tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60905758216321909332024-03-14T08:21:06.447-04:00Cakeasaurus LurkingWoodblocks, printmaking, art. Minor quibbles and major delights. Tantalizing comestibles.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.comBlogger262125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-62780114708928482412023-03-22T09:58:00.001-04:002023-03-22T09:58:30.648-04:00For Mom, on her birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmZhUKwonEtHA_SOzu67AN-ZQkxyjvqkSHXeED3FUIDY5AD5d-LLxKvSJ872EcAjOHBbxZ2gEn8APauDDY-4ikyOs_jS0amjyxOSPEnlsIZudQLJ47a9HqhylK7L4aJ1EY0wymOLOXxSTPAoGIrl5P2g_7VkpvO08Tv1ObU9O1OMqqFjNyhNBD5DRqA/s4032/IMG_3398.HEIC" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmZhUKwonEtHA_SOzu67AN-ZQkxyjvqkSHXeED3FUIDY5AD5d-LLxKvSJ872EcAjOHBbxZ2gEn8APauDDY-4ikyOs_jS0amjyxOSPEnlsIZudQLJ47a9HqhylK7L4aJ1EY0wymOLOXxSTPAoGIrl5P2g_7VkpvO08Tv1ObU9O1OMqqFjNyhNBD5DRqA/s320/IMG_3398.HEIC" /></a></div><p> </p><p>Dear Mom,
Happy Birthday! </p><p>Or, as you would begin,”I’m writing this short note before I run off to the post office and do some errands (grocery shopping, alas!)” </p><p> It’s gray here, and cold. But the birds have started singing in the morning, and it will warm up to the 50’s by this afternoon. Scatterings of tulip leaves poking up in the tiny spot by our front door, but not much else yet. The weather has been increasingly erratic, and the beautiful magnolia tree – which I so wish you could have seen – has a glaring gash down its side, where a major limb tore off in an ice storm last month. I put a couple small branches in water and the buds flowered fully, before browning and crumpling up. Not sure if those will be the only blooms we see from the tree this year! </p><p> E said the ever-reliable big daffodil patch in Pennsylvania ceased to bloom when you died; we all love daffodils, you know, because of that patch. I have a small vase of them next to photos of you, with the rest of us. It’ll be two years in April, so odd to say. </p><p>You would not believe how much C has grown, and what she can do! A new 8 year old, willing – looking forward to – acting the part of Michael in Mary Poppins in front of a crowd – so much she can memorize, and sing! I remember you looking at her baby hands, saying they were strong, maker’s hands; true to that, she’s always making something. Strong opinions, too; stubborn like me; bright, funny, sparky; with a sweet tooth to rival yours. I meant to have Oreos on hand, for today; in lieu of that, I’ll have a nice cuppa tea, near you, or near photos that stand in for you. If you can feel anything, wherever you are now, I hope you feel at peace, contented, full of love. </p><p>Miss you.
</p>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-30906015426641810072021-07-16T13:01:00.002-04:002021-07-16T13:01:38.578-04:00Flood Warnings, Anyone? The Art Fair Edition...And so, the Ann Arbor Art Fair weather curse holds true, though it feels especially damning this time around: foreboding forecast for the shortened three-day timespan, though we all lucked out yesterday -- the threat of rain held off, and I personally wandered wayyy past my limit in order to get a complete overview of the whole thing. Even with the good-but-clown-feetish-sneakers, my feet swelled, pooooor little me. The fair had some marked changes, of course. No avenues of fair food, no violin monster spotted; no <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/IgnatiusHats?ref=simple-shop-header-name&listing_id=825773117" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Ignatius Hats</a> with people swirling around the booth, laughing at themselves in the crazier designs, but secretly hoping they look cool; no potters' guild or yourist clay sections; no <a href="https://nickwroblewski.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Nick Wroblewski</a>, and South University offerings look much diminished (though to be fair, still more vendors than most art fairs have in total)... On the flipside, splendid watercolorist <a href="http://www.katiemusolff.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Katie Musolff</a> returned to the Original area, and <a href="https://www.wagnercoronart.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Karin Coron</a> returned to grace us with her intense oil & oil pastel landscapes (booth NU807), and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/connieverrusio/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Connie Verrusio</a>, the maker of one of my all-time-favorite pairs of earrings (repurposed produce scales).
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></a></div> I cleared off my day yesterday and today to wander the fair, with our spitfire happily deposited in preschool; and here we are today, with solid rain since 3 AM (intermittent torrents). So far there's no pocket of time with less than 80% chance of precipitation, which is damn brutal for all the artists, having paid quite a lot to be here, not to mention travelling for hundreds of miles, all the schlepping, and STILL having to be present in one's tent, without enough people coming through, trying to talk the body away from resenting wet feet, and the mind from anticipating a financial mess of a show or a tent collapse. Oi. I have artists whose work I'd love to revisit, and was counting on doing that today, with myself selling at a local <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/3054632868100464?acontext=%7B%22event_action_history%22%3A[%7B%22mechanism%22%3A%22your_upcoming_events_unit%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22bookmark%22%7D]%2C%22ref_notif_type%22%3Anull%7D" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">ArtHouse Pop-Up</a> tomorrow & Saturday (913 Gott St, Ann Arbor, ahem!). Maybe at some point a lighter rain, perhaps a drizzle, and I could briefly wander in galoshes? Here's hoping everyone ventures out on Saturday, with the better forecast.
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></a></div>*Just a few snippets*
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7SazISmUsRgr3yVwVE1pWmscKSlu5Ae7AMTZ2fkD2QG58VwOh8-_DHrM_Mo8epzOdcjdWr9ltAxRQvGp6g21eUKJsIniuOud4izNcN2-4L0mRHNj0wfUZ1UsgEDWPWc45HTNRmLg06PE/s2016/IMG_9493.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7SazISmUsRgr3yVwVE1pWmscKSlu5Ae7AMTZ2fkD2QG58VwOh8-_DHrM_Mo8epzOdcjdWr9ltAxRQvGp6g21eUKJsIniuOud4izNcN2-4L0mRHNj0wfUZ1UsgEDWPWc45HTNRmLg06PE/s320/IMG_9493.JPG"/></a></div>Yesterday, it was refreshing to see the fashion illustration of Anita Rundles over on North U (booth WA817). She's based in Brooklyn and has done some work for Netflix. I love the interplay of precise, fine lines with freer splashes of color -- good energy. It also reminded me of the cache of old design illustration my Mom kept from her art school days. She passed away in March of this year; it was a comforting to look through Rundle's originals, thinking of how Mom would have had definite reactions (both praise and criticism). For her part, Rundles fretted over the weather curse that everyone else had mentioned; if you are in the area, go visit her booth and help make her first show worthwhile. And ask her why she didn't bring the great Solange illutstration wih the gold earrings (on her <a href="https://www.instagram.com/anitarundles_art/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a>), though I'd assume it's sold. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGb2KW-qJvBrMdCalmLPYkZbkjzYQk_MZxNyUePfdSCveBwz85QRm20ey9QesRh3om-rRK4A8AA_7DdI3045xfNUbJgo4zWwQchjtJEL-HGPmAOm6EeimUTBAfBq5Co8uAPlt8Rvpzn4C/s2016/IMG_9495.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCGb2KW-qJvBrMdCalmLPYkZbkjzYQk_MZxNyUePfdSCveBwz85QRm20ey9QesRh3om-rRK4A8AA_7DdI3045xfNUbJgo4zWwQchjtJEL-HGPmAOm6EeimUTBAfBq5Co8uAPlt8Rvpzn4C/s320/IMG_9495.JPG"/></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHuKmymQD3SGfht8oqe4h8R70S3v0-nWc9Jeo-24aizE9mMkjimBQ_O5YK7-RNikxyeQyxb-jdZsizxIIYTbWrlepZZrSS6HroG6eukPHcQClhmSERYOyL91d7Ua1RDGOzSAg4loc8Ib6/s2016/IMG_9501.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHuKmymQD3SGfht8oqe4h8R70S3v0-nWc9Jeo-24aizE9mMkjimBQ_O5YK7-RNikxyeQyxb-jdZsizxIIYTbWrlepZZrSS6HroG6eukPHcQClhmSERYOyL91d7Ua1RDGOzSAg4loc8Ib6/s320/IMG_9501.JPG"/></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></a></div>Master glassblower William Ortman has been at it for 16 years. <a href="https://william-ortman.squarespace.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Astoundingly intricate without being fussy</a>. Large cut away vases.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvM3fB6VEvBRzSDV1LPQ3i6H-msd1kAoFVA7kXHaFQRBN84XBHiiictlM51tV5WKASwIQdkdrpM8oOo2MpWjwrUuy4J2WApJ0j8ll9exJ_2KTEEthhqMUiujCvYweKoMY1wF3WNLjP9XY/s2016/IMG_9504.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvM3fB6VEvBRzSDV1LPQ3i6H-msd1kAoFVA7kXHaFQRBN84XBHiiictlM51tV5WKASwIQdkdrpM8oOo2MpWjwrUuy4J2WApJ0j8ll9exJ_2KTEEthhqMUiujCvYweKoMY1wF3WNLjP9XY/s320/IMG_9504.JPG"/></a></div>Kipley A. Meyer wasn't dying for a photo op (sandwich held behind his back; reticence), but he obliged me. He asked me if I did yoga or meditation, and explained that his pieces speak to going beyond the chatter of the monkey mind (see "Enter Within," on the left). When he gestured to the piece on the right, "Return" (or "Return to"), he ran his hand back and forth along the circular paths and said, "Return to the breath..." and it fit perfectly. For some reason, I also found the repetition of the pounded, rusty nails quite satisfying.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3fxf-dUmRZjhvXh6FjM8bM9NHrbHE-skjYRBdGUKi_VjOTOwbNOrBCQTpDMfjeY8K-d6xKOT4H1FssYEU18cWNvXTuL48xzhPlChGtwpf04JfmUk9liIevgNUHK14fYllZjNtRRFt6zR/s2016/IMG_9515.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3fxf-dUmRZjhvXh6FjM8bM9NHrbHE-skjYRBdGUKi_VjOTOwbNOrBCQTpDMfjeY8K-d6xKOT4H1FssYEU18cWNvXTuL48xzhPlChGtwpf04JfmUk9liIevgNUHK14fYllZjNtRRFt6zR/s320/IMG_9515.JPG"/></a></div>Allllll the way at the other end on Main Street, I almost zipped past Scotty Jones' booth before registering it. But once you see his sharp, and distinctively styled bags, you don't forget them. I became a fan at the Gutman Gallery shop, but when I saw his <a href="https://www.instagram.com/scottyjones_urthyfiberart/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">Urthy brand there</a>, I didn't realize HOW much he puts into them: his fabrics, with few exceptions, are 50s upholstery textiles; the retro graphics are all his OWN screenprints; and he's just now branching out to using his own fabric designs (he highly recommends Spoonflower's quality). But I assume you have a team of people sewing your designs? "OHHHHHHHHHHHH no! NOPE, it's all ME" he laughed and asked whether I had been to the fair merchandise booth yet. Jones sparkled: "I did the merch designs this year! They just brought them to me" Wishing much success to Jones! <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AciU23sUlYNW0VAtvWi91-5IuDhw9ra7iKj9PRqgAxQV5J6v5SIBicCon9vAM7si_mVaY17MwubYx8BRjltiGP0tqt0ztj1gB6i6V6Wk5SqMjEz4QDt1QjFazKECVym_vHcSyUqipgw6/s2016/IMG_9516.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AciU23sUlYNW0VAtvWi91-5IuDhw9ra7iKj9PRqgAxQV5J6v5SIBicCon9vAM7si_mVaY17MwubYx8BRjltiGP0tqt0ztj1gB6i6V6Wk5SqMjEz4QDt1QjFazKECVym_vHcSyUqipgw6/s320/IMG_9516.JPG"/></a></div>
Almost time for Terry Gross, and still it rains. "Drizzle stopping in 50 minutes" -- but the following hour block shows more thunderstorms. Artist friends I feel for you. And hope people come out in full force tomorrow.
Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-75204464498744820672021-02-26T16:53:00.004-05:002021-02-26T16:57:47.645-05:00Just You and Me and These Four Walls<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ4QdYrJIAdEO7dcWCj_ioMp-vw9sFo94onCE6a2s_XZ093i5_XhudwZRc93Trltt-A6NX00q9Eo7cD7ALyHq4LTsEJr3tLLBX85e4j3eM5i8Hh7dgoV4_Xm8eyGwhTGuEWOHpPyhpC7cm/s684/lemurdetail.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="200" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="684" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ4QdYrJIAdEO7dcWCj_ioMp-vw9sFo94onCE6a2s_XZ093i5_XhudwZRc93Trltt-A6NX00q9Eo7cD7ALyHq4LTsEJr3tLLBX85e4j3eM5i8Hh7dgoV4_Xm8eyGwhTGuEWOHpPyhpC7cm/s200/lemurdetail.jpg"/></a></div>Quarantine has spawned -- for the luckiest of us -- aggravation, restlessness, a circumstantial slow-down; a paring down of life, new appreciation for: birds, or breadmaking, and the technological wonders of video connections, even as we tire of Zoom . And health, most definitely, health. And all of us are creative, whether we grant ourselves this characterization. Artists, of course, when they are not shutting down, are creating, reacting to the new realities. In this very moment, my almost 6 year old daughter is upstairs, singing about the meanness of her mother*, and using a little egg shaker to fancy it up. Rick seems to be on a looping conference call in the study (the closed door of which is no match for the strength of his voice).
As of last night, my creativity has extended to baking a batch of olive oil brownies with sea salt (I love you, New York Times cooking newsletter). Last week, we were all in Pennsylvania, with my family, visiting my mother in the hospital. My heart is still there.
In January, though, I had a brief burst of creativity, relating to a few couple selfies Rick took of us, when our quarantine hair was particularly dramatic. We are in the bathroom, natch, and not yet having given oureslves desparation haircuts, we look almost mythic (Rick), and unhinged/birdlike (myself). While I was able to draw something vaguely reminisicent of his visage (realism is not my forte**), each attempt at my likeness seemed worse than the last. I eventually started erasing a hole in the paper, before I optimistically taped another blank on top, with the not-me looming over his shoulder. No dice. Increasingly addled. In a fit of pique I decided that if it was going to work out that poorly, I should just opt for an animal instead. If you've seen me recently, you're like,"Oh <i>right, BIRD</i>," but that was short lived, because I wanted something with a cuddly aspect.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj471AjRNubpa-P5qDLsrkEAJdJLEq0JDf2s9p3UZLZKXfDnecEmPa4WEdt1Ze6Au2hm6pTXc1jGSrl2VXrmPQaTMc-GoScScaKlKYJWnpJvWoeQMHHzfbvxQQsQrNZ07jmHr9fQSI04QUc/s754/Screen+Shot+2021-02-26+at+4.23.32+PM.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj471AjRNubpa-P5qDLsrkEAJdJLEq0JDf2s9p3UZLZKXfDnecEmPa4WEdt1Ze6Au2hm6pTXc1jGSrl2VXrmPQaTMc-GoScScaKlKYJWnpJvWoeQMHHzfbvxQQsQrNZ07jmHr9fQSI04QUc/s400/Screen+Shot+2021-02-26+at+4.23.32+PM.png"/></a></div>Top choice: slow loris. That sent me down a rabbit hole, because I hadn't even realized they're the ONLY VENOMOUS MAMMALS on earth, their venom is FLESH-ROTTING and dispensed from glands at their elbows; to tickle them is torture; and venal criminals have been smuggled internationally in their underwear*** But these fun tidbits didn't really add depth or accuracy to my would-be couple portrait. Plus, with their saucer-eyes,they do look a little more batsh*t, than I'm comfortabke assigning to myself, so.
Next up: lemurs. I've always been fond of lemurs. Native to Madagascar! Somewhat crazy-looking, but they have those wonderful flouffy tails to counterbalance their weight when they spring off on various aboreal journeys. Also, since this print emotionally documents my time in quarantine, I feel like it nicely captures an air of stir-crazyness (see also <a href="https://twitter.com/BBCLookEast/status/950389341947297798?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E950391430899535872%7Ctwgr%5E%7Ctwcon%5Es3_&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fabcnews.go.com%2FInternational%2Flemurs-steal-spotlight-bbc-news-reporter-record-zoo%2Fstory%3Fid%3D52261864" target="_blank">lemurs attack BBC reporter</a>), among other things. So there you have it, back story to a cell phone selfie, transformed into a multi-block linocut.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz565q4jNLeG_hBQJGt5WCRydZqV7CST5Ma8AUzTne1P0eLCfVqIIKhTzy5agO2skemAfmK7szJG-PUc7Ar-SzO21AkoiDtUjB6vFaHJJJyScOMaFdeHq9KfjC9Hin534baO9liCcJ_x7L/s1924/lemur_fuschia.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1924" data-original-width="1308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz565q4jNLeG_hBQJGt5WCRydZqV7CST5Ma8AUzTne1P0eLCfVqIIKhTzy5agO2skemAfmK7szJG-PUc7Ar-SzO21AkoiDtUjB6vFaHJJJyScOMaFdeHq9KfjC9Hin534baO9liCcJ_x7L/s400/lemur_fuschia.jpg"/></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpd_JDYTwFQLvsY7mkG0c0J3mVABax_zQRzcVMz1LHiv8G9AiOPhsQDDuvbbbuGh3S1kAdxxTCOLLQnFydSKsczlSIxftsSecxfSts1U5YuiR2-fiGw4cREjNtbmDkUNWHvTBqeDPwiqZ/s2000/lemur_green.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpd_JDYTwFQLvsY7mkG0c0J3mVABax_zQRzcVMz1LHiv8G9AiOPhsQDDuvbbbuGh3S1kAdxxTCOLLQnFydSKsczlSIxftsSecxfSts1U5YuiR2-fiGw4cREjNtbmDkUNWHvTBqeDPwiqZ/s400/lemur_green.jpg"/></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPIqYQpruXhUb5TFQsQ65bqgydrHgxAKrTnRMkwn70Abigh9nnUTo0dBsXPsnDlcmKZckCggsvDKFUSuRXl2aRaQ6DURXHrNow8yXP0kM9nv5sGRMe1DH4qSqIq3lg3B289Zs2DTwuVpa/s2000/self-sketch_variation_etsy.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPIqYQpruXhUb5TFQsQ65bqgydrHgxAKrTnRMkwn70Abigh9nnUTo0dBsXPsnDlcmKZckCggsvDKFUSuRXl2aRaQ6DURXHrNow8yXP0kM9nv5sGRMe1DH4qSqIq3lg3B289Zs2DTwuVpa/s400/self-sketch_variation_etsy.jpg"/></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PwCuewCvR9Mw-393freJjs6V0MsXywtRePsnChhNJiaHAoyie8MEm6JXdVFZIta3d5CpgwB37j3hnlLMK9XSar4Teuje3olaSI_TNFh5TmvkvY3zGQhnhPs_h7iP0A_PaebxCr0cuX-G/s2048/lemurdraftC.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PwCuewCvR9Mw-393freJjs6V0MsXywtRePsnChhNJiaHAoyie8MEm6JXdVFZIta3d5CpgwB37j3hnlLMK9XSar4Teuje3olaSI_TNFh5TmvkvY3zGQhnhPs_h7iP0A_PaebxCr0cuX-G/s400/lemurdraftC.jpg"/></a></div>
These are available for sale on my etsy shop, <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/955884954/couple-selfie-with-lemur-stand-in?ref=shop_home_active_1" target="_blank">like so</a>. I'll be adding more color variations soon. As always, if you don't see something you want, just ask. Stay safe and sane, out there, Dear Readers!
