four rooms

gone fishin'

2012-01-13T21:15:00.002-05:00

closing my four rooms for a bit

could be for the winter

(while I travel to tropical locales on the wings of my imagination)

or maybe I'll open back up at quarter-to-one tomorrow

or the next day

or Friday three weeks hence

hard to know for sure

but I'm definitely not going fishing

i'll be at my other places (see sidebar).

until then ...

walking

2012-01-05T16:35:00.001-05:00

Last year, my goal was doing. Not striving, frenzied, accomplishment-driven doing, but mindfully working at those creative things important to me. Doing and not just thinking or talking about doing and not getting distracted by activities that feel like doing but are sometimes just exercises in avoiding the uncomfortableness of sitting alone in a room with a blank something - piece of paper, canvas - and trying to fill it up with something from inside.

The schedule I had at the beginning of the year was a faint memory by the end of it and one of the hardest things to reconcile myself to (I'm still not there, actually, and might never be). But while I hate getting home when it's dark, and while I struggle with all the time I'm forced to spend when I actually get home prepping for my next work day (because I work far away from home and have to be pretty organized), despite all that, maybe even because of it, I managed to plug away, a word here, a stroke of paint there, and stay true to my intention of doing.

There is something about a condensed window of time that distills creative energy and burns off hesitancy and doubt - there just isn't any time to indulge in that. Working in this way, I cultivated a contentedness with incremental progress instead of throwing up my hands in despair because I didn't write complete poems or paint paintings in giant, gulpy, swept-away sessions. In fact, I didn't finish very much of anything. And I'm ok with that too because for me the doing is the thing. The only thing. Anything after the doing, after the finishing, is something else entirely.

The important thing is taking one step forward, followed by another and another, and - will you at look at that - we're walking!

Two resources that help me tremendously in this endeavor of doing:

Do the Work by Steven Pressfield (I about fell off my chair when this appeared on my amazon recommendations early in the year - that "Do" in the title seemed planted there just for me). And by the way this one's free to read on a kindle.

and

The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life by Ann Patchett, a long essay about her experience as a novelist but appropriate for all creatives and can be had for the princely sum of $2.99 (again for a kindle).

well, hello there!

2012-01-03T15:59:00.003-05:00

cover girl (spotted at the bookstore over the weekend)

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inside

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wheeee!

Art Journaling Magazine

Winter 2012

happy new year

2011-12-30T14:54:00.000-05:00

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I love reading blog posts this time of year. I love how so many are moved to sum up the year that's ending and throw their hopes forward to the year that's beginning. I'm pretty sure there's magic in that kind of reflective collective.

For me, 2011 was a year with hard edges and sharp corners, but it was also a year where if I didn't exactly get what I wanted, I got plenty of what I needed. And too, just as the year was winding down, it offered up a soft place to land and for that I am thankful.

I lost my voice here this year, and getting it back is slow work, but worthwhile, and I'm determined.

Happy New Year!

Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T13:59:00.000-05:00

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From last year, and again this year, for you:

This Christmas Eve:

May you draw close - in proximity, in memory, and in spirit -

to those you cherish.

May you experience a little of that wonder particular to children on Christmas Eve, that keen awareness that impossibly amazing things
- ridiculous, magical things -
transpire in the slice of time between going to bed and waking.

May you hear angels sing.

Merry Christmas!

unintended ...

2011-12-20T22:31:00.001-05:00

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... self portrait.

twelve

2011-12-19T09:49:00.000-05:00

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Twelve favorite photos and art pieces (of mine) for 2011.

Some I love because I know the behind-the-scenes effort that went in to setting up a shot (the jars, the popsicle, the ballerina); the converse is also true for I love others for their randomness (the bucket of flowers), and some I love because of what inspired the capture or the work (books, random snippets of thought, the weather, color, place, or technique).

The artwork includes a lot of drawing and that makes me happy, and the painting too, which in the last quarter of the year I've become even more smitten with ... more carried and swept away by ... though funnily enough I need to learn how to photograph my efforts as the work has grown bigger in size.

If I was asked to choose a favorite, it would be the jars, oh yes, because the vision arrived wholly formed and unbidden and it took some time to arrange, but the vision was realized completely and this happens so rarely in my creativity (and often frustrates me) so this was a delightful result. That it hit flickr's explore and other people enjoyed the photo sweetened the whole process.

I wonder what photos I'll take in 2012. Can't wait to find out.

blue and orange

2011-12-14T20:10:00.002-05:00

A lot of blue and orange around these parts.

Blue and orange, complements on the color wheel.

Orange and blue, like peanut butter and chocolate, a duo that never gets old.

Soon there will be red and green in this house of ours, and non-blinking lights wrapped around a tree, and two whole weeks off after a summer and fall filled with far too much duty and obligation and schedules, two weeks off to breathe, reflect, to recalibrate and reconnect.

Soon can't get here soon enough (though actually, soon will be here Friday at 5:01 p.m.)

an almost-week off in sort-of review

2011-11-29T21:34:00.001-05:00

6:00 a.m. Black Friday, Mr. P at the wheel, Ella on the stereo jingle belling all the way, and me, in the passenger seat taking shaky photos of the sunrise over the bridge, on our way to the art supply store for 40% off an aspiration measuring precisely 48"w x 72"h (a canvas so tall if it had shoulders I could rest my head on it, so wide I'd have to be elasti-woman to wrap my arms around it).

Traffic was light, the parking lot empty save a crew of little black birds practicing barrel rolls in the sky above us and a couple of kids standing outside the indie music shop. No crowds, no pepper-spraying, just a few artists trying to save a little on the raw materials of their particular art. Too bad the goodwill and good cheer never make the Black Friday headlines on the news.

"Hard Rain": Work in progress, acrylic paint on canvas paper.

And then there is Gus. Not much needed to explain here.
(Pic courtesy of Mr. P).

It was a wonderful almost-week off. The weather was lovely, lots of college football to revel in, dreamt (literally) the design for an atc swap I'm involved in on facebook and translated it directly in my journal, combined leftover apple pie filling with my oatmeal (which I personally think should get some kind of award for Most Creative Use of Leftover Thanksgiving Meal), received bits of encouragement from various and unexpected quarters, ate a lot of sashimi, and just generally enjoyed puttering around at home. I work about an hour away from home and even though I enjoy my work, I'm always pining for home. Home is where my heart is. Maybe one day my work will be there too.

monday is an orange day

2011-11-21T14:47:00.000-05:00

Trying to make my own Snapz. (I think I could slice apples on the mandoline all day long. Something so satisfying about the even slices).

Big orange cat, contemplating.

Double exposure-ish.

what I know for sure, Sunday, November 20th at 9:12 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

2011-11-20T21:12:00.001-05:00

As much as I like the narrative here at four rooms to unfold logically, one slate stepping stone of thought and event leading to another and another, paving a chronology that makes sense no matter where in the thicket you happen to meet it, it hasn't been like that lately.

I'm happiest here (even when things get introspective) when I'm in a relaxed, dreamy state of heart that, while not elusive, has channeled itself into other activities of late.

