View from the Attic

kicking and screaming

2011-12-30T08:33:00.003-05:00

I hate New Year's Eve. Almost always have. I hate the maudlin looking back aspect of it. The ubiquitous "people who died" montage on every news/entertainment show. I was very sad about Steve Jobs, but I lost 2 mothers this year and their pictures won't play anywhere but in our hearts. They didn't invent anything awesome or have 8 husbands or make movies. They just lived simple, honorable lives dedicated to their families. Both of them worked hard and prayed hard. I will miss them every day.

But, as usual, I digress.

We usually try to be asleep by midnight, but we live reasonably close to downtown and there is a local ball drop that is accompanied by the loudest, longest fireworks extravaganza that we may be able to sleep through but annoys the schnitzits out of the dogs. I've tried actually attending the thing. It is advertised as family friendly and alcohol free, but it is neither. I have no problem with people drinking and having fun. I do mind when drinking makes them stupid, rude and puky. (Is puky a word?). So, we stay home, wait it out.

I don't want to have a rerun reel playing through my brain. This year had chemotherapy in it. And loss.But it also had remission in it and my son's beautiful wedding to the woman of his dreams. So, maybe I can have an edited reel?

Looking forward seems to be the way to go. We have plans for the house and I'm ready to work. I have a new book idea and when I can't sleep I tinker with the design in my head. Makes me excited about the season to come.

Every morning is a new start, every night is a time to reflect on what is past. This weekend will be no different. Except for the relentless booming from downtown, of course.

I will probably have a glass of wine tomorrow. But don't try to get me out to celebrate what happens every single day..a new beginning. I have learned to celebrate each one in my own, quiet way. With thanks.

truth

2011-12-19T11:19:00.000-05:00

surfacing

2011-12-18T22:40:00.003-05:00

The shows are over. I missed the last one because we were with Dottie. My latest 3 month scan at Roswell has been read and I am still without cancer. Next scan now 6 months away instead of 3. Soon it will be once a year. Christmas is in a week and the tree is still atilt in a bucket on the front porch. It's like I've been in a marathon race with the finish line obscured by fog. Suddenly it is clearly there and I am closer to it than I imagined.

And my sneakers are untied.

It is very hard to make long range plans when there is an underlying understanding that long range may not be an option. It is impossible to look forward with joyful anticipation to the future when you have been hobbled by loss.

I lost 2 women this year who were very dear to me. My mother and Russell's Mom who I loved as a mother. It is a trick to juggle joy and grief. Is it right to celebrate my return to health as 2 loved ones lost theirs? This is my struggle. I console myself that both of them were close to or older than 90. A good run.

Well, this is a festive holiday post, is it not?

U turn

This year I got myself an awesome daughter-in-law with whom I will celebrate this weekend. And I got to see my son happier than he has ever been. Sheer joy.

I will pull the tree from its bucket, set it up and force it to be beautiful.

Did I mention that I am still cancer free?

My annual stocking stuffer buying binge (I am renowned for my stockings) will have to be a one day sprint, but I know I will laugh at least a few times while accomplishing the task.

I missed a couple of last minute shows that would have padded my shopping budget nicely, but so be it. It means I have stock for the retailers that need it. That will be a nice change. Usually I say "Oh, sure, I can get some to you" and then I dash upstairs in a panic.

There will be no baking this year. Oven is dead and we are behind in stripping and painting the kitchen in preparation for the delivery of the new stuff. It can wait until next week. I've learned that a lot of things you think are important can wait. Except for Dr visits ;)

My brother and his wife have picked up the responsibility for hosting Christmas and, bravely, recreating Mom's traditional foods. Have I mentioned how much I love them? Well, I do. On top of all the acceptance and loyalty and love, they make me laugh until I cry.

Yesterday I wallowed in a deep funk and allowed myself to do so. This morning, the sun is out, Oliver is curled up on my lap, I just listened to reggae Christmas music and I am contemplating pancakes.

This will be a week devoted to Christmas. Then guess what? Yep. Application season. Ho Ho Ho. I have 5 of them just waiting for me to get the pen out. Not sure why these shows can't allow us a few weeks to burrow and not even think about art and craft and commerce. Yes, I whine abut this every year and, yes, every year once the season starts I am having fun. But I have designated January as my bitchin' month.

Oh, I did get one awesome thing accomplished. I made real greenery garland for the porch, two large swag wreaths...one to anchor the garland and a bigger one for the front door. Then I made 2 small ones for the french doors. They all have bundles of silver balls and red berries at the center. Total cost for all of it....3 bucks. Give me paddle wire and a glue gun and I am unstoppable.

Feels good to be back in the race.

Dottie

2011-12-07T22:20:00.002-05:00

Russell's Mom had 9 children, all of them as different as snowflakes. They are all here now, except for a son who passed away a few years ago. They stand around her hospital bed and stroke her hands, touch her cheek, joke about what the others are doing. They tell her "I love you, Mom", "rest", "here we are". The nurses smile tender smiles at the gathered families, but there is no sign from them that this is anything other than what it is. A long goodbye.

We drove through the night to get here, knowing yet not knowing what we would find. What we found was this quiet, sad, accepting knot of siblings standing guard. And Dottie. Breathing with help from machinery. Her face, peaceful yet different. Her life ending. At least this part of it.

I loved this woman. I loved her spirit, her dry sense of humor, her love of books and crossword puzzles, the conversations we would have about religion and family and kids. Nothing much got under her skin and I so admired that. But as Russ always said, when you have 9 kids, you pretty much have to have a Zen quality about you. She didn't suffer fools, but she accepted them for what they were.

As she aged, she lost most of her hearing and vision. Never complained. She just got audio books and a headset.

Tomorrow they are going to disconnect the machinery that is keeping her "alive". She will stop breathing, we will lose her.

But I will remember how she always wanted to feed me as soon as I walked in the door. How she would make 3 quick kissing sounds against my cheek. How she loved breakfast at a diner decorated with cow knick knacks.

I was blessed to have this woman in my life. I loved her.

Christkindl revisited

2011-11-28T08:00:00.012-05:00

I referenced the Christkindl Market in Canandaigua in my last post, but now I want to talk about it with pictures. I started to just write a little blog about setting up at an art show. Russell is always impressed by how I can pull it together despite missing display parts or booth spots that sport a tree smack in the center or neighboring artists that infringe on your precious footage, tossing your careful layout into disarray. I give credit to my years in theater as a stage manager. The show must go on and if it looks impossible you make it work anyway. Both activities...set design and booth set up...are alll about illusion. Once the play starts or the products are on the shelves, the "audience" is not going to notice that it is all held together by duct tape and thumb tacks.

So...here is our Christkindle spot before:

and after:

It all fits into an Odyssey van.

While I was gathering the set up pictures, I saw that I had some nice shots of the event itself that I should share. It really is a one-of-a-kind event for us. Based on the traditional German Christmas market, the grounds of a Victorian Mansion are transformed with huge tents and roaming elves.

The folks who run this show also are involved with the show at Sonnenberg Gardens. Both present you with a welcome packet that makes the usual manilla envelope of info look like an insult :)

The best thing the committee does, though, is bring out the crowds. I wanted to take pictures of the show, but all these people kept getting in the way,

Nice problem to have. I've said it before, but these people should give classes on how to put on an art/craft show.

I don't like to post pictures of my art carnie friends but I have no such reservations about funny signs my art carnie friends have in their booths:

A nice extra was our motel. Last year when we did Sonnenberg, we decided to stay at a funky, 50's style motel that was under renovation. The back of the place looked like an episode of "Hoarders", but the very nice owner assured us the inside was all done and it was and the folks who run the place are exceptionally accommodating.

I booked it again, curious to see how the reno was going. The deor of the place is retro chic and we loved our room and it's funky bathroom

And so it goes. There is more to this business than just selling our "stuff". It's about being part of an event, a family, a place.

If only for a weekend.

ho, ho, whoa!

2011-11-24T08:24:00.002-05:00

I've been busy. The sad truth about this business is that, like most retail operations, you really don't make much of a profit until November. You get out of the red by mid Summer if you're lucky, but you are really just getting breathing room. Art fair goers see us in our little white tents, taking money and handing over bags of our creations (which they know they could make if they just had the time) and assume we are making money like crazy. Crazy may be the only truth in that whole sentence.

Most of them don't know we probably paid about 300 bucks just to set up that tent. And that the organizers charged us maybe 35 just to apply. Hell, they often don't even know you have to apply. Many think you just reserve a spot. Nope. There is a jury, people, for which you need professional photos of your work. And so it goes. Supplies can kill ya.

But I'm not here to whine. I'm here to say thank you. Thank you to all the lovely people who made our last 2 shows profitable. You really count on Christmas shoppers and my stuff is infinitely gift-able. But this year, I also brought my "art". (At some point I will stop using quotes around that. I even do the 2 finger dance when I say the word out loud) I brought my new collage work because, honestly, I needed something for the back wall :) But I sold it! At Christmas shows! Seriously, I thought it was something I would pursue harder at the Summer shows when people are more likely to buy "art". I did not at all expect to sell it now. But I did. At both shows. I am positively giddy. More about that later.

There have been 2 big shows so far: Christkindl Market in Canandaigua and the Holiday Show at the Kenan Center. One more big one next week. Christkindl was packed with artists I have come to truly love over the years. A group went out one night for the best Mexican food I ever had and the next night we just hung out in our hotel room with one of my most favorite artists and her family, drinking wine and eating pretzels, talking about everything from politics to burglary.

At Kenan, another artist I truly love was having knock out sales at her first time ever at that show and her beautiful smile lit up the room. She has struggled against the odds as a jeweler and it has been fun watching her success this year. Doors are opening for her, as they should. She was happy for me, too, noticing how many people bought "art" and hugging me in celebration.

There were lots of familiar faces at this show, also, and we got to catch up. We had, sadly, lost a favorite artist but her family was there with her work, donating the proceeds. The happiest story was from a fiber artist who was overflowing with joy. After a long time waiting for a child, their son-to-be was due to be born on Christmas Eve. The birth mother's name is Mary. :)

So, yeah, finally I am feeling rich. But, somehow, it has little to do with money.

rewriting the cliché

2011-10-31T08:48:00.005-04:00

OK, I was grumpy. It had been a trying day at work. A part time job at a theater sounds like perfection, and it often is, but Sunday had been a parade of problems and I was tired. And I needed to buy groceries. That task needed to be checked off the list of weekly chores so I could devote real time during the week to getting stuff done for the Christmas shows.

So, maybe I was a tad impatient as I tried to stuff a cauliflower the size of a small country into the fridge. Maybe I should have thought it out. But I didn't and so the new container of half and half that had perched precariously on the edge (sort of like my life lately) gave into the gigantic veggie and toppled to the floor where it popped open like a creamy grenade.

Instantly, I was standing in a puddle of cream. The hems of my good work pants were white. My feet, still in the black trouser socks, were white to the ankle and I was standing in the middle of it all. Our old house hasn't a level floor anywhere, so the milk ran to the back door, under the fridge, behind me, beside me. All of this as I alternately yelled for Russell to save me and cursed the heavens, the hells, the girl scouts, anyone who came to mind. He came to my aid with a roll of paper towels to make a paper trail upon which I could escape my mess. I hopped off, pulled off one, sock, then the other, grumbling, whining, self pitying. Stepped put of my soggy slacks.Now I am barefoot, wearing a sweater and underwear, Holding my dripping duds, I turned back to assess the situation and, probably wallow in some more poor me prattle and what do I see? Russell, on his knees, mopping up my mess and Scooter the cat sitting placidly at the edge of the mess, lapping it up, in kitty heaven.

Scooter seldom comes when I call. Russell almost always does. Russell knew I needed help, Scooter somehow knew there was cream on the floor. Whatever the reason, there they were and it cracked me up and I changed into my jeans and dry socks, made dinner and all was well with the world.

Laughing over spilt milk.

the art of economy

2011-10-24T20:10:00.002-04:00

For a long time now I have been trying to understand this economic mess we find ourselves in. I know 2 things: the current POTUS did not cause it and (2) politics is getting in the way of fixing it. Other than that I am clueless. I did take economics in college. Well, I got a lot of rest during economics in college, but I remember clearly the instructor telling us that no matter how one tinkers with the economy, if left alone it fixes itself. Maybe I'll call the prez and reassure him, tell him to not sweat it, focus on the environment or health care or something.

A friend was set up next to another artist at a show last weekend who opined that we cannot raise taxes on the job creators. Now, the job creators, who I assume are the folks with the money, have had a break for a decade now and there are fewer jobs than ever. Obviously this is not the case. So I pondered this and decided to apply it to the art show life with moi being the job creator. I do pay taxes but the amount is so pathetic that for the sake of pondering, I will use show fees instead of a tax rate. Are you with me? Great.

The shows charge an average of 30-40 bucks to apply to a show, then, if accepted, the booth fees are anywhere from $150 to $500. When I calculate my profit after a show (as if!) I deduct the expenses like materials and fees. With the economy gasping for air, our sales have been less and less. Now lets give me a choice between cutting the booth fees (taxes) in half or selling more. Naturally I will choose selling more. To sell more, my customers need more disposable cash, need to feel free to spend money on whimsy instead of canned goods for the disaster pantry.

Hmmm...OK. Seems to me that the answer is to give tax breaks to the job doers, to the little guys, to retired folk, to the middle class. Because when I started this gig 15 years go, the country was rockin', throwing money at us. The job creators were not throwing money at me. Regular old people like me were spending. And the more they spent, the more I spent. I bought clothes, furniture, a car, food, a Golden Retreiver. We went on trips, filling the gas tank as if gas was 2 bucks a gallon. Oh, wait...

Anyway, folks like us are good for the economy because we spend our money and keep stores and gas stations and PetSmart and Holiday Inn Express in business. Job creators, it seems, sit on the money and wait for it to hatch.

Mr Obama, there is your answer. Give financial help to the spenders, the little people. The beautiful people who wander into our gypsy caravans longing to leave with something pretty. I promise, the money they spend will be spent again and again and again.

I'm tellin' you, I think I'm onto something here. Sure hope it works, I need new appliances.

painless

2011-10-19T20:54:00.002-04:00

This morning, bright and early and without coffee, I find myself yet again in a facility with nurses and doctors and solemn looking waiting room people and the smell of pine-sol and ammonia in the air. The usual furniture, this year's color appears to be teal, Are there no decent magazines willing to sit on waiting room tables? Is it only fishing periodicals and medical journals that get the nod? Where is the New Yorker? Vanity Fair? The Esquire Summer short story issue? I mean, it's bad enough without trying to pretend the price of waders is enough to hold your attention while you wait for your name to be called.

Yes, I'm digressing again.

So, today was a good thing. I was to finally get the sight in my left eye back with a simple cataract surgery. It has been 8 months of walking into people, squinting, searching for glasses. Even with all the reassurances in the world about how simple and painless this procedure is, I want it to be over. The endless questions with the usual answers. the IV, the unknown, the shower caps. and that smell. The smell that says "not gonna like this".

You get to keep your street clothes on but they still wheel you down that hall full of supplies (don't any hospitals have closets for this stuff?) and back you into a room with a lot of light and even more supplies. This brought back unpleasant memories of last year at this time, but I chided myself silently. This, after all, was to be a happy surgery. And it was. The only ting I felt was cold drops every so often that ran down my face. The visions were pretty cool. Dancing cotton balls, mostly 3D. Weird. And then a kaleidoscope of dancing silver circles as the new lens was slipped into place. They pulled off the drape that had been on my face. That was actually the most uncomfortable part of the whole thing. Then my little cart was off again, this time away from the bad place and into a curtained cubby with a window and a comfy chair where I was served..finally!...coffee and urged to relax for a few minutes. Russell came in, happy to see me, carrying my stuff and it was then that I looked, really looked out the window and realized I could see. Out of both eyes. I could see.

OK, the blinds were wavy and focusing was a tad odd. It was like twisting the lens on my Nikon. A tweak here, there, once more..Aha! But I could see. It had been 8 months , almost to the day, that I lost the sight in that eye. Boy, the world is wide!

Now, I have to admit I am a little peeved that the eye seems over corrected which means I will probably need reading glasses. But maybe it will be better tomorrow. we did, after all, have lengthy discussions about how this was my reading eye, uncorrected, just fine as it was, so please just make it as delightfully near sighted as it always was. The contact in my other eye serves for distance. My brain accepts this chaos and switches seamlessly from near to far to middle without a flutter of indecision. A person could pretend they had normal eyesight with this system (called monovision) It was perfect for a decade. I am sad to lose it mostly because I can't keep track of my reading glasses. For 8 moths now I have been unable to keep track of my reading glasses. You'd think a person would learn.

I admit to getting a bit teary about it this afternoon. I was weakened by the happy shot they gave me in surgery. I had been waiting a long time to see normally again and, it appears, that is not going to happen after all. So I had a short pity party. Until I remembered that besides the fact that I am lucky to be alive right now, I am also lucky to have regained the sight in my eye at all. What is wrong with me? Cripes.

I'm not sure whether to look up to the heavens when I say thanks, or directly at the assorted Docs who did the work or the sweet man who sits beside my bed/chair/table during all of it. But thanks I say. No more pity party. I'm going to buy the most kick ass pair of readers you ever saw and get on with it.

After I do a little jig to "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone....."

Lady Marmalade

2011-09-25T21:46:00.005-04:00

Because I don't have enough to do what with the arts business and the part time job and the house worky stuff, I decided to make marmalade.

It all started when a friend who has been living off the land...well, part time when she's not a corporate attorney..sent some peach jam home with friends and I got one of the precious little quilted jars and it was the best thing I ever ate. It was spoonfuls of orange sweetness, tangy bits of peach, I swear it glowed in the morning sunlight. I fell in love. I wanted my own little quilted jars. I wanted to make something to put in them. I googled and googled (things to put in quilted jars that glow in the sun) and found a recipe from my own personal guru, Ina Gartin. It seemed simple and straight forward. She said if you had a mandolin it would go faster, I have one, Ina, I thought proudly. I assumed success was a given.

I found the appropriately thin-skinned oranges, bought a box of the pretty, quilted jars, some lemons, a barrel of sugar. I was ready. The recipe is fairly simple, actually. You slice up the oranges and lemons, cook them in a whole lot of water for a couple of hours and let it sit at room temperature overnight. I was really good at this part. I retired for the night, smug in my expertise.

The next morning, I proceeded with part 2. This entailed boiling the orange mixture gently for several hours and then, boil it not so gently until it reaches 220 degrees. (Yes, I have a candy thermometer, Ina!). To test the doneness, you put a bit on a cold plate, wait 10 seconds and see if you have jam or juice. I put a small plate in the freezer to be at the ready. Soon, I would be filling those jars.

It takes a while to get stuff on the stove to 220 degrees. I'm not sure you know that. I didn't. I pulled my little ice plate out of the freezer a dozen times to test my mixture and it never changed from juice to gel. I did not lose patience. I was, after all, doing an old-fashioned thing, a take your time for a change kind of thing. I was serene. Almost cocky. Write this down: Cockiness is never a good thing.

I calculated how long I had been boiling the goop, ran an equation in my head about how much longer I could expect this to take based on my cold plate to gel ratio and decided to play a game of Bejeweled on my laptop.. Well, face it, that old-fashioned charm thing doesn't last all that long.

I blasted the last row of gems with the bomb icon and went back to the kitchen expecting the thermometer to read 219 degrees at which time I would retrieve the little plate from the freezer one last time, put a golden spoonful of deliciousness on it and watch while it miraculously transformed itself into marmalade. I would then ladle it into my newly sanitized jars and I have 8 jars of orange sunlight perched on my pantry shelves. I was smiling in anticipation.

I could smell the burnt orange from the dining room. No, no, no. It could not have burned. Bejeweled is a one minute game. The pot was bubbling rambunctiously. The burnt smell was stronger. I picked up the wooden spoon, approached the pot, the thermometer read 220, I stirred. The spoon stuck to the bottom of the pot, mired in an inch of thick, burnt goo. I did not have marmalade, I had tar. It gelled immediately on the cold plate. Brown marmalade.

Apparently there is a magical moment when the boiling goo becomes jam and if you wait just 30 seconds too long, you have botched it. Ina neglected to mention this. You failed me, Ina.

Per the instructions (if it is too thick, add some water) I adjusted, added water, ladled some of the watered down tar into my sparkly new jars. Brown. No sunlight penetrated. 5 minutes later, it was too solid to get out of the jars. Sigh.

I am not defeated. This was my learning batch. Sort of like a dress rehearsal, your first loaf of bread, your first marriage. Get the kinks out so you do it right the next time.

I have more oranges. And a recipe from a lawyer acquaintance.

rooms

2011-09-17T18:47:00.003-04:00

Mom's house is for sale. There is, of all things, a big sign in her lawn announcing it, inviting strangers to poke around the rooms, peer into the closets, test the water pressure.

Absent of furniture and window treatments, it is just rooms, really. A living/dining room, galley kitchen, 3 bedrooms, a bathroom, a screened porch in the back, a backyard big enough for one of those round swimming pools and a huge willow that I loved but that she had removed when the shedding annoyed her. It seems impossibly tiny. It is a house I would never buy. There are no winding hallways or 2nd and 3rd floors to get lost in. Everything is square and even and exact, unlike our very old house with its odd shaped rooms and oversized windows and doors. My parents built that house themselves, with a kit they ordered from a department store. Imagine.

The house did not seem tiny when I lived there. My brother and I had our little worlds within our little rooms. Mom and Dad made amazing Italian food in that tiny kitchen. We skated round and round on circles in that basement, practicing for Friday nights at the roller rink. The porch was the gathering place for our parents' friends. Coffee and donuts from Freddies and everyone smoking cigarettes and telling jokes with the bad words in Italian so the kids wouldn't hear. Life happened there.

I thought that when I wandered through the empty rooms I would hear echoes of memories, but I don't. Oh, I do have flashes. Lots of Christmas trees, searching for hidden presents with my brother. How we used to practice sneaking to the tree after everyone was asleep on Christmas Eve.

But I realize that most of the life there belonged to Mom. She loved that little house. It was her haven, the neighborhood her world. She often complained about her boring life even though we could seldom get her to go anywhere with us the last few years. Truth be told, she was pretty content to watch TV, smoke menthol cigarettes and watch the world pass by the living room picture window. When we tried to encourage her to sell and move to a condo or something she would insist the house was perfect for her. And it was.

My brother and I have talked about how nice it would be if a young couple bought the house as a starter. If they updated the kitchen and had children there. But, who knows. I guess we have to let it go, drop our attachment to it. It is an investment now. No more no less.

Except that lately when I have medical stuff done that requires me to be still and wait for the time to pass so I can get the hell out of there, I imagine peaceful places. And lately that place is under the low hanging branches of that willow in the corner of the yard. It is Summer and it is cool under there. I have a book to read and cookies in my pocket. There is a breeze that moves my hair and cools my neck. The grass is soft beneath me and I can rest my head against the trunk, prop the book on my knees and get lost. It is quiet, safe, a place of contentment. It is my private room.

The house will be sold, other lives will happen there. Years will go by without turning onto that street. But a corner of the yard lives in my heart, giving me a sweet memory and a place to go when I need a few moments of comfort. The smell of grass, the play of shadows, sweet crumbs on my fingertips, safe, warm. Home.

quietly there

2011-09-04T17:19:00.002-04:00

It's been 4 months since Mom passed. Seems impossible. All the legal stuff is just about done. Her beloved little house, the house where I grew up, is empty of everything but echoes and soon it will have a For Sale sign on the front lawn. Life goes on and you assume that all is in place. Documents, furniture, memories, odds and ends, sadness.

And then, on a quiet Sunday afternoon that you have been determined to make lazy even though it winds up making you restless, a torn piece of a sentence in the novel you are reading brings this:

An early Spring day, warm, Mom insists on wearing her pea coat to the Doctor appointment. It has lint and dust on it and I want to brush her off, make her more presentable. She is wearing that scowl of impatience that seems to be her real face now as she walks to the car with the aid of her cane, She sighs at the chore of needing to fold herself into the Beetle. She is equally irritated to climb into my brother's SUV. Only the old car we wrested from her 6 months earlier against her wishes was just right. Like the 3 bears. She fumbles for the seat belt and holds it for me to buckle it in. Secure now, she settles back, but when the car starts and the radio comes on she flutters her hands against the sound angrily and insists I turn it off. On the way to the appointment she reads every sign aloud, tells me to slow down, tells me we are going to be late, picks up a stray Starbucks cup from under her seat and scolds me about not cleaning out my car more often, I am old and she makes me feel like a child. I try to joke her out of her ill temper but she will have none of it. "Oh, Patty" she sighs.

My brother and I had many late night talks about her, releasing the frustrations of dealing with a loved one who was so difficult to love. We knew we would miss her when she was gone, though.

It's just that you don't feel how true that is until you are having a lazy Sunday afternoon with the smell of rain in the air and a gentle breeze meandering through the house, ruffling the curtains and you have let your guard down and there it is. The sleeve of an old pea coat with lint on the cuff. And you feel the sadness in your heart and in your gut.

It's as if the loss is too great to think about when you are busy with other things.

I'm not too busy today. And I miss her.

Elmwood Avenue Festival and missing Summer

2011-09-02T07:27:00.003-04:00

I've written of it before but I will reiterate: I love the Elmwood Avenue Festival of the Arts. It was established by artists a dozen years ago. I happens in my own neighborhood, and it is usually a pretty good sales day. There is a happiness about this show that is hard to explain. It may be that it is family friendly and has music and dance along with us in our little huts. It could be the attitude of the artist/organizers. Not sure. Even our customers note the difference. They compare it often to the city's "big Kahuna" show, Allentown, and declare this one to be better. I notice the crowd is different.

Allentown brings out the suburbanites, venturing into the city for their yearly pilgrimage. They are there to people watch and celebrate the start of Summer. Elmwood brings out the folks from the 'burbs, too, but they are there to buy stuff. Big difference. Not sure why.

So, anyway. Saturday was pretty dismal, sales-wise. Not sure why. I was experimenting with my new collage work and I wondered if that was a failure. But when I compared sales, I sold as many of those as anything else. Which means not much. Sunday started with the sale of my most expensive framed piece and I was tickled. (I love doing collage, I have a fantasy of a booth with nothing else. When I am in the attic making them, I am loathe to stop and keep working on my more practical stuff). That broke the dam and sales picked up to triple what they were on Saturday. Cool!

There were sweet spots along the way. I saw many old friends who stopped by my booth to say Hi. I have a few followers who love what I do and sometimes aspire to try it themselves and I had a few of them stop by for long, happy chats about the work and promises to get together for a "play date" Several of my gallery owners stopped by. One was reminded that she needed to put in a new order, the other, a collage artist herself, was thrilled with my new work and asked me to send her everything I could. This meant a lot coming from her.

And so the Summer season ends. Seems like I was just whining about applications. Already some mornings are cool and crisp. I'm starting to see crinkled leaves on the walk. There are a few Holiday shows coming up and then it all begins again. The first apps often coincide with the first Holiday show.

When I was younger, I used to mark the years in semesters. Teaching for a few years after college bookmarked my life September to June, Spring break in the middle. Now it is Application Season, Summer shows, Holiday shows. What is missing is Summer.