*Who ended a self-markering episode, and confiscated her school ipad, when the young-in threatened to throw it.
** Hahaha, shut it.
*** No, obviously the criminals'. Loris don't wear no underwear.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-30672955525246880282020-11-10T19:48:00.000-05:002020-11-10T19:48:15.294-05:00A Brief Respite from 2020// See Also: the Most Important Day of the Year<p>Dear Stephen,</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucHVdTXzOwR5ee1CYBqHYkLLqEXDutZ_Hh0T-gioqoJ3zpWPUmXVLzyYfd6HUxujtL4fJnopyVgSth3iRlgTrXgJ9RRAimXQmDIBlwK7G5grFHcb_vfV4-eAV6dZ7vxOXDVGhZicJSWOA/s1512/IMG_7993.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucHVdTXzOwR5ee1CYBqHYkLLqEXDutZ_Hh0T-gioqoJ3zpWPUmXVLzyYfd6HUxujtL4fJnopyVgSth3iRlgTrXgJ9RRAimXQmDIBlwK7G5grFHcb_vfV4-eAV6dZ7vxOXDVGhZicJSWOA/w200-h200/IMG_7993.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><p>I just wandered into a new gallery downtown, and thought of you. A couple hours ago, Pennsylvania was called for Biden and he was declared President-Elect. I'm probably the 20th person to pass the news on to you, we know you'd share the joy and relief. It's sunny and in the 70's, this November day; and almost impossible to stay home. Cars roll past with people honking horns, hollering, banging pots, one blaring an older "F*ck Trump" rap, which draws a laugh from inside the otherwise quiet gallery space. </p><p>Not everyone looks happy, though it's harder to tell with masks. People are exhausted; but today, also elated, after days (/months) of dread. It's the first time it feels right to niff around, looking at pretty things. <a href="https://www.theguild.org/gutman_gallery/" target="_blank">Gutman Gallery</a> opened in February, closed during Shelter-in-Place; and has recently re-opened. <br /></p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVwUaPQz92ixx00E4iKe0ROoAjKNHGHiqk7AZB-gvLjgZOQl43ktAIuZhBxJXA4MzF7RSLBJH9bQNJ5dgXfjTG6bMSytOXs5qLGDww9TLi24AlI5IBZLlHu4pOAgnrjOqksv_pk4JG4tO/s1440/IMG_7987.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1410" data-original-width="1440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVwUaPQz92ixx00E4iKe0ROoAjKNHGHiqk7AZB-gvLjgZOQl43ktAIuZhBxJXA4MzF7RSLBJH9bQNJ5dgXfjTG6bMSytOXs5qLGDww9TLi24AlI5IBZLlHu4pOAgnrjOqksv_pk4JG4tO/s320/IMG_7987.JPG" width="320" /></a>It feels good to be back in the old high-ceilinged Gallery Project
space. I remember sound installations in the basement
and in the darkened backroom, years ago, back before motherhood, when I had ridiculous (read: underappreciated) amounts of free time.<br /></p><p>Now we are greeted with paintings on
raw edged wooden slabs, jewelry hanging against rough wood; spare, high tables
with ornate, mechanical looking legs that hint at robotic
functions. Colorful pottery and sharp bags pairing retro-perky 50s male
and female characters with splashes of vintage fabrics. </p><p>Their holiday
market, featuring 50+ artists, starts today; Friday nights will feature
artists demos and private shopping may be scheduled for small and
cautious friend pods. It feels simultaneously normal and audacious to be
in such a place.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGv6uc8l5AnHNVLk66hnsmQHPFyhX1ikITq4qK1L8qOebICk3BeA_8h3hss3c-Wc3frEug9xpIMf4iD1hBmygXJ2Y8WZsKQyiT8zY_ozZ71K3raMneLgry4nl61GyuWayKRbcDefBRvnfq/s1512/IMG_7991.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGv6uc8l5AnHNVLk66hnsmQHPFyhX1ikITq4qK1L8qOebICk3BeA_8h3hss3c-Wc3frEug9xpIMf4iD1hBmygXJ2Y8WZsKQyiT8zY_ozZ71K3raMneLgry4nl61GyuWayKRbcDefBRvnfq/s320/IMG_7991.JPG" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcA2f6_cqc4KBHONOt9kcj8CY6M3mGBS42UQdJO9Gm8kSvDLD16NLK_AUSTtmfCdvBAGPnVkGsL5E83KK_-s_biEzmhYlhu70kNYn5u2LUqA1GCcIR6GdaFYMG2s7pWvuydwL5zIXDLRY_/s1512/IMG_7978.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcA2f6_cqc4KBHONOt9kcj8CY6M3mGBS42UQdJO9Gm8kSvDLD16NLK_AUSTtmfCdvBAGPnVkGsL5E83KK_-s_biEzmhYlhu70kNYn5u2LUqA1GCcIR6GdaFYMG2s7pWvuydwL5zIXDLRY_/s320/IMG_7978.JPG" /></a></div></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsns72jqdqlCD4D96I2ISOwaMhZa8B296QicAxIeHWlMUXj364vKWKRuh-42VkEreV6OzusAG1JeTsPOSoxTOsPmABqfh50DVU_EGfG0xtSczHoLudF3ALtpnR85PNG0COeJlfkipgxbZ/s1512/IMG_7985.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsns72jqdqlCD4D96I2ISOwaMhZa8B296QicAxIeHWlMUXj364vKWKRuh-42VkEreV6OzusAG1JeTsPOSoxTOsPmABqfh50DVU_EGfG0xtSczHoLudF3ALtpnR85PNG0COeJlfkipgxbZ/s320/IMG_7985.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Urthy Fiber Arts by Scotty Jones<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-2gABt8G5ztnp7aY2VqKE1GvpF-JtRlWeFtY9K6FwX-_oQ1u6PmLGVrsIv3_tOg75vt8ucB7zvhHUMkw9jB07ddy73IzxbaIH7AgVqPCgR0LQHd781RbBdTzSDxZ3g3XKTtWWSrhRCaJ/s1740/IMG_7975.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1740" data-original-width="1560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-2gABt8G5ztnp7aY2VqKE1GvpF-JtRlWeFtY9K6FwX-_oQ1u6PmLGVrsIv3_tOg75vt8ucB7zvhHUMkw9jB07ddy73IzxbaIH7AgVqPCgR0LQHd781RbBdTzSDxZ3g3XKTtWWSrhRCaJ/s320/IMG_7975.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.kriscravenspottery.com/">Kris Cravens Pottery</a><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIt9DKB6qfqSYDhc9uMXe-uY4TSFD0TE52iF36TxCjYXFIy7wokNsfwOMdW-y0GQCpndVZiVAQUNV6KfHQgfjws8lBoOkv_mS7R8lS3ttXJehBfXRxuccrwuxHz82bPD8sVoj5UeGATnP5/s1512/IMG_7981.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIt9DKB6qfqSYDhc9uMXe-uY4TSFD0TE52iF36TxCjYXFIy7wokNsfwOMdW-y0GQCpndVZiVAQUNV6KfHQgfjws8lBoOkv_mS7R8lS3ttXJehBfXRxuccrwuxHz82bPD8sVoj5UeGATnP5/s320/IMG_7981.JPG" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6up2c0R9-3QNxB0wifzcVxl3kFQbkKeHFY_bqDke0lmuVQD4nYll_hQd8nZSnvLvXN5WFy2DBvSa-ayxpwArXs9q0OgQSF2HQC8SJQZVqVwouT0tIw41ZKTj_N7QgA8Qh4fDUvh2-M1q/s1335/IMG_7984.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="1335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6up2c0R9-3QNxB0wifzcVxl3kFQbkKeHFY_bqDke0lmuVQD4nYll_hQd8nZSnvLvXN5WFy2DBvSa-ayxpwArXs9q0OgQSF2HQC8SJQZVqVwouT0tIw41ZKTj_N7QgA8Qh4fDUvh2-M1q/s320/IMG_7984.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65gm5SXnDVgNmhgaX-BniQD8QF8Cxt3MgL5mC2kXCJaCcXM2gGA0cW_QeMr9Kki66Tc4-q6670nFfLh0KOv8zJEsP308Bej4hFATPTtKdXi2bfKkeIrRmGPc2Wa9hVH_w2g1w-1UerMZR/s1512/IMG_7980.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65gm5SXnDVgNmhgaX-BniQD8QF8Cxt3MgL5mC2kXCJaCcXM2gGA0cW_QeMr9Kki66Tc4-q6670nFfLh0KOv8zJEsP308Bej4hFATPTtKdXi2bfKkeIrRmGPc2Wa9hVH_w2g1w-1UerMZR/s320/IMG_7980.JPG" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhqVIpsLPfzep5foHF7JflcYLHyC5yIS6AAWKp2x0aO4nMylDNktPvpJYGtkriVz9dCkVV4EHmyis-B1ZfwrCPRMw7elc0riDOJzENrb7NMK1ekrZq6wE_ylHlldAaNT7LWbOsyy7_-Oq/s1155/IMG_7979.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1155" data-original-width="1101" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhqVIpsLPfzep5foHF7JflcYLHyC5yIS6AAWKp2x0aO4nMylDNktPvpJYGtkriVz9dCkVV4EHmyis-B1ZfwrCPRMw7elc0riDOJzENrb7NMK1ekrZq6wE_ylHlldAaNT7LWbOsyy7_-Oq/s320/IMG_7979.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioblgpA5eTo">detailed chameleon, unironically in black & white</a><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>With 68 million+ citizens voting for Trump after four years of his moral bankruptcy, I know we have so much to do in this country; but today, let's settle for happiness, for lightness of heart. Stephen, I feel how I expect Maira Kalman feels during her New York City walks, teasing out the day's surprises, whether they be discarded chairs, or acceptable cafeteria pies. I think of paintings from her beautiful book paying tribute to Obama's inauguration and democracy's promise. I feel it now, the renewed hope, which I haven't felt in so long. And with it, ephemeral delight bursts to the surface, much hardier -- and more crucial -- than we usually give it credit for being.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjOcgnD-AlzFMyIJHoCxk_WuxPf3HHRWw9o1OZX_vFfNKG6rkb6OozRZjHphH9qljou5UkG8Lm3rZeRJzdwSpIlCs1yJiXq5qRb1keLjnv4RPS83A7nDU_m9c0H1R0U-Wb9mT5QbL04ff/s2016/IMG_8010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjOcgnD-AlzFMyIJHoCxk_WuxPf3HHRWw9o1OZX_vFfNKG6rkb6OozRZjHphH9qljou5UkG8Lm3rZeRJzdwSpIlCs1yJiXq5qRb1keLjnv4RPS83A7nDU_m9c0H1R0U-Wb9mT5QbL04ff/w320-h240/IMG_8010.JPG" width="320" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From <a href="https://bookshop.org/books/and-the-pursuit-of-happiness-9780143122036/9780143122036" target="_blank">And the Pursuit of Happiness</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p></p><p><br /> </p>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-24626197108667958942020-10-17T15:33:00.001-04:002020-10-17T15:33:29.013-04:00And the Bride Dazzled in a Bead-Encrusted Vera Wang Bodice*... <p>Today I picked up my wedding gown. I had banished it from my weekly to-dos for several months, after having planned/postponed/re-planned/indefinitely postponed the wedding itself. But why default to a pity-me narrative? I admire the zoomable weddings, smaller-but-joyful -- "<i>Love can't wait</i>!"-- but it appears our love <i>can</i> wait. Or the ritual surrounding it, in any case. There is much to be thankful for. As a couple we have managed to grow together, not apart, during the pandemic. Some of our family have contracted Covid, but so far have not succumbed to it. We adopted house-hunting as a restless Sunday-driving pastime in the Spring and stumbled onto a wonderful new home. </p><p>Of course, buying the new meant selling the old. And selling the old meant drastically clearing out. I spent weeks pouring over 16 years of accumulated possessions in the basement of the old house. It was exhausting and I grew to hate it. Musty old lives. Mysterious and banal, how so many treasures are eventually transmuted into trash. I felt compelled to look through old journals. Decades old. Just learning-to-be-an-adult old. Most entries ranged from predictably boring or self-indulgent, to mortifying. But I also found myself stirred up. Awakened, or made richer? It didn't strike me as mere nostalgia. I don't think I have forgotten who I am. But perhaps I forgot certain layers of myself, as they lost relevance to my life; and the degree to which I felt "stirred up," reflected how <i>present</i> those layers are, even if mostly dormant? The earlier me was more driven, more convinced of its own importance, or at least the importance of its viewpoint. The earlier me strode quickly, for hours; loved the sound of her stacked heels clacking against the sidewalk; always double-checked her bag for pen and notebook. She doubted life could be expansive or bountiful, but was ever on the lookout for hopeful signs. By dipping into the journals, it was as if I turned a corner and was almost knocked over by her, caught up as she was, in her own confused rush to be christened by experience and to live quietly, contemplatively. I assumed she was laughable; but came away feeling more fond of her. I imagine her gut reaction to be "How the hell did you get HERE?" And by <i>here</i> she'd mean this sidewalk, <i>here, </i>this balance of restlessness and contentment; <i>here, </i>this meandering prose which began with a wedding gown. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UrOhicx5_obXIatY8MYAXTzWpnEcyaYXY7oxoC_OS5UsHmxd88lsps806OtZ31-D46VtcZ6pmQQKs9aP0k-XZY-VaZz05at1YUIFY_qVf44BM6beDH4r4yXPQkNV88KK-rXqYJ40HAn4/s467/Screen+Shot+2020-10-10+at+5.06.59+PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="429" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UrOhicx5_obXIatY8MYAXTzWpnEcyaYXY7oxoC_OS5UsHmxd88lsps806OtZ31-D46VtcZ6pmQQKs9aP0k-XZY-VaZz05at1YUIFY_qVf44BM6beDH4r4yXPQkNV88KK-rXqYJ40HAn4/w184-h200/Screen+Shot+2020-10-10+at+5.06.59+PM.png" width="184" /></a></div><i> </i>So, back to the gown. It's still gorgeous and impossible to put on without help<i>. </i>Once the glitchy zipper has been persuaded to work, it's so close and so armored, it could stand independently. It calls to mind one of my favorite picture books, wherein a snazzy suit overshadows the personality of its new wearer, Fenwick, and subsequently goes to the office without him. I don't feel dwarfed as such -- though I can't imagine I'll ever wear more yards of satin, much less a bustle! again -- but if ever a garment of mine were prime for bewitching, this would be it. <i>Say yes to the dress -- but keep an eye on it</i>. This experience jars with the earlier visits; today we follow the directional arrows taped to the carpet, past ghostly bagged dresses on either side, back to a jerry-rigged dressing room. I step onto the dais and the seamstress flouffs the gown out around me, assuring me that bustles are utterly simple to manage. "And when's the new date!" she prompts. <i>Ahhh well, it will be wonderful whenever you have it.</i> <i>If you can believe it, there's one other woman from your wedding time who has yet to pick up her dress! </i>My reflection shows smiling eyes below my quarantine hair, which ranges from Pebbles Flintstone to Jim Ignatowski. In this space, my
Biden/Harris mask suffers from a distinct lack of beading. The seamstress tells me to look this way, and that way. I don't know what to do with my hands. I clasp them formally/demurely/awkwardly, she snaps a few photos, and declares it done. <br /><p></p><p>After, I stop off at my nearest favorite bookshop to dispel the anticlimactic feeling. Customers aren't allowed to go inside now, but the owner brings book suggestions to me so I can choose on a bench outside, and how can one be upset with that? I bring the gown to the new home in the front guest room closet, where it shares space with canisters of wrapping paper. I still like the idea of shortening it to cocktail length, to wear for anniversaries, though that prospect conveniently ignores how bodies change as we age. But earlier me could never have envisioned this dress, this house, my partner or daughter; this current life. So maybe this dress will, itself, step out to trip the light fantastic, some night after it grows cold, and then warm once again; and maybe future me will dress up in it many years from now, take my husband's arm in mine, and we will dance, looking similar, and so very different, than we do today. In the meantime, our 5 1/2 y.o. flower girl has outgrown two flower girl dresses and has soured on the whole business, after learning she may not perform Hamilton songs at pivotal moments in the would-be ceremony.</p><p>*Atop Plaid Pajama Pants and Raccoon Slippers, Not Pictured<br /></p><p><br /></p>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-49683475268111125192020-04-18T18:09:00.001-04:002020-04-18T18:09:05.613-04:00Now with 70% More Masks~~Well it's kind of nuts to look at my last post. Fascinators! Hah! Wedding planning, haha! Oh yes, we contacted vendors, we tasted all the THINGS and, then things started getting iffy, and we said, well, hmm maybe we'll hold off on booking a honeymoon flight, which shifted to, hmm maybe we have to postpone the wedding until August, and we managed to secure some of our same vendors before most of them shut down and then the hotel shuttered itself and possibly we'll get married next Spring or Summer?<br />
<br />
And meanwhile my hometown became the Covid-19 epicenter of Pennsylvania, as initial positives popped up in Michigan, and the viral waves crashed upon all of our shores, regardless of coast or interior. How many millions are unemployed now? How much has the death toll ticked upward? Most of us hunkered down in the mandated "shelter in place," while millions of essential workers are still out there. We all worry, we function, or adopt the outward semblance of functioning. We snap at each other, and cry jaggedly, suddenly, before stuffing a chocolate cookie in our gobs; we yoga and deep breathe, and make brittle jokes about drinking earlier; sometimes we're compassionate, grateful, and giving - or else we fold in on ourselves like collapsing tents. We pick up the ukulele, or double up on knitting, or feel compelled to rearrange all the living room furniture. We peer at pebbles, lint, anything around our feet, anything to avoid gazing upward, lest there be an insurmountable wall. What the Hell will this become?<br />
<br />
Back at the pebble level, I'm making masks for family/hospital workers/etc. I'm onto my second pattern, having run out of elastic and iron-on interfacing from the first version. I have broken two needles, but otherwise am making some progress. Feels a little foolish, but it's better than nothing. The current pattern is cleaning me out of bias tape, so I may hop onto a third variation. Outside, a fluffy snow is sticking to bushes and trees. The birds, so newly riotous, have quieted.<br />
<br />
The five year old is in a snit in the living room, after I vetoed her ridiculous video choice on the ipad and she tried to smack me. In the first stage of her snit, she stomped back and forth to her room, slamming her door with each trip; and either built or destroyed something mysterious inside. Now she is luxuriating in sadness, with an mournful, meandering tune. Happily, the knowledge that she would currently reject any approach from me frees me up. With no preschool for the foreseeable future, I take whatever moments I can get. In this case, I'm still co-opted, as the woeful song lyrics are pretty entertaining:<br />
<br />
(sung breathily, with many pauses. dripping with self-pity)<br />
<br />
"Nothing is...<br />
fuuuuun with my Mom and Dad<br />
I feel unloved like a girl dying in a blizzard<br />
a room that's broken<br />
I feel like a doctor's kit<br />
without really the tools<br />
I feel like a stick without a flower<br />
I feel like...(grasping) a clay pot that won't (grasping. *SIGHHHHHH*) that won't stand UP<br />
I feel like a lego without a tower<br />
a button without a hollllllllllllle"<br />
<br />
She trudges past in her Frozen 2 nightgown, head down.<br />
Me: "Those were some pretty good sad lyrics~"<br />
Daughter (sharply): "DON'T even TALK about it" {Door slam}.<br />
<br />
So, we're holding steady over here. Hope you're well, Dear Reader. Stay safe, spread sanity. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-78010640324030009122020-02-14T17:18:00.001-05:002020-02-14T17:18:49.041-05:00Fascinators Are Rarely the AnswerMid-February and sleep continues to be brutal, off-and-on. The back-and-forth of it reflects the irritating classic model of shuffling progress, so. It's been
