weekends

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

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

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.

champions

So, I'm sitting here watching the Olympics and pondering what drives a person to devote their lives to perfecting something like skiing or skating. Or curling. What gets them out every morning before dawn to go practice in a frigid environment day after day? After years of that can you really be satisfied with no medal? Can 4th place ever seem like enough? Is it all about the levels of the pedestals or is there more there? I just don't know. I don't get it.

I do appreciate these people and I especially like the Winter games because there are more moments that make you go "whoa!" than the Summer games. If I were standing at the top of a ski jump knowing that I was expected to leap into the abyss ..... see I can't even craft a metaphor I'm so stressed just imagining it. But for some of them, there was a moment, when they were very young, when that scenario played in the imagination and something in their DNA said "yes!"

What did I dream of achieving? Better hair. The ability to ride a bike gracefully. Stuff like that. As I got a bit older it was more ambitious but still rather pedestrian. Publish a novel. Write a song for Bob Dylan. Single-handedly save the environment. None of which I did, of course.

It occurs to me that what holds me back more than just the simple fact of my clumsiness or suspect work ethic or lack of talent is that I cherish free time. Time to read a book. Watch a movie. Walk the dog. (Well, not the current dog. He walks me)

As a kid, I spent a lot of hours under this huge weeping willow in our back yard reading books. Nobody could see me so I was free to be lazy. That is the childhood dream that I cherish, I guess. A big tree to hide under, the Spring breeze rustling the branches, a book open on my lap and a couple of oreos in my pocket.

I could medal in that event. Gold, baby.

daydreams of an art carnie

pondering technology

I have had time to ponder since I missed my first show of the year due to a mix of incoming head cold and outgoing stomache ache, both of which conspired to keep me up all night and totally useless at dawn.

Of course, now that I have absolutely nothing to do, I feel great. So I ponder.

Today my head is wrapped up in technology. Now, this is odd because the prevailing wisdom, I bet, is that artsy types disdain technology. I guess we are perceived as spending our free time whittling or finger painting. The sterile anonymity of computer technology would seem to be alien and destructive to the creative process. But, the opposite is true, I believe.

Sitting here in a big comfy chair, laptop, appropriately, on my lap, I can visit dozens of sites with inspiring book art, browse for quotes to use in my work, shop art sites for components that spark the muse, research art shows I might want to try. Before computers, just that would eat up weeks of time better spent in a studio.

What has me pondering technology today is the iPad. Disclaimer: This is a PC-free home. There is a huge iMac on the desk, a MacBook on my lap. iPhones in all of our pockets, AirPort sends WiFi through the house. We do not write with Office unless it is absolutely necessary, choosing iWork for our words and numbers. We do not leave Walden Galleria without stopping at the Apple store just to check it out, so for Christmas, I bought Russell a year of Mac "one to one" which gives him a pass to go schmooze with a Mac "genius" on any topic he chooses.

So, when Steve Jobs was about to do one of his famous "revelations" at a Mac conference, we signed on to the live stream and refreshed and refreshed along with all the other MacHeads out there until the systems crashed under the weight of the modems of the faithful. we were not disappointed.

Yes, there have been smack downs by the uninitiated. From making fun of the name by associating it with feminine products (and, as a result, causing me to wince when using a mouse or scouring pad) to sneering that it doesn't have a camera. Huh? But "we" get it. Macs are elegant, intuitive, advanced, virus free and they seldom crash. The naysayers are, as we speak, scribbling away in their airless rooms attempting to copy it. And they will, but with less grace. Just compare all those touch screen phones that want to be iPhones, the MP3 players that just can't be iPods. They try but can't quite get there.

I would love to be able to get one for Russell to use for school. The first time he went to college, he used a chisel and slab of rock. Heh. OK, yes, it was the same time I went. So?

I remember reading an article mumbldemub years ago, when we were both in college, that stated emphatically that within 20 years every home would have a computer. The only computers you got to use back then were on campus. The thought of us each owning one was like some fantasy. But it didn't even take 20 years.

Now I can't imagine life without this connection. This tool.

I bank on line, communicate with friends on line, buy and sell on line, research on line, blog.

But I will not tweet. I have my limits.