It's hard to fill in the gaps as time away from the blog widens and there is a kind of pressure to explain and I wonder again if maybe I've reached the end of my blogging journey, and maybe I will, soon, but not yet. I have to remind myself there is no hurry, no necessity to decide anything, it is only a blog after all (and yet, I know some of you will completely understand this).

This is familiar territory. And like before (and like again, as I'm sure there will be an again) I trust that those who want to be here will tolerate my chipped and crooked path.

Here's what I know for sure at this moment: a single 3 1/2 pound Siamese kitten named Gus, in combination with a scrunched up piece of notebook paper, can entertain two forty-year-old adults and one 16 pound orange cat named Harvey for more time than I really care to cop to here. As entertainment value, it's cheaper than cable, and cuter. By far.

There! The pressure lifts and here we are blogging again. Just like that.

i choose

2011-11-15T10:10:00.000-05:00

"Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be."
(Abraham Lincoln)

Open.

Art journal page spread: acrylic paint, gel medium, penil, collage

Oscar the Red Panda at The Virginia Zoo (Norfolk) who not only looks happy, but makes me giddily so.

P.S. My blog is happy too - it has a new banner.

herb & dorothy

2011-10-27T20:14:00.001-04:00

“Some people are born to make great art and others are born to appreciate it. . . . It's a kind of talent in itself, to be an audience, whether you are a spectator in the gallery or you are listening to the voice of the world's greatest soprano. ... There have to be those who witness the art, who love and appreciate what they have been privileged to see.” (Ann Patchett, Bel Canto)

Herb & Dorothy, a documentary about art collectors Herb and Dorothy Vogel (a postman and librarian, respectively) shows how far your good eye and passion can take you.

And it made me smile.

It will make you smile too.

I promise.

Trailer:

Amazon prime members can stream this for free. It's available at all the usual places.

I didn't realize

2011-10-14T21:08:00.001-04:00

acrylic paint, colored pencil, charcoal, collage, mixed media in journal/sketchbook

reminder

2011-09-29T23:07:00.003-04:00

Mixed media (acrylic paint, colored pencil, graphite, oil pastel, charcoal, fine tipped pen and matte medium on white-pages-directory paper).

weirdly wonderful

2011-09-22T23:06:00.002-04:00

"The clown-faced peacock

Dragging sixty suns ..."

(Flannery O'Connor, The Peacock Roosts, 1953)

Lately it's been:

same-old-same-olds where something new would be oh-so-welcome;

silence (the kind with crickets) where even a faint echo could go a long way to encourage;

being talked at instead of being conversed with or listened to;

unnecessary, whipped-up drama where peace would accomplish more;

machines making things more difficult instead of the ease they promise;

indifference where engagement could work a sort-of magic (or at least couldn't hurt).

Solutions to these things aren't easy and may never be resolved, they can only be accepted and dealt with as best one can. One (this one) can only try not to get dragged into the undertow.

Even though I'm discouraged, I've always thought it my great good fortune to posses the ability to find consolation, joy, in seemingly small things.

And so the other day I got a surprise when one of my new co-workers brought me a bouquet of peacock feathers from her pet peacock. If you don't already know, I have a particular fascination with and affinity for peacocks so this was a small "b", small "d", big deal!

Some of the feathers are almost 4' long and the colors are dazzling, not just the halos, but also the fronds that glow iridescent purple; for something so large they are soft as a baby's eyelashes. It's astonishing that something so intricate grows out of the backside of a bird. And the whole scenario - meeting someone who owns a peacock, the feathers - is just so weirdly wonderful!

I can stay afloat on "weirdly wonderful" for quite a while.

paint

2011-09-19T19:01:00.001-04:00

In fall, this gal's fancy turns to paint.

acrylics and graphite on newsprint

center of circulation

2011-08-26T11:34:00.000-04:00

The week began with an earthquake and will close with a hurricane. An earthquake and a hurricane in the same week? Well, it's a bit surreal isn't it?

Today at at Lowe's (where we went to procure a tarp in case, you know, our roof breaks open, or a window blows out) as people stripped the shelves of D batteries and waited for the Lowe's folks to unload the latest shipment of Styrofoam coolers, they were still talking about Tuesday's earthquake. This week at least, anyone you meet, you instantly share these twin experiences and it brings people together somehow. And hokey to say, perhaps, but it's nice.

We are as ready as can be for Irene. The frustrating thing about hurricanes and I've been through my fair share (three years in South Florida will do that for a girl), is the waiting and not knowing. It's like getting ready for a house guest you don't particularly want to entertain; a mercurial, blustery house guest who might be sweet as a slice of coconut cake, or nasty and throwing tantrums. You try to prepare for every possible thing, not knowing if it's too much or not enough. You don't really know how it's going to be until they arrive.

And so it goes.

The journal page above is an oldie-but-goodie from 2008, created during Tropical Storm Hanna. Mr. P was away and the storm wasn't so bad, but the weather people kept droning on about "the center of circulation" and that phrase ended up in the spread. The found text reads "This was so unlike her/so entirely different/from any conduct previously noticed/she alone knew why."

Mr. P, Harvey, and I have battened down the hatches, here in Virginia. Sending good wishes to my friends in Irene's path. May you all stay safe, sound, and not be too long without the comforts of routine and electricity.

♥

in which we don't take ourselves too seriously

2011-08-22T16:22:00.001-04:00

india ink, acrylic paint, colored and watercolor pencils, lead pencil on watercolor paper

i hope you dance

2011-08-18T10:15:00.000-04:00

sometimes I forget to

cup

2011-08-11T09:36:00.000-04:00

charlie's tomatoes

2011-08-10T13:59:00.000-04:00

Perks from my job: tomatoes from Charlie's garden (Charlie is my boss's dad).

mixed media

2011-08-04T18:06:00.000-04:00

mixed media: a beautiful piece of handmade paper, wood blinds, a generally-east facing window and a camera.

essentials

2011-08-03T15:58:00.001-04:00

Couldn't (wouldn't!) work without 'em.

go west

2011-08-02T18:47:00.002-04:00

tuesday and friday mornings, I go west.

pretty glass

2011-08-01T08:53:00.001-04:00

And so begins The August Break 2011.

Screening in August: Summer Under the Stars 2011.

#23

2011-07-28T13:11:00.000-04:00

#23

the cicadas

shake their tambourines and

make music in the trees

a river of stones

***

(And with 23 out of a possible 31, that's a wrap!)

#22

2011-07-23T16:29:00.001-04:00

#22

On the hottest day all year we still can't resist the hot rolls (from someone else's oven), gathered together in a fake basket lined with waxed paper spotted with butter. We pull the rolls apart with our hands, stretch the strands of flour, salt, and yeast and release steam that smells faintly of beer. We bring the pieces to our mouths and close our eyes.

a river of stones

#21 and a little something else

2011-07-21T19:05:00.002-04:00

#21

who knew there were so many varieties of bottled water

in all the colors there ever were,

an entire wall of them in the wine and beer cooler at the grocery store

and I looked at each of them

for an excuse to linger in the shelter of cold

just a little longer.

***

Day #21 of the river of stones and, as these sorts of things usually go for me, I'm learning a lot.