long enough that as much as it *sucks*, life just has to go on and I'm mostly managing to take care of business. I delivered new cards a few weeks ago and a couple random animal characters popped into my head this afternoon (sparks for new designs). I'm a bit more irritable than I would like, as evidenced by a recent conversation with my almost- five year old:<br />
<br />
"Mom." She has just emerged from her kiddie gymnastics class.<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"I have noticed that you are very crabby in the mornings, but you get weller later on."<br />
<br />
I am in a period of intense love for her these days, and that one got me. More on the side of goodness-she's-observant! vs. internal guilt tripping. I couldn't disagree. I haven't been a monster, but I have snapped a handful of times. I apologized and said I would keep working on it. She nodded and asked after snacks, which is usually the top topic of conversation.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcdGekUHsZK2ae5b68qwkydwFZrxiPB1o5MCtA8sXlbnZcL7aeH7KrlwyP5Dv7YT5NELTI0k4OxXFfCBy1QHjG_wqV4vgM8Rzyp3SB443yZu0evOqiWcRhxViJukjt8Np3lzHUgpKWW8v/s1600/IMG_6273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcdGekUHsZK2ae5b68qwkydwFZrxiPB1o5MCtA8sXlbnZcL7aeH7KrlwyP5Dv7YT5NELTI0k4OxXFfCBy1QHjG_wqV4vgM8Rzyp3SB443yZu0evOqiWcRhxViJukjt8Np3lzHUgpKWW8v/s200/IMG_6273.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">on more whimsical side</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I emerged from the sleep craziness, Rick & dove into wedding planning. We have managed to avoid this for quite some time (see also: 5 y.o.), but we fell for a hotel in Buffalo last summer, and after the Winter holidays, both of us were suddenly struck with OMG IT'S COMING UP WE NEED TO NAIL THIS STUFF DOWN <b>NOW/YESTERDAY. </b>My parents & sister live a few states away, so they can't be super involved with the planning, but my Mom and sister skyped with me about headdress/tiaras/whathaveyou and that was simultaneously serious and fun. I was mystified how to handle this piece of it, as I feel most designs are made with long flowing locks in mind, and I am happiest with super short hair. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkJ5KgdjeJlbV0h1miSzyqYNgfsL4gnqJFf3INdrMK6ZTgtJ4TlvhVAfKrCUkGifs6R-YFpIS7q5YBUYfQVvCeLwb2nY5XfVtS8Zpojq541wm1mGxFclhx7HnXDjTkMgfjfwrqN4mMPP9/s1600/IMG_6358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkJ5KgdjeJlbV0h1miSzyqYNgfsL4gnqJFf3INdrMK6ZTgtJ4TlvhVAfKrCUkGifs6R-YFpIS7q5YBUYfQVvCeLwb2nY5XfVtS8Zpojq541wm1mGxFclhx7HnXDjTkMgfjfwrqN4mMPP9/s200/IMG_6358.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">things briefly took a crafty turn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Gratifying to see my Mom, who can be waffly about most things in daily life, has not lost her strong opinions around fashion and style. Fortunately, they were aligned in their opinions, so the feedback honed my decisions. They categorically shut me down about a few things I felt were splendid, which paradoxically made me trust the process.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZz5RIAUAOFuEKaEzTP1n3OobZxRjfHQYLzkjqIdswip0XEL8ycpmgg6c-lnd-oGEOt3YqjvpfZ_zXlp8mxx78c3qTp0kELMmYvWBfZqOFl11XuKIMxDC04mFW6OhbeaYLnkh_GnoPR7r/s1600/IMG_6297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZz5RIAUAOFuEKaEzTP1n3OobZxRjfHQYLzkjqIdswip0XEL8ycpmgg6c-lnd-oGEOt3YqjvpfZ_zXlp8mxx78c3qTp0kELMmYvWBfZqOFl11XuKIMxDC04mFW6OhbeaYLnkh_GnoPR7r/s320/IMG_6297.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">getting sucked into a fascinator at Peacock Room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"We *like* this headband," my sister began, "it's really pretty, we just feel like it <i>competes</i> with the dr~~"<br />
<br />
"THIS! does not work! With THAT!" Mom broke in loudly. "NOOOOO." <br />
<br />
There's still a surprising amount which has NOT been nailed as of this writing, but tastings have been set up, a visit is around the corner, and somehow it will all come together... I feel the freedom to be excited about it, and also to breathe again.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I returned to one of my favorite yoga classes this morning. I gazed through the glass door and saw a stage in the teacher's spot. Fabric covered, a buddha or two, unlit candles, etc. A coffee mug. Was some kind of retreat happening?<br />
<br />
I paused while signing my name at the counter: "Oh is something different happening?"<br />
<br />
"Some people are better with change than others," the business owner replied, none-too-helpfully.<br />
<br />
I went in and took my normal habit (creature of habit, change-resistant) and murmured the same question to my row mate. "Ohh, there's a flyer out there, I didn't read it." I relayed the interaction I had just had and she snorted. Our instructor walked in, laid her mat out just in front of the huge stage. She had us begin to stretch and noted, "I'm NOT sitting on that. I prefer to be on the ground." Gratifying, all of us stunted, stuck-to-sameness. And what's really so wrong about clinging to a few basic, seemingly solid things, when we all know that even the most basic building blocks -- like sleep -- can be significantly, unceremoniously altered and color all our days? Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-62392744045685819332020-01-07T18:16:00.003-05:002020-10-26T11:08:58.418-04:00Upside: No Need for Operation of Heavy Machinery, or Solving Calculus Problems<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGwuXWhYlLGwRIpZF4cgb8GpCxPBVrrA4G_Qwtg5c-fr4d26vHF2yEwQCm0OQYExJ6e1FiOuKTkKZQbmzEclDAjKAoTZFaoX84UVb2afI3cjBn8Y_kmA4KiTeX1pCoY_YSMbb8a-IQyOl/s1600/dal_A6125.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1167" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGwuXWhYlLGwRIpZF4cgb8GpCxPBVrrA4G_Qwtg5c-fr4d26vHF2yEwQCm0OQYExJ6e1FiOuKTkKZQbmzEclDAjKAoTZFaoX84UVb2afI3cjBn8Y_kmA4KiTeX1pCoY_YSMbb8a-IQyOl/s320/dal_A6125.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Next Card Linocut Design</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well Hello, 2020. You don't look so good to me, though aside from the larger scope of tremendous issues in our country, and devastating continental wildfires, I blame this outlook on a severe lack of sleep. For over a month now, 6 out of 7 sleep nights involve me suddenly waking up between 2:30-4, and then remaining awake until 5:30/6/or when the little one "wakes" us up around 7.<br />
<br />
Usually if I have one night of poor sleep (read: 6 hours or less), my stomach hurts, my head hurts, and I'm a bit cantankerous; and really just try to get through the following day, chalk it up as a loss. But jeezus, all of these days can't be losses. This time period involved travel to Colorado for a fairytale wedding, family holidays in Pennsylvania, and canceled yoga, work outs, and the daily lessening of expectation. Is this my new reality? The insomnia is different than it had been -- it's not a matter of mind racing and worry. It's just a laying there, alert, without the wish to be so. All say that aging screws up your sleep. Before 50, though? I can't see dealing with this for another 30-40 years. I have cut down caffeine, alcohol; become more stringent about screen time before bedtime. Last night for variety I rose to putter: dishes, vinegar steam, WTF podcast with Brad Pitt & Leonardo Dicaprio. And THEN went back to bed for more quality sleeplessness. A half hour's reprieve -- ending with a very talkative alarm. The front half of my head is a mass of dull pain; I think of a rock ledge, on the verge of sliding off. I'm beyond frustrated.<br />
<br />
People try to help. My Mom, who doesn't track most conversations at this point (in equal parts due to partial deafness and being 91) says: "YOU HAVE SOMETHING PSYCHOLOGICAL WHICH YOU HAVEN'T DEALT WITH." And I get that position, except there's no ruminating, and the only developing anxiety that this is the new normal, which is horrible to contemplate. I get that this is small potatoes in the scheme of things, but on a daily functioning level, this is so difficult.<br />
<br />
A couple more avenues I can explore and the other hold-out hope is the knowledge that over and over and over again, one's body does strange things, which appear mysteriously, and then disappear in the same manner. SUDDEN PAIN UNDERNEATH THE SHOULDER BLADE, AFFECTING ALL MOVEMENT! Persistent, solid pain, affecting 85% of movement. One day, two days, three days, four. Fifth? All hunky dory, what problem, there's no problem! It feels too wishful, to hope it'll pan out like so. But any hope is good hope, right? Life is pretty darn good otherwise. Good and loving and aggravating and absurd. Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-5365203109774311622019-11-11T09:30:00.000-05:002019-11-13T13:58:40.955-05:00These Are the Songs of Our Lives<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihPi9ixYUMy6as4gk6famq0lB55lScHKnA0jJ7SkE6yVWftlTxnYkT6QITddwCJDmAsz9ujF6Fb-BElBsOMe4-ttRrL24MMB6OCTvYDPJ0Ap7ZYwPJYLxGxPPLeGAv8PwagTgUpe9ohiVS/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-10-30+at+10.24.03+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="432" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihPi9ixYUMy6as4gk6famq0lB55lScHKnA0jJ7SkE6yVWftlTxnYkT6QITddwCJDmAsz9ujF6Fb-BElBsOMe4-ttRrL24MMB6OCTvYDPJ0Ap7ZYwPJYLxGxPPLeGAv8PwagTgUpe9ohiVS/s200/Screen+Shot+2019-10-30+at+10.24.03+AM.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dory singing/speaking whale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Intermittent weird sleeping and nightmares have continued for the child over the past few days, but also lots of impromptu singing. Primarily of the mundane narrative kind: the decision to go for all-unicorn attire (but NO unisocks, as one DOES NOT HAVE THEM, ooooooooooooonly YEEEEEELLLLLOOOOOOW -- so that will have to do*), the rejection of toast, followed by the louder insistence of avocado toast**; later, the demand for a snack laid out, whilst one's mother showers. The barest suggestion of a tune loops in and out -- up and down and over -- and the loudness is similarly variable, as she tramps from one room to the next, leaping from the much abused footstool, crashing into a doorway (which is then depicted in the next doleful song). <br />
<br />
I cut up some strawberries, leave them on her craft table; and then am sucked in by emails before the shower. She swans into the kitchen area, to sing:<br />
<br />
"I willllllll not eaaaaaaaaaaaaat those strawBERRRRRRRRRIEEEEEEES even-though-they-match-what-I'm-wearing...I willlllll not eaaaaaaaaEEEEEaaaaaat them~~"<br />
<br />
I glower at my laptop and join her, singing: "BuuuuuuUUUUUUuuuut, I have CUUUUUUUUt them FOR YOUUUUUUUUU for SNACCCCCK~~"<br />
<br />
"I can TELLLLLLLLL they are NOT SWEEEEEEEEET, so no-no-nooooooo!~~"<br />
<br />
"You do not knoooowwww some-are-sweeter-than-others, you have to Tassssssssssste them~"<br />
<br />
"No, and, noooooo! They are too-harrrrrrd-to-be-sweeeeeeeet~~" and she swoops the wings of her cape dramatically and twirls from the room, this time managing to avoid all doorways.<br />
<br />
And then eventually the (barely) crooning gave way to being a frog, which made getting ready for anything a real hassle, since everything must be leapt to and vocabulary was limited to ribbit ribbit, and I really don't see how parents with multiple young children get anywhere/get anything done/retain sanity.<br />
<br />
But! Speaking of music, we started dropping in on a morning music session held at her preschool. This has been great -- more little tastes of culture, breaks up one of our days without school, and I get to watch her classmates. This Monday, we arrived later, minutes before snack time. A grown up opened the door, carrying two stainless steel bowls, one with dried mango, the other with popcorn. "SNAAAAAACKKKK!!" a couple kids shouted, and several kids bee-lined it to kiddie seats at the long table. Others kept playing at the water table, or clay table, or with dolls. My daughter took her place and they collectively navigated serving/sharing/table manners. One of the teachers passed a boy seated at the table, "Hey, nice haircut."<br />
<br />
"I HAD!" piped up the next boy, "I HAD! a haircut one time. And I came to school the next day! and I LIKED IT THE NEXT DAY!" Kids chorused about Zoey & Joey, the kids haircut chain that seems ridiculous until you have a young child.<br />
<br />
"Where I go, they <i>have a rollercoaster--"</i><br />
<br />
<i>"</i>Me, too, yeah! And you sit in a car<i>-"</i><br />
<br />
<i>"*</i>I* sit in a car!-" <i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My kid sits in silence. I try to stay out of it, but I can't always manage this. "Hey, that's also the place *you* go to, right?"<br />
<br />
<i></i>
She sits there. And then says, grimly: "My Mom. says I can only have ONE lollipop.***"<br />
<br />
The apple-cheeked boy across from her is astonished: "My Mom <i>SAYS THE SAME THING!!!!!" </i>Do the Moms know each other? Are they conspiring? The grown ups in the room snicker.<br />
<br />
At that, talk shifts abruptly. A boy announces: "152 is the biggest number in the world!"<br />
<br />
"Or two. Maybe two," offers another.<br />
<br />
"A thousand and one," adds my daughter. I pop over to a nearby (so very low) table to jot down some of their comments. "hey Mom!" I look up. "You're doing good, Mom!" I give her a thumbs up. The days that we both visit her classroom aren't necessarily easier than others -- but she does seem more affectionate, sweeter with me. I suspect she likes that I have entered her world for a bit, in a different way. <br />
<br />
* no clue on the unicorn-yellow connection<br />
** which will not occur, yes we have no avocados<br />
*** that they hand out at the end, right.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-50344019330332700502019-11-08T12:16:00.000-05:002019-11-08T12:27:48.875-05:00Skeletons, MegaShoulders, and Moody Stares at Detroit Institute of Art<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYdgNpWpG481TpX38qGQwSE8egwAbbxPlGQL9bI99496pY4ygFLjOobT6CrSBMuogVIrlqwNgOgXCY9iBtxL8ZzbFxjCPuRAQMiGpiJGMJQAu4oPR5ttEjZZPonh7T7y86eCxEhwp6mZQ/s1600/IMG_5533.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYdgNpWpG481TpX38qGQwSE8egwAbbxPlGQL9bI99496pY4ygFLjOobT6CrSBMuogVIrlqwNgOgXCY9iBtxL8ZzbFxjCPuRAQMiGpiJGMJQAu4oPR5ttEjZZPonh7T7y86eCxEhwp6mZQ/s200/IMG_5533.JPG" width="150" /></a>We woke up to snowfall this morning. "I WILL NEED MY SNOW BOOTS!" our child exclaimed, as she lifted the deck curtain and saw the thinnest dusting on the leaf piles mouldering on our deck. I scooted her along, for today was special: her first FULL day of preschool and I was determined for us both to get as much out of it as possible. Now we are in the last few minutes of the day before I re-enter rush hour, but I find it's better to start something, even if in the very tiniest way. So, here we are. With the cold and with the cloudy, I need more museum time. I have resolved that I will actually honor this need consistently, going forward. So after a morning appointment, I was on the road to the D.I.A.<br />
<br />
In some ways, the visit served to remind me of things I already knew.<br />
<br />
1. I tend to love a good Parisian bar/cafe scene. The men are smoking, the women are bored, the female attire tends toward the constrictive and frou frou/confectionary.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWI8kc8xPip5CWX2OeKX9YGtdTfGh-goOaK3NZobT274_maPzjX-M53r_0ekHotUW9K51h6TlHEMb10UYt1n8glresJaQD4wSxXopTVKCQLNyBnUcqERHV5FH0C4NqO_hzmdl-VVGn840/s1600/IMG_5511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWI8kc8xPip5CWX2OeKX9YGtdTfGh-goOaK3NZobT274_maPzjX-M53r_0ekHotUW9K51h6TlHEMb10UYt1n8glresJaQD4wSxXopTVKCQLNyBnUcqERHV5FH0C4NqO_hzmdl-VVGn840/s400/IMG_5511.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">detail of Cafe Scene in Paris (1877), Henri Gervex</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfsKZRTEDrQo8TtMjCVeYpQ-SojdD1SGjdhIs7OTbbctpEedlC1zLxdI6gsGhaONRkiBWIYMcJy3itX0PWtVnuucwRINvL3cbpNdNEiLBH4_ZqegPSyEmcofKlzgzcITOcZZnLcZHgLWW/s1600/IMG_5507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfsKZRTEDrQo8TtMjCVeYpQ-SojdD1SGjdhIs7OTbbctpEedlC1zLxdI6gsGhaONRkiBWIYMcJy3itX0PWtVnuucwRINvL3cbpNdNEiLBH4_ZqegPSyEmcofKlzgzcITOcZZnLcZHgLWW/s320/IMG_5507.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Here we have the mysterious right edge, which seems to be rejected
underpainting, but why was it framed to show it? The docent didn't have
an answer, but thought it maybe reflected the artist's wish, "It's
*part* of the painting," but I have trouble buying that. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUWtRpDy7pdoebRN2cH5W9I3hpVBmZaD6zWH-CzP_wX_-t11jQrJ7aXGMpjYAL6y_GOfm-Hqk8fgpxPBS0J_5LFk-QofeqsE67lESKY5Imc_Ao8o5RS7XLZ4AjWM2rhTxE-Ecx1zJkybj/s1600/IMG_5509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUWtRpDy7pdoebRN2cH5W9I3hpVBmZaD6zWH-CzP_wX_-t11jQrJ7aXGMpjYAL6y_GOfm-Hqk8fgpxPBS0J_5LFk-QofeqsE67lESKY5Imc_Ao8o5RS7XLZ4AjWM2rhTxE-Ecx1zJkybj/s320/IMG_5509.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
So many things to love: the veins perfectly visible in this man's hand, the glowing cigar tips, liquid light in the glasses, the satin gloss of fabric and ribbons, the individual pools of isolation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWjf2003PlnC8tGblwdgJKM_mADAanF0WBg6WYP6HYTKY2zu9QX-kvkBLff1gFxsW3lyVUyUp0AlW3urd2M3krylSq8chLGJ2vOYBJJ4q_7amtYzmfFweMGpAFbFhPSzBOSdOZLIVyFMy/s1600/IMG_5510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWjf2003PlnC8tGblwdgJKM_mADAanF0WBg6WYP6HYTKY2zu9QX-kvkBLff1gFxsW3lyVUyUp0AlW3urd2M3krylSq8chLGJ2vOYBJJ4q_7amtYzmfFweMGpAFbFhPSzBOSdOZLIVyFMy/s320/IMG_5510.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painter inclusion: Gervex lighting his pipe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Visit full image <a href="https://www.dia.org/art/collection/object/caf%C3%A9-scene-paris-45816">here</a>.<br />
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2. Portraiture: Degas beats out Renoir<br />
My lack of affinity for Renoir nudes was brought home to me when I
attended a solo exhibit in Philly years ago, but in this "Humble and
