Hammondsport Festival of Craft

I enjoy doing this show, even though it really isn't terribly profitable for us. It is a very traditional show with stuff like hair bows and doll clothes and baby bibs and stuffed pumpkins being the "meat" of the show. Nothing wrong with that. I've been known to own a stuffed pumpkin or 2 in my time. But it doesn't bode well for my rather obscure craft. There are some more "artsy" things there, too, but this basically is not an event at which a lot of people will spend 20 bucks or more on a blank book. You can get 5 stuffed pumpkins for that.

I know this about Hammondsport, but the show is run by a couple of really high energy, savvy people, there are worker bees in yellow T's swarming the grounds to help you set up and take down.

Some good friends do the show and we spend the night at one of their homes. The rambling chatter in their sunny kitchen is worth the booth fee. Saturday night is a traditional get together for this group at a Mexican Restaurant. I have my annual alcoholic drink there, a margarita. Or 2.

So, what I'm saying is that I booked this show mostly to pad the gas money fund for our upcoming vacation and to feed my soul. I had realistic expectations.

The trip there is just under 3 hours so we hit the road at 5 and we were rewarded with a Disney sunrise for several miles.



Set up was smooth and when we first saw our spot I thought it would be a good one. Next to the gazebo, in the shade. But as they say in the NFL: upon further review....

The booth was set 8 feet off the path, between 2 food vendors. On my left, frozen wine slushies. On my right, hot fudge and jam. Both were offering samples. As you can imagine, the wine was the more popular attraction. And what that created was a mini wine garden with people slurping slush and chatting amiably in the shade. In front of our booth.



It was hard enough to get people off the path, but when a gaggle of wine slushers obscured us, it was impossible. I rearranged my booth, bringing more product and color to the front. We chatted up anyone who wandered by. I sampled a slushie or 2 myself.

Did I mention it was over 90 and sunny? Upstaters don't do heat well. We are snow people. By 1, crowds in front of the booth were no longer a problem.




I began to look forward to our Mexican dinner.

That was fun. Best Mexican food in New York is found in Bath of all places. San Carlos on Rte 54. Go there. I'll wait.

Sadly, the owner was still waiting for a liquor license for the new location, meaning no annual margarita for me. No matter. We laughed and told stories and there was even a table-hopping magician. My spirits were lifted.

That night we settled in at Leah and Ken's house. Living in the city as I do, the silence of the country is a novelty to be savored. I was lulled by the silence, by the way the moonlight broke through their stained glass panels. It would have been a perfect night had I not made a 3AM trip to the bathroom. Tiptoeing back to bed in the dark, I felt a softness against my ankle, thought it was one of the cats, realized too late it was a footstool, and proceeded to swan dive, grazing my head on an end table, landing on parts of me that should not be landed upon, ending up crumpled between said end table and a chair. I swear, there was exactly enough space for me to fit and that's where I landed. 6 inches either way and I would have really been hurt. That guardian angel of mine is working OT.

Russell sat with me until we were sure nothing odd was going to happen, that I was just bruised and feeling stupid. In retrospect, the best thing would have been for me to jump up, raise my hands over my head, bend one knee forward and declare "Superstar!" like that old SNL skit. I'm too old and bruised for that. The best I could come up with was "The Russian judge gave me a 9"

The next day, hot and sunny again, began with more laughter in Leah's kitchen, bagels and fruit at a sweet cafe in the Village, high hopes. We sold 3 things.

Three things.

Lots of wine slushie mix was sold, though. At exorbitant prices.

People: all you need to do is mix wine, water and OJ. Freeze, scrape or blend. Free.

Anyway, I made enough for gas to Chicago, but we had a nice weekend and it wasn't a show I was counting on or anything. That's next week.

You have to look on the bright side, and the company of friends is very bright indeed.

Lewiston Art Council Show

I took this little iPhone video Sunday, thinking it would serve to show the worst of it. Oh, silly me.