I read about Fiona Robyn's concept of "stones" in Sage Cohen's book Writing the Life Poetic: An Invitation to Read and Write Poetry and it's a way of seeing, processing, I can appreciate.

I set my own "rules" for the exercise: to really look at the ordinary things that exist around me (not just the fantastical or unusual), to describe them concretely (not write solely through the prism of emotion or feeling which is my default), and avoid the cliche (whoa - so so so so hard). I know it goes against a lot of our Oprah-inspired culture to admit to or applaud limits or rules, but I do. Oh yes, I do.

I've recently spent time undergoing physical therapy for my knees and as I'm trying to walk with my ankles wrapped in a stretchy band or encased in weights, or doing "the plank", or walking sideways on the treadmill, I can feel the work I'm doing - burn baby burn - and it's not pretty or graceful but it is movement, it is effort, it is good, and it is those things precisely because of the limitations and pressures put on bone and muscle, and I see a similar concept at work with my stones. They lumber and bumble along, but all in the service of commitment and (eventual) refinement. As with creaky knees, so with creaky prose (or creaky art).

The most challenging part of the river of stones is sharing them publicly and this speaks to the conundrum I've experienced with my artistic path in the last year. I don't wish to create in a vacuum, yet, I want to keep some of my efforts to myself, for myself. I haven't been able to calibrate my comfort level or figure out what goes where. Julia Cameron addresses this in one of her Artist's Way books, but I want to noodle it through on my own, reach my own conclusions, find my own way.

Just as I count down the reps I'm required to complete each physical therapy session, so I count down my stones (10 more to go!), knowing each one gathers strength.

the august break ...

2011-07-21T14:55:00.000-04:00

... returns for 2011.

Whee!

#20

2011-07-20T19:29:00.001-04:00

#20

The kid on the corner who's always lifting weights in the garage

or shooting hoops in the driveway,

today dressed in navy blue trimmed in braided yellow cord

the big brass shell of a tuba heaved against his shoulder,

marching in a parade of his own making.

a river of stones

#19

2011-07-20T15:08:00.000-04:00

#19

The dragonfly trapped in the garage

smacks repeatedly into the window covered with privacy film

insistent on following the false light

even though the garage door

is open wide to the world.

a river of stones

#18

2011-07-20T15:06:00.000-04:00

#18

With an ice pack folded over my knees,

I watch the girl next to me

pinch her toes around a glass marble

and drop it into a ceramic coffee cup

on the floor.

She does this over and over

with one marble after another

plink plink plink.

The hard work of

mending what's broken.

a river of stones

#17

2011-07-18T15:07:00.003-04:00

#17

they were the kind of fingernails you see in the Guinness Book

not even fingernails anymore

but long, narrow tusks,

gnarly, knotty roots

growing from the ends of her hands,

but painted pretty-like.

as it so often does, observing sparked questions I longed to ask:

why do you grow your fingernails this way?

how long did it take to grow them?

does it hurt?

how do you wash your hair,
hold a kleenex to blow your nose,
peel an orange,
type?

how often do you paint them? how long does it take?

how do you hold that little nail polish brush?

what do your kids think, your husband, your boss?

will you ever cut them? how would you cut them?

but I didn't ask.

mostly, I tried not to stare.

a river of stones

#16

2011-07-16T23:40:00.000-04:00

#16

russet moon

a river of stones

#15

2011-07-16T10:51:00.000-04:00

#15

my new mascara

smells like tar poured over a rooftop

on the hottest day in Las Vegas.

a river of stones

#14

2011-07-16T07:45:00.000-04:00

#14

in a plum-smeared sky

wispy fingers of cloud

strum the yellow moon

a river of stones

#13

2011-07-13T10:09:00.000-04:00

#13

I pull the comb through the part in my hair

and see more strands of silver

than yesterday

and wonder why tinsel only looks pretty

woven through the branches of Christmas trees.

a river of stones

#11 and #12

2011-07-12T22:13:00.002-04:00

#11

the tar drizzled on the highway to fill the cracks

looks like Farsi

#12

the rain-speckled sidewalk

reminds me of the pattern on quail eggs

a river of stones

#10

2011-07-12T19:40:00.000-04:00

#10

Last night we went to get ice cream
and found a dragonfly on the hood of our truck,
glassine wings and iridescent body so very still.

I imagine he was tired

and wanted an easy landing.

I imagine he decided to hitchhike to his next destination,

let something (or someone) else set his course.

I imagine he sighed and closed his eyes for just a quick minute,

a quick minute that stretched as taut as it could go.

a river of stones

#9

2011-07-12T10:01:00.000-04:00

Crowds of black-eyed susans

lined up alongside Rt. 58

standing straight as sticks,

so earnest in their waving

at the cars racing by.

a river of stones

#8

2011-07-08T21:25:00.000-04:00

On the shelves at Trader Joe's

the bottles of Pinot Grigio

glow

pale green light

distilled from stars.

a river of stones

#7

2011-07-07T18:09:00.000-04:00

In a room full of crutches and canes,

walkers, casts, and wheelchairs,

I'm a rock star.

I can walk and jump.

I can skip if I want to.

(And I do, oh yes, I do).

river of stones

#6

2011-07-07T18:05:00.001-04:00

Big orange cat

sunbathes on the carpet

in the lone rectangle of light.

river of stones

#5

2011-07-05T23:16:00.000-04:00

Five years

the same commute

over the same highway

through the same small towns

passing by the same cotton and corn fields

same

and one day

this day

a turkey poking around on the side of the road

and last week, actually,

a small bear walking the railroad tracks,

both of which,

come to think of it,

completely turned same on its head.

river of stones

#4

2011-07-04T20:34:00.000-04:00

the others have floated to the ground

on the easy white parachutes of their blossoms.

the last magnolia hangs on,

its creamy petals turning to toast,

willing to open itself to the sun

and burn.

a river of stones

#3

2011-07-03T22:40:00.000-04:00

She bypasses the deck furniture for the railing

and perches,

back to the wall,
legs and arms folded in,
head bowed down,
hands clutching phone,

a teenaged gargoyle,

texting.

river of stones

#2

2011-07-02T17:22:00.000-04:00

the sunwashed-blue sheet is the sea,

the bunched-up duvet the foamy crests of wave,

the bed my boat to sail a nap upon,

Saturday afternoon

river of stones

stone #1

2011-07-01T17:28:00.001-04:00

one small stone a day, each day in July.

~~I think~~ I can do that.

river of stones

shrimp: pale pink apostrophes arranged on the plate

in which we cede the floor to Mr. James

2011-06-27T21:10:00.002-04:00

"We work in the dark - we do what we can, we give what we have.

Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task.

The rest is the madness of art."

(Henry James, The Middle Years)

My own words are sludge right now and Henry James has many wise things to say and besides he wrote the story Washington Square and the story begat the play (retitled as The Heiress) which begat the 1949 movie starring Olivia de Havilland and Montgomery Clift, and which is a particular Particular Favorite of mine, so I'm cheating and leaving the meat of this blog post to him today.