Human" exhibit I was faced (hah) with a Renoir portrait next to a Degas.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyc7Nzysf355WOydPo7w5BItZwGB-Mz-jCQej-UZgAdTwmSTlKAzf8Ps5i3hfaPX5ItZM2OXgJ4zhPSLqoYHYJh9eqTPqw1BxAZ3PXdaAWyQS7bZgE8pGsLm9oxcgaPj0-loMT7xZO7zsI/s1600/renori_5520.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyc7Nzysf355WOydPo7w5BItZwGB-Mz-jCQej-UZgAdTwmSTlKAzf8Ps5i3hfaPX5ItZM2OXgJ4zhPSLqoYHYJh9eqTPqw1BxAZ3PXdaAWyQS7bZgE8pGsLm9oxcgaPj0-loMT7xZO7zsI/s320/renori_5520.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woman in an Armchair (1874), Renoir </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisTT1dfObHyRE_jRhnoZ4VkejSIZolWqUyakZ4Ln_0JpPVVwDE3wgQBPuqZkzcCdfiXc2hkqeLcXxzfzx8oOReFTiy0BUhfZmxfZgJu667xr6GGQJWOd1mvSasZ-s1wm4yx8kIMRj9hLu2/s1600/degas_5516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisTT1dfObHyRE_jRhnoZ4VkejSIZolWqUyakZ4Ln_0JpPVVwDE3wgQBPuqZkzcCdfiXc2hkqeLcXxzfzx8oOReFTiy0BUhfZmxfZgJu667xr6GGQJWOd1mvSasZ-s1wm4yx8kIMRj9hLu2/s320/degas_5516.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of a Woman (1877), Degas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I like that Renoir's woman seems to have some kind of interior life, but there's still too much peaches-and-cream to the skin. Degas' portrait draws me in so much more, though what can we really tell about her? She is half in darkness, the shadows render her face almost sooty and the coloring is splashy, on the darker end. I love the richness of the color, the strange brightness and sudden detail of the flowers inexplicably behind and above her. Somehow I believe in a richer interior life for this sitter, and a more storied life. Perhaps the clothing plays into it. I'm not bothered by the artfully drooping chemise, but it does play up the appeal of the subject -- and positions her appeal at the forefront. So I guess I'd offer the Renoir woman a cardigan (she'd probably ignore me, sigh loudly, or insist she was fine without) and ask the Degas sitter if she'd like some tea or something stronger, and see if I could draw out some stories.<br />
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3. I still don't care about Seurat or Pissarro. What else to say? They are not hurt for my lack of care. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw0MR8dh2f1H-DHxDOc5rV-xnw5scllsVv_UYXxYXUCSojZK1j7ID6PGYue8xJBtUvErvCj_W5SiDD1KJR789SXxTAd70iC6hPq7oOWUkL-9MpwZ9FxDnacCz_5T0aVK8SjyFKA5bQdCN/s1600/IMG_5524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw0MR8dh2f1H-DHxDOc5rV-xnw5scllsVv_UYXxYXUCSojZK1j7ID6PGYue8xJBtUvErvCj_W5SiDD1KJR789SXxTAd70iC6hPq7oOWUkL-9MpwZ9FxDnacCz_5T0aVK8SjyFKA5bQdCN/s320/IMG_5524.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of Postman Roulin (1877) Van Gogh</td></tr>
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4. I love any of Van Gogh's paintings of the Postman Joseph Roulin. I don't think I can unpack it more than this, because what I like about it is what I -- and most people I think-- like about his work -- the heavy, energizing paint strokes, the vibrant colors, representations that are realistic enough to make us believe, but which then take us beyond, into a different realm. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKtiHM5GRf-CMyYHRDXD4VlGCXnBqULcer3O1ch6iA_KK5wjI7c-qdx8g3wQM2B6F8qR2IuprtzTtqPdxAUj7vqwDH-UVN4Uzdif5JtZbrERael3fToHB87SFUjPRrPLdqJF0azlM1vgR/s1600/IMG_5526.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKtiHM5GRf-CMyYHRDXD4VlGCXnBqULcer3O1ch6iA_KK5wjI7c-qdx8g3wQM2B6F8qR2IuprtzTtqPdxAUj7vqwDH-UVN4Uzdif5JtZbrERael3fToHB87SFUjPRrPLdqJF0azlM1vgR/s320/IMG_5526.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delicious hand-painted frame</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgea0s3dgJpbHSubZnzIkUmDRZNdGQiVq3xmISly58Q_2wV9wECVn-iJGMNIqvgEUWkFopDev-C1CkRGr88fxvuphqX2YE05Dqw5xrw-3mQo0HfziHPKsnKlVzidamwEmP-Gpa09BfswcOB/s1600/IMG_5525.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgea0s3dgJpbHSubZnzIkUmDRZNdGQiVq3xmISly58Q_2wV9wECVn-iJGMNIqvgEUWkFopDev-C1CkRGr88fxvuphqX2YE05Dqw5xrw-3mQo0HfziHPKsnKlVzidamwEmP-Gpa09BfswcOB/s320/IMG_5525.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">And ALSO</span> (one of my 4 yo.'s favorite phrases, currently): "You watch any Sponge Bob Square Pants lately? Because he's on there," The security guard gestures to Roulin. "On an episode. They have him mouthing, '<i>Sponge Bob Square Pants!</i> <i>Sponge Bob Square Pants!</i> ' It's pretty funny...I spend a lot of time in here" With that, the guard recedes back to the far wall. And so it goes.<br />
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5. The annual Ofrendas exhibit is always worth a visit. And this exhibit is gaining in popularity! It used to only last 3 days and now they keep it up for almost a couple weeks -- closes on November 10th. This year brought several ofrendas honoring migrants, or those who have lost their lives attempting to get here. <br />
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"Desconcido" by Joanne Coutts was especially cohesive in its vision of three migrants traversing the desert. The description card reported 1,237 migrant deaths have been recorded in Arizona since 2011. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Refugee Ancestors: Descendants United in Friendship</td></tr>
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Note the train tracks: a little train rounds the tracks, with engine and cars labeled "A Better Life," "Oportunidad," and "Safety." <br />
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Touching tribute to Dr. Christopher Pfaendtner, who died at 60</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christopher: the Healer, by Patricia Pfaendtner</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBHs5N9iBPRlQ9hOTGQZcFGP0Cz33hixEpY_a0ETR9w8TApiMbCV-2tEGhWIbJxFjP0V5mQ1-YKZjqkNJnr5ubNqOIITgdzTHNjcGybntqtb31jnMxLReFCi-nwN96EoXmaiaT4Ggl3cF/s1600/IMG_5550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBHs5N9iBPRlQ9hOTGQZcFGP0Cz33hixEpY_a0ETR9w8TApiMbCV-2tEGhWIbJxFjP0V5mQ1-YKZjqkNJnr5ubNqOIITgdzTHNjcGybntqtb31jnMxLReFCi-nwN96EoXmaiaT4Ggl3cF/s320/IMG_5550.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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****Unexpected Bonus****</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIUn4O0yBOm1Yly3hkocGvvED6y54HYd9nws8o33LB1qPkEhQpxfJ2ItIdKwno-rEbHrwUFAiLEbYMivfauaX0PY96MhcqvYNxqjF6KASFjt5PMBf6tvpivCsYKLGD6on0AlzbALkwqPaf/s1600/IMG_5571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIUn4O0yBOm1Yly3hkocGvvED6y54HYd9nws8o33LB1qPkEhQpxfJ2ItIdKwno-rEbHrwUFAiLEbYMivfauaX0PY96MhcqvYNxqjF6KASFjt5PMBf6tvpivCsYKLGD6on0AlzbALkwqPaf/s400/IMG_5571.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gentleman, Possibly of the Trivulzio Family, late 1400s </td></tr>
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I have passed this by for years. Exceptional artistry by Bernardino dei Conti, yes (if, indeed it's by him). European paintings of privileged white men, yawn. But, wait~~! It stopped me in my tracks today. Why does it feel so modern, so fresh? I envisioned it in my vaulted cieling-ed, glass and metal skyscraper flat, himself surveying a future domain from one very white wall. New sharp frame minimal enough for him to step out beyond it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoVWTM3m-lanVZuAfxm2q58gsFTcISmcM6cYYL69kmgNkj2MkWFfHx-3pQ3BG76-sjtJrb0vzy6kT4nQUeUmALhON_cdJLr_gv2FHDXRN4bXSNHuMvwr1yQrzL7nftPy2kIwX3K1PFMu2/s1600/IMG_5573.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoVWTM3m-lanVZuAfxm2q58gsFTcISmcM6cYYL69kmgNkj2MkWFfHx-3pQ3BG76-sjtJrb0vzy6kT4nQUeUmALhON_cdJLr_gv2FHDXRN4bXSNHuMvwr1yQrzL7nftPy2kIwX3K1PFMu2/s320/IMG_5573.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
I love his eye sockets and nose, the set of his mouth. The ridiculous out-sized shoulders and heraldic red & gold of his...tunic? What was that even called? The delicate folds of white against his skin. The gentleman's gloves which looked suitable for hawk landings, though this is probably far from true. I love that the background is so heavily painted and textured it takes on a different sheen than the rest of it. And more than all of it, I love how indifference can morph into delight, with repeated exposure to any art, how resonance ebbs and flows, highlighting the variability of our being.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFICQ3JJjtefJmMqLPDKreKqLc_d9AsMbRHierP11N1pjlaqhJQR6JoMJkKj3bsFcQyiFmp-4NDP5kAU-wIN9CPTrCnLOQu0fNShhFYCDW22wrhgGye3v5cukaungue7GgM5gGwkxGTgin/s1600/IMG_5576.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFICQ3JJjtefJmMqLPDKreKqLc_d9AsMbRHierP11N1pjlaqhJQR6JoMJkKj3bsFcQyiFmp-4NDP5kAU-wIN9CPTrCnLOQu0fNShhFYCDW22wrhgGye3v5cukaungue7GgM5gGwkxGTgin/s320/IMG_5576.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-9817249249971505122019-10-10T23:18:00.002-04:002019-10-10T23:18:29.219-04:00A Slow Start Builds to PRINTMAKING! BONANZA! this weekend<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYttXpQuUhd_hXp5bKKnlhMXBOtpmdMDjS_Nemv-kBuCx-G3quNPvZea068JDKd8UwSwIiU439gcgi3KdUPSorRK9-zmUCbBrZWirf69z2uaUOyCFrdPIniq_g078A1A8e285pnXN2eUxj/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-10-10+at+11.13.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="649" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYttXpQuUhd_hXp5bKKnlhMXBOtpmdMDjS_Nemv-kBuCx-G3quNPvZea068JDKd8UwSwIiU439gcgi3KdUPSorRK9-zmUCbBrZWirf69z2uaUOyCFrdPIniq_g078A1A8e285pnXN2eUxj/s200/Screen+Shot+2019-10-10+at+11.13.17+PM.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">current mood, courtesy <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g309262-d1168718-i60145295-Sloth_Sanctuary_of_Costa_Rica-Cahuita_Province_of_Limon.html">TripAdvisor</a></td></tr>
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I suspect I'm in the middle of a post-holiday slump. I'd like to nap and snooze and not do much of anything. Which doesn't really jive with reality, but one can dream. Or one *could* dream, were one to rest for more than 20 minutes, at any given point of any day. The time of easy napping has long since left me. Last Sunday was a local art event (<a href="https://www.westsidearthop.com/artists-may-2019">Westside Art Hop</a>, interesting interview with event creator <a href="https://www.wemu.org/post/creativeimpact-take-four-dozen-artists-and-add-16-venues-what-do-you-get-westside-art-hop">here</a>), for which I was a venue organizer -- a happy affair, with a worthy end goal of art promotion and community building. As it often does, the role of "organizer" expanded to fill any available time for a couple weeks. But the event pulled itself together well, Michigan unrolled one of its perfect Fall days, I made some new friends, and sold an encouraging amount of recent card designs.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the first year I took a more serious stab at Holiday
cards (Judeo-Christian). In the past, whenever I trained my sights on a design
for a specific purpose, my brain always faked me out with something appealing
but irrelevant (Christmas, hunh? …What about a hedgehog? Or a
paranoid/appropriately afraid/ armadillo?). But this time, with a little
encouragement, I tried to push through. I came up with some cynical ornaments
giving side-eye, and an utterly dire family bingo; sadly, neither surmounted
their initial roadblocks. Rick shared the germs of ideas for Hanukah cards, two
of which made it to actual production. Between sketches of angels and penguins
with hobby horses, plus the 4 y.o. spitfire, I have been busy since our return
from Pennsylvania at the end of August. </div>
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Some glimpses into design evolution: </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBVJqpFVjeULxJQgKoBMJqhbxCHpEV5i8uO5SlkTGB0QSZhjB4HXsf0_HXKR3CV4qxxBCO9yXrGMOa7R4qAa0KqRKsQtwu7vP-c8A_S8Mdqqpli5gDEML9YXWTzdnpxGhL4KNzwwTuVLE/s1600/IMG_5030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBVJqpFVjeULxJQgKoBMJqhbxCHpEV5i8uO5SlkTGB0QSZhjB4HXsf0_HXKR3CV4qxxBCO9yXrGMOa7R4qAa0KqRKsQtwu7vP-c8A_S8Mdqqpli5gDEML9YXWTzdnpxGhL4KNzwwTuVLE/s320/IMG_5030.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">original angel treetopper was mildly babushka-like</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBlCW6w6sXzSLgl7xSAzO1ykkH25KsTsrz2D1IA37wP-VFCkxF2y3BlLOg4J9qyUnFogML8xiBO_p3BLMbB-IuLCNtSNe1N5sNM6RISEM0bt_kFfBi2VSi-0ila7Losg9-oGxsZkghcVX/s1600/IMG_5033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBlCW6w6sXzSLgl7xSAzO1ykkH25KsTsrz2D1IA37wP-VFCkxF2y3BlLOg4J9qyUnFogML8xiBO_p3BLMbB-IuLCNtSNe1N5sNM6RISEM0bt_kFfBi2VSi-0ila7Losg9-oGxsZkghcVX/s320/IMG_5033.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sketch plus foliage</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvQKUHfbi6YZ8aOoD4sG9by0nao80UPvp7-3QPeqBxdcGuCF-Z19ll6w-N6mOqAZMrmpPuSJBqh0rO1AVB_8wvRXkibN2mXqhuqZ6-BnWheaiyz1e1iq3lcFEw0_ZRK8PyrdUae-zMK1k/s1600/IMG_5050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1342" data-original-width="932" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvQKUHfbi6YZ8aOoD4sG9by0nao80UPvp7-3QPeqBxdcGuCF-Z19ll6w-N6mOqAZMrmpPuSJBqh0rO1AVB_8wvRXkibN2mXqhuqZ6-BnWheaiyz1e1iq3lcFEw0_ZRK8PyrdUae-zMK1k/s320/IMG_5050.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I decided to add wing detail to the key block, but left dress details to the color blocks</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxzSprJmDXiMGhyhyGA1AHHYvhzyIDY3mn4iW1pYaYWWtGH8DpCQhlEO5UGioTUAY27-xWk9ibGtq9CPc7WBgN-RvXbn9ZvceBF1MI1raQh82S93NvvzPYfnUpICho9eQHDYQOhPQBWk5/s1600/IMG_5157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxzSprJmDXiMGhyhyGA1AHHYvhzyIDY3mn4iW1pYaYWWtGH8DpCQhlEO5UGioTUAY27-xWk9ibGtq9CPc7WBgN-RvXbn9ZvceBF1MI1raQh82S93NvvzPYfnUpICho9eQHDYQOhPQBWk5/s320/IMG_5157.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">how does a sheep earn its wings? This, I do not know.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNs3LWNrljvAG5DDZ77zZtW2JELsKznUK7EW5z3xpETzP3iiRMWubxkH6m5HoWEAxgrmkz-DvTBmFjG3OmLWufrcQi0E3MdiRdgYmpenCmkZSARv9YEAAvvlO3QbHEvdwSiOagEommwEpy/s1600/IMG_5179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNs3LWNrljvAG5DDZ77zZtW2JELsKznUK7EW5z3xpETzP3iiRMWubxkH6m5HoWEAxgrmkz-DvTBmFjG3OmLWufrcQi0E3MdiRdgYmpenCmkZSARv9YEAAvvlO3QbHEvdwSiOagEommwEpy/s320/IMG_5179.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the backside of the mousie design, on its last color block</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ok6IMEfU3H85Mb-z9Rg5hoKLGCrHUBoj_w0iytiJUahBXP-9fsoBr_DCUZVd_OC2n3MDAGfyhG8j5XoBRzyCkA6IRRhcOD1cLZSfBAHghH8741nFD_mpTuttqAAJ-RT-kzjjXeJv5Rbu/s1600/IMG_5098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1051" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ok6IMEfU3H85Mb-z9Rg5hoKLGCrHUBoj_w0iytiJUahBXP-9fsoBr_DCUZVd_OC2n3MDAGfyhG8j5XoBRzyCkA6IRRhcOD1cLZSfBAHghH8741nFD_mpTuttqAAJ-RT-kzjjXeJv5Rbu/s320/IMG_5098.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More of a classic holiday card, free and swoopy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0hnas3naEZaH1AHuBORTuSnuIHW_A8EnleIEcy_EDQAtTBTnFyZYetYFcOTWTmKeUekVKU2x0ZLVVoYCVdLOaVeI8GUFioZ2XYzdzNyMzeTgqP0OOUogIlezSzWuIlN9Ph29jjnoCzsX/s1600/5FD458AD-8128-41B1-9C68-4E66814719C3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1510" data-original-width="1510" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0hnas3naEZaH1AHuBORTuSnuIHW_A8EnleIEcy_EDQAtTBTnFyZYetYFcOTWTmKeUekVKU2x0ZLVVoYCVdLOaVeI8GUFioZ2XYzdzNyMzeTgqP0OOUogIlezSzWuIlN9Ph29jjnoCzsX/s320/5FD458AD-8128-41B1-9C68-4E66814719C3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two variations, each one printed on three blocks</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4LNWFLXNeGhEJ7mjX2-Gyz64LKkeDjVD2SE1_WLk1u1zWSr-kXG5WRUGt4yVOYEols0d15HTtTu6CKCkgpNbGO0Wats_s5i7Q2_WDk2ROJhWqOZ7JdP7X0GFdB4xji8DrXLCYVYfYG7V/s1600/IMG_5198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4LNWFLXNeGhEJ7mjX2-Gyz64LKkeDjVD2SE1_WLk1u1zWSr-kXG5WRUGt4yVOYEols0d15HTtTu6CKCkgpNbGO0Wats_s5i7Q2_WDk2ROJhWqOZ7JdP7X0GFdB4xji8DrXLCYVYfYG7V/s400/IMG_5198.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Dreidel/Gimel (“Take all the chocolate" side of the
dreidel) card was the surprise hit at Westside Art Hop, along with “Dark &
Stormy.” </div>
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“<i>Holy *!</i>” said one future customer, “<i>It’s the ONLY CLEVER HANUKKAH
CARD EVER</i>!” </div>
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*</div>
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“<i>Right !?!</i>” replied Rick, later that night, “<i>And it’s so
weird. Because we’re such a funny people</i>.”</div>
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So, I’m feeling good about the Hanukkah cards. I have another,
which is still drying in the basement. </div>
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Dark & Stormy: It’s not quite a Halloween card, but it IS a nightmare of our modern life, so I also just printed
this in orange and black.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfa6Px39nYfJAs8NoVPAufdol3FEnI8s62bJK8UgV7wPGEMYAUWkYHgvB8td76pZ5KB6TQopwCBxRULAfSr6nBE0ykpZE9wvJBZo23vtIYHi_gbs0RWmX59Mr9CaQ-Zf9UyUfp9G9z0gq/s1600/pinkarmadillo_4743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfa6Px39nYfJAs8NoVPAufdol3FEnI8s62bJK8UgV7wPGEMYAUWkYHgvB8td76pZ5KB6TQopwCBxRULAfSr6nBE0ykpZE9wvJBZo23vtIYHi_gbs0RWmX59Mr9CaQ-Zf9UyUfp9G9z0gq/s320/pinkarmadillo_4743.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The more books you look in, the more surprises you find</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Otherwise, the Art Hop was good
for a few overheards (nothing outrageous). A professor, gesturing
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">to
the armadillo, said to his colleague, “<i>…Yeah, I’m going to hang that IN MY
LAB</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-- </span>
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</style> though he failed to buy it, alas. I
hovered in the background, wondering what is studied in his lab. A woman walked past wearing a
black tee shirt, with white lettering which I thought Anne (co-author of <a href="https://www.pbs.org/newshour/health/modern-society-worsen-allergies-asthma-ask-amish">this study</a>) would appreciate: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not that Kind of
Doctor</i>.
