a catalyst

 

I treated myself to a very special book. Six, eight pounds? A big book for big art, to quote my son. You'll be lucky to find one in a library and if you come across it in a bookstore, don't be shocked at the cost. It's full of magic.

I have Lorraine Glessner to thank for a FB post about the Joan Mitchell exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art. With a slew of amazing pictures. 

Messy March, 1969. The last gasp of my time at the School of Visual Arts. I was just coasting at that point, knowing that I wouldn't be back in September. 

Cutting more classes than I sat through,  I spent a lot of time wandering aimlessly, tiptoeing around in galleries. One day, behind the plate glass of a closed gallery, one painting took up an entire wall. I could make out "Joan Mitchell" on a cardboard placard on the floor. All I remember was an explosion of energy in line and color.  It was both deafening and perfectly silent. What it did was clarify for me that I lacked the drive, the talent, and the chutzpah to set foot in the same world as this woman.  Joan Mitchell made leaving art school easy for me. I never looked back or regretted that decision. 

How could I have changed the ripples in the pond of my life to not bring me to today?

The first day (digital) of third grade for Charlie.

This year, I pretty much sat back and leafed through a fabulous book of "very messy paintings" in Charlie's opinion. 

But we both noticed that someone had chosen a screen wallpaper for the Art section that looked quite lifted from a Joan Mitchell painting. 

Eight

 

What a treat yesterday was. Away from the house, out in nature. Visiting with people most of whom I haven't seen in over a year, probably more. Family, friends, food in an amazing setting. 

Jake and Missy did an amazing job all around. We will be eating leftover bbq and sides for days which means, everyone had all they could hold at the party.

Lake Hartwell is a good two-hour drive from home but absolutely worth the drive. It's been a while since I've had Jack Flash out on the big road and forgot how easily we ease into 90 miles an hour. And still, there were cars that blew by me so fast, I couldn't tell you what they were! 

Then, off the main road, the map voice took me winding through a few small towns that made me think of 1950's movie sets and endless stretches of fields of (stunted!) corn and those giant rolls of hay.

The water is warm and soft, flecks of mica stuck all over everyone. There were the water people (twice what you see here) and the lawn chair folk up the bank in the shade. Not everyone has gills, but you know where I was most of the time. What a day!

Charlie and I were sharing a giant pool noodle and one of the little girl cousins paddled nearby. I asked him her name, but he gestured broadly and said, "This is my TRIBE." It wasn't so much about a birthday as it was just gathering. Of course, the birthday song was sung with cupcakes all 'round. 

The brand new day

Always, while searching for something else, things I didn't even know were missing coyly show themselves. 

This clutch of misfits was rolled up in a two-foot square of linen spangled with all these colors. 

I was looking for my black Fiskars. They are probably in my purse which Charlie now calls the Black Hole of Calcutta. That called for a lot of internet research. Now to find the purse.

Anyway, I'll divvy these into sets of four and post them to the store after I finished getting those pieces ready for delivery to the gallery on Saturday.
 

Nice that my nails were mostly clean. Pool Life.

Colin's sunsets have a lot of fans. This one is actually a sunrise from one of his overnight stints. I will keep treating each new day as a treasure.

colorwinds blowing updated

A package from Prochem was delivered and I never even opened it until today.  Inspired choices then and now. Then, like always, I tossed them in with all the others to communicate. Get to know each other. Learn to play.

On other days, I'd put some on paper and see how well the names on the labels reflected reality. Too hot out there today. 

We are in high summer now.  Extremes are the rule. Still, it's been the standard fry and steam routine compared to the rest of the county. 

I have to do a little more cloth scouting before I plan a dyefest. I have a lot of that great, lightweight linen, a set of vintage cotton sheets, but I needed some Strange. 

Skeins are being wrapped and readied. 

 This is an AZZBAG. I may have written about this in previous posts but couldn't find any.  Long ago --pre-Internet long ago-- I designed a pattern for making these bags from old jeans. 

Hand drew the diagrams. Hand lettered four pages of directions. Marketed them from tiny little one-column inch ads in the back of various craft magazines. 

People sent me three dollars, mostly in cash. I signed the last page with thanks and mailed them the directions. It was a cool little business that I never pushed beyond the fun level. 

 The "trick" was opening the right seams at the crotch, then cutting and layering them in a sequence that eliminated any bulk and lay flat. 

Used blue jeans went for a few dollars a pair. I lined them with cut-up print blouses, shirts, and dresses --whatever I could find that pleased the eye. I cranked out dozens of these in varying sizes on the old Kenmore and sold every last one at local craft fairs when the boys were little and portable. Because jeans used like this just don't get a chance to wear out, I'm betting there are dozens of these hanging in closets and attics all over Westchester and Putnam county. 

Yeah, those were my favorite levis that I never could get back into after Colin and before Jake. Couldn't wear them, but couldn't give them up so I put them to work with a nice fat quarter of fancy batik for lining and a scrap of print for an inner pocket. (Update. THOSE favorite Levi's had rust and paint stains all over them. Memory Fail. these were Goodwill Jeans refashioned in 2016. No surprise I could make them in my sleep. 

I still love it. It's been holding the dyes for a few seasons but as soon as I can find the right size container for all the pots of dye powder, I'm taking it back and using it as intended. A haul all. the pockets are all deep and functional. The only problem I ever had carrying it was putting too much in it. 

If I ever come across the original instructions, I'll share. I scanned them to digital somewhere around here.

Thanks, Liz. I'll keep looking for the other three pages. I was SO snarky. 

Five to get ready...

The largest of the five, "Cephalopod" is ready to go. All I have to do is measure and cut the rod.  I have two weeks to do the pesky business of making and attaching a few sleeves to pieces that are really small enough for framing and matting. Not out of my wallet, thanks.  
 