Thank you, Mr. James, and I quite agree, that stuff about passion being our task. Oh yes, indeed.

P.S. It being summer and all, there is swimming to be done. See you July 1st!

dream catcher

2011-06-09T08:34:00.000-04:00

and now it is june

2011-06-02T20:22:00.004-04:00

And now it is June, and the hot weather is glorious. Two cold, dark winters in a row have made me a summer convert. I can't get enough sun warmth, sun light. At high noon you'll often find me on the back deck, sans sunscreen (gasp!), red umbrella down, soaking in it for ten or fifteen minutes. I've got quite the farmers tan going. The concentrated Vitamin D is doing wonders for my skin, my sleep, even my mood.

And now it is June and the official word has been handed down and the hum of anxiety continues, not louder or shriller, just contstant, like that ringing thing people get in their ears that won't go away - tinnitus - and they have to turn up the TV really loud to drown it out - distract it - and that's what I try to do. I breathe and read, and bake, and watch old movies and yap on facebook, and go to work at my same favorite part time job, and tickle Harvey's toes, and it goes away for a time. I try to be positive, because that's what everyone else wants, but avoiding the subject and projecting a hope that only occasionally matches my feelings is its own kind of work.

And now it is June and there are possibilities on the horizon, but I'm afraid to look. Two weeks ago, Mr. P's job track offered up the very real scenario that we would pack up our house and be back in San Diego (after nine years away) by the end of this summer. It was a dizzying prospect, a long held dream, and I completely failed at being nonchalant. And as suddenly as it appeared on the horizon, it blinked out. Poof. Gone.

Little things save me.

A new book of exquisite poetry.

Finding a decent-priced and hard-to-find-new DVD copy of Alice Adams, one of my very favorite Katharine Hepburn movies.

A play date with an artist friend this weekend.

Gobbling up blackberries and greek yogurt with honey Jackson-Pollock-ed all over the top.

And now it is June and there are hydrangeas. Mine are blooming, burning neon-blue in the morning, then wilting, faded pom-poms in the heat of the day. It's sort of amazing how they recover so quickly. Surely there is a lesson there, about bouyancy, resilience. These hydrangeas though, are not mine, but from the Norfolk Botanical Gardens, a whole forest of them. They remind me of bathing caps of the sort Esther Williams might wear, with a sweet little pearl button in the middle of each petal. I can picture Esther lifting that one in the center of the photo off its hat-stand-stem, slipping it over her head and tucking in her stray hair while she sashays to the end of the diving board, curves into a sparkling Hollywood pool, and resurfaces a few seconds later, her pretty hydrangea bathing cap glistening to match her smile.

And now it is June and also Thursday, and my husband is at college and blogging is one of those little things that makes me glad.

pop goes my heart

2011-05-24T13:17:00.000-04:00

reboot

2011-05-23T16:10:00.001-04:00

(WIP journal page, pencil, acrylic, Inktense pencils on hot press watercolor paper)

The truth is blogging has been a bit tricky of late. Putting myself out there for employment purposes forced me to consider how much I can reveal here ... not that I'm sharing anything scandalous or eye-raising, just that not everyone understands what personal blogs are all about ... I kept picturing a potential employer googling me and arriving here and scratching their heads at all of this. For the last couple of months, I weighed practically every word I wrote, wondering how this or that word could be taken out of context, until I ended up with no words at all.

The truth is though I like to share the art journal and the visual stuff, without the writing and reflecting, blogging loses most of its shine for me. I started walking away from it, but didn't get too far down that road before turning back and running home to my four rooms.

So I'm posting this, a reboot if you will, wishing it were more eloquent, but posting it even though it's not, hoping to grease the wheels and get this blog back in motion. Mixed metaphors and all.

* * *

Inspiring me:

The Many Flavors of Blogging (Susannah Conway)

Hanna's feeling Bodacious (and sponsoring a giveaway)

Marie's Voir En Rose

Life Lessons From Being Erica (Marti's Musings)

Art journal pages from Karenann Young

How life changes necessarily inform blog changes (everything feeds process)

a new song at emma tree

student

2011-05-04T17:19:00.000-04:00

My (unfinished) class work. Bottom right, Reno demonstrating his process for class.

Monday found me at Art & Soul just up the road in Hampton, where I spent the day in Jesse Reno's Freedom to Create class.

I always find it interesting to talk with other artists about their class experiences and compare our different ways of learning. Me? Unless there are a lot of guided exercises (for example, in classes I've taken in the past with Carla Sonheim and Juliana Coles), I can sit still for about four hours before I get antsy ... after that, I'm ready to take what I've learned and go home and see what I can do with it. I guess you could say I'm a "big picture" sort of learner - give me the jist and let me skip off to my corner of the playground to apply and adapt it on my own.

I also truly enjoy watching other artists work (open studios are a favorite of mine). This is how it was in Jesse Reno's class. His energy - wowza! - was off the charts! His process is tactile and kinetic, involving a lot of painting with hands. By the time I left class I had paint on my elbows, my hands, and - didn't realize until I got home - my nose!

rearranged

2011-04-26T14:31:00.005-04:00

(pencil, china marker, acrylic paint, collage, tissue paper, on hot press watercolor paper, in my journal)

pocket

2011-04-14T09:34:00.000-04:00

National Poem in Your Pocket Day.

Today, my blog is my pocket.

The poem I chose is from Ted Kooser's collection, Valentines. This volume of poetry contains poems Kooser wrote (and mailed on postcards), one each for more than 20 years, for a group of women on Valentine's Day (in 2007 the mailing list was at 2,600!)

I love the project, the commitment, and - of course - the poems. Here's a favorite:

Skater
She was all in black but for a yellow pony tail
that trailed from her cap, and bright blue gloves
that she held out wide, the feathery fingers spread,
as surely she stepped, click-clack, onto the frozen
top of the world. And there, with a clatter of blades,
she began to braid a loose path that broadened
into a meadow of curls. Across the ice she swooped
and then turned back and, halfway, bent her legs
and leapt into the air the way a crane leaps, blue gloves
lifting her lightly, and turned a snappy half-turn
there in the wind before coming down, arms wide,
skating backward right out of that moment, smiling back
at the woman she'd been just an instant before.

give me a museum

2011-04-12T20:49:00.001-04:00

Saturday we went to Richmond to see the Picasso exhibit at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. It's one of those rare opportunities to see something artful, historic, and interesting, even though Picasso doesn't immediately come to mind when I think about art that stirs my heart (up to this point my only encounter with Picasso was Art History class a million years ago, where we intensely studied his Guernica painting but not much else).

The museum is simply beautiful, even on a grey, cold, cloudy day. You never have the feeling of being stuffed into a box as there are lovely views of the outdoors on each level and lots of air and space inside.

The exhibit itself was so crowded (I overhead a lady at the gift shop say it was completely sold out) that at one point the way-more-than-maxiumum-occupancy-of-55 of us were cramped in a narrow hallway and a policeman came through to move the line along. As someone who enjoys wandering around an exhibit, taking my time, contemplating, this wasn't quite that; trying to absorb the art without elbowing someone or stepping on toes was challenging.

