Artful Mistakes

Rule of Thirds

2012-01-23T20:56:00.000-05:00

Rule of Thirds, DC Style

Indoor Nature

2012-01-18T18:39:00.000-05:00

Butterflies, atrium Neimum Marcus

Metal flower, TJ Maxx

Photography Bender

2012-01-17T13:14:00.000-05:00

Berries, Gallaudet University

A photography bender has started, thanks to a fabulous friend who has loaned me a camera with a real lens and the ability to change things like aperture and ISO and set the focus and such.

I still don't know what aperture is, despite her best efforts to explain it to me.

But I do know that if I have aperture set to 2.8 and zoom all the way in, I get the effect of some things blurry and some things not.

I'm unreasonably excited by this. I'm almost as excited by this as by the fact that this super cool camera also still fits in my purse so I can still carry a camera around with me everywhere.

I expect I'll be annoying about the new toy for quite a while.

Birdhouse & Giant Metal Chicken, Capitol Hill

Tommy's Birthday

2012-01-16T12:47:00.001-05:00

My brother Tommy

A friend of mine who lost his sister to cancer warned me that there were certain times of year, around her birthday and the date of her death, where he would just feel off, sunk in a glumness that he couldn't pinpoint, and then he would realize: Oh. Somewhere in his subconscious calendar, he was tracking the movement of time away from her.

And so January creeps forward here. It's been busy with new projects and a sick cat and social outings and one thing or another, life the way it is, but today I realized: Oh. My brother Tommy's birthday is on Tuesday. That's the dark noise flittering around in the background.

It's the third of his birthdays to pass since he died at age 45 in August 2009, and time has, as advertised, smoothed some of the sharp edges.

The initial rawness was, in some ways, shocking in and of itself. Because of my brother's severe autism, he lived in residential schools and group homes from when he was 7 and I was 2 years old. I have no memory of him at home beyond vacations -- Christmas, Easter, summer break. Sometimes, Mom and Dad would drive out to his school in Delaware, my sister and I packing the backseat full of Barbies to entertain us through the drive there and back. Susie is older and remembers him at home, but I don't.

Tommy lived the last 24 years of his life in a small group home in Maine with some of the kindest people I've ever met working with him there. He made friends and went bowling and to baseball games, rode regularly with the therapeutic riding program he loved and kept the yard free of dandelions with a ruthless vigilance.

Tommy wasn't part of day-to-day life in my memory, so as much as I didn't expect his sudden death at only 45, I also didn't expect how much the finality of his absence would unravel me for a time.

For most of my childhood, Tommy injected a level of chaos into most family holidays. To be honest, the spitting and the bedwetting and the less-than-ideal table manners weren't all that much fun. But he was family and I felt that bond. We both took the same destructive glee in ripping into Christmas presents. And he more glee in tidying up (I'm more of a slob; Tommy liked things in their place, although that order could remain mysterious to the rest of us).

He didn't make much eye contact, but I do remember moments, hiding out with him, where I'd just sit next to him and talk when no one else was in the room. Mostly, he would rock back and forth and I couldn't tell if he was listening. But every once in a while, usually when I made some crack about a relative, he'd shoot me a look as if to say, "Yeah, I know. They're all a little nuts."

This is what siblings do, exchange sidelong, knowing glances about the quirkiness of family.

We looked alike, and in some pictures, I see family expressions, the mix of Mom and Dad that came down to both of us.

And then we were not alike. I spoke; he didn't. He hummed and rocked and flapped, the classic self-soothing mannerisms of autism.

Autism diagnosis has exploded in the last 30 years.  But when I was a kid, half of my childhood cohort thought my brother was artistic, painting portraits in some garret. No, I'd explain. He was different. Really different.

When we were growing up, the now dismissed Refrigerator Mother theory put forward by Bruno Bettelheim and Leo Kanner was just falling out of fashion. They suggested that emotionally frigid mothers who turned away from their children inspired the emotional distance of autism.

Autism is now largely considered to be a genetic issue. But in the 50s and 60s, all those mothers who had kids like Tommy were, on top of having to deal with the difficulties of having kids like Tommy, told his autism was their fault. I don't have kind feelings toward Bruno Bettelheim.

There weren't any autism walks or ribbons of awareness when Tommy and I were growing up. The resources available for him and my parents were frequently lumped together with children with related, but different issues needing different care. My parents spent innumerable hours investigating every new treatment that showed promise, from the B vitamin megadosing to hours working with Tommy on picture and word recognition. He went to day schools and, when he was older, bigger, and more energetic, to residential schools. My parents navigated labyrinths of legal and funding options and did everything they could to make sure Tommy had every opportunity to be healthy and happy.

I am thrilled that autistic people and their families today don't have explain nearly as much, that there are more and better options, that there are approaches that can help autistic people and their families connect more with each other. And I also wish more of those options, instead of Bruno Bettelheim, had been around for my family.

One huge impact on my brother's life was the introduction of facilitated communication (FC).

Transcript, FC conversation, 7/25/1996 - p. 1

Until that point, we were all told Tommy likely didn't understand much of what was going on around him.

Facilitated communication is assisted letterboard typing, a treatment that grew out of work with people with cerebral palsy. It was not without controversy. There were claims of it being a Ouija board, with the facilitator (deliberately or not) influencing the letters plucked out one by one by the client.

But then there were also autistic people that eventually no longer needed facilitators, who began to type out words on their own. No Ouija boards there.

So in our 20s, Tommy and I finally got to have a conversation.

I believe FC worked for Tommy, that it was his voice speaking, not a facilitator's. Although he always had a facilitator with a hand on his arm back near his elbow, I think Tommy directed the chosen destination of his pointing finger on that letterboard.

Transcript, FC conversation, 7/25/1996 - p. 2

What I can absolutely guarantee is that Tommy was happier when people treated him as if he could understand, when he was given choices, when he was asked questions and given opportunity to respond.

He mellowed in his 30s and 40s (as we all do) and settled into a peaceful rural life in Maine, seeing my mother regularly after she moved nearby, seeing my father on his many trips north, participating in the therapeutic riding program in the summers, clearing those pesky dandelions out of the yard, working with the staff on treatment goals, including FC, to make his life more comfortable, and enjoying outings with his housemates.

Tommy brought difficult issues with him; there is no way around that.

But Tommy could also be refreshingly fun in his own particular way, in part because social conventions didn't apply for him.

Transcript, FC conversation, 7/25/1996 - p. 3

An example: at a family bbq at my aunt and uncle's house in the late 70s or so, Tommy arrived back at the table from a trip to the restroom quite happily naked. He was a nudist at heart, I think, and destroyed, bit by bit, thread by thread, countless shirts over his lifetime. I have a fond memory of watching one of his shoes go by my window when we were in the car. But on this occasion at my relatives' Pennsylvania home, he'd just ditched his whole wardrobe. It was hot; he was a clothing optional kind of guy.

My mother (not endorsing the clothing optional approach) went to find his clothes, assuming he'd left them upstairs.

And she could find no sign of them -- not in the bathroom, not in the closets, not in any of the bedrooms, not on the stairs, not anywhere. None of us could find them anywhere. We considered and rejected the flushability of his clothes (with mild plumber alarm) but it just didn't seem possible. His clothes had just vanished, Tommy's personal magic trick.

Transcript, FC conversation, 7/25/1996 - p. 4

His dip into nudism was foiled that day, as Mom of course had other clothes in supply, but he definitely had his moment of making an entrance and creating a mystery.

Some days later, my aunt dropped something on the bathroom floor and when she leaned down to retrieve it, happened to see a bit of cloth hanging down behind the radiator. And pulling on that, she then discovered, wedged with great precision, Tommy's abandoned clothes.

Tommy, like any kid, had crafty moments, and he really, really didn't want to wear those clothes on a hot July day. Even before FC, Tommy managed to get many of his points across.

Most of all, Tommy had some fun amid family and friends that loved him. I will hope to remember that above all on his birthday.

"Cinthia makes me laugh. I am laughing with you. A good thing to laugh."
-- Tommy, during an FC conversation when I visited Maine in 1996.

Thomas Daniel Daffron
January 17, 1964 - August 30, 2009
Photo taken mid-August 2009

Unflattering Self Portraits

2012-01-15T12:06:00.000-05:00

Taken after running last week.

First attempt at a self-portrait sketch.

I've been playing around with self portraits a bit this week.

Photographic and sketch results raise observations on asymmetry and that, hmm, I'm not 20 years old anymore. Still, however mild, there is improvement in my sketching, so I'll hold onto that. I seem to flatten the camera angle perspective even when I am trying to keep it - a bit frustrating.

I also might get crazy and buy a comb, or at least a more effective barrette.

2012-01-06T16:57:00.001-05:00

Seedpods

Leaving Behind Forward Thinking

2012-01-02T23:02:00.003-05:00

Resolutions for the new year. Setting intentions in yoga class. Visualizing a magical future in the coaching world. It's all about seeing what you want and going for it, grabbing the future by a throttle hold and beating it into submission.

Certainly, if you can't imagine it, you won't have any ability to achieve it. I thrill to imagination and creating new ways of seeing the world.

Hazel practicing contentment

But I also believe in being content in transition -- in gently leaning back into limbo and letting in the experience of not knowing what is going to happen, no matter what I'm busy visualizing in joy or panic.

To thoroughly see what is happening around you, you have to detach from the idea that you can control everything around you.

And let's be clear: you don't have control. You may be a bootstrap CEO worth millions, but large swaths of the world just don't give a crap about you. They aren't going to do what you want no matter what you order or imagine or visualize. You can't make people think what you want. Mind control is still science fiction.

Don't take it personally. You're just a speck. A dust mote.

That's OK.

We all look lovely shining in sunbeams anyway.

Maybe the perfect future you have in mind is that gosh-darned perfect. But maybe your lock-step pursuit of it blinds you to side routes along the way, potentially grander or happier avenues if you just took a breath, looked around, explored, imagined, and then reimagined.

Your goals can change. Your imagination may refine an image as you collect more information. You may change and want different things.

What I wanted to be when I was four (a baton-twirler) didn't fit the twelve year old version of me, and even if it had, and I'd spent a decade twirling my heart out, I'd likely not still be marching along with a parade now.

Persistence pays off. But so does flexibility.

Do I think you or I should spend forever at a crossroad, refusing to choose a direction, sit down in paralyzed indecision? Nope. Fear of the unknown, of motion, of change - as much as I and everyone else may on occasion be subject to them, I'm opposed to them.

