Tag: art

The Cactus

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Tonight at dinner, my daughter went running up to her room and came back to the table with something in her hand. “Here,” she said, thrusting it into my hand. “Do you like my cactus?”

Over the past year or so, she has developed a love of succulents. I’m not exactly sure when this happened or why, but slowly, the plants began to disappear from the windowsill in the kitchen and reappear on the windowsill in her room. I noticed that some smaller pots were materializing, and shoots had been taken from the plants of mine that hadn’t yet made the trek up the stairs. [I am really hoping she doesn’t decide she needs some of my Christmas cactus in the next few days because it has just started to poke out some teeny tiny bud-lings….]

I examined the ceramic cactus in my hand. It was “growing” in a pot that almost looked like a wicker basket. The plant had understated spikes that gave the green ball a distinct cactus look. And the cactus bloomed with two dusty pink flowers.

“It’s beautiful!” I told her when I had finished my inspection.

“I made it,” she told me.

“No you didn’t,” I responded, only partially convinced by her words.

“Yes I did. It came out of the kiln yesterday.” And then she turned it upside down, so I could see the bottom. “My initials,” she pointed out.

Indeed, the bottom indicated that the piece was handmade. And it was beautiful! She just started taking a pottery class at school, this year. I can’t wait to see what else she brings home!

Summer Jobs

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Since there has been some talk of teenage jobs in my house of late, I got to thinking about some of the jobs I held in my early working life, jobs that were increasingly interesting and varied. I had some not so good jobs and some really great jobs. Being open to the experiences that come along is always a good way to approach life.

My very first job was stocking shelves in my father’s hardware store. But beyond my family circle, the early jobs I held were fairly typical high school jobs. I worked in fast food and motel housekeeping. The fast food job hung on for two years while I simultaneously worked other jobs. The motel where I worked (only for one summer) was owned by a man who felt the tips left by guests were his to fuel the bets he made on the horse races. When we arrived for our day’s work, he could often be seen making the rounds of all of the rooms before the maids went in to clean them. The only time we ever got tips was when the guests would hand them to us directly, which wasn’t very often.

My first summer home from college, I took a job in a gift shop. I worked long days, and the work was not the most interesting. However, it was better than flipping burgers. I didn’t go home smelling like food and feeling greasy, and the people I worked with were ridiculously mischievous. There was always a prank… or ten… in the works, and one never knew what would happen on a given work day. I fit in quite nicely. You said prank? I’m in!

That same summer, I created newspaper advertisements for my father’s business. I caught the attention of the ad salesman who also happened to be the salesman for the gift shop. He would often stop by to chat, and at his recommendation, I took an internship working in the art department of the newspaper during the January term of my sophomore year. That internship grew into a summer job that filled the summers before my junior and senior years of college.

The second summer at the newspaper, they allowed me to take three weeks off so I could go back to my college campus to work as a teaching assistant in a program for gifted upper elementary and middle school students. One of my professors was the site coordinator for the program, and he had offered me that position. The funny thing about that TA job is that one of my present jobs is for the same organization in their online program.

My all time favorite summer job—and one that was truly one of those opportunities that most people never have—was working in the photo lab of an art museum. I spent six to eight hours of every day during the summer in a darkroom. I cataloged the art work that was in the vaults, and I made prints from stacks of negatives. To this day, I am not sure why I did that….

But the most exciting part of the job was dealing with actual works of art. If my boss was working on a particular project in the studio, he would talk to me about it and explain what he was doing. He would tell me about painting and light and the best angle to capture damage or decay in a painting. He would explain how infrared reflectography would create an image that could  “see” the various layers of paint used by an artist. For example, this technique would show the various leg placements Degas used for his ballerinas before he got it right.

One day, as my boss was photographing some paintings from the vault, he called me out of the darkroom. He told me what he was doing, explaining his chosen angle and what it would show about the pieces in question. And then he handed me a seldom seen Monet painting that spent much of its time in the vault–for lack of wall space. Upstairs in the museum, these paintings were connected to alarm systems in rooms with guards. If a visitor accidentally leaned on a painting or touched it, an alarm would sound and the guards would come running. And here I was holding it in my hands!!

Yes, I held (in my hands) the very same canvas that was painted and held by Monet, himself. It was one of the amazing perks of that summer job. Because summer jobs are like that. You never know what might come up. The job might lead to a position that you will hold for many years, or it might just lead to an opportunity of a lifetime!