What I took away from the exhibit was the sheer volume of Picasso's work. He made a lot of art and worked in a variety of mediums: paint, collage, assemblage, sculpture, photography, printmaking. I was particularly smitten with his earlier paintings which had a delicious mix of paint and line and are more realistic in nature than some of the work he is most known for.

I have a feeling he never sat around wringing his hands about Art, he just did it. ("Give me a musem and I'll fill it", he said).

And so he did.

I'm glad we got to see it.

And a quick shift, a couple of journal pages:

(it's all a long time gone but I only realized it today)

(the dream I didn't know to dream)

poems

2011-04-06T22:13:00.001-04:00

Photo note: In Norfolk (on Granby Street, I think) is a parking garage with a stenciled message on each and every parking space. This is one of those random unexpected things that makes my heart flip flop and turn over, even the misspelling has particular charm.

It's National Poetry Month and I've been flush with poems for the last week.

I used to scribble poems in school when I was supposed to be learning more obviously practical things like math and chemistry and, oh, French. I wrote rhyming poems about what I thought love was, about slitting my wrists (not that I actually entertained the notion myself, but because that's what I thought poems were supposed to be about). So love poems and suicide poems and poems about dreams, all filled with sticky sentimentality and what I perceived as suffering. I still have those poems, each one typewritten (you know, with an actual typewriter), the pages decorated with doodled flowers, the whole lot of them held together with a staple on the diagonal in the corner. They are awful and I find no redeeming qualities in them now except in remembering how I much I loved the writing of them.

I like poetry all the time, but there is something about an entire month devoted to the art and appreciation of it that makes me happy. Poetry, for me, is like a magnifying glass, inviting us to look closely at a moment, a memory, something rendered in words that paints a picture that makes us see things in a different, a more vivid and concentrated way (kind of how Georgia O'Keefe paintings make us really see flowers). Reading a poem, collecting and revisiting favorites is particular joy of mine. I savor poems like a hard candy in the mouth, lolling them around, letting the sweetness of their rhythm, language, or insights wash over me. They are good for the heart, good for the soul.

Some poems, poets, and resources I love (with more to share throughout the month, this is just to get you poking around if you are so inclined):

Jessica Fox-Wilson (poet and artist)

The Haiku Apprentice: Memoirs of Writing Poetry in Japan by Abigail Friedman (book)

Poem in Your Pocket (April 14th, I'll be posting here and carrying one in my pocket - what about you? If you plan to post a poem please do leave a link to your blog in the comments so we can check it out)

After Years by Ted Kooser (this poem slays me - makes me say "Yes! Oh my goodness, yes! That's exactly how seeing an old flame feels, yes exactly! How did you know?") I count many of Kooser's poems among my favorites.

I have a particular affinity for poems involving produce including one involving an artichoke, one involving an onion, one involving celery (scroll down the page to see), and one involving a plum.

As our lovely library often does, today they offered a poetry workshop conducted by an MFA and one of her prompts asked us to write haiku about the library. Here are mine unedited:

The Library

In a brick building

the whole world lined up in rows

Oh! The Library.

Library Card

A piece of plastic

imprinted with a barcode

becomes a key.

First Heartbreak

It is the first place

I learned that hearts shatter

Velveteen Rabbit.

We are still knee deep in floor and Saturday we are headed to Richmond for a date with Picasso, and there are art journal pages to upload and share, and (goodness knows) taxes to deal with, but time is pressed. Soon, soon, soon!

we are here

2011-04-03T11:32:00.000-04:00

busy as a bee, which I never am

2011-03-22T17:53:00.003-04:00

I know better than to make sweeping pronouncements (or maybe, hmmm, I just need to pronounce different things sweepily). Either way, though much journaling was done on my very long weekend, creative time competed with sunshine to bask in and books to read and errands to run and (goodness knows) laundry to do, and so not much was completed, but that's the way I roll with journaling anyway (I'd forgotten).

I rarely sit down and finish pages in one session. I flip back and forth from this page to that, adding, subtracting, responding, and set it all aside, usually to dry, and come back another time to add, subtract, and respond some more, until it's what I consider finished.

A few unfinished pages from the new journal.

The cover:

My journal is often a private refuge for my snarky side. This one is for all the times I wrap my inner snark in duct tape on Facebook or other social media and prevent her from saying things she might regret. Thus, Facebook Posts I'll Never Make. I won't be able to show the finished page because, well, then I could just post the entries on Facebook and the title wouldn't make any sense.

Ah yes, well, forgive me, I inadverdently drew one of those broken-necked figures. I long to include my own drawings in my journal pages, and I do love plugging away at portraits and faces. I'm always going for a certain expression rather than something hyper-realistic and this one does that for me.

I'll post the pages here or at flickr as they are completed. In the meantime, Mr. P and I are in the midst of a huge DIY home project so blogging will be light. I'd rather spend time with paintbrush and paper, but a bucket full of mortar and a trowel await. Eeep.

in which we return to the art journal

2011-03-16T14:18:00.001-04:00

(Journal Page: The Perils of the Overly Sensitive, Chapter 1. Mixed media/collage, 7 1/2" x10")

Yesterday, while waiting for paint to dry, I went on a total art journaling tear.

I haven't done that in, I don't know how long, but it was fun. And it felt good. Really good.

The journal itself is handmade using an adaptation of the Teesha Moore method, the same method I've used for my last two journals. I used two signatures of 7 pages each (folded in half). This provides plenty of pages to work with and will keep me busy and entertained for a very long while. The best part of making a handmade journal is using the paper I prefer. Store bought journals usually have flimsy, limp pages, that wilt at the first drop of water or liquid - bleh - not for me.

I'm working the same way I always have except that I'm treating each page individually instead of journaling over a spread (although if that happens, that's perfectly cool). This is just my way of mixing it up a bit.

Today was my "Friday" at work, and my weekend lasts until next Tuesday. In between now and then, the red umbrella and deck chairs will be removed from the garage so as to better enjoy the 78 degrees expected on Friday, the keyboard will burn from the blogging I'll be doing (maybe, ahem), the ipod will be cranked up, and the paint and matte medium will be flowing. Oh yeah! Let's do this!

work in progress

2011-03-15T10:43:00.001-04:00

A new work in progress, a riff on this piece I did a few years ago.

I'm working larger, much larger, than I ever have which is a mental challenge - so much space to fill! Working with paint almost exclusively, is a much s-l-o-w-e-r process than collage ... I started this about a month ago, work at it in little chunks of time, and I don't really know when it will be finished, only that it isn't finished here.

I'm photographing the evolution of the piece, but the new creative learning curve I'm traveling involves learning how to photograph larger works: works that don't fit on my scanner, works that lean against an easel.

There is much to learn, but for me, the learning is the thing after all.

the day before the ides of march

2011-03-14T13:57:00.004-04:00

I've always thought of February as pink and red, edged in lace, and sugar coated. February always smelled like roses and the inside of empty cardboard shoe boxes waiting for Valentines. More recent Februaries have been cold, and this year so very dark, and filled with hearts, yes, but so many heavy ones.

