back to books

This is supposed to be a blog about life as an art carney. I've been pretty vocal about life, pretty quiet about art. Since my first big show is less than a month away, I guess I should try to remember what it is I do!Lets talk about tools. Russell taught me the value of tools. Were it not for him, I would be cutting boards with a butter knife, standing on books to press them, using a putty knife as a bone folder. So, over the years I have acquired a mat cutter and some power tools and the right kind of metal ruler with cork on the back. I buy glue from a factory that supplies the library and it comes in big ol' jugs instead of teeny squeeze bottles. But the one thing that eluded me was a book press. The classic, iron presses are the gold standard but they are hard to find and pretty expensive. For a while we talked about just constructing a wooded one with a screw down thingy but that just never happened. In the interim, I actually used a decorative press that Pottery Barn was selling.

A bunch of us on the book arts list serve scooped them up. They served the purpose well enough, but a real book artist would scoff I know. And then, one day, Russ was visiting a friend who said "Hey. Could Pat uses some book presses?" Plural. And there, in my room, were TWO old, heavy, classic presses. Imagine you've been driving a 79 Pinto and come home to find a Mercedes in your garage.

You use the press after you've glued the paper to the cover boards so that they dry nice and flat and then again after the books are bound to let them finish up nicely.



There are a few more steps between that and this:



But that will be another post. I see your eyes crossing. And there are books needing my attention. Upstairs. In the presses.

that vision thing

When the young couple decided to start a bakery in the old building they bought on the edge of a pretty tough neighborhood, I was skeptical. They weren't alone. There were others who saw promise in the beautiful historic block and started a garden shop next door. Another bought a whole corner and has been slowly and surely rehabbing. A little park blossomed. "Extreme Makeover" came to town. The neighborhood became interesting.

The bakery offers a breakfast of toast. Their artisan breads with jam, or gouda with apples, or hard boiled eggs and gruyere. The facade is a grid of windows that pull in the sun. The tables are mismatched but beautifully worn. They have life in them.

Russell and I sat in a sunbeam, drinking coffee and eating toast. Outside, kids scurried to catch a school bus. An older woman walked a dog. We passed poetry back and forth from the magazines that were stacked along the wall. "look at this" "I love this one". The little brass Indian bells on the door tinkled gently whenever someone came in or went out.

It made me think of a Rumer song I have been listening to. She sings of all the ordinary life around here.The refrain is "I'm alive and I'm thankful for this time". Beautiful.

Maybe it is the privilege of the young to scoff at preconceived notions, to go fearlessly into challenge, ignoring the warning signs. Seeing only opportunity.

I thought of my little art business and how loathe I am to step even an inch off of my comfortable perch and try something new. And then when I do, it energizes me and brings such pleasure. You would think that it would encourage me to leap. Nah.

It's that vision thing. And that courage thing.

I'm starting to build my schedule for the coming season. I want it to be fresh and interesting. I want to have vision.

It's like the little Indian bells were a wake up call.

surfacing, crashing, reflecting.

I sort of hit wall a couple of months ago. Kinda understandable considering that life got eerily quiet after 14 months of drama, illness and loss. I spent about 2 months staring at the wall. Russell thought I was being hypnotized by the new big TV, but basically my butt felt like it was being held to the chair by a big magnet under the cushion. I played a lot of Bubble witch on my laptop, got addicted to FaceBook, took out dozens of library books that collected dust. Then I suddenly popped up, coughed up dust, did a couple of stretches to loosen the knots and life came back to normal.

Then I heard the crash.

Let me preface this by saying our van died a couple of months ago and so we had to get a new work truck. We got a pretty Pilot, low miles considering it is 4 years old. But it is new to us and we were in the throes of "new" car infatuation. Washing it, dusting it, not letting the dogs in, You know. We still used my little Beetle for most trips because of gas mileage. Other than some ripped upholstery and brakes that bounced when you stopped fast, that little car as still doing its best 12 years after I got it. We thought our car situation was stable.

Then I heard the crash.