Art supplies

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This evening, I had to stop by one of our local craft superstores because I had a question for one of the more experienced individuals in the framing department. I waited for a while before the sales associate walked right by me as I stood at the counter. Before she walked by me the second time, I stopped her. “Is there anyone in the framing department to answer a question?”

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were being helped. And here I am walking right by you…. Hold on. I’ll find someone for you.” And off she went.

Meanwhile, my daughter perused the aisles, captivated by the appealing art supplies. Pens. Markers. Sketch pads. Ink. Paint and brushes. Canvas. I watched as she picked up various items, studied them, then put them back in their places.

The woman returned, apologizing that there didn’t seem to be anyone available to help me. In the end, she was able to offer a passable answer to my question.

As my daughter and I exited the store, she was clearly thinking about all the items she had just seen.

“Why do art supplies have to be so expensive?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You could get a job to help you buy some.”

“Yeah, but where am I going to get a job?”

“Hmm…” I thought for a minute. “You could work here. Then you would get an employee discount!”

There was a brief pause while this piece of information registered in her mind. “That is a great idea!” she finally said. “Why haven’t I thought of that before?”

Indeed, I thought it was pretty brilliant, myself. Maybe I could get a job there….

Enough

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Some days (many lately), I am overcome by the pressures of life and the expectations put on me by so many people. I struggle with the need to be all things to all people. I think some people are more prone to this fight than others in our way too high-pressure, you-must-do-it-all society. I believe single parents have an extra tough challenge as they not only have to be all things to their children, they sometimes succumb to a need to make up for what is lacking in their children’s lives.

I am no stranger to the pressure to measure up and fit in with outside expectations. I grew up in a small town—the type of place that most people would see as idyllic. But if you have experience with small town life, you know that there is just as much drama in a small town as there is in a large one. There are just fewer people to carry the weight.

Growing up, I fell victim to the playground girl-drama. Nothing about me was ever quite right, and after awhile, I knew I was never going to be enough. My clothes were wrong. I was not pretty enough. My hair never fell flat and straight and perfect. I was not tall enough or talented enough. I was not athletic (…at all, never mind enough). I was not social enough. And despite graduating near the top of my class, I never seemed to be smart enough. There were always people around who were willing to make me feel inadequate because somehow, they were more than enough. Looking back, I thank God I did not grow up in the days of social media.

In an attempt to run away, to escape from the drama, I threw myself into solitary activities in which I could be myself without the pressure from others. I took up the clarinet and later added the flute, the oboe, the piano, and the guitar. From my earliest days, I spent hours lost in the worlds hidden in the pages of the books that lined the shelves of the local library and bookstore. I would become so lost that when I had to stop reading for dinner… or homework… or because the book ended, I would be slightly disoriented as the real world of my home came rushing back into my consciousness. Hadn’t I just been on a grand adventure with Laura or Pippi or Pollyanna? Certainly, here—in the pages of a book—was a place where I never felt the pressure to measure up.

As I grew older, I delved into art and writing. I began to run—initially because I was preparing to coach a high school cross-country team. But the more I ran, the more meaning I found in the rhythm of my steps and the wanderings of my mind. I was soothed and inspired as my muse would often come to play while I was pounding out the miles on the road. It seemed my interests were beginning to blend in ways I hadn’t known they might. And so, the solitary pursuits continued.

Through losing myself in solitude, I found myself in truth. My state of mind began to shift to encompass and accept my enoughness. I became an artist, a writer, a runner. I discovered that even though I might not live up to other people’s standards, I was enough. I had always been enough. The best of me, the me I put out in the world every day, would always be enough. And being enough is a powerful place to be.

But when life gets busy and hectic, I sometimes slip into old patterns of thought. When things aren’t coming together and I can’t please everyone and the people around me are letting me know I am not meeting their needs, my enoughness begins to fade. With a lot of work, a little struggle, and a push to refocus on my needs, I can usually return to enough.

And being enough is important. For all of us. We are all enough.

Smiley faces

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I have smiley faces all over my house. I know where they are, but they are invisible to the untrained eye….

This weekend, my daughter and I decided to make a bold change in our living room. Since we moved in, the walls in the room have been a very pale yellow, the color of butter. The choice was made in part because the room is small and north-facing. It gets minimal daylight through the French doors, so I was looking for a light, sunny color to compensate.