But I think there is a point where when we put all our happiness out there in the future, we downgrade the value of where we are now, the work (or the dumb luck, or grace, or whatever combination thereof) we've done to stand on this ground.

I don't want to stand around perpetually discontent with here and now.

All the visualizing, yearning and wanting, leaves me anxious and tired some days. It leaves me thinking that I am lacking, because I'm missing some perfect [fill in the blank].

And I'm not.

Right here. Right now. It's good.

So my cheeky one word resolution, to bask -- to take pleasure in the little wonders of this point in time, this step on a journey to somewhere, a small, critical, anonymous, unimportant step, but a step -- is less cheeky than I thought.

Basking breeds contentment. Not complacency or blindness, but contentment. And that is definitely something to yearn for and lean into right now.

Happy Not A Holiday, Nondescript January 2nd.

New Year's Resolution: Bask

2012-01-01T19:31:00.001-05:00

Path at Riley's Lock

Potomac River at Riley's Lock

Rainbow Stalking

2011-12-27T17:53:00.000-05:00

Yes, yes, I know, posts have been brief of late...I've been distracted with holidays, other writing projects, and stalking rainbows. They are wily, colorful beasts that appear out of the rain.

Rainbow quarry cornered heading
toward I-95 in Miami, 12/11/11.

It turns out, the rainbow ends at a brick
apartment building in NE DC, or did today, 12/27/11.

Wynwood Art Walk, Miami

2011-12-16T22:59:00.001-05:00

On the 2nd Saturday of every month, the Wynwood neighborhood of Miami has an art walk. Over 60 galleries open their doors.

Wall of Art

All I can say is: go. You'll love it. The art ranges from massive murals on the walls of former factories to precise oils to metal dragonflywoman sculptures. Moonlight and warm Florida breezes carry eclectic music out into the street. Industrial buildings include an auto body shop that somehow adds to the urban art feel. You can stop by a food truck and pick up something tasty if you're feeling peckish. Kids, families, hipsters, art-ers, tourists: it's a lively crowd where everyone is welcome.

And the art: amazing.

Building-wide mural

She looks like a dragonfly to me.

Note the deer in front of the green hulk
(and to the left of Neil's butt)

Moon over Murals

Murals in Wynwood Walls area

The painting on the right is called "The Three Graces." As
with all these pieces, I neglected to write down
artist names. I particularly wish I had for that one -
gorgeous work.

Wynwood Walls

Neil and his new friends

The Infamous

See You Later, Alligator

2011-12-10T00:54:00.001-05:00

Sign by lake

Not only did they feel it necessary to put up a sign, they also passed a law about it. Who doesn't know enough to stay away from an alligator? A lot of people, apparently.

Gratuitous Sunset at the Beach Photo

2011-12-05T23:57:00.001-05:00

Roadtripping, Cat Lady Style

2011-11-30T21:53:00.001-05:00

Leo, Hazel, and I hit the road on Wednesday, off on an excellent Florida adventure. The beginning of the 2-day drive looked and sounded like this:

Leo and Hazel travel in style in a purple mesh pop-up carrier that takes up most of the backseat and includes all the modern conveniences (i.e., a little box). It gives them a little room to stretch, but keeps them from leaping out the window at toll booths. Over the 14 years that the kitties and I have been spending time together, they've logged many miles. They're not always happy about it, but they are surprisingly patient and flexible.

If nothing else, they enjoy that after a day of meditative sunshine driving, I perk up (yes, cats sense your mood). While they don't let me sing (like many others, they interpret it as yowling, and meow with alarm when I forget and start in) they do let me change radio stations to catch scary 80s classics (yes, "Abracadra" still gets air time. Want to have a 1982 tune stuck in your head? Click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QyoRzZrF00&feature=related). After a few hours of following the yellow lines, the endless winter gloom of DC gray fades into exploration and insights into other places, odd roadside moments and the peaceful zen of driving.

Day 1 of driving landed us at the Walterboro, SC Motel6. Given that Motel6s are cheap and allow pets, we are brand loyal. This particular safe haven came with a bbq invite from the guys in orange reflective vests grilling dinner in the parking lot. They were in town to do electrical work in Ridgeland and were, safe to say, a little bored. Anyone who starts a conversation with "So you from out of town?" in a motel parking lot may be yearning for anything new (do lots of people in town stay at the Motel6?).

The kitties and I opted out of the parking lot festivities and instead hunkered down for a night of junk food and bad TV. I prefer to think that the bug Hazel found was not a baby roach, but some orphan insect of a less revolting tribe.

The biggest excitement for me is that the Motel6 has a new, and possibly even more hideous bedspread pattern, this one with a Motel6 logo wound into yellows and oranges and blues. The previous bedspread used, I can tell you, by most Motel6s across the country, flaunted blues and magenta, a stain-hiding combination that I've come to expect.

We hit the road early, anxious for more sun, more flashback music, and finally getting to the warmth.

We first felt the shift to southern winter at a gas station stop in Georgia (at a nondescript Shell, not Mr. Pete's Pecans and Gas that we saw advertised in curly script on a billboard, as intrigued we were by that unlikely combination). Even though it was a chilly morning, it felt different...the sun was sharper, the sky bluer, and the birds sang with a tropical lilt. The wind coming inland from the the ocean still carried its salty smell.

Hazel was probably thinking: lizards!

When we lived in Miami, she was the mighty huntress, picking up, and dropping many lizards. She didn't often kill them -- I imagine they don't taste all that yummy, although I don't intend to verify that. But she would chase them around and pick them up with zeal, at which point, they would drop their tails (a lizard stress reaction). Many short-tailed lizards lived, anxiously, around our cottage.

The big excitement on Day 2 of driving (aside from arriving at our destination) all took place in the vicinity of Lawtey, FL.

You can't say they don't give you
fair warning...

First: the Speed Trap billboard, 4.5 miles outside of town on 301. Yes, once in town, I saw a black unmarked car with a lawman sitting as promised in the 35 miles per hour zone there. You have to figure, whoever pays for the billboard the town hero.
Also in Lawtey, we made a brief stop to take a picture of not one, not two, but THREE giant metal chickens.

Modern Styling.

Because one is not enough.

The reason for this can be found here: http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/. Knock, knock is a running joke with a friend to whom I periodically send pictures of large metal chickens (or roosters - I'm flexible on these things).

Having finally arrived in our Florida destination,today, the cats and I are enjoying some down time on the porch. Leo had a tough morning with a visit to a local vet, as his back is hurting -- the prevailing theory is he twisted it on the stairs yesterday surveying his temporary kingdom, as he seemed surprisingly spry after the car ride. But by last evening, poor guy was hurting. Today, after a couple of shots, he's feeling better, and so is his nervous caretaker.

In front of us on the porch, a palm tree is rustling in the wind. A few fluffy clouds are floating by. I plan to go to the beach in a little while and stick my toes in the ocean. December in Florida, Santa hats and bathing suits, has much to recommend it.

I hope Leo and Hazel agree.

Hazel: "Lizards!"; Leo: "Cat treats!"

Them Apples

2011-11-28T23:14:00.001-05:00

Green Apples
acrylic on canvas
10 x 8

As part of another attempt to de-clutter my apartment, I spent yesterday sorting through stacks of art supplies. Like coming across old snapshots, paintings take me back to the time and place where I painted them.

"Green Apples," an attempt at a classic still life with somewhat atraditional color choices, was painted on the balcony of a beach house rented for the Sisters Beach Trip 3.0 the week after Hurricane Irene. My sister was working on a painting too, hers of shells.

At the time, I wasn't much thrilled with my effort. Now I find I like it much better, perhaps because it returns me to a warm balcony with ocean air full of familial love, acceptance, and creative exploration.

Those are some darn good apples in that context.

Evolution of a Naked Man

2011-11-27T23:02:00.001-05:00

Spent
acrylic on canvas
36 x 30

This one I painted a few months ago, futzed with endlessly, and then put aside because it still didn't capture what I wanted. The frustration of seeing something in your mind that you can't create plagues most artists, I imagine, even those with more developed technical skills.

Still, he looks a whole lot more like a person than the creepy monster he started out as. I am learning something. Various stages are displayed in the clip below.

Naked Lady

2011-11-25T20:13:00.000-05:00

Yes, if you paint, eventually you end up trying to paint naked people. Let me tell you, it's a lot harder than it looks. You would think, gosh, a few nice long lines, and voila! a person. Not so. Or at least, not a person that isn't part of some surgery-gone-wrong exposé.

Moon-soaked
acrylic on canvas
22 x 32

Thanksgiving Gratitude List 2011

2011-11-21T10:39:00.000-05:00

I complain. And whine. And grumble. A lot. Too often I see the glass chipped and half-empty. To counteract that tendency, last year I drew up a list of 25 things for which I'm grateful. Cataloging the many ways in which I am rich is becoming a yearly tradition, a welcome antidote to all the fretting about silly junk.

Here is the list for this year. I tried not to peek at last year's until I finished this year's, but the similarities are striking. I'm still incredibly lucky.

So without further ado, and in no particular order, Thanksgiving Gratitude List 2011.