But let's start at the beginning. And remember the man in the white cap watching the rain.

Lewiston, NY sits near a couple of Great Lakes, the Canadian border and Niagara Falls. It is a vibrant area, to say the least. The town makes much of its historic roots and the main street, Center, is lined with charming shops and Victorian homes. So far, so good. I have wanted to try this show for a while. It had a good reputation and it fell on a weekend that is normally available for me. Well, the 2nd Chautauqua show is that weekend, but what are the odds of being called off the wait list for that show?

So, of course, Chautauqua calls me Thursday night. There's been a last minute cancellation. Can I do the show? I told them they were breaking my heart, but, no, I could never be ready by morning and, besides, I was committed to Lewiston. I hoped I was making the right choice.

Set up went smoothly. We had a nice spot, good neighbors. Rain was predicted and it came but it was light and didn't seem to affect the show much. I was content.

Sunday I was going to be doing the show solo. Russell was expecting a guy to work on our house, so he dropped me off and, after settling me in with coffee and a muffin, headed home. My photographer neighbor was watching the weather radar on his cell phone.

"There's a big one coming", he announced, showing me the alarming red blob on the radar heading in from Toronto. As if on cue, big drops of rain started and I pulled all my things behind the tent under cover and settled in to wait it out. The fat drops turned into a heavy rain (see video). My spirits fell. The rain slowed. I got happier.

The couple that had taken refuge with us ventured out, but the man stayed. And stayed. It was OK with me. He was chillin'. My neighbor waved his cell phone at me. "That wasn't it", he said, "the big one is coming now!"

OK, I thought I'd humor him and went to pull my front panels closed. And walked into ..I dunno..Hell? The Wizard of Oz? Sudden pounding rain and hail , blowing into the tent horizontally, the winds so strong I couldn't open my eyes to see what I was doing, the flaps of the tent blowing in and, before I could grab them, straight back out into the street. I was soaked through, my clothes clinging to me (not a pretty sight), my hair plastered to my head (equally unpretty). I couldn't quite reach the top of the panels to pull them closed and then a hand reached over my head and pulled one panel to the center and called "hold this!" and then the man in the white cap pulled the other panel to meet it, trying to zip it, but the wind and the rain made it impossible.

"Your stuff is getting ruined, get it, I'll hold this!" he yelled and so I did, piling everything on the middle shelves to keep the rain away while he tried to hold the panels together. When I was done, I reached up and was finally able to zip the front of the booth closed.

Now we were out of the storm but we could hear it raging. A river ran through the back of booth. Thunder pounded. For the first time ever at a show I felt fear. What if this was a tornado? But the man in the white cap was calmly peeking over the top of the curtains, watching the spectacle and that was reassuring. He didn't look scared.

Then I saw my books. Soaked and already started to curl. Looked like a total loss to me. I was dejected.

From inside our little safe haven, I could hear traffic on the street. That was odd, the man said. I wondered if it was emergency vehicles. He peeked over the top again, but couldn't see. When the rain and wind finally slowed, we opened the front and saw vans lined up, packing up to go home. I looked up and saw blue sky coming. My neighbor came over, cell phone in hand, showing me that behind that scary blob, coming at us now was...nothing.

"I'm staying!" he said, and I said I was, too.

Oh, there was a rumor going around that there was more coming and we were supposed to pack up, but it was just that. A rumor. Some people had no choice. There were canopies destroyed, art work ruined. But many of us took a deep breath, looked at the promising blue sky and regrouped.

My guardian angel took his leave after making sure all was OK, waving off my effusive thanks. I would have hugged him, but that would have only served to make him wetter.

I put my small journals in the rack meant for my ruined, large ones. I spread the rest of the stuff out, trying to fill the gaps.

The minute we opened the flaps, customers came and they continued to come, even as more artists brought their vans to the street and packed up.They were happy to see we were still there. And I was happy to see Russell coming with dry clothes for me.