I vowed to Russell that this year I would go to the beach, that we would make time to enjoy Summer, that I would organize my work in such a way that I wasn't spending long, hot afternoons in the attic. Maybe we could even dust off the camping gear. But it didn't happen.

I'm not blaming myself. Chemo every 2 weeks. sheesh. I didn't expect to go blind in one eye and need surgery. I mean, who expects that?? And then, Mom getting so sick and passing. Long days by her hospital bed. The sadness sapping the joy that creativity feeds on. So, I am cutting myself a bit of a break here.

It wasn't all sad stuff, of course. There was that beautiful wedding of my son and his long time love. I smile whenever I think of it.

I'm praying that I will have a stretch of boring, normal days. I have plans. Plans to just enjoy life, working my art into ordinary days, planning ahead, avoiding stress, day trips, bike rides. If I do it right, if I start now, next Summer I can start my days reading at the water's edge, taking a dip. I can ride my bike in the afternoons and come back refreshed and ready to work.

I can dream.

Happy endings

2011-08-22T09:01:00.005-04:00

My son married the woman of his dreams this past weekend. It is a story I will write about later when I have long, restful nights to ponder life and it's miracles and mysteries. Let us just say that he has loved her for a dozen years or more and even after they broke up, she was the woman of his heart and he always missed her.

But, apparently, they got back together! Oh, yes they did and on Saturday they got married and I swear I never saw 2 people so in love.

I am a cryer. I cry at sad and happy movies with little distinction between them. I cry at parades. At weddings, funerals, graduations, even when I hardly know the people. OK? Got the picture? I am freely admitting this and accepting the smirks. I was determined to keep it together during the wedding weekend so as not to embarrass my kid and to keep the wedding pictures from capturing a woman with bloodshot eyes, red swollen nose and streaked makeup. Did I mention that I don't cry pretty?

I got a lot of that emotion out in the months leading up to the big day. When Leisha sent me a picture of her dress, when they showed me the wedding invitations, yadda yadda. And then, of course, there is the rewind. This is the perview of the parents, I think, whenever your child approaches a milestone.

My memories seemed to really dig into the vault, with most of them being Billy as an infant and toddler. I could remember as if it were yesterday, his nursery, crib, the bentwood rocker so popular in the 70's. I would sing to him there. If he was cranky, it would be "Song Sung Blue" with it's happy cadence. If I was trying to get him to sleep, it was always "Sweet Baby James" except I would change it to sweet baby Bill. These memories brought tears close. Happy tears, sweet memories.

I was so young and hopeful then, everything seemed tinged by magic. But in a few years I would be a struggling single parent, hoping for the best. Thankfully, the bond between us never broke and Billy and I had and have a strong, loving relationship that is the joy of my life.

And so, I made it through the wedding needing only to dab at my eyes, no sobbing. So proud of myself. My brother's toast brought me to tears, but I controlled the flow. There was only one more hurdle. The big one. The mother/son dance. I teared up watching Leisha dance with her Dad to Billy Joel's " Lullaby". Her bond with her parents is also very very close and loving. I started taking deep, calming breaths. I could do this.

And then it was time.

"And now", the DJ said, "The groom will dance with his Mother." I took a deep breath, prepared to rise from my seat.

"The song he has chosen is 'Sweet Baby James' "

doing time on Montgomery Street

2011-08-04T07:48:00.002-04:00

Ah, Syracuse. Nice city. Good University. Crazy weather. Decent art show. Friends live there.

Ok, that covers it,

But seriously...This show has been tinkered with within an inch of its life over the past few years. Why not? It was good. Let's see how much it can take. What could happen? Change the date, schedule it with other festivals, rearrange the layout.

As with many high end shows, a "gypsy" show takes place on an adjacent street. A gypsy show (also called an alternative show or, depending on how good or bad it is, a scab show) attaches itself to a juried, quality show and has folks who either could not get into the main show or who prefer the low key atmosphere or who are selling bazaar items. They syphon off the crowd who can't tell the difference and it is usually just fine with everyone. In Syracuse, the gypsies set up on Montgomery Street. So when I studied the map to see where our booth was, I said to Russell that, as usual, I can't read a map because this sure looks like we are on Montgomery Street.

And so, we were. The gypsies had been moved a block away and onto a parking lot. We were in their place. A volunteer said they had added 40 artists. We were in front of the city's soup kitchen and no fewer than 4 security guards warned us to watch our money which troubled my liberal soul, but they were on target. Over the next 3 days we were subjected to fights and an arrest and loud profane singing. Yay for an art career.

But that wasn't the worst. When I ventured up the street and onto the main part of the show, I was stunned to find the first half of the block filled with commercial booths like BathFitter which featured a nubile spokeswoman in teeny shorts and a tight T whose main job appeared to be climbing in and out of the tub.

We were appalled and many curbside conferences were held amongst the artists, OK, maybe I was the most vocal, but damn it is about respect, We work too hard, Way too hard to have this sort of thing in our faces. It was agreed that we would address this issue with the committee after the show because trying to deal with it while they were harried would be useless.

Meanwhile, the gypsies who had become accustomed to shady Montgomery Street were baking in the shadeless parking lot.

OH...and did I mention the flood? It rained hard on Friday morning. An artist a few spots up had reportedly covered up that pesky unattractive drain in her booth so my space had a 4 inch deep flood. I could only navigate it barefoot and, naturally, no customers could come in. The maintenance guys said they couldn't fix it because the display was over it.

Note to maintenance crew: You say "Ma'am you have created a public safety issue with your irresponsible act. Dismantle your display now and remove the cover you put over the storm drain. You have 20 minutes"

The dear friend who had graciously opened her home to us yet again was deeply hurt and probably irritated by my daily morning rant over these issues. But I had to vent and get it out so I could take a breath and be my charming self. Truly, spending the weekend with her and her husband was the best part of the weekend and would have been even if the show had been a barn burner.

And then, Sunday, the impossible happened. A woman came into the booth, introduced herself as the person in charge of the show and said "I agree with you 100 percent"

I have no idea how she knew I was complaining (I was not alone) or what I was saying, but she had a laundry list of complaints that we had all been vocal about plus a few of her own. She promised to fix it. She explained some of the circumstances, but agreed they shouldn't matter.

This never happens.

I guess we'll see what happens. I wonder if the "Buy 2, get 3 more free" clothing sale will be gone. That took up easily 6 booth spaces. Had to keep the parking lot visible. Hey, BathFitter, try using a 70 yr old model climbing in and out of your tub using a handrail. Could be edgy. And could we have a different guy in the cutlery booth? He looked way too angry to have all those knives.

Good news..sold more collage. The experiment of selling some unframed was a success. I am energized by this, by the notion that people may really want to own my version of "art". I admit to be growing weary of some of the items I have been crafting for a decade. The idea that I can sit at my worktable and have fun and then sell it is intoxicating.

On to Chautauqua, and then, in just 2 weeks, my son marries the love of his life. I may wear make up. Stay tuned.

seeking grace

2011-07-17T08:50:00.004-04:00

No, not the spiritual kind:

Divine love and protection bestowed freely on people

I have a sort of convoluted theory about all that stuff and I am sure that whether I am right or wrong will not matter a bit to the powers that be.

I am speaking of grace as defined in the dictionary thusly:

Seemingly effortless beauty or charm of movement, form, or proportion.

I don't have that. I have never had that. It is not related to my foray into what will soon be considered my "golden" years. Except for a decent showing on the dance floor during the 80's I have never had what could be considered charm of movement. I was reminded of this yet again when I finally got my bike out and went riding along the waterfront.

I meant to get pedaling earlier, like late April or May. But it was cold and rainy and then I got busy and I kept putting it off. I live on a bike path. I have no excuse. It was July before I finally got the bike on the street.

Russell still rides like a teenager. He puts one foot on a pedal, pushes off and throws his leg gracefully over the seat while careening down the street. His bike moves straight and true as he does this.

Meanwhile, I have both hands on the handle bars in a death grip and I am trying to decide whether I should keep trying to get my leg over the seat from behind or if I should put my foot between the seat and the bars and scoot in sideways but my shoes keep getting stuck. The bike is wobbling fearfully as I keep trying to do this while hoping no kids ride by and start laughing at the chubby old lady trying to get on her bike.

Russell, meanwhile, has circled back several times waiting for me. No pressure.

I finally get on the thing and now I have to start out. I can only start out with the right pedal. No, I don't now why and, yes, I have tried it with the left and it just doesn't work for me. It has always been so. Apparently, the way I stop and start means that the right pedal is always in the highest position so now I have to get my foot up there and balance it before I can start. No, I never think to even out the pedals before I do this. Once again, I don't know why.

Russell is circling like a land buzzard.

OK, pedal engaged, off I go, wobbling mightily until I can get up some speed and then, praise all, I am riding. As long as I don't have to stop, I am riding!

Every stop sign is a challenge, crossing the street is a project, but I carry on. I know that in a week or so I will have remembered how I do all this. But I will never look good doing it. Russell can make small, concentric circles while riding. I have to hop off the seat and do this little hopping in a circle dance with the bike between my legs. I expect a sign to pop up at Canalside any day announcing the newest comedy act appearing daily.

One would think that my clumsiness would discourage me from trying, but it doesn't. Because once I'm riding and the wind is in my hair and the sights and sounds of the neighborhood or trail are all around me, I am not clumsy. I am not getting old. I am like the wind. Well, maybe a breeze.

It feels good to make my knees work, to get out of breath a little bit on a rise, to coast downhill with my feet out sideways like a little kid.

In a few more days I know I will be able to hop on that bike like a 40 yr old. I will ride on a street alongside cars without chanting "don't hit me, don't hit me" under my breath. I will make a tight U-turn while remaining seated.

Yes, there will be snow on the ground by then and I will have to start over again in the Spring, but maybe I will achieved something else. A little bit of effortless movement.

You might call that grace. Both kinds.

Chautauqua on my mind

2011-07-11T20:17:00.002-04:00

It was the weekend I have been looking forward to for months. I love this show for the educated, affluent customers, yes, but the Institution itself is the kind of place that prompts you to take a deep breath when you enter the grounds and it holds you with a sense of well being the whole time you are there. Last year it was at this show when my illness started to really make itself known and I was aware of and grateful for the differences this year. We had a tough set up in a downpour but it didn't faze me except for the stress on my damaged knee. It was better by the next morning and I wandered about the grounds with a spring in my step the rest of the weekend - even did a quick run home for some materials so I could spend Sunday morning finishing up more work to bring. Have I mentioned lately how grateful I am?

But it wasn't any of that, really, that made this a beautiful weekend. Sales were blah compared to other years so I guess the economy has everyone spending more cautiously. Didn't bother me. I'll explain why I didn't join the chorus of disgruntled whining going on around me as we broke our booths down.

One of the first persons to enter my booth Saturday morning was a petite, elderly Chinese woman who studied every single thing with a serious expression on her face and then turned to me as she was leaving and with s sweet smile said "so much beauty here".

A bit later, enter Judy, a one woman self esteem creator. She bought a couple of things, and proceeded to throw so many compliments at me that I wondered if there was a hidden camera somewhere, But, no, she just really related to my stuff. She came back several times over the weekend, always bought things, always went on and on about how wonderful the things were. She brought a friend in one afternoon to show her just how wonderful I was and then, to top things off, came back on Sunday to take my picture so she could include it with one of my things she had purchased as a gift.

I may adopt Judy.

One of the employees of the Institution came in and was moved by one of the quotes I use and it started a conversation which led to us realizing we had both lost our Moms recently. We talked about that and about feeling their presence and signs and she said to me that she believed there were few coincidences in life and that many things happened for a reason, even conversations and she hugged me.

Another woman studied my collage pieces for a very long time and talked to me about how she loved them and wished she could do it and so we talked abut letting yourself try things without fear, respecting your own vision.. I offered some elementary advice on how to get started (I'm pretty new at it myself) and she said she was inspired..She bought a piece and gave me a hug.

There is a trend developing here.

So many people that come to this show have art in their lives and it makes for interesting conversations about book binding techniques and types of handmade paper and how to cut mats and which philosopher actually said that quote I used on a fly leaf. I had to hold one woman's cello while she dug out her credit card, another was carrying a partially completed papier mache ogre she was constructing for a diorama.

This is not your usual craft show, this was not my usual year, this was not your usual show crowd.

I may not have made a record amount of money this weekend, but I was made richer nonetheless.

Oh, and today, the day after a show, when I would normally be exhausted and sore and housebound, I went for a bike ride with Russell down to the Harbor, sat on the newly painted Adirondack chairs along the canal. let the warm breeze wash over me while I ate a strawberry ice cream cone and celebrated nothing but the joy of a normal day and the gift of connections made and cherished.

Roycrofting in the rain

2011-06-27T09:15:00.003-04:00

Oh how I used to look forward to the Roycroft Summer Festival. It's one of those shows that I envied before I turned pro myself. I was inspired by the accomplishments of the Roycroft Artisans. I won't bore you with the details but you can read about the movement and the artisans here: http://www.ralaweb.com/

Eventually I started to apply to the show and almost always got in. I loved it.

So, anyway, 2 years ago there was construction happening on the site so they moved the show from the historic, charming campus to the parking lot of an elementary school a few blocks away. Major bummer. So we lost the trees and the ambience and the history and the cache. They marked our spaces so that the booths actually touch each other making set up a real challenge. Elbert would not have approved of some of the adjectives being tossed about as artists struggled to squeeze their fingers between metal poles so they could zip the sides of their canopies. But we managed. In this business you adapt or die.

The fine art show that traditionally runs concurrent with the artisan show still is held across the street from the old site and there is now an antique show on the grounds so I think some patrons think they have seen it all and fail to ponder what happened to the Roycrofters.

Oh, plenty of people come to the school parking lot, but it's not the same. We had hoped that the 2nd year in the new place would be better, that people would remember. But not enough did. I guess we aren't the only ones who believed location is everything.

It is still an honor to be in the show with the amazing certified Roycroft Artisans. I have regulars at this show who come look for me, people who actually collect my books and want a new one every year. We had a laugh-filled good time with a group of friends at the artist picnic on Saturday night and the next day I was mentored anew by one of the Roycroft masters who also happens to be a cherished friend. She's gonna make an artist outta me if it kills her. And it isn't the Roycrofter's fault that the weather forecasters said sun and warm when the reality was damp and cold.

But the thrill is gone. This used to be one of my best shows. I never had enough inventory. I would spend Saturday night finishing up stuff to bring on Sunday. Hard to believe I am wondering what other shows might be better at this time next year. I miss the old place, the funky buildings, the traditions. I think the customers miss it, too. Many of them mentioned it.

Oh, I'm sure that next year, with snow on the ground and echoes of the laughter from the picnic still echoing in my memory, I will adjust my expectations and apply again. The businesswoman in me is always at war with the sentimental part of my psyche. There is a little soft spot in my heart for this show, this place, these people. Oh, if only I could deposit soft spots in my bank account!

So, on to Chautauqua, my true number one, with visions of new, mentored work that will knock their sandals off.

Hope is that thing with feathers.....

http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/english/melani/cs6/hope.html

taking flight

2011-06-21T14:50:00.005-04:00

It was a peaceful Sunday morning and I was taking a break from the studio when Russell dashed into the house and told me to come outside, hurry up, I would like it.

Now, with Russell, this could be anything from a new bud on a tree to an unusual cloud formation to a funny license plate. I went anyway.

He motioned me across the street to a bush in front of the apartment building and there, crouching under the lowest branches, was a bird. Either a hawk or a falcon. Young. He had been hopping around on the grass when Russell first saw him but the combined interest of the neighbors and a couple of their cats had driven him under the bush. He still had some baby fuzz peeking out from his feathers and he peered at us from large, round eyes. I don't think he was pleased. He raised his wings slowly but went nowhere. Eventually he escaped our well meaning presence by flying low and clumsily across the street and under a car where he commenced to crying pitifully. It killed me. I knew he was calling his mother.

Well now, what to do?

By now we had the attention of some of the folks in the building as well as our neighbor friends and a conference ensued. What to do? He didn't seem to be able to launch himself into the air from the ground. What if he stayed under the car until someone drove over him? It was decided a rescue was necessary. Tara got a cat carrier, Jo and I started calling every place we could think of, Russell gently pulled the little guy from under the car and put him in the carrier.

Nobody was in. It was Sunday. We left messages. We waited. Tara kept checking the carrier which was on her porch, in the shade. How is he, we would ask and she would shake her head sadly. Not great.

FInally we got the SPCA emergency wildlife number, actually talked to someone and we were told to bring him down ASAP. Russell was elected to drive the rescue vehicle since I was to wait for the painter we had hired and the others had kids and things.

I called him after a bit and he was in and he said the SPCA person had pronounced the bird ( a Kestral Falcon as it turns out) healthy enough.

This news was shared with the neighborhood trauma team and I assumed that was the end of it. But when Russell came home he was toting the carrier and he informed me the bird was in it.

What? I didn't believe him, but it was true. He was told to bring the guy home (they estimated he was about 6 weeks old) put him up high somewhere so his Mom could find him and he would be fine. They assured Russell that in a battle with cats, he was sure to be OK. So, up the stairs he went and onto our upper porch and over the railing to the very edge. He opened the carrier, lifted the bird gently and stooped to put him on the roof.

And then, as Russell tells it with joy, he soared. Soared! Up and over the trees and back across the street where we all believe his Mom was pacing, waiting, watching for him.

It was a good morning and we were all happy and proud and we went back about our business. But it stayed with me.

Then it dawned one me that this is how people really are. This is what a society is. People who watch and care and act. People who sacrifice something to do good. This is a neighborhood. Men and women gathering on the sidewalk, discussing options, making calls, checking the internet, posting on facebook about what to do. Community.

I can't help but wonder at what level we lose this. When do a half dozen barefoot city dwellers, wearing jammy pants and pulling out cell phones to help a bird become politicians who bicker over whether their fellow human beings should be given health care or be allowed to marry the person they love? When does that natural instinct to give a shit go away?

I'm talking to you, Washington. Get over yourself, get down on your knees and pull us out from under the car. You will feel really, really good.

showdown in Allentown

2011-06-16T08:23:00.006-04:00

Every job has its own peculiar idiosyncrasies. There are rules that the public never thinks about but that rule our world. Like, at my theater job, we are never allowed to say a show is sold out until the boss says it is even if you can't find a seat in the whole place. You are not allowed to hang around the lobby for a sneak peek during a concert sound check. You can't wear sneakers even though nobody can see your feet.

And so it is in art show world. Organizers work hard to keep the cheaters from getting a spot in their show. Believe it or not, there are unscrupulous folk who buy crap from China, pull off the labels and set up shop as "the artist". They are masters at submitting jury photos of their "work" that fools the pros.

Then there are the production crews that have little mini factories set up to mass produce stuff like weathervanes and garden art and send out teams of people to pose as the artist at shows.

So, anyway, the better shows have come up with sets of rules that help to keep the shows real. After all, the main purpose of legitimate art and craft shows is to provide the customer a chance to see quality handcrafted work and to meet the person who created it. Otherwise, you might as well just go to your local consignment shop and pick something off a shelf.

OK, I'm getting to the point here, really.

We set up for the weekend on Friday night. Just the canopy and shelves because we knew we'd be there at 6am Saturday to grab one of the parking spots right behind our booth. It was our first outdoor show of the season and even though we were sure we had everything, we were missing the tie downs for the weights we attach to each leg of the rig. Since we live just blocks away, Russell was going to run home to get them, but our neighbor, a sweet faced man with a shaved head and newly sunburned cheeks offered an extra set he just happened to have. Really nice guy. He told us that he and another guy are partners in their pottery business but he was here alone because the other guy's wife, a paraplegic, was running a high temp and he had to stay behind in Albany to tend to her and their kids.

Potters have one of the toughest setups in the business. Everything is breakable, each piece needs to be wrapped and unwrapped. There are tons of small crates because the stuff is too heavy to pack up in big totes. It is tedious, hard work. We offered to help if he needed it.

Next morning we were all there early, setting up in the early morning dampness, catching up with friends, hunting down coffee. The usual. People started to make their way down the streets and it seemed like it would be an uneventful, fun day.

Then the committee came around. As part of the rules I referenced waaay back when I started this epic, they come to each booth, check your ID, make sure the person who applied is the person in the booth and they punch a hole in your exhibitor permit to indicate you have passed inspection. They were very nice to me, we joked, I got punched, they left.

A few minutes later, I hear our neighbor talking on his cell phone, telling his partner that his only recourse was to pack it all up and there was nothing else he could do. Uh oh. Was he being tossed? The committee woman agreed to talk to the guy and she paced the street in front of his booth, listening, responding, shaking her head. There was nothing she could do. Rules were there for a reason.

It seems that the show only allows one name per app, even if you create as a team, and it was the absent partner's name that had been submitted. No excuses, no extenuating circumstances. Pack it up.

Since the roads were closed, our neighbor wrapped up the pieces slowly, taking his time, commiserating with his fellow exhibitors, sitting in his truck, wrapping some more. It was a sad and odd dance. I felt really bad for him because I knew what the situation was, and even though I usually applaud the tough rules of this show it felt like a bad decision.

Over the course of the afternoon, others weighed in and, surprisingly, few were sympathetic. That is probably because we are all, for the most part, protective of this rapidly vanishing art show world and have grudging respect for the show "gestapo" that keeps it clean.

I was chided for being naive, that the partner was probably at a show in Chicago or Pittsburgh. And that even if he wasn't, you had to bring the hammer down on this guy because the next guy could be a fraud. I pulled out my app and, sure enough, the first rule, in bold caps, was one person per app, applicant must be present.

Since I am always ready to whine about the quality of some of the work allowed in these fairs, I should be able to see the wisdom and determination behind these rules. Without the 'artist must be present" clause, little factories in Arkansas can pump out pallets of cheap "craft" and send college kids out to sell it for 10 bucks an hour. It takes a lot to put together a show of good work. The potter wasn't the only one ousted that day. 15 "jewelers" were also kicked to the curb for offenses ranging from selling imports to making work from kits.

Even with all the rules, there are folks every year who make snide comments about the "crap". Really? I'd like to lock those bozos in a room for an hour and see if they can create anything but noise. You think the artists are lame? Let's see what you can do. Step away from the laptop and try to get up at 5am on show day to set up a 200 pound tent and display and then try to sell work you have put blood and tears into while some frat boy with a thesaurus posts his "critique" in various comment sections, using a fake name of course. One criticism I read revolved around the fact that here were cutting boards and wooden spoons at the fair. Apparently, woodworking, carving these items from a solid block of wood, turning, etc is not in this guy's limited mentaL data bank.

But they don't count. What counts is that we know the reality, how tough it is to get into good shows. We know how many rules we need to follow.

And now I know what happens when you don't.

beginning again with perspective

2011-06-09T11:21:00.003-04:00

So, my first "big" show of the year, 100 American Craftsmen, is now in the back of my show notebook, stamped "done", numbers totalled. Onward and upward.

It was a lovely show. I've written about it before. I'm happy when I can start the year there and cap it off at their Christmas Show. The jury is, literally, still out on the Christmas Show so I don't know if my incredible application luck will hold. You just never know.

That is, of course, the worst part of this business. Uncertainty. There were some familiar faces missing from the show this year. Talented artisans with a long history at Kenan. Truth be told, I didn't see anyone there that made me think they had outscored the missing folk. But, if I could understand the jury process properly I could fold up my tent and go into the consulting business.

I have groupies at this show. No lie! People who come back every year and stop by every year and buy something every year and give me detailed stories about who they gave the item to or where they put it in their house and how loved it is. I swear, a person could get a puffed head.

So, anyway, the perspective thing (see blog title above). I've been oddly Zen about my shows this year. What will be, will be. I guess it has a lot to do with the crazy events of the past year, the cancer, the broken foot, the blind eye. Each taken separately would give one pause, but as a collective medley of greatest hits, it is a winner. Having all of these hits properly fixed, or so it seems, has been a joyful thing, but accepting the fact of one's vulnerability less so.

And then, losing Mom, reflecting on all sorts of heavy existential issues. Well, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but it does tend to put things in their proper place.

Last year a this time I would have been fretting about how I only had 2 photo albums and I really should have 6 and where can I get the supplies and how long would it take to make them and on and on ....UGH! So, I have 2. 2 is good. 2 is better than zero.

Adding substance to my new maturity is an awareness of what happened to artists at the Columbus, Ohio art show last weekend. We art carnies are pretty good at weathering storms, tying down the weights and buttoning up when things get blustery. But every so often a storm slams you before you can dig out the lovely, blue home depot tarps and you may lose some stuff to rain drops. And then there is what happened in Columbus:

That is a person's whole business flying down the street. Just the tent and displays were worth about 4 grand. The artist involved estimates the work lost at almost 40.

I think she had insurance, but what they can't insure are the hours spent imagining and creating, the pieces of a person's soul that goes into their art. That image makes my heart stop every time I see it.

It may rain a bit Saturday. Last year I would have thrown curse words at the weather guy who is clueless about what his forecast might do to attendance that day. Not this year. This year I say, bring it on. The real shoppers come out in the rain anyway. It's the dog walkers and stroller brigade that stay home.

I like the view from here. Maybe I'll actually be able to stay a bit this time.

the price is right-maybe

2011-05-28T19:07:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about value these days. How one measures it, decides it, defends it. I wrestle with the simplest part of that equation every year at this time as I ready my work for the first big show of the year. What is my work worth? Is it worth the most I can get for it? Is it worth more than I charge? Less?

A dear friend and talented artist has been telling me for years that I undervalue my work. My prices make her nuts. We discuss it, but the bottom line is that I can tell at what price point my sales tank and so I don't go over that. Yes, a one-of-a-kind hand bound book has a perceived value higher than what I charge, but what good is that when nobody will give me what it is worth? You can't pay the mortgage with perceived value.

And this is a business, after all, not just a creative exercise.

I had occasion to ponder this anew when I got a detailed bill from the hospital that treated me for cancer. I had chemo twice a month for 6 months. Just one of the drugs in my "cocktail" cost over $10,000.00 Twice a month. For 6 months. 10 grand. It boggles me. It looks like the average cost of my twice a month visit was in excess of $17,000. Each time.

As i put the bill down I couldn't help but have a fleeting thought about my own value. Did I really deserve this? Was I worth the quarter million bucks plus this disease will end up costing my insurance company? Am I worth more because I have insurance? What about all the Americans who have no insurance? Do they have a different value?

I think I am valuable to the people who love me, but let's face it. The rest of the world world will not notice if I fade away. Tons of money was spent on my behalf anyway. I guess my sticker price was higher than I imagined.

Perceived value.

beginning again in silence

2011-05-10T07:27:00.003-04:00

There is a strange silence in my Mother's house now that she has passed away. It is quieter than when she was just out having dinner with a friend, quieter than when she was in the hospital. It's as if the house itself has stopped breathing, stopped waiting for her to settle into her TV chair and light a menthol. The heart of the home has stopped.

And there is a new quiet in my head. After months of chemotherapy and then the eye surgery/blindness thing and months and months of arranging my life around Doctors, they have all said "see you in September", you're doing great. Just like that. The silence is deafening.

