Pretty Cute

I don't mean to be controversial but I suspect that most women have a 'cute' gene. They tend like things that are cute, pretty, decorative, pleasing, comforting, and colour co-ordinated. I know nothing about genetics so it's all speculation and observation. When I go to Hobby Lobby there are not a lot of men in there, unless they are dragging along patiently behind their wives waiting to get over to Home Depot and check out some nail guns. Hobby Lobby is one of those overwhelming places, like Wal-Mart, that has so much 'stuff' everywhere the brain cannot absorb it for too long a period or a fugue state may occur. It caters to the craft-obsessed like MacDonalds caters to high schoolers on a 30 minute lunch break. If possible, I frequent Michael's, which is not quite so warehouse-full-of-craptacular-supplies in its ambience. I also keep my cute gene fairly manageable. I am only there for photo pages, art supplies, and yarn. Everything else is a graveyard for kitsch to me. I am not tempted by knick-knacks, pom pom pillows, seasonal glitz, and cute animal posters. And to really keep me in line I need my daughter there to be ironic and mock-horrified. She, too, is there to buy art supplies, and as her cute gene is pretty non-existent, she will merely give me a fierce conspiratorial glance to indicate that the woman in line in front of us has a cart full of blazing pink ribbon, hot pink feathers, polka dotted paper, and zebra striped fabric. We are not sure if she is making some sort of centerpiece or a pole dancing outfit. Because there is a disorder that occurs when someone is born with too many cute genes, and it can become frightening. It can manifest in a scrapbooking obsession that turns a simple photograph of a baby into a glue-gunned, eye-popping, sparkle-fested page that weighs five pounds and turns the child into a mere background feature. Or it can turn into a house full of doilies and ruffles and figurines and silk flowers.
I keep my own cuteness needs contained to the internet, for the most part. I can visit Cuteoverload.com to see my share of adorable animals. I can save pretty pictures in my Pinterest files, and pass on sweet images on e-mail or Facebook. I've become plainer and more practical as I've gotten older. I don't collect things anymore, no matter how much their cuteness lures me. No more figurines, or dolls from every land, or a little fuzzy Snoopy holding a box of chocolates. And when it comes to art well, that's when the battle begins. My tendency to like the pretty, the nice, and the pleasing, does battle with the inner artistic snob that is telling me I am not serious enough, that true beauty is often the enemy of the pretty. Beauty can be stunning and alarming and soul-stirring, and I may have to keep forging through the cuteness to get there.

Outsider Art

Art is often a mysterious process, even though I have argued before that it is not magical. If you want to do it just take a leap off that cliff and land somewhere new. In that vein, I am fascinated by 'outsider art'. 'Outsider' is often a veiled term for someone with a mental illness creating odd and fascinating works, sometimes with bizarre materials and a subject matter only they understand, like the man who spent his whole life creating a giant aluminum foil altarpiece in his basement. There is an obsessive and often disturbing element to these types of works that seem to indicate, if not a mental imbalance, at least a hearty dose of eccentricity. Most trained artists, no matter how outside the mainstream they are, or attempt to be, have a firm foothold in reality and the wheeler-dealer aspects of the profession, along with a sense of discipline and hard work. Many exploit shock value, especially in performance art , in order to gain attention to either themselves or a cause they espouse. In this sense they are rational and calculating. Outsider artists are rarely that. Their work often appeals because it forces the viewer to enter their irrational world (see the film "Junebug" for an offbeat look into this world). However, not all outsider artists are teetering on the brink, or hearing voices in their head, many are just untrained amateurs with a need to pour out what they see in their head, a prime example being Grandma Moses, who, late in life, began painting her charmingly primitive rural scenes.
Which brings me to my Dad. As a trained mechanical engineer, he had some basic skills in drafting, but never showed any interest in art, other than to occasionally like a picture he saw. He was a bit disappointed in my choice for art as a college major, and never quite understood what I was doing with it, although I know he occasionally bragged to his colleagues, and once displayed one of my more hideous efforts in his office in the Math building. So it was surprising that, in the last year of his life, when he knew he was dying, he suddenly became a painter. He purchased the cheapest of paints and brushes, and painted on old pieces of cardboard, then out came all these odd, yet compelling images, that looked half dream, half memory, childlike, and yet full of detail, as if his right brain had just decided to go wild and have a party, even as his body got weaker and weaker. When Andrea and I visited him in Florida, we left with artwork in our hands. He had stacks of them and just let us sort through. Our brother came and did the same. We were all surprised and baffled by this last minute creative splurge. It was as if we we were seeing a part of Vadim that he, himself, was only just glimpsing. My Dad, always somewhat of an outsider anyway, had decided to take a big leap into new territory before he went off into that unknown country.