In the end, we had pretty good sales, all things considered.

But, I swear, if this had been our first year doing outdoor shows, Monday morning there would have been a new posting on Craigs list:

For Sale, used art canopy and display racks. Cheap. Slightly damp.

No offer refused.

But, it's not our first year, it's maybe our 10th or 12th. I know that, as Annie said, the sun will come out tomorrow.

Now if I can just make it come out on a weekend.

bob and me

I am tending my friend's cat. Well, "tending" is not quite the right word. I am on duty should he need me. Cats seldom need anything, but Bob is an 'indoor/outdoor cat and although he has 6 toes on each paw, he still can't open the screen door. So, like it or not, he needs me.

I was his doorman a few weeks ago and it didn't go well. The first morning of my watch, I saw him in the early, dewy morning light, preening on the picnic table in the back yard. I called his name softly, opened the door and stepped aside. He sauntered in and headed to his food bowl, stopped, stood still and slowly turned his head to see who had let him in. I was not who he was expecting.

After that, it was a battle of wills.

If he saw me coming, he scooted away. If I held the door open for him, he refused to come. I tried many things. I am a long time cat person. I propped open the back door and tossed food bits onto the steps and hid out of sight. He approached from an angle, the better to see if some stoopid human was trying to hide. He would see me and freeze. We stared each other down until I got tired and put food on the step for him.

Then I tried the open door/food thing but I would hide in the bathroom across the room, peeking through a teeny opening between the door and jamb. My plan was to watch him walk in the house then dash out of the bathroom, across the room and hip check the door closed.

But he only came in as far as the threshold and froze, staring at the bathroom. My legs got tired and I got a stiff neck from crouching over the knob, hand in position. I stood, pulled the door open and said to him that he won, I was going home. He retreated to the picnic table and I put food on the step.

It was July 4th and the fireworks were loud and constant and I was worried that he was frightened. I called to him, searched the yard, looked to see if he was hiding in bushes. Nothing.

I thought about him all night.

In the morning, I saw him in the driveway. I casually walked up the steps to the porch, opened the door and left it open, sat on the couch and picked up the paper and waited.

It took many minutes for him to enter the house in slow motion, but he did come in. I stayed motionless on the couch until he was far enough away from the door that I could push it closed before he could scat. But he wasn't interested in escape. This time he wanted to be where he was and he allowed me to pretend it was my idea.

So, this time around, I decided that since it was Summer and good weather and he had many porches to sleep on and food already on the step, that I would not worry so much, that I would not resort to absurd machinations to get a 9 pound animal to bend to my will.

I spotted him sitting on the porch railing, observing the neighborhood with hooded eyes. I nonchalantly walked up on the porch, opened the door and said "Bob?"

He looked at me, hopped down, brushed against my legs and went in. Each day it was the same, I would call his name, and in he'd come. He let me pet him. He even purred.

I don't know how he knew that he had trained me. I'm not sure what test was passed.

I'm just glad I didn't have to hide in the bathroom again.

Sunday in the park with chaos-part 2 of the Canandaigua mini drama

Sunday morning, early, back to the park we go. We have to set up the rig from scratch again, so we needed time. Beautiful morning, sunshine, light breeze, not too hot, the lake sparkled, a sailboat was already out, enjoying the peacefulness. I was filled with good vibes.

What could go wrong?

The man who had secured his tent with boulders from the shore, brought boxes of coffee and dozens of doughnuts to thank his neighbors for saving his butt the night before. It doesn't take much to energize a crew of art carnies. A box of doughnuts is usually enough. Add fresh coffee and this guy was a hero.

There was a lot of swapping of stories about the night before and stories of other shows and other storms and soon there was a lot of laughter and somehow a cheer broke out, a rah-rah moment extolling the art show gods for people and sales. We were having fun again and I thought that this day would save the weekend.

Sometimes I crack myself up.