So I sort of sit here wondering what to do next. No tag-teaming with my brother to make sure someone is with Mom as much as possible. No need to rearrange my work schedule to accommodate the days when I carted chemo around in a fanny pack. No circled dates in my calendar book for treatments/tests/exams. Just quiet days and nights, waiting for me to fill them.

I don't quite know how to do this. I don't know what to do with weeks of free time. Hell, I can't decide what to do with 8 hours of free time. Oh, I know what I need to do. I need to plant myself in the studio and get busy. I have so many shows this year, such a great opportunity to actually make a decent profit. And I do go up there. I sit at my table by the window and watch the traffic on the avenue and the pigeons on the roof next door and I think about Mom. Stuff gets done, but I find myself staring into space and thinking, remembering, reflecting. That may be a good thing. So much to process from the last few months.

It's sort of a sanctuary up there with my piles of papers and pots of glue and bins of colorful cord. It is comforting chaos, where the true me lives and where I will slowly, over the course of this Summer, come to terms with the past year, make peace with it. In my own time, in my own space.

Quietly.

how do you measure a day?

2011-05-04T20:39:00.002-04:00

It was long. It started early with a 6am call from my brother. He had been called to the rehab facility where Mom had been trying to get strong enough to learn to walk on her new hip. They said we should get there right away. He said he would check out the situation and call me. We had been called this way before and Mom would recover by the time we got there. But this time, he said that we were at the end and we dressed quickly to meet him and his wife there.

We sat beside her bed, a row of her children in hospital chairs, watching her breathe, willing her to be comfortable, wondering what to expect. She slept on, her brow furrowed a bit as if she was concentrating.

And then I had to go. My own fate awaited across town. This date, May 4th, had hovered in front of me for a month. I could not see past it or around it to any of the days that would follow. It was the day that my oncologist would tell me the results of my scan. He would tell me if I still had cancer or not and what that would mean to me. And so we left Mom's bedside and kept the appointment, my stomach in knots for all sorts of reasons now.

First came a woman who wanted to know if they could use my blood for research. Of course. Signed papers. Would they ask that of a terminal patient, I wondered? Was this a good sign? And then, finally, my NP, Karen, came in and asked how I was and I said nervous and she said I needn't be. The scan was good. We chatted about what was found and she checked me over and we laughed over silly things and she said how happy she was that things were good. And then my Doctor came in and told me that he considered me to be in remission.

And I could breathe again.

But under all the relief and joy was the grief of knowing what waited a few miles away and so back to Mom we went. When we got to the room my brother said he thought she was hearing us and so I bent close to her ear and told her "Mom, I just went to the Doctor. I don't have cancer any more. I think I'm going to be fine". And she tried to speak and she moved her head back and forth and she heard me. I know she did.

And a few hours later she was gone.

How do you measure a day? In teardrops and laughter. In pain and joy. In loss and gain. In hope and acceptance.

In a few days we will resume our normal lives, missing Mom always, but getting on with life.

And May 4th will always be a day I'll remember. The day Mom's life ended and I got mine back.

How will I ever measure this day?

musings

2011-04-20T20:06:00.002-04:00

Some random thoughts over the past couple of weeks.

There was a time when a flu that would let me shed 14 pounds in 5 days would have been cause for celebration and envy. In actuality, it stinks. There is nothing cool about a body that won't do what it is supposed to do.

Snuggled under quilts with a bad movie on TV, ginger ale over ice on the bedside and 2 dogs pressed against you for warmth is not a bad way to get better. Having a sweetheart that runs and fetches anything that he thinks might make you feel better is the sweet icing.

Watching Mom in the hospital has been a revelation about aging. Her skin is baby soft and hairless, her thinking is childlike, her needs are simple and to deny them makes her irritable. We truly do become children again.

Hospitals do not have enough staff. We do not have the best health care in the world. Not by a long shot. Not sure what will happen if we don't take it on.

I've been accepted to every show I entered. I am stunned, grateful and frozen. Where do I start? Aaargh!

I have the best friends in the world. People care about me and my family. They have shown it in so many ways and I am absolutely humbled by it.

It is a joy to know my son and his fiance will be home in a couple of days. I love them and miss them and it is so great to have them in driving distance finally.

I have decided that the new dog is 7 pounds of juvenile delinquent. He can open a child proof cap on a pill bottle. He turns on the computer and watches YouTube.

The library thinks I lost 3 books. They are right here in my special library tote bag. It's been that kind of month.

I need to go to the studio and make stuff.

dear Allentown Arts Festival-redux

2011-04-03T09:57:00.002-04:00

OK, all is forgiven. You found me presentable this year and even gave me the spot I asked for.

What changed this year? Well, just going by the number of shows that have extended their app deadlines and/or notification dates this year, maybe there is a smaller pond from which to fish? Or maybe you just had smarter jurors this time around. Matters not. I have a good show steps from my front door. All is well.

Now, as for Three Rivers Arts Festival in Pittsburgh...what is up with YOU? I applied to your show as a backup to A'town, hoping that if I got a "no" from one I might get a "yes" from the other, rescuing my weekend. I carefully checked the notification dates and "withdraw" dates so that I could avoid throwing booth money at a show I wasn't doing. Your notification date was 3/10. Then it was 3/25. Then it was 4/1. Still nothing. Are you kidding me?

A fellow artist, familiar with the show, says they are still working on booth layout. That makes no sense to me. This show has been going on for decades. Why would you do the booth layout after the jury chose the artists? Wouldn't you have the layout and then place the artists in the existing grid? Makes no sense.

Here's the thing. We all have a season to plan. We cannot plan until you tell us whether or not we have your show. If we don't get the shows we applied to we have to find others. This is how we earn a living, people. Don't play with us!

There is a love/hate relationship between the folks who plan the shows and the ones who exhibit in them. I know we can be a pain. Not following the setup rules, pushing the boundaries of our spots out into the aisles, sending in fuzzy jury images, bouncing checks, complaining about our location, our neighbors, the coffee you provide. But what we need from you is pretty simple. Respect for the fact that while this is a once a year festival for you where you get to wear badges that say you are responsible for this fun event, for us it is a mortgage payment. The word "festival" means little to us. It is a job. Oh, most of us love the job, no question, but that doesn't mean we are immune from the frustrations that come from any job.

So, Pittsburgh, sorry I won't be there in June to try your show and make a stop at Ikea. I'll be in my own neighborhood, saving hotel fees and gas. But I sure wish I knew what was really going on down there. Because that layout excuse makes no sense. I wish you luck.

addicted to hope

2011-03-29T09:15:00.005-04:00

Mom is in the hospital again. This time it was almost the end. And she did it to herself because she is an addict.

Don't picture an 88 year old woman sucking on a crack pipe. No, for that we could have found an intervention. Mom is addicted to her mail. She doesn't get a whole lot of "real" mail. A few bills, her bank statement, sales fliers. Those are not her drug of choice. The monkey on her back is sweepstakes. The promise of a check with her name on it.

We started to become aware of this when she would force upon us bags of cheap goods. Pot scrubbers, key chains with lights on them, a talking calculator. Turns out she was ordering them from Publishers Clearing House which, of course, says no purchase necessary, but why would they sell stuff to entrants if it didn't matter? Well, Mom analyzed her odds and decided it was worth 20 bucks in Taiwanese junk craft to up her odds of having the van pull up to her house with that big check and a dozen roses. After perusing her checkbook and finding almost weekly checks written to "PCH", I contacted them and threatened them with a lawsuit if they didn't stop preying on my Mother. Their mailings stopped, but they apparently sold her info to every bottom-feeding profiteer out there because she started becoming a "finalist" in dozens of contests. Daily. All she had to do was send 5/6/20 bucks to "reserve" her finalist spot. She sent them cash because she knew we monitored her checking account.

Mom lives on $1000 a month. Period. And there are low life con artists out there, looking to snag a piece of that. Daily.

Oh, we tried to reason with her, but a creeping case of dementia makes it harder and harder for her to exercise any judgment. Why would they send these to her if it was a lie? These are big companies! No. Mom, these are small cellar dwelling companies with a mailing list of the most vulnerable and gullible and desperate amongst us. Add to them the plethora of "address label" charities that send her the little 5 cents strips with her name and a bunch of tulips on them and ask her for a donation to cover the cost and support the children/the sick/the mission/the American Indians/veterans. She must have thousands of return address labels.

She is also a prime target for Social Security warnings (send us 60 bucks to help us fight for your benefits) and various and sundry other political causes (Obama is stealing your health care and wants to kill you)

My brother, bless him, lives near Mom and goes there every day to check on her and bring in the mail that he patiently goes over with her, piece by piece. She has been known to slip out a particularly glossy and promising "You may be a winner!!!!" envelope and hide it until he leaves, but he's on to her.

Mom's mailbox is at the curb, surrounded by a mound of snow. She has to navigate 4 steep steps and a slippery walk to get there. She promised to never attempt it alone and my brother promised to always make sure her mail was brought in. A few times she called him and said not to bother coming, that she had her mail and he would explode. And make her promise again.

But the idea of being able to gather up the 20 + promises of a grand life that crowd her mailbox daily and go through them alone, without the voice of reason, without the dashing of hope, is too much for an addict to ignore. When Bob called to tell her he was delayed a half hour but would be there soon to get the mail, she saw her chance. She put on her boots and her warm coat, grabbed her cane, and made her way to the curb. She got there, but the snow behind the box stymied her. She put one shaky foot on the mound of snow and reached for the little pull down door and lost her balance, landing hard on the sidewalk and breaking her hip.

Mom has a serious heart condition which makes surgery extremely risky but without it, she would spend her remaining days bedridden and so, as a family, we had decisions to make.

Listen up, you pathetic leeches. You who prey mostly on the elderly. You who reach into their pockets and snag pathetic offerings to your promises of riches. You who then turn around and sell their info to other leeches so that the mailboxes spill over with ever increasing visions of security and well-being that many seniors can only dream of in this life. Listen up.

We had to sit with cardiologists and internists and orthopedic surgeons to decide how to help this suddenly frail woman. We had to decide whether to put our Mother's life on the line. We had to sit with her all day and sleep by her hospital bed during the night when the hallucinations made it impossible for the staff to control her without tying her down. We had to watch them wheel her up to the OR, knowing that might be the last time we would see her. Then there was the 4 hour wait for the surgeon to tell us how it went. And now the 48 hour wait to see if she can maintain the toughness that got her through surgery.

And all because she went to get her mail. Because she wasn't able to wait a half hour. Because an addict waits for the pusher, becoming more anxious every hour. You lured her out there. To get her 5 bucks added to the sad little pile of other contributions you bleed from the poor, the desperate, the innocent.

The surgeon says Mom is tough. So am I. There has to be a way to put you creeps put of business and if I have to take you on one by one, I swear I am going to try. Enough of your teeny print disclaimers that nobody over 65 can read.

One. by. one.

But first, I have a Mom in ICU to tend to. There is only one promise of hope that matters now. The hope that she will survive this and maybe walk again. No fine print.

She may be a winner.

my new babies

2011-03-13T23:38:00.013-04:00

No, no, no. Not that kind. Please, we'd be talking real medical miracles were that the case.

This is a new Simplesong baby. I'll be at the Small Press Book Fair next weekend and I thought it would be a good time to expand my book jewelry line.

(And the art gods say; "Yes, Pat, perfect time to work on miniatures. When you are blind in one eye. Brilliant.")

Should have listened. It was very frustrating. I need one of those magnifiers on a stand. It was close to impossible to make the chains and figure out the tiny gluing spots.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. My book pins and book earrings sell very well at certain venues. The Book Fair is a perfect place to sell them. I've been toying with the idea of book necklaces since I started making books, but I could never come up with a design that pleased me. Regular case bound teeny books have a tendency to yawn open after they've been hanging about your neck for a few hours. I hate how that looks. Stab binding on something that small would require different needles and cord and templates and I get tired just writing about it.

Then it came to me. Often when I can't sleep, I design things in my head. One night I was drifting off when the light dawned. Accordion books. Of course! I would have to figure out the closure, of course and make up a template and I've never been good at folding the accordion but I could manage. And what teeny bits of material it would use. Stuff that would have been tossed as too small to be of use.

I was excited.

There was trial and error and I'm still in the error phase, but here is Baby #1:

and here is Baby#1 slightly opened so you can see the accordion

And a couple more:

The tough part is figuring out how to afix the little elastic cord that holds the book closed. I am so clumsy now with my lack of depth perception and reduced peripheral vision. I fumble and lose bits or use too much glue or put glue where it should not be. Stuff like that. And don't even let me start on the chain and jump rings.

I made a few tonight that came out much better so I think I'm getting the hang of it. And a friend thinks she knows someone with a standing magnifier I can use while I'm waiting for my sight to return. That would help.

I realized today that even though trying to make my widgets with this handicap has made me very creative in my choice of expletives and in the vocalization of my bursts of frustration, I am happy in my little attic studio with the traffic humming 3 stories below and the pigeons dancing on the roof next door and huge snow flakes sailing by my window. It is quiet except for my TV and the occasional growl of frustration. It is my place to be.

That's the real View from the Attic :)

Long way to go for a fish fry

2011-03-12T08:22:00.008-05:00

I live in Buffalo, NY, where Friday fish fries are a sacred institution. People here tend to eat out a lot anyway, but I challenge you to find a place with a decent fish fry on a Friday night, especially during Lent, where there isn't an hour wait for a table.

So, when my friend, Shaun, asked me to be part of a fund raiser for the arts at a local school and suggested that we would get a fish fry dinner at a reduced rate, I was in! Well, truth be told I am a sucker for fund raisers for the arts, but for the sake of this blog let's pretend I was seduced by fried fish, macaroni salad, coleslaw and french fries. To be a true B-Lo fish fry you need rye bread, but the dense artisan bread they served was yummy.

There were only a few of us selling our wares, but it was a fine group. Quality work, interesting mix, reasonable prices (we brought our "small" items), but we didn't sell much. Most of the folks were there to inhale fish and listen to their kids sing and play drums.

But it was a good thing to do. It was my "warm up" for the coming season. I have the book fair next weekend. I love the Book Fair. And then a Women's Conference. I needed to see how much of a problem working with one eye would be.

Well, it stinks! I swear it is a total pain and a frustrating exercise. Although my medically trained son assures me I am imagining it, I feel that not only do you lose depth perception, but you don't perceive color properly. I have to wear reading glasses because my right eye is over-corrected for distance with a contact lens. Never one to waste money on frivolity, I got few pair at the Dollar Store. I spend several hours a day looking for said glasses. The dance goes something like: pat the top of your head, then your jeans pockets, then spin to look at the table behind you, spin again to check the computer desk, stomp your foot, repeat.

I will adjust to this. I have no choice. There may be cursing involved and I will admit to feeling tears of frustration creeping over my still achy eye ball at odd moments. But I was able to put together a respectable collection for the show

So, how was the show? Well, once we paid for our dinners (at a reduced rate of 5 bucks), donated back 20% for the fundraising, bought tickets for the Chinese auction and grabbed a couple of brownies from the sweets table, we basically earned a cheap fish fry and gas money. But that's OK. I got to see a few folks I really enjoy. I got back in the swing of things.

I also came to grips with the limitations I will be dealing with for a month or 2. If you hurt your foot or tail bone or something that's way different than having a wonky eye. I mean, your eye is RIGHT THERE! No matter what you do, the wonky eye is RIGHT THERE. Between you and the rest of the world. You can't put a thick sock on it, take an Advil and keep going.

What I'll probably do is work in one hour shifts or until I start cursing, whichever comes first. And I'll stop whining now, too. Video of the Japan quake are playing in the background as I write this and it occurs to me that although my personal world has recently been rocked a bit, the earth beneath my feet is solid. Perspective. I keep finding that in odd places lately.

can you see me now?

2011-03-05T08:16:00.003-05:00

There is a reason for the latest bloglessness. It started a few weeks ago.

I noticed that there was a shadow at the bottom of my field of vision. Now, I am the sort of person who thinks "Ach it will go away, give it a few days". This, of course, is why I am now getting chemotherapy, but I digress.

The shadow became blobs. Picture a lava lamp. Now picture that action happening in your eye. OK, I'm calling someone.

It took a few days for each Doctor I called to referreferrefer until I landed in the spiffy wine colored leather examining chair of Dr Henry Lee who tsked and said I had a detached retina. Lovely.

He tried a procedure in the office that involves injecting a bubble of gas behind the retina to slap it back against whatever part of the eye it got detached from. But, a few days later we could tell it wasn't going to work and I would need surgery. Lovely.

Of course, by this time the reality of losing sight in that eye was helping me agree to anything they thought might help. Put my eye in a pickle jar for a week? Sure!

So, off we went to the hospital, my nerves all a jangle, my resolve intact. The wait was torture, but they had to put drops in my eye every 45 minutes for a while, so we watched TV and chatted and pretended that I was not going to have my eye sliced up in an hour.

Now, I have to say that I have never been one to drink much or do drugs. High on life, as they say. The few times I have been overserved I have made a fool of myself. Not hard to do since I teeter on the brink of foolishness just in the regular course of my day. So when the Anesthesiologist, who looked like one of the Doobie Brothers, promised to make me "mellow", I was reassured but hoping that I wouldn't start singing the "A" side of The White Album.

There was no singing, but there was also no pain and I was certainly mellow. Mellow enough to remark that they might want to remove "Blinded by the Light" from the operating room playlist. This resulted in general laughter amongst the disembodied voices and a discussion of what the line "dressed up like a ...." really was. I said "deuce" before I drifted off to nap for a bit. Not sure if they agreed or not.

I was home before dark, a cone over my eye. The next day we saw the Doc again and he said that although I wasn't totally out of the woods yet, the retina was now fully attached. Yay.

So now we wait. And hope that my sight will slowly return. The procedure they used, a sclera buckle, is aggressive surgery and it will take 6 weeks or more for us to know just how much better I will be. I think I can still do my craft, even with just one eye, but don't ever let anyone tell you depth perception is no big deal.

So, that's where I have been. I went 30 years without needing a doctor for anything related to illness. I got smug. OK, I am humbled now. I get it, OK? Cut it out!

Now here's the cute part. At first, after the easy procedure, I was told I had to sleep sitting up. Luckily, I have a big cushy chair with a big cushy footstool, so I bundled myself into it, with pillows strategically placed and hoped for the best. Russell came down with his pillow and a blanket and I asked what he was doing. Well, what he was doing was sleeping on the couch to be with me. I assured him it was OK for him to sleep in bed, I would be fine. He could not imagine leaving me alone downstairs. And so for a few days there we were. Me in the chair, Russell and the dogs on the couch.

I may be blind in one eye, but some things I can see crystal clear, right from the heart.

loose ends

2011-02-10T08:14:00.003-05:00

Mom had a minor heart attack a couple of weeks ago. After a few days in the hospital they determined her heart was in pretty bad shape but she was not a candidate for surgery. They basically sent her home to enjoy the rest of her life, a period of time that might be weeks, might be months. She may outlive us all. Nobody knows.

So, in addition to dealing with the sadness of this whole thing, we are doing businesslike stuff. Rifling through her "special boxes" digging out wills and deeds and insurance policies and delicately asking what her wishes are just in case, what if, should the time come...

In one of her special boxes, we found an old driver's license with a note clipped to it: "Bob, this is the picture for the paper". She must have liked the way her hair looked that day. It is quite the bubble. And then a poem cut from a magazine about not grieving, she is always with us, which brought tears to my brother's eyes.

Combing through the mundane bits of a person's life can be an awakening. Most women of my Mom's generation left their jobs behind to raise their families and their lives seem to be measured, not by recognized accomplishments, but by loads of laundry and pots of homemade soup. I remember watching my Mom iron. She ironed everything. She ironed Dad's underwear. She ironed sheets and towels. Some items got spritzed with water, some were sprayed with starch and the house would fill with the warm smell of clean. It was comforting and frightening at once. I feared that my life would be like hers. Stuck in a kitchen, behind an ironing board, in the basement laundry room.

So I pursued college with a vengence. I dreamed of the Peace Corps, of writing a great novel. I would be a Mom with a life. I would work, earn money, be valuable.

But will it be much different when I finally take time to look back? What will be in that special box? A deed, an insurance policy. Who will remember how I fought to be different?

Perhaps what matters, in the end, is not the paperwork of a common life, but the life itself. I'm sure it was not all ironing and sweeping for my Mother, no matter how my adolescent eyes saw it. There had to have been moments of great passion, of love, of joy, laughter. I remember how the folks would get all dressed up for the occassional "affair" which involved dancing in fancy clothes, not illicit activity. I remember the dining room table surrounded by friends, drinking coffe, eating pastry, laughing. I remember the backyard pool and the parties of grownups that seemed too old to be having such fun in so little clothing, but they were probably just in their 40's.

And my parents loved each other, stayed true. Raised 2 kids who turned out OK. Worked hard for what they had and took pride in that.

There's no paperwork for accomplishments like that, no award certificates. Nothing to put in special boxes or folders tied with string. When the time comes, the taking care will be in the hands of her children, their spouses, their children. A constellation of souls that would not exist if not for her, a legacy of love.

It is enough. It is more than enough.

Dear Allentown Arts Festival:

2011-02-01T16:18:00.003-05:00

I love you, I do. When I first started coming to your show, I was wearing tie dye and fringe, my hair was in two braids like Pocahontas and I was probably barefoot. OK, not much has changed except the braids but I digress..

It was a rite of Spring to break out the light weight clothes and come out into the sun, blinking, like a bear emerging from a cave. I fell in love at your show a couple of times. I was manhandled by a cop and tear-gassed once. I don't know how many times I claimed the window seat at Gabriel's Gate just so I could watch the people. I thought those artists in the white tents were the most exotic beings imagineable and I envied them their lifestyle.

Then I became one of them.

When I first started to apply, it was one rejection after another so I eventually gave up on it. But by then I was getting accepted to shows that were much more competitive and it perplexed me. Some local artists claim that you like to fill the show with artists from more glamorous places like California and Iowa, so we locals have a hard road.

I tried again and started to actually be accepted once in a while. The first year I flashed back to my college, braid days and smiled thinking that some of the folks wandering the streets might actually find me exotic, too.

But now you are starting to get on my nerves. I read and folded and unfolded and read again the app this year which is exactly the same as every year except for changing the dates and the cover picture. Slides instead of digital images. I mean, does anyone even make slides anymore? I can think of no other show that is so out of touch with the millenium. And no place to write in descriptions of what the jury is seeing. Oh, I type my own up and attach it. I imagine most do. But it makes me wonder if you even know what you are seeing as that slide projector whirrs away. Do you know I made the paper that covers that book? Do you know that mirror is actually cast paper? Or do you just see book, mirror, nothing unusual? That's too bad, because last time I was set up next to a man selling tacky metal whirly gigs that I would bet the farm were imported. His slides must have been killer.

So I unfolded the app again and considered whether you were worth it. I decided you were not, but I would apply anyway, with whatever slides I had left over from the Crusades, and I would damn well write up descriptions of what you were seeing, but I was no longer in love with you. It's not you, it's me.

It's me because I have no patience for a show that requires the best of me and then rejects me in favor of metal whirly gigs. I deserve better. It's me because I am one of the few hand bookmakers left in this region and you jury in about 250 jewelers-or so it seems.

It's me because I actually live in your neighborhood and when I don't get accepted to exhibit, I have to watch thousands of people walk by my house to get to you to buy things from everybody but me.

The irony is that I live in your neighborhood because I fell in love with you back then. With your funky old houses and trendy shops and restaurants and the people who got to live there. I visited just once a year, but it was enough.

So, thanks for showing me where I would eventually live, because I may not love you so much anymore, but I love my neighborhood and, in a sense, you gave me that.

Let's not break up, let's just take a break. Like Ross and Rachael. I am free to apply to another show, you can offer to let me back in your life and I'll consider it. Meanwhile I'll be dating other shows, seeing what they have to offer, happily burning CD's or applying on line. Like it's 2011, not 1968.

I don't wear braids any more. Or tie dye. Now it's your turn to grow up.

I'll be waiting, right here in the neighborhood.

part two: found

2011-01-23T10:04:00.005-05:00

At the end of part one, I was off to keep a date with a young man named Oliver. Let me tell you about him.

I was at work one day, waiting for a line of ticket buyers that never showed because they all bought on line that morning. We were all surfing the web to stay awake. I had been contemplating adding another dog to the fur contingent of our family. Quincy is a great dog, but he is powerful and active and capable of dragging me down the street if a squirrel should cross his path. He is also Russell's dog pretty much. He literally stares at him with love sick eyes, I swear. And lays across his lap whenever the need arises. Which is always. When Billy and Leisha had us babysit their dogs a while back, Q was happy and entertained and it seemed to calm him.

So, I was surfing rescue sites. At a great place called Joyful Rescues I found several pups that fit our needs. I filled out the application and waited to see if we were approved. My neighbor called the next day to say they had called her for a reference. I was happy that they really did check on potential adopters.

So, the next day, off we went, in a snow storm, to Cuba NY. Waaay too far to go on a snowy day, but off we went anyway, into the beautiful hills of the Southern Tier. GPS and the site's own directions got us there. Up this hill and down that one. Until we saw the sign and, taking a deep breath, asking each other if we were sure, we followed the cacophony of barks and howls to the main building.

We were met by Joye, the amazing woman who now devotes her life and home and land to the cause of saving abused and abandoned animals. The building is set up so that the pups can enter and exit at will, running free in their enclosed, huge yard. There is a dog house for new kids to get acclimated and a cat house which we did not visit because we already have two of those. The dog I had initially been drawn to was pending adoption and the other was off running in the huge yard. Joye said he seldom came inside, I knew he would not be happy in the city. But we have some new dogs, she said and off we went to the dog house.

There we saw 3 dogs that grabbed our hearts. A white, wiry haired terrier mix with a joyful attitude, a dachshund/terrier mix that was adorable and affectionate and a Yorkie that scooted out of his cage when the door was opened and went off to round up the other guys for a romp. All were perfect, but Russell picked up he Yorkie and he snuggled right into Russell's neck and went limp with love. Uh oh, I thought.

I love Yorkies. They are incredibly cute and funny. But I picture Legally Blonde with the little dog in designer duds. Or Paris Hilton toting one in a Gucci bag. This is not me, folks. I am a Golden Retriever kind of woman, looking for a dog just a bit smaller than that. A dog I can walk, that would nap on my lap. This dog weighed less than a can of Folgers. OK, I said, give him to me. And he snuggled into my neck and sighed. I tried looking at the other dogs, but "Casey Dean" had our hearts back in his cage at the dog house. We'll sleep on it, I told her. OK, Joye agreed, but I'll just hold him for one day.

We talked all the way home. Pros and Cons. Would Q take to a dog that was about the size of his favorite stuffed toy? He tears stuffed toys apart. Did I really want a 6 pound dog? Is that really a dog? He is so cute. And affectionate. Casey had been turned in by his owners because they said he was skittish around the kids. I think kids and toy dogs are a bad mix often. Joye agreed. The dog was fine in the dog house. She thought the problem was the kids. But you can't turn them in.

By the time we got home we had pretty much settled on a new name for the pup...Oliver. And I knew we would call Joye in the morning to say we wanted to adopt him.