Model horses rock!
photo credit: Thomas A Daffron, Jr. (my grandfather)
My sister: She's my best friend, not because she is my sister, but because she is courageous and funny, smart, kind, and honest. She puts up with my endless rambling and whining and reliably responds with wit and a healthy dose of reality. And – bonus! – she makes really yummy cookies and chocolate zucchini bread among many other tasties.
My parents: In very different ways, they are both remarkable people. I am clear in the love we have for each other. The older I get, the luckier I know I am.
My cats: As oldsters, they're largely fluffy doorstops snoring in one chair or another, and they do nothing to decrease the cricket population in my apartment. But they purr when I pick them up, come when I call them (yes, even though they're cats), and never tire of the excitement of dinnertime. In the winter particularly, they cleave to me for warmth and affection, and viceversa. They still groove on catnip and playtime and their hedonistic lifestyle of dozing in the sunshine.
Painting: Expert technique is still far, far out of reach. But what I do have is a corner of my living room set up for the right side of my brain to play. Five minutes or an hour of messing with color and shape calms me while letting me explore, a stellar combination.
Writing: Since I started keeping character sketches of friends and family as a preteen, through the many years of journals, stories, poems, novels, essays, and blog posts, writing is how I organize my thoughts, express my hopes and fears, and clarify my values. It's where I find forgiveness for myself and others, where I play, and where I mourn.
Running: Breathe in, breathe out. The steady beat of Vibrams Five Fingers (my running shoe of choice – ask me, and I'll tell you more than you ever wanted to know about how much I like them) on a quiet path. Running strengthens me while it relaxes me.
Hiking: Sweating through summer haze or sloshing through fall rain, hiking makes me look around at how gorgeous and how simple and how awe-inspiring the natural world can be -- if I just pay attention.
Leo hard at work on a craft project
Driving: I know, it's not environmentally conscious to go for a Sunday drive. But the joy of windows down, radio up, and singing loud is hard to beat, as is the curiosity of seeing what's just up around that corner or on the other side of the country.
My Aunt Kathy: My aunt spent much of this year helping my mother during her treatment for cancer. She also dealt with my moments of panic and insanity the bubbled up through some of the tougher times. Kathy remained endlessly patient, gracious, practical, and efficient. She is one of the kindest people I know. And she likes a good bowl of popcorn and a road trip, so we have many common interests.
Friends Old & New: It's been a bumpy year with family stress and financial bummers, but through that, I've had a steady stream of support from people I treasure. I've spoken unspeakable things to phenomenal people who have in turn shared their struggles and successes with me. I recognize that being close with the people I am over many years of friendship, being with people that bring out my best side, is a tremendous gift. I look forward to growing even closer and supporting those friendships to the best of my ability in the coming years.
My Freelance Writing/Virtual Assistant Business: My commute is about 10 feet to turn on my computer. I never set my alarm clock. I run errands in the middle of the afternoon. While it's true that my retirement is nil and health care nonexistent, I believe this business will, in time, provide me with a wee bit more financial security to go with the freedom and intellectual stimulation of doing what I want to do.
St. Pete Beach, FL
Time: Time trumps money, I concluded this summer when I turned down a (relatively-speaking) lucrative, but time- and soul-sucking job. To have opportunity to choose that was liberating however much I still panic when the rent comes due and still kick myself for not being a more normal, socially acceptable person. For me though, happiness requires enough quiet daydream time (preferably with a cat purring in the window) to relax into it, and I'm thrilled that I have the luxury to choose that life and still be able to eat.
Letting Go: Sometimes you can care deeply for people and still find yourself arguing with venom over pointless crap, banging your head against one wall or another. There is value for everyone in letting go of anger and those connections that feed into unhealthy patterns and instead putting energy into more peaceful places of growth.
Free & Cheap & Fun & Creative Stuff: Necessity is the mother of invention, and because it would be unreasonably frivolous even for me to go out and buy endless electronic gizmos I don't need, I've become better at realizing what I do need (food, shelter), what I don't (a Ferrari), and creatively re-purposing what I've got to fill the gray zones in between the extremes. I found goodies at thrift stores that speak to my sense of humor, scanned free piles for ugly mobile parts, recycled canvases to create my new (sometimes lumpy) paintings, and removed a lot of waste from my consumer diet, from deleting pricier junk food to making better use of the library.
Light: Given my increased focus on the visual arts, painting, photography, and crooked suncatchers, I'm more aware of the magic of light, the angles of highlight and shadow, the splintering by prisms, the benevolence bestowed by its alchemy.
Family: The more I see how family can go radically wrong, collapse in anger, neglect, fury, abandonment, despair, violence, the more amazed I am by the collective kindness, intelligence, loyalty, and humor of my immediate and extended family.
Health: Having spent time pacing hospitals hallways this year, I hold an even higher value on the dumb luck of my own good health.
Kids: No, you haven't missed anything exciting -- I don't have kids. But I enjoy spending time with my friends' kids and smile when I see happy crews running amok at playgrounds or parades or wherever. I love the creativity and chaos and unbridled fun that kids generate by keeping the world wondrously new and immediate.
Radiator Heat, Indoor Plumbing, Electric Lights, Maintained Roads, Public Safety: All those bills and taxes go some place to keep a sprawling, radically complicated system chugging along. Sometimes it clunks more than purrs – vitriolic government rhetoric, the poor distribution of wealth, blackouts, shutdowns, riots, dishonesty, greed, natural and man-made disasters. But every day, most days, millions of cogs in the wheels turn smoothly without breaking the machinery, a consistency I take for granted.
Possibility: Emily Dickinson wrote, “I dwell in possibility,” and while she was talking more specifically about the life of a poet, for me, imagination and change provide great hope, vehicles for shifting to a new approach.
Memory: Some moments and some people are, for good or bad, gone forever. There is much that I would choose to forget, but much, much more that I am so glad that I can remember, re-live, and enjoy again.
Learning: Learning takes place in many environments, so while I have had lots of formal education (and that has given me a lot of tangible opportunities as a result), I'm mostly talking about the capacity to learn in any environment, be it an ivory tower or muddy cave.
Aging: Am I happy about the gray hair frizzing over my head or the wrinkles by my eyes? No, not so much. But I'm grateful for the time accrued and perspective. As my father is fond of saying, getting old beats the alternative.
Being Sentimental & Cheesy & Mushy: Sure, there is something just a little schmaltzy about gratitude. But I'm grateful for it nonetheless, as I bask here in my riches. So there.
Food! Thanksgiving turkey, mashed potatoes, homemade chocolate chip cookies, horribly bad for you French fries, popcorn, a perfectly done steak with horseradish sauce, spinach salad with walnuts and strong cheese, cheese, chocolate, did I mention cheese?, strawberry smoothies, pomegranates and, of course, ice cream. I've had lean financial moments, but I've never truly faced hunger and have enjoyed many a gourmet meal. That's not the case for millions of people around the world.

So that's my list this year. Iencourage you to make your own if you want to feel super rich.

On Thanksgiving morning, I'm runningthe So Others Might Eat Trot For Hunger 5K. If you feel like contributing to a goodcause that serves the homeless and poor of the Washington, DC area, you may do so here:

http://support.some.org/site/TR/Events/teamraiser?px=1376226&pg=personal&fr_id=1110

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Artful Roses

2011-11-14T14:45:00.000-05:00

Some days, art lets you down.

Some days, you get up to gray skies and reread the brilliant story you were working on yesterday to find it flat, hackneyed, lifeless, riddled with structural flaws and bland language.

Some days, you examine the portrait that you'd spent hours tweaking the night before to find it looks like a misshapen cartoon with fang-like teeth and slightly crossed eyes.

Some days, the critical voices swarm in and ask you, "What's the point?"and (with increasing energy as the due dates for bills approach) "Does this make you any money?"

Today is a day where I have to remind myself that art is a process and a craft. Transforming a blank page or canvas takes time, work, and skill, with a more than happy dash of dumb luck or divine inspiration.

Developing skill takes time, and the only way to nourish those nascent talents is to keep plugging away. The roses don't bloom the day after the seeds are planted.

The reason I delve into the arts is because of what I learn along the way. Let me repeat that: explorations in art are about learning.

Sure, ending up with a lovely product that people ooh and aah over and pay a trillion dollars to hang on their wall would be swell. I'd love to paint in the rose garden of my mansion by the pool.

But I paint and write as a means to explore ideas, images, techniques, craft, beauty, memory, emotion, imagination, character, story, and all the other elements churned up in the process.
As a culture, we're encouraged to be humble, to only acknowledge our flaws, to highlight all that is wrong with the world, from one disaster to disaster.

But as I'm busily criticizing everything that is radically off with my art (and life, for that matter), and being accountable for that, learning from those missteps, I try to also put some energy toward recognizing everything that I did right.

The choices, artistic and otherwise, that worked, shouldn't be the neglected good children. They deserve their gold stars as much as the failures deserve demerits, time wearing the dunce cap, and other corrective actions.

Maybe the good was accidental -- the shaky brushstroke that made the eyes look real, the turn of phrase that evoked more than originally intended, the good decisions made for petty reasons. Celebrate the good anyway, and learn how to reproduce it deliberately.

Bottom line, life and art are about showing up. Keep squeezing paints onto the palette. Keep getting lost in words. Explore the process of art, rather than the product, and you won't be let down. You will instead be gifted with the perspective of the journey.

The process allows you to learn more and more and make the choices that push you closer to being the person and artist you want to be. Plus, your artwork will get better because you will keep showing up at the blank page or the blank canvas and creating anew.

This might not net you the swimming pool, but the perfume of progress smells sweeter than chlorine.

Up from the ashes grow the roses of success.

The Artful Mistakes theme song.

Hibiscus

2011-11-12T18:24:00.001-05:00

Hibiscus
acrylic on canvas
20 x 26

Touching Spiders

2011-11-04T21:12:00.001-04:00

Today, I touched a spider. On purpose.

Specifically, I touched this spider:

Captain Daddy Long-Legs

He was a big Daddy, maybe 2-inches across with his impressive legs, lolling there on a sunny concrete ledge.

The reason I touched the spider is, in part, because of the ending of hysterical blog post over on Hyperbole and a Half. Go ahead and read it right now. I'll wait.

[singing, humming, filing nails]

All done? Great.

So now you know that about the scariest thing she could think of to do was to touch a spider.

Solidarity, sister, I say.

Spiders have scared the snickers out of me since I was a little kid. My mother spent a lot of time removing them from one corner of my room where they tended to lurk. I took their presence personally, figuring that they knew they made me quiver, and so picked on me. Like dogs, they could sense my fear, and hunted me down.

Bad Memory #1: After using a plastic bathroom cup to rinse my mouth out after brushing my teeth, I spit the foam out in the sink, and then saw a very large, hairy, wet, and downright angry looking spider trying to crawl back out of the sink.

I still don't know if he got the dental swirl, but let's just say, I never used that cup again. To this day, I cup my hands together to rinse my mouth when brushing my teeth. There is no big cup in which big spiders may lounge about in in my bathroom.

Bad Memory #2: As a teenager, I remember waking up standing next to my light switch at the door to my room, the room ablaze, trying to piece together just how I got there. Then it came to me, the image of spiders half a foot in diameter dangling down from the ceiling, webbing their way toward me.

The only way I could talk myself back into sleeping was by realizing that, without my contact lenses, I couldn't see a spider that size that far away.

I didn't find that comforting, since that didn't mean that gigantic spiders weren't up there, just that I couldn't see them. I slept stifling myself with a spider-guard sheet tucked around my head.

Spiders, no matter how good they may be for your garden and removing other pests, freaked me out. As a grownup, they still send me galloping off and announcing their presence in a high pitched voice when I encounter one. Spider! Spider! Spider! That's usually followed by swatting at them with a shoe.

However today, having just read about spiders and fear and invincibility, when I saw that big spider that appeared to be dead and possibly permanently affixed to the cement, well, I had to stop to take a picture at least.