Unless Steve comes up with an iTweet. I did drink the kool aid after all. ;)

getting going, going indie

So, I ventured up to the unnatural disaster that is my home studio because I actually have a gig this weekend. I dug down under the layers of desperation that represented the last few weeks of last season and found enough table space to begin again. It made me very tired and I wondered if I should have taken more of a break.

Then I went over to the venue to scout the space and got energized by the founder of Buffalo Indie Market, Mary Stephens McGinnis. She has been promoting her market for a few years now in a city that does little to support its entrepreneurs. She is happy to be hosting her market on Elmwood this weekend, on a Saturday, instead of the Main Street location on a Sunday. She has the use of one of the newer, trendier restaurants on a street that prides itself on trendy. The area bustles on Saturday and she has 22 artists signed up to fill the two glass-walled levels. This could be good. The weather may even be decent.

This will be the first of this year's marketing experiments. In March there is the book fair, which I've done before, and a Women's Conference that will be new to me. A photographer friend approached me about an artist collective and there are some shops I'm thinking of consigning to. I don't want to do a whole lot of Spring stuff because I need to get ready for the season. So, I'm doing some sampling, I guess. To grow a business, you need to plow further afield, right? Or something. There were sadder growth metaphors I could have used, trust me.

But first, another afternoon with Mom and assorted doctors. We are lucky. Since she's been out of the hospital, all of her appointments have been "good, see you in a few months". This, of course, irritates her, as so many things do now, because they have wasted her time. Time she would have spent glued to the game show channel, smoking menthol cigarettes and reading tabloids. But, to each their own. She would not understand me being addicted to Facebook and Rosie's blog. Tomorrow we visit the podiatrist and eye doctor, leaving little of her that has not been examined, diagnosed and/or medicated over the past few months. If she was under warranty, we'd be good for another year.

I will spend the morning in my colorful chaos, waking that part of me that imagines and creates. At some point, after a couple of coffees, the enthusiasm will return. The air will smell of glue and paint. There will be humming. I will spend the afternoon with someone who used to do that. Mom went through phases of embroidery and cross stitch, framing the ones that came out really well. She was meticulous and disciplined, learning any stitch that she needed to complete a project, having the pieces professionally stretched and framed. I have one here somewhere. I really should hang it. Because now all she can stitch are plastic canvases with big holes. She makes coasters with Christmas Bells or initials in them. Piles of them.

Suddenly that messy studio seems like heaven, the piles of applications are fun. Because 25 years from now, my son might be saying "Mom used to make things" and I am so blessed to be in the artistic present tense.

Somebody remind me of that sentiment Friday night, OK?

breaking the surface

I fel like I've been swimming under water. Quiet, isolated from the air and light around me. Just gliding along, eyes ahead.

The trouble with swimming under water is that you miss things. Like the sun. And people. And obligations. Plus your fingers wrinkle up.

Now, I could batter this metaphor within an inch of its trite life, but I'll skip to the chase and report that I have taken a deep breath, organized my paperwork, checkbook and schedule and resurfaced here in my real life, ready to take it on. It wasn't easy. If I may return to my metaphor for just a moment, coming back home after a month on the Island with my son sort of gave me the bends. My rhythm was broken. I had no transition time. My mind and body rebelled.

I'm better now.

The sight of my 2010 binder pleases me. The check marks indicating "done" are little victories. I have an urge to buy office supplies, always a good sign. I have a couple of ideas for new widgets this year which I will share should they ever exist. Before you know it, the season will be here. Oh, God of Art Show Carnies, let me be ready this year. I really really want to be ready this year.

2 apps in the mail this morning, 2 almost ready to go tomorrow. Then a week to get ready for the first show of the year. Good thing I came up for air.

I may float every so often, but got to keep my head above water from now on. Life is waiting.

pondering craft

I will admit that sometimes people ask me when my next craft show is and I cringe a bit. Because "craft show" brings to mind the kind of work that is, well, less than artful. I don't like being called a "crafter" because I don't want anyone picturing me carving decorative doodads out of old milk cartons. This is, admittedly, a bit of undeserved elitism. I am equally uncomfortable when I am referred to as an "artist", though, so you need not worry that I have become hoity toity. As one art carnie put it, the only time I refer to myself as an artist is when I ask where the artist parking is.