I spent a good amount of time in February trying to keep warm, wrapped in a blanket reading Volume III of C.S. Lewis's letters and it was total escapism... to the 1950s, to Cambridge and Oxford, and Narnia, to a world of letters and curls of pipe smoke, and the life of bachelor brothers in England and Ireland. I drink up the little details (more than the scholarly ones, I'm afraid): the profuse thanks for the canned hams and stationery people sent them through the post (the rations from WWII continuing well into the middle 50s), the bits about the weather, the letters he wrote to children who wrote him with earnest questions about Narnia, and then suddenly, towards the end of his life, a woman appears, and [her] children to boot - the wonder of it! Professor Lewis and his correspondents were the perfect companions for the month.

Now it is March, and the sun has returned and the daffodils are pushing up their periscopes, and we've received a reprieve from this, but there is still anxiousness and worry over what happens at the next juncture in the process (sometime in the fall).

In some ways I wonder if this is the catalyst for something. I've been away from home for nine years this November, and I'm ready to go back now. The plan was never to be here for the rest of our lives and I've got a bit of the gypsy in me. I've moved - roughly - every eight years, my entire life. Even if circumstance lets me stay in one place, I'm wired to move.

But you build a life in a place, and packing up and moving is inconvenient and a hassle, especially from one coast to another, and Mr. P isn't particularly wired the same as me, and so maybe it takes some kind of catalyst, some kind of cosmic kick-in-the-ass to light the fire and set things in motion?

I don't know. Maybe it's wishful or magical thinking on my part. But I do know that running parallel to the worry is a tickle of excitement about what the layoff might make possible. Oh yes.

alice

2011-03-09T13:16:00.001-05:00

MCP Project 52: Week 10
Childhood Toys

My MCP Project 52 set on flickr.

scenes from an art journal II

2011-02-19T20:22:00.001-05:00

Although my passion for art journaling cooled a bit this year, I did continue to plug away at it.

In the past I've used separate books for "sketching" and "art journaling". For reasons of economy (cost and a desire to use what I already have) I gradually merged the two formats into one container, a way of working I will continue in the next journal. And there will be a next journal, and another, and one after that too.

Taking time away from journaling, and more specifically and truthfully, the crazy mad hoopla around art journaling these days, made me dig around a little bit to understand and appreciate my own approach and what the end result means for me, for my heart. Putting a cushion - of learning photography, of writing - between journal work, provided clarity, which is always nice.

In the last month, I've been particularly inspired by Kelly's art journal and spirited and engaging discussions and Aimee's way of making her journal work for her. Both really rekindled the flame of my art journaling fire.

Not sure if this is my seventh or eighth journal. Clearly the time has come for a more organized way of cataloging my journals which excites me very much.

scenes from an art journal I

Valentine

2011-02-14T16:19:00.002-05:00

Granby Street parking garage, Norfolk, Virginia.

sonnets

2011-02-10T08:09:00.001-05:00

MCP Project 52: Week 6
Word

My Project 52 set on flickr.

winterlude II

2011-02-05T20:29:00.000-05:00

(Photo credits).

Winter ain't my bag.

Just sayin'.

It's not just the cold temperatures and the snow and rain, and the layers of clothes that keep me warm but make me look and feel like the Michelin Man's girl cousin, not just the magnetic pull to hibernate and the constant craving for full-on meals, not just the head cold/sinus cold/cough of last week, not just these things, no, it's day after day after day of dreary, grey, sunless skies and the brown/grey/bleached landscape.

It would be so easy to give over to winter despair, but we've got at least 40-some days until Spring and I've got to "muddle through some how". Thus, Winterlude II:

* Red-orange in combination with cobalt blue or aqua, and orange and aqua (always).

* Thursday's flowers, tired and wilted in their cobalt blue glass pitcher, but still giving off blessed, glorious color.

* Jane Austen's complete works delivered on the Kindle in less than a minute for $0.99; that, my friends, is cheap and valuable entertainment at the very same time. While I don't allow myself to hibernate too often, it's been a true joy to spend some time curled under my blue flannel comforter re-reading Miss Austen.

* The next best thing to reading her books, is watching their movie versions on DVD. (Persuasion is my favorite, with Sense & Sensibility in a photo finish second).

* Football has been oddly compelling this year, partly because I like sports, and partly because the weather is keeping Mr. P indoors and unable to go fishing and football is something we can enjoy together (that, and he is a dear and watches most of the old movies I love to watch, even the ones without cowboys or wars in them, and even though we've seen them 6,000 times at least).

* Amazing how uplifting it is to eat a tangerine or orange or fresh pineapple in the middle of winter. It's like eating sunshine concentrate!

* Doing.

* Channeling Katharine Hepburn who said: "I never lose sight of the fact that just being is fun." (Indeed, it is, even though my feet haven't been warm since October; yes, even then, I must admit).

the what-would-happen-if muse

2011-02-02T13:46:00.000-05:00

MCP Project 52: Week 5
Muse

I bought a $9.99 bouquet at the grocery store this morning and arranged the little roses in a turquoise glass pitcher and then a metal bucket, and set the flowers on my kitchen table. I shot from this angle and that, zooming in and out, fiddling with knobs and dials and menus, trying to remember which aperture or ISO or speed or whatever technical thingie I'm supposed to use in this or that kind of light, working with my nifty-fifty lens, but mostly flying by the seat of my pants.

And then I stepped outside thinking it might be interesting to shoot from the outside looking in ... what would that look like?

This is what that looks like and though I shot technically better photos, this is the one I love the most, the one that captures the spirit of the what-would-happen-if muse best.

My Project 52 set on flickr.

charting rainbows

2011-01-24T14:54:00.000-05:00

MCP Project 52, Week 4
Soothing Repetition

My Project 52 set on flickr.

A quilt made of paper squares covered in random swishes and marks and imprints from brushes covered with excess paint from the color charts I've been working on; mixing all the reds I have with all the yellows to make oranges, all the yellows with blues to make greens, and all the blues with reds to make violet, resulting in a rainbow of 172 colors.

I cut the squares of painted papers to size, "stitched" them together on the backside with small scraps of bright green masking tape and stuck the quilt to the wall for a spot of instant cheeriness.

bubble

2011-01-19T10:45:00.000-05:00

MCP Project 52, Week 3
Shades of Grey

My Project 52 set on flickr.

crescendoh.com

2011-01-18T17:13:00.001-05:00

I'm guest curating over at crescendoh.com this week! I've written a little essay and the site is linking to blog posts from some of my favorite writers and artists every day through Sunday.

Gathering together links to some of the people who inspire me and sharing them on such a stellar website was super fun! The whole experience makes my heart glad and grateful.

Enjoy!

francie

2011-01-16T15:32:00.000-05:00

"A Tree Grows in Brooklyn"
(Digital Collage/Mixed Media sketch: pencil sketches, photograph, custom digital brushes, texture, watercolor paint, photoshop elements).

jar of hearts

2011-01-10T11:32:00.002-05:00

MCP Project 52, Week 2

Illustrate a Song

The song (title) that inspired the photo:

Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri

goodbye

2011-01-05T21:14:00.002-05:00

Dear Mr. Cat, thank you for choosing us to be your people.

