area, you set up and leave and then they jury your stuff in person. Makes me twitch. That's in a few weeks, too. Oh man.

Plus, I want to get my web site up and send out some marketing materials to libraries for the book pins. I still have to close out the books for last year, file the stuff away and break out this year's charts, graphs and grids. None of which I will actually use, but it will make me feel so businesslike.

Better get to it...

through the mail slot

I got 3 pieces of mail yesterday.

The usual alumni money plea from my college bearing a picture of a campus I would not recognize if I was plopped in the center of it and asked to name where I was.

A postcard from the neighborhood fitness center bearing a picture of a 90 yr old man with great abs and the caption "Aging Gracefully?"

A pamphlet from the Scooter Store.

When did I stop getting stuff from Victoria's Secret and get on the geriatric mailng list? Who turned me in? AARP? They know everything.

Thank God I renewed my subscription to Rolling Stone.

dust and dreams

I am allergic to mundane things. Pollen. Wool. Dust. Perfume. They make me itch or sneeze or wheeze. I would like to have exotic allergies. I read of a celebrity once who was allergic to tree nuts. Tree nuts. Imagine. I admit to never giving one moment's thought to how nuts grow and I have difficulty picturing a peanut tree. So it must be chestnuts. That is a rather cool allergy. Dust, not so much.

So,anyway, cleaning my studio has been an exercise in patience and tolerance. I clean in 20 minute spurts, go downstairs to wash my hands and grab clean air, wait for my nose to stop running. There is not just ordinary dust in the studio. There is paper dust that clings to everything, flakes of gesso, messes of glue overspray. Charming. Who works here?

But I am finding little treasures as I plod along. Pictures of us camping, Harvest at the prom, Max and Zeke in Bar Harbor, our sweet terrier, Golem, Jake asleep on Russell. Billy smiling at the girl beside him, a girl whose name I cannot begin to remember. The pictures make me put the cleaning rag down and time travel. The studio is quiet, filled with sun and memories.

Then I go back to sorting charms, labeling boxes (I am so proud of my labels), tossing anything I haven't found a use for in the past 5 years.

Last night I had a dream that someone gave me a dog to help me feel better. It was sort of a Golden, but not quite, and it wore a red collar. The dog trotted in and out of the dream that had morphed into a story about an art show in a hospital. In my dream I gave up trying to find the show venue and went to sleep. In the morning, I went out to find the dog with the red collar. I called and called and dogs came. Little ones, big ones, a Dalmatian, a Great Dane. They started to fill the yard and still I called but the dog with the red collar was nowhere to be seen.

I woke with the image of a yard filled with dogs and the echo of the name I had been calling: "Jake! Jakey Boy! Come on!"

Yeah, I've never been one to have those Freudian dreams where the meaning was obscure and gauzy with metaphor.

I miss my dog.

once more into the breach...

Well, I ask you to open my studio door at the end of the season and not imagine a war having been fought there.

Really bad. Really.

So, I have some time off from the theater, my first app due in 10 days, a need to keep busy, a snowstorm outside. There will be cleaning.

I am going to organize. Again. There will be plastic bins and labels. Old storage stuff that never really worked is already at the curb. New shelves are ready to be filled with those labeled plastic thingys.

I have the most trouble letting go of things that I may use someday maybe if just in case I might somehow.....gone. Unpainted paper castings, A book that just need a repair...for 2 years now. Mirrors with designs that just didn't work. Cast bowls that never sold, the edges cracked from schlepping to show after show. Gone.

I started this year with the same cleaning spurt, but this time I am actually redoing things. For instance, my paper cutter is on a surface just about 6 inches too low so I always hurt my back when doing any prolonged cutting. That will be moved up. Things i had stored right near my work area will be stored away unless it's something I use daily. Stuff like that.

And so we start again. A clean room, a clean slate. A new calendar book. New plans.

Guess I should get up there. One more coffee.......

seen in New Jersey

We maneuvered enough jug handles to actually get into a mall on Christmas Eve for some last minute supplies (tape,wrapping paper) and my 1st purchase for the coming business year (calendar book).

And guess who we were parked next to?



On Christmas Eve. You can't make this stuff up.

And there is apparently a fleet of these trucks, because check out the number on the front bumper:



I wonder what kind of guarantee you get with this crew? Lifetime?

Eternity?