The first indicator that this might not be the great day we hoped for was the quiet. The quiet brought on by no people. At one point I checked my packet again to see if I got the start time wrong. Nope. 10 AM.

Once the people did start to come it was an exercise in patience. I've seen this behavior before but not so many times in one day. I call it fantasy shopping. A customer comes in and asks about, say, the mirrors. I explain the technique. Then she starts to debate colors. She asks her companion if that one would fit in the den. Or maybe she should get 2 since she can't decide between them. They measure the width. Yes, that would fit. Maybe combine a large and small, for effect. Do I have any other colors? No? That's OK, this should work. We engage in chatter about decorating with organic items. They decide on a color. On and on and on and then...they walk out. Huh? I had a couple examine each and every collage frame, make a pile of them (one for Grammy, that is perfect for Sissy, this for Henry) then leave the pile and walk out. Another woman read every quote in every journal, picking and choosing, walking the booth over and over with a pile of books in her arms, only to put them down and go. This happened so often that when someone actually did buy something it startled me.

But that was nothing compared to the gathering storm. Russell was on the second leg of his trip to bring the correct vehicle back. I was sitting behind the booth eating lunch. And a wind gust hit. I waited. Sometimes these are little dustups that rattle your shelves and move on. But it just got stronger. My chicken went flying. My tent was rattling and dancing. I grabbed a leg of it but that was going to do nothing. I jumped up and grabbed the center of the workings and held on. I figured if the wind could pick up the tent, the displays that are tethered to it, the weights on the legs and a pudgy old woman, it could have it all. Even the expensive tents were rattling. Everyone was hanging on. I turned my back to the show because the wind kept lifting my shirt and nobody should have to see that. Minutes went by, minutes that seemed like hours, but finally it seemed the wind was slowing. I turned around and saw people pointing, hands over their mouths. I checked to see if my shirt was down. I followed the crowd out into the opening and saw this



That tent used to be sheltering this artist and her work



The wind picked it up and carried it over 3 rows of booths before it got snagged. But not before it did some serious damage.





I couldn't imagine what else could go wrong. Silly me. There are many circles of hell.

Shortly after the "event", people actually started to come out. And shop. Well, what do ya know? Maybe we could salvage this weekend after all. I tidied the shelves and was having fun with the customers and then Lynne, the director, hustled into the booth and said that a storm was coming. It was in Rochester. It would be here in 27 minutes. I could button down or pack it up. My choice. I started to strip my shelves before she was gone. I called Russell. He was 10 minutes away. I told him to hurry.

By the time he got to me, I had everything down and packed except the booth itself. The skies were getting dark. We got stuff to the van, broke down the tent and displays. We asked our neighbors if they needed help, but most were doing OK. (We all tend to have a carefully choreographed routine and a well-meaning helper often just disrupts the rhythm.)

As we closed the doors of the van, the first fat drops fell. By the time we were on the road it was a blinding rainstorm.

I had made enough to cover expenses and pay for Quincy's Vet appointment on Monday.

But I learned a lot. If you have doubts about the organizers of a show, listen to your instincts. If the show's website is still not updated from the year before, that's a clue. If they come out and tell you the show still isn't full, but they're working on it. That's a clue. If you tell show buddies that you're doing the show and they roll their eyes...big clue. If the organizer says she's not putting a link to your website on the show website so you don't get spammed? Run.

I'm not blaming the organizers for the weather, obviously. I sincerely appreciated the effort they made to alert us all to the coming storm and get us safe. The Security Guards were on task and helpful both days.

But you have to advertise a show. You have to keep the quality of work up. If you can't "fill a show", just make it a little smaller. You need to have a website that is up to date and full of information about the show and the artists that will be there.

I remember when I was eighteen and I tried Peppermint Schnapps with a beer chaser. Never gonna do that again. I always wanted to try this show. I've tried it. Sometimes you try new things and they bring you joy. Sometimes you throw up into your shoes.

meanwhile, in Buffalo

There was a photo walk last week. A bunch of folks walking the city with cameras. There were similar walks all over the world. The winner here was taken in my very own neighborhood, just a few blocks up the road.