The first step to dealing with fear is to examine it closely.

On observation, I noted that the radioactive mutant spider had 7 legs. That meant that bad boy had a run in with something and lost a leg.

Another uncomfortable childhood memory involves 2nd grade boys pulling the legs off daddy long legs until they could only push themselves around with one leg. Then they pulled that last leg off and left the legless immobile body shaking there.

That's about when I realized human cruelty is real and arbitrary and starts very young.

And I don't even like spiders. But I digress.

Back to Big Daddy and his photo opportunity. I took his picture and then figured, oh, what the heck. Touch the spider. He's not even alive, so he's not, for instance, going to skitter up my arm and spit venom in my eye.

I tapped one leg.

And Big Daddy scampered right off on his lucky seven legs, not at all dead.

I scampered way off in the other direction down the path, totally grossed out and quietly thrilled.

I touched a spider today. On purpose.

Portrait Series

2011-11-01T22:54:00.001-04:00

Tea & Sympathy

I've started working on a series of portraits. This time, as opposed to painting people I know, I'm painting strangers, and in some ways, that's liberating. I don't feel any particular compunction to make them look like the real person (handy, since I haven't been terribly successful at realism anyway).

The first painting, "Tea & Sympathy," ended up looking somewhat like my cousin. Perhaps we gravitate toward painting who we know whether we mean to or not.

I know I fall toward my fiction roots and spend time thinking about character, the made-up back story of subjects and how that changes as paintings evolve.

Bite Wounds

I have mixed feelings on the use of background words in "Bite Wounds." I may nix those. I wanted a contrast to the perky smile, some extension to the squint around her eyes, but I can't yet decide if the words add or subtract overall according to my own weird aesthetics.

Obviously, I have a long way to go in terms of technical skill, among other things. What I envision in my mind is far from being represented on the canvas.

But as always with Artful Mistakes, I focus on the process (the AM tag line: the process of arting). And through that, I find that there are elements I like of both paintings, some currents of frailty and warmth mixing in with the paint.

Painting, creating something, learning more with each misstep -- these feel useful to me.

Both paintings remain in process. I find more and more I understand why artists are often so at loathe to sign paintings. It's hard to sign something that you know you're going to keep tweaking, or possibly, completely renovate.

Skywriting Witches

2011-10-29T16:22:00.000-04:00

Traffic on I-495

A pop-quiz for old timers in the DC area: Do you remember what the graffiti on the overpass right near the Connecticut Ave exit used to say?

Yes, that's right, Wizard of Oz fans. It said:

"Surrender Dorothy"

The Mormon Temple does looks a wee bit like the Emerald City.

Zombies! in Silver Spring

2011-10-23T10:41:00.001-04:00

Zombies on the move.

Despite spending most of yesterday feeling like a zombie myself, sleeping and gargling with salt water, I mustered for the ardurous (5 minute) journey to witness the Silver Spring Zombie Walk.

Complete with dry ice fog along the main route, creepy funny 80s synth retro music and traffic signs that warned, "Zombies Ahead," "This is NOT a drill!" and "Hide Your Brains," the zombie parade has grown every year since its inception four years ago.

Zombies don't photograph as
themselves on camera phones.

Popular zombie costumes included flannel-wearing farmers, beauty queens, brides, and military personnel with faux water guns that undoubtedly made the large police presence there twitchy. More exotic garb such as Where's Waldo and Colonel Sanders made more indivdual zombie fashion statements. Always political, this year some zombies carried Occupy signs ("Occupy My Brain").

Zombies are family-friendly. I passed the same zombie mother several times carrying her two or so year old kid (also zombified) and each time, she growled at me. Later I saw a crowd of zombies and babies stopping in at Starbucks for a java break (being undead can be wearing -- a little caffeine keeps your stagger perky and your groan ghoulish).

At a stop light, several zombies knocked on the glass of a shiny Lexus, inspiring the nervous smile on the driver within. Drivers caught unaware of the event spent some time waiting for the undead to stumble by. Zombies mid brain snack are not to be rushed in their evening constitutional.

Zombie pile by AFI

Many zombies ended the evening at the AFI theater for a showing of "Dead Snow," a Norwegian zombie movie featuring zombie Nazis. I suspect some returned to the bars from whence they came, warming their rotting corpses before the walk. A fair portion of zombies smelled more of beer and cigarettes than decaying flesh.

The photos turned out less than fabulous (shaky hands in the dark), but they give you a flavor of this fine event.

Zombie having an idea. I'm pretty sure
I've danced with him before.

Zombies like huge fluffy white dogs

Hide your brains!

Giraffe Chat

2011-10-22T13:34:00.002-04:00

Today, I woke up thinking about Chorkies, a breed Neil claims is a mix of bok choy and turkeys, but is actually a cross between Yorkies and Chihuahuas.

And now, let's eavesdrop on giraffes.

Gigi: Mon Dieu. Girard, you've grown up. We'll have to find you a tall girl, and soon.

Girard: I can see you're having some trouble reaching that leaf. Let me get it for you, Gigi. [pulls a branch down and passes it to her] A pleasure to see you again.

Gigi: [chewing] Very kind, Girard.

Girard: May I say, your tongue is a lovely shade of black today?

Gigi:[stops chewing] Girard? [starts chewing again] Good heavens. I was a calf with your mother.

Girard: [stretching his neck to reach the highest leaf] Just an observation. You know I've always remembered the way you looked that day you killed the lion, that power hoof to his chest. Fierce.

Gigi: [ ... ]

Girard: Do you know that some humans thought we were a cross between camels and leopards?

Gigi: Ha! As if my spots were that tiny! Sasha would love that. You should tell her that.

Girard: [chewing, looking away over the savanna] I'd rather tell you.

Gigi: Oh Girard. You and your prehensile tongue.

Airy Airport Design: Washington National Airport

2011-10-21T13:34:00.000-04:00

Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport provides a fine example of art in public spaces. Airy, inviting, and (useful for those with canceled connections) calming. The expansion of 1997 was designed by César Pelli.

Fun fact gleaned from wikipedia: "Hoover Field, near the present site of the Pentagon, was the first major terminal to be developed in the Capital area, opening its doors in 1926. The facility's single runway was intersected by a local street; guards had to stop automobile traffic during takeoffs and landings."

Cathedral-esque ceiling

Window detail in main hallway, Terminal B/C

Window frames

Metalwork

Self portrait, moving walkway

Walkway to Terminal A

The old terminal, Terminal A, closed to gear up for a
private event (hence the balloons)

Art is Lunging Forward

2011-10-19T22:16:00.000-04:00

"Art is lunging forward without certainty about where you are going or how to get there, being open to and dependent on what luck, the paint, the typo, the dissonance give you. Without art you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is."

-- Mark Vonnegut

Bridges

2011-10-18T18:34:00.000-04:00

Last week, I learned that the friend of a friend had taken his own life.

In the middle of rush hour traffic, he stopped his car on a bridge, and according to an eyewitness account, without hesitation, climbed the rail and jumped.

The news traveled quickly from his city out west to me in the east. Without the secrecy and shame that so often imprisons the mere mention of suicide, his friends relayed news of his death honestly. As I checked in with people I knew cared for him to offer my condolences, I was told he was depressed to an extent that he vibrated with that agony. He was ill and it finally killed him.

My direct connection to the man on the bridge was slim. I borrowed his couch for a few months when I lived in his city and when I left town, he reclaimed it. He was kind enough to donate and move furniture for a newcomer. Maybe I chatted with him at one gathering or another, but I don't have any specific memories of that. I remembered his name and his face enough to know I'd met him and napped on that pink couch.

I can't speak to the details of his life. The people that knew and loved him and are grieving his absence can speak to the enormity of his loss, and surely have been over this sad week.

I find that I continue to think about him on that bridge.

I keep imagining the one moment when he was sitting in his car on the bridge -- maybe having planned well in advance, maybe discovering the idea in that moment -- and when the idea flipped into motion. I think about his hand reaching for the car key and then the door handle of the car.

However many times he had contained the impulse for an ending, that day on the bridge, he acted on it. He did not choose any of the multitude of other things that might, or might not, have eased his pain. In all likelihood, he could no longer see any of those options. All the possibilities for him narrowed down to this one moment, this one space, this one action to take.

I see the small steps when he could have changed his mind. He could have turned off the car -- and then restarted it and driven to safety on to the other side of the bridge. Two steps from the car, he could have turned around to get back in. He could have paused and looked down at the water, and then walking away, abandoning his car but his feet steady on pavement, walking away, and feeling the wind move his hair, listening to cars honk behind him.

None of those things happened. He didn't hesitate, the witness said.

I wish that I could tell him to wait. I wish that he could have still been able to hear all the people on that bridge, in that city, out west and here out east, that would have said to him: wait.

Easy for me to say, you say, you didn't live the way he had to, trapped in his own head, deafened by the roar of depression.

True, I don't know what horrors played over in his mind.

But I do know what have been in mine.

Anyone who has read through this blog has perhaps surmised by now that depression is something with which I have a more than passing familiarity.

That I am now, and have been for quite some time, in a good space, gives me the weird amnesia of wondering how it could ever have been otherwise.

And yet, I know for a fact from hospital records from 24 years ago that I have made similar decisions to those of the man on the bridge.

My luck, and continuing life, turned on choosing a less immediate method and strange happenchance. I took pills and had I not spent the four days in the hospital that I did drinking a foul-tasting medicine, those pills would have left my liver irretrievably damaged.

But in my dorm that day, some anonymous, probably drunken soul, pulled the fire alarm, as had been happening off and on for weeks, much to the annoyance of the fire department who had to haul out to check for nonexistant fires. That blaring alarm roused me from my stupor, led to my discovery by a girl down the hall who wanted to borrow shoes, and set off a whole different course of events.

I think about that man on the bridge, knowing as I do from his friends how terribly long he had felt, not just bad, not gosh,-a-rough-day bad, but a despair that hurt so much that it felt like a physical injury, a wound that constantly reopened to fresh pain. I know that he was not an 18 year old, but decades older, and had been carrying the weight of his despair for much longer.

While we like to package up suicide as something to do with teen angst or with the physcial diminishment of old age, the statistics speak otherwise. Those age 40 to 59 are most likely kill themselves. Women are three times more likely than men to attempt. Men, however, are four times as likely to be successful in those attempts.

Nearly 1,000,000 people a year attempt suicide. And yet we continue to speak of it in hushed tones, wrap it up in a package of shame.