We will miss you so very much.

(2002 - 2011)

Mr. Cat elsewhere at four rooms:

in the snow

on the knee scooter

under the table

found face

2011-01-03T14:16:00.000-05:00

In between nursing a suddenly sick cat and letting said cat rest, I sat down for a bit with my journal, mixed a new-to-me triad, made marks and moved paint around for half an hour or so, and "found" this face.

I saw the hairline and the left eyebrow first, then the mouth, and brought it all forward with charcoal.

She looks a little worried.

the day before new year's eve

2010-12-30T15:16:00.003-05:00

"And now let us welcome the New Year - full of things that

have never been." (Rainer Maria Rilke, poet)

{Recycling a bit from last year, but I do love this quote}.

Sifting through all the things that made up the year that is ending, this is what I come back to:

One day each week for most of this past summer, I took a spiral notebook, a juicy roller-ball gel pen, and one writing-related book to the library up the road to write.

My two rules were simple but non-negotiable: I had to stay for at least an hour and I couldn't bring my journal. The first rule helped me begin. The second rule held up a mirror and said "look, you do a ton of writing in your journal and that's fine, but you want to write other things, so let go of the crutch, the ease of the journal and see what you can do."

At the end of the summer, I had a stack of pages for my efforts, the most fiction writing I've ever done. It doesn't matter that none of the writing has form; I wasn't working on a novel or a story. The accomplishment was in keeping the commitment. The accomplishment was in the doing.

2010 has been what years usually are, a cocktail of good and not so, the unexpected and the daily, more and less, new and old, misstep and opportunity, yesses and noes, hellos and goodbyes. I listened to my heart more, explained less, spent more time with my camera, with paint, with words, and less with my art journal.

My aspiration for the new year is to spend the currency of my time in the doing - not frantic striving - but taking the little steps necessary, one upon the other and then another and on and on, to do the things I wish to do.

So then, doing and not just talking about doing. Doing and not just reading about how it's done or reading about other people doing. Doing and not taking a class that feels like doing (but is really stalling or avoidance or fear).

As it was this year, so it is in the next (which is really just the day after tomorrow), listening to my heart and putting it into action one micromovement at a time.

Happy New Year to you!

Some of my favorite new year posts (so far):

emma tree: 2011 soften
radicalflower: 2010 listography
everything feeds process: goodbye 2010
ihanna: time for introspection and creative dreams
give a girl a fig
poetic asides: the last poem
heather smith jones: a year in photos
lee is fearless

seeing

2010-12-27T15:36:00.000-05:00

looking up (at the moment of melting):

looking down (random shoe prints carve hearts in the snow):

'twas the night before, well, you know

2010-12-24T01:32:00.019-05:00

This Christmas Eve:

May you draw close - in proximity, in memory, and in spirit -
to those you cherish.

May you experience a little of that wonder particular to children on Christmas Eve, that keen awareness that impossibly amazing things - ridiculous, magical things - transpire in the slice of time between going to bed and waking.

May you hear angels sing.

Merry Christmas!

the twelve days

2010-12-17T06:11:00.000-05:00

We owned it on vinyl and I memorized the lyrics to The Twelve Days of Christmas by listening to it over and over and over, and reading the words off the sleeve by the lights of the Christmas tree. I listened and sang along and pictured which Muppet was singing each day of twelve (which differs from the video above) and for 20 years I believed it was Miss Piggy singing the "Mi mi mi mi" accompaniment to Dr. Bunsen Honeydew on "nine ladies dancing", until I met Mr. P and he pointed out that it is actually Honeydew's assistant, Beaker. (Of course it was!)

I've owned this on vinyl, on cassette tape, on CD, and it now resides on thee ipod. Christmas just isn't without listening to this and all of the songs on John Denver and The Muppets: A Christmas Together (1979).

More of my Christmas Fridays:
colonial christmas
angel

colonial christmas

2010-12-13T10:04:00.000-05:00

Colonial Williamsburg, all trimmed with evergreen garlands, berries, wreaths made from fruits. Such a lovely and simple contrast to those giant inflatable Santas and snowmen and Sponge Bobs, and string after string of frantic blinking lights people decorate their houses with these days. A stroll through this Colonial town tempers the fever of the season, makes my heart glow.

Previous: angel

sharp dressed [snow] men

2010-12-09T08:31:00.000-05:00

Apparently lime green scarves with magenta sripes are "in" this year.

Those snow men, so fashionable!

every friday in december, then, a little piece of my christmas

2010-12-03T09:38:00.001-05:00

Wooden ornaments painted by my mother's hand, each strung with gold cord and topped with a fuzzy bow. We always hooked them on the outer edges of the branches; up close you could see the wood grain and the painted details and if you stood back and took in the whole tree, the ribbons looked like so many red-winged birds.

There is a snowman, a dove, a dog, a set of candy canes, a candle, carolers and many more, but I'm particularly smitten with this little angel, so earnest she is, and sweet.

We are treeless, these recent Christmases, but I like to take these out of their box and visit with them anyway. This year they may find their way to an improvised "tree", dangling from an arrangement of backyard branches in big glass vase with frosted stars on it.

Yes, I think that's exactly how it shall be.

the blue that reminds me of swimming pools

2010-11-30T14:29:00.003-05:00

I gathered up these things from my workspace and the pile of things-at-the-bottom-of-the-stairs-which-need to-go-up, and from the kitchen table. My bedroom is this color and my studio. This is the blue that reminds me of swimming pools, reminds me of home. When you fly over Southern California you see shimmering oval or kidney-shaped swimming pools, like so very many turquoise polka dots on the landscape.

I am missing home. I do, all the time, but feel the sting of home sickness in particularly keen ways this time of year. Even without the private sadnesses, there are so many public reminders and glimpses of home (the Rose Parade reduces me to puddles of tears).

I'm grateful for the memories and traditions of the magical Christmases we had in times past. Those memories and traditions are mine forever: some captured in photographs, some I can still smell and taste or hang on my tree, some are conjured instantly through song or film. And there are a few new ones to look forward to too.

A big thank you to Lisa, for inviting us to blog gratefulness this past month. It was a lovely experience both as participant and witness.

merry-go-round

2010-11-29T12:56:00.000-05:00

"Someone is tossing petals in a stream

Somewhere someone is standing at the foothills of their dreams

Someone got a paintbrush, is painting over doubts

Someone opened up his eyes and saw the sun coming out

Someone was a captive and found the courage to get off

From a boulder in the well, somewhere the rain has stopped

Someone is finding the place where they belong

...

Everyone aboard on the merry-go-round

Some things will rise up so that others come down ...

If the faucet is tightened up the low won't flow ...

If the night isn't dark enough the moon won't glow."

Antje Duvekot, merry-go-round

I'm grateful for the poets and the songwriters, and lovingly restored 90-year-old carousel horses carved from wood.

abracadabra

2010-11-27T18:38:00.000-05:00

One:

Two:

Three!

What if we lived in an alternate universe where rabbits
pulled people out of hats?

yes

2010-11-25T08:22:00.002-05:00

For all that has been, thanks. For all that shall be, yes.