My problem is not with the term craft, it is how that term is perceived. Elbert Hubbard's Roycroft movement was all about craft. Beautiful, artful, intricate work in wood and metal and clay and paper. One of my favorite shows, 100 American Craftsmen at the Kenan Center is a showcase of the best of the genre. I am always amazed when they let me do the show. Same with the Roycroft Summer show and the Chautaugua Crafts Alliance. They are dedicated to the art of craft.

There has been a lot of discussion amongst my fellow art carnies about the start of the art. The craft fair phenomenon really sprung out of the 60's generation, the majority of whom are now experiencing their own 60's generation. When you look at the people in their little canopies, you notice that most are graying. Will new blood rise up to take our places when we pack up the bungee cords and shelves? Or will the movement dry up with us? Add to this the explosion of imported craft from China that is copied from American artisans, mass produced to mimic their work and sent back to sell for pennies on the dollar. If you think your local craftsmen copied an idea they saw at Pier One or Joanns, think again. It was most likely the other way around. Trust me.

All of this musing is to share a snippet of an article I read by the woman, Carol Sedestrom Ross, who started one of the premier craft shows in the Northeast, Rhinebeck. She talks about how the movement surged and then faltered and how it is changing with the times. I found this most interesting:

What is happening now is what is called a "pulled" movement because the public is very tired of mass produced things and prefers handmade so it is pulling the movement forward. There is now a huge appetite for craft in the US. I heard a lecture last Friday by John Naisbit who wroteMegatrends. He is most famous for his "high tech, high touch" concept, that is, the more technology we have in our lives the more things we need to touch to remind ourselves that we are human. It was the industrial revolution which started the craft movement and now it is the technological revolution 100 years later that is really pulling it forward.

Yep. I believe this. After a several years of recalled Chinese imports, losing ourselves in Solitaire without touching a paper card, connecting with friends through Facebook, even when they live across the street, we are pulled to things crafted with care, one at a time, by the person selling it to us. There is a connection. The item becomes special, treasured, remembered.

Ross also says that she notices in tougher times that people may not be able to buy, say, a full set of handcrafted dinnerware, but they will buy one special piece to accessorize the ones they already have. They are still drawn to artful things and want to own them.

So, I am optimistic about the future and proud to be a craftsman. I am encouraged by the younger folk coming up to fill our empty canopies when the time comes. I've begun to notice craft taking on an edgier, contemporary look. Maybe those art and craft fairs we love so much will continue to bring some dazzle to the long hot Summers.

But I have miles to go before I sleep and there are apps waiting. Enough musing. I have work to do. Creative work, one of a kind stuff. Apparently there is an appetite for it. :)

happyness

I was walking along this afternoon, running errands, nothing special, and I felt this surge of lightness, a bubble of happiness and I wondered what triggered that. I mean, I am usually pretty happy, but this little bubble made me want to skip or grin or something.

And I thought that it might be that my kid and my Mom were, for now, safe and settled finally, but it wasn't that sort of heavy-duty, relief-filled happy bubble.

The sun was out, making the snow sparkle and melting the icy sidewalks. I was loving being back in my neighborhood. My short shift at the theater had been busy and fun. A book I requested from the library was in and I was about to pick it up. There was a bottle of wine in the car that I would use in a recipe later.

It occurs to me that most happiness moments are triggered not by something like winning the lottery, although that could go a long way to make me ecstatic. No, lots of happy moments come from things like picturing a book on a shelf with your name on it or feeling the sun on your face in January.

and we're off

First app is in the mail, it begins again. I am, as always, totally irked that the first one is an important one and it comes while the Christmas decor is still struggling to be boxed up and when the bank account is trembling, especially since this is a show that cashes the check right away whether you get the show or not. It is also hard for me to gear up to create something new and fresh so soon after the last season ends. In January, my activity of choice is to wrap up in a quilt and read books by the fire.

I tried. I went up to the studio, which, by the way, at the end of the season looks like the set of the disaster movie of your choice. Wind could have done it, maybe an asteroid. No human could create the chaos in there, so I'm thinking maybe aliens. But I digress.

I dragged myself up there, brushed debris off my chair, cleared a spot on the work table and tried to create a new book design so charming and artful that jury members all over New York would gasp in admiration when the image was revealed.

Yeah, right. What I actually did was scape the embellishment off an existing book, re-sewed it and stared at it for a while, trying to conjure inspiration. For a while I have toyed with the idea of adding bead fringe to a binding, going for a gypsy look. So, I did that. It was actually kind of fun, but I couldn't get a good photo of it. And, truth be told, while it is probably a design that people will like, I doubt it will bring a jury to its knees.