I don't know the life circumstances of the man on the bridge, but I can guarantee that he tried many ways to find a path out of his depression and as each approach floundered, his hope dimmed further. I know it got harder for him to try, to believe anything could change for him. I know about downward spirals that suck you in, turning you faster and faster in tighter and smaller circles.

I want to tell the man on the bridge, or anyone who feels as he did and I have, to wait.

Something you haven't seen yet, something you haven't felt in a long time, may bring you back.

You may, for no reason at all, wake up and feel good one day. Maybe there is a therapist or a drug or a religion or a book or a friend or an exercise or a trip or a lover or a dog or a clear glacial lake that will give you back that wonder, that awe, that lost, distant gratitude.

Maybe it won't last -- but then again, maybe it will. Maybe it will start a spiral in the other direction, opening you out to the world.

Sylvia Plath, before her death by suicide, wrote in the poem "Black Rook in Rainy Weather":

A certain minor light may still/ Leap incandescent / Out of kitchen table or chair / As if a celestial burning took / Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then - / Thus hallowing an interval /Otherwise inconsequent / By bestowing largesse, honor / One might say love.

The man on the bridge could no longer wait for that incandescent light and now he is gone. I hope he is enveloped in a peace he couldn't find here.

He leaves behind a crew of friends in shock, friends he once believed he could never do this to. Obituaries use the term "survived by" and that seems apt; the living are still scrabbling, still finding hope and meaning and joy, still waiting for the good to come around, can still see the good when it arrives.

These friends have to deal with his death in the complicated aftermath of suicide, a tragedy that, even though the death is the culmination of a losing battle with illness, feels preventable in a way that cancer doesn't.

While the stigma of mental illness has lessened to some degree in the last twenty years, suicidal thoughts, gestures, attempts and deaths still tend to get hidden away, spoken of obliquely. Old uncle Alvin was "just cleaning his gun" when it went off. Aunt Bessie had a case of the nerves and had to go away for a little while. Little Lacey tripped at the top of the mountaintop.

A decade ago, it took a friend of mine months to piece together that his friend in another country had actually killed himself and that his family chose instead to spin it as an accident, his pills magically morphing into a much more socially acceptable car accident.

I wonder about the wisdom of making my history public here. Suicide attempts give you a record, and so from a mental health perspective, I'm a felon, no matter how reformed I am, no matter how I paid my debt to society and myself, no matter the dumb luck that let me survive and flourish. I'm marked by my own statistical tattoo that having attempted, I am more likely than those who have not to eventually die by suicide.

I think about the nature of secrecy though, and the more I do, the more I think that's what leads us, any of us, when our lives spin out of control, to be standing on a bridge, isolated by our thoughts.

The man on the bridge is out of reach. You can't undo death.

For me, and for anyone alive and reading this, all the possibilities are still out there. For this, I am immensely grateful.

I wish the man on the bridge could have experienced that.

Incandescent Light

Riley's Lock

2011-10-15T21:16:00.000-04:00

Sunset, Riley's Lock

A Very Big Bird

2011-10-10T11:39:00.002-04:00

A very big bird or a very small fisherman?

Perspective is always tricky.

Misty

2011-10-09T22:18:00.000-04:00

Great Falls, Virginia

As I sped along the beltway over the American Legion Bridge on Saturday morning, I drove through layers of fog rolling up from the water. The mist moved in waving columns like smoke, bringing with it a reminder that beneath city concrete, running waters and swirling temperatures create their own languid, chaotic beauty.

The watery fog burned off quickly enough, leaving a blue sky autumn day, perfect. I hiked through Scott's Run Nature Preserve with my friend. While she had appointments to keep with the smallest member of her family, I stretched the day out in the sun. I drove down the windy roads of Great Falls and parked by the Potomac at River Bend Park. I found my way south on the trails there, wending my way into Great Falls Park.

As I walked by the river, the sun caught the angles of the water, flashed beams of light upwards through leaves turning them a spring-like green. I relished this deception, the strength of light undermining a view of the true season.

Sunlit leaves

October is an in-between time, a transition. A week of rain can be followed by cloudless skies and skin-warming sun. Chilly, foggy mornings blossom to the blue sky of midday.

But we know what is coming.

Trees lack the bushy overload of leaves as some have already yellowed and fallen, crackle brown underfoot. While the shapes of those trees have not yet deflated to the bald skeletons of later season, the thinning exposes gaps of distance between the branches. We can see deeper into the woods where winter is waiting for us.

Our bodies feel the shift. Having rounded the fall equinox, the light disappears quickly now. We sleep more heavily for longer and eat heartily to prepare for the hibernation. For the last few weeks, I have looked up at my apartment windows in the evening and been surprised to find them already dark. In the mornings, I fire up my blue light box to trick testy circadian rhythms into believing the days haven't shrunk so short, a sleight of hand that gets them, and me, through the dark season.

As a middle-aged woman walking by the river on a middle-aged day -- healthy, active still, blue sky, sunshine -- the chill and mist of the morning stuck to me. It's hard to know when a course correction is called for and when the seasons are simply changing as they must. It's hard not to wonder if I squandered spring, although pointless given my inability to change what has already passed.

I want to make the most of October, both the perfect days and those of endless drizzle.

So I go to the river.

I grew up by the Potomac. I played in a creek by my childhood home that probably, through some circuitous route, drains into the same watershed.

Kennedy Center at dusk

In elementary school, I have a distinct memory of bouncing a super ball off the balcony of the Kennedy Center and watching it sail over a wall. I imagine it bobbing and floating down that river and out to sea, inadvertent toy pollution.

In high school, I sat with my legs dangling off walls, chain smoking cigarettes in Georgetown while looking out over that river at a time when the pollution level left it just shy of Cuyahoga levels of flammability.

A decade later, I trained for a marathon running on the C & O Canal towpath.

I've lived in ten other states, but many visits back here led me back to a walk by Riley's Lock. I always circle back to water.

Why is that important?

I don't know.

Fog, Sugarloaf Mountain

The river feels like useful detail of some unclear larger story, and so I make note of it.

Ruminations on fog and rivers, water in movement, hint at transforming and yet somehow staying, at core, essentially the same.

The fog still appears if the ingredients mix well, obscuring and illuminating the view with its caprice. Waters flow. Winter is coming, and when it does, I'll still delight in the caress of sunshine warming my skin.

Lips

2011-10-03T23:33:00.000-04:00

One down side arising from a decision to decline a job offer is less reason to visit this sculpture near the office space. Luscious lips, spirals, and fountains are elements of "Promenade Classique," an installation that features faux ruins and appealing, watery symmetry.

Artists: Sculptors: Anne and Patrick Poirier; Landscape Architect: Paul Friedberg
Location: Canal Center Plaza and Waterfront, Alexandria

Melted Cheese, Pumpkins and Sugarloaf in the Rain

2011-10-01T21:40:00.000-04:00

My friends and I, standing in relentless rain and increasing cold at our agreed-upon meeting place at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain, decided a hike uphill didn't hold the same appeal as, say, a Gruyère grilled cheese sandwich and ginger squash cream soup at the Comus Inn. With thoughts of waiting out the rain, we relocated to a warmer clime, ate well, and lingered laughing over coffee.

After lunch, we crossed the street to visit the pumpkin patch. Pumpkin colors included a vibrant reddish-orange and pale blue. Wild. What would Linus and the Great Pumpkin say?

With rain showing no sign of letting up, we parted ways. Typically, I merrily raced off in the wrong direction despite my GPS; its directions only work if you actually look at the screen.

I found myself back at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. After some curiosity driving and a promising pause in the weather, I ended up parking my car -- just as the rain started up again. I sloshed my way up the rest of the mountain, up stone stairs and through reflecting pool puddles, proving once again that I don't have enough sense to come in out of the rain.

I returned home cold and soaked, but well-fed by good food, great friends, and foggy vistas.

Three Signs and a Woodchuck

2011-09-29T00:56:00.001-04:00

Biting commentary on the side of a Ditch Witch in Silver Spring.
It's not often enough that signs talk about lethal digging teeth. I'm not
going to explain what a Ditch Witch is. Just think big, scary teeth,
like the monsters that live under your bed

Taken at the Rock Creek Planetarium for my friend Neil
because he likes to talk about Jupiter.

I'm glad they warned me before I climbed
up to walk across the flower bed.

Taken because he reminds me of my fat, orange cat
even though his teeth aren't as prominent.

Bear!

2011-09-19T16:31:00.000-04:00

Bear!

This weekend, while on a peaceful hike in Shenandoah, I saw another hiker scrambling back up the path, eyes wide. He slowed down when he saw me, and explained in a breathless North Carolina accent, "Bear! There's a bear just around the bend. I'm not kidding!"

Given that I didn't see a large animal streaking after him, it did cross my mind that this was a practical joke, of a how-to-freak-out-hikers variety. But fear poured off him in large waves, a fear I doubted anyone could mimic so well.

Long ago, an old boyfriend, while we were hiking out west, spent an enormous amount of time pondering where bears might be lurking. He researched the finest bear sprays, worried and wondered and worried some more, and then purchased the top of the line version for no small fee.

On our way to Banff on the Canadian border, his bear spray was confiscated. Apparently the high-powered American version isn't legal in Canada.

From then on, something shifted. Our hiking became less fraught with possible horrors. If we ran into a bear, there was no secret weapon talisman to pull out to ward off angry nature. Having been disarmed, he was able to let go of his defense against the unknown and instead focus on the startling color of glacial lakes.

When the sweaty North Carolina man stood in front of me, breathing heavy and pushing his glasses back up his face and babbling about bears, one part of me thought: finally. Wouldn't my ex be thrilled and vindicated that my hiking habit had at last up and got me mauled?

But no mauling transpired. And while listening to the hiker continue to ramble, curiosity got the better of me, and I started creeping forward, just to lay eyes on that bear.

Other hikers arrived on the path behind us, and heard the tale from North Carolina: "I heard this noise, and I was thinking it was a noise too big for a squirrel, and I looked over to the tree, and the bear was there, climbing!"

I noted he left out the part about hightailing it back up the path at a dead run. He gave me a sidelong glance of, hey, don't mention that unmanly moment, and certainly, I don't disagree with his fear. I'm not sure I would have run quite so quickly, but that's only because it seems like a recipe for becoming Yogi's snack food, running like prey. A real, live, unexpected bear (not just the ominous floating worry of possible bears) would set off an adrenaline cascade for me too.