You might want to click on this one.

It occurs to me that the people who make fun of Buffalo have probably never been here.

Thanks to photographer Terry Cervi for capturing this vision of my hometown.

cue the locusts-part 1

I mean, seriously, it's the only thing we have not had to endure this season. I feel like Helen Hunt in that movie about storm chasers. A storm coming? Cool! put me in a little nylon tent with a metal frame and send in lightning. I can handle it.

This weekend we set up in the charming town of Canandaigua on a Finger Lake of the same name, right along the shoreline. Ah, feel those lake breezes. Remember them.

I have been considering this show for a decade but it was always a conflict or I forgot the deadline or something. This year I remembered, but the ensuing dance with the organizer of the show over apps not confirmed and a phone number that only gave you a message that the voice mail was full and emails that went unanswered for weeks resulting in decisions made that caused more problems when the email was finally answered and on and on. The Universe was speaking to me and I kept saying shush.

So, our assigned set up was Friday afternoon. This meant an extra 90 mile commute each way for us since the show started on Saturday, but we didn't mind. Oh, if only we could have seen the future.

We picked up our sign in packet and we were able to pull the van up right behind our spot. That was great. Some spots have long "dolly-in" spots. I was feeling lucky. The setting was beautiful, the sun was out, but uh-oh. As I took a video of the idyllic setting, I noticed the sky.

But we soldiered on, got the rig up and secured, then headed back home where I could finish up some last minute details, get a good sleep, and be ready for the show weekend. We decided to take the Beetle to the show Saturday morning instead of the van because we had already transported all the big stuff. Great. That would save gas.

We were halfway there when Russell turns to me and says "How will we get the show home?" I was perplexed. What did he mean? We'll just pack it up as always and stow it in the van. The van that was in Buffalo. And we were spending the night in Canandaigua. There was a moment of stunned silence as the reality sank in, followed by several miles of laughter. It was too late to turn back, he would have to go fetch it on Sunday. So much for saved gas.

But, ya know, the fact that we could laugh about it...it's a great thing.

If a storm had formed overnight there was no evidence of it Saturday morning. It was a beautiful day. We had high hopes. There were customers early. The show wasn't packed with people, but the ones that were there seemed to be buying. I was encouraged. Sadly, by noon, the crowd was very thin. (Note: beware of a show that advertises "no crowds". Seriously. That was one of the attributes this show proudly announces)

We were blessed with great neighbors and that lake view and good weather. And then, right as we were getting ready to button up for the night, the wind hit.

This was no "gust", this was sustained wind that knocked shelves of pottery to the ground with a sickening crash, that lifted a 10X20 tent off it's moorings, that had people chasing their product across the lawn. The sky darkened again and the problem was what to do.

The man with the 10X20 that lifted, went to the edge of the lake and transported a half dozen huge boulders to his spot and tied them to the frame. We were all impressed that he could carry them. As his neighbors helped keep the canopy from flying, he secured the sides and center with his makeshift weight system. It worked.

I was too worried to just button up and go. We dismantled the display and stowed it in the "good" canopy of our neighbors and left just the frame up. We would come early Sunday to set up yet again. And then Russell would have to drive to Buffalo to get the van and come back. Are we having fun yet?

...to be continued....

another new widget

With much of my new "stuff", the ideas come from customers and they germinate for weeks or years or moments, eventually resulting in a "eureka!"

Last year a kindly gentleman told me that if I did something with a reference to grandchildren, I'd sell them all. I had been avoiding specific quotes on my frames and cards, believing broad appeal to be better than targeting.

Dumb. I know. I know.

I found a quote that I loved ("Grandchildren fill a space in your heart you never knew was empty") and put it on cards, frames and my collage easels. He was right. Sold 'em all. Now I have things about children and parents, too. Sell 'em all.