Oliver was being neutered that day and, if all was well, we could pick him up close to home at one of their adoption events at a PetSmart. Done deal.

It was a joyful scene at PetSmart. Dogs everywhere-on leashes and in the arms of the volunteers. Go get your dog, one of them said, smiling, and we took him from the arms of a volunteer that was loathe to let him go.

They gave us lots of free stuff for him and coupons to help pay for the rest. We got him a collar and leash that matched his colors, a teeny bowl and we were off. As we were leaving, one of the volunteers raved about Ollie's new Burberry leash and collar. I had purchased designer duds for a dog. I was doomed;

On the way home, my neighbor Jolene called to tell us she had found a "hoodie" for Oliver and I laughed and laughed. Oh Lordy.

First stop at home was, of course, across the street to see Jolene and introduce Oliver to the rest of the pack. And to try on his Winter gear.

OD on cuteness. What had I become?

And so, Oliver found a new home and we found a new dog and he is adjusting just fine.

Quincy thinks we're nuts and he's not quite sure Oliver is a dog.

It will all work out. Lotsa love in the air.

part one: lost

2011-01-22T20:39:00.005-05:00

This was to be a busy day. First, early in the morning, bring samples of my widgets to be perused by the folks from the Junior League. They have a bi-annual event during which they have designers redecorate a city mansion and then charge folks like 10 or 15 bucks to walk through the rooms and be inspired. Or, in my case, depressed. Who lives like that?

But I digress.

During this event, they have a "boutique" featuring work of local artisans for sale. Well, the artisans are not for sale. Syntax alert. Their work is for sale. My friends who participate in this, rave about the sales and the promptness of payment, etc. I have been invited to participate often and never get to it. I was determined to follow through this time.

All you need are samples and I had some of everything except large journals. So, I bought some pretty new papers and worked up two journals...tasteful, not overly artsy fartsy...packed them up with easels and pretty table cover and actually got on the road at the time I had determined to be perfect. I was so proud. We never leave on time. Never.

We got to the show house with time to spare but nobody was there! We drove around a bit and pulled into the parking area and it was a quiet as an ACLU meeting in Wasilla. Uh oh. Russell asked if I was sure this was the place. Of course not! Nobody is here! This is obviously not the place! I don't know the place! And I have 20 minutes to get there. Wherever it is. I was not being my most charming self at this point.

I pulled out my iPhone, found the original email, opened the attachment, made it big enough to read, scrolled, scrolled, there! I was supposed to be in Cheektowaga. What? in 15 minutes. It started to snow sideways. I despaired. Russell said he was going for it, what did we have to lose. And off we went. We had to be there no later than 9:30 and everyone had to be out of the building by 9:45. It was 9:15.

No pressure.

We pulled into the lot at 9:26. Russell is a driving god. He came to a stop, I jumped out with my box of widgets, pulled open the door and skidded to a stop in front of the Ladies at the Table. They were nice but there was a definite unspoken tsk tsk in the air. They checked me in. I had to wait to be escorted into the jury room, tick tock tick tock, and the next set of doors opened.

We were allotted about 3 feet of table space for all our stuff. The people to my left had spread out into about a foot of that, the folks on my left the same. Can't blame them. I was in the finals of The Great Race on the Kensington while they were artfully placing their treasures. One of the organizers explained to the trespassers on my left that they had to move over a bit. They grumbled but complied. I got my widgets artfully arranged and made arrangements with a much loved fellow carnie to retrieve them for me in the afternoon. (Because we had an important appointment at 11. More on that in the next installment)

An unexpected treat was meeting a fellow artist that I "knew" only through on line forums and a reference from a fellow artist. Stefani sews beautiful, intricate patterns on paper. Paper! A woman after my own heart for sure. She was sweet and funny and she brought me a pin she made. I never think to do lovely things like that.

Well, truth be told, I sometimes have a passing thought about doing something like that but I seldom do. I'm too scattered to be thoughtful perhaps?

Anyway...mission accomplished. The League will send me a letter telling me what, if any, of my widgets they deem worthy for their boutique. Until then, who knows?

But I had an appointment to keep with a young man named Oliver that I thought might make some big changes in my life. I had an hour to get there.

No sweat.

motivational studies

2011-01-15T14:05:00.003-05:00

It's that time of year. Before I can go any further with jury slides and stocking up, I need to clear a path into my studio. It's the usual disaster, the normal chaos conglomerate, the gates of hell for anyone with one organizing gene.

I've been waiting for something to spark me, get me up the stairs, rev my clean-up engines and it came in a gallon jug.

PVA

Sigh, the book maker's drug of choice. Soft, white, creamy PVA from the adhesive distributor. This is not like the stuff you get in a bottle of Elmer's. It is thick and luxurious, it makes you want to glue something. It makes you want to clean your room so you can put that pretty jug in a place of honor.

It's like when you get new drapes and it makes you Spring clean the room. I remember once, as a teenager, a new purse made me clean my bedroom. Silly, but who knows what makes the mind work?

Oh, the jug will get all smeared up and the glue will dry up some and by the time I've reached mid-point the charm will be gone. But by then I will have made tons of books and be moving on to another incomprehensible motivator.

I can only imagine what my planned April buying trip to Hollander's will prompt. If a gallon of glue gets me to clean a disaster area, a trunk full of new papers may get a new roof on the house.

Well, better get back to it. Can't crack open the gallon until I have the proper work space ready.

Gotta respect the muse, after all.

same thing this year

2011-01-08T00:13:00.004-05:00

I do this every year. Wait until the very very last minute to get an important app in the mail, sending Russell off to the Post Office minutes before it closes, yelling after him.."make sure they postmark it today!!!"

Why do I do this? Not only did I wait until the last day to apply, I decided that just to make the day pop the bulb on the stress-o-meter, I would make new books for the images, using a technique I not only haven't mastered, I hadn't even tried yet.

I may be punishing myself for dirty deeds in a past life or, more likely, letting my control freak rule the day.

When I had a "real" job, working for the *gasp* government, I would always sign in at 2 or 3 minutes after my start time. Every single day. For years. 2 minutes late, 3, 4 5 minutes late. Every day. This would make Russell nuts as he navigated city traffic to get me there on time while I cleaned out my wallet or finished that library book that was due yesterday. Then, while watching the Today show as Russell beeped the car horn for me to hurry, I heard a psychiatrist type say that people who were habitually late were control freaks.

Eureka. Yes, I could not change anything about my awful, stressful job, but I could make them wait for me. Aha. That one thing I had control over. Made perfect sense.

Now, this show I applied to this afternoon at 5:28 (the Post Office closes at 5:30) is one of my favorites, but a few years ago they started cashing the check for your booth fee before the jury even met. Usually, shows hold the checks until they know who is accepted. Not this place. They cash the check, hang onto your money for 2 months and eventually tell you if you actually bought something or if you will be getting a refund. It is outrageous, unprofessional and unfair to artists who traditionally don't have a lot of extra cash to throw at speculation before the season even starts. But nobody complains because they love the show and don't want to make enemies.

So, I guess my warped psyche tells me to apply at the last second, literally.

Anyway..that's done, but the pictures we took at 4:52 didn't come out great. I may have hurt myself this time, but maybe in a way I want to tell this place to take this app and shove it.

On the plus side, I did finally make a traditional "cased-in" book and I enjoyed it.

It has opened up a whole new area for me and now I can do the photo albums and address books that people always ask for.

So it was a good day after all. Once the app was mailed, we went to deliver a frame that was a special order and I felt that lovely relief that happens when all the things I've been postponing are done. You would think that might encourage me to be more timely in the future. Oh please.

Next app is due at the end of the month and I need to have slides made for it. Now THAT is gonna be a challenge. Slides take a few days. I feel the excitement building already.

patty and mom go to the doctor

2011-01-04T21:52:00.002-05:00

Mom was due for a physical, I had an appointment for a follow-up. We both go to the same husband and wife team. I get Rob, she gets Jennifer. It seemed logical to schedule her on my day. Save a trip. Get all the ucky out of the way in one shot.

They called Mom first and I went with her, telling the nurse where I would be when they got to my turn. Mom likes me to be with her, even though, in the process, I've come to see more of Mom than my eventual therapist would like. A guy I'll call "Mike" came in to take her vitals. I don't know what Mike is in the hierarchy. Nurse? Tech? PA? I know that every time I've take Mom to the Doctor, "Mike" has taken her BP and stuff and made notes in a laptop and regaled us with stupid jokes and forced conviviality. He means well.

When Mom was complaining about waiting and asking for a pillow for her back and quizzing him on office protocol (i.e why am I waiting?) he and I exchanged amused glances and, at one point I pantomimed loading a gun, pulling back the catch and shooting myself in the temple which sent Mike into peals of laughter.

He left us to wait in the examining room. You know that room. The one with all the scary looking stuff, no TV, no magazines, nothing to amuse you while you wait. And wait.

After 5 minutes she started. Where were they. They forgot her. We've been waiting a half hour. sigh. sigh. louder sigh. I tried to amuse her. No way. After about 10 minutes that her brain computed as an hour, she stood and marched resolutely to the door, ignoring my "No! Sit!" Quincy listens when I say that. Mom doesn't. She pulled open the door and ran into Mike. He reassured her that she was next, that the PA she was seeing that day was taking care of someone who was sicker than they thought and she would be in as soon as possible.

I shot the imaginary gun onto my mouth that time and he cracked up again. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

We chatted a bit, Mom and I. She asked me what my middle name was and I told her "Elaine" and she frowned and said "where did I come up with that??" and then for some reason she asked if I had a scar from my surgery. I laughed and told her I had a doozie. She wanted to see it. Anything to amuse her, I unzipped my jeans and pulled
them away from my tummy to show her. She gasped, touched the scar gently and whispered "I had no idea". I zipped up and sat down. Show and tell over, I thought.

Suddenly, she brightened up, announced that she had a hysterectomy once (Yes, I remember, it was in 1972) and that she didn't "leave marks". Then, to my horror, she stood, unzipped her slacks and pulled her clothing down to her never regions. At this point her never regions were about 3 inches from my face. You think I'm kidding abut eventual therapy. Look, she crowed, no marks. Nobody can believe I had surgery. I mumbled something complimentary while trying to look past her at something more appetizing, like the clogged artery illustration on the far wall and pondering how many people had told her it didn't look like she had surgery. Who else had she shown? The mind reels.

OK, Mom, I said, the doctor should be in soon. zip your pants. And she attempted to do just that except it was clumsy to gather her undies and girdle and slacks all at once and pull them up and something had to go and it was her slacks.

She was holding her other things against her never regions while I bent to grab the slacks that had puddled at her feet and that's when Mike opened the door.

I'll give you a moment to ponder the scene.

What's going on in here? he laughed and he and I fell helpless into a fit of giggles.

Comparing scars, I told him while pretending to stab myself in the gut with a huge sword.

Your Doctor is ready he told me and he escorted me to my little room, leaving the door open. I heard him briefing the Dr: "BP good, not sick, looks good, great sense of humor"

Mom and I left, both of us with glowing reports from our respective medical professionals except she needs an appointment for her eye problems and I really need to find that therapist.

return from Oz

2011-01-01T13:05:00.006-05:00

That's what the holidays feel like. Like your life was picked up by a whirlwind and dropped into an alternate existence where everything is real but different and time slows down, shifts into a neutral gear. Every aspect of your life seems affected by a sort of seasonal vapor. Your work hours are different, strange decorations permeate everything from the front office to your bosses desk. Employees feel compelled to bring in cookies and chocolate popcorn.

And your house! Your house takes on a new identity, alternating between wrapping central to gingerbread cottage. I mean, my mantle never looks like this:

It is more likely to have stacks of unopened mail, a dog brush and a bowl of pennies on it. But for Christmas, we sweep away the normal detritus for a more celebratory clutter.

And then there is the tree. I love our little tree.

But it is a temporary visitor. In a few days it will be a pathetic little branch at the side of the road and the furniture will be pushed back into its usual place and a bucket of magazines I am truly going to read this year will take its spot.

And so life revs up again and that brief foray away from life as we know it ends. Bills appear in the mailbox. Paperwork needs organizing. Books of paint colors lie open on the dining room table waiting for us to make a decision. My first application for the 2011 show season is due a week from today and I have no pictures, no beautiful items with which to wow the jury. And I won't even think about the laundry.

Maybe the best thing about the Winter solstice, no matter what your personal spirituality calls you to celebrate, is this communal escape from real life. From problems and worries and responsibility. We gather together as friends, as family. For every nut job that honks at you in traffic you can't control, there are dozens of strangers who smile and wish you Happy Holidays. People that a few weeks ago would have brushed by with a "scuse me". It is somehow appropriate that the finale of the season is the beginning of a new year. We have ended the year with a trip away from the things that consume us and we return rested and ready to take it all on again. With new resolve and a sweet belief that this time it will all be better.

That is what I wish for all of us. The ability to continue to believe in ourselves. Follow our own yellow brick road. There may not be answers at the end of it, but oh! the journey.

buying time

2010-12-21T08:44:00.003-05:00

What would an extra day cost? I just need one. Really. One more day to bake, to wrap, to shop. It's not a lot to ask, is it? One day?

Can you work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday? my boss asked. Sure.

What was I thinking?

At least the tree is up. A perfect little 4 ft frasier fir. It sits on a table by the french doors and it makes me smile. We found it at Home Depot of all places. It was tied up and leaning on a crate far from the other trees. It called to me. We rescued it, brought it home, and it warmed up and fell into a perfectly symmetrical miniature of a big tree. We put big lights on it, just to be sassy, and favorite ornaments and a string of silver mardi gras beads. She's a beauty.

Stress is part of the holidays, I think. If you're not feeling it, you're forgetting to do something. No other explanation. For years I would have CHristmas Eve at my house, but as the family moved on and out, that fell by the wayside. Now we gather on Christmas Day, my tiny family. It has been just us and my brother's family for years, but now my son lives closer and we will have yet another holiday with him and his fiance. It is such a gift.

And just like that, priorities shift and click into place and it dawns on me that even if I don't bake one cookie, it will not matter to anyone but me. We will still come together and eat and drink and open presents and tell bad jokes and tease. There will be snow. Sounds perfect.

OK, I'm off to bake now. Suddenly it feels like the best way to spend a Winter morning.

gathering

2010-12-16T10:52:00.004-05:00

I am gathering little gifts for my little family. My ancestors, paternal and maternal both, were not prolific reproducers. My brother and I each produced one perfect kidlet. We have lost family members, some way too soon. And so our immediate group can fit into a minivan and have room left over for a hitchhiker.

As my brother and I grew older, it became almost silly to gift each other. There were no things that we wanted that we did not already own. So, we present token gifts to the kids and try relentlessly to find something for Mom that she won't wrinkle her nose at.

Now that my son is expanding our group with the addition of a wife, there is a renewed sense of family. We have gathered with her family and enjoyed them. I love the woman my son has chosen. When they speak of having kids, my heart swells.

They mentioned over Thanksgiving that they wanted to upgrade their iPhones and it was the perfect time to take them to the phone store to get them and scratch that item off the to-do list.

So, no shopping for their gifts. But what I love to do every year is stuff stockings. For my son and his fiance and their dogs and my nephew. It is my fun time. I love searching odd places for fun stuffers. Gathering smiles, I think. Finding the perfect silliness for one of them tickles me, fills me with Christmas spirit.

And I find that while I'm doing this fun shopping, I am really thinking about these loved ones. Sensing them. This will make him smile, I think. This will turn into a family joke. She will love this little trinket. I might not have such a fun time if the family was larger. When the kids were small, shopping was basically checking off requested items from a list while walking the aisle of Toys r Us.

Now it takes imagination.Now, I draw them closer as I turn a tiny trinket in my hand and picture the laughter. It makes me think of what makes each of them tick. It is somehow more intimate, affectionate than schlepping through a mall looking for the perfect "wow" gift.

My brother says that in the midst of all the largess of Christmas, my nephew looks forward most to my annual stocking. He wonders how old he will have to get before I stop making one for him. Silly boy. Never. I will just add one for your wife some day, and then your kids.

Gathering you all close, keeping your smiles in my heart.

sit. stay.

2010-12-12T12:43:00.003-05:00

We had fun at our last show of the year. A small, church show with really fine work for sale and a organization that fed and pampered us and even toasted at the end with a selection of fine wines. By that time I knew I would not be cooking that night. My still-broken foot was throbbing and my back hurt from sitting in a folding chair all day. Plus, the cast that was in place to immobilize the foot, gave new reason for my bad knee to act up.

I am not telling you this to get sympathy. I am setting the stage for what followed.

Russell dropped me off at the door of one of the neighborhood's most popular restaurants and I hobbled in to give our name to the keeper of the gate. There were people waiting, but it looked like a whole lot of people in 2 or 3 groups. Maybe the wait would not be horrible. Or so I hoped, because there was no place to sit. The bench was packed end to end with what appeared to be one family. Mom at one end, Dad at the other, a flock of children between them. The kids ranged from about 10 to 17 and all were engrossed in one form of electronic amusement or another. Except for one boy who was actually reading a book! Wonder of wonders.

I took this picture with my phone. Look at what it shows. All those feet, none of them in a cast. Most of them belonging to young kids, the rest to their parental units. I looked in the bar for an empty stool. No luck. I leaned against the end of the bench, but there was really no relief there. Finally, I perched on the edge of a windowsill directly across from the sitters. SInce the windowsill was maybe 3 inches wide and my butt is at least 2 inches bigger than that, it wasn't much help. But it allowed me the opportunity to lean back a bit and extend my casted leg out towards the sitters.

You see, it was incredible to me that not one of them was going to offer me a seat on that bench.

I stared down the Dad who was mesmerized by my "boot" because he kept staring at it. The Mom ignored me, apparently invested emotionally in the video game the middle child was playing.

Now, I don't know about you, but if I was 40 years old, healthy, uninjured, sitting on a bench, and a person hobbling about in a walking cast was standing across from me looking pained, it would be impossible for me to keep sitting there. Wouldn't you hop up and say, oh, golly,what did you do to your leg? Here, take this seat.

Of course you would.

Not this crew. And the lesson to the kids? I guess it was that if you're lucky enough to be sitting down, don't let anyone guilt you into making you stand? They will most likely grow up to be the people who never let anyone into a line of traffic, who bring 47 items into the 10 or less line, who never hold the door open for anyone.

The wait turned out to be shorter than I feared, the food was excellent and I even treated myself to a glass of wine. The sitters didn't ruin my night, they made me grateful for the cushy booth, the perfect salmon and the knowledge that our kids would never sit while an injured person stood before them.

Right, kids?

elizabeth

2010-12-08T13:49:00.003-05:00

I did not know Elizabeth Edwards. I don't move in those circles. Her life could not be more different from mine. She was accomplished and privileged and celebrated. I am capable, lucky and anonymous.

But I know her. She became real to me when she steadfastly refused to believe her husband was the dog he was later proven to be. That blind trust thing is powerful. Been there.

Her refusal to be defined by an illness or a smarmy husband made me really respect this stranger. Her fight for Universal Health Care was inspiring and welcomed. She seemed like a very cool lady.

I will admit to reading Andrew Young's book about John Edwards and the scandal with that woman. (Elizabeth always asked in interviews that the woman's name not be mentioned and I will respect that here in my little blog, too) He said Elizabeth was not the saint the public perceives. She lost her temper! She got mad at him for pretending to be the baby daddy!

Of all the nerve.

They say John was at her side when she passed. I wonder why. I'll never know.

There was so much more to her than a deceived wife who outclassed the deceiver. But it was that crushing reality that made her one of us. Just an ordinary woman, fighting to save her life. And her love.

I wish her family peace. I wish her children the comfort of memories. If it is true that our souls reunite with loved ones who passed before us, she is with her son. I wish that to be true.

Gilda Weekend

2010-12-06T07:55:00.006-05:00

I think everyone has heard the story about how Gilda Radner, after battling cancer for some time, said to her husband, Gene Wilder, that it was like being in a club nobody wanted to belong to. Gilda's Club was established as a support facility for those living with cancer and, in Buffalo, it is a beautiful facility bringing comfort and support and beauty to everyone who comes through the door of the renovated mansion.

Every Christmas for some years now, there has been "Gingerbread, Glitz and Gifts", an event in which I have honored to participate for most of those years. My dear friend, Annie Bliss, is instrumental in making this a genius shopping weekend with a beautifully choreographed selection of artisans selling everything from designer jewelry to spices. You absolutely cannot go there without buying a gift for somebody. 20% of everything sold is donated back to Gilda's Club.

I love this show for the good sales and the good friends that are part of the mix. I said to someone over the weekend that one of the best things about being in this business is the people you get to be with "on the job". And so it was this weekend. It was hard to spend just a moment away saying "Hi" to a fellow exhibitor because you either got into a long conversation or ran into someone else and then someone else and there was laughing and gossip and commiseration.

Anyway, I was happy to be on the first floor, what with the walking cast and all, and I think I worked up a decent display for my "mini-mall"

Sales were good, but would have been better had I been able to make up more product. As my friend, Anne, said, I need to cut myself some slack I guess. I feel great, but I'm finding it hard to make up for lost time. So be it.

Some random shots of the event. Still learning the new camera. No I have not read the manual yet. Oh shush.

The season is rapidly coming to a close. One more show and then the "off season" begins. It has been quite a year. Ending the year at this bneautiful place, surrounded by some of my favorite people, leaves me (as one of my show buddies put it) all verklempt.

So let's have a chuckle, shall we?

Oh, how you are missed, Gilda. Hope we did you proud this weekend.

Thanks a lot-really

2010-11-29T10:50:00.007-05:00

This Thanksgiving was going to be special. We were invited to share the day with the family of my son's fiance. After all, come August we would be a family and it was time for us to come together, toast the engagement of our kids, celebrate our blessings.

OK, I was a little nervous about it. I wanted them to like us. I wanted to like them. I love their daughter and I am over the moon that she and Billy are getting married.

So, off we went to Rochester, my brother driving us in his behemoth SUV, the GPS lady chirping instructions. We came bearing pies and ratatouille and wine.

What was it like? Well, it was everybody's dog waiting for something to drop

It was tons of food from everyone's kitchen

It was chilling after dinner with football and new toys

It was desert and coffee

It was the joy of watching the love between the children we shared

There was laughter and teasing and conversation.

It was family.

picture this

2010-11-23T23:06:00.004-05:00

My camera died. A few years ago I was looking to buy a decent camera and a friend offered to sell me hers since she had recently purchased a better one. Hers was considerably better than the one I was using, so I went for it and it has been a loyal companion ever since.

But it stopped charging its battery and I missed a gazillion shots on vacations waiting for the thing to turn on. I put "new camera" on my list of things to consider buying when I had a good show.

I had a good show last weekend and I bought this one:

I am not an accomplished photographer by any stretch, but people say I have "a good eye". I started a companion blog "morning lens" as an incentive to practice the art. I had an encyclopedic manual for the old camera, but my eyes would blur after 2 pages of technical stuff I could not decipher to save my life. I just wanted to take pictures, I wanted the experience of seeing life in a new way, which is what happens when you tote a camera around. You develop a different perception. You start to really SEE. I loved what happened to my brain when I was actively taking photos.

I can't imagine what I would have done if I had actually learned to use the thing.

So, this time, I decided to Read. The. Manual. And not go further into the book or use the camera until each page had been read, understood and practiced. I was encouraged by the first chapter which was entitled "Take the camera out of the box"

I got the camera yesterday morning. So far I have learned to take the camera out of the box, attach the strap and set the language.

But I am determined. Determined to be able to take pictures of the first robin. Because I'm thinking the coming holidays may remain undocumented while I plod through the endless chapters of the manual. And I'm missing the elegant simplicity of my first camera, a Christmas gift from my parents. The Polaroid Swinger.

Boy, did I think that thing was amazing. I still have the tiny pictures of my friends that I took endlessly that year. I have them in a special Polaroid album and if you lift the pockets up a bit you can still get a whiff of eau de polaroid which sends you on an immediate trip back in time.

The instructions, if I remember, were just printed on the box.

Good times.

The old and the new

2010-11-22T14:19:00.002-05:00

The "old" is the Kenan Center Holiday Gift Show which I do whenever they let me and is usually one of my better shows of the year. I've blogged about it before, but I'll risk boring the 4 people who read this blog with some pertinent details.

The event is held on an arts campus which is anchored by a beautiful Victorian mansion. They decorate the beshootsis out of the place so it all looks like something out of Dickens. Christmas Carols fill the air. The mansion has artists in all the rooms, from the front parlor to the ladies parlor to the kitchen. Upstairs, the bedrooms host more. It is very festive. I've been in that location a couple of times, but I prefer the Education Building which is just down the path and has lots more breathing room. Across from our building was yet another, the Theater and Greenhouse. It is all just too precious for words.

This was the 30th anniversary of the show. Any event with that kind of tradition is sure to bring in a nice crowd of shoppers. And it did. Of course, getting those shoppers to actually pull out money and buy stuff can be a challenge these days, but enough of them did to make my weekend a good one. Phew!

Now, the "new" is very cool. I had heard of a device for taking credit card payments that was too great to believe. A little "doggle" the size of a quarter that plugs into your iPhone's earbud jack. You swipe the card through it. It authorizes the sale, the customer signs on the face of the phone using a fingertip. Done.

I mean. Come. On!

So, of course, I ordered one. It was free, the discount rate per sale is less than what I was paying. I read everything I could about it and it seemed to be legit and the company was solving problems quickly if they appeared. It is supported through Apple and I bet Steve Jobs doesn't let anything pop up on iTunes or work on his phones without vetting it to the max first. I couldn't wait to try it. I wondered how the customers would react to it. What would I do if they sniffed at the idea of transmitting this data over a phone line. (Never mind that it's done every day. Usually we don't see how these things are done. You hand over your credit card and the server walks off with it. You expect that they are charging your soup/ salad/breadstick lunch but they just as easily be booking passage on a cruise ship to the Aleutians.)

Well, the gizmo worked great. The customers loved it. Signing with a fingertip seemed to be the cherry on top for many of them. More than one person chirped "There's an app for that!" Each time I pretended that was the first time I heard it.

So, I went to an old familiar place where I proceeded to leap headfirst into the future, technologically speaking.

Cutting edge, that's me.

(You can see the doggle at http://www.squareup.com)

breaking with tradition

2010-11-16T21:45:00.005-05:00

Christkindle Market, Canandaigua, NY

You have to keep trying new shows every year because you never know if the next one will be the great one. I usually try for one that I think might be "over my head" and often I am surprised to get in. Other times, you go for a show that a lot of your peers do which means it can't be too bad.

This weekend I did the latter. A pretty Christmas show that a lot of people I know do and they speak in glowing terms about the organizers and the venue. The rest is up to us.

A Christkindle Market is a German tradition which explains all the German Food in the food tent. That took me a while. Sad, eh? The show was held in Camelot tents that promised to be heated and cozy. Well, they were cozy. And pretty.

The volunteers were awesome, dashing about with their Santa caps and offering help. There wasn't much more they could have done. The event was promoted well and run beautifully, but people just didn't spend enough to make it good for us. So be it. I had fun. A good friend across the aisle, another close by. Many art buddies in the house. DInner at a cozy Italian place with friends on Saturday. It was really OK. And then Sunday happened.