Emboldened by larger numbers, the crowd of us turned the bend in the path and, lo and behold: a black bear. Peacefully rooting around in the trees, pulling down a little bark here and there, she seemed not all that concerned by us. It's a big forest, after all, and we were puny looking, why would she worry?

One hiker got much, much closer to take a photo, and while he moved slowly all along, he came back with that same wide-eyed look. "I thought she was going to charge me for a minute," he said.

The things we do for a good photo.

We stood there on the path, waiting for the bear to leave, wondering why the normally shy creature didn't move along. Black bears, unlike brown bears (such as grizzlies), are seldom aggressive to humans.

Barely visible bear cub in tree.

Finally, we looked up. Up in the trees, snoozing in comfort and out of harm's way, were two cubs.

Mama bear would not be moving along. And we all stepped back a pace or two, all knowing the adage about not coming between a bear and her cubs.

Still, we stayed. Other hikers came by, and our bear stayed calm even though they got closer than I would have been comfortable with. In bear world, we were gnats, a nuisance, and our job was to stay out of swatting distance.

We didn't want to leave. To be in the presence of a large animal simply going about her day, this is a moment to take a breath and marvel.

The only other encounter I'd had with a bear was on a camping trip with that same old bear-phobic beau. We were standing by the car, and suddenly, we were both inside the car, piecing together that there had been a loud, loud noise, and so we'd moved fast to seek shelter. I never saw the bear then, and for all I know, it was just a large, clumsy raccoon who smelled the strawberries we had in the tent (large camping faux pas there), and then thought better of it when we turned on the headlights.

My friend may have developed his bear fear then, or maybe he'd had it all along, the fear of Something being out there, the big Badness in the woods.

I've had my moments too, hiking alone in remote areas. Once, I worked myself up enough several miles into a long hike that I decided to sing loudly (and off-key) to warn any creatures of my arrival. This made for a blushing moment when other hikers rounded the corner -- it turned out the area was not so remote. The wonderful thing about singing, however, is that it's substantially more difficult to feel fear while singing at the same time, a little lesson I keep in my back pocket when I need to keep imaginary bears at bay.

There in front of me in the woods, a big fear in furry form shuffled about. And it turned out, mostly my thoughts were on awe and gratitude.

Dark Hollow Waterfall

I'm not much of one for signs, usually, but I'd had an interesting morning that day of decisions, so risk and direction were on my mind long before the bear crossed my path.

The bear reminded me that there is no way to know what lies ahead. I can hope I am reading the maps correctly, but who knows when I will encounter the unexpected. And when the unexpected arrives, maybe it will be far more inspiring than I had imagined.

Sure, the bear that day could have turned and bitten me, could have chased after North Carolina or another hiker that stepped too close. She is wild and unpredictable. But that isn't what happened, and being up against a real occasion of an imagined fear was, in the end, not really scary. As with most fears, upon close examination, they melt away so as long as I view them clearly and calmly and treat them with respect.

Mostly, Mama Bear didn't much care what we did, so long as we didn't mess with her or her cubs.

We all walk a line between risk and stagnation. In some ways, it is safest to stay home and hide behind drawn shades. But then you never see the bear or experience anything else except the four walls of your cage. There is a much bigger risk in failing to risk, the risk of a life squandered to fear.

I don't suggest foolhardy behavior -- don't try giving a bear a bear hug -- but do go for a walk in the woods. Sing if you need to.

For me, seeing the bear will always be worth it, even if the next one does maul me.

Plus, just think how amused my ex would be at the memorial service.

Sunset, Jeremys Run Overlook

Weather Summary

2011-09-12T08:37:00.004-04:00

If anyone has forgotten what last week's weather sounded like, here's a quick summary:

Yes, I found another video editing program preloaded on my computer. No, I don't know anything about video, but by experimenting, I'm starting to generate some ideas. Implementing them may take some time. In any case, it's not a bad excuse to walk around in the rain.

Night Views

2011-09-10T08:48:00.001-04:00

U St. NW construction site

People did look at me funny when I took shots of a construction site in the dark and drizzle. I found something weirdly soothing in the reflections of puddles and the hush of after hours, a pause in the relentless motion of progress.

Irene Pushes Rhino Around

2011-08-30T18:27:00.000-04:00

Storm damage, Takoma Park style: Rhino rests on side.

Hurricane Irene, aside from knocking over quite a few trees in the Takoma Park area, also tipped over my favorite rhino sculpture. My hope is that his wounds are mild and his pink rhino self will be up and about in short order.

In good news, other yard art appeared unaffected.

Yard art still secured amid mulch.

Feline Fashion Dos and Don'ts

2011-08-27T16:02:00.002-04:00

For the last several days, my sister Susan Daffron, The Book Consultant, and I have been attending BlogPaws, a conference dedicated to pet bloggers. Susie was a speaker at the conference as well.

We met many smart and kind people and heard them talk on topics ranging from making effective movies to social media to book publishing. I learned a great deal, none of which I'm going to share today, as a much more important issue is on my mind.

I'm talking, of course, about Cat Fashion.

As the Sheraton had relaxed its pet policy, we got to meet all kinds of furry critters out with their humans. Many happy dogs, a couple of ferrets, and at least one guinea pig attended the event, as did several cats. One of them impressed me with his easy charm amidst all the hubbub.

Meet Marcel, the Fashion DO:

Stripes add a bit of fun.

Marcel is, bar none, the most fashionable cat I've met. Although the photo makes him look ceramic, he is a real live kitty, and he pulled off a beret without so much as an irritable flick of the ear. Paired with the traditional striped top, he was a joy to behold. As a representative of a hairless breed (great for people with allergies) he advocated well for his feline brethren.

Inspired by Marcel's fabulousness, when we got home, we discovered that PetSmart had given us samples from their Martha Stewart collection. Long suffering Leo (who you may remember from the Cats in Antlers post) was nominated as model.

Leo, Feline Fashion DON'T:

Leo: "I'm too sexy for my shirt."

A few notes for the older feline fashionista:
-- You're no longer a kitten; the size you wore in high school will no longer cover your gut. If you try to wear that size, you will look like a sausage exploding from its casing.
-- Sequins are a difficult look for most men over the age of one to carry off.
-- If you are not, perhaps, blessed with perfect proportions, do not emphasize your imbalances by visually chopping them up.
-- Minnie Pearl is gone; remember to remove your tags
-- Much as we love the Jolly Roger, the pirate look has come and gone. Stay abreast of change.

Martha has a paw in everything

Kalmar Nyckel

2011-08-24T07:53:00.001-04:00

Kalmar Nyckel, Lewes, DE

In Lewes, DE, a lunch with pirate friends near the ferry included a great view of this lovely ship. The Kalmar Nyckel is a recreation of a ship that sailed from Sweden to the "New World" in 1638, depositing the European settlers to establish the Colony of New Sweden.

I keep thinking about the day a group of people were sitting around, maybe having a beer in the sun, toes wiggling in the sand, and decided, yes, let's rebuild an enormous ship, found a maritime-based educational organization nonprofit, and sail said ship around with volunteers. That's a bold decision. Well done!

Also, I want a parrot and an eye patch.

Culinary Arts #1: How Not to Bake a Cake

2011-08-20T16:39:00.001-04:00

1. Turn on oven to preheat.
2. Open cake mix portion of Boston Creme Pie Mom sent you for your birthday and toss it in bowl.
3. Add butter that you actually remembered to take out of the fridge yesterday to soften.
4. Carefully measure amount of milk into 2/3 cup scoop. Review instructions, realize it should be 3/4 cup. Guestimate and throw in more milk.
5. Crack eggs and add to mix. Extract shell pieces from bowl.
6. Get mixer, attach beaters, and place them in bowl. Watch one beater immediately fall off into bowl. Swear. Extract beater, rinse it off, and thoroughly affix it to mixer.
7. Test mixer for beater security while by turning it on over the sink. Forget that other beater still has cake mix on it, so cake mix goes all over shirt and window over sink. Shriek. Turn off mixer. Swear. Giggle. Mix ingredients.
8. Grease 8 inch pan with butter. Realize you don't have flour to cover butter. Decide this doesn't matter.
9. Add batter. Throw cake in oven and set timer.
10. Custard filling: Over a new bowl, crack an egg and toss yolk back and forth between shell halves letting white fall into bowl. Feel like real cook separating eggs until you realize recipe calls for yolks, not whites. Throw whites from bowl into sink and put yolk into bowl. Successfully manage to put right part of 2nd egg into the bowl. Add milk.
11. Add whisk attachment to mixer being sure to affix beater securely. Mix contents.
12. In small saucepan, add custard filling mix and egg/milk mix. Stir over medium heat. Mop up liquid that sloshes out. Stir more slowly.
13. When custard starts to gel, stir for one minute, remove from heat and let cool. Do happy dance that it tastes and looks right.
14. Wander around and wait for cake to cook.
15. Smell burning cake.
16. Check timer (ten minutes early!). Peek in oven, watch smoke pour out and and see that cake is now overflowing out of 8 inch pan. Refer to directions and note that it calls for a 9-inch pan.
17. Close oven door. Swear.
18. Open oven door, fan smoke away and delicately scrape overflowing edges of cake so they fall on the oven floor. Note increase in smoke. Get spatula and scrape cake scraps off oven floor onto kitchen floor. Sweep kitchen floor.
18. Pray smoke alarm does not go off. Rejoice that windows are already open. Open them wider.
19. Catch one piece of oozing cake before it falls off pan and taste. Tastes like cake! Frivolously choose to believe cake is still salvageable. Close oven door and let it keep cooking.
20. Be pleased that smoke seems to have dissipated.
21. When timer goes off, check cake. Note that it is still gelatinous in the center. Reset timer for another 5 minutes.
22. Check cake after 5 minutes and see it is still not done. Consider that oven was probably not preheated when cake was put in.
23. After another ten minutes, cake bounces back from light finger touch. It's done! Remove from oven and let cool for 10 minutes as instructed.

Scary cake fail.

24. Attempt to remove cake from pan. Realize flour probably was important, as much of cake is still stuck in pan.
24. Scrape out cake crumbs. Consider making them a layer. Decide that, no, anemic, squishy little cake still needs to be sliced in two for two layers. Slice cake so bottom crumbles but top stays somewhat intact. Add crumbled layer to crumbs scraped from pan.
25. Add custard layer on top of crumble layer.
26. Try to add cake top without breaking it. Fail. Try to arrange crumbles artfully. Fail.
27. Open chocolate icing package and note the contents is totally insufficient to cover a pristine cake top, much less serious cake sins with which you are currently faced. Hope anyway.

