Cakeasaurus Lurking: Mom

Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts

Friday, July 16, 2021

Flood 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 Ignatius Hats 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 Nick Wroblewski, 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 Katie Musolff returned to the Original area, and Karin Coron returned to grace us with her intense oil & oil pastel landscapes (booth NU807), and Connie Verrusio, the maker of one of my all-time-favorite pairs of earrings (repurposed produce scales).

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 ArtHouse Pop-Up 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.

*Just a few snippets*

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 Instagram), though I'd assume it's sold.

Master glassblower William Ortman has been at it for 16 years. Astoundingly intricate without being fussy. Large cut away vases.

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.

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 Urthy brand there, 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!

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.

Friday, March 23, 2018

More Frosting, Hold the Confetti

This past Sunday, our daughter turned 3 years old; and we had a brunchy gathering, with scones and her first full-fledged cake-with-frosting (devil's food, cream cheese, rainbow sprinkles). She tore into presents, examined new toys, and crammed herself into the wee tent house with a small gaggle of fellow children. She took her first wheels out for a spin. We're pretty proud of our new 3 year old, and happy to have collectively made it thus far.

I don't remember much from being very young, myself. I know, rather than remember, that Mom always made special birthday cakes for us, and picked flowers from our backyard (blousy peonies sat outside first, with their stems in water-filled buckets, while scores of ants dropped to the cement). I remember flashes, rather than anecdotes: the woven white vinyl slats of my changing table, sharing a room with my sister, before our parents moved one flight up and she moved across the hall; sitting on the front steps outside our house, when each concrete step took up a large expanse of the length of my legs. As a preschooler, laying in the twilight darkness of my parents' bedroom, next to my Mom, who drowsed, while I adamantly did NOT do so.

Young Mom (center, top)

Today, my Mom turns 90. At 10:45 AM, it's too early to call. She sleeps late these days, and frequently. The more recent sleep research paints a damning picture of the quality of our sleep as we grow older, so though she may be sleeping a lot, it's a far cry from toddler sleep or teen sleep. She worries, as she always has. But now, as she gets more confused about how life fits together, the worry also bears a hazy quality -- which seems appropriate, but unfair. Couldn't we strip that anxiety away, as we cease to understand what once came easily? But no, apparently not.

Mom, with her older sister

A few weeks ago, my sister and I debated appropriate presents. But it's obviously more about what form a celebration would take, who needs anything at 90? My sister reminded Mom of her upcoming age, which was met with some manner of disbelief/dismay. As far as I can remember, she has treated her age as another burden, with a strain of "poor me" attached to it. From the privileged/ignorant vantage of relative youth, I have often wished she could feel appreciation for her good fortune in growing older, despite the hardships. The only thing to do is to court gratefulness in myself, and take it from there.

But how do you celebrate a life, when details large and small are dissolving? When I was home in December, Mom woke up full of stories about her childhood home outside of Newport News, VA. She traced the town's few streets in the air, with her finger, before I gave her pen and paper. They took the trolley on these days, they went for a day at the beach, they played in the river, against their parents' wishes. This week in Pennsylvania, she asked my sister if she had always lived in our childhood home, had she been born here? The word untethering comes to mind.

Art school drawing from Mom's stash

But maybe, as usual, it simply comes back to cake, figurative and literal. A little fuss, attention paid to make the day golden, love brought to the forefront. Like any parental figure, Mom provided illustrations of what to strive for and against in my own approach to life. There's much to celebrate in a 90-year lifespan: small town girl who strikes out to go to art school in Philadelphia; one of a couple draftswomen in Newport News shipyard; hat model in local department store; seamstress at age 13, who went on to sew costumes for a ballet during college, and later, sew clothes and toys for her children. Stay-at-home mother, with endless meals and laundry done daily; who encouraged art projects and writing projects, and freely shared art supplies. Grower of gangly tomato plants with burstingly ripe tomatoes, begrudging cherry pitter of the fruits of two backyard sour cherry trees. A woman who preached confidence for her children, but who was a little more timid on her own behalf. In the domestic sphere, however, she did take on fixing random things around the house, despite not having a strong background in it; and, in her 80's, delusionally argued with my sister about sawing down an ailing tree in the background, rather than paying a service to do so (she'd do it slowly! Chop off a branch here, a branch there, it'd be fine). Life can't be boiled down to a paragraph, but I wanted to give you a peek, anyway.