</div>
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If you missed Westside Art Hop, you have another chance to catch me this Fall, <i>this Saturday </i>at the downtown Ann Arbor Library, at the PRINTING EXTRAVAGANZA known as<a href="https://aadl.org/wayzgoose"> Wayzgoose</a>! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
Printing demos, talks (including the amazing <a href="https://www.biartmuseum.org/event/amos-kennedy-art-talk-film-screening/">Amos Kennedy</a>), and workshops, as well as a bevvy of printmakers, displaying and selling their wares. Come visit!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6W50h79d1D6z5DFPv4cesy2g9WoQA6Ptuo40fYCWxHovM0U8I2qXj-UT28SVO27gpRNCHCZp-fnudj6y9u8Fd_xjVjNItnjl2rdEm7gF9wnsROfyG3_WxeASlIyIU6ST-SHMpXHI9HZh3/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-10-10+at+10.29.18+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="879" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6W50h79d1D6z5DFPv4cesy2g9WoQA6Ptuo40fYCWxHovM0U8I2qXj-UT28SVO27gpRNCHCZp-fnudj6y9u8Fd_xjVjNItnjl2rdEm7gF9wnsROfyG3_WxeASlIyIU6ST-SHMpXHI9HZh3/s400/Screen+Shot+2019-10-10+at+10.29.18+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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</style><br />Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-59478077895774886732019-10-05T21:48:00.000-04:002019-10-05T22:00:44.864-04:00Your Regularly Scheduled Sleep Will Now Be Pre-empted by This 4 Y.O.<span style="font-size: small;">It has been a week of inexplicable night waking, on our daughter's part. Three AM one night, 4:30 the next. She has gotten it in her head that it would be nicer if WE were to wake HER up in the morning, which simply doesn't work, as SHE is the alarm clock. But one morning last week, Rick was up before her (due to an appointment), and murmuring low to her as she woke up, and now she is trying to change the family rhythms. She reminded us a couple times that we could wake her up the next day and we said, ohhh, hmmm, maybe, though you tend to wake up before us~~ which she dismissed. The following day, we awoke to angry crying that we had failed in our alarm clock role. Screaming and gnashing of teeth is obviously unwelcome before coffee. The parents delivered more hard-nosed messages: we would NOT be doing this. She was VERY GOOD at waking US, and this would NOT be happening. Another day. 3 AM: Mommy. Mommy! REMEMBER that you will WAKE ME UP TOMORROW MORNING. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Mommy: It is the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! WE have discussed this. We are NOT waking YOU up in the morning ~~</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">PS Daughter: Mommy! I have to TELL YOU SOMETHING~</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Mommy: When you wake up, you may put on your clothes, or come snuggle with us and one of us will get up with you~~</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">PS: YOU COME TO MY ROOM TOMORROW MORNING AND WAKE ME UP.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Mommy, being Mommy, then took several hours to fall back asleep. Setting one up for a lovely day with diminished patience and waning coping skills.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Next night, 4:30 AM-- wild card!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">PS: Mommy. MOMMY. <i>I HAVE TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Mommy: It's the <i>middle of the night</i>. What's UP?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">PS: My tummy? is rumbling. And my lips are shut.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Mommy: Okay.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">PS: <i>I think there's a cricket in my belly</i></span> <br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Mommy: There is NOT a cricket in your belly! <i>WE LOVE YOU GO BACK TO SLEEP</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">PS: <i>Or a little animal</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Mommy to Daddy: Oh my F'ing G-d</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Daddy to Mommy: I'm goin' in.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">And it was very good he did so, as it became apparent that the cricket anxiety
was somewhat deep -- if not the cricket itself -- and it's harder than you
might think to convince preschoolers of...well, anything. About 98% of the time
they are pretty damn sure that they can walk into any given situation and
inform everyone else of the underlying rules, any weirdo different dimension
exceptions, and how all of it usually leads to them getting a treat to eat.
There were no treats in this case. Luckily her stomach rumbled while he was in
the room.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">PS (whispering): <i>DID YOU HEAR THAT</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Daddy: Yes, and you know? My tummy rumbles A LOT and often sounds like
that. You don't have a cricket in there~~</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">PS (with barely restrained contempt): BUT HOW do YOU know, <i>You're NOT A
DOCTOR </i>(quieter) <i>I need to go to a doctor~~</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Daddy: Because honey, an animal? Or an insect? If it got all the way into
your tummy? It couldn't be alive anymore. It would be dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Remarkably, this seemed to calm her. He soothed her a bit, and she went back
to sleep. And then we all...eventually...went back to sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Next night, the middle: DADDDDDDDDDDY???</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">She had a bad dream, a large crow had tried to eat her and myself and so
there was more soothing needed. Lots of *something* going on with the girl,
which will doubtlessly shake itself out. In the meantime, sleep while the
sleepin's good!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-55752229233986774522019-08-13T16:32:00.002-04:002019-08-13T16:32:15.978-04:00Well, It's Cute on a Four Year Old~~~Life with the 4 year old continues in its chaotic, joyful, histrionic fashion. This weekend the girl and I had a full calendar, mainly with errands and appointments, plus a little social relief. Saturday morning was her first appointment with an allergist, as directed by her primary doctor -- I was mildly concerned with how resistant she would be to allowing the scratch tests -- but she came through that part just fine -- laid on her belly, then propped herself up to marker in a little notebook. "<i>They will open the door and think I am a boy because I have no shirt on! I will surprise them</i>." I jinx things by sending Rick a text with her coloring, "All going well at the allergist!" At which point, I colored something differently than she wanted, so she naturally lobbed a marker at me, and demanded "YOU FIX IT <b>RIGHT NOW</b>!" which also failed to yield the desired results. I confiscated the markers and notebook and now she tried to hit me and wailed. So crying sounds came from our room after all, though not from a scratch test. Upside: no allergies! So far, mostly good.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9iVM3Z5sBDnJ1oSEy7K1oJkMA8cA6IFDEtGyAMnSXv2D9wLegPfI9zidYCkjL6gelqxF2OTaR_-yeuWIvVZzh84sn7w7iIrDPe_33DhqmefrGSi83lYnRPdqLr0A3DIKtZPZOo_DA-zx_/s1600/Celie+El+Harissa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1584" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9iVM3Z5sBDnJ1oSEy7K1oJkMA8cA6IFDEtGyAMnSXv2D9wLegPfI9zidYCkjL6gelqxF2OTaR_-yeuWIvVZzh84sn7w7iIrDPe_33DhqmefrGSi83lYnRPdqLr0A3DIKtZPZOo_DA-zx_/s320/Celie+El+Harissa.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prior waiting at a different locale, favorite El Harissa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A long day ahead, so we tried out the nearby Golden Egg diner. Classic, bustling, chrome and old vinyl. I allowed her a small chocolate milk, and that certainly focused her for a bit. Then she crumpled a teensy piece of paper straw wrapper into a "worm," and we played baby/mommy caterpillar for awhile. We were both tiring of the new game, and she tried halfheartedly to peel open several jelly servings (thwarted); the older woman across the aisle who periodically tried to engage the preschooler said:"You have been waiting A LONG TIME for your FOOD!"<br />
<br />
PS*: ....yeah, SO. LONG!<br />
<br />
Me (internal): Not really helpful to point it out, thanks~<br />
<br />
Woman: WHAT are YOU going to eat!!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUR-0Tv9uJSkf1PlmqqPTGMvr7jxdA_r0xbQgIDPD4k_YSCbrh39mCDrgphzOdccFcAizwKWZurTF9MO9GywuqJwz0rCRVMiVyHq9A7PnpqEnmCwyq78hlZqglI9sSnG6YgZ0trGHptn6k/s1600/Celie+at+El+Harissa+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUR-0Tv9uJSkf1PlmqqPTGMvr7jxdA_r0xbQgIDPD4k_YSCbrh39mCDrgphzOdccFcAizwKWZurTF9MO9GywuqJwz0rCRVMiVyHq9A7PnpqEnmCwyq78hlZqglI9sSnG6YgZ0trGHptn6k/s320/Celie+at+El+Harissa+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brain melting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
PS: [ticks off food items, before turning to me] <i>WHY do we have to wait SO LONG, it has been FOREVER </i>[drapes herself dramatically across the tabletop].<br />
<br />
Me: Yes, we have been waiting a while, but it's really busy, you can see them working in the kitchen and they're also making food for people who are just coming in to pick up food~~<br />
<br />
I make eye contact with the waitress, raise my eyebrows, and she returns my gaze. She's clearly an experienced waitress, so I feel confident she knows the questioning look likely translates into "where's our food?" Either it's just simply taking a bit, or she'll follow up. I settle in. My daughter, however, has other plans.<br />
<br />
"Excuse me!" she pipes up in her far-reaching little girl voice. "Excuse me!" The waitress turns around and bends down to her, with a humoring a face.<br />
<br />
"<i>We have been waiting so long for our food that I have begun to worry you are not focusing on us.</i>" I bang my forehead on the table in an effort to hide my guffaw and the waitress also adjusts her face not to smirk. Her delivery is smooth, without pause. Well, she says, she will go check on our food. As luck would have it, the order has just come out, and our server delivers the food with a flourish:<br />
<br />
"Here we are. Are you still worried~~?"<br />
<br />
"No..." She dimples and eyes her meal. <br />
<br />
"So, how old ARE you?"<br />
<br />
"I am four," says the demanding one. Or she holds up her fingers.<br />
<br />
"You know, you are VERY well spoken for four years old"<br />
<br />
"I know," she says, digging into her bacon.<br />
<br />
Following this exchange, the waitress was initially quite friendly, but then she cooled. I suspect she decided my daughter was simply parroting something I said. Had I not had *this child*, I imagine I would have come to the same conclusion. I felt embarrassed, but what can you do? This is merely the first
decade of emotional hot potato -- lobbing embarrassment back and forth, all in the family. <br />
<br />
*PS= preschooler<br />
<br />Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-72256117249220888942019-08-02T13:39:00.003-04:002019-08-02T13:39:27.799-04:00Just Add WaterLaaaa-di-da, I've been spending my mornings poolside. A slight breeze ripples the water, the sun urges me to just layyyyy back and clooooose my eyes. True, it's only half an hour, but pool time is like beach time -- slower, divorced from life*-- a respite, however long. Also true, the air is filled with squealing, shouting. Some wailing, or, at the very least, performative hitched breathing. But the wailing is not yours, it does not belong to you: breathe in, let it float away, as it will. From a distance, one can murmur, "<i>Ahh poor thing, he's having a *hard* morning</i>" and nestle against the vinyl lounge chair. I'm happy to say my preschooler's also enjoying her swim lessons. She bobs up, proudly floating with her foam barbells and gives me a cartoony thumbs up. She is convinced she can already swim now ("I'M A <b>GREAT</b> SWIMMER!) -- she *can't* -- which is a handy reminder for continued vigilance around the water.<br />
<br />
The weather has been beautiful this week, though often a touch chilly in the mornings, which has helped with transitioning her from the pool and back into the car (damn transitions, so tricky). A young "tadpoles" class has coincided with our daughter's individual lessons, so I get to watch the parents dipping their mostly happy toddlers up-and-down up-and-down into the very shallow section, with much clapping and wide eyed encouragement. A little curlyheaded girl -- the same size, but probably two years younger -- than my daughter is intent on running away in an endearing-if-you're-not-involved fashion; the grandmother in pursuit says, "You want an extra one? You can have her for the day, no charge!" We laugh and she scoops her up in a dripping, giggling,wrestling bundle.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, as my daughter drags her towel slowly along the wet ground, and I trip over my feet, trying to herd her toward the locker rooms, I hear the same woman noting to her older charge: "No, I do NOT need to be yelled at again~~" I make some kind of sympathetic noise with raised eyebrows, because, I, as well, do NOT need to be yelled at again. And the shorter set do not seem hampered by us explaining this. And yet, we must start somewhere. We try not to return the yelling. We round the corner into the pre-timed showers. A different woman lathers and says grimly: "If you yell at me one more time, I'm not taking you to the library." The wet girls look indifferent, or bemused. They will most certainly yell again. The showers are short, the day is long. And for the mothers, it will most likely be longer without the library trip, but it's hard to balance it all. These interactions were oddly comforting. It is a loud time. It is a Summer of Yelling. <br />
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Several minutes later, in a move one only expects in a sitcom, the first woman pulls next to me on the road and rolls her window down. With the windows down, one hears a loop of hoarse endurance bellowing. The older brother, who has been chill through everything, stares straight ahead. Bright and cheery: "Offer still stands!" Oh, how I like her.<br />
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"She was at the pool," my daughter informs me. <br />
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"Sure, just lob her through the windows!" We laugh and roll up our windows, my daughter wrinkles her brow, and off we drive. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*especially if you dropped your phone in the car, in your mad dash over </span>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-33577144684220306612019-07-19T10:14:00.003-04:002019-07-19T10:14:39.148-04:00Ann Arbor Art Fair Day One: Old Friends, New Friends, Bears and Down Pours"I am READY for my SHOWER!" said the 4 year old, appearing naked and in her helpful guise*, as I attempted to wrench my head from my pillow. I primed her last night that we would be doing things a bit differently today: no lollygagging, but straight from bed to shower, to breakfast table**, and off to an early start at her preschool.<br />
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"I AM GOING TO BE AWAY FROM YOU ALL DAY TODAY," she announced experimentally. I agreed, glancing at her through the rear view mirror: was the veiled tone was one of pride or worry? "So. WHY am I going in the MORNING, when you always...APPRECIATE the afternoons?" I often love the feeling of <i>active translation</i> occurring in conversations with her. It was true, she normally goes in the afternoon, but what lead her to choose and emphasize <i>appreciate</i>? I told her I would be going to see the Art Fair all day and I would be walking A LOT and it would be <i>hot; </i>and that I was going to meet my friend Stephen's twin Kevin, so we could enjoy the art fair, while thinking about Stephen (see my last blog post, if confused).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixe95Nb55LQLd2fwHg2vrJSLPQangJ7r8uVuDDPOg9rH5jQnae-ds_hxq89WeJtg9wtgi-oTjmAk97hy8Mgn_WEMaplxZCHW9SUnAV2YWJViny3e6YyW7_VbB4P5zpPALz4O-6jr42h5p1/s1600/IMG_4358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixe95Nb55LQLd2fwHg2vrJSLPQangJ7r8uVuDDPOg9rH5jQnae-ds_hxq89WeJtg9wtgi-oTjmAk97hy8Mgn_WEMaplxZCHW9SUnAV2YWJViny3e6YyW7_VbB4P5zpPALz4O-6jr42h5p1/s400/IMG_4358.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Kevin Kerr, before the crowds descend</td></tr>
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Meeting at <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ignatius_hats/">Ignatius Hats</a>
was perfect, as Stephen has brought literally hundreds of friends to
meet the Virginian millinery team of Joseph Ignatius Creegan and<i> </i><span class="s1">Rod
Givens. My Ignatius purchases predate my friendship with Stephen, but I
have several mutual friends who own their hats at least partially due
to his encouragement. If you like hats at all, it's pretty difficult to
not just try a couple on, and then of course, take some incriminating
photos. "You'll buy one, though right," urges Darcy, as if it's the only
decent course of action. "You know, <i>in honor</i>~~"*** She wears her
vintage Ignatius hat, and it feels more organic, less cartoony on her,
as it melds with her personality. I make no promises, as there is much
to see in the next few days, and <i>really</i>, Stephen would approve of
any art purchase I had really committed to. Which is not to say that he
would agree with my taste, but yes, supporting fellow artists and