We tried to find a nice place for breakfast in town but it was getting late and I suggested we just go to the venue and get food there. The Strudel place had a breakfast sandwich.

And that's what I was looking for when it happened. Staring at the booth as we walked along the sidewalk, I neglected to see the drop off from path to gravel to sunken grass and, before I knew it, the ground was coming up to meet me. People came running, brushing off my black cords which caused serious discomfort to my bruised leg until I yelled "stop it!" I've fallen before
so I knew I'd be sore tomorrow but when I took a step, I knew there was going to be more. That foot felt broken, baby. $%^&*#

I hobbled to my spot with help from Russell (the show must go on) and proceeded to get tended to by so many artists and volunteers I felt like a queen. Or a pathetic broken person. Pick it. I sort of went back and forth about that all day. They brought me ice and an ace bandage and a blanket and more ice and juice and aspirin. They hugged me and cooed over me. All. Day.

I was too tired to stop to have it looked at at the end of the show and I had chemo the next day so I wanted to be rested. We were chatting with Karen, my PA, before my appointment and she said we should look at the foot which she did and we all saw the same thing. A fat, blue, swollen ham hanging off the end of my ankle. Oops. OK, she says, we are gonna xray that thing, which they did.

The xray tech said that nothing "jumped out at" her as broken, so I was surprised when Karen popped her head in my chemo room, announcing gayly "You broke your tootsie, Tootsie" But, she assured me, it didn't look bad enough for a cast or anything, but she wanted me to see an Orthopedic person to have it evaluated and followed up on to make sure it healed.

So off we went this afternoon to yet another doctor ( I have been healthy and doctor free for decades. Now I'm a groupie) and just to prove the point that only the experts can really tell you what the scoop is, I walked out of there wearing this charming baby:

So, I came, I saw, I stumbled. Had I stayed in the neighborhood, done my usual show (Women's Gifts) I would have made more money and my foot would be whole.

Of course I would be without the charming "ski boot" that seems to make people in crowded places more polite than usual. I love being an object of pity.

This weekend is Kenan Christmas. Always a good one for me. No hotels. No huge gas expense. No broken sidewalks.

Of course, if I've learned anything lately, it is to not take anything for granted. I haven't checked the weather report for this weekend yet. Do they predict locusts?

measuring loss

2010-11-10T21:55:00.006-05:00

It was a bad time to take a few days off to drive down to Long Island and visit with the family. Two big shows in 2 weeks and not nearly enough stuff to make it worthwhile. I needed to be chained to my work table. But we needed to connect, see for ourselves, how things had changed since we were there last.

In July, everyone was well. (Or we thought we were). It was a festive time and it was a real kick for me, coming from a family you could count on your fingers, to see this virtual army of relatives descend. But now it was Fall and things had changed.

At first, all seemed well. We got in at night and everyone was heading for bed. Saturday morning seemed normal and the day was filled with visits from the sibs, lots of conversation and laughter. Political talk, medical talk, family talk. It may have been too much.

In the morning we had to go for breakfast quickly. No time to shower. Now. Now. She's afraid to stay here. Afraid to stay in a house you've lived in for 60 years? Off we went. And then we started to see it.

"Who is that sitting on your lap?" "Why is the waitress carrying all those flowers?" "Who is that man behind you?"

Well, I thought, she really is legally blind. Macular degeneration. The bad kind. That must be it.

But then, at home, she leaned over the table and whispered to me that people were coming into the house at night, taking it over and she didn't know why the landlord allowed it. They banged pots around and kept her awake. Then, in the morning, they left.

I said, no, that was Russell and me. We spent the night. We made tea after you went to bed. That was us you heard.

She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. "I'm not stupid", she hissed, "I know you were here. THEY come every night. You didn't hear them?"

No, I didn't hear them, I thought. And I didn't see the little girl sitting on the couch and I know that nobody stole your tool shed and I know with certainty that a woman I loved like a mother is leaving my life. I can touch her. I gave her kisses when we left. Tight hugs. But she isn't there.

I wish I knew how to get her back. I miss talking to her, sharing good books to read, working crossword puzzles, debating politics and religion, gossiping benignly about people I never met.

We learn to accept the fact that we will lose people we love. But this loss breaks your heart in advance.

Meanwhile, theories are tossed about. Maybe it was the fall she took, maybe the green tea, maybe the cough medicine.

But, one voice, clear and strong says it is the cycle of life and we need to work on accepting that.

He's probably right, but few of us are ready to begin that work.

On the ride home, we talked about it some and pondered it a lot. There is so little anyone can do. So we will wait and see what happens next. It is an uneasy time.

Along Rte 17, signs were everywhere that the iconic roadside antique and flea market shop that has distracted drivers on their way to NYC for decades was closing. Big sale! Let's stop, I said, it may be gone the next time we pass by.

So we did. And bought a heavy iron coat hook thingy to hang by the back door. I wandered through the rooms, looking for the big sales, but most of their things were still too expensive for me. But interesting. Always interesting. I hope the new shop is on an interstate, too. A little piece of whimsy on the long, endless highway.

As we left I asked Russell to wait while I took a picture. To remember the place. I think the first time I stopped there was just before I started college. Could that be possible? Well, whenever it was, I certainly would never have been able then to imagine the shiny iPhone I was using to take the picture.

"The name of the place is sort of ironic this weekend, isn't it?" I asked Russell and we looked back at the sign.

A New Gallery, an Old Friend

2010-11-03T18:54:00.003-04:00

Some years ago I met a woman who was in charge of organizing an art show at a suburban art and nature center. We didn't know each other before, but somehow over the course of participating in the show over a period of a few years we became friendly. That's how it often is in this business. We are connected through art and commerce. We "get" each other.

So, anyway, the little show was a delight to do and many established artists adopted it. Then, one year, a whole new crew was in charge and she was elsewhere. I spoke to her after that and expressed what so many artists had said. That she had made the show what it was and her loss would end the show. And it did.

She went on to bigger and better things. An accomplished collage artist herself, she went on to manage another gallery, a gift shop, she moved on. She visited many of the art shows I do and we always were happy to see each other and she almost always bought something from me.

This Summer she wrote and said she had opened her own gallery and would I be part of it? I was thrilled to be asked. Then all that other stuff happened, so I was late to the party, but I got things made and Russell and I went there to drop them off.

What a delight. She had opened up the rooms in what had been a fairly typical suburban box house. There were "shutters" made of glass with painted panels, a door with a mural, a crayon box of colors highlighting the exterior. Shiny, buttery wooden floors, sunlight through unadorned windows, clean, bright spaces for hung work. I was proud to be part of it.

Not all these venues are run very professionally. Art and commerce can mix but it is often a struggle. Not this time. We have spread sheets and updates and accountability. Yowza! :)

She sent an update a few days ago with news and a list of who would be getting checks this week and I was one of the lucky ones. That was nice to see and it made me think again about putting more of my things in shops and galleries.

Problem is, I don't know exactly how to do it. I am reluctant to approach the owners of these places. Like I'm suddenly shy or something? The funny part is that they have already approached me, usually during my busiest time...at art shows...with a card and a number to call and compliments about my work. I know. So what is the problem? Beats me. Russell says he'll be my "agent" and reconnect with these folk, but he gets busy, too.

And I think how nice it would be to get not just one check this month, but 10. That adds up! Yes, I know this is only a revelation to me. I'm going to work on it. Really.

For now I am going to enjoy my one gallery, take pleasure in my one check.

Because it comes from someone who never stopped believing in her art and the art of her colleagues. Someone who has supported my small efforts with praise and purchase.

And the name of the place is just so perfect for my life right now:

Enjoy the Journey

Go. Look. Schmooze. Buy. Say Hi to Paulette. Tell her Pat sent you.

Luck is in the heart of the beholden.

2010-11-01T13:48:00.007-04:00

Now, where were we?

It was August and I was doing the Elmwood show, hoping to make enough money so that our annual trip across the country would be a good one. It was and it was.

Well, for a bit, anyway.

This is gonna be a long one, get refreshments.

Our rental in Oregon was a contemporary flat with an open floor plan, floods of sunlight and a good kitchen (always important to me) and a big cozy bed. We reunited with the kids, planned a birthday party for our 3 year old grandson. I made big pots of spaghetti and huge salads for everyone and we sat around the table and laughed and ate and drank. We would take residence at the beach house the next week and we were all really excited.

But when the birthday party came, a couple of days later, I was barely able to get the food done before I had to excuse myself and take to that big cozy bed. I listened to the party happening from behind the closed door and wondered what was wrong. Truth be told, I hadn't felt well for a while, but I didn't want to spoil our vacation. It could wait. Not.

The next sentence is not for the queasy:

The next day, trying valiantly to soldier on, my body rebelled and, trying to keep the flat's furniture unsoiled, I aspirated vomit into both lungs.

Within an hour or so, my ability to breathe was so compromised that Russell rushed me to the emergency room. I could only manage teeny bits of air and I could not talk at all. An odd calm came over me. I focused on the road, on seeing the lights of the hospital come into view, on the wheelchair that magically appeared, on the immediate admittance to a treatment room, on the bustle of the uniforms around me, on the different masks that were pressed to my face to force air and blessed oxygen into my lungs.

After that, no matter what happened, I would accept it with equanimity and calm. The gift of breath had changed me in some immeasurable way that I have been looking to describe ever since.

This, of course, is not the story. Except to tell you that the staff told Russell he had gotten me there just in time. Another 20 minutes, and there would have been a much different outcome. They might not have been able to save me.

So, I was lucky. Very lucky.

Of course, the doctors now needed to find out what had caused me to be so sick. There were tests, a CAT scan, a tube in my nose, in my bladder, in my arms. I hummed complacently. Waiting.

The kind-eyed doctor told me there was a blockage. It might be Krohns, it might be scar tissue, it might be...."cancer?" I asked.

Most likely, he answered, but survivable. Survivable, he repeated.

OK, I said calmly.

It was cancer, of course. But he leaned over me in recovery and told me that he had removed it all and that from what he could see while playing around in there, there was no more. It would depend on the lymph nodes.

Lucky once again.

And then so many staff asked us over the next few days how we had managed to get that surgeon and it turns out he is their best, people wait months to get him. He is never in the ER, but that night he was. He took an interest in my case for some reason and signed on to do the surgery.

Lucky.

Because of where the blockage was and how he was able to remove it, I was spared needing a colostomy bag.

So lucky.

There was no pain after surgery, I had an epidural for a few days. By the time they took it out, it was over. They stood by with Vicodin, but I never needed it.

I will skim past the next six days except to report that because I had no appetite for a while (I was hungry but the meds made food taste like metal shavings or something)and they were insisting I ingest something, I opted for a container of chocolate milk that was so sweet and soothing and lush I have craved it ever since. The obsession has been calming down a bit, but I still keep a half gallon of low fat chocolate in the fridge. It comforts me.

And during those days I was kept company by my Russell, of course. He even slept in a chair by my bed during the worst of it. But I was also blessed by seeing the children several times. They smiled at me and joked and I could see the worry behind the smiles and I felt loved. Some friends we usually see once a year but who live in our hearts daily, came by, sat and chatted. The phone rang and rang. My family, Russell's family, friends. Phone lines carrying concern and love, warming me. Russell's family sent a generous gift to make sure we stopped often enough at the right kinds of hotel on the journey home.

My son hopped a plane literally hours after hearing the news and he stayed with me a few days, asking all the right questions of the doctors and using the correct terminology so that even if he got the answer right in front of me I had no clue what had been said. At first I had not wanted him to come. I would be OK. I didn't want to bother him. But having him there, my sonshine, brought me such joy.

In contrast, the sweet older lady next to me couldn't rouse anyone to just bring her some clothes to go home in. I still think about her.

And it reminds me how lucky I am.

So, as it turns out, there were lymph nodes affected and I would want chemo, the surgeon said. I was "too young" to skip it. I glowed under the mantle of "too young" for a bit. And tried not to worry. He asked again where I lived. A lot of folks in the Pacific Northwest respond to the info that you are from New York as if you had said "the 4th ring of Saturn". Not this doctor. He smiled and said "Buffalo! Roswell!" and I smiled back. Yes, Roswell.

http://www.nccn.org/members/profiles/roswell.asp

Lucky.

Then it was time to go home. And home was 3000 miles away. I was 6 days post-op with a stapled together zipper up my belly that spanned from above the belly button to lower than a bikini bottom would start. (Like I would even know where that was. Pfft.) At this point I had only walked with a PT guy holding onto a woven belt that he had strapped across my chest. He followed behind me as if he was walking a chubby llama in hospital garb that might bolt at any minute. But we navigated the nurse's station and the next day I walked up 4 stairs and he was glowing with accomplishment. "where do you live again?" he asked. And he paled at the response.

But home we went. To test my ability to be safe outside the warm cocoon of Good Samaritan Hospital, we only traveled to Portland that first day. Our dear buddy, Linda, offered her guest room and veggie lasagna and off we went.

But first, we stopped at WalMart. I had to. I needed sweat pants with a loose waist to pull up over my zipper. And slip-on shoes. Picture this. Jammie pants with a torn bottom and stains from the ordeal, an oversized Sabres Jersey, slipper socks from the hospital because my feet were too swollen for shoes, multi colored wrist bands I had forgotten I was wearing, a borrowed cane that was spray painted gold and had skateboard logos on it that looked slightly sinister, hair that hadn't been washed in over a week.

And nobody in WalMart looked at me twice.

Once I was outfitted, we continued on, slowly, minding the bumps in the road, the seat belt fastened over a pillow resting on my zipper. Quincy was safely penned behind a travel gate, taking up the entire 3rd row of seats. Whenever Russell expressed sadness at the dog's exile, I reminded him that the dog had considerably more room than I.

Linda's Portland condo was warm and welcoming and cozy. The lasagna was stellar. I made it up an entire flight of stairs without a problem and settled into her lush guest bed and welcomed sleep without beeps or 4am wake-ups for blood pressure checks. We had a lazy breakfast and take-off and I was relaxed, knowing we could do it.

How lucky to have such a friend.

So, off we went, Cross country in a few more days than normal. Seat belt fastened over the pillow. We tried to stop early every night because I found that too many hours in the car made me tired and uncomfortable.
Russell was my dresser and aide, running for anything I needed, tending to my zipper, helping me get around. I do wish, though, that I had video of him valiantly to get the surgical stockings on my swollen legs. Priceless. Luckily that swelling thing didn't last long. After a couple of days, food started to taste good again and we made a Herculean effort to find restaurants along the interstate that served healthy food. That was a futile exercise, but we did find out that Denny's has two for one specials on Thursday for us geezers.

I looked at him over our Senior grilled cheese and tomato soup and wondered at how I got so lucky.

No, not lucky. Blessed. Mightily blessed.

Almost home, but first a stop in Ann Arbor to stay a couple of days with my boy and his fiance. I was feeling almost normal by then and so we went out for lunch with Leisha followed by grocery shopping and then I made dinner for us all. Cooking makes me feel like all is right with the world, and while we sat and ate and talked and laughed at the dogs trying every trick they knew to get us to drop something, it felt that way. Like nothing was wrong. I watched the love flow between them and it filled me with joy. They had waited a dozen years to come back together and here they were, in their cozy MIchigan home, planning an August wedding.

Grace surrounded us all that night.

But reality waited. Home. Doctors. Scans. Tests. Odds. Answers. Questions. Fear. Optimism. Resignation. Defiance. Hope. I wanted to never get there. I wanted to get there now. I wanted to know. I never wanted to know.

First stop was my Mom's house. She needed to see me, touch me, know I was well. My brother and his wife came and he hugged me tight and kissed and kissed me. We were all happy to be in each other's company.

I called Roswell the next morning and they made me an appointment. A month away. I was floored. But they had volumes of info, DVD's, reports, probably my permanent record from Junior High. They knew what they were doing.

I tried to use the 4 weeks to refresh and relax. I found it hard to plan for my upcoming shows because everything after October 24th was a huge, black, throbbing question mark that I couldn't see past. I had an appointment with my regular Dr and he unstapled my zipper, thank you very much, and pronounced me healthy and strong. He was advising me on diet and when he heard that we already ate that way (vegetarian except for fish, in love with broccoli and spinach, etc) he remarked that was "probably why the tumor didn't
take off".

I replayed that phrase in my head a lot. A lot. It didn't take off. :)

Finally the first appointment came and it was OK, actually. Not too much poking and prodding, mostly conversation. A kindly, soft-spoken Oncologist and his equally charming partner. There would be chemo because without it this cancer recurs in 70% after 5 years. WIth it, Less than 30. Considering our diet, less than that. OK then. I pondered whether I would get a short wig or go glam.

Then he said that this chemo has few side effects. No hair loss. Probably no nausea but they would give me a prescription to have on hand just in case. The worst would be sensitivity to the cold.

Seriously.

Now I'm wondering when this amazing run of luck would run out and he said I would go up for a scan, dye would be injected. Cancer cells would glow. If they found anything in the organs (God forbid, he whispered) they would adjust the treatment. Aha, I thought. This is it. The moment I overdraw the Karma bank.

So, I was dyed and scanned and handed my chemo schedule and sent on my way. As if I had been there for a mani/pedi.

And, finally, we are at today. If you are still with me, that is.

First was a short visit to my clinic for a look over before chemo.

I handed over my schedule and the nurse asked if anyone had gone over my scan report with me. No. So, that's why you're here, she said and I felt my gut clench and my foot started tapping.

After waiting in silence except for the thrumming in my ears, Karen came in. A sweet, caring PA who explained to me that if they did a scan on HER right now they would find odd little lumps and bumps and scars and oddities that would be of no concern at all. And then she said that my scan was like that. Nothing untoward. A scar on my kidney probably really old. Nothing.

I felt the huge balloon that had been crowding my gut deflate and life became real again.

They say some people, when faced with a serious illness, cry "why me?" I never felt that. Why NOT me?

But this. This run of blessings has me asking why I was gifted with so much luck. I look around at some of the other people in this Hospital and ...well, you know.

The journey is not over. Anything can happen. I know that. But right now, this chilly Autumn night is filled with hope and grace and gratitude.

And that is where I have been.

This is not going to be a cancer blog. We shall return to our regularly scheduled meanderings. Illness will be in the footnotes, not the topic.

I am getting ready for 2 Christmas shows in the next 3 weeks and then we are having Thanksgiving with the family of my future daughter-in-law so that we can all get to know each other. And then another show.

The next few entries will be about that and about my visit to Hollanders in Ann Arbor. Mecca for book artists. Gorgeous papers, tools, books about books. I may have made a fool of myself there but I was prepared to reveal my zipper if anyone questioned my sanity.

Funny thing about u-turns. While you're reversing direction, you might notice some things that you missed while driving headlong straight away. Things you knew were there, but they blur in the periphery of what you thought was important.

I have been turned around, made to look and to say thank you. For all of it. For all of them.

u-turns

2010-10-01T10:02:00.001-04:00

I will be back as soon as I can write about what has been happening in a funny, interesting way. It will be worth the wait!

flying solo

2010-08-26T08:24:00.002-04:00

My last Summer show of the year, one of my very favorites, is this weekend. It's a pretty important one because the quality of our upcoming vacation depends on how well it goes. We will either be spending nights at the local Best Western or in the back of the van! Such is the life of someone who earns her living without any guarantees.

This show, The Elmwood Avenue Festival of the Arts, happens just blocks from my front door and it celebrates the neighborhood I love. It started about 10 years ago, very informally. I got a call at work from an artist friend who asked if I wanted to do a new show. One day. In the neighborhood. Oh, sure. There is a conventional wisdom that you never do a new show in its first year, but since it was local and being organized by people I knew and liked, I went for it. Besides, I was pretty new at the game myself back then. From the first year, this was a show to love and I have been lucky enough to be able to do it every year since.

But this year there is a glitch. Russell, my partner in love and life and art will not be here. He works with Veterans for Peace and their convention is this same weekend in Maine. There was no thought of asking him to stay here, the cause is too dear to his heart, too important. So, it will be me running the show, alone, for the first time.

Lots of people do shows alone. Men, women, older, younger, schlepping and toting and building and selling, smiles on their faces, no pity asked. I am not one of those people. I like that Russell takes charge of the heavy lifting. That he figures out how to secure stuff using basic physics. I love that he takes care of me, telling me to sit and relax while he totes heavy equipment to the van or puts the sides up on the tent. I am loved and spoiled and I am thankful for that every day.

Now, I am not old and helpless. Well, I'm not helpless. But years of paper making and book binding have left me with hands that no longer have simple strengths. I now understand how to set up the Craft Hut, but I have trouble doing simple tasks, like securing the metal poles inside each other. I am also not a strong person. Some of the heavy lifting is just beyond my physical ability. I could do the show alone, but how could I set it up?

Enter another blessing of my life.

I love my neighbors so much that I have actually rerun the events that led us to be living next to them in my head and determined it was preordained. :) Marie and Jolene grew up together, moved to NY together, saw each other through triumphs and tragedies and bad marriages and love affairs good and bad, remaining best friends despite it all. There is a lot of story there, but not mine to tell. They are amazing women. Beautiful, funny, smart as hell, brave and real.

These are the kind of neighbors you trust with keys to your house and car, as well as with your truths. They are there for you. To watch the dog or call a plumber or hold your hand or offer a cold beer on a hot night. So, it was that Jolene said "I'll help!"

Are you sure? I asked. Hell, yeah. she answered. I'm strong.

That's what Russell said about her: she's strong. I always knew that, but I wasn't thinking physically. :)

And so it is that Saturday morning I will be the one to remember just how that rod secures the shelves and how the weights get strapped on. Jolene and I in the dewy early morning, muttering and cursing, I'm sure. Laughing, too. I bet. The Craft Hut is taking a break. The forecast is for perfect weather, so the little popup will be the shelter of choice, saving us a lot of construction time.

A few minutes ago, I was chatting with Jolene and her son, Joseph as they waited for their transportation to go out on a boat ride. We laughed and sang Janis Joplin and she offered to help me starting tomorrow if I needed anything. I came back in and the phone was ringing. Russell checking in with love words, stories of the beautiful people he is meeting, his voice happy and true.

It is a beautiful morning, cool and sunny, the grass and flowers shining from last night's rain. There is a sense of our little world being in sync today, all of us engaged in lovely things separately but connected to each other by love and circumstance and my heart is so full.

My blog post says "flying solo". But that's not true. That's not true at all.

Arts in the Gardens-Sonneberg Gardens, Canandaigua NY

2010-08-24T15:49:00.015-04:00

Well, kids, I knew we were in for a treat when the lovely registration crew handed me my packet as we rolled in.

I joked that it looked like Chelsea Clinton's wedding invitation. Neatly arranged inside were 2 ID badges on lanyards, a festive, hand-done sign for my booth, instructions tied at the top with ribbon. Hello.

The weather was glum but promising. We knew that the next day would be rain, so we cheerfully applauded the cloudiness as some sort of gift. We were permitted to pull right up to our spot (which had several generous feet of space between the other booths..thank you!) as long as we were parked by 9:30. Parking was reserved in a lot a short distance away with each space marked with a booth number. So far I was so content I didn't care if we sold anything!

The setting for this show is beautiful.

See that mansion on the hill? That's where they had the buffet I wrote about in my last post.

Between the artist tents and that mansion, there was a beer garden, wine tasting and 2 food areas. With tables. Under tents.

Who would not want to come to this thing?

So,anyway, sales were good. Buffet was good. Fellow artists were great. The weather forecast for day 2 was dire but I was content.

We had reservations at a funky little motel in town that had lots of good reviews on line.(of course, as someone pointed out later, how many were written by the owners?) The Miami Motel,a family operation, retro and colorful and under renovation. OK.

And ya know, it WAS cute

reminded me of the places we stayed a few years ago when we drove Rte 66.

The very nice proprietor said to pull around back and he'd meet us there with the key. Room 27.

That's when reality hit

But the proprietor looked proud as he inserted the key into the lock of room 27, and with good reason. The inside was charming. The 2 double beds were in separate rooms. The alcove held a microwave and fridge and sink. Bathe was off that. It was like a suite.

This was turning into a stellar weekend. And then the rain came. When the first light peeked through the curtains, I looked out and groaned. This was not going to be good, I thought. And it wasn't

I thought there wouldn't be any chance that it would clear up. Surprisingly, it did! But this is a show with a gate and hours and by the time the rain stopped and the skies brightened, it was past time when most people would decide to come out. So attendance was very small, which affected sales, of course.

It did give us time to catch up with friends. :)

At the end, they allowed us to pull onto the grounds again which may not have been real smart although it was appreciated. The ground was so wet and some folks just don't have mud driving skills.

It hurt to see the damage done. Not fair. They worked so hard for us.

So, anyway, we did take few moments as we left to admire the grounds

and we even fed the coy

Thanks, Sonnenberg. It was an honor to be part of your show. I think by next year, you'll probably have figured out how to control the weather. :)

Buffet-iquette

2010-08-21T21:28:00.002-04:00

I am in Canandaigua at a gorgeous park/mansion/gardens doing a fine art show. I'll tell more about that tomorrow, but tonight I am still pondering the artists reception.

Everyone kept saying to go to the reception because they "put out quite a spread!"

Where do these terms come from, anyway? Spread? But I digress.

There are exactly 100 artists at this show. Most come with a partner, domestic or otherwise. That's 200. (There is nothing that brings artists together like free food. Except free booze and they had that, too) A few brought their kids and determined that they, also, were entitled to partake of the "spread". So now maybe 220. All the volunteers and staff, of course, were invited to the "spread", so maybe now we are at 275?

When we got to the mansion, most of the people were already sitting on the steps and at tables, eating their share of the spread. Their plates runneth over. It was a buffet. The line just to get a plate was probably 70 people long. And it was tortuous, I tell you. How can a line like this NOT move? After what seemed like hours of shuffling slowly and moving maybe 5 feet, I decided to try to figure it out. And I did.

You know how a highway can bog down just because there is something interesting on the side of the road and people slow to maybe 50 to check it out and that slow ebb and flow of speed ties up traffic for miles? Or when you have to merge lanes and some yahoos insist on driving right up to the merge, making you stop to let them in? As soon as you get in that single lane, off you go and all is well.

It's the yahoos, people. And there were yahoos in the buffet line.

When I see 50 people waiting behind me, I zip through that line, snagging bits of this and that with little thought, just to get out of the way with some food on my plate. Not these folks. No. Grape tomatoes had to be examined. Baby carrots were chosen and discarded. Bits of pineapple were moved about and pondered. And then you get to the part where there were people waiting on you which presents a new set of problems. "what is this?" It's a SANDWICH you nut job. You can even see what's in it because it is cut in sections. Unless you have never before seen turkey, spinach, tomatoes or cheese, grab it and go!

Oh, and the sushi! "Give me that one. No, no, that one. Next to that one. Yes" Here's a clue for ya. Sushi is made in long rolls. All those pieces you're subjecting to the CATscan in your head are the same. Move along!