It was one of those oddly warm March days the Northeast has been having so the windows were open. Russ was in the kitchen doing dishes, I was in the living room working on applications. Suddenly, there was this loud, extended crash that I hoped was the dumpster truck for the apartment building across the street but it was too loud and too scary sounding for that. I called to Russ asking what it was and he answered "He hit all our cars!" and I heard the screen door slam behind him. I ran after him and had trouble processing what I saw. A neighbors car was smashed from behind and had rammed my Beetle, driving it into the Pilot which was tucked against a light pole. Russ jumped into my smooshed Beetle to go after the crasher who had, of course, taken off. The Beetle left a tail of fluid. I stood there like a stone. He didn't catch him.

The Pilot just had a creased bumper that we were able to fix pretty cheaply. My car was totaled, as was the neighbor's car. She did not have collision insurance. Thankfully, I did and they were surprisingly generous with the settlement, so I was able to get newer car for little cost to me and it gets 38 MPG. It's a Honda Fit which is tiny but looks like an SUV that was washed and shrunk. I love it. I wish I was rich so I could buy a car for my neighbor. I feel really bad for her. She just bought the car a couple of months ago, She stood there on the street staring at the devastation, her face a mask. I don;t know what she is going to do. She doesn't have much money. I really want to find that guy.

So, after all the hassle with the insurance companies and car salesmen (that's a topic for another post), life settled back to normal and it was time for my first show. The Small Press Book Fair. It is held at the Karpeles Manuscript Museum just a couple of blocks from our house. And it is all books, book arts, printing, etc. It is Nirvana for me. I love it. The show is big and draws a surprisingly large crowd for such a narrow focused theme. We get just 4 feet of a table and we are lined up back to back with little breathing room. I am inspired by the young artists who make books from clip boards and cereal boxes and old quilts. The technique is pretty rough but the creativity and spirit of them is electric. I love it.

I sat at my table and reflected how it as just one year before. I was in chemo, had cotton candy hair, was blind in one eye from retina surgery. At that show I lost the contact that I was wearing in my only good eye and it was hysterically funny and scary at the same time. How we found that lens an hour later and soaked it back to a pliable state still astounds me. I was doing the show alone and had to schlepp the boxes and displays myself and I just wasn't as strong as I thought. Some friends saw me struggling and took over, loading my car for me, making sure I was OK. This year I dashed around the big hall, folding chairs and carrying them to the front, back and forth without a thought. Last year I told myself that I would come out of all this OK, I'd be back to normal. And you know, even my hair is back to normal, as thick and wavy and unruly as ever. :)

I'm going to focus on that. On returning to life after loss. On gratitude.

And then I am gonna find that guy....

Guest Blogger

My son. He is doing a 6 week training rotation in the ICU. He was prepared for it to be emotionally challenging and the students were advised to journal about it. Having spent my share of time amongst medical professionals of all levels this past 18 months or so, I can say without motherly pride that this exactly the kind of person you want tending you at your most vulnerable moments.

I am so proud of him.

"I love you too"

I can hear these words in the back of mind as I look around the room I am about to leave. The words are soft as if whispered by a lover, but they hold no intimacy in their context. By complete chance, I heard these words spoken and saw the look that accompanied them in this very room 2 days earlier. The phrase was spoken by a man for whom it would be his last, the look of sincerity that joined them given to a son whose face would be the last he would see. I knew almost nothing about this man or his family, yet the significance of what I accidentally witnessed as we prepared to intubate him was not lost on me.

The man had come into the hospital due to increasing dyspnea. He was diagnosed with acute respiratory failure. We attempted to ventilate him with BiPAP and when it did not work we were forced to intubate him. He developed ARDS and as his oxygenation status worsened the family decided it was best not to fight the inevitable and stopped the treatments.

A noise down the hall distracts me from the almost cinematic replay in my head. The ICU area I am in isn't huge; the area I have been living in for the past three days consists of basically a "U" shape, 19 rooms, 19 people, 19 families, 19 stories.