Hopefully last night's blizzard won't prevent Sister from picking up the ordered birthday cake; and a box will arrive in the mail from us, with some decorations, a sticker drawing from the girl, and presents to unwrap. We'll peer at each other through computer screens and sing off-key and usher in the new year with family.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Your Mother Loves You and Would Like You to Wear Lots of Gloves

"Did you get the box I sent you??"
"Yes! yes, I'm sorry, the work week was really hectic, I --"
"I *assumed* you got it. But it's nice --"
"--I did!Thank you!"
"----to *know.* I assumed it arrived, anyway."
"Lots of gloves, they'll be very useful."
"And nuts help to lower cholesterol. *I* should eat more nuts. Anyway, the pistachios were on sale."
"and the clothes pins, I have never seen any like it, with that clip at the top~"
"I figured you could use those to hang prints. And I certainly have enough clothes pins. They don't do anyone any good sitting in a box!"

They are pretty cool. Substantial!

"True! Yes, thank you."

"You're welcome." We settle in. She asks about a slow-burning health insurance nightmare that I have been contending with for half a year. Shockingly, a ray of hope has developed. Unlike previous unseen letters written by various departments noting in a fuzzy way that doctors ordered tests because they felt they were necessary (cagey doctors!), a newer, more precise letter has been written. And I have actually seen it. Which is helpful, but odd, mainly because of the first statement, which goes something like: "Patient has an x% chance of developing dreaded nastiness over the course of her life." Well, ok. It's just...odd.

"Hmph." says Mom.

"I mean, honestly, I know they have all kinds of ways of estimating, but that's difficult for me to believe. And maybe this is a dodge, but over a lifetime...so they include 90s? Everyone gets sick in their nineties."

"Right, everyone gets sick then. Plus, you could trip and fall down the steps and be taken out!"

"Well, true--" I love that the phrase she uses is "taken out."

"And how do they figure THAT in? The doctors, they don't know." While you may already be aware that she is a medalled athlete in the National Worry Triathalon, we are now encountering her in her circumspect aspect. "You've got to die of something. Who's not going to die?"

We mosey onward. I tell her about some new characters wandering through. "Is this person gay?" She has progressed a bit over the past few years. "Gay" is no longer uttered in weird italicized fonts. Nevertheless, the question momentarily startles me. "Um, nope. I highly doubt that." She asks enough questions to establish that she doesn't really need to keep these people on her radar at this point. She doesn't usually note my friends/loved ones until they have been in my life for some time. Her interest shifts to what she really wants to talk about:

"Did I tell you I bought a tiny rug?"

"....No. Do tell."

"Well!" and she was off. I confess, the details floated past me. There was a sale most likely, there was fringing, but it was dry clean only and though it wouldn't be high-traffic area, this seemed worrisome. But then it seems she MUST have gone with it anyway, because it doesn't match the powder room curtain "And your father went to Calico Corner with me and helped me pick out fabric for a new curtain. I'll send you a swatch."

On a more substantive note, she talked about an editorial she read in the Philadelphia Inquirer about how the Amish community is handling the Nickel Mine tragedy, five years on. Five years ago, a disturbed man within the Amish community entered a schoolhouse and shot ten school girls (five died), before shooting himself. It was devastating to read the coverage. Makes me think of the movie The Sweet Hereafter, based on a Russell Banks book about a horrendous accident with a school bus and how the small community is affected in so many awful ways. The Pennsylvanian community has taken pains to care for the shooter's widow and their surviving children. The editorial speaks about forgiveness, and how the community tries to embrace it as a journey. It's something you develop and tend to, like gratefulness. I think Maestra would really appreciate this conversation and add to it; wish my Mom could talk with her.

Mom reads me a quote from an Amish farmer: "Acid corrodes the container that holds it. That's what happens when we hold onto bitterness." Pretty spot on. Good food for thought.
Post script from Mom: "And also, you may hold a grudge against someone and they don't even know and they'll just go on with their own stupid way of things." Heh. Also true.

A good meaty chat with the madre, repeated visits to the domed cake plate for plum-frangipane pie (thanks again SBS, such a treat!!), a hilly run to exorcise aggression...not a bad Sunday. A return to art projects tomorrow. Happy Sunday, All.