surrounding one's self with visual fuel. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TtLOcOxeXXuN_Q8MhnYgiH4wynFQYg6_MhU6B7Nw8JlcHBheC2Ttyw9fgVjzHTXXH2_LK0r1tq-SsYJgbYCYvVGLfnhH4uKkRaQRzQaArQOouA0vsictimEhx2o8vNGwYOm3X8CL-jPM/s1600/IMG_4317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TtLOcOxeXXuN_Q8MhnYgiH4wynFQYg6_MhU6B7Nw8JlcHBheC2Ttyw9fgVjzHTXXH2_LK0r1tq-SsYJgbYCYvVGLfnhH4uKkRaQRzQaArQOouA0vsictimEhx2o8vNGwYOm3X8CL-jPM/s400/IMG_4317.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">with ceramicist & printmaker Darcy Bowden</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fNd2rlLB9Tz2KbkdQHrYdyDb8Pmj0d3Y-E5DOdQoCNp3ODRbgU1J49L0iCG_zwxoYYJZRFq4lKzhzv4AQD2PqcWi1vtJ2gpJEoq2n442JkIt7y6-HSlTJq6w2B36SlIsOIX-BH1HeBzk/s1600/IMG_4319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fNd2rlLB9Tz2KbkdQHrYdyDb8Pmj0d3Y-E5DOdQoCNp3ODRbgU1J49L0iCG_zwxoYYJZRFq4lKzhzv4AQD2PqcWi1vtJ2gpJEoq2n442JkIt7y6-HSlTJq6w2B36SlIsOIX-BH1HeBzk/s320/IMG_4319.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now 20% more fascinating!...Ahem.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7LMbxP0Gpd5Oclp61uyEg5gAM69cudELgZhwZkZsKrFAzEJT-4BbwMG6QrDVv9Ey4BweYxFRKV1XNGVVTRnigJYrjF1SR1gno8dw30DYuFyaEVpuv1chnJ_Wzt17Uta_FgUApQCMjunV/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-07-19+at+8.40.00+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="565" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7LMbxP0Gpd5Oclp61uyEg5gAM69cudELgZhwZkZsKrFAzEJT-4BbwMG6QrDVv9Ey4BweYxFRKV1XNGVVTRnigJYrjF1SR1gno8dw30DYuFyaEVpuv1chnJ_Wzt17Uta_FgUApQCMjunV/s320/Screen+Shot+2019-07-19+at+8.40.00+AM.png" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What you *hope* to look like in their creations, from their Insta, see below</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic19Pd1h3cCG6BbfnAXKt18I0BDbv8-DkIFU-3CF_18Hj00wEx8Ve8BdQUFPWYQr-XJeGxd-NCsZ3SwRyuoUMVEIfQj0WzLbzLIKF_hcqhxVco35wSFC9QJOjz_uhpaSVT9E-0XCMM1Qfn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-07-19+at+8.40.25+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="362" height="84" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic19Pd1h3cCG6BbfnAXKt18I0BDbv8-DkIFU-3CF_18Hj00wEx8Ve8BdQUFPWYQr-XJeGxd-NCsZ3SwRyuoUMVEIfQj0WzLbzLIKF_hcqhxVco35wSFC9QJOjz_uhpaSVT9E-0XCMM1Qfn/s200/Screen+Shot+2019-07-19+at+8.40.25+AM.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tpDX2O_xhbJUrKGoYQ07a7C6kKjG-bHUkh4tqC7ncLieWXtdThIkjkYG6J0XRZAQ5tcls-5cb7TC7M40HSSpqcspjRJM5yS0lw6Xx_SqmAQfqLQ6lnlUOncdp4P-8lVrrUgcmsyY4KBd/s1600/IMG_4357.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tpDX2O_xhbJUrKGoYQ07a7C6kKjG-bHUkh4tqC7ncLieWXtdThIkjkYG6J0XRZAQ5tcls-5cb7TC7M40HSSpqcspjRJM5yS0lw6Xx_SqmAQfqLQ6lnlUOncdp4P-8lVrrUgcmsyY4KBd/s320/IMG_4357.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...but you may look happier and goofier. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1Wmu4XyvGSodNvk2ZeMqYzDp_JeOR8IuW8p2vKgJRjq6EeFUtDWFA69O4lCPqeTYlcumrFWckT-062tbJ0CoEFFXOTpXUvZcw9r0UYtwyTavqM-kg_PeEWzPRS_yDi20P0W9XMunfpJF/s1600/IMG_4361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1Wmu4XyvGSodNvk2ZeMqYzDp_JeOR8IuW8p2vKgJRjq6EeFUtDWFA69O4lCPqeTYlcumrFWckT-062tbJ0CoEFFXOTpXUvZcw9r0UYtwyTavqM-kg_PeEWzPRS_yDi20P0W9XMunfpJF/s320/IMG_4361.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kevin & I in front of Groover's booth</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Other mutual artist friends arrive and mill around a bit before we go off to explore other booths. We visit some of Stephen's favorite artists, including ceramicist <a href="http://nancygardnerceramics.com/">Nancy Gardner</a>, printmaker <a href="http://nickwroblewski.com/gallery">Nick Wroblewski</a>, and painter Debo Groover. They all greet Kevin warmly, express condolences, and we look at new work. "How many years ago were you featured artist?" he asks Wroblewski, who sighs and murmurs: "Maybe 4 years ago?...Your fame really PEAKS...and then<i> just declines</i>~~" He hangs up a "Keep Your Wits" sticker at one edge of his booth. I have the privilege of meeting more Kerr family members and other retired teachers who taught with Stephen decades ago, and who have gone to the Art Fair with him every year. Kevin speaks of collectors who are at sea, having broadened their collections under Stephen's guidance. </span><br /><span class="s1"></span><br />
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<span class="s1">In between arting, I get little glimpses into Kevin. We have met three times max, but never with an opportunity for substantial exchange. I remember from Stephen that he ran a Dairy Queen for many many years, but otherwise? Hmmmmm. I just hadn't seen him very much. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">And no wonder: he spends 7 months out of every year in the Anna Maria Island, just off the Florida panhandle. "Oh, you'll enjoy this. <a href="https://islandcoffeehaus.com/">The cafe</a> I always go to says 'open at 7,' which really means it opens...<i>whenever. </i>Well I complained enough that they eventually just gave me my own key and said fine, you go when you went to. And so I did, and I open it up, I make coffee, people come in, and I know<i> everything</i> that goes on in the Island. <i>Everything</i>. But only coffee, I don't do the food. <i>Just</i> the coffee." He clearly shares his brother's love of good stories and droll asides. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">And what about Kevin and art creation? He has talent, but not the patience. "<i>If I can do it in 5 minutes or less, I'm good</i>." His next anecdote points to a flow state: he speaks of an old log cabin up north, and being sent out to mow the lawn...and then being called out for not having finished it, much later. "..<i>.But look at these beautiful stars I made out of twigs and branches!...That's what I do.</i>" He shows me a couple of phone shots of recent twig and button constructions. My daughter would A.) be convinced fairies had taken up residence and B.) be compelled to dismantle them all. And then cry about it. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">Elsewhere within the confines of the Original:</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCAU255eeo3X196DTowg4S5uh2WRiSh324tJHvcacOStXT6RZslKIIsh_4fzgk5n0JmzIgp09CIE3t9SM3NEBrJUbARILe54u7DJP6WI3XeW3RuDDxqFFp1njZE3HqfDIaZe-vXNXeHXA/s1600/IMG_4321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCAU255eeo3X196DTowg4S5uh2WRiSh324tJHvcacOStXT6RZslKIIsh_4fzgk5n0JmzIgp09CIE3t9SM3NEBrJUbARILe54u7DJP6WI3XeW3RuDDxqFFp1njZE3HqfDIaZe-vXNXeHXA/s400/IMG_4321.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leonard, posing with the rooster block he carved in Wroblewski's class</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Printmaker <a href="http://stanleyleonardstudio.com/">Stanley Leonard</a> praises Nick Wroblewski and credits him with his ability to register prints -- that is, to accurately match up colors from multiple blocks to create the finished image. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-9_rry7s2vzoj7K6RvAgYC3Pt531hRuFwz8EA8AbKY1TwhC3qz3lDesFMV3qE8UlzfB_eUwKdz7UwkzVkl8yKn28Ys15ucDtdN92ntc1rUVkVld5vxUExz3oQ8LDqTIlSQwhOb_vDfY4/s1600/IMG_4360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-9_rry7s2vzoj7K6RvAgYC3Pt531hRuFwz8EA8AbKY1TwhC3qz3lDesFMV3qE8UlzfB_eUwKdz7UwkzVkl8yKn28Ys15ucDtdN92ntc1rUVkVld5vxUExz3oQ8LDqTIlSQwhOb_vDfY4/s320/IMG_4360.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">obscuring a backyard bear in Stryzinski's booth</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"> We admire the encroaching bear in Dylan Strzynski's <a href="http://www.dylanstrzynski.com/active-in-the-yard-1">"Won't You Be My Neighbor?"</a> painting and he deadpans about his shifting focus: "My [landscape/house] paintings are all kind of <i>lonely. </i>And I was thinking: People like animals. And *I* like animals~~....But it's hard because any time you make a change, a lot of people are like <i>BUT I WANT WHAT YOU <b>WERE</b> DOING" </i>We all do a little sympathetic head bobble ("<i>ehhh, it's a balance</i>~~") All of his pieces have a nice degree of texture to them, but the bear piece is especially satisfying. The bear itself is layered-on tar paper, the picket fence another layer, and staples punctuate the grass. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">Ceramicist Robert Hessler (booth IN267) has a wonderful counting series, all about meditation: each dot is a breath, each dot counted, and the final tally becomes the title of the piece. Whew! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjla3hBLoWRgAO-z2xmnlsa5Ooiw35ioq02l6odo6SvPSutp04dyNL6u93Noe4Qc6B8RSSTIV_hbT3bPy2u7NlJ8rQwMDonsJRzGKGz4FWh9ilmRLvSnWj5bS7BX9tW_DcBXOTyqo2bXQ1v/s1600/IMG_A_4323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="321" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjla3hBLoWRgAO-z2xmnlsa5Ooiw35ioq02l6odo6SvPSutp04dyNL6u93Noe4Qc6B8RSSTIV_hbT3bPy2u7NlJ8rQwMDonsJRzGKGz4FWh9ilmRLvSnWj5bS7BX9tW_DcBXOTyqo2bXQ1v/s400/IMG_A_4323.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ibPYA-5wnJw5drzs0SlCmCo3hwT30yG4MqCzEUeVoCQ6V4nTZBi6fQMS_7B_tksR7PxIE4fszfnrH6-ywNkYTDVC0JE-8dl3wteOdZVetG3mxWRuTwXQ4Yk1zS_CEa22NN2MIz8qPu-q/s1600/IMG_4327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ibPYA-5wnJw5drzs0SlCmCo3hwT30yG4MqCzEUeVoCQ6V4nTZBi6fQMS_7B_tksR7PxIE4fszfnrH6-ywNkYTDVC0JE-8dl3wteOdZVetG3mxWRuTwXQ4Yk1zS_CEa22NN2MIz8qPu-q/s400/IMG_4327.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hessler, sharing one of his tally sheets</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Cp3JRKYFrT-aFzqn12JBJrel2N-yhF3tFNr2pjP_k15WZP-T7ydaTQ09MyogyfsvO9t1g8COwst6EdbinCWes2Q6dug9CXxNK2JJKN_LjXXyTjXvdJeuaPzjdr4tLQeiksNaHFSuvqpH/s1600/IMG_4328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Cp3JRKYFrT-aFzqn12JBJrel2N-yhF3tFNr2pjP_k15WZP-T7ydaTQ09MyogyfsvO9t1g8COwst6EdbinCWes2Q6dug9CXxNK2JJKN_LjXXyTjXvdJeuaPzjdr4tLQeiksNaHFSuvqpH/s400/IMG_4328.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my personal trainer will tell you I can't count to ten, over three reps...</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEielYkUWyjiou8TfF6jwDre-wPqZqsKUdjbW0dXjbJsXGjCZR-Y5cVZlXm-Kp7hKq1LGDx296Y9hUX7ud1H-BoO0H4nfwyViVh-RelzIYDRMQwWTRb1pzI9JasBIFQK0kxVpZpOFvHDR985/s1600/IMG_4325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEielYkUWyjiou8TfF6jwDre-wPqZqsKUdjbW0dXjbJsXGjCZR-Y5cVZlXm-Kp7hKq1LGDx296Y9hUX7ud1H-BoO0H4nfwyViVh-RelzIYDRMQwWTRb1pzI9JasBIFQK0kxVpZpOFvHDR985/s400/IMG_4325.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
So very much more, but another day awaits. Storms threaten and my usual sandals are still soaked from yesterday. Off to catch the bus! Enjoy the Art Fair, Folks! Or avoid the Art Fair, Folks! Either way, Keep Your Wits.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*The helpful guise didn't extend through the meal, wherein she allowed
her banana yogurt to slime back out of her mouth, and directly onto the table,
before explaining:"<i>My body told me to do that</i>."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**there's no separate <i>breakfast</i> table, but maybe I'll invent a <i>nook</i>. With one black pleather banquette curving around a round formica table top. With golden sparkles in it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*** I write that lightly, but I am NOT making light of it. Darcy is serious and if you knew Stephen, you'd know it would be a fitting tribute.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**** You design the poster for the Original fair, and versions of your artwork are artfully plastered across t-shirts, baseball hats, scarves, etc. Monetary prize, as well?</span>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-3663003310163869412019-07-02T16:50:00.002-04:002019-07-02T16:50:24.566-04:00The Art Fair Cometh -- But without its Best Town Crier<span style="font-size: small;">Each Summer, my relationship to the Ann Arbor Art Fair changes a bit. My stamina and crowd patience vary, along with the luxury of meandering time. Still, something in me begins stirring in early July. Before I suss out official websites, prior to reminders of limited wall space & financing, the musing starts. Which favorites will return? Which streets hold surprises, and how long before people resentfully mash into too-small store fronts, waiting for the end of a downpour? </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAagAUyd6UtESwEsNtPS8TK4Ux53dGF-ilInZ7KdLCATalxpkBOElnvRW4LngAUoAsfgC8nG3udK5-AHMqCRTclUR3yyf63nyEED2UR3vxrm08wF9eHaz9pb2NI1dgqxpVWpMVLVXoSZcn/s1600/stephen+kerr.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAagAUyd6UtESwEsNtPS8TK4Ux53dGF-ilInZ7KdLCATalxpkBOElnvRW4LngAUoAsfgC8nG3udK5-AHMqCRTclUR3yyf63nyEED2UR3vxrm08wF9eHaz9pb2NI1dgqxpVWpMVLVXoSZcn/s320/stephen+kerr.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">This year is bittersweet, with the recent passing of Stephen Kerr, beloved arts community supporter, artist & retired art teacher. Ever the champion of the Ann Arbor Street Art Fair -- "<i>the Original,</i>"* one could reliably spot Stephen orbiting the info table/metallic robotic busker or any of the new or returning artist booths. Did you glance at a shirt? Hed readily sell you one. Did you seem too hurried? He'd slow your roll. Otherwise, how could you be sure you'd seen everything worthy of being seen? The name of the game was appreciation. Discernment, yes, but also delight. Wry or wicked humor. Surprise. We always traded the names of artists who excited us. Sometimes Stephen would materialize as I surveyed an artist's work ("Did you know? He puts <i>serial killers </i>in all his <i>cereal bowls, </i>aren't they <i>wonderful?"</i> "Did you know, <i>she</i> has work at MOMA?") At other times, he'd startle me* with a breezy introduction to the artist: "Oh do you know Marian, she's a
<i>writer</i>, I bet she'd write about *<i>you</i>*, she wants more things to write about~~" That's the way he worked: seeking out the joyful, connecting people through that, & spurring people onward. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Stephen appears in a couple of my past art fair posts --> <a href="http://cakelurking.blogspot.com/search?q=stephen+kerr">here</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I never had the pleasure of being taught by him in an "official" capacity, but the (glowing) consensus was that he held you to high standards, helped jog you outside your comfort zone and far, far beyond your own perceived limitations. Stephen's beautiful memorial service was a testament to his, his wife Mary and their family's shared generosity of spirit and love. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The opening poem was read by a grand nephew:</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-wocxrgHhtpYjuQXT8CaHgASrXNQcUo_PsPDzCp9CMIYPy9rbCGy4M0Y2kn1VtgsikTI0Ksrcy1pwzl-vtIJUZY7P45L5b-2biW7FVUZF9MprSwNB-uitKLOUxwaxRg2jA8UjKXfceXu/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-06-27+at+4.58.48+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="321" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-wocxrgHhtpYjuQXT8CaHgASrXNQcUo_PsPDzCp9CMIYPy9rbCGy4M0Y2kn1VtgsikTI0Ksrcy1pwzl-vtIJUZY7P45L5b-2biW7FVUZF9MprSwNB-uitKLOUxwaxRg2jA8UjKXfceXu/s320/Screen+Shot+2019-06-27+at+4.58.48+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55345/when-i-am-gone">https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55345/when-i-am-gone</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Artist <a href="http://www.antieaugallery.com/all-collections">Chris Roberts-Antieau</a>, said:"<i>I know he believed in me
and so I was able to believe in myself</i>." His nieces' tribute opined:"<i>An
ordinary life is heroic in its own way. And that was our Uncle
Stephen...He embraced a life of meaning...didn't drape himself in
ego...He lived a life of good intent</i>." The service underscored the astounding amount just one person can do with a life, and how far it ripples out. To never lose sight of how interconnected we are, to pursue delight & meaning~~! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Kevin, Stephen's twin brother, handed out stickers bearing his motto, which I imagine most of us hear in his voice, as he frequently concluded conversations by uttering it: </span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_JOTpVBpCMjwJLWQpR8XSD644zldU1UAHEmN-dRKZw2-TA4uc6WJk9Z1lVx18fGf7hUcsjw0X9Biyr43U7HU3PraCa6gsXQgma7JXFm58mppbcLVxrZ1en5cixeHcfWKSbriNr8Rs-v4/s1600/keepyourwits.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_JOTpVBpCMjwJLWQpR8XSD644zldU1UAHEmN-dRKZw2-TA4uc6WJk9Z1lVx18fGf7hUcsjw0X9Biyr43U7HU3PraCa6gsXQgma7JXFm58mppbcLVxrZ1en5cixeHcfWKSbriNr8Rs-v4/s320/keepyourwits.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Naturally, this post falls far short of the fabulosity and wonder of Stephen -- and how multifaceted he was. I just know in a few weeks, maybe I'll cross paths with you at the
art fair(s). Seeking out old friends and new. Hoping to be amazed, or
amused. I know when I experience this, the first person I'll want to tell will be
Stephen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*As all fans hasten to add, lest we forget the mammoth
fair is actually four very differently juried fairs.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> **I startle easily. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-40794520427520736972019-05-16T13:29:00.002-04:002019-05-16T13:29:38.415-04:00Rotary Phones, Emily, and Art Hops<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Begging for a plant.</td></tr>
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Last Saturday’s Makers’ Mart in Toledo was the culmination
of incredible hustle & inventory bolstering. A tiring-but-rewarding event,
made infinitely more enjoyable by All Who Stopped By. Thanks, Friends! The
event was sadly under-caffeinated, but the burnished food truck fries and
buttery crab rolls were splendid. People watching, as always, is one of the
best things about any fair; and this did not disappoint, though, what with the
day’s hustle and the passing of a few days, the more deliciously freaky
interactions/overheards have dissolved like dream fragments. </div>
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On the basis of visual entertainment alone, I’d like to
award extra points to the vendors of tiny-cacti, planted in teeny clay pots,
the new owners of which walked about, awkwardly holding their new succulents.
Waiting for friends, cradling a cactus; browsing, one hand held aloft, away
from the body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am quite certain that,
sans packaging, I’d be unable to make it home without crashing the little pot,
or spilling it across an unrelated display, or inadvertently abandoning it in
some murky spot. They were much more confident than I. I envied the guy who
passed by with a medium sized cactus, planted in a retro black table model
rotary phone, spiky leaves arcing out where the number/letters had been. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That </i>was cool. But to commit, I’d still
need a box. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mystifying</td></tr>
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I brought a couple art books and an Emily Dickinson volume
to riffle through, and was quite happy I <br />
did so. A full day of friends,
strangers, new fans and casual dismissal is always a few hours beyond my limits
– best to bring some book friends, for an instant oasis. And when is this NOT a
good idea? This browsing, however, brought with it some unwelcome news:
somewhere along the way, my ability to read and discern meaning from poetry has
diminished. I used to read a LOT of poetry. A LOT. And I don’t think I was a
tool about it – I wasn’t wandering around randomly quoting passages and missing
the substance – but…I don’t know. On Saturday, I picked up Dickinson – read and
re-read – considered death, the bee, captivity – and knew I missed a lot of
each one. Sad little brain, what happened? I eventually ate the aforementioned
fried food and felt better. Still disappointed.</div>
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Fast forward to a quick table break down under lowering
clouds, a peaceful drive home, and a blissful reading bath the next morning, on
Mother’s Day. I drew a bath on the sly and snuck into the tub, since my
daughter would want to clamber in the moment she realized there was bath water
to slosh onto the walls. I steamed and sunk into my water logged copy of Yaa
Gyasi’s Homegoing; ate clementines and drank ice water. Lovely. Midway through,
the child burst in:</div>
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“Oh! You surprised me, I didn’t know you were taking a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bath.” </i>A pause before she shrugged one
arm from a sleeve, announced: “I will JOIN YOU!!” </div>
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I hurriedly said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No,</i>
the water was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too hot</i> for her; I just
wanted to read, not play (“—I will read WITH you!” countered the pre-literate);
I would be out in a little bit~~</div>
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She stopped mid-negotiation. “I didn’t realize you could
DRINK in a bath. I didn’t know you could EAT in a bath!...Next time I’m going
to have a bath WITH A BOOK AND AN ORANGE AND WATER” I was able to scoot her out
while she was all filled with purpose about future bathing options. A good
start to a classic Mother’s Day. See also: breakfast in bed, chocolates and
apricot ruggelah; flowers, and card drawings. All fine, and fine. ‘Course there
were also meltdowns, anguish, and fury much later on in the day. But the start?