New York show season pretty much runs from June to December. Is it really necessary to have entries for June in the mail while the New Years baby still is running around in a diaper? Seriously, show committee type people, once you get these frozen apps in the mail, how soon do you actually open them up? You can't wait a couple of weeks?

Sigh.

You know, a lot of this is my fault. I declared early on that I would take pictures of my best work all year so that when jury time came I would have a whole library of photos to choose from.

Sigh.

OK, so this is mostly my fault, I get it.

It is not my fault, however, that the next app asks for slides. Slides! Nobody asks for slides anymore. Even CD's of images are becoming old school, it's all online now. Slides. Cripes. Should I do the CV on a cave wall with a chisel?

I'm beginning to detect an attitude problem. Deep breath.

Tomorrow I will do my yearly studio cleanup. It will psych me up. All those clean surfaces, washed brushes, sharp scissors. Tools in clear pockets and totes. Papers assorted by color.

Then I can sit by the fire with a book and wait for inspiration.

not looking back

I dislike New Years Eve, mostly because of the dripping nostalgia, the list of celebrities who died, the montage of the best, the worst, the funniest. I hate resolutions because I never keep the one I've been making for 10 years now. To make it a really lost night for me, I don't really drink and the forced gaiety irritates me.

Really, can you imagine trying to party with me tonight?

I choose to look forward and envision the changes I plan for this coming season. Because I learned a lot of things and I'm going to use them.

I'm working on new jury slides because what booby traps an artist is not fear, it is smugness.

Rain in the forecast can't worry me anymore because I have lived through 4 terrible storms in my little white tent and not only survived them but had great sales.

The most valuable asset in an art show business is the support and friendship of your fellow carnies. I can't wait to see them all again.

The idea of a new season makes me happy because I am astonishingly grateful to be able to make a living this way. I know how many people would love to be able to drop the job shackles and do what we do. I intend to loudly bitch and moan when warranted, but I feel blessed all the same.

While planning for the future I am totally aware that you never know what might make you change those plans and sometimes those changes are for the best after all.

I am so looking forward.

paradise is overrated

The glow started to tarnish when I realized they don't salt or sand the roads here. Granted, it doesn't snow a whole lot, but there is this charming thing that happens when "the fog mist freezes". Call it what you will, black ice is black ice, no matter how scenic the hilly, winding roads are.

You can't really get a pizza here, although there is a guy in one of the little shopping arcades that advertises "New York Pizza", but he's only open during the day to sell slices.

The Chinese takeout place is so expensive, it would be cheaper to actually go to China to get some.

Food is at least 30% higher than at home.

To get the stuff we need for the trip..a trailer hitch, a trailer, new tires...you have to go "off Island" which means a pricey and long ferry trip, turning a job that would be 2 hours at home into a full day wasted.

It is beautiful here, but after a week, the view from our kitchen window no longer startles me. It is just there, like the sun is just there. No less majestic, but sadly commonplace.

I miss my city neighborhood. The 4 page pizza menu at the local takeout, the 16 screen local theater, my cherished neighbors, the salt truck and the snow plows that careen down the city streets at high speed, sparks flying from the steel plow blade.

I miss the diversity of my neighborhood. The colors and sounds of so many cultures, cobbled together into its own demographic.

Is this a beautiful place to spend a Summer? Sure. As long as real life is waiting.

As long as you don't need pizza.

pondering the view

Here in my son's house, perched on a hill overlooking the bay, watching ships sail silently by, the lights of Victoria BC just starting to come on, I find myself looking past all the beauty and pondering instead how the hell this happened.

I was here 2 months ago. He seemed rooted and looking toward a future that contained all he had established in his life and in this place. Now I am back helping him pack up. All of that is gone. And though some delightful things have come to replace them, there is still this humble acceptance of how powerless we are after all.

Watching him gather up the past and pack it away, looking forward, tackling each challenge as it comes, setting off on a brand new course in a brand new place with new strangers and old friends is inspirational and it fills me with pride. He wallowed in pain and anger and fear for a few weeks and then he brushed away the fog and set his course.