A subtle movement draws my eye to room 3. I remember when I first met the pt in that room. A man with severe neuro defeceit after multiple CVAs. When I first looked at him on that first day, he was so obviously compromised that I never even felt a human connection with him. He wasn't there, he was a vent to me at that point, numbers on a complicated machine. His sister was there regularly, and I had always chatted briefly and warmly with her, it was obvious that she was remaining strong but struggling with it at the same time.

It was decided that he was to get a trach and on my second day we were called upon to transport him down to surgery. My preceptor and I arrived at the room a little early, my preceptor stepped out to take care of something else while we waited and soon after the nurse stepped out as well. This left the pt, his sister and me in the room alone. It wasn't uncomfortable, we made small talk, it was polite and without tension. There was music playing in the background and I commented on it as it was the first time any music was playing in the room. His sister smiled broadly and said "Oh yes, he absolutely loves music. He is a musician. He plays the mandolin".

Have you ever looked at those paintings that have the image hidden in them? I think they were called magic eyes or something similar. You stare at it for the longest time and finally something clicks and bam you see it. There is a microsecond disorientation that always happens when I finally see that image, a nano-dizziness. That same thing happened at that moment. He "is" a musician. He "plays" the mandolin. There was no past tense in her description.

In a flurry the surgical team and entourage sweeps into the room and in a flash I am handed the ambu bag and off we go down to surgery. When we arrive there is the usual delay and wait in the hallway while the surgeons and anesthesiologists get ready to take the patient over from us. I am left alone with the patient, my preceptor a couple of steps away on the phone. I look down at the patient and I can see for the first time that he is not a vent or a set of numbers but instead a man. A man with a concerned wife a few feet away from me nervously talking with the doctors. A man who was a musician, and who used to play the mandolin. It is obvious that he will never again create music from a brain that has just been ravaged by a rogue blood clot.

This man was a child once. He played with little toys, cried for no reason and felt fear from such things as the dark and the boogie man. He went to grammar school, probably played some parts in school plays that were not strong candidates for Broadway yet most likely received standing ovations a Broadway actor waits their whole career for. He went to high school, he had a first love, he met the girl of his dreams and shared a first kiss with his wife in front of family and friends. Now I am connected to this man, quite literally as I am squeezing a two dollar plastic bag so that he can continue to live, and I realize that I am playing a small part in this long production that is his life.

"Excuse me bud, " I hear from behind me, snapping me out of my recent playback. It is the cleaning team and they are trying to get into the room I was blocking the doorway to. I hastily step back with muttered apologies and watch as they quite quickly start resetting the room for the next patient.

"Are you ready?" asks John. John is the ICU nurse who was quite intimidating to me for some reason. "To extubate?"" I reply, really more of a rhetorical delay tactic than a true question. I had known that eventually I would have to do this, but I was caught alone in the hallway, my preceptor four the day two rooms down. "Do you need Jane or can you handle this?" he asks, and I can tell his expression is a little softer than normal. My doubts must have been a blazing neon sign on my forehead. "No, it's fine, I can do it." And with that, the nurse, myself, the attending Dr. Young and a resident walk into the room. I suction him one last time as family is waiting to come back and be with him in his final moments and we do not want him to be choking on secretions when they do,

I had been lucky enough to work quite a bit with Dr. Young during the past three days. He is quite an amazing man, more because of the way he balances his confidence and ego with how he treats nurses and RTs. You are never in doubt that he is in charge but you are never hesitant to voice your opinion either. We had done a few bronchus together and he had even called upon me directly to answer some questions in front of the entire medical team over my preceptor twice.

So it was with a little surprise that I watched him take a deep breath and lean with both hands on the end of the man's bed as I began to extubate. It was obvious that he was genuinely sad about the outcome of this pt. and while this makes complete sense, I still did not expect to see that vulnerability, that emotion. The extubation completed, we left the room, the family was ushered back in and we stood in the hallway watching his little piece of digital real estate on the monitors. We watched as his heart rate and respirations got slower and slower, until they were finally zero.