A couple of years ago, a customer asked me if I had any smaller journals. I was only making the 9X7 then, a size that had been dictated by the dimensions of my mould and deckle as I was making my own paper at the time. I eventually moved on to using available papers so I could focus on the things I wanted to make, but old habits die hard, I guess. I researched the sizes other book binders made and found that 5X7 was really popular. I started making that size. Unlined pages, but they still have a quote on the flyleaf and the binding is embellished, just simpler. They are $5 cheaper than my least expensive large journal. I sell 'em all. I think it impacts on my sales of the larger books, but that frees me up to be more artful on the bigger books sometimes. So that is a good thing.

Then customers started asking for even smaller books. Books that could travel, that could be stuffed in a purse or pocket. I pondered it.

Then I started thinking about the young girls who lovelovelove my books. They pick them up and stroke the covers and fan the pages and cradle them in the crook of their arm while asking "Please, Mom?" Some parents "get" that encouraging their kids to write is worth $20. Some say "Oh, you'll never write in it" and walk out leaving the kid to put the book back and give up. Sometimes the child pulls out their money and starts to count out wrinkled bills and quarters which is when I have been known to put the book in a bag and ask the child to accept it as a gift from me, the only condition being that she promises to write every day, (Old English teachers never die, they just get more annoying) Russell does it, too. I'll come back into the booth and he'll say, "Now, don't get mad but..."

Little books would be great for little girls.

When I get my paper cut for the inside pages, I always tell them I want the waste. I knew I would find a use for it, if only to make pulp for castings. Often the waste is 4" square. Eureka!

I call them "Pocket Books", they are a petite 4 1/2" square with a stab binding and a simple embellishment at the tie. No lines, no fly leaf, just a simple book for travelers and little girls. They would be great as "gratitude" journals, too.

Russell thinks they will impact sales of the small journals. I'll have to observe that. And I have to figure out pricing. They are still, after all, handbound books, one-of-a-kind.



And, of course, they'll be cheaper to give away. ;)

meanwhile, at my "real job"..

So, I wandered into work this morning expecting the usual echoing quiet of a theater at rest and saw this:



which was a good thing because it meant that the next huge step in renovation was happening..the carpet. For decades, the stairs had been covered with carpeting that was reminiscent of the 1920's decor originally there, but it wasn't historically correct and as it started to wear, it was "repaired" with red duct tape. A real indignity for this grand old place.



But now, after years of research and fund raising, new carpeting that replicates what was there back in the 20's is about to be installed. But first they had to strip the grand staircase of the old stuff



What they found was pretty rough



The real work begins now, truly "step-by-step"



SInce I only work a few hours a week in the Summer, I will be able to watch the project unfold at high speed, the tedious part unseen




When it's done, the grand staircase will have a runner down the center, with the newly polished terrazzo exposed along the edges. It will be beautiful.

And to think they wanted to tear the place down for a parking garage 25 years ago.

barkyard morning

Russell takes Quincy to the dog park every morning and evening. He does that because puppies need to run and we want him to be a social dog. I often say I'm too busy in the studio or not awake yet or something. But Russell tells me that the morning at the Barkyard is good for him, too. The facility has been recently moved and upgraded and he says spending the early morning in the park, by the water, cup of tea, dogs playing, owners schmoozing, is good for him, too.


But with "Daddy" busy for the next few mornings, it was my turn to go. I'm not good at leaping out of bed and into the car, so we weren't there as early as normal and I think Q was resigned to missing his play date this morning, but I surprised him.

He gets almost frantic in the car when you get to the 2nd traffic light before the entrance. I'm not sure what he sees that cues him to proximity. You can't see the park. But the water comes into view there and that might be it, because when we drive by water going anywhere he perks up. It may be the Peace Bridge looming or maybe even just the colorful Burger King. But that last quarter mile or so is a test of patience and endurance.