Yummy tart

28. Use knife to spread icing. Tear up cake even more.
29. Stare at cake and think, well? Maybe? Put it under Saran wrap and put it in the fridge and hope it looks better.
30. Take it out of fridge and note it does not look better. Consider that it may still be undercooked. Think about salmonella poisoning. Put it back in fridge. Refuse to throw it out because the filling tastes good.
30. Go to store.
31. Buy gorgeous summery fruit tart.
32. Take pretty, store-bought food to bbq. Eat well sans salmonella.

Dirt!

2011-08-17T09:02:00.000-04:00

If you need to get your hands dirty in DC, stop by this dirtbox in front of the USDA right off the National Mall.
Inside you'll find luscious topsoil, shovels and buckets.

Wish Tree, Hirshhorn Sculpture Gallery

2011-08-16T08:51:00.001-04:00

Yoko Ono's Wish Tree at the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden was out of new tags in the supply bin.

Tree full of wishes

I second that.

Dreams of an ever
perky future

Other folks had already covered much necessary ground however.

Recycled Art: Fan Necklace

2011-08-15T10:12:00.000-04:00

Fan Necklace

I made this choker necklace a month or two ago, when I became obsessed with jewelry design.

Aside from the beads (recycled from other necklaces and picked up cheap at Goodwill), the long black parts are created from parts of an old fan.

My grandmother collected fans for many, many years. She wasn't terribly gentle with them, sticking them up on the wall with thumbtacks and between that, and the simple passage of time, many of them have crumbled apart. The fans were divided among her kids and grandkids after her death. I do have a couple that are lovely. But most are pretty ramshackle.

Remains of a fan

Many of the fans have spines with interesting patterns though (plastic in the case of the pictured white fan; wood in the black fan I used for the necklace). That's what got me thinking.

Old, thin wood splits frequently when drilled, so about half of the short spines fell apart before I ever got them in any useful shape. Reinforcing them with a coat of black nail polish definitely helped, and so the necklace is relatively stable now.

The center pendant of the choker is part of the outside cover, with the original hand-painted gold design left intact.

Somehow, I think my grandmother would be pleased with the re-use of her fan.

"Children's Book Illustrators," University of New England

2011-08-14T09:24:00.000-04:00

A few favorites from the "Children's Book Illustrators" exhibit at the University of New England.

From Aesop's Fables,
illustration by Jerry Pinkney

"Dinosaur Stomp" by Scott Nash

Dr. Seuss!

Sadly, the photo of the Eric Carle illustration came out entirely as glare. I have a fondness for his work. The first book I ever took out of the library was The Hungry Caterpillar.

I strongly recommend the exhibit. It's a great place to introduce your children to art in a gallery setting in a way that is fun, informative and accessible. Kids books are all about wonder. It's hard not to like that, and some pretty magical art.

Moose Mania in Maine

2011-08-13T21:55:00.000-04:00

Moose sculpture in front of the
University of New England, Portland campus

Down the Rabbit Hole for Cave Week

2011-08-12T13:09:00.001-04:00

"Cave of Forgotten Dreams" poster

I started last week seeing a movie with a friend about caves, and ended the week scrambling around inside caves with a totally different crowd of people. Sometimes, life just works that way, creating its own themes. Welcome to Cave Week. Watch your step!

Werner Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" is a documentary about the Chauvet caves in southern France that have drawings made 30,000 years ago. Because a cave-in sealed the entrance to the caves, the drawings look as if they were made last week, but they are, in fact, the oldest known drawings by humans. 30,000 years ago, paleolithic ancestors painted the walls with horses, lions, rhinos, bison and bears, and pressed handprints against the wall.

The cave is closed to the public to protect the drawings, so Herzog's film is one of the only ways to see the ancient drawings.

In keeping with Werner Herzog's weirdness factor, an intriguing part of the movie, beyond the wonder of cave paintings, was the odd characters drawn to Chauvet. One researcher's former profession? Circus performer. Another specialist dressed up in fur and played the "Star Spangled Banner" on a replica of a paleolithic flute. A perfumer sniffed near the caves and pondered what smells might have been present. The caves inspire people, but the way that inspiration manifests is decidedly individual.

For me, the movie felt thin in terms of detailed information. I would have liked to hear what life might have been like for people living in the general area during the time the drawings were created. The drawings on the cave where made over a long span of time, thousands of years, so presumably there were advances in culture that may have been reflected in the layers of art in the cave. The cave was never inhabited by man however, only visited. Only the drawings lived inside full-time, a detail with seems crucial somehow, and suggests that perhaps there was a spiritual component to the area. There was mention of the deliberate placement of an animal skull, which could suggest religious significance, but of course, there is no way to know. Largely, I'm wondering about information that can't be reasonably verified.

The images do stick with me, the horses' necks, the suggestion of movement, the way time slows inside that dark space, and the way scientists are trying to stop it, which seems both admirable and sad and controlling all at once. Life and art fade away no matter how much we try to keep them in place forever, no matter how much we protect and conserve. And yet there is repetition...the Chauvet horses bring to mind Picasso's horses, sketches with liveliness and movement, full of the humanness of creation.

Clouds over Seneca Rocks, WV

Five days later, I was suited up in an old fleece, old nylon warm-up pants from Goodwill over hiking pants, my beloved Vibram Five Fingers shoes and a miner's helmet with a groovy light and slipping into the entrance to Stillhouse Cave near Seneca Rocks, West Virginia. My old boss and friend Phil has been caving with crowd of folks for years, and invited me along for their latest trip. I couldn't be more grateful for such a fun introduction to friendly people and the subterranean world.

Wiggling through the entrance led to a large room where we gathered to let our eyes adjust to the dark and settle into the cool. Newbies like me were directed toward the squeeze area to get a feel for sliding through tight areas and stretching for footing, climbing and clamoring through the dark. Mist hung in the air, giving the dimly lighted area the soft focus of half-remembered dreams. (Werner would relate to that sentence, I feel sure).

Muddy cavers!

For several hours, I scrambled in all kinds of directions, up and down, in tiny spaces and larger chambers and through one heckuva a lot of mud. I almost slid into a hole, and can thank a fellow caver and my shin for stopping my descent. The bruise is now six inches long and green. Twice, I fell hard on my rear and for once, was glad for the padding. Down mudslide creeks, I could skate on my slick shoes and on sandier shores tried to scrape some of the mud back to little success. The two Beagle-sized dogs of a fellow caver circled all around us on the trip, one eventually disappearing above ground again, but both surprisingly agile in leaping from rock to rock. Standing up at my full height became a luxury I'd never fully appreciated until spending some time wiggling along on my belly pulling myself forward with my elbows and thighs, a frog kick in the dirt.

The exit of the cave, once we finally found it, was climbing up a chimney, scooting around the back of a rock and creeping up back and legs against the sides. Just as I was leaving that cave, I realized how tired my arms were from hauling myself, the shaking of fatigue not noticeable until that moment.

Refreshed with a Luna bar and some chocolate and lolling in the sun, our merry band rambled down to the Sinks of Gandy cave. A much more relaxed event, the Sinks is mostly a river the runs through a hill. We sloshed through water variously ankle to thigh deep, mostly around my knees. In the dark, I saw a white crayfish, some kind of cave dwelling critter that lives its day in the dark (excepting when cavers clomp through with our headlamps). After the mud-fest of Stillhouse, we had opportunity to rinse off the heaviest layers of grime.

The exit out was a good stroll up and down through boulders. We emerged to gentle, drizzly rain. I got to sit on the side of a hill above the creek a bit with cows in the pasture in the distance, and watch as folks emerged from their swims and rinse mud and splash in the water and laugh.

I had a great day remembering many of the things I liked when I was a kid. Exploring, mud, water, playfulness, physical stretches just at the limit of my tippytoes, silly jokes, well-time chocolate, a helpful hand up a hill -- these are all still things that make me smile.

Of course, as an adult, I ended up aching for days. I'm happy that I can once again lift my arms over my head again without whimpering.

In the Sinks of Gandy cave, I left a handprint in the mud on some higher ground. I doubt Werner Herzog's descendants will be filming that handprint 30,000 years from now.

But you never know.

Alien Egg Hatching in Takoma Park

2011-08-02T18:47:00.000-04:00

Another great reason to live in Takoma Park: the alien egg hatching.

Right near the Takoma Park Silver Spring Coop, you can find Alison Baker's phenakistascope (early animation device) "The Amazing Alien Egg." The sculpture is one of seven, all made from old bicycles, now on display in Takoma Park.

Phenakistascope "The Amazing Alien Egg" created by Alison Baker

When you put your eye up against the Big Eye on the bike's back wheel and turn the pedal, you get to see this:

Yes, there is some gratuitous use of film effects in there. Who knew what fun the freebie software contained?

For more information on reCYCLE The Art of Bike Project and locations of other sculptures, check out this link: http://www.mainstreettakoma.org/files/ReCycleMap.pdf.

GPS Museum Roulette Hits at Hillwood

2011-07-30T11:44:00.000-04:00

My new hobby is GPS roulette -- choose a place, spin the wheel, see if you win!

An option in my Garmin GPS will generate a list of attractions (parks, museums, etc) based on how far away they are from my current position. It's handy when traveling, and so through this method, I found a lovely park by a river in Westbrook, Maine, with a railroad bridge and kids swinging on ropes into the river on a hot day.

River swimming

Railroad repetition

I like the random yet planned aspect of discovery, driving with a destination, but one unexplored and unresearched and open to change at any moment, planned serendipity.

Back home in DC, on a day where freelance ran thin and I couldn't face crafting one more heartfelt cover letter, I decided to spin the GPS and driving wheel and see what I could find in my hometown.

First stop: National Museum of Health and Medicine in Walter Reed. Surely some creepy skeletons or jars of formaldehyde would perk up a dull day.

No luck. It was closed.

I actually didn't find that out until I checked the website. The museum is in transition, moving to Silver Spring. I was simply scared off by the many gates with somber looking young men, and thought better of my first choice. I do plan to visit in the fall when it's in a less high security environment.

After another perusal of the GPS list, I decided to place my bet on a new stop: the Squished Penny Museum! It was hard not to be intrigued by the name, and so worth a few miles journey.

No luck. It too was closed.

There was a tidy row house at that address, but no sign of any museum. I opted not to take a photograph, as that seemed creepy if it was now simply a private home.

True, it's not completely surprising that a museum dedicated to flattened souvenir pennies didn't last forever. But the good news is, its stories and wares are still documented on the Internet if you click on through the sad news of their closing to the archived site.