I started to wheel the vent back to the storage room where I would clean it and get it ready for the next patient, the next fight for life. I glanced one last time at that hall monitor that showed everyone in the unit's vitals. The room I just left was, of course, blank, but the other rooms all had numbers and graphics. 18 rooms, 18 stories. The noise level seemed to gradually increase for some unknown reason and I could see families walking in and out of rooms, I noticed a couple of people laughing and hugging. Nurses and RTs and housekeeping, X-ray techs...they all seemed to come out of nowhere yet were filling the hallways with activity as I watched, going about their days. A small smile seeps across my lips.

This was a sad day to be sure, but it was infinitely more sad for the family that was most recently in the room I just left. I realize that the time I spend in the ICU isn't about me. It is about these 18 remaining stories. 18 remaining outcomes that have yet to be decided. It is about recognizing that each room contains a person, not just a patient, and that the care given and the words spoken need to be done in consideration of this. I am just a microscopic player in this gigantic story, but it is an honor to have a part nonetheless.

Drive-by

I had to do it. My retina doctor is 2 minutes from Mom's house. So, after my appointment, I said we should drive by, see if anyone moved in yet. My brother had stopped by a month ago and it looked empty still.

So, I told Russell to drive slowly but not so slowly as to look like stalkers. Which, of course, we were. It was afternoon, but the porch lights were on. Wait. Lights? Plural? 2 new lights flanked the front door. I sniffed that it was overkill. Then I spotted the couch. It was positioned under the picture window. My folks never had furniture there. It was always a table of some sort with a lamp of some sort. One always had to have a light in the window. Now there was a couch. Maroon. Unseemly.

We were beyond the house, so I asked Russ to turn around and drive by again. Even slower this time because it appeared nobody was home.

Home. Their home, not mine.

The screened back patio looked empty, but it is Winter after all. Maybe in the Summer they will have parties there. Groaning plates of food brought out from the kitchen to the big table outside. Soft breezes through the walls of screen. Laughter. Scrabble. Coffee.

The bedrooms were closed from view with shades. Shades. Hmm. Interesting concept. Did we have shades? How can I not remember that? It felt like they were telling me to quit spying already.

By the time we got to the corner, just 3 houses away, I felt the loosening of ties. I had grown up there and now someone else's life will be tied to that place. To the groaning basement, the distant sound of a freight train in the night, the slight uphill climb on your bicycle that turns into a free ride in the wind when you go back. They belong to strangers. I hope the house welcomes them. I wonder if some little piece of my life..a scrap of a note, the back of an earring, will turn up when they sweep making them wonder where that came from.

I may never have cause to turn on to that little dead end street again. No need now. Nobody, no thing awaits,

More than ever, I feel the shift of change, of loss, of fresh starts.

Just a house, after all. Rooms, walls, floors.

Life.

good morning starshine

It is hard not to think about Whitney Houston today. It was all over the news and the grammies yesterday and today. Snippets of her singing come out of the TV and radio at all hours. People start the inevitable second guessing about what drives celebrities to self destruct, as if they all do. If, indeed she did.

I watched the news coverage of the red carpet at the Grammies last night. The chosen walk up to a area with the appropriate backdrop and photographers at the ready. They strut and stop, pose, practiced smiles that don't always reach the eyes. And the flashes are like strobe lights, like the northern lights, like lightning, like starshine, blinding. How do you not lose yourself in that white light? How can you stay real? I'm amazed that so many do.

I have groupies. Most folks that exhibit at art/craft shows have some. People who love you, love what you do, wish they could do it, want you to teach them, want to come to your studio and watch you, take your picture, yaddayadda. I only have a few, but they always show up and assume I know them as well as they know me. Sometimes I do, sometimes, I have to talk to them for a while before a memory gets jogged. I accept their praise, their affection, try to believe I deserve it but it always makes me a little uncomfortable Like I am a fraud about to be discovered, I dunno. But I digress.

After a groupie takes her leave, compliments dispersed, package in hand, I feel a little happier, a little brighter. It builds me up, makes me remember why I do this. There is a spring in my step, a sense of being in the sunlight. I am an artist. Take that all you people who walked in took a quick look and left without a word. Humph!