He leans out the window, panting as we pull up and drags me to the gate. Then it is time to unhook the leash and let him go. He runs and wrestles and chases with little rest except for the few times he comes to me and leans against my knees. But then he is off again.

I chat with some of the owners I've come to know and it is peaceful and fun there, even with the frantic dogs flipping each other and yapping.

Today I saw what Russell means. A sailboat drifted slowly along the shore, a beautiful Australian Shepherd ran gracefully along the perimeter, Quincy wrestled with his favorite playmate, a Great Dane, a flock of geese flew overhead. It was ridiculously bucolic for an urban park.

Tomorrow I'll bring my coffee.

loving Quincy

I can admit it now. When we first brought Quincy home from the shelter I was not in love. I thought he was cute, my maternal instincts were in full tilt, but I didn't love him. I was still mourning Jake. Everything about the new puppy just brought home the fact that he wasn't Jake. Jake was soft and golden and serene and devoted and cuddly and smart and sweet and mellow and trained. Quincy zoomed and nipped and wiggled and yipped and chewed and chased the cats and pooped in the dining room.

We discussed, briefly, whether we could handle him or if he should be "re-homed". I would weep with frustration and sadness. We had brought a new dog in too soon, but we had to. Our Summers are such that he had to be manageable by June, able to travel with us by September.

This new puppy was trying so hard to get into my heart, but I was still having times of intense sadness, missing my golden boy. I refused to let the new dog eat from Jake's bowls or play with his toys.

I started a blog "written" by Quincy in an attempt to make him real to me. That helped. We bought a collar that keeps him from pulling when you walk him. That helped. He slept in bed with us, often with his head in the crook of my neck. His jagged milk teeth gave way to real doggie teeth that could hurt you only if he tried. He never tried. We brought him to the barkyard almost every day and he would come home too happy and tired to have the zoomies.

I let him carry around Jake's Bobo toy.

Then, one day at the dog park, a feisty dog pushed him to the ground and growled and snapped in a way that sounded threatening to me and I raced to where they were, yelling "hey! hey!" and Quincy got up and leaned against me as a child would, a child who was being teased in the playground.

I guess that was the beginning.

I scrubbed Jake's kong and filled it with peanut butter and treats for Quincy.

In the dark days of my sadness and confusion over the dog thing, my dear buddy, Anne, gifted me with a framed photo by a mutual friend that has a quote from Anatole France: "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened"

My soul has been kept awake by many beloved pets in my life, Q is just the latest.

He has learned to sit and stay and give his paw and do a high five and lay down. He chases the ball, brings it back and actually lets you have it sometimes without a struggle. When we are tossing toys for him in the house, he will bring the toy to me, then Russell, then me. Back and forth, sharing the game. When he is tired, he takes himself upstairs and hops on our bed, his head on a pillow. When he knows he is about to be leashed to go out, he stands at the table by the door, one paw on the surface to keep himself up, the other waving in the air, excited and beckoning.

He is cute and funny and still full of puppyness, but now we can see the fine dog he is becoming.

This weekend was his first weekend away from us, tended lovingly and with infinite patience by "Auntie Ree" our friend, neighbor and devoted dog tender. We kept in touch by phone and email. He drove her to distraction the first night, but she is wise about dogs and they came to an understanding.

And at some point, maybe Sunday morning, a realization hit me.

I missed my dog. I missed Quincy.

I loved him.

it was the best of times, it was the worst of times

Chautauqua brings out the Dickens in me. This truly was a "Tale of Two Craft Shows", though. I'm punning purposely. I also adore alliteration.

OK. Let me start with this humble confession. I am not "cool". I am not one of those artisans that sniffs haughtily and says "just show me the money" inferring that you could set up a show atop a nuclear energy plant with a suspicious leak and that would be just fine as long as people bought your stuff. I love some of the venues we do, the fun of being there is part of my personal profit and loss statement. And I love Chautauqua. How can you not love a place dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, culture and spirituality?