The exhibition is called "The Material is the Message" and will be at 378 Gallery from 8/5 thru 8/27.  the address is 378 Clifton Rd. NE, Atlanta GA 30307.

 

As to the business with my back. The doctor gave me three options. I'm going for the most expedient which involves a few more rounds of needles which I am fine with. 

I'm an old hand at administering injections. You never feel another's pain or pleasure, so it's important to watch their eyes.

 Getting injections is an excellent time to practice that out-of-body kind of meditation. 

This picture is both my focus during that mind bend and my goal - walking again. 

One foot in front of another until there is no thinking about it, freeing my mind for other, better things.

sidelined

Somehow, I imagine this is what my spine looks like these days. X-rays and MRIs are so boring. There are a dozen words ending in itus or osis that all relate to the decrepitude of my frame in the doctor's report. 

I used to stand a pretty tall 5'8". Three of those inches are gone, discs and bones all succumbing to disease, age, and gravity. The nerves left behind in disarray are another story. Alive and sparking.

 I don't want to write about pain - too many people suffer horribly and chronically. I'm a hobbyist by comparison, but when the demon bites me, it brings me to my knees. And then I can't get up right away.

I also smile to think what a good drug addict I could be. I warned my doctor that I survived the sixties, so she's already on notice. But I have too much to do to be at the mercy of pain or being out of my gourd.

The garden needs me. My people need me. 

 

the abandoned

 

This one was started under other, more hopeful stars.

Pretty sure I abandoned it because of that rust color. The old damask is so fragile and I put it through the tortures of the damned the first time around the dye deck.

I'll keep plugging away on it this time. There's a clock ticking silently in my life and passing time needs to be fruitful.

In the Great Closet Toss, a small box of sharp things turned up. Dee, they are still a wonder.

That thread appears to have been dyed just for this cloth.  Happenstance, I assure you and that's the last of it. Another yard, maybe. My thread box is getting pretty bare.

Update

She just strolled into the studio and climbed onto the ottoman where I set this down for a moment.

This is very unusual behavior for Sweetie. I put it down to upset over the insane level of fireworks in the neighborhood. It's as if she knows it's far from over.

Maybe she thinks it should be a cat pillow.

Contracting

 

These past few days s have taken a toll on all decent people. 

Myself, swinging between the horror show of the less than supreme court trying to shove us all back to Mayberry and the vengeful glee of watching the Jan.6 hearings has me so outside of myself. As it should be. These matters concern all of us. Fuck anyone who would put their heads in the sand.

So, some large batches of self-care and a contracting of concerns for me. 

Readying unfinished pieces for possible inclusion in a gallery show in August had me digging through the closet. Missing tools and materials were found. A degree of order was restored. 

The River Basket purged of wishful thinking and stocked with real work. 

Finding works so disconnected from my psyche that I left them untitled.  What was going on in my head?

I'll have to dig into the archives and figure that one out.

"Night Gardener" is so close to my heart that, if it's chosen,  I am going to put a ridiculous price on it. It wants a sleeve and signature.

That kind of handwork is good for me.

And first thing this morning, a trip to day surgery for injections in my back that I hope will put me back upright and on two feet. Nightwalking would be so sweet.

Starting tomorrow, ferrying Charlie to day camp. A little time together that I've missed. 

Valium is everything I remembered it to be and wrote for Anna in Prophets Tango.  

A downy cradle. A softening of all sharp edges. A sweetener of anything delightful. Protection. 

I also know it to be a deceiver.

My firstborn will be 42 tomorrow. It was 100 degrees daily when he finally arrived three weeks late. A Cancer rather than the Gemini I plotted. Ever and eternally the tenderhearted contrarian. I'm so grateful for his good humor, decency and artist's heart.

 

Thank you, Colin, for everything.

Finding a gear

 

The grove is in bloom. They are cinnamon bark crape myrtles. Planted on the four points of the compass, white North has always been the most vigorous, pushy member of the group. We haven't topped them in three years, but come January, it's going to get a serious pruning in hopes of giving the other three a chance to catch up. 

I have resolved to stop taking poison, knowing how I plan to help those who need camping gear or assistance. 

Also, I've been invited to participate in a local gallery event! Time to see what's still in the closet.

Charlie is home! And I swear he grew two inches in two weeks. While he was away, his Mom and Dad spent every free moment redoing his room from ceiling fan to flooring. This room had the dark green walls and carpet that Jake chose as a teenager. Change was past due.

He's a bit overwhelmed.

the decision

I have been mostly lost for words this past twenty-four hours. Lots of cursing. A fury that would frighten civilized people if I were to describe the details. My right hand has been aching; the two knuckles that I broke on a man’s forehead when he put his hand up under my dress as I climbed the stairs in the subway. There are other things I can’t speak of. Statute of limitations stuff.

 I have ongoing heartburn, headaches, and something I can only describe as the ghost of monthly cramps. But underlying all of these is anxiety. Dread. A feeling of being penned in with a clock ticking in the background. The fear peaks, the fury returns, I want to break things, and again, I remind myself that the Buddha said holding on to hate is like taking poison and expecting the other person to die.

All of this adds up to what I suspect is a kind of PTSD that women who have had abortions might be experiencing now in light of what that orange shitbag has bought and paid for - “his” puppet supreme court judges. He’ll be bragging about it any second now. 

It was hard enough to make those choices so many years ago when it was legal.

Now, all I can do is vote the bastards out and drive. I will drive Georgia campers to the nearest camping-friendly state. No praying. I’ve never been more sure that there is no god running things. The only godlike thing there is  - is the energy, the fire we have inside to make sure this gets corrected. That women have autonomy over their bodies and their health.