I don't know where he will be in 6 months, neither does he. But, now I'm thinking..so what? Life is a daring adventure or nothing. I think Helen Keller said that. And he has no obligations. He is free, tethered only by love and hope and vision.

So, I do what I have always done. Wait for him to let me know how I can help, only helping if he needs me. Try really hard not to butt in.

We will be driving home together. The 2 of us and a Golden Retriever. In the dead of Winter. Cross country. This will be quite the test.

But we can go home together. We already grew up together. What's a little ride?

island navigation

It is beautiful here. OK? You think you're getting used to it, then you are doing something mundane like cleaning up the kitchen and you turn and the view startles you into inaction.



But the place is familiar to me now. Or I thought it was until I had to navigate solo. Usually Russell would be driving us around, but he isn't with me this time. And as much as I love my son, the idea of spending from 4 am to 5 pm in his coffee shop was not exactly a spine tingler. So, after stocking up on groceries ( Island prices: loaf of wheat bread $5.50, small peanut butter $3.99, can of kidney beans $1.39 ) I ventured out to find my way back to the house from "downtown". Billy set the GPS for me, I was feeling secure.

Hopped into his SUV, figured out the gears, told the GPS to take me home, pulled out to the street and the lady said "Please refer to the map"

What???

The "map" was a blue line with a blue arrow and a red bigger arrow. I took a deep breath and went in the direction I remembered, expecting the lady to break in any minute and tell me in that soothing slightly foreign voice where to go. Nothing. The blue arrow worked its way off the screen and I wound up in a dead end with a bunch of off-duty snow plows.

I called Billy. Distracted and busy with customers, he told me to just follow the map. It wasn't so hard. And to call him when I got home. No, I thought, this isn't working. I'll go back to town and start over.

The lady remained silent.

Since I was heading for the ferry landing, getting back was pretty easy. Keep the water in view, look for buildings, I got to the intersection near the shop and the lady awoke, told me to turn left and then immediately right. She was bringing me back to the shop. The shop is not one of the memory points. How did she know? Weird.

So, I parked in front of the shop, played around with the controls, re-set the thing and she promptly told me to proceed. It was like a lover's voice, warm and reassuring. I smiled, relaxed the tight grip on the steering wheel.

So, crisis averted. Until we got up the hill and she gave up. Told me she couldn't help me anymore, the info wasn't there. I should watch the map and be careful. And the arrow dropped away.

Nice.

Let me explain that it is one thing to navigate a city, where you have touch points, landmarks, guideposts. A convenience store, a bar with a mural of jazz trombonists, a cupcake shop with striped awnings, the used guitar place. Here, unless you can tell one fir tree from another you are pretty much out of luck. The road twists and curves beautifully, every so often the lush green parts for a glimpse of blue sparkle and then closes up again. The houses are set back behind the trees, most of them hugging the water or straining for a view of it. None of them care to be by the road, it seems.

And suddenly, the lady tells me to make a legal U-turn. Huh? I don't think so lady. I look at the road sign and it is Smuggler's Cove Road. This is not a name you forget. I turned on it, chanting "spyglass hill, spyglass hill" because I knew that one took me home. The blue arrow trembled, fidgeted and then pointed strong to the red house icon. I was going the right way.

I am sitting in Billy's big man chair, looking out over the water. Below me the road curves down and away with no guideposts. In 3 hours, I will leave here. A pot of chili on the stove, a loaf of bread being kept warm in the oven. And I will find my way back to town. I will. GPS lady or not.

I can do this. But next time I'm leaving a trail of bread crumbs.

the widget

In all the chaos lately, I forgot to share my new widget. I love it because it utilizes a lot of my scrap which is good for the environment and my wallet. I enjoy making them. They sell like crazy, so even though they are only 5 bucks, people are buying multiples and that really adds up.

A simple magnet of wrapped book board, a collage of torn scraps, a skeleton leaf, a quote on parchment vellum and a touch of paint. Backed with heavy blackboard, a strip magnet and there ya go.



But what I really love about them is how they came about. I was sitting at a really bad show this Summer. Potential customers were being pulled to either side by samples of frozen wine and hot fudge sauce. (not together, 2 different sellers, but I do see the possibilities). I had a lot of time to ponder.

I was staring at the photo frames and it occurred to me that the raised embellishment could stand alone as a mini collage. But how? Ponder, ponder, ideas tossed about and tossed aside and then the obvious. Of course!