Granted, I love the fact that I can make a nice profit there, too. I may not be cool but I am also not stupid.

Chautauqua looks like this on a lazy Summer day:






I swear you can feel the stress leaving your body, dropping off your fingertips into the perfectly manicured lawns.

So, we arrive at the gate Friday morning within a few minutes of our assigned time and proceed to unload. The weather is perfect and I choose to believe the dire forecast for Saturday is just a big mistake.

The chaos of set up



becomes our cozy booth



and even though sales were not as brisk as last year, I am content. As a precaution, Russell rolls up the rug in case it rains and we head back to our bare bones efficiency unit, too tired to stroll by the lake or stay for the concert.

We'll do it tomorrow, we say.

But, what we do "tomorrow" is try to stay dry and alive. The storm hit early, with pounding rain, blinding lightning, thunder that rattled the bones. All all that separated us from that was an art canopy that bobbed and weaved with the wind, its sides fluttering, the top groaning, the frame dancing. I sat on my tall artist chair with my feet up and watched the rain start to flood our little piece of the world. Few brave souls ventured out.



I'm sure most of them were doing what I fantasized..curling up with a good book and a hot cup of tea. Not the art carnies. We were huddled inside our tents, wincing at the thunder and wondering what it was we found so awful about those office jobs.

In the midst of it, one of the show's committee persons unzipped our front panel and peeked in. She was holding her slicker closed with one hand and trying to keep a hat on with the other. She was checking to see if we were OK and if we needed help. This is not normal. At most shows, if a storm hits, the committee heads for the nearest bar, sips mojitos and watches us through plate glass, pointing and giggling.

Or so I imagine.

Amazingly, a couple of hours after it started, the storm ended, clouds parted, blue sky, sun, birdsong. We tidied ourselves and our booths and pretended nothing untoward had happened. But kept a close eye on the sky.

The customers came out from their cozy cottages and wandered about. There were some rumbles from above and just as we were set to close down for the night a shower moved through, but we were encouraged about tomorrow and headed off in a group of eight to have dinner and conversation.None of the pictures came out, this is the best:



I won't do the "from L to R are:" because I didn't ask any of them if that was OK, but the artists among them are Cheryl, Tim, Laura and Elizabeth. Not that you could recognize anyone from a photo like that. But we had fun.

Then came Sunday. A perfect name for a perfect day. Sun. All day. Not too hot. gentle breezes. It was an apology from the Universe. People came out in throngs. The strawberry shortcake sale helped.




I love this show. For the sales, sure, but also for the strawberry shortcake and the young boys chanting "Chautauqua Times 50 cents" in the early morning and violin music drifting in and out with the breezes and the streets filled with bicycles and the bathing suits hung over porch railings, children splashing in the fountain. I am not cool. These things make me happy.

You can't buy happy.

fun with wordle

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

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





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



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

Go try it. :)

Rosa

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

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

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

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

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


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

drip, drip, drip....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bail out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taking one for the team

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i must stop watching the weather channel

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

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

It rains almost every year.

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

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

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

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

I will stop watching the weather channel.

new reality show?

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

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

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

WHAT?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

father's day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fixed it anyway

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

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

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

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



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

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

ok, how cute are these?

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

Maybe teeny book zipper pulls?

2 weekends a world apart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

i've been enhanced

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

skipping the party

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I get to go do something fun. :)

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

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

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

And I will show him the mirrors I made.

what you can't plan for redux

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

That lasted 2 days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing else could possibly go wrong. Right?

what you can't plan for

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wise friends

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

Artists in "lean times"

Bryan's attitude about retail mirror mine. :)

artist statement-again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better get to it.

wordless

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

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

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

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

i called your boss today

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

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

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

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

Oh, and your boss was pissed.

Good news

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

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

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

And a pretty blue slash over "accepted".

Excuse me, I need to complete my happy dance.