Oh, and the cheese table, The beautiful cheese table with little cards inscribed with exactly what that cheese is, but is that good enough? Noooo. "Is this hot cheese?" Does the word "jalapeno" ring a bell there, buddy? No, you cannot sample it. This is a buffet. Everything is a sample!

So, I figured it out. Like everything else in life, the yahoos ruin it for everyone. But even they could not ruin this beautiful late Summer night on a rambling veranda in the company of artist friends speaking their own language and stocking up on free food and wine.

Life is good. Slow, but good.

chautauqua crafts alliance show

2010-08-16T20:31:00.002-04:00

This is the one I pin my season on. It is the envelope I open with shaky fingers. Because a "no" means my best show is off the schedule and I need to find 2 to fill the gap. I also love the thing. Stellar committee, beautiful grounds, cello music in the air. It's not just the sales.

So, this year I was wait-listed much to my disappointment, but then I was called in for August, much to my hooray. Since I had virtually no shows for a full month prior, this was a much needed infusion of funds. I hoped for the best.

As it turned out, it was not the best, but it was pretty darn good. I got the last of my nagging obligations taken care of and put away a little bit for our upcoming road trip. The next 2 shows need to be good or we will be traveling with an air mattress in the back of the van!

The committee that runs this show is the best I've ever seen. They are everywhere, wearing bright red cobbler aprons, from load in to load out, helping, checking, chatting, offering. Trust me, you don't get that very often.

We were neighbors with a slightly older couple that loves Fox news but we got along anyway. We had a couple of political debates, but they were good ones. Passionate but respectful. When we left, I hugged the husband and he told me I was the nicest Liberal he ever met. Heh

Across from us, a guy who used to be one of my brother's best friends. They drifted apart, but we had fun reminiscing and we traded some of my widgets for a great wooden train set. As we were packing up, he came over with yet another car...a passenger car with little people in it...and said he thought the train needed it. He had already thrown in an extra. Our little Kylin is going to love it. His 3rd birthday happens while we are visiting next month.

Spending the weekend on the grounds means you are experiencing the music and dance from the ampitheater every time you take a short stroll for the "facilities". People are playing cellos on the lawn behind you. A big difference from the street fairs we usually do, with their porta potties and kettle corn. Not that I don't enjoy those, too. Well, except for the porta potty thing, but the grace of this show cannot be overstated.

I met a sweet lady from Virginia who came in to buy a card she had seen earlier and it was gone. We got to talking and it was one of those odd but lovely things that happens when you just connect with someone. I know she felt it too because she gave me a long, hard hug when she left. I promised to send her the card as a gift.

We spent Friday night in a cheapy "lodge" that exists mostly for fishermen. During the season, accommodations are very pricey, so we deal with lumpy beds and a kitchenette with mismatched plates and cups and glasses. A coffee pot with no filters. Bath towels the size of credit cards. Saturday night we went home for the night so I could restock. The show doesn't start until noon on Sunday, so there was time for the hour commute. It felt good to have more things on the shelves.

And now on to the last 2 shows of Summer.

Already.

Drudging along

2010-08-10T06:49:00.002-04:00

OK, that may not be a word, but when when you are deep in drudgery you need a verb to describe it,

This is my least favorite part of trying to earn a living as an artisan. I don't have paintings that sell for prices with several "0"s. My widgets sell for 20, 30, 40 bucks on average so I have to sell a lot of them to make money, Which means I have to make a lot of them. By Thursday. And that spells drudgery.

I play games on myself. Buying a new paper that makes me want to see how it will look as a book. I took Saturday as an "art" day and made collage and mirrors. I wish I could make a living with just those. I truly enjoy that. But I am nothing if not realistic.

So, I spend hours just making book covers, cutting frames, covering little pieces of book board for magnets. This will be relieved somewhat when I start actually embellishing and turning the "bones" into pretty stuff.

But I have one more day of drudging. I stand at the foot of the stairs to the attic and sigh. I picture show day, under the canopy, everything all lovely and sitting seductively on shelves for the fine folks of Chautauqua. I imagine selling them, making money for our upcoming vacation. I channel the feeling I will have as I pack the finished pieces snugly into their boxes for the trip.

I turn around and make another cup of coffee. I mean, how can I possible create anything without a second cup and the first half hour of "Today"? What was I thinking?

Downtown Syracuse-the friends

2010-08-03T08:01:00.005-04:00

So, I had sort of given up on this show but then an artist friend said I should apply and stay with her and her husband and we would have fun and I couldn't resist.

A word or 2 about my friend, Elizabeth. She is an amazing artist who somehow prints her beautiful drawings using copper plates and acid and all sorts of stuff she showed me and I still can't wrap my head around. Plus it all has to be done backwards. The mind reels. This is hers:

One of my favorites. Elizabeth's art is populated by fairies, mice and elephants at work, winsome children, moons and stars brought to life. You are drawn into her world and you want to stay there. She also write poems and fairy tales. Delightfully. I "knew" her before I knew her because I was always drawn to her art and sometimes could actually buy it. We became familiar to her and then, once we started doing the same shows, a friendship developed, slow and sure.

Another couple was also invited. Lynne and Rich. They do beautiful botanical prints. Not sure of the process, but her drawings are wonderful. And, as Elizabeth said, she is a real businesswoman. Something a lot of us aspire to and have trouble attaining.

After the first day of the show, we set the GPS for the 4 mile trip and found ourselves in a neighborhood not unlike ours, just several degrees nicer. Big old houses lovingly restored. James had purchased his craftsman style house a while back and didn't live in it for the first year while it was rehabbed. It is a beauty. They gave us their room with a comfy bed nestled into a bay window, gentle old furniture and little spots of collections here and there. Books, buttons, pieces of vintage jewelry. It was heaven. If I didn't have a show to do, I would have been happy to curl up there for the weekend with a stack of books, my iPod and a pot of coffee.

It was inspiring to be reassured that renovations do get done and graceful living ensues.

But that wasn't the best part. The best part was sitting around the picnic table, bare toes in the grass, eating pizza and drinking wine. Talking. Talking about art shows and promoters and sales and being an artist and how to release the inner talents we all have. Lynne convinced me I could draw if I "showed up" and I knew what she meant although I'm not so sure...

We discussed politics and renovating old houses. We talked about our kids. Was the economy going to stay stable enough for us to make a living as artists? Is Zapplication making our lives better or worse? Elizabeth told of doing the tango until 4am at her neighbors house on New Years Eve. We laughed and talked until we were too exhausted to stay awake.

In the morning, James made us breakfast and we all gathered around the kitchen island, the early morning perfume of dew and grass mingling with coffee and OJ and griddle cakes. And then we were off to be art carnies another day.

That night, dinner was not with friends, but with my son and his fiance. The "behold the ring" tour as I call it. We had a celebration dinner with a retelling of the proposal and talk of early wedding plans and much teasing of Leisha when she admitted to buying a binder to keep track of things. It is hard for me to explain the beauty of this.

Back at Elizabeth's, the barbecue was over, but even more friends had gathered around the table. As they debated politics and things that seemed too tiring to me after a long day, Lynne and I sat a few feet away in adirondack chairs and talked the business of art among other things. I envy how sure she is. Something to aspire to. And then she and her husband took out guitars and serenaded us. Some of the songs she wrote, some were Dickinson poems sent to her music and then there was Leonard Cohen which led me to think that there was nothing more that could be thrown at me to make these few days more perfect.

One more night nestled into the bay window, one more morning around the island with friends. Elizabeth showed us her studio and I was even more enamored with her work when I saw how hard it was, how painstaking.

I meet a lot of people doing this art show thing. There is a contingent of hardened vets who grumble about the business and how hard it is and they shoot off negativity like sparks from a dragging muffler. And yes, it is hard. I started this blog because I overheard a passing festival goer talk about how lucky we were not to have to work for a living.

But there is this. An environment built on creativity and hope, work made principally from what one can imagine, income earned by engaging others to enjoy your vision and want to have it.

The others who populate this world with you can be the most valuable benefit earned. The economy will rise and fall, our profits with it. To share friendship and experience and encouragement for a life most people outside of it cannot imagine is a gift.

So, loving thanks to Elizabeth and James, for a weekend that not only rested me, but gave inspiration and hope.

Life is good.

Downtown Syracuse-the show

2010-08-02T06:57:00.003-04:00

The first time we did this show I was blown away by how much stuff I sold. We basically ran out of stuff by the 3rd day, so we dismantled the display and set up a table in the front with the last of our widgets. I was giggly with success.

Of course, back then my expectations were lower and my stuff was cheaper. I was experimenting with things like papier mache jewelry. We liked the show and the city and the people, so I put it on my "shows to do again" list.

You know there is a danger is leaping to happy conclusions without a control group or something.

I continued to apply to the show and I continued to be accepted. They offered us artist rates at a nice local hotel. They gave us a picnic on Friday night. Many of my fellow art carnies were present allowing for much coming together of like minded folk.

But then the show took a downturn. The committee kept changing the date. Never a good thing for an established show. Then they decided to combine several festivals on the same weekend. I don't understand that sort of thinking. Wouldn't you rather give your community several weekends to look forward to in the Summer? Why lump everything together? The artists started mumbling under their breath. It was no longer a given that this was a show to apply to next year. Then came a Sunday a couple of years ago that was so poorly attended, I took a picture of the almost empty street in the middle of the afternoon.

So, I took a break. The show went from the "apply again" column to the "dying show" column. I went other places with my tent in July.

But, like most things, your resolve can be changed with an offer attractive enough. This one came from a friend. Stay with us, we'll do the show together, we live right near the festival, it will be fun. I love this woman (more on her and the invitation next post) and so I jumped back in.

And ya know, it was pretty OK. In fact, had I been more optimistic I would have brought more widgets and things would have been even better, All the good things were still there. Nice layout, good people, friends visited, weather was good 99% of the time with the rain holding off until pack up.

I sold several collage pieces which made me really happy. It takes more courage to sell "art" that has no function other than to be there for you to look at. It means a lot to create a piece of pretty out of your own imagination and put it out there for folks to look at, to judge. When someone says "I'll take that" it puffs you up. I had one man say to me "I can't leave without that". Yay.

So. I move the show into the "OK, you get another chance" column.

And on we go.

the mom speaks

2010-07-24T22:00:00.004-04:00

When you have a child, the wishing starts immediately. For my son, I wished that he would be smart, brave and curious. Mostly because, although I was smart and curious, my timidity kept me stuck to home like a pin in a map. My wish came true.

The rest of it, well, he would have to navigate on his own. There are way too many circumstances to ponder, results to wish for, situations to conjure. His brain and heart and will would have to fill in.

As he made his way, I alternated between joy and fear and worry and relief. Like any parent. I celebrated his victories and listened late into the night when he was broken.

Of course, underlying it all was the main wish. The one we absolutely cannot control, the elusive prize.

And now, he has it. A promise from the woman he loves to love him always.

My work is done here. :)

I write like...

2010-07-18T08:27:00.002-04:00

This morning I read about a new web site called "I write Like" that lets you copy and paste a snippet of your own writing and find out to which famous author your writing compares. (see me being careful with syntax there). Pressure.

Well, that was just too tempting. So I copied a bit from a recent blog post, pasted it in and got:

David Foster Wallace.

Whoa!

After I stopped preening, I tried again, another post, another paste:

James Joyce

And I said yes I said yes I am yes

Now, I think I can turn a phrase, but Joyce?

So, I experimented. I pasted in a snippet of Joyce, from Ulysses, analyzed it and got:

Stephenie Meyer

I had to look her up. She writes the Twilight series. Vampires for the tween set.

A quote from the writings of James Joyce:

"And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?

A quote from the writing of Stephenie Meyer:

"Fall down again, Bella?'
No, Emmett, I punched a werewolf in the face."

I'm thinking that web site might need a little tweaking.

All booked up

2010-07-16T20:56:00.004-04:00

Russell and I often talk about how our Summers are not what they used to be. Before we started doing art shows, we went to the beach, we went camping. Sometimes we would take a short vacation. To the Coast of Maine, or a weekend in the Finger Lakes. I loved the laziness of Summer. There is actual Summer furniture that encourages a person to lay back, curl up, nap. Imagine that.

But now Summer is my "season". It is one of two. There is "Summer" and there is "Holiday". The Summer runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day and The Holiday runs from Columbus Day to mid-December. During these periods, we will do probably 12-15 shows that run 2 to 3 days each. And in between I have to make the stuff that we hope to sell.

Needless to say, no Coast of Maine. If we spend a weekend in the Finger Lakes it is because we are doing a show there. Beach? No. Although my reluctance to be seen in public in a bathing suit may be more of a problem than missing studio time. :)

This year, life gave me some Summer. I didn't get a couple of shows I expected to do, leaving me with more stock than usual as well as a July filled with real weekends. We had a Family Reunion over the 4th and 2 of our kids came home to visit and hang out. I was actually able to do that. Play.

I wander up to the studio every day and do prep work and stockpile components. But then the day beckons. Warm, sunny days that I had forgotten about. We have our meals on the veranda, watch the city walk by, enjoy the breeze.

And I am reading books. Lots of books. Crates of books. Beach books. Cook books. Short story collections. When I was a kid, that's what Summer meant. Long lazy days under the big willow in our back yard, a book on my lap and a few cookies in my pocket. Bliss.

Then, as a teenager and young adult, it was long, hot beach days, sand in the spine of the books I devoured while burning to a crisp.

Last month I found an old Morris chair at a yard sale and I settle into its cushions on the veranda and read.

I have read all the Nantucket novels by Elin Hildebrand. Perfect. Light but compelling. Like cotton candy. One a day. Gobble, gobble.

Revisited a couple of Richard Russo's.

Short stories by Maile Meloy.

A new Allegra Goodman.

The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters.

Almost every day there is an email from my library that a book I requested is in.

I've been scavenging for good books. While waiting in line at the grocery store I saw that the new "O" magazine had a feature of favorite Summer books, so I grabbed it and copied the titles into my iPhone while I waited. NPR was doing a similar feature one morning while I was doing dishes, so I wrote them on the kitchen chalkboard. I browse Amazon, reading reviews and summaries, requesting the ones that interest me, sending the library folks off to do my bidding via the internet. I can't wait for "The Pearticular Sadness of Lemon Cake". I heard about that one in the car, early one morning, en route to a show. I wrote it down on a scrap of paper and tucked it in my wallet.

For a long while now, I have missed reading. It's not just being busy. The laptop consumes a lot of time, time that I would have spent in pages, I spend on screens. Oh, I read, but not like this, not like this summer of pages.

I was worried about the empty July calendar. And I won't deny that the loss of income from those events stings. But it has been a few weeks of family and festivals, theater, puttering in the garden, waking up in the early dawn with nothing to do but sip coffee on the porch and read books.

I'm not wishing to lose a couple of good shows again next year, but I will plan better because I have learned that Summer is not just work and more work. I remember now. I remember the perfumed early mornings, the late sunsets, the long lazy hours in between. Tomorrow we are going to the beach.

And I will be reading books.

Son-day

2010-07-12T08:09:00.002-04:00

I think that Russ and I both try to accept the reality of our kids making lives away from us. We make a yearly pilgrimage to the West coast and sometimes they come to us. But, in reality, we probably spend a total of 3 weeks or so in the company of our children every year.

We talk about moving, we talk about being bi-coastal, we vow to visit more often, we talk and talk about it. We miss our kids and emails and facebook and phone calls just don't do it.

This week we were blessed with kids. Russ' youngest, Max, is here for 2 weeks and Billy is in Rochester with his sweetheart, Leisha, as they get ready to begin their new lives in Ann Arbor, so we are able to hang out every few days.

Sunday was rich with family. We went to Taste of Buffalo with Billy and Leisha (Max went early so he wouldn't miss World Cup) and then we all went to Shakespeare in the Park.

I sat there with my sweetheart next to me, my son and Leisha behind me, Max one spot over, a friend of Max on a blanket at our feet and we shared cheese and bread dip and macaroons and Coronas. We joked and chatted, teased each other, laughed.

It is how life should be but isn't, it's how our family could be but won't. No matter what changes we make, our kids will still be in 3 different states, 4 different cities. I want to have a compound, like the Kennedys. A bunch of houses on a big piece of land where everyone could live together but apart, touch football on Fall afternoons, huge Christmas dinners with generations around the table, always there for each other in joy or pain, minutes away from a hug, grandchildren popping in with wildflowers. It brings tears to me to think of it.

Instead I will take comfort in how all the kids turned out great, their lives moving as they should. My Billy will be closer to home now than he has been in many years. That is one check in the plus column. I vow, as I always do, to visit the Oregon/Washington kids more often. We have a new grandchild to hold, but it will be September before we get there.

I watched the groups of people at Shakespeare last night as they walked toward the hill with chairs and picnic baskets. Many families. I listened to banter, complaints, laughter. Children on blankets, leaning against their parents' knees as they watched the show. Young Mother soothing a fussy baby, hoping to be able to stay until the end. 2 young girls defiantly spreading their blanket 3 spots away from the folks so they could feel grown up, crawling over to get food every 5 minutes. :)

Do they really get how blessed they are?

We'll focus on the sons this week, enjoy them, cherish the time spent together. Then we will look forward to September and our visit West. and that's how it will be, I guess, for always. Coming together, taking leave. Holding close, letting go.

Well, until we get that compound thing built.

The Mayor of Strawberry Fields and me

2010-07-08T09:34:00.006-04:00

The day after the reunion, we ventured into the city. Russell and Max headed for MoMA, Walter (Russ' brother) and I took Quincy to Central Park.

It was a long, hot walk to the park, especially trying to constrain Q who was overwhelmed by the numbers of people and new smells. We settled on a bench to cool down and rest my trick knee that cooperates with me as long as I respect its limitations. I told Walter I'd like to visit Strawberry Fields. I usually do whenever I'm in Central Park. John Lennon holds a special place in my psyche, growing up with his music as I did. But it wasn't just the usual pilgrimage. I wanted to try to catch the Mayor of Strawberry Fields.

Last year we went to the premier of a documentary that had been done by local film makers. It was all about this homeless man who had carved a career of sorts, entertaining the visitors to the Lennon memorial. His story was compelling to me and I wanted to see him for myself. I knew the odds were long that he would be there, but off we went. Many blocks up, traversing across the park to Central Park West, keeping the towers of The Dakota in view as a sort of North Star navigation tool. As we rounded the curving walk to the mosaic, I heard chatter and, sure enough, there he was, giving his lecture, spreading his flower petals, working the crowd.

Walter was bemused by my fangirliness, I think, but he humored me while I took pictures and video. At one point, Gary offered a rosebud to a young girl who refused it. Probably a little afraid of the grubby man, even in a crowd. So he gave it to me.

We spent a peaceful half hour there, watching the show, resting Quincy who made a lot of friends as he pretended to be a good dog. Walter and I talked about finding your way in this world, carving out your little niche and finding joy there. Gary is most likely still a homeless man, but he seems clean and fed and healthy and happy in this little corner of the city. I watched the people watching him. Some were smiling, some were dismissive. A few registered scorn.

I saw freedom. Happiness. I heard Lennon "imagine all the people living for today" and I think he would approve of Gary. Living for today with his roses and broken petals, making beauty, connecting with strangers, collecting the dollars and quarters that would keep him going a little longer.

I'm not romanticizing homelessness, but I do respect Gary's clear-headed decision to live the way he chooses.

We wished him well as we left. He was still perfecting his design. He took a picture with me, a big hug around my shoulders, both of us flashing peace signs.

Russell picked us up across from the Dakota. Max said "We saw Christina's World!" I said "I saw the Mayor!"

It was a good day.

come together

2010-07-07T11:50:00.012-04:00

Months ago the missives started. There would be a celebration, a reunion, a coming together of the clan in honor of Dottie's 90th birthday. It would be on the 4th of July weekend, even though her real birthday was in the Fall. A bunch of rooms at the Hampton Inn were reserved, the caterer was hired, a family tree was designed, photos were collected, tasks were assigned. It was hard to imagine the Long Island heat and humidity when this all began, almost impossible to picture dozens of people in Summer clothes under a shelter in the park. But then, here it was and we were off to the reunion.

A word about "Dottie". She is Russell's Mom and I am crazy about her. She accepts everyone, flaws and all, but there is nothing sugary about her. She is just real. I guess raising 9 (nine!) kids sort of makes you reassess priorities and save the negativity for stuff that really matters. She is almost blind and almost deaf but her mind and wit are intact and firing. She never complains about what she is lacking. She smiles and carries on, waving off concern, laughing at her deficits, poking fun at herself. There is always a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

They passed around a guest book at the party and in it I wrote that the best thing Russell ever gave me was the opportunity to share his Mom. And I mean it.

We left our hotel early on the day of the party because we had a task. Pick up balloons. Lucked out on that one, I thought. Has to be the easiest assignment of the day. The balloons were helium. There were 25 of them. They did not behave.

We spent about an hour tying the balloons to weights and setting them on tables before people started to arrive. And then the caterers. Relatives bearing goodies and old photos. There was coffee and bagels in the morning that magically morphed into lunch from the grill and then made way for more deserts than I have ever seen in one place.

And through it all, Dottie smiled and the family laughed and hugged and everyone said how wonderful it was really almost perfect and wasn't the weather great?

Rumor has it that plans for her 95th are underway.

by the sea..

2010-06-30T20:30:00.003-04:00

I don't live near the ocean, but I do live just a few blocks away from a Great Lake which sure as heck looks like an ocean because it goes on forever. Well, at least to Cleveland.

I know the simple joy of sitting at the edge of the surf,sifting sand through my fingers and letting cool waves lap at my toes. All of the kids at one time or another have been packed into the car, their feet on coolers of snacks, for a cheap afternoon in the waves. I have taught 4 dogs to swim, even though I prefer the wade out and flop down technique for myself. I have gone to the water when I needed to think or cry without interruption. I know the cycles of the Lake from Spring to Spring as well as I know my own heartbeat. I know when the ice forms and when it melts and when it gets warm enough to swim and when it gets too warm to be a respite from the heat. The sound and smell and feel of the Lake is part of me. The sailboats and windsurfers and tugs are a backdrop to everyday life.

All of this chatter is just to say that I know how this would feel if it was in my backyard

and it keeps me awake at night to think of it. Every day, video of the disaster, of the pumping well like a severed artery, of beautiful birds slicked with oil and unable to fly. Every day, for months. The beautiful waves, the life within them, soiled by greed and negligence.

Wind. Water. Sun. They don't spill or kill or leave waste we can't define.

Please. What are we waiting for?

Please.

maiden voyage

2010-06-29T21:06:00.004-04:00

So, this past weekend was Roycroft, usually one of my best shows. Great selection of artisans in the Roycroft tradition on the grounds of the historic Roycroft campus. The Copper shop is usually open and antique dealers set up in a back corner. Across the street, an art show with painting and photography, etc. Bliss.

So, naturally, since it was perfect as is, it had to be changed. Long boring story short, construction on the main road forced some decisions and we wound up on the parking lot of an elementary school. I've whined enough about it for days now, so I will spare the blog from my petulance. It turned out OK although not stellar, but it was not the gem I look forward to every year. Nobody knows what will happen next year.

But! We got to use the new/old canopy for the first time. We only had a couple of missteps, like putting the top rails on the bottom, but these were things that made themselves apparent right away and were easy to fix. And I love it. I love the spaciousness of the tall ceiling free of the mechanism the pop-up has. Loved the heavy vinyl walls, so study compared to the nylon we had before. A wind kicked up late in the day and the new tent just sort of yawned while the pop-ups danced and fluttered.I almost wished for rain just to see how it would hold up, but I didnt want to wish that on my fellow carnies. I felt at home in my new space, comfortable and safe. What a difference.

There is still some tweaking to do on the display in general, but I think it is getting pretty good. Since I have a combination of things that need shelves and wall space and racks, it can get tricky.

And now no shows until the end of the month which is making my budget tremble. But it gives me time to build stock and visit the Long Island branch of the family and enjoy time with the youngest of our blended family, Max, who is visiting from Oregon for a few weeks. Such a gift. We haven't seen him since October.

Speaking of blended families and gifts, the 2nd oldest "blender", Harvest, presented the family with Jackson Riley yesterday.

It doesn't get much better. :)

romancing the hut

2010-06-22T08:06:00.003-04:00

OK, so last month we schlepped down to Pittsburgh and bought a used Craft Hut canopy. I have been avoiding the "real" canopies since we started this odyssey into art show world a dozen or so years ago. Too expensive, too complicated. 4 cheap canopies and some scary storms storms later, we caved.

My first outdoor show of the year is this weekend. We had to drag the canopy out of the storage room and clean it up, set it up, organize the parts our way. Make sure we knew what we were doing. I was still a little concerned about setting it up. We are used to a pop up tent that has no parts to assemble. We are used to its idiosyncrasies. We've learned to live with its faults. While I envied others their fancy dancy "pro" canopies, I often felt happy to have the pop up when I would watch them laying out parts and assembling, especially in the rain. But I knew once the tents were up, there was no question who was safer, dryer, cozier.

Anyway, Russell said he was confident that he would remember how to do it. We brought the folder of info Larry gave us when we bought the tent just in case. But Russell has a good mind for logical, construction things, so I wasn't worried. We brought everything to my Mom's suburban back yard so I could scrub the components while Russell organized the parts. I dragged the canopy top to the lawn and began scrubbing. I looked over at Russell and he was holding a pole in his hand and staring at it as if it had fallen from the sky. I was not reassured.

But it was like most learning activities. Once you get the first piece in place, the rest made sense. And so it was. There were some moments of confusion, adjustments were made. A panel was found to be missing a zipper but we had an extra. Before you knew it, the thing was up. I love the roominess of it. It feels like a cathedral without the zigzag mechanism of the pop up overhead.

OK, bring on the rain, the wind, the typhoons, We are ready to weather the storms. Although I much prefer sunny, 75, light breezes off the lake. If that's not too much trouble.

alice waters makes breakfast

2010-06-20T22:25:00.009-04:00

I just think everyone should see Alice Waters make this beautiful, simple, elegant meal. Even if you aren't a foodie, I challenge you not to sigh when she plates it up :)

fun with craigslist

2010-06-14T08:28:00.011-04:00

I love craigslist. I've never actually bought anything there, but I've come close. I claim to love "vintage" things but the reality is that I'm cheap and since we are needing a new table and chairs for the dining room, it's time to start perusing the castoffs of others. Actually, I did find one that I would spring for if I had the bucks right now. I'd probably have those bucks if I did Allentown. But nooo...OK, I'll quit whining. It's over. But this little set was from a model home that is being dismantled and I found it soo sweet and perfect for a dining room that doubles as an office.

It will be sold before I can save for it. Goodbye sweet dining set. We could have had such a nice time.

There is more to be found on the list than cheap furniture, though. There is entertainment. For instance, today I will share some of the photos that made me just shake my head in wonder, because if you are taking a picture of an item you are going to sell, that picture says a lot. You want the item to look its best, to reflect its possible worth as an addition to a new home. Sort of like brushing out the puppies before you put them in a box that says "free!" SO I am amused and bemused by photos like this:

Look! Under all the garbage there is a table for sale. The photo represents how the table will look when it is part of your real life. Well, if your real life is messy and clueless, that is.