No, I'm Not From Around Here.

I've said I'm not from around here for a long time. We moved here in 1969, so in fact, I have lived here for 42 years now, most of my life. But if I'm not from here then where am I from? I don't even have a home town, technically. My mother had me in a hospital in Stockport, England, then brought me back to Long Eaton, her home town. When I was barely two we moved to South Africa, then a year later to Northern Rhodesia (Zambia), then five years later back to England then on to the United States. We lived in Utah for seven years, Wisconsin for one year, Florida for four years, then here to Texas. I thought it would be another brief stay, but this is where my roots finally took. That said I have never felt like a Texan. Something in my genes doesn't quite jibe with all things Texan, and I often feel like a stranger in a strange land, especially during football season, or endless dry, hot summers, or with anything involving big trucks, big hair, big churches, and big politics. It's a loud, brash state and I must have a British village soul. And yet I do envy people who have a sense of place, who feel rooted to a history, to ancestors, to traditions. Our family has always been a bit isolated, a bit nomadic. My father was an orphan who was uprooted from Russia during the Revolution and sent to relatives in Poland. he was always a restless soul, and much of our family's travels were because of his wanderlust.

   (On the ship to the U.S.-1957. Thrilling lifeboat drill. We're all in the middle.)

But the funny thing is, after all this time I finally do feel a sense of community, a sense of this place, this wide open space. I find myself defending Lubbock to outsiders or visitors who complain about its barren flatness, its conservativism, its lack of culture, its resistance to change, because a lot of that is not true if you know where to look. My Lubbock is full of culture and arts and interesting people, and innate friendliness, and beautiful skies, and cool evenings on the patio, and an endless horizon of possibilities.

Making a Mess

I was at an art opening one evening, probably for a First Friday Art Trail, and someone I was speaking to looked at my hands aghast and asked "how did you hurt yourself?" I looked down and saw red paint spattered around my fingernails and on my knuckles. It looked like I had been sacrificing a chicken. Oops, more soap and water needed. Yes, I have spent my life making a mess. You can usually tell what I have been doing by what is clinging to me. If I am covered in dog hair I have been walking Penny. If little threads are clinging to my clothes and hair I have been quilting, and if I am sprinkled with lots of colour you can tell I have been painting. I also have a very small studio. It is also a mess. The walls and floors are flecked with paint and gesso, there are piles of projects in every corner, drawers and shelves of supplies, stacks of fabric, scraps of paper, canvasses, paints, brushes, magazines and books. The space is about eight feet square and includes a work table and a sink with cabinets. I seem to have outgrown it.

When I look at magazines that show artist's studios I have to laugh: everything pristine and organized. Cute cubbyholes, supplies ready at hand, neat stacks of projects arranged by use and need.....I almost weep in envy. But then I come back to reality and think of all the messy artists I have known, stained, disheveled, literally wearing their art on their sleeves. Creativity is messy. It starts with chaos and ends with beauty. So even though I dive into the chaos I try to be presentable. I clean up well. Still, if you see me at the grocery store and there is a smudge of ink over my eye or a blob of yellow paint in my hair just let me know.