Now multiply that by a million, a billion, a gazillion! Add magazine covers and TV shows. Become a household word. What does that do to your head? If a sweet woman in a "hello kitty" sweatshirt can put a spring on your step, put sunshine on your face, just imagine. Incomprehensible.

Maybe drugs dim the burning sunlight just enough? Never been much for drugs, myself. I have trouble taking the ones my Doctor prescibes. But maybe?

There have been times in my life when I have envied the success, the money, the beauty , the poise, the life of others. Not any more. We all find our own sunshine in the end, our own light. I am not destined to find mine on a red carpet, in front of a backdrop with hundreds of photographers calling out my name. I'll take the little white tent, diffused sunlight through its plastic windows, the occasional, whispered, "beautiful" as someone touches a finger to one of my creations.

It is enough. I wish I had always known that it was enough.

making home

There are several reasons why I haven't blogged lately, but mostly it is because we are finally tackling the house. It is pathetically easy to let things go. You stop seeing the need for a paint job. Clutter becomes accessory. The "thing" that was going to be in the dining room for just a weekend becomes invisible. You need something to spur you on, a light needs to be lit above your head. For us, it was new appliances.

I was not about to put gleaming, new stainless into a drab, cluttered kitchen. Once you start, the job mushrooms. I see you nodding your head. So, we painted and re-organzed and cleaned and repurposed and the kitchen is lovely now. Which makes the rest of the house look like crap. So, on we go.

Of course, since this is really a blog about life as an art show artist, I must mention that this is also app season. I will skip my usual rant about why we need to apply for an August show in January. As long as they don't cash my check in January, we can all get along. Because this is also supply-ordering season and studio-cleaning season and tax paying season. I get a little protective about my modest cash supply.

Speaking of supplies, I have caved and ordered some address book text blocks from my bookbinding supply place. And diaries and wine journals. There was a time when I designed and printed my own pages for these things, taking pride in my clever wording and font choices. Nobody noticed, of course. There is a truth about this art business that takes a while to absorb. That is that some of the little things you do, things you are smug about, proud of, nobody notices. I had a knee buckling epiphany some years ago when a fellow artist who also helps run one of our best shows made the off handed comment that the jury had no clue that I made my own paper. Whoa. I had identified myself as a papermaker who used her own paper to make books and stuff. What I learned was that it was my "stuff" that was getting me into shows, not the paper. It was disappointing and a relief at the same time. It freed me to go shopping for amazing papers from all over the world. It opened up a whole new design esthetic. And it freed me from hours over the vat.

I started making photo albums using text blocks from Italy that are already spaced and made of the same quality stock I would choose. And they have glassine interleaves which would have been a real bear for me to do. That allows me to make a classic album and sell it for 25-30 bucks instead of the 50 I would have had to charge if I was laboring over the innards. Win/win. I am still making the book from "scratch". The covers, the case, the design. I get request for address books which would have been ridiculously labor intensive for me to design and print, but I'm going to give them a go with the text blocks. This will be my "new" thing for the coming season.

The studio needs a serious clean up. It always does this time of year. I close the door after the last show of the season and take a month off. When I open the door in February, the chaos is overwhelming. You can see the dash to finish, the lack of discipline. No need to put that tool/brush/paper/glue in a place where you can find it tomorrow. Tomorrow is a month away. I am paying for that now.

So, that's where I have been. My first show is next month. Actually, there are 2 small ones. Then 2 months to gear up for the "real" season.

I hope the dining room is done by then.

kicking and screaming

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

But, as usual, I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

truth

surfacing

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

And my sneakers are untied.

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

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

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

U turn

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

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

Did I mention that I am still cancer free?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feels good to be back in the race.

Dottie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christkindl revisited

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

So...here is our Christkindle spot before:



and after:



It all fits into an Odyssey van.

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



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




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



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

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



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




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





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

If only for a weekend.

ho, ho, whoa!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rewriting the cliché

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

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

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

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

Laughing over spilt milk.

the art of economy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

painless

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

Yes, I'm digressing again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Marmalade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rooms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

quietly there

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elmwood Avenue Festival and missing Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can dream.