"Honey, clean off the dresser before you take the picture for craigslist"
"I did"

This ad read "my roommate moved out and left this mattress":

Uh, it looks like your roommate left something IN the mattress. I'll pass.

Found the remote!

Now, I'm not sure what condition this mattress is in, but I know this person obeys the laws!

And proud to show ya!

You, too, can have this chair to throw your shirt on!

Now that may be a throw, which would be even sadder than a shirt, actually.

Hot water tank? Shelf? Cooler? Pick the item for sale:

But this is my favorite. If you can't tidy, use the crop tool. people!

OK, that was fun. Something to do with the morning coffee. Now it is studio time. Have to take Mom to the Doctor today. Her appointment is at 3:30, but she wants to leave at 2 because she has to go to the bank first. Both destinations are less than a mile from her house. It's going to be a long afternoon.

two steps back to grumpy

2010-06-13T09:15:00.003-04:00

So the past few days have left me feeling the love, appreciating the vagaries and surprises of life.

( Cue the bluebirds and rainbows.)

And then the Allentown Art Festival came. You know, the one that finds me unworthy 50% of the time so that instead of making a paycheck this weekend I have to actually watch people walk past my house with their pockets full of cash that will not be spent on my artwork. When you get juried out of a show in another part of town or, better yet, of the state, you can pretty much forget it's happening and go about your business. When it happens right in your neighborhood, it can be sort of like having someone poke your butt with a knitting needle every few minutes.

So, I faced the irritation head on, spent a lot of time on my porch greeting visitors with a "Good Morning!" as they walked by gawking at the city dwellers. (Yes, people, we actually live here. And we like it!) I made calls for the Artists in Buffalo guide, read my newest library book, tried to have a peaceful, happy afternoon. Then I got antsy. I decided to go out.

I hooked up Q, grabbed my keys and headed for the driveway. We don't actually have a driveway. The house next door is for sale and the owner told us to use his. Works for us, our back door opens right out onto it, and it makes it look like his house is occupied.

Except that day, it apparently was occupied because there was another car in the driveway. Right behind mine. Not only that, but it stuck out onto the sidewalk which really makes me seethe because it is so inconsiderate of people in chairs, pushing strollers, using walkers. It screams discourtesy and a total inability to think of anyone but you.

OK. No problem, Someone must be working on the house. I went over, rang the bells. Nothing. A woman catching sun in the yard next door said she heard music coming from the upstairs earlier. Other than that, we were without enlightenment.

So, what do you do? If it was my driveway I would have had the thing towed. Not my driveway. I hovered about the offending and offensive vehicle, trying to figure this out. While I waited, a guy in a wheelchair came by and had to navigate through curbs and flower beds to get by. I apologized and said I was trying to find the owner. He smiled and said it happened all the time, not to worry. That made me even more grumpy. I couldn't find the phone number of the owner of the house to ask if someone had permission to be at the house. Frustration ensued. I checked every so often, still there. At one point I half sat on the front bumper, watching folks walk by, hoping one would say "Hey! Off my car!"

When the whackamole who did own the car finally walked by, there was no reaction to me lounging on the chassis. The pair, a man and a woman, just walked by and up the stairs to the house. "Hey! "I called. "This your car?" The man gestured to the woman behind him with his thumb. "You're blocking me in!" I said with just a touch of incredulity and scorn. She eyed me, determined I was harmless, and said without expression or apology that she would get her keys.

Excuse me? No apology? No sheepish expression? You pull your car into someone's driveway, behind one that will have to stay where it is until you get your behind back from the art festival (for that is where they were- I could tell by the kettle corn). Let's not even mention your total lack of concern for those using wheels to navigate the sidewalk you blocked. And your total response is that you will get your keys? Grrrr..

I decided to just go in the house, hook up Q, and get ready to go. There would be nothing to be gained by confronting the twit. For most of us, the immediate reaction to "Oh, just park here" would be to ask what about the owner of that Beetle in the driveway. You can't give someone common sense or courtesy by scolding them. She would have to go about her rude little life without my wisdom.

And so, Q and I took a bit of a ride, away from the chaos being visited on our usually quiet Avenue. I wasn't able to actually go anywhere. It was too hot to leave the dog in the car and I didn't really have a plan except to get away for a few minutes. Clear my head. Put distance between me and the knitting needles and gawkers. And it was good.

I have no words of wisdom for the driveway blocker except this: That trend of letting your bra straps hang out past the straps of your tank top is so 90's.

;)

Steve comments on Mary

2010-06-11T12:29:00.002-04:00

Usually, on this blog, you just approve comments that come in and they attach themselves to the end of the post and maybe people see them and maybe they don't.

I received this most wonderful comment on my post about Mary and I thought it was too special to be read "maybe"

What a beautiful post... My eyes filled with tears too, at the thought of your beautiful little "breathe" magnet ending up in the hands of someone who is special to you... And in the hands of someone for whom something as simple as "breathe" means so very much...

Thank you for telling us about your friend Mary, and her new lungs and liver -- and her new life -- and looking forward to seeing her without a wheelchair or oxygen, and seeing "just Mary"... It's amazing, and sometimes beyond understanding, what the gift of organ donation can do for someone. There is some family out there who suffered an incredible loss -- and in their time of grief, chose to step back for just a moment and think of others -- to think of the Mary's in the world who are dying, who they -- in the midst of their grief -- may be able to help...

And now your friend Mary is alive and thankful, and clutching a little magnet that says "breathe"... I can't wait until you get to see "just Mary" too... And I'll bet that she can't wait to see you and speak of the amazement of these little connections...

I know how Mary feels, and I know what it's like to have friends like you in our lives... Ten years ago, I was in a chair and on oxygen -- I had a double lung transplant in April 2000 (no liver...) After living almost 40 years with crappy cystic fibrosis lungs -- breathing normally is freaking mind-blowing, even after 10 years... My life was saved by a beautiful 17-year-old girl who told her family twice in the month before she passed, how strongly she felt about organ donation. I think of her throughout the day, every day...

You take care... Thanks for brightening my day with your post about Mary... And when you see her, give her a hug from a guy in Chicago who also breathes with lungs that were a gift...

Love, Steve

You never know who reads your blog or why. I don't think I know Steve and I know he is unaware that my son's "very significant other" lives with CF, too and that I have come to know about this "crappy" disease through their loving relationship.

He can't know how much his reference to 50 years meant to me.

I will surely give Mary a hug from Steve and one to my son's sweetheart, too.

Thanks, Steve.

Just breathe

2010-06-10T20:45:00.005-04:00

At Kenan last weekend a woman bought one of my little magnets. It says "breathe". She said she was buying it for a friend who was recovering from a lung transplant. Wow, I said, hope she does well. So far, the woman said with a smile. And off she went.The exchange made me think of an art carnie friend, Mary.

We first met Mary 10 or 12 years ago I think, doing a little dog of a show that few people came to and the ones that did couldn't get to us because of the layout. It was horrific at first, then it became funny. We were new at this business and it took me hours to go find the man in charge and make him take away the barriers. Today it would take me 5 minutes and if he didn't do it I'd have all the other vendors in a wedge formation.

During the hours of inactivity, as is my nature, I went and schmoozed with the other marooned artists. That's where I met Mary. She was selling, if I remember right, incense holders that were bottles with beads and wire embellishments. They were funky and fun and even without actually selling any, she was having fun. For the life of me I can't remember if she was visibly ill then. We just connected.

Over the years we graduated to better events and at almost all of them I would see Mary, who had given up her art show life shortly after the debacle. But she liked to attend them all. At first she was walking around with an oxygen thing. Then we would see her and she would be in a wheelchair. Next year she'd be walking around. Some times she looked really good, others made me think I might not see her again. I never asked what was wrong, we never discussed it. We were fellow art carnies and we enjoyed each other. Nothing else mattered.

Then, a couple of years ago, there was a human interest story on the local news about Mary needing a heart/lung transplant and my heart sank. This was serious, then. I thought of how she always acted as if whatever was wrong with her was a minor inconvenience. After that, when we met, we could acknowledge the presence of the oxygen tank and wheelchair and speak of how she was doing. The curtain had been pulled back. She remained upbeat and positive, shrugging off concern.

She didn't come to the Kenan show, but I don't think she usually does, so I wasn't concerned.

Then, tonight I got an email from a friend of Mary's. It said, in part:

I'll bet you didn't know that Mary finally received her double lung and liver transplant on May 23rd, and is still in Hospital in Pittsburgh doing pretty well, considering. You came to mind today as Mary received a card from her friend who purchased it from you at the Keenan Center show. A beautiful magnet saying "breathe".

I don't know how these things happen. But how wonderful that they do. So, it was liver, not heart. I thought as my eyes filled with tears. And she is doing well.

And she has my magnet. "I hope she does well" I had said to the lady.

I so hope she does. My brave fellow art carnie. I expect to see her at the Christmas shows. No chair, no oxygen. Just Mary.

Can't wait.

100 American Craftsmen

2010-06-08T22:11:00.003-04:00

Well, actually, I think now there are 109. But it is still a "small" show. Not one of those that exhaust the shoppers and strain the patience of the organizers. The work is very high quality (I am always thankful they let me participate!) and the organization that puts it on: the Kenan Center in Lockport, NY, couldn't do it better.

So why was almost everyone bummed about sales? Beats me.

Over the years I have heard every rationalization for the success or failure of an event you can imagine. From the economy to politics, weather, advertising, the design of the postcards, hockey playoffs or football games, too many jewelers, too many potters, too many artists, not enough artists, on and on the theories fly but there is seldom agreement or enlightenment.

Here's what I think. When a group does everything right, there really is no "reason" for anything. 2 years ago I made almost twice as much at this show as I did this past weekend. The economy was certainly no better and I remember that it was so hot outside and inside the arena that people seemed to want to bolt the venue instead of shop and schmooze. But they spent money that year.

I had nice exchanges with shoppers, lots of compliments. My art pieces got positive attention but no buyers. They bought the low end stuff like crazy, but seemed to stall at around $25.00. And so it goes. There are no guaranteed paychecks in this business. You pitch your tent and hope for the best.

Chalk it up, move along, stay positive. I made enough to cover the expenses for the next couple of shows and buy some groceries. Not bad.

And I do love that show. So many friends are there. The committee treats us like rock stars. The customers are smart and art-oriented for the most part. I will apply to this show every year until I'm done. Some years I will be bummed about sales and some years I will be giddy over how good I did. It's the way of this life.

A little over 2 weeks until the next one. Deep breath. On we go. Maybe the weather will be perfect and hockey playoffs will be over and the oil spill will be contained and Obama will have surprised us all with a little incentive check.

I can dream.

true beginnings

2010-06-04T07:22:00.004-04:00

Yes, I did a show last week, but 100 American Craftsmen has been the true beginning of the season for me for quite a few years now. I'm crazy about this show for a bunch of reasons, the biggest is the homecoming sense of it. From the women manning the registration desk (Hi hon! Welcome back! You look fabulous!) to greeting old art carnie friends after a Winter away with hugs and laughter. it is a joyful beginning for me.

It is also a gathering of some of the best craftsmen around. I'm always amazed that they let me in. This is all craft, no "art". Jewelers make up a third of the show, followed by blown glass, pottery, metalwork, wood. It is one of the few shows I do that actually has a category for paper and I am not the only one in it.

This weekend I will be set up across the aisle from one of my favorite people, Cheryl Olney of Louise's Daughter and back to back with my blog buddy, Terry Stephan and his bead genius wife Betty

Most of the folks will be setting up today. These are just the ones that opted for a head start like we did. Today all I have to do is clip my lights to the frame and set up my stuff. I've left some busy work to do when I get there, like tagging my books, because I want to be there early, unrushed (is that a word?) focused on the weekend ahead, no distractions except for the welcome interruptions of old friends, coming together again, in a world so few people understand, griping and moaning and laughing about the work we have chosen to do with the silent understanding that we really wouldn't have it any other way.

gimme shelter

2010-05-31T08:25:00.010-04:00

We took a big step in our art show world yesterday and upgraded to a heavy duty artist canopy.

When you visit festivals, most likely all you notice is that the tents are white. Before I got into the game, I wouldn't have remembered anything about the many tents I ducked into as a customer except that: they were white. But there is a big difference.

Most of us start out with a "pop-up" canopy that opens sort of like an umbrella. You can get them now at discount stores for $200 or so. The sides hook on with velcro or ties, the sides zip up, you attach as much weight as you can to the legs to keep them from sailing and you are good to go. Well, not "good" so much as "OK".

We rented canopies our first year and we were seduced by how easy they were to pop up, not realizing that the rental places used industrial grade materials that we would never see again. Over the past dozen years we've bought about 3 of them, replacing the ones that were damaged by wind or rain.

A few events last year made me start thinking seriously about upgrading. There were storms last year, big ones, scary ones. The little pop-up held its own for the most part but I worried every time. And then, at the Waterfront Festival, I saw what so many art carnies speak of, The dreaded flying canopy.

But our pop up was still sturdy and brave and then came that tricky wind and the need to weld and an uneasiness inside our shelter. Even on that beautiful, sunny day last weekend, a few stray wind gusts threatened to dance our tent sideways and Russell went schmoozing with owners of the "pro" tents and came back convinced. I found a used one advertised on an artist forum by a photographer I "knew" from the business and off we went to Pittsburgh.

My fear about the pro canopy was that it would be a pain to put up. There are poles to attach and patterns to remember. So, when Larry offered to put the thing up in the driveway with us, we jumped at the opportunity. He showed Russell all the parts and I got dizzy just trying to imagine how it worked.

We are going to be here for hours, I thought, and went to get Q out of the car. When I turned around, it was already started!

Well, OK, then. I'll get Q some water and put it in his dish and....

OK, seriously, how can this be so easy? I asked Russell if he was understanding what Larry was showing him and he responded with a big grin about how simple and logical it was. Russell loves logic. OK then.

I walked the dog over to the back yard, cleaned up after him, brought him back and Larry was explaining the awnings

Yes, we get awnings. I always wanted awnings....

We sealed the deal and started to pack things up and then Larry asked Russell if he could use one of these

which probably doesn't send tingles up your spine unless you do art shows. It's a hand truck that folds out to a flat bed that you can pile almost your whole set up on. Yes!, Russell shouted.

So, off we went back home, our van piled high with poles and vinyl, Quincy snuggled up on a mountain of walls

Our next step will be to lay the parts out on the lawn, scrub them up, let them breathe, maybe get some wrinkles out. Separate the extras from the basics and then set it up again, without Larry's help. Just to be sure.

A friend of ours told us that once you have the pro tent, you set it up and then forget about it. You can focus on your show. Not worry about wind or rain or leaks. That will be nice. Next time you see me, I should be looking pretty relaxed. And so very professional :-)

sex and the city and me and the city

2010-05-28T11:18:00.005-04:00

OK, here's the confession. I can't wait to see Sex and the City 2. This is no big deal unless you know me. Because, most likely, I am one of the least likely SATC fans you could meet.I mean, I consider stiletto shoes to be an evil plot foisted on vulnerable women by men who thought it would slow them down. Barefoot is my shoe preference. If an outfit isn't made of denim or t-shirt material I feel like I'm in costume and my boutique of choice is AmVets. So what is it about Carrie and Samantha and Miranda and Charlotte that calls me?

I refused to watch the series when it first came on HBO because the little bits I saw of it looked like it was a series about women in search of men and little else. Yuk. Then, one night, bored and finding nothing on the 427 channels TimeWarner provided, I chose an old episode. Then another. and another. I watched for hours. This was actually good stuff. Funny. Sexy. Touching. Silly. Fluff. Fantasy.

And these women had lives and careers. A writer, a lawyer, public relations, an art historian. Huh. The men they partnered with were interesting, sexy, flawed. And they are grownups. Imagine.

I think women escape into this movie just like some men escape into comic book characters and action figures and alien fantasies and shoot-em-ups. It is hard for me to take seriously the smug dismissiveness of a grown man holding a ticket to Spiderman 3 or Dark Knight. Same, same, same. The girls are my comic book. For a couple of hours I can watch an existence so alien from mine that it makes Avatar look like real life.

Besides, I can identify with Miranda's reluctance to be domesticized, Carrie's struggle with love and art, Samantha's desire to feed her desires her way and Charlotte's family fantasies that bump into real life. It's women's work dressed in shimmery fabric. Add in hysterically over the top ridiculous, funny stuff like trying to answer a cell phone while riding a camel through the desert and I'm there. I get it.

One of the things I love most about women is our ability to laugh at ourselves and our lives. You have to. And I intend to..at the multiplex in my city. I'll be the one in jeans and an old shirt, shoes kicked under the seat, big grin on her face.

where are the lilacs?

2010-05-25T08:24:00.008-04:00

Off we went in the early dawn, a van filled to the brim with display stuff and 2 dogs. We had been dog sitters for my son and his sweetie and the handoff was to be at the show. I don't know who I felt sorrier for, Ginger the Golden Retriever who sat on the floor of the van under Russell's knees or Russell who tried valiantly to give the dog more room even if it meant being a contortionist. The other dog was a teeny dachsy who was able to find comfort and look out the window, too.

It was the first day with the new set up and it went OK, but I can see the tweaking that is needed. I have been trying to have a nice looking booth for a dozen years and it is taking way too long to accomplish it. At my next show they are offering a consultation with an expert on booth design and I am so there!

What can I say about this show? The weather held, there were lots of people. The show runs 2 weekends and most of the sales were on the first weekend according to those who had done both. Story of my life, eh?

But I got to reconnect with a lot of friends, made enough money to order supplies, got back in the groove.

But the best part? I sold art! Yeah, yeah, I know, it's all "art", but I sold 2 of my new collage pieces. Now, at a show where there were few sales and most of those were cards and cheap things, the fact that I sold 2 of them is really heartening. It makes me think that at a "good" show with more buyers I may do well with this. Makes me happy.

I'll leave you with some random art show photos. The fun thing about shooting at the shows is that you have lots of colorful things, lots of people, images you don't see every day....

sunshine through the crystals

so, that's how they make those!

winner of "cutest kid at art show"

brown-bagging lunch to avoid the food court

true attention getter. wonder what he cost?

wonderful vases from my friend, Deb.

I promised to give a day to my "real" job, but then it's back to work for 100 American. Gonna make "art" for that one. No stopping me now!

here we go again..

2010-05-24T07:54:00.011-04:00

I've done some small shows this year, but I don't consider the season "on" until the first big outdoor show. We signed on for the Lilac Festival in Rochester to help fill a gap, making our start date a couple of weeks earlier than usual. Much to do Friday to get ready. Especially when you let things ride until the last day. Oh, I had reasons...

Anyway, we started the day with breakfast at Sweet_ness 7, a favorite funky coffee shop with really good food. Shared a breakfast burrito while we planned the day

Then it was off to the frame supply shop. I buy some supplies there, like cases of my book board, but now I was there for frame stuff because I just decided to do mixed media collage. Gotta follow the muse.

Now, I have no idea how to frame stuff. And I just that day figured out how to cut a mat on my mat cutter. (I was sooo excited) Plus, I want to "re-purpose" vintage frames, so I needed help to figure this out. I threw myself upon the mercy of the fine folks at New York Frame

Oh, what's the big deal you ask? Don't you just slide a thingy inside the frame and slide another thingy over the back and that's it? Oh, no, my sweet deluded blog reader. There are mats and backing boards and little sharp pointy whatits that you slam into the sides to hold them all together and 47 kinds of wire and paper for dust covers and a slew of options for adding a way to hang the thing, well... look:

...and those are just some of the little odds and ends.

So, we left there with an assortment of mat board and a bag full of hardware that we weren't sure how to use. But I was excited and optimistic.

Then it was off to gather our display stuff, assess the damage from last year, dust off the WInter cobwebs. Russell had repainted all the components for our walls and shelves and they were drying.

But our main concern was the canopy. Last year that old workhorse EZ-Up weathered 4 major wind and rain storms without a leak or a shudder. Then, last show of the year, she got caught on a weird twisty wind that ruined one of the arms. We had it welded in Oregon and it worked but then we sort of folded it up a bit when we were taking it down. So we set it up to see if it woud hold and it did. Phew!

But we are in the market for a "real" art canopy now.

Van loaded, new artwork framed, ready to go.

Oh! New artwork! Wanna see?

I like them and, better yet, I enjoy making them. I'm looking forward to getting better at it.

They combine my favorite things..paper and words. Simple songs.

Would the art show folks like them? Stay tuned....

laughter and tears

2010-05-19T08:33:00.003-04:00

The memorial for my former brother in law was Monday. I wrote of him last week. It was a sad day, naturally, and it hurt my heart to see his wife, whom I love, so cloaked in grief and pain.

The service was light and brief, filled with stories told by friends, stories that brought a chuckle. And there were recordings of Phil playing the guitar he loved, his son operating the player, wiping tears from his face.

And then the minister, who had previously acknowledged that he never met Phil, rose to give what was to be a comforting talk and immediately referred to the legacy of Jeff.

Huh?

Some family members in the front row loudly whispered "Phil!" and he apologized and went on. And then, a few moments later, referred once more to Jeff. This time there was scattered laughter and a louder correction from a greater number of people. Mortified, he apologized again and said "I don't even know a Jeff!"

There were refreshments afterwards and Suze was surrounded by friends and family, so we went to the dining room and waited to speak to her there. She hugged Russell and cried and then held me and I felt her finally give way to it all, shuddering breaths and deep sobs so I held her even tighter and stroked her hair. Her eyes were swollen with days of tears and I wiped them from her cheeks and said I knew she would be OK, she would. She spoke of how much she missed him already and her loss was so deep, her pain so raw. Be strong, I said, reaching for cliche when there is no wisdom to offer, and then I said "Jeff would want you to be strong" and she threw her head back and laughed. Finally. And took a breath.

I went back to my ordinary life,thankful to have it, and she walked into an unknown life, one that she doubts she can navigate, but she will. She has her children and her memories and the ability to laugh.

And I know Jeff is looking out for her.

forces of nature

2010-05-09T10:11:00.012-04:00

My show yesterday was at the Botanical Gardens in South Buffalo. It is a glorious place with a sky-touching glass dome and meandering walks and gold mottos inlaid in marble floors. I was lucky to get a spot in the very center, under the dome.

My table was nestled cozily amongst the foliage, which meant I was brushing fronds off my face a lot, but it was serene, green and lush.

I wasn't expecting to make enough money to save the old homestead or buy an iPad. Any income helps during the Spring when we are all sending money out for shows and supplies and nothing is coming back in. This was not an art show event, after all, we were an added attraction within an attraction and I am nothing if not level headed about this business.

The unexpected surprise was the amount of people. They come in buses! From out of town! I forget that this place is a destination. So, at 10am, the dome was filled with seniors wearing name tags and so it was.

For a while.

During the quiet of set up, I asked a neighboring artist what that infernal noise was? Were we near train tracks? Was it thunder? No, she said, it's the wind.

Wind. We are in a glass building. I skooched my chair closer to my tree, under the branches and tried not to look up.

Over the next few hours the rumble of the wind against the glass went on, sometimes loud enough to make it difficult to talk to the customers. I tried to ignore it. The building is ancient, it has withstood whatever upstate NY has to offer and that's plenty. Besides, I was actually selling stuff. To hell with risk to life and limb!

And then they announced they were closing early for safety reasons. Drat!

We closed up our little shops and packed our trinkets away in their boxes. I have done plenty of shows where an announcement of early close would have been welcome. This was not one of them. It was cozy in my tree house.

That night Russell and I had a date. Sure, it was at my work place, but, then, I do work at a theater. We had drinks first, with baked brie in raspberry sauce and then "Jersey Boys" from the best seats in the house. :) All paid for with the proceeds from my little tree house boutique. Works for me.

Now, off to hang with Mom. Stay tuned.

real life

2010-05-04T07:54:00.002-04:00

I've been plugging along, in production mode (which I hate but it's necessary), focused on the beginning of the season. The weekend was interrupted by a surprise visit from my son, which brought much joy. After years of seeing him just twice a year because of the distance, having him within a 7 hour road trip is such a gift.

So, things are plodding along as usual. I'm in the rhythm, the new stuff is working nicely, my PT job hours are now down to "hardly there" , most of my apps have been either accepted or rejected or put on hold. I'm able to see how the year will unfold, finally, and that eases my stress.

And then real life stepped in. My real life is that a long time ago, when I was very young, I fell in love and married an even younger man from a big Irish family. It was a short union that produced my beautiful boy and gave me an extended family of folks that continued to care for me long after we divorced. One of them, in particular, stayed close to my heart. The woman I still call "sister-in-law", the one who refused to let us drift too far.

She married young too, and I remember how her parents opposed this reckless dash to wed. I remember the small wedding and a family dinner in a restaurant. So different from my big fancy do the year before. They were married 36 years. And then, tragically, this weekend, her husband lost a short battle with a rare blood cancer that we all thought he had a chance to beat. A bone marrow transfer was set to go. He just had to get strong enough. He never did.

What do you say to a person at times like this? There are no words that can help, but I sent her a note, via email as is the way these days, that she was in my heart and I would be there for her. I already knew she was surrounded by her kids and sibs and that there would be a time later when the comfort of woman talk would be called for.

She wrote back, a sad and honest note about her struggle, said she knew I would be there for her when things settled and then she wrote something that squeezed my heart and brought tears to my eyes.

"For the first time in 36 years, I don't know where he is."

I was in the parking lot at Borders, reading email on my iPhone, not expecting to have my world shift into a new focus. I ran my finger over the screen, touched her words, rested my head on the cool window.

And then Russell came back to the car with his package, chattering happily about the book he just got, how the 30% coupon saved him a bunch of money. I just looked at him, looked at him, reached out to touch him, rested my head on his shoulder, kissed his cheek.

"What?", he said, smiling.

"Nothing". I said, "just glad to be with you, to know where you are."

open a new window

2010-04-26T14:59:00.004-04:00

As much as I like to natter on about being an art carnie, I am, in fact, a businesswoman. *shudder*

I like to think of my art business as a glorified excursion into funky art land, but it's not. Every year I do what any CEO does. I review and adjust and calculate and analyze. What will I need to do to make this season a success, based on what I know and what I think.

I know the economy is shaky although it seems pretty stable here. Western NY has had years to adjust to recession and while some areas are in a downward spiral, we seem to actually be surfacing here. At least I hope so. But I still need to be able to offer work that is affordable to a range of spenders.

So, here's the plan. Last year, as every year, my photo frames flew off the shelves.

I will continue on with those, working on the collage element which I think is getting better every year.

The magnets I came up with in the Fall have been immensely popular. They are only $5 at the shows and I can't seem to have enough of them. Same with the cards. Those are only $4.50. Both of those items give people a chance to walk away with a little bit of art. And they add up nicely. Usually, they pay the expenses.

The heart of Simplesong, the books, are getting a boost with a new design. When I started making a smaller journal (5X7) at the suggestion of a customer, Russell thought they might impact on sales of the full size journals and he was right. But the problem is that I was basically just making the full size journal a bigger version of the small one. When I started to do some more intricate books, with raised collage on them, they always sold first, even though they were more expensive.

I am not the fastest learner, but I do catch on eventually.