(Dag Hammarskjöld)

happy thanksgiving

because four rooms is almost one ...

2010-11-24T08:41:00.002-05:00

... I'm grateful, blogging edition:

- for this space to put my thoughts and share my heart

- for the delete key

- for the blogs I read and savor; it never ceases to be a privilege witness other people's hearts and lives and creativity

- for the friends I've made and the ones yet to meet

- for those who take the time to leave a comment - so encouraging and kind, each and every one, thank you!

- for the blog friends who visit here even when it gets a little introspective; thank you for not asking me to contort myself so as to fit inside a box labeled "art blogger"

- for the technical, html-ish stuff I've learned by working on my blogger template

- for what I continue to learn about putting oneself out there, persistence, authenticity, photography, writing, and design and just generally finding my way

I leave you with this recipe for Dreamy Apple Pie for which the lovely apples above so valiantly sacrificed themselves on Saturday. The pie is evil in its deliciousness. I don't regret a single bite, but I am going to end this now to get some skating time in - a few extra circles around the rink are definitely in order. (ahem)

(I altered the pie recipe in that I used a prefab crust and used less sugar than asked for. It was still plenty sweet).

Enjoy!

patchwork cat

2010-11-23T18:47:00.000-05:00

Today and every day, I'm grateful for my cute and crafty partner-in-crime, Mr. Cat. He can always be found in the midst of whatever craft project is in the works: paper, fabric, paints, writing, it matters not.

sweet

2010-11-19T14:53:00.001-05:00

I'm grateful for the paint and the brushes and the paper and the pencil and the blue polka-dotted tissue paper, and the photo from a magazine that inspired this little painting from last year.

My interest in hands on artistic things (art "work") has waned since the beginning of summer. I don't even know where my journal is. Writing and taking photographs have been my media of choice of late.

Rummaging through a stack of old artwork I saw this and it made me smile.

And stirred a little something artfull too.

Sweet.

nook

2010-11-18T14:35:00.000-05:00

"To take what there is, and use it, without waiting forever in vain for the preconceived - to dig deep into the actual and get something out of that - this doubtless is the right way to live." (Henry James)

There is a small but gaping hole that needs drywall and spackle and paint.

A shelf awaits assembly and hanging.

The wall waits for artwork. So patient, that wall.

The vinyl floor underneath is old and pocked in places.

But that's ok.

Home, a work in progress, always.

Amazing how a simple plywood shelf and baskets makes the kitchen cozy and tidy; how rearranging it all added gladness to a Thursday afternoon.

I'm grateful. (Thank you, Ikea).

little things

2010-11-17T19:51:00.003-05:00

"...it's the little things that seem to be saving me today."
(Mindy Smith, Down in Flames)

I'd only quibble with Mindy in that it's the little things all the time, every day, that keep me buoyant and make me happy.

I'm grateful for the ability to find meaning, joy, and consolation in the smallest measure of things:

the smell of woodsmoke curling out of brick chimneys

flipping through the Ikea catalog

making soup

singing along to Tammy Wynette in the car on the way to work

the sound of ice skate blades scratching wide circles at the rink

a stack of books from the library

a black and white movie from the 1940s

rereading

laundry, fresh and warm from the dryer

cheese popcorn

trivia

the lines in the carpet from the vacuum

reruns of The Carol Burnett show

warm socks for feet that freeze when the thermometer goes below, say, 50 degrees (F)

leaves in a vase on the windowsill in the kitchen

file under "f" for frivolity

2010-11-14T15:31:00.001-05:00

I'm grateful for frivolity.

I had a hard time settling on a word to describe what I mean. Synonyms for frivolous include "absurd", "self-indulgence", and "abandon".

Yes, please, to all of the above.

Uncertainty about Mr. P's job continues to cast a shadow over everything and the dread of Christmas looms, and I just keep hoping the memo, the official announcement, the pink slip, will wait until after the holidays to present itself. In the meantime, I try not to worry and we watch our spending and we are grateful we are keeping afloat, but the waiting (I almost wrote "weighting" which it is, very heavy, the worry) is so darned ...well ... honestly? It's boring.

Frivolity enter stage right.

A couple of weeks ago Mr. P won two tickets to Monday Night Football, which means tomorrow we're headed to Washington D.C. for a quick overnight trip. We'll be watching the Eagles/Redskins game from a private sky box perch. All that is required of us is showing up with our tickets in hand - everything else is taken care of.

It's only a football game, and a game between two teams I have no loyalties to, but I'm grateful for the respite it offers from all the stuffy seriousness of late.

grateful, glad, and happy-makers: weekend edition

2010-11-09T10:05:00.000-05:00

Hot homemade soup on a cold day, curled on the sofa watching football.

Michigian Wolverines winning in triple overtime.

Wild Horses covered by The Sundays.

Organizing a month's worth of papers (the doing isn't fun, but the having done it is, whew, such a relief)

A skating lesson.

Joining a local photography group.

Making a paper bag journal (artful creativity these days is achieved in dribbles and micromovements. I love every little micro minute of it)

Looking forward to dinner with a friend tonight.

Katharine Hepburn says it best: "I never lose sight of the fact that just being is fun."

Indeed.

harvey (again)

2010-11-06T20:11:00.000-04:00

I'm grateful Harvey wandered into our backyard two winters ago and chose us to make a home for him. Harvey is a big, orange, merry cat with a host of facial expressions and quirky mannerisms that keep Mr. P and I almost constantly amused and entertained. If only he would sit still so I could take a proper photo of him!

giving tree

2010-11-05T14:44:00.000-04:00

I'm grateful for this tree that offers something pretty to look at while I tend books in a quiet office at the end of a lonely street. When I look up from my computer, I see this tree. In all seasons it has something lovely to show me. Today I tromped through the grass to say hello and take a photo.

silhouette

2010-11-03T10:16:00.000-04:00

I'm grateful for the beautiful things outside.

tell a story

2010-11-02T13:46:00.004-04:00

I'm grateful for the local library and the fun programs they put together for us (book groups, reading challenges, genealogy, and writing workshops).

It's also swell that I live less than a mile away!

Popped in to pick up a requested book the other day and happened to see this flyer at check out. My heart turned cartwheels!

A NaNoWriMo warrior, I am not. But, flash fiction? Writing a story after dinner, but before Dirty Jobs comes on at 9:00? That, I can do. I'm marveling at the possibility I might actually hold a finished story in my hands before I go to bed tonight! How cool is that?

I've had this [draft] first sentence rattling around in my head for the last couple of days. This is where I'll start from tonight.

"In her language the word for lost was two syllables; the first, high and tinkling like a wind chime, the second, swallowed by air."

gratitude in parking lots

2010-11-01T11:59:00.001-04:00

By way of curious girl, my intention for November is gratitude. This month-long project offers a soft and positive entry into the holiday season, which grows longer every year and, sadly, is not my favorite time of year.

Today, I'm grateful for the beautiful things found in parking lots (and Mr. P who waited patiently while I "oohed and ahhed" and giggled and snapped endless photos of this holly tree while shoppers passed by with their grocery carts and puzzled looks).