Golden.</div>
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What comes next for prints and cards? So glad you asked! I
happily delivered a new batch of cards to Nicola’s Books yesterday, so they
will have a robust Cakeasaurus Prints card inventory for the Summer months. </div>
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Next up, the last show I will do for a while: Westside Art
Hop. If you’re local, this is a really cool art fair/art walk to explore!<br />
<br />
This
Sunday, from 10-5, over 50 artists will display their work across 20 homes and businesses,
across a handful of streets in the Westside of Ann Arbor. I’m excited to be at
Gretchen’s House on 700 Mt. Vernon Ave, along with thirteen other artists. All
participating venues will be marked by two red balloons, plus area signs. Check
here for <a href="https://www.westsidearthop.com/artists-may-2019" target="_blank">list of artists</a> and here’s a handy dandy map:<iframe height="480" src="https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=1cR2w3xe6tzVcBZ8D9cNxsI4WoHsCN1pf" width="640"></iframe> </div>
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No cover and a nice meander! Don’t forget to ask your artist
for a sticker with purchase, to take advantage of the following local deals:</div>
<ul type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Conor O'Neill's - special
reduced rate Art Hop menu</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Washtenaw Dairy - adult size
for the price of a kid size</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Sweetwaters - Free 16 oz coffee
or tea with any food purchase</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Parrish framing - percentage
off of next framing job. </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: small;"> Happy Thursday, All! I hope to see some of you this weekend. </span><ul type="disc">
</ul>
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</style>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-25923876597491922672019-05-10T16:31:00.003-04:002019-05-10T16:31:39.362-04:00Buttercup, Travolta and Gazelle Board a Car to Toledo (--> Maker's Mart, That Is!)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQTEEVmjWqkYwAC-8RXDRjfoJbFsIRsjIu4ZLQxZNiuaZFdM5KZGJn8IVb6pf55btGDwrmLqmo8RYhTEjuXEEjqNO0YJFhykdt0wMW5RvnBlJMKr4pyda8vAEtsg2Chul8sYwgpVYNS-8/s1600/buttercup_travolta_gazelleA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQTEEVmjWqkYwAC-8RXDRjfoJbFsIRsjIu4ZLQxZNiuaZFdM5KZGJn8IVb6pf55btGDwrmLqmo8RYhTEjuXEEjqNO0YJFhykdt0wMW5RvnBlJMKr4pyda8vAEtsg2Chul8sYwgpVYNS-8/s400/buttercup_travolta_gazelleA.jpg" width="400" /></a>It's almost here. It's almost here! For the past month I have been gearing up to sell at Handmade Toledo's Makers Mart and NOW, here we are, one day away! Last year's Winter show boasted a fabulous vendor list, plus ridiculously good grilled cheese and mac-and-cheese balls, so I have high hopes all around for this May show. Please come visit me in the tent adjoining the main hall! Scroll midway down to check out the <a href="http://www.handmadetoledo.com/makers-mart" target="_blank">robust vendor list</a>.<br />
<br />
I'll pack up my car after Rick returns from the first student matinee of his final Mosaic play-with-music, "<a href="https://www.clickondetroit.com/live-in-the-d/mosaic-youth-theatre-transports-audience-from-detroit-to-dakar?fbclid=IwAR0lBIqjRbj9Sr-zqFiOCupNcpA3dOt_KBlwqA-bTr5j6tXW66gtGAhH_Co" target="_blank">Detroit to Dakar</a>," which he also wrote and directed. It officially premieres tomorrow --> tickets for this weekend or next may be purchased <a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/mosaic-youth-theatre-of-detroit-presents-detroit-to-dakar-tickets-50004245043" target="_blank">here</a>. His over-the-top production week coincided with my own intense week, which perforce coincided with a more tearful daughter. Harried fun for all!<br />
<br />
Coming with me: spiffy new handcart, delusional blue footed boobies, improvised card sign bases to replace the *perfect* ones (now 20% bulkier, with uncooked rice!), bullying squirrels, angst-ridden groundhogs, hedgehog stickers, and random art books and Dickinson poems to leaf through on the off-moments.<br />
<br />
Wishing Fellow Artists and all Attendees a Wonderful Show!Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-89783595590879416922019-03-19T16:49:00.002-04:002019-03-21T13:58:38.241-04:00Venn Diagrams FTW Plus Say Goodbye, In Dog<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A couple weeks ago, the girl and I had a
rough patch. It was exhausting and infuriating, and followed close on the heels
of a couple months of trading illness. The collective household was rundown,
pining for Spring, and just a mite peevish. Now, the homefront norm -- at least
with the under 4 y.o. set -- is debate over every possible thing, market
haggling over bedtime variations, selected water glass, cutlery facing the
wrong way; harsh words over block tower aesthetics, the slowness of adults,
furniture climbing constraints, etc. This, we are used to. We get pulled in; or
we skillfully manoeuvre around the verbal roadblocks (“Re-routing,” intones parental
GPS. “Re-routing…re-routing~~”) </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This rough patch, however, delivered us into
different terrain. Without a pause, we had left the suburbs for…What? Off-roading
in the wrong vehicle, with towering bramble hedges, hostile natives, and a high
potential for ambush. To be fair, on my daughter’s end, there’s probably new
construction underlying – and fueling – most behaviors. I DO know that a lot of
our emotions must be listened to and then also grown and shaped by our peers
and elders<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– and ALSO that preschoolers
are often “trying on” emotional ways of being. But it’s disquieting when a
person shorter than a yardstick <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">seems
capable</i> of contempt and menace. In short, one of
the few highpoints from the week was doodling the following Venn diagram: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFFlap7r_sDzt9h-frwxbePlKFsLGM0aBJarD41LBBNv3cqRIGvSsts1Ms4NkISsUKnt2FHw3AKcmgMP1OtEk-Efju11W7e9nSZ4kecf_4NQukIpCASjPFneWQ8g7ZO3ap23FB6AwPPmH/s1600/sociopath_1_3274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1131" data-original-width="1197" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFFlap7r_sDzt9h-frwxbePlKFsLGM0aBJarD41LBBNv3cqRIGvSsts1Ms4NkISsUKnt2FHw3AKcmgMP1OtEk-Efju11W7e9nSZ4kecf_4NQukIpCASjPFneWQ8g7ZO3ap23FB6AwPPmH/s320/sociopath_1_3274.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Our daughter's in the center, right?"</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A brief, inspirational selection:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“If you do not do [X ridiculous thing], I
will take your skin off” </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“No YOU just don’t REMEMBER because I’m
SMARTER THAN YOU” </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Silent, grim plotting [inferred]</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sitting on top of a play structure,
chortling, while the girl she has pushed to the ground cries. Glances
triumphantly at father, as if he will share the moment.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><style>
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--> </style>Disclaimer: We have no kitten.</span><br />
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<h3 class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">In truth, the following proportions may be more accurate:</span></span></h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPAamU_ks8fRKsYWQDpx3QOSLyEWbIDFe7vlNaoyL0zCPKNCxjX6XiYNxdaf_cCPB-B0s9PNnOGS6AI1JnY_nXslhoEy2SyYR8UzP5pxt5Ea0W3gTYRJVqaLmbINGCFPfoRmDEHrIt8QN/s1600/sociopath_3275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="987" data-original-width="1158" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPAamU_ks8fRKsYWQDpx3QOSLyEWbIDFe7vlNaoyL0zCPKNCxjX6XiYNxdaf_cCPB-B0s9PNnOGS6AI1JnY_nXslhoEy2SyYR8UzP5pxt5Ea0W3gTYRJVqaLmbINGCFPfoRmDEHrIt8QN/s400/sociopath_3275.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">On the more innocuous side of things, our daughter often informs us of surprising skill sets. While we think the world of her, we are apparently <i>we of little faith</i>, as far as she's concerned.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Yesterday evening* I was driving her home from preschool. <i>*Also from a couple weeks ago.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"Sooooo," she begins from the darkness of the backseat. I turn down the radio. "I was thinking: <i>tomorrow</i> we could go to gymnastics."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"Uh hunh."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"Gymnastics <i>won't be open, </i>but they have a lot of ice?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"Ohhhkay"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"So we could go and skate on it."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"Hmmm. Well ~~"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"<i>Oceane </i>[preschool classmate] <i>says I'm not ice skating, I'm SLIPPING. </i>But I can ice skate, so we could~~"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">"Is there actually an ice <i>rink?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>"~~No but there's a lot of ice and it's cold. And Daddy </i>[principal ferryman to gymnastics] <i>doesn't believe that I can ice skate. He doesn't want me to be in the parking lot. </i>So I have to TRUST him and show him so he believes it. You. And Me. And Daddy, we can all go."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>"</i>So <i>usually</i> when people ice skate, they wear special shoes?" I steer and make eye contact with her through the rear view mirror. "And they have metal <i>blades</i> on the bottom and so you wear them and go along, <i>wooooosh</i> in them, across the ice--" I make weird slicing motions with my hands and arms.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She peers at me. "Maybe. But I don't think so."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Oh the certainty~~! Part bluster, part wish. Or verbal doodling. Maddening, but fascinating. The first couple times she professed an enthusiastic love for something i just cooked, I relaxed into pleasure, ready to file the recipe into the child-friendly section of my mind. And then, less then two bites later, she sniffed:"Actually, I don't really like this. What are my other choices?" Wait, whaaaat? I have given up on trying to debate that one. It seems like she has warm up reactions, or specific faux-social reactions that she tries on; then abandons. And where does the true preference reside? I suspect she knows a small portion of the time, but she's game for playing whatever the role demands. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">In any case, we have thankfully -- if mysteriously -- swung back to a
more pleasant part of the behavioral spectrum. Whatever, however, we'll
take it! She turned four on Monday (!!!) and so far, she is pretty much
like a 3 year old, but more cake-filled, and armed with a Frozen bike. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Favorite snippet from this morning</b>, while out on her scooter. Two larger dogs lunge at their fence, across the street, as we draw level to their house. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">PS [shouting]: "WHAT...ARE YOUR NAMES??" They bark at us.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">PS [to me]: I think they are saying<i>, </i>in dog, 'WE DON'T KNOW WHAT OUR NAMES ARE, BUT WE ARE DOGS'"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">ME: Or maybe they're saying, 'HEY, don't come in our backyard! This is our house!' Because dogs tend to be very protective and they don't know us.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">PS [pauses then shouts]: I GET IT! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">PS [to me]: I was letting them know I understand and we won't come over. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Me: Ohhh, okay.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">PS [shouting over her shoulder]: WOOF! WOOOF, WOOF!!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">PS [to me]: I was trying to say goodbye, in dog. </span><br />
<br />Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-27856819506000130752019-02-12T10:48:00.001-05:002019-02-12T10:48:25.459-05:00Scooters: the Newest in Animal Transport, Plus BookEndless Kitchens<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiit8Kjdv0IeO2dCzumFw91V_QtJy1ivLAFYzQP_MVEabgXPuH5VyXfFSxvPUgqx6GgpXcJqutFIvk9vS_YpDylyZFwvUi7kL4UizliEwIYnKGzHJNK02TyVAkGXh8svpVy0w8dxf9Cglcw/s1600/IMG_3164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiit8Kjdv0IeO2dCzumFw91V_QtJy1ivLAFYzQP_MVEabgXPuH5VyXfFSxvPUgqx6GgpXcJqutFIvk9vS_YpDylyZFwvUi7kL4UizliEwIYnKGzHJNK02TyVAkGXh8svpVy0w8dxf9Cglcw/s320/IMG_3164.JPG" width="320" /></a>I did a thing. I did a new thing! Well, not BRAND brand new, it's a two color linocut. But for my first time in all these years using some nice sharp Pfeil gouges instead of my usual throw-away student things. After ALL THESE YEARS, you ask yourself, <i>If I was going to continue with this endeavor, WHY would I deem proper tools an extravagance? </i><br />
<br />
As well, last week marked the first week of using my mini hairdryer to soften up the linoleum blocks, even though this wee hairdryer has been stored in my work space, for just such a purpose, because god knows I don't use it on my head. Why does it take so much time to shift from the idly contemplative, "<i>Mmm, yeah, that seems like a good idea</i>"/ "<i>Hmm, that beats what *I'm* doing</i>~~" to a positive follow-through? I must first overcome my own crotchetyness before paring away the crotchety aspects of my process or surroundings. So: Bahhh! And wheeee! The lino -- supple; the tools -- sleekly sharp. I had hesitated over the return, after decades, to palm-held tools, but once I picked them up, they felt natural. A calming, more controlled experience. Hopefully they will show through in my work -- but the process alone is an improvement! Nice to hole up in a warm corner of my basement while Winter rages on up above. I also spent some time since January going through the basement and my work area, getting rid of and finding places for the various just-in-case possessions. My work area <i>feels </i>more <i>ready to work</i> these days. <br />
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So, here we have the latest, on mulberry paper:<br />
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<br />
Visit Etsy listing <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/668272700/buckle-up-buttercup-original-multi-block?ref=listing_published_alert" target="_blank">here </a>and check out my Instagram<a href="https://www.instagram.com/akacakeasaurus/" target="_blank"> here </a>for the second variation (bright pink, currently drying in the basement).<br />
<br />
On the homefront, we have emerged from high fevered nastiness for the little one, capped off at the end with a plummeting geode bookend that landed on our daughter's big left toe. Justified wailing + pool of blood = hours in Urgent Care Random. We eventually had very good care*, and, but for some pitiful hobbling, she soldiered through. <br />
<br />
Per usual, interactions with the resident preschooler range from the ghastly to perplexing, to goofy-cute. From this morning: <br />
<br />
Me, startled by a suspicious pool: Why is the floor by your bed all wet?<br />
PS, matter of factly: Oh, I was spitting there.<br />
<br />
Me, failing to run my fingers through her hair: Why is your hair all crunchy?<br />
PS: Oh I had a lollipop in the car last night<br />
Me: Oh, you *know* you're not supposed to touch your hair with lollipop hands!<br />
PS, indignant: I *DIDN'T*! ... (more as an aside) But then I forgot and I touched the <i>lollipop</i> to my hair. <br />
<br />
Breakfast Humor<br />
Q: Why did the pantry cross the road?<br />
A: Because it has a handle!<br />
<br />
Eating her avocado toast<br />
<br />
Q: Why did the piece of avocado cross the road?<br />
A: Because it was green!<br />
<br />
From a couple days ago. She is at a work table in the basement, seriously inking a couple small lino blocks. I am reorganizing the space. I turn up the radio, sing along. She gazes up at me for a moment.<br />
<br />
PS: NO dancing. [I shimmy and purse my lips at her]. NO DANCING. [she pauses, and mutters to her paper] ...This is not a wedding, NO ONE is getting married. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*barring the ONLY nurse I have ever actively disliked. She batted an
impressive pair of fake eyelashes at my slumped daughter and proceeded
to coo over her, repeatedly likening her to a a little baby doll <i>in a toy box</i>, she was THAT PRECIOUS, NO SERIOUSLY, THAT PRECIOUS, and
finally addressing the patient directly:"So, darling, who are your
THREE FAVORITE PRINCESSES???" Celie kind of stared at her. She has
discovered Frozen, and is as smitten as most -- Rick and I are
inevitably on call as Elsa- or Ana- stand-ins -- but this question
caught her up short. She seemed confused an adult would be posing it to
her. The nurse pushed on to some other rote obnoxiousness, without ever
addressing her about the reason for the visit, etc. She took the blood
pressure gadget from the wall and I noted she could actually talk to my
daughter about <i>that. </i>She asked sweetly whether Celie wanted to be
a doctor and she exclaimed yes! Without missing a beat, Gender
Stereotype upped her Weirdo game:"Oh GOOOOD, you'll make LOTS OF MONEY!
You could buy your Mommy a NEW CAR, VROOOM VROOOM, YEAH wouldn't THAT be
FUN and your MOMMY would LOVE THAT!" Celie remained
uncharacteristically silent. She could tell something was different
here, but didn't know what to do with it; I was just waiting for her to
leave. Which she did, thankfully, soon after that. WTF. </span>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-2446420203967665572019-01-08T16:26:00.002-05:002019-01-08T16:26:51.566-05:00Final Days for the Flowers; Go for a Ride in the English Countryside <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;">New year, new creativity, right? Best to stoke the creative fires with a
good museum jaunt. First outing of 2019: a trip to to the Toledo Museum of Art
to find out whether Rebecca Louise Law's "Community" exhibit is as
magical as <i>all that </i>("It was magic?" asked my 3 1/2 year old.
Well, no, not technically). It definitely falls in the
category of <i>more than the sum of its parts </i>and good lord, it had a TON
of parts.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">An attendant opens the frosted door as you draw near, so you glimpse
the room only at its threshold. Hundreds (thousands?) of dangling garlands of
local flora create pathways within the bare white gallery space. The flowers
themselves (or seedpods, wheat stalks, berries etc.) were strung by kind,
creating areas of suspended color, swaying ever-so-slightly. The
beauty/sweetness is balanced by the dried/decaying aspect, though any decay
falls into the faded/desiccated variety. I was too late to catch the
"fresh" part of the fresh and floral exhibit (it went up in June 2018) -- I imagine it was initially verdant, lush -- but the
delicately dried curtains were still rich. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-size: small;">First reaction: quiet delight. I wandered about, grinning like a
fool -- and making vain attempts to capture the wonder with mediocre picture
taking. Second reaction? "<i>How LONG DID THIS TAKE??" </i>Even the more masochistic artist types would lose it before stringing a
third of the room's garlands. And this, naturally, was the<i> community</i>
aspect of the installation, which I failed to grasp until I watched the <a href="https://www.toledomuseum.org/art/exhibitions/rebecca-louise-law-community">artist
conversation video</a> back home: Law invites local volunteers to participate
in garland creation, so that her vision is collectively brought into reality.