This year, I'll have tons of the smaller books and then a selection of more intricately embellished bigger ones. I've been working on a new idea. A cut out window with a little melange inside. I'm planning to use vintage jewelry and botanicals and beads, etc. I'm enjoying the experiment phase.

Last season I added book earring to go along with the little book pins and, although they are a true pain in the patootie to make, I will have them again this year. They make me and the the customers smile. And they sell.

I'm also experimenting with mixed media collage and, if I get any done that I like enough, I'll share those, too. Jury is out on those.

I want to have a booth full of lovely things that are made mostly from the most humble of all materials: paper. It pleases me to take those sheets and scraps and bits and make artful things from them. Because until I did, they were just...paper scraps. I wonder if my customers really appreciate that.

I use paper the way others use clay or wood or paint or silver. I learned to use it by learning to make it. I respect its beauty and toughness. It is forgiving and adaptable. Now that I buy most of my paper instead making it all, I get to see the incredible variety. A sheet can look like bark or a rainbow or a painting. It has the ability to energize me when I think there is not a drop of creative energy left in my brain.

So. some of my business decisions are made by crunching numbers and analyzing trends. The rest are made when a color or a texture catches my eye and my imagination.

I don't know too many CEO's who can say that they had a really good fiscal year due to a new shade of banana bark.

Quincy & Frasier

2010-04-19T12:19:00.003-04:00

When we first brought Quincy home from the shelter, every city noise made him hide. The shelter was deep in the country and he didn't know what traffic sounds were, let alone sirens and bus backfires. The TV freaked him for a while. I spent a lot of time comforting him and encouraging him to not be afraid. He got used to it all in time. Now he is fearless. Or so I thought.

We do not live in a quiet house. The TV is usually on, even when we are not in the room. Or there is music. The radio in the kitchen is usually tuned to NPR when I am cooking. I have a propensity for "girly" computer games that click and whirr as the jewels drop and I am known to sing loud and often, sometimes in a Lucy falsetto, for no reason whatsoever and without warning. None of these things make the dog's ears perk. He does bark at dogs on TV because we think he sees the TV as a window and there is a dog out there.

A month or so ago, Quincy woke from a deep doggy sleep he was enjoying snuggled between his two people on a warm quilt and he began to howl. As if he was in pain. Or fear. We petted and comforted him and he seemed to be fine as he dropped right back to sleep. It happened again the next night. We were perplexed.

And then, about a week ago, I was watching an old Frasier re-run as I drank my morning coffee and, as the credits rolled and Frasier sang about "tossed salad and scrambled eggs", Quincy began to whimper, then cry and then, for the first time in his young life: howl. The first one sort of worked its way out as if he didn't quite know what it was or what it was going to do. It was a baby howl. Then he pointed his chin to the heavens and let rip a series of plaintive cries that intensified as they went on. I could only stare at him in amazement and then did what any sadistic pet owner does. I replayed the theme song. He did it again.

I couldn't wait for Russell to come home.

We watch Frasier a lot. Some of those jokes never get old. Quincy didn't just now hear the closing theme. And then I thought about his "nightmare". Both nights I had gone to bed and turned to "Project Runway" hoping to stay awake long enough for the runway show. Well, that didn't happen, but Frasier comes on right after that and now I'm thinking that is what woke him (and us) up. The song. Did the song play into some doggie nightmare he was having at the time and now it is a fear thing? Did he just now realize how annoying that "tossed salad and scrambled eggs" line is?

You tell me.

sunday papers

2010-04-18T08:26:00.003-04:00

It's a gloomy Sunday morning and I'm sitting in my big. cozy leather chair with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. Sort of. The newspaper is on my laptop. For some reason, this morning I am missing the newspaper, especially the fat Sunday one.

For as long as I can remember, Sunday morning meant going out for the papers..plural...and bagels. In good weather, I often had a dog with me, enjoying the walk. In the Winter it sometimes meant digging out the car from a snowbank, but only a blizzard would cancel the trip. Every so often I would be seduced by a telemarketer type extolling the virtues of home delivery, but invariably the paper would come later than I like or be delivered to a part of the house I never check or it would be snitched from my back steps and I would go back to making my paper/bagel run.

This morning, I am feeling nostalgic about the Sunday papers. I would always get the local and a NY Times. For ages, the Times would come as early as the local and I would snag them both. Then there was a change. Something to do with printing schedules. But the Times said that now we would get the Midwest version. There was an outcry. We live in New York, not the Midwest! The Midwest version was without the Metro Section or Real Estate or The City. The Midwest version was not the "real"NY Times. Politicians got involved. A deal was struck. We could get the "real" paper, with all sections intact, but we would pay a fee. It was worth it to get the paper labeled "local".

The move to paperless technology came slowly. The web sites got better. Easier to navigate. The paper was always here waiting to be read. Free. Current. Local. For a time, I still went out for the papers, but this morning I realized it's been a couple of years since I last brought home papers with the bagels. This morning I'm missing that.

There are no crossword puzzles to curl up with, no coupons to clip. I never read the silly Times wedding story on line, but I never missed it in print. That Metro section I whined about missing. Never read it on line. I do miss the magazines. The local paper had it's own Sunday magazine for a while, but eventually let it go in favor of "Parade". Gag me. I think we still get ours once a month but I don't even know that because it's been so long since I grabbed a copy.

I tend to buy a paper when we do art shows. You have to be there so early, long before any people come. And it can be a pleasure to sit in your artist chair at the back, early sun on your face, fresh coffee, the sounds of people getting ready, the calm before the rush. Some shows actually give you breakfast goodies. Donuts or bagels, yogurt, juice, fruit. There is a place in heaven for those show promoters. I usually pull the crossword puzzle out and slide it onto my clipboard just in case it gets slow. I stash the coupon sections into my tote for later.

But most mornings are like this one. Go online. Check e-mail, Facebook and the blogs. Read the paper. Contribute to the demise of print media. If..no when..we get an iPad, I imagine that will be the end of our ritual perusal of the magazine racks at Borders. Will all those magazines be online? Who knows? There will be enough of them to amuse us for a while.

And then one day I'll be scrolling through an article instead of paging through one and I'll wonder if a certain magazine is still in print and I'll realize that I miss the heft of a thick, glossy magazine in my hands, the annoying subscription postcards, the odd little ads in the back, the faint, sharp smell of ink.

We move on. Technology seduces and changes us, often for the better but not always.

Next Sunday I'm going to hook up Quincy and take a walk. We'll buy the papers and some bagels. If it's warm enough, maybe I can even sit on the porch, in the sun, and let a breeze annoy me by ruffling the pages. Pages, after all, may soon be a thing of the past.

trying to enjoy the detours

2010-04-11T12:00:00.003-04:00

You sort of plan out your season, this show on that weekend, with an eye towards a few detours for rejections. The danger comes when there are more detours than you'd like. When the route has become comfy and scenic and has the best rest areas and suddenly there is a blinking sign in the road that says "turn back". And you aren't prepared.

OK, I was sort of on cruise control there. And 2 of my best shows turned me back. One with a "no" and one with a "maybe". Some juries are still out and the inability to see the route clearly is causing me stress. So, I hit the web, commiserated with carnie friends, and I learned a lot.

I learned that a few people I assumed were immune from rejection had, in fact, been rejected by shows that should have been thrilled to have them apply. One was rejected from a show that had awarded him "Best of Show" the year before. Some artists apply to 50 shows in order to book 20. With jury fees averaging between 25 and 50 bucks, that is one big roll of the dice.

Some invest in professional photography for their slides and wind up getting rejected after having been lucky for years with their own photos. Some get rejected because their booth photo wasn't good enough, regardless of how good the art was. Hey, the show has to look good, right?

A lot of folks think that we just sort of sign up and show up, unaware of the hassle involved in securing that 10 foot hunk of curb real estate. Oh, no, folks, this is like American Idol. A bunch of aspiring participants, a panel of judges, a final group of contestants. Who will get to be on the stage?

I have a few good shows locked up and I'm hopeful for the others who are still pondering my worthiness. In the interim I have revisited smaller shows that I had put behind me. As one of my friends said, "Let's take this season for a spin!"

OK, but watch out for those detours.

sprung

2010-04-01T20:25:00.003-04:00

It came upon us gently, a little at a time. A few afternoons that nudged you to shed your coat. A shoot of green through dried leaves. A sudden desire to dust off the bike. And then this morning the door opened into warmth, a gentle breeze, sun.

We opened the doors at work so that it felt like we were set up on the street. I ate my lunch at a dusty table in the courtyard, a long overdue library book open on my lap.

When you live in a 4 season kind of place, the dawning of the seasons are events to be celebrated, commented upon, squeezed of every nuance. Spring is especially loved. Everyone with a camera took pictures of daffodils this week, I bet.

I lost out on a good show today, irritated me. What do these juries want? But then an email that began "congratulations" and another show was added to the yes column. It's been a tough app season. I'm feeling anxious. But then I rolled down the windows on the car and drove home with sweet air swirling around me and it mattered less.We were going to go for dinner at a place where we could get milkshakes. Perfect. Winter would be officially over then.

I changed into jeans and sandals and we headed out, through our easy city neighborhood. There were knots of people on the parkways. Spinning frisbees to each other, strumming guitars, hugging while they walked. We stopped for a light and then, as we began to move again I saw them. Away from the others, a boy and a girl. In the middle of a circle of budding trees. Their coats were in a muddle on the grass and he was spinning her. He held a wrist and an ankle and he twirled slowly and effortlessly while she reached out and up. There was no sound, they were too far away, but I could sense smiles, laughter, freedom, youth. Round and round like a dance, like a game.

I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes and smiled. I couldn't see the spinning lawn, feel the dizzying rush or the wind in my hair. But my toes wiggled free in the sandals and I held my hand out against the soft air as we drove. And life was good, juries be damned.

Buffalo Small Press Book Fair

2010-03-28T11:43:00.008-04:00

I do love this little show. It reminds me why I chose the book arts, even though I have had to learn to be pragmatic about my designs in order to make a living at it. Rubbing elbows with young artists who make charming little books out of cereal boxes makes me smile, makes me proud in a funny way.

We are allotted 1/2 a table. Yes. 4 feet of space, 2 chairs, another table backed up against yours so that "oops, sorry, excuse me, coming through, look out" are the order of the day. Nobody complained. I resisted the urge to bring everything I had and focused on what I thought was most appropriate for the fair.

I think it worked.

The fair is in the Karpeles Manuscript Museum which used to be a church, so we were surrounded by history and Spring sun through stained glass. Behind a row of tables, enormous organ pipes reached to the ceiling,

But the most inspiration came from the other lovers of books and words and paper that sat behind the tables, row by row, up and down the steeply slanted floor.

A woman with short blond hair and a little girl voice explained her books to me. "This isn't for sale or anything and it's not like really a book because the inside is just things I like" Something like that. She had chap books of her own poetry, the covers were tissue and the pages were a pamphlet and the poems were touching and ethereal. I so wanted to buy one but in the rush of things I never got back to her.

There was an "office journal" which had signatures made of ledgers and business forms sewn into a calico cover.

Beautiful, professional leather journals, books with latches and clasps, with pressed copper cutouts.

I was in heaven.

There were small publishing houses, too. Mostly with books of poetry or literary fiction. A little bit of everything book.

Dashing about, announcing workshops, soothing sellers, answering questions, assigning spaces, collecting fees..Chris Fritton, unflappable book fair organizer

Organizers for some of the "big" shows we do could take a lesson. Just sayin'

I sold some things, schmoozed with friends, got inspired. And then the buyer for a museum shop that sells some of my things came by, liked the new photo journals and we talked about me doing a line of them specifically for the shop!

I think it was a good day.

crafting a life

2010-03-20T21:15:00.009-04:00

So, today I was a vendor at a Women's Conference for Buffalo for Africa. I didn't know much about them when I heard of the opportunity, so I did what we all do. Googled. And I was moved by what these people do for the women and children of Africa who suffer so much, not only at the hands of their tormentors, but through poverty and struggle.

There were workshops on Darfur and human trafficking. Things you can only try to assimilate. The keynote speaker was Maureen Orth, a respected journalist/activist and the widow of Tim Russert.

She spoke of the injuries suffered by many of the women and children as a result of repeated rape. But she also related the story of the school she helped establish and the positive changes being made. It was a sobering and powerful speech.

During a break I visited with the vendors who were selling items from the different countries as a fund raiser and I bought a little embroidered pouch with a peace dove inside for Russell and a small, carved musical toy for the mantle. Then I spoke with a woman who was selling jewelry made of paper beads by women of Uganda.

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I am a papermaker, paper artist and I know paper beads. Here we use imported papers and foils and tissues. But the Ugandans use strips of magazine pages and packages and junk mail. They craft beautiful beads that bear little resemblance to the recycling project they are, and they are sold to finance a growing industry there that is making a difference in the lives of their community. I picked up a strand of rainbow colored beads and I swear I could feel the energy of the woman so far away that had spun the paper strips round and round to make the necklace draped across my palm. I rubbed my thumb over the fine ridges and imagined her. I chose a multi colored strand because I liked the free spirit of it and I thought it must have been fun to make.

All of us art carnies out there, selling our lovingly crafted work, are working to help support our families. Granted, for us it is more about needing a new car or fixing a roof than simple survival. But my fellow art carnies in Uganda, thumbs up to you. We, all of us, know the feeling of working with the joy of creativity. What you have done with this simple idea is amazing.

"Bead for Life" and "Grassroots Uganda" are 2 of the organizations helping to promote the artisans of Uganda. A visit to their website will bring some color, a smile for your day. While you're there, visit the store. Treat yourself. Reach out.

There are so many sadnesses in the world. I often feel powerless and sad. Will a strand of paper beads change the world? No. But hundreds of them will change a community. A community of sister artists who daily face trials I can only begin to comprehend and who carry on, spinning strips of color into dreams, crafting a life. Creating hope.

precisely...

2010-03-14T14:10:00.004-04:00

I almost have the little photo journals worked out and ready to meet their public. Along the way, I learned something not related to the book arts. I suck at numbers and exactitude. I have OCD about fractions and decimals.

Well, I didn't exactly just learn this. I've known this since about 3rd grade when math became more than tidy little boxes of numbers that easily added up under a straight line and little gold stars appeared on the paper. I still don't really know the times tables, having to count backwards or forward from the one I do know to get to the ones that stump me. (6 times 9 = 6 times 10 minus 6) I changed my major in college when I realized I needed statistics for a degree in journalism. Huh?

Anyway...the covers are photos that are exactly 4X6, I had my paper cut exactly 6 inches. My OCD kicks in when I try to imagine that those two places, blocks apart on Delaware, will cut things exactly 6 inches. Then I have to cut the cardstock exactly 6 inches and all those things have to line up ...aaarrrgh! This, for some reason, turns my brain to mush.

But, I'm coping. My photos look pretty awesome and I'm proud of them. I'm going to take shots of local landmarks, too. I feel calmer thinking about that part.

And the gorgeous finishing press that Russell surprised me with last year is finally getting used for the "perfect binding" these books use. That's fun, too.

I took a test once to see if I had left or right brain dominance. It came back that my brain is apparently neither, the traits of each testing...precisely...even.

Well, that explains a lot, I'm thinking. One side thinks up an idea and the other side makes a list about why it won't work. One side sees all the housework that needs to be done and the other wants to go out and take pictures of dried leaves on brown mud. Then the other side sees the need to rake. Then the rake makes pretty shadows against a fence. Then the fence seems to need painting.

One part of me hates to be late, the other abhors clocks and watches.

One part of me makes lists and keeps a calendar. The other side forgets where they are.

The analytical me likes to figure things out, the other me often wanders off before the answer is revealed.

And so it goes. Does it help to understand all this? Ha.

I know the pretty pictures make me want to make books of them and the stress of the precision only lets me make a few at a time. I can handle that. As long as there are no flash cards involved. Which means...

Hmm...there's an idea for book covers. Old flash cards! Maybe playing cards. Like Old Maid. I should go to Amvets, they probably have old cards....wait, what was I talking about...?

when worlds collide

2010-03-12T08:20:00.002-05:00

You can just sort of wander along, living your life, batting at deadlines and obligations, nonchalant and in control. Then you turn around and notice there was stuff following you and about to gain the lead. Oh man.

So, here I am with a week to show #1, feeling good about what I've made so far and what I have planned, thinking I have soooo much time to finish up. But, no. We have Mom patrol (more on that later), house stuff, long days at the theater, on and on. Not to mention needing to pick up supplies and have paper cut to size, laundry piling up. Sales tax due next week and I've lost my ledger. Struggling with a Zapplication that has a tomorrow deadline.

Now, I am the Queen of multi-tasking. OK, maybe the Princess. I parcel out the days in hours. I dedicate one hour to housework, then an hour in the studio, then an hour with TV or a book, then an hour cooking, etc. When you have a miniscule attention span, small nuggets of activity work best. And I'm realizing now that my supply of hours is smaller than I would like.

Some things take more than an hour. Like Mom Patrol. Mom was going along fine (for 87) until December. Up to that point, her increasingly eccentric behavior and fading memory were her worst problems. And since she didn't recognize them as problems, she was cool. Then an bad diagnosis of what turned out to be a massive bleeding ulcer, landed her in the hospital and deflated her a bit. They found a heart valve problem common in older folk, but other than that she should be fine now. But she's less than she was. She's smaller, somehow, her face bears a look of wary defiance. She confuses easily and has a mean ol' temper. My brother and I take her to doctors who assure us she's OK while she curses under her breath. I take her shopping, pushing her around in a wheelchair shopping cart while she points to what she wants with her cane. She is demanding and unreasonable most of the time, but we try to understand.

Now she wants to drive again. The snow is melting, she wants her wheels. She's not gonna get them. My brother and I talk strategy. This is gonna be ugly. I know that when I go there today it is going to come up. I want to crawl under a quilt and take a nap.

But I can't. I have to Zapp that app, do that laundry, make a dozen cards and prep some boards for covers. Then I put that hat aside, and don the daughter cap. That one looks like a battle helmet, I think.

It seems to me that if you make your living as an artist type, you should be able to make your life artist-like. But that never happens. Everyone I know in this business is juggling kids and parents and car repairs and leaky roofs and tiny bank accounts and unreasonable art show juries.

Better go back to Zapping that app. Took me hours to figure it out yesterday. Got one picture uploaded. Today should be easier, right? Easier than telling Mom she just can't drive anymore.

picture this

2010-03-07T10:11:00.005-05:00

I tell you, the only thing that gets me up in the studio this time of year is a new idea. Yes, I should be getting ready for the coming season. Yes, I vowed to be ready for the coming season. Yes, I have a show in 2 weeks that I should be getting ready for. Yes, yes, yes. OK?

But it's so cold and I haven't heard from any of my apps yet. I mean, I might be rejected from all of them, so why bother? Right? I look outside and can't even imagine that in a matter of about 10 weeks or so, it will be show time and I will be pitching my little white tent in a neighborhood near you. Well, unless they all reject me of course.

I needed a boost, a kick in the patootie. So, I played. My hobby is photography. I have what they call a "good eye" but over the years the math component, the science of the art eluded me. I have no brain for numbers. The smaller number, bigger lens F-stop thing stopped me every time. Huh? I just want to have a photo that looked like what I saw, what I wanted. Don't make me do math.

Digital cameras changed my life. Now I could take 40 shots of the same thing and one was bound to come out. There was no cost or shame in putting 39 pictures in the "trash". It made me giddy. And I ended up with a few really lovely photos. What to do with them? I made another blog, just to post the rare "keepers". Otherwise, they sat in my laptop, in iPhoto, doing nothing.

Then, while looking for ideas for making a better photo album, Google gave me a video of a woman using photos as covers for a journal. I got giddy again.

I ran with it. She just glued photos to a text block, which I guess is OK if you are making one for yourself, just for kicks and giggles. Not good enough for an art show or to sell, though. My experiments began.

Next time you are browsing at an art/craft show, thinking "I could do that", I want you to ponder, instead, how that widget came to be. For instance:

#1-I glued a glossy photo to a coordinated card stock, left a border to compliment the colors, used polyester/cotton quilt binding as the binding overlay. The exposed cardstock cheapened the photo, the cotton buckled under the weight of the glue, the adhesive from the text block oozed out onto the 1st page.

#2-Glued photo to cardstock, still left the edge showing as it was a softer color, used coordinated color paper for binding edge. Nope. Need to use a more distinctive color for the binding, stop letting card edge show.

#3-Cardstock under the photo, not showing, cotton binding glued differently...

OK, I'll stop now since you are most likely snoozing. I've made a half dozen of these things and I am almost there.

The covers will be borderless photos printed matte not glossy, mounted on card, sprayed with acrylic, the binding edge will be silk paper..a compromise between fabric and paper. The front and back cover will be different scenes of the same shoot. Are ya still with me? Here's a group shot:

This book has the Newport, Oregon Yaquina Lighhouse on the front cover. The back is the interior staricase. Cute, huh?

Yes, these photos I just took of the books as they sat on my chair this morning are not among those of which I am proud. They will not be book covers.

Flower beds at the Chautauqua Institution...a long shot and a closeup:

There you have it. The evolution of an idea. Still has a way to go, but almost ready. Each book will have a notation of what the photo is and I will credit myself as the "photographer". I think that out of the 2000+ pictures in my iPhoto library, I should have a dozen that are good enough to use. I guess that makes me a photographer. Not.

( I know a couple of amazing photographers that run in my carnie circle. I have great respect for what they do. I can't do that. But I may do enough to make some books.)

And I'm still trying to come up with a good design for a photo album.

weekends

2010-03-01T10:04:00.006-05:00

Once Summer starts, if I'm lucky, most of my weekends are working "holidays". Those festive Summer festivals that many people plan as part of their Summer fun are long and tough for us, even though we do enjoy them... most of the time. For the art carnies it means waking up and getting going in the dark, the grunt work of set up, the long hours of exhibiting and, hopefully, selling, followed by the exhausting chore of breaking down and packing up.

So, when a Winter weekend of fun beckoned, I looked into the future and decided to grab for it.

First, a grown up "sleepover", a group of women friends in the country. Good food, conversation, wine, laughter, "chick flicks" on DVD. Some of them I knew very well, some just a bit. But there is a funny sort of "secret handshake" syndrome amongst women. Put a bunch of us together, no men or kids, and any strangeness falls away. I wonder if the same thing happens with men.

I slept in front of the fire under a soft quilt while the snow piled up outside and the wind chimes on the porch sent gentle music into the silence. It was wonderful but I'll admit I did miss Russell. And I wasn't the only woman who sent whispered conversations into a cell phone that night. Sisterhood is powerful and all, but it's nice to have your sweetie on the line for a goodnight call.

Then, it was off through the snow, back to the city for the Powder Keg Festival, the oddly named Winter event downtown that featured the world's largest ice maze and snow tubing down the off ramp of the Skyway Bridge

It was fun. There was Zydecko music, too, and broom hockey. All sorts of stuff. The big Winter sun threatened good weather, but the snow and cold held in long enough for most of the events to go forward.

Now, after all that, it was understandable that I chose to spend the rest of the day in that big chair with a book and my laptop and TV competing to keep me there.

All of which means I now have just a couple of hours to make an app deadline for a show I really love to do. You would think that since I love the show I would have been getting that app ready weeks ago, right?

I may change my business name to "Procrastination Studio".

accordion books

2010-02-20T13:51:00.003-05:00

OK, so people always ask me for photo albums. The thing is that plastic sleeves inside a handbound book seems wrong. I could make a standard album with heavy rag pages for mounting photos, but the spaced binding of those is a royal pain and folks don't want to pay for the extra effort.

See, you can buy a photo album at the dollar store for, well, a dollar. If you have to explain why this one costs forty dollars, this is not your customer.

So, every so often I play around with the accordion album. These are not without their own unique construction frustrations. If the folding is not exact, solid, perfect, the book goes all floopy. (Floopy is a fancy technical term used by master bookbinders. Or so I like to think.)

In addition to the threat of floopiness every time you start one, there is the matter of closure. Do you tie it with a ribbon, make a button clasp, elastic band?

Ribbons are just too precious for me. I don't want to deal with button and clasp constructions, elastic bands look surgical.

And then, while playing around with my new gypsy, boho designs, I hit upon an idea. I would use elastic, but not a thick band. I took some fine gold elastic cord and incorporated it into the embellishment.

The brown book has beaded fringe and the elastic cord, which comes off when not in use, has a bead in a coordinated color that blends into the fringe when it is in place. The cord on the green book is permanent and part of the design.

Since one of the cool things about an accordion is that it can be used as a display, open on a mantle or table, the cord needs to be able to slip off without ruining the look. On the green book, it can just go over the front cover and the design does not change.

I may be on to something here. These books are small, for 4X6 photos. If I get this down, I'll go bigger.

Feels like I'm getting my creative mojo back. Maybe?

the week that was

2010-02-20T10:01:00.003-05:00

I've been nattering about how I can't quite get my head into the art space for the coming season or, more urgently, the jury season. My studio is cold, I whine. I have no inspiration, I grumble. What do they want from me, I snap.

Then, this week, a reminder of working for another, for little money, on a clock not mine.

Two concerts this week. Wednesday, the Grateful Dead reincarnated without Jerry. Last night a double-header comedy show. Both audiences had "issues", there were security problems. Last night the comedian decided he wanted an intermission at midnight after all, even though we were dizzy from fatigue and the bars had been closed and wiped down. Sure, most of the attendees at the 3 shows were fun and easy to deal with, but it's the creeps you remember because they make your day longer.

Last night, 3 young women stood at my counter, disappointed and trying to be polite. There were people in their seats who refused to move. Our staff was unable to remove them. The women wanted their money back and they wanted to leave. Management tried to think of a way to do that against all the safeguards in place to prevent such a thing.

"We bought new clothes, we had our hair done", one of them said as she ran her hand over her long, shiny fall.

They were beautiful in silver, red and teal. The woman in the silver vest over black pants had some glitter brushed over her cheeks. The lady in red wore no adornment other than the tailored tiers of scarlet that seemed made specifically for her. The teal dress was fringed from top to bottom and shimmered when she walked. I was so glad when they got their money back, but sad that all that plumage had not been appreciated enough. I hope they went clubbing. I hope they fell in love or something.

The audience for the Dead was not as festive, but I'm thinking one needs to make some decisions about which t-shirt to wear, whether to resurrect the tie dye or go edgy. Despite the 50 "no smoking" signs taped all over the theater, opening the door into the house shortly after the show started released a cloud of smoke still illegal in most States. We are still chuckling about the wild-haired guy who tried to crash the show without a ticket and, as the police escorted him out, screamed that the genie made him do it.

So, although I usually enjoy my part time job, I will truly appreciate my cold little studio today. It is mine. All the mess is mine, the pile of CD's are music I like, the remote for the TV handled only by moi. If I decide to spend 20 minutes there or 5 hours, it will be my choice.

It will be quiet. I will be alone unless Quincy comes up to check on me. But he usually just sniffs around to make sure all is well and then, satisfied, goes down a flight to nap on the bed.

I know, intellectually, that being able to almost make a living doing what I do is a blessing. It's just that every so often you have a week that grabs you, turns you around and makes you really see. OK, I get it.

And if I falter, there's a week of Sesame Street Live coming up that should really cap it for me.