This weekend, we made a long overdue change. Together, we decided on a forest-y green with one darker accent wall. For whatever reason, we started with the accent wall, making the most dramatic change first.

Here’s what I love about painting with my daughter. Before she begins to paint, she takes the edge of her paint-laden roller to the wall, using the blank space as her personal canvas. In the midst of the old color, there appears a smiling face of the new color, and she continues her walk to the corner to begin covering the entire wall.

The image sticks with me. Now, every time I look at a finished wall—this one or several others in my house—I can see the face, smiling out at me. The number of walls in my house with smiley faces is growing. The number of rooms with hidden smiles… it’s growing, too!

It’s nice to know I have smiley faces watching over me throughout my house. It gives each room a positive vibe. Perhaps if you come to visit, you might even be able to figure out where the faces are hiding!

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[Image is a very poor quality snapshot of the wall we painted–before it was completely covered.]

Used Up

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I am sitting at the kitchen table finishing up some summer work when my daughter quietly comes down the stairs and approaches me. I look up at her.

“Promise you won’t get mad,” she says as she holds out her hand. Her fist is closed, hiding whatever it is she has to give me. I study her face, not quite able to tell if she is kidding or serious.

I hold out my hand, and she pauses a split second before she drops the tiniest nub of a light peach pencil in my palm. I gasp, feigning distress. I look at her, wide eyed. “You used up my peach pencil??” I ask.

She nods. “You can get another one,” she informs me. “I needed this one.”

She had borrowed my colored pencils because I had the best ones—a tin of 36 Prismacolor pencils. Colored pencils—good, artist quality pencils—are not cheap. And drawing, painting, creating, this is how she chooses to relax and recharge.

Of course, when she borrowed my pencils, I was well aware of the simple truth about “borrowing” art supplies. It’s not the same as borrowing, say, a musical instrument, because unlike borrowing a guitar, art supplies get used up in the borrowing.

Next time I’m in the art supply store, I will stock up on light peach pencils. Because the truth is, I am more than fine with sacrificing my colored pencils in the name of amazing art.

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[Top image is my tiny light peach pencil. Bottom image is artwork courtesy of my talented daughter.]

Upward

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When you start with a blank page, anything is possible. Blank page, blank sky…

Blank is where I start today, and I move to the daily prompt: clouds. Some days the clouds match my mood; some days not. Some days the clouds can determine my mood; some days not.

Today, there are large, fluffy white clouds spreading across the sky, catching sun and shadows in a wondrous ever-changing pattern of beauty and sunshine and summer and lightness. The past few days, the clouds have been captivating, amazing, breathtaking in their summer glory. Uplifting.

Is it that these clouds only come in the summer time? Or is it that I have only noticed them in the past few days because I have finally slowed down enough to do so? I have slowed down enough to pay attention.

For much of the year, I am closed off and focused inward in an attempt to keep things together and running smoothly. I am maintaining schedules for far too many people. Often in these times, the winter sky is gray and heavy with the possibility of snow and ice and disruption.

In the summer, I can loosen my grip, let go and be free. And looking up is a joy. I can go out into the world and experience the beauty of nature in the clouds that seem to dance from west to east.

Yes, the summer clouds are different. They certainly seem different. By maybe it’s just me.

Few Words

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My son is on his school’s annual 8th grade class trip. He is my youngest. He is the third child to go on this class trip. And he is the child of the fewest words.

My first child FaceTimed with me from the long bus ride from our town to the 8th grade destination. It was the day after his birthday, and I had sent cookies on the bus. Likely, there were not enough cookies for everyone on the bus, but he had a lot of cookies. And he wanted to show me all of the fun they were having on the bus.

My second child texted me at various times throughout the day as she endured the long bus ride. Endured is exactly the word I would use. She hates traveling, and she hates sitting in confined spaces for long periods of time. She texted me any time she felt she needed support or distraction.

My third child would likely not have any contact with me whatsoever from the moment I dropped him off until the moment he had to climb back in my car for the drive home. When he left, I reminded him that he had his cell phone and charger, and one quick text at night would let me know that he was still alive and with his school group.

So tonight, I texted him: “Did you have a good day?”

His reply: “yes.” Did I mention that he is a kid of few words?

“Anything exciting happen?” I tried again.

“No.”

Okay then.

Tomorrow, I will ask him about food. That subject should get the attention of any teenage boy, shouldn’t it?