Scale it down and make it a magnet. Come up with some nice packaging. Look for quotes that work well on a small space and print them up in interesting fonts. Well, there ya go. (the pictures are of the few I have left. I'll have a more interesting group on the web site in a few weeks.)

It just goes to show that even the worst show can turn into something good. It's what you do with the down time that counts, I guess. Oh, I did my share of grumbling, but I also used the time to think creatively. Free time is a precious commodity in this business. Of course, you prefer it not happen at a time you were expecting to be busy selling, but precious it is anyway.

class

I vaguely remembered from my last long-ago train ride that there was a first class lounge for folks who sprang for a sleeper. And sure, enough, still here. Behind frosted glass doors with subtle markings, a carpeted, softly lit, wood paneled, hushed sanctuary with WiFi and free coffee and muffins and drinks. A place to check your bags. People who call you "Ma'am" and smile.

I was going to stroll around Chicago, but you're not gonna get me outta here until the train comes.

Oooh...what's that? Chips?...

done!

Another season over. From a small book arts show in March, through a stormy Summer, into the Fall holiday shows and the December gift shows. All done now. Deep breath. Feet up. Relax. Wait. What's that? An application? Due in 3 weeks?

The art show gods have an odd sense of humor.

I will go up to the cold studio one more time, to try for a special book for jurying. I was pretty laid back about that stuff last year, using old photos, got smug. And it cost me at least one show, maybe 2.

And then I will get ready for my trip. A long relaxing train ride to the West coast. In my own little room. I do love the train. Yes, I hate to fly. It's not fear of crashing, it's a control issue. Sort of like "If God wanted me to fly he would have made me a pilot". Trains make me happy. I believe if we all took trains, the country would be kinder. Seriously. No crazy security rules, no long lines for hours. And then the gentle sway on the rails. The train whistle at intersections. Scenery in an endless loop. Time to breathe, nap, read. Love it.

I need the transition time. It's been a while since I've been alone with me, nothing to accomplish, no schedule, no deadlines.

OK, back to the attic one more time.

I'll be blogging from the train, if you care to share the journey. :)

kaleidoscope

That's what this past week has been like. The different parts of my life swirling in contrast, images blurring into each other.

The warm, rich walls of Gilda's Club and the stark white hospital room. Gentle strains of classical music and sharp beeps echoing off tile. Hugs and hellos from old friends, cell phone calls that twist the gut.The shallow joy of good sales, the deep sadness of a Mother's confusion and fear.

Today, all is calm, appropriate to the season, but I don't know how long it can last. Sunday, I leave on my mission to help my son sort out the mess he was left and, in the process, leave my brother a mess I should be sharing.

One of the quotes I use on my cards and magnets is "normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are." I think just that line is a wonderful reminder to cherish the moment, but the rest of the quote is so very moving:

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return. ~Mary Jean Iron

I have had several occasions lately to remember the full sentiment and I have lived long enough now to have experienced the longing for normal days.

Today is a close to a normal day. Mom is home and complaining. I have a show Saturday and I am scrambling to make enough things. I'll be at work in an hour, then I'll do laundry...

So the swirling stops for a moment, the colors settle, the images take their rightful places in my world and stay there.

And I am aware of and grateful for this normal day.

a true Buffalonian

Finally...snow. It has never taken so long, waiting until December to whiten the lawn. And so, I celebrated the first snowfall in typical Buffalo fashion:

Needing to run to the store, I pulled the bottoms of my jammy pants over my feet, stuffed my feet into clogs, tiptoed through the slush, used a piece of junk mail to swipe an opening through the snow on the windshield and then did the Buffalo Conga to clear the rest of the car.

The Buffalo Conga only works in early Winter when the underside of the snow is soft and wet. You just sort of inch the car out, stop really fast, do it again. Before you know it, the stuff slides to the ground in a sheet. Love the Buffalo Conga.

Then, of course, you have wipers that are trying to wipe the wetness off and they can't because they have a crust of snow on them. Then you do the grab and snap. Put the wipers on slow, open your driver side window. As the wiper approaches you reach for it, pull it back and snap it against the windshield. Might take a few snaps, but it works.

Yes I have boots, mittens, snow brush, ice scraper, shovel, socks. But I am a Buffalonian. We don't need no stinkin' equipment!