Back in the exhibit, you can see everyone else shuffling through, craning
their necks upward, partially obscuring themselves for floral portraits. On
this Friday, the audience is overwhelmingly female, barring a couple seeming
boyfriends. A couple women tick off Latin
plant names to each other; a handful of older women joke about their rowdiness
(minimal); a young man and woman in matching blue "Dunder Mifflin"
tee shirts come off as generally embarrassed. At the same time I lose my will
to wander, the gallery room strikes me as newly small. My picture taking
isn't going to improve, and I'm not suddenly going to possess a deeper
knowledge of flora and fauna. Do I feel more connected? Not so much to the
community, possibly to the moment, or at least the day overall -- the freedom
of being able to wander without hurrying to chase a child. </span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">"You're just so tickled!" says the woman at the door. She
extends her hand toward the door handle.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh, it's delightful." She asks if I'm related to someone
who works there. No, I say, but it's a lovely place. Is she a volunteer, or
staff?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">She leans in conspiratorially: "I'm security. I'm the one whose
supposed to break your bones if you get out of line!" As Rick often says
of me: she fails to intimidate.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">"...Wellll, I'll try to be good."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">"Yeah," she says gruffly, "Tone it <i>down</i>."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">--> This exhibit closes January 13th. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">****</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Next up is a short walk to the "Sights & Sounds" exhibit in
the newly renovated contemporary art gallery. I am rarely drawn to, or have the
patience for, extended video pieces, so I'm surprised to immediately get sucked
into David Hockney's "Woldgate Woods, Winter 2010," a nine screen
video showing an English road and woods from his childhood. It's 52 minutes
long, silent, and hypnotic. The screens are displayed in a tight 3 x 3 square;
and everything almost-but-not-quite lines up. Despite the deliberate jarring,
and the ongoing driving forward of the camera/car, it remains calm. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
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<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">The tire tracks ahead are deep, the tree branches and underbrush are all
coated thickly with snow. It looks cold, but feels cozy with the trees on both
sides. The sky lightens. A car pulls ahead, on our right, and travels far down
the road, before mysteriously stopping. To what end? Eventually they pull away
and dwindle to a dot. Birds dart in and out of frame. It's like front porch
neighbor-gazing, without the pleasantries; fireside snoozing, barring the
crackle and snap. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Suddenly, the trees open up the left: And now! Such a feeling
of freedom and space! And then, someone walks toward us. Obviously we don't
know him, but will he interact somehow? But no, he tucks his head down, hands
pocketed, and passes to the right. Second piece at the museum, second time
being mesmerized, contented. A voice inside me sneers: "Are you
just predisposed to LOVE everything today?" in the tone usually reserved
for "<i>WHAT IS *WRONG* WITH YOU?"</i> Maybe so, maybe not. Maybe I'm more open than I tend to be, but it's also a strong opening exhibit for this refurbished gallery. Artist-takes-on-nature is a classic, and as a classic, is in danger of falling into the trite. I haven't thought deeply enough to comment on the cohesiveness of the exhibit, but I will say the artist roster is impressive, as are the number of appealing, engaging pieces. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">From the Woldgate Woods, one also hears the ocean, and possibly sitar music.* Takashi Ishida's fantastic "Wall of the Sea" is responsible for the ocean's intrusion into the British countryside. Three screens, three identical white rooms. A projector in the middle shows a seascape on the far wall, which quickly overflows its smaller screen and pools out across the floor. Each room is rapidly consumed by different depictions of water -- calligraphic ink swirls in one, broad watercolor splashes, white paint on black surface; each screen is overtaken, before all recedes, the space is new again, then overtaken. Photographic footage of the sea is grey, grainy, blurry vs. the rich blue pigments used by Ishida. I love the whole experience of it, without fathoming intended messages. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Other favorites: <a href="http://emuseum.toledomuseum.org/objects/50639/frank?ctx=df1854be-8d17-4500-adaf-410dcadfd534&idx=2" target="_blank">"Frank," by Robert Longo</a> (ESPECIALLY his process, haha!), Kiki Smith's "Seated Nude"** (clearly not a child's figure, but the overly large head is still so endearing to me. Creepy, but endearing), the elegance of Maya Lin ("Dew Point 18," "Silver Erie"), Jonathon Borofsky's business men screenprints ("2740475"), "Mount Rainier, from The United States" (gorgeous woodblock print from 1925, by Hiroshi Yoshida).</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Definitely worth a trip. This exhibit is up through February 24, 2019. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Nope. Just a guitar. But very plinky! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**this leads me to a SUBfavorite, particular to all the 3D works: the overly large ALL CAPS</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Signs. Hard to not imagine the total aggravation behind it. ...<i>For the love of God, you're in a museum, people!! WHY MUST WE ALWAYS STATE THIS. </i>People, people, people. </span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-28306331654528996772018-12-14T16:53:00.001-05:002018-12-14T16:53:23.098-05:00Studio Visit for the Win! Sunday ZenUpdate: This is from a few days ago. You have one more chance to visit Laurie Eisenhardt's <a href="http://www.laurieeisenhardt.com/shop-collections.html" target="_blank">studio in Royal Oak, tomorrow, on Saturday the 15th</a>.<br />
<br />
Beautiful Sunday morning, sun-filled and cold. Yesterday was my last craft/art show of the year and tonight we light the menorah next to a decked out Christmas tree. This week I may manage to send a couple cookie boxes out, for the first time in a few years -- and in a couple weeks, we'll travel to Pennsylvania to be with my side of the family. Aside from down-trodding run-of-the-mill illness, the year seems to be wrapping up nicely!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExaeYA4gCZH1pWhIveaaaxZ4_DjqYaSuR5IW1eS1VcuBfMEOooWp3Za1lmgeJkZ4OhTekoa29OzPsoDCht2jaAvJkR-q7PulbO8Ub39Hk-hdvqaRif8s7uAxqtvQ1a1BRBHnP0lO3s5le/s1600/ledoor_2781.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExaeYA4gCZH1pWhIveaaaxZ4_DjqYaSuR5IW1eS1VcuBfMEOooWp3Za1lmgeJkZ4OhTekoa29OzPsoDCht2jaAvJkR-q7PulbO8Ub39Hk-hdvqaRif8s7uAxqtvQ1a1BRBHnP0lO3s5le/s320/ledoor_2781.jpg" width="240" /></a>This morning I paid a magical visit to <a href="http://www.laurieeisenhardt.com/" target="_blank">Laurie Eisenhardt's</a> ceramics studio. I seriously second-guessed myself about going: a long drive, I felt crummy, tired from yesterday's show, and I already had presents mostly squared away, so what did I think I was doing? Basking, as it turned out. A sign on the front door guided visitors to follow the hay path around the side of the house, up to the studio. The first thing you see are her tiles climbing the walls around the painted studio door, in iridescent tendrils. <br />
<br />
Inside, music played, wall-vase heads sprouted leaves and berries. A short table stuffed into one corner offered up ripe strawberries, glazed chocolate cookies. The studio's bounty of inventory was clear evidence of an established, highly functioning studio -- though it appeared neater, more spare than it had any business being. All chaos doubtlessly laying in wait behind the sheets lining the small, light-filled rooms. But visible, tiles everywhere: girls with tree crowns, leaping cheshires, grazing stags, miraculously scaled fish, shallow women-bowls with vegetables dancing in their skirts. Night skies with fortunes, sleeping moons, and star-babies. Lively and quiet; playful & mysterious. I was sucked in by the delight in her artwork. <br />
<br />
Over the past few months, I have repeatedly come back to how joy resides in tools, through the promise of their -- and thus, our -- potential. And it's why old-school hardware stores and boutiquey kitchen stores leave me with the same happy glow: <i>Ohhh, the things I could do! </i>Even, it seems, when my fix-it levels are vastly overrated. Somehow it never occurred to me to view<i> </i>art purchases in the same way. Not *exactly* the same -- years of drinking coffee from gorgeous mugs have not morphed into spontaneous skill at the potter's wheel -- but in a broader sense, in surrounding yourself with loved art, you are supporting potential realized. You have signed on for someone else's creative journey. If you are a repeat customer, you are watching how their work evolves; you connect with some pieces more than others, some paths they explore, you gaze at from the roadside; but others feel familiar, or tantalizing, and in you jump.<br />
<br />
When I was looking at Laurie's work and deliberating, I felt the uplift of consumerism, potentially <i>acquiring</i> art I liked, which also feels guilty and frivolous -- but why exactly should it be so?* But I also knew that whatever I brought home to have on my walls, would boost me whenever I took the time to appreciate it anew. Both for the inherent joy in the work itself, and in the knowledge that this tile <i>began </i>as potential, to which the artist committed herself. Our artwork isn't similar. Our skills and talents are different. But on that broadest <i>making</i> level, what a nourishing thing to have beautiful work around you that is physical proof of others <i>committing</i> to their vision and bringing that vision home. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I mean, aside from the obvious indication of level(s) of privilege and ease.</span><br />
<i></i>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-75557111078771362642018-10-30T14:06:00.000-04:002018-10-30T14:06:46.968-04:00Favorite Uncaptured PhotoOur daughter scrambled up my side of the bed and pounced on a nondescript sleep mask. "Ohhhh Moooooommy" she cooed,"This is TOO SMALL for you!" She held it against her xylophone shirt. "THIS! is JUST MY SIZE!"<br />
<br />
"Oh honey, that's not a bra-"<br />
<br />
"It <i>IS</i>--" she slid back down the comforter "-- and it's just <i>FOR ME</i>!" she ran into her room and slammed the door. Was she humming? She may have been humming. She had pig tails and little salmon pink grosgrain bow barrettes and her tiny person glasses with plastic flower beads on each temple. And now, as she proudly rounded the corner again, she wore fuzzy navy pants plus one shiny black sleep mask that was doing its best impression of a bustier. It did remarkably well, but for the nose bridge smack in the middle of her chest.* Rick and I were shaking with laughter, how could we not? Her eyes twinkled. "Wanna take a picture?" she asked, very sweetly.<br />
<br />
"YES!!!-" I said and ran to find my phone<br />
and "NOOOOOO!!!" Rick said, "DO NOT TAKE THAT PICTURE!!!"<br />
<br />
and I found my phone, but she was already putting a t-shirt on, and now all that was really apparent was the nose nub and general bunchiness. I returned to my "Not a bra" stance and set about reclaiming it, so it didn't get swallowed into child world before the next time I needed to use it. Three y.o. was crestfallen, disbelieving. "You! YOU GO TO CARTERS AND YOU BUY ME A BRA!!" I sorried and sorried and said they don't make bras for little girls, it's only when one gets older and has a bigger body. She slumped on her crib-turned-to-bed, hung her little pig tailed head. And obviously, we are not ready for her to grow up and progress along those lines; and she has no idea whatsoever about the reality behind the <i>wanting of the things</i>, but I do respect this sense of entitlement, Mommy has these things, and I shall have them, too. Why would I not?<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I mean, really, how many objects can adequately stand in for other
entirely unrelated ones? This, though is a game 3 y.o. plays pretty much
constantly. But our adult brains just aren't as flexible.</span>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-67002769896229339862018-10-19T22:24:00.002-04:002018-10-19T22:24:20.839-04:00It's a Card Partayyyyyyy! And the Groundhog Needs No InvitationBusy Busy Busy! Fall has come, along with some nasty, flu-ish thing. Aside from scheduling myself to sell in the somewhat-outdoors tomorrow (insulated garage), I timed it pretty well, haha. Rick was able to watch our sweetie for most of yesterday and all of today, making extended nap times and dubious home remedies possible. Hopefully the illness ends with me! 3 y.o. definitely sounds nasal-y, but she often does, but is also rambunctious as ever. I'll be layered like an onion tomorrow, and hope that the rain mostly holds off.<br />
<br />
If you're not out doors all day, it sounds like a lovely day for a meander! I'm excited to take part for the first time in the Westside Arthop, a free local event, where you can check out 16 venues, with a varying number of artists selling their wares. I'll be at 800 Mount Vernon with two other artists; one door down from another venue and one block away from the most populated venue (featuring the work of 12 artists at Gretchen's House, where I believe this event was first staged). Full artist and artist host map <a href="https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/fdeb1fe3-58e8-4ef3-a959-838e8ea4a7b0/downloads/1cpqqrqeb_405430.pdf" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Amongst a robust show docket, I still got to experience some play time.<br />
<br />
1. Here are three new card designs, inspired by our daughter's drawings + her words about them:<br />
<br />
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They have a different feel from some of my other designs, I think, so we'll see how they do! The green ones *just* finished drying, so their first outing will be to the Westside Arthop tomorrow. After this event, I think I'll deliver some to the yummy <a href="http://www.elharissa.com/?q=cafe" target="_blank">El Harissa</a> market, which I'm very happy to have carry my cards.<br />
<br />
2. I dropped off a nice batch of small cards to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Nicolas-Books-Ann-Arbors-Premier-Independent-Book-Store-322456060697/" target="_blank">Nicola's Books</a>. May they sell happily and well! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTes9uWhqp6P4yaIJlvaMGxUxRtwC-HJ4syk2G5HRmvDp2VoP7OdWUCYqGzu-r3aF3ku5K-2C8fE06fr0zKVVWhGdgPlY5mKetPv1NF0nTBwdzp5JoBbAw-tw3M3SDg_4ztbiACtN3MLKB/s1600/nicolasbooks_100218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTes9uWhqp6P4yaIJlvaMGxUxRtwC-HJ4syk2G5HRmvDp2VoP7OdWUCYqGzu-r3aF3ku5K-2C8fE06fr0zKVVWhGdgPlY5mKetPv1NF0nTBwdzp5JoBbAw-tw3M3SDg_4ztbiACtN3MLKB/s400/nicolasbooks_100218.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">including the new "Thank You" card, also <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BocgTHyAyPq/?taken-by=akacakeasaurus" target="_blank">here</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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3. Thank you, Everyone who stopped by to browse and visit at the DIY Street Fair in Ferndale, at the end of September! All you groovy, cool, and odd folks -- fellow vendors and friends & customers -- made some long days seem shorter. As did some fine music and the discovery of a <a href="https://www.shortsbrewing.com/beers/mulebeer/" target="_blank">new favorite brew</a>.<br />
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Show favorite? The groundhog.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5c59WsNxOYKpP6fqG0wh248Qgc4SuRbHei9fE3YKoW3738kaD6bU-YR3LrgWYJw1fcrbRUgnTwTUlCxsQeTkX6YRMAJMBaW7fx3hEQ3ETANyWKfiKeUi2Q6ioFmngQP9ezicTbSjeuM8H/s1600/groundhogmain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5c59WsNxOYKpP6fqG0wh248Qgc4SuRbHei9fE3YKoW3738kaD6bU-YR3LrgWYJw1fcrbRUgnTwTUlCxsQeTkX6YRMAJMBaW7fx3hEQ3ETANyWKfiKeUi2Q6ioFmngQP9ezicTbSjeuM8H/s400/groundhogmain.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
I sold this vociferous fellow more frequently than any other print. Quite often, it spurred stories of animal deck occupations, and frequently, an older male relative who was being driven crazy by them. Purchases were contemplated, but would Bill find it funny OR would it send it him over the edge? Not for me to say. Either way, I'll also have this one at my table tomorrow... Consider yourself invited.<br />
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Happy Weekend, All.<br />
Best,<br />
M a/k/a Cakeasaurus <br />
Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6090575821632190933.post-5625263503579250522018-09-06T18:22:00.001-04:002018-09-07T13:32:44.435-04:00Whatever the question, the answer is DADDY"Put your toys away, it's dinner time." On different days I could have been saying this to a child or an adult in my house, but here I'm being called out by the wise ass bartender. I have some shrimp summer rolls to balance out a pint of sour, but am fiddling with an Instagram post, or rather my sad typing skills. I'm hunched over my phone unless I catch myself; I'm close-to-doomed posture-wise. Old Tribe Called Quest is playing and I can't resist answering that Yes, I can, kick it. Dweeby, all of it. At least I'm out.<br />
<br />
Anyway, we are, yet again, in the midst of major transitions:<br />
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A.) The girl starts pre-school next week, three afternoons. Suddenly she won't be seeing her primary babysitter -- lovely and capable, she brought her ukelele with today, to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and show my daughter a couple simple chords. So sweet, it made my heart hurt. But by golly, the girl is ready for an expanded world! More people, more activities. She wakes up, asking what we're going to be doing for the day. "<i>But where will we go??" </i>Well. As fun as I have sometimes thought myself to be, I'm not entirely up to the role of constant entertainer.<br />
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But, so. Suddenly she will be off, for much longer periods than my usual babysitting breaks, and <i>clearly </i>now my personal growth will shoot forward, yes? Either obvious immersion in new creative projects or return to frequent writing and/or figuring out career goals for my imminent future. I think I may have the start of staycation syndrome: <i>I will have a week off, now I can entirely fix my life. </i>I should dial it back a little, while still raising the bar for myself, if that makes sense. A little bit of a re-boot in the midst of everything. Because more changes are most definitely coming in the next couple years, so holy hell, I should take advantage of this now.<br />
<br />
Obviously, too, it will be strange with her away from myself and the house for over 4 hours at a go, and three days in a row, but watching her at a school visit yesterday showed us (yet again) that while she sometimes holds back in larger kid groups, she will probably hold her own just fine. She has no problem correcting people about what she wants; and she will eat <i>All the foods</i> if you let her. They were alternately sharing thick banana slices. The teacher clarified for our daughter that the rule is, "<i>we have two hands, so we can take two pieces at a time</i>." "<i>Oh</i>," she gestured, "<i>I can fit two in each hand</i>~~"<br />
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B.) The Mommy Love is gone.<i> Oh, it's just submerged! </i>You say. Fine. I'm not fishing. But I'm used to the love fest, even in the midst of trying times (which there have been A LOT OF recently), but now it's Daddy this and Daddy that. There was always the puppy love, on the evenings he came home before her bedtime, he has always been a bit halo-ed, BUT. Last week:<br />
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Moments after I came home, to relieve the babysitter: "I wish <i>DADDY was here. I just LOVE HIM SO MUCH."</i><br />
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<i>"I know, but he's at work. How much do you love Mommy?"</i><br />
<br />
<i>"I LOVE DADDY <b>SO MUCH</b>. I just love you a little." </i> So this + LOTS of *Ahem* <i>oppositional behavior = AWESOME TIMES. </i>Possibly exceeding my patience levels. I mean, it takes all the affection to deal with someone hitting you, kicking you, and then demanding block tower time (in which, make no mistake, she will bully you about all your block decisions).<br />
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At the preschool visit yesterday, the little ones were doing "journalling," which involved them drawing pictures of their family, and telling the teacher what they wanted written about the page. "<i>Daddy!" </i>she called, in syrupy tones across the room,"<i>I drew a piiiiiiicture of you!" </i>The teacher prompted her about other family people to add. "<i>There's no one else I want to draw</i>," my daughter said. Decisively. Rick touched his forehead to my shoulder, while he shook with silent laughter. I understand this is developmentally normal. But experientially? NOT A FAN OF THIS PHASE.<br />
<br />
This morning, she begged and pleaded for her father to get up, who was intent on sleeping in. "<i>I want one of you to come see me in my room, I mean NOT YOU MOMMY, I mean DADDY but both of you. DADDY GET UP" </i>I was, naturally, happy to sleep in; but eventually when Rick came to fetch me, he was followed by the little one, bellowing at me, "<i>DON'T GET UP, MOMMY DON'T GET OUT OF BED, YOU DON'T, STAY IN BED, <b>NOT YOU" </b></i>which really didn't inspire a rise-and-shine attitude. After I shifted to the kitchen, it was followed by more bellowing: "<i>STOP TALKING, DON'T SPEAK</i>!!!!" I drank coffee at the dining room table, while she ran between the kitchen and the living room. My groggy lack of interaction failed to appease, as she ran through, silently mouthing, "<i>DON'T SPEAK" </i>while holding her hand like a stop sign in my face. Mmmmhmmm. I may be rather old, but I will surely enjoy preschool this time around. <br />
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<br />Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17915624205479606095noreply@blogger.com0