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*Image is a photo of word art at the Culinary Institute of America

Yesterday…

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Yesterday… I held my first child in my arms—all six pounds of him—as he wiggled his feet and studied my face, searching for recognition and committing my features to his brand new memory.

Yesterday, my first-born said good-bye to his childhood, adulthood dawning the next morning despite the fact that his birthday wouldn’t be official until late in the day.

Yesterday… I held my fingers out for two chubby hands to grasp, and I bent over to toddler level to “walk” him up and down, up and down, up and down the hall while he smiled his gleeful smile.

Yesterday, I stood on tippy toes to hug my son good-bye before school. The morning good-byes are now bittersweet, and I (at least) am holding on to each and every precious one.

Yesterday… I sat with my son at preschool because he didn’t want me to leave him behind. I sat in the classroom for several of the first few days, quietly watching, until he grew comfortable with the idea of me leaving.

Yesterday, my son walked out the door—too rushed for a decent breakfast—in his need to pick up his girlfriend and consult with this friend and that group adviser before the school day was underway.

Yesterday… my son spent hours at the kitchen table with paper, scissors, glue, stickers, ribbon, clay, etc. crafting some of the most impressive art projects seen in the past few decades. His eyes would be bright with ideas and possibilities as paper shards scattered across the floor where they would stay until the vacuum came through to gobble them up.

Yesterday, my son finished assembling the high school literary magazine. As with his projects of old, he was excited to watch it come together. To move from individual pieces of writing and artwork to a finished compilation, bound into a single, cohesive whole that will be distributed to the student body.

Yesterday… my son graduated from kindergarten. It was a warm, sunny day, and the room was sticky from little kid use. When the ceremony was over, we celebrated with ice cream sundaes, pictures with the teacher, and some playtime on the playground before we left the tiny “campus” to move on to a bigger school and a full day program.

Yesterday, my son’s graduation announcements arrived in the mail. The paper was stiff and fresh and official and embossed with the school seal and His. Full. Name. He promptly reported that his name was misspelled, compelling me look more closely. The glint in his eye and his sense of fun have not changed or faded over time.

Yesterday, when I was talking to my daughter about her brother’s birthday, I accidentally referenced it as his 13th birthday rather than his 18th birthday. Because in my mind, he will always be some combination of ages that is far less than his actual years. And because…

Time. It’s like that. It bends and warps and does crazy things to our brains, making us think that moments have stood still when years have passed.

Yesterday. So many yesterdays.

 

*Image is a photo taken yesterday by my talented daughter and used with her very gracious permission

Cow Shirt

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Last week, the students in the high school theater department had an unofficial “spirit week” to celebrate the upcoming performance—their last production of the year. Wednesday was ‘mismatch patterns’ day.

Tuesday night, there was a flurry of activity in my house. J was texting her friends, discussing what they would wear, sharing hideous combinations via FaceTime. I threw some even more hideous ideas her way, but when she rejected them, I left her to her own devices.

Finally, she came downstairs in her proposed outfit, but she had already decided it was too much. “Abort mission! Abort mission!” she commented as she modeled her dreadful get up.

She had two different socks—one striped, one with skeleton leg bones. Her pants were short and patterned with an elephant print, and she had layered a plaid flannel over a striped tank. The outfit was completed with what she would later refer to as a “gross green floral scarf.” She was a sight to behold.

“I… don’t know if I want to do this,” she expressed her thoughts aloud.

“You’re not the only one participating,” I told her. “I saw the combination your friend was putting together.”

“I don’t know…” she said as she disappeared back up to her room. She came down a while later to work on her homework. She was quiet for a few minutes as she worked. Then, out of the blue she looked at me, excited. “Your cow shirt, Mom! Do you still have your cow shirt?” The shirt was one I had picked up in cowboy country years ago and had actually worn at one point in my life. Since then, J had used it once before as part of a costume for a school event.

“I’m not sure. If I did, it would be hanging on the closet door,” I told her. She ran upstairs. “Is it there?”

“Got it!” she announced, retreating to her room.

I’m not sure what it was about my cow shirt that made the crazy outfit more tolerable than a plaid flannel. It certainly made it crazier. And I can pretty much guarantee that no one else had a cow shirt to (mis)match their outfit!

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[image is a photo of my crazy cow shirt that definitely does not match much else in this life]