Loser

I know this is a country that loves competition. Check out all those reality shows (or not) where people humiliate themselves in front of the nation for some carrot dangling in front of them, or those mothers who parade their little daughters in beauty pageants (what I call the Kinder Whore culture), or every girl scout who ever showed up at your door hawking those cookies so they can be the cookie-selling-est girl scout in the whole world. That's the way some people drive themselves. They thrive on pushing ahead of someone else. And I guess it makes sense in sports. There are scores, there are specific winners and losers. In the extreme version of this, if you are not #1 you are a loser, so the second best football team in the country, the one that loses the Super Bowl, is just as big a loser as the team that didn't win a single game that season. I guess I'm a loser by those standards. I've come in first exactly twice in my life (not counting games of Trivial Pursuit. I am mildly great at that game). I won a city wide school art prize in 1967, my senior year of high school, and in 1995 I was the Texas Dance Teacher of the Year (a moment of hushed awe) for the TAHPERD organization (Texas Association of Health, P.E., Recreation, and Dance). There was no crown involved, unfortunately, because I would have worn that to school the next day, but I shook the hand of  then-Governor George Bush, who showed up at the state convention to endorse health and fitness so make of that what you will. I think I was taller than him. And no, I didn't vote for him.
The rest of the time, not counting one honorable mention in another art show, I am a happy loser. Or rather, I choose not to compete. But then that's my beef with making the arts competitive. In sports there is an actual score as an indicator. In the arts there is usually a judge. An artist may enter one show and come in first place, then enter the same work in another show and not even get a mention. It's all based on the subjectivity of the judge. I understand quality and I understand excellent technique. You can tell when art is good, for the most part (and also when it's pure bullshit). Being juried into a show should be the honor in itself. Assigning 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place after that just seems arbitrary. I have been at many shows where a blue ribbon hangs next to an artwork and a large number of viewer comments are usually in the vein of "Hmmmph, I don't know how that piece won."
So besides being an indifferent loser I am also a sore winner. I brush it off, not really enjoying the attention, and possibly thinking there was a mistake made. I may go all Sally Fields for a few moments ("You like me, you really like me!") and then I want to apologize to the other people who are quietly simmering in their loser-tinged disappointment, or waiting to trip me on the way out. It is an awkward and non-satisfying experience. I much prefer group shows where we all hang what we consider to be our best piece and then enjoy each others' creative efforts. But then I like to stay in my comfort zone most of the time. Not always, and occasionally I will find a way to push  that envelope. Just don't give me a prize. Although, maybe I'm a big hypocrite. My daughter just got into a juried photography show and I sure hope she wins.

K.I.S.S.

Keep It Simple Stupid. In life as in art I need to remember that rule. Sometimes a drawing is done, finished, with one line. Sometimes the solution to a problem is the path of least resistance. Sometimes there really IS an Easy button. Sometimes there's just too much clutter, too many possessions, too much chatter, too many pundits, too much useless information, too many places to be, too many projects to finish, too many choices, too many obligations, too much worry, too much fear. Breathe in, breathe out. Be in the moment. Let it be.

Journaling the Journey

"Dear Diary: Today was a boring day. We had tuna casserole for supper and then I watched Bonanza. Little Joe is cute. but not as cute as Dr. Kildare." Well, I wrote something like that in my first diary. It was 1960 and I was ten years old at the time and hardly a budding Anne Frank. But I did keep writing about my life over the years, picking up in 1963, where I wrote pages....and pages...of declarations of love for the Beatles. I wrote in large, cheap, unlined scrapbooks from Woolworth's so I could glue pictures of them next to my predictable, poorly penned text. I tended to end each day's record with a hearty "Yay, Beatles!" By 1966 I was in full teen angst, complaining about parents and siblings, my weight, my hair, and my buck teeth, or discussing school events and gossip from my friends, and still carrying on about the Beatles, where it was important to establish which of my friends liked which Beatle so there was a nice balance and no jealousy.

                                                      (No penmanship awards for me.)

Then there's a whole embarrassing box in the attic full of my college journals that I am afraid to read and just as afraid to throw away. More angst, unrequited love, friendship dramas, etc. ratcheted up a few degrees in emotional pitch. I only seemed to write when I was in full hysterical mode over something that now seems distant and puzzling. When I was in a less manic/depressive mode my college roommates would beg me to read from my ramblings, as if I were reading them a good night story, only they were characters in the story as well. I turned my misery into entertainment. I highly recommend it.  But not everyone likes to record the minutiae of their lives (except those excessive Tweeters). There are long stretches in my own when I didn't say much. I was either busy raising my children or my angst level was suitably maintained. Eventually I reached that transition in my life when I didn't want to write when I was sad, or distraught, or raving, I wanted to write when I was calm and happy. It was hard to be glib, witty, and sarcastic, a state I love being in, when I was stewing over something, although it's a great form of therapy. Sometimes reading a page from 1964, or 1973, or 1994, I  cringe in horror, but other times I surprise myself with my insights, as if I were reading a stranger's writings, and I realize that I haven't changed in many ways from that ten year old who first thought life was an interesting enough journey to record the process. There's a continuous thread of personality that is almost reassuring despite better teeth now and much more confidence. This blog is itself another form of continuing that journaling process. And in this blog I am, surrealistically, not only journaling about journaling, but in this sentence I am journaling about journaling about journaling. Wait, what? Oh and, Yay Beatles!