On my next spin, I decided to improve the odds a bit, and select not just something from the list that seemed interesting, but would have likely survived the several years since I got my Garmin maps (and have been too cheap to update).

The Historical Society of Washington, DC, with a location right across the street from the Convention Center, was sure to have traffic, I thought, and given the subject, likely to have government funding.

I was greeted with the following sign:

Times are tough all around.

Yes, once again: No luck. It was closed. So much for the third time being a charm.

The website notes financial difficulties. They hope to open again.

Note: do not go down to the lower level to try to peek through the windows. It's smells overpoweringly of urine. Repeat: avoid at all costs the lower level entrance.

Given that I was hot and tired and slightly overcome by bad smells, I tried to go into the Convention Center to cool off and see what it looks like inside, but after a nice chat with a security guard (who was surprised to hear that the Historical Society had shut down), I learned that the Convention Center wasn't open to the public during events.

Well, fine. Some days all doors are closed.

I did see this written in the sidewalk on a corner near there, which made me laugh:

Obsessive Compulsive Summer 2010
(perhaps the modern version of the Summer of Love)

I did not stop scanning the GPS list. Yes, I am just that stubborn.

And finally, a win!

Closer to my own home, I finally found a museum open and ready for business: Hillwood Estate, Museum and Gardens. According to its signs, it is Where Fabulous Lives.

Chandelier originally owned
by Catherine the Great

The large estate is tucked away off Beech Drive near Rock Creek Park. While I grew up in DC, and know of Merriweather Post from the name of the Pavilion, I didn't know that Marjorie Merriweather Post entertained in the fancy mansion during the spring and fall months from the 1955 purchase of the house (after her third divorce, from United States Ambassador to Russia Joseph E. Davies) until her death in 1973.

As a result of her will, the house was transformed into a museum. An army of friendly and knowledgeable volunteers work as dedicated docents serving, if the afternoon I was there was an indication, a clientele heavy on middle to upper class aging white women. By comparison, I was a whippersnapper and, despite my (in my opinion) fabulous thrift store skirt and with noisy flip-flops, underdressed.

The house has a heavy focus on French furniture and Russian art. Two Faberge eggs and a chandelier owned by Catherine the Great were lovely, but I confess, the unruly serf in me became slightly soured by the level of opulence in the big manor house.

This is not to say that Merriweather Post didn't engage in philanthropic work and give back to the community. She is routinely described as extravagant, but generous.

Dining Room

Beyond turning her fancy house into a museum, wikipedia notes that "Her donation of funds to construct field hospitals in France during World War I was recognized by the French government awarding her the Legion of Honor."

During her life, she also contributed heavily to arts organizations, including the National Symphony Orchestra and the Kennedy Center.

Further wikipedia reading, however, suggests that some of her Russian art, in particular, was acquired under questionable circumstances: "It was later alleged that many works of art from the State Tretyakov and other collections were either donated or offered at nominal prices to Post and her then-husband Joseph E Davies, who were both art collectors. Davies is also alleged to have purchased art expropriated from Soviet citizens well after the Russian Revolution, including victims of Stalin's Terror at discount prices from Soviet authorities."

Portraits of Russian Royals

Most of her life reads like a soap opera, once you give even a cursory glance beyond the brochure information. Largely, Marjorie Merriweather Post was famous for being very, very rich and for marrying, and divorcing four men in a time when that just wasn't done. While she was also a shrewd businesswoman, and one of the first women to sit on the board of a corporation, the salacious details tend to attract more attention.

Multiple marriages abounded. Her father divorced her mother and then married his 27 year old secretary. After continuing health problems, he died of a self-inflicted gunshot. Marjorie Merriweather Post divorced one of her four spouses for infidelities so indiscreet they apparently couldn't be monied over and another for rumors of homosexuality. Her three daughters each went on to marry at least three men apiece. Swimming in money did not make for peaceful personal relationships.

Now a large endowment funds the private museum, and some truly lovely treasures are available, for a small fee, for folks like me to ogle and admire and, in my case, silently give thanks that I won't ever feel the need to own that much china, no matter how lovely Sèvres is, no matter how rich I ever become.

I bet time, not money, on my GPS roulette day, and won in ways of exploration and experience that make me feel rich.

That said, I'm fairly certain no one will be turning my apartment into a museum in the event of my untimely death. Unless I start collecting a LOT of squished pennies.

My Brief Career as a Bathing Suit Model

2011-07-28T09:03:00.003-04:00

Photo credit: my grandfather, Thomas A. Daffron, Jr.

While rustling through junk, I found some of my grandfather's photographs in the basement of my mother's house.

While grandfather was a newspaperman in his professional life, with decades as an editor at The New York Times, he was a shutterbug in his off hours. The kitchen walls of my grandparents' home in Florida were covered with crowds of 8 x 10s of family, a public photo album.

Cathedral Choral

2011-07-21T11:26:00.000-04:00

On impulse, I stopped by National Cathedral to visit the Rose Window. My timing was perfect as the Choral Evensong was beginning, so voices echoed off the stone.

Outside, the flying buttresses and gargoyles watched over the fountain into which I threw three pennies, making wishes for me, a family member, and a friend.

Dark History of Mackworth Island

2011-07-16T17:39:00.001-04:00

Rocky shoreline
Mackworth Island

Yesterday, I started out writing a nice chatty piece about how I spent a pleasant Maine day strolling around Mackworth Island in Falmouth.

But as I was poking around on the internet, searching out minor details on its history, I found instead stories that tied the bucolic location to a history of despair and abuse.

Neglecting to acknowledge that information now seems an insult to the children, now grown, that suffered there.

The Governor Baxter School for the Deaf is located on the Mackworth Island, and includes buildings and land donated by former governor of Maine, Percival Baxter, an innocuous fact that shows up in all the literature.

What is less common knowledge now is that for some twenty or more years, starting in the 1950s, abuse ran rampant through that school. On that picaresque, and isolated island, children were victimized.

In 1981, a state investigation led to the resignation of Principal Robert Kelly, School Superintendent Joseph Youngs, and Dean of Students Jan Repass. Allegations of physical and sexual abuse were substantiated by the report, but no one was charged. While Youngs died in 1990, Kelly continued to draw a pension.

In 2001, Governor Angus King officially apologized on behalf of the state for the abuse at the school, and the state's colossal screw-up in failing to investigate earlier even when teachers had submitted concerns on suspected abuse. The Baxter Compensation Authority was established to compensate former students for their suffering. The statute of limitations applied for the students willing to testify and so no one ever faced criminal charges.

Maybe you're saying, oh well, a state institution, everyone is always claiming abuse, how bad could it have been? Dust the sand off your ostrich neck and read this article, written in 2004 by the Rick Wormwood, the brother of a Governor Baxter School student. He, along with other former students and family members, returned to the island when a decaying house, scene of some particularly heinous incidents, was burned down by the fire department: Why I Hate Mackworth Island by Rick Wormwood.

The Boston Globe covered the event as well, here:
http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2004/04/25/school_demolishes_symbol_of_abuse/

No one likes to talk about childhood abuse, sexual or physical. It's easier to pretend it's something that happens to a tiny handful of people, but the flat out truth is, that's crap. Damaged people often push the limits of what they think they can get away with for for as long as possible for whatever pathological reasons they may have (often, and most sadly, a legacy of their own abuse, as also happened on Mackworth Island). In most cases, abusers keep on until they are confronted and find help, are imprisoned, or die.

Because such chat is not polite dinner conversation, because so often people refuse to believe ("he's a pillar of the community!") or refuse to take any action ("not my problem") or both, suffering continues.

My childhood was free from that kind of horror, but I have spoken with enough people not similarly blessed to know how lucky I am. As the sister of a disabled brother who spent time at special schools in the care of others, I hope that all was as it seemed, and the stellar care my family and I witnessed him receiving from incredibly kind and patient people was the entirety of his experience. His schools remain incident free with good reputations.

But every day, there are more stories of nursing homes and psychiatric hospitals and other facilities being investigated. Years ago, the fancy boarding school I attended in New Hampshire drew scandal to its high-powered ranks when a drama teacher was arrested for possession of child pornography, but more recent allegations are easy to find. Consider the title of this GAO report from 2007: Residential Treatment Programs: Concerns on Abuse and Death in Certain Programs for Troubled Youth.

Vulnerable populations of people, children, the elderly, those without sufficient voice, those that can be bullied and manipulated, continue to be prey to the damaged and ruthless among us. That makes me angrier than I can say.

That rage is neither surprising, revelatory, or unusual by any means. But the vividness of it speaks to more hopeful human characteristics, those of human compassion and the desire to protect the disadvantaged rather than (as is so popular now in the age of suck-it-up) cull weakness from the herd.

What gives me hope is that the truth does now, much more so than in the past, rise up to the surface. Through state investigations or through families or through the courage of survivors, when the leaden curtain of secrecy is lifted, there is the potential for change. Change means more safety for more children and the adults they will become. Change means the opportunity for acknowledgement, honesty, and healing.

-------------

Below, the original piece I wrote with some scenic photos:

Faithful Furry Friends and Fairy Houses on Mackworth Island

Stone pier

Mackworth Island, just a few minutes south of Portland, sports some fabulous views on the 1.25 mile trail around the island. A causeway connects the island to Falmouth. Trail parking is limited, so I was shooed away from the gatehouse on my first attempt to visit as the lot was full. Next time, my luck improved.

Beach with view of islands in the distance

Mackworth Island is home to the Baxter School for the Deaf. Percival Baxter, former Governor of Maine, donated his summer house to the school in the late 1940s.

The present-day island contain a few strange stops, including a pet cemetery. Baxter buried his beloved Irish Setters and one horse there.

Grave markers in the pet cemetery

Plaque with list of Irish Setters

Many children (or many fairies) have also built little houses out of twigs and shells in an area designated as the Mackworth Island Community Village. The sign reminds visitors that "You may build houses small and hidden for the fairies, but please do not use living or artificial materials."

Fairy houses

One of the fairies sent me a snake, which almost scared the toenails off of me before I snapped its picture.

Snake!

The Amazing Plastic Man!

2011-07-15T22:48:00.000-04:00

Plastic Man gawks at a Picasso.
April 19th, 1999 cover of The New Yorker.
Painted by Art Spiegelman.

After reading a book on neuroplasticity (The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science by Norman Doidge -- strongly recommended), I've decided that it is not, in fact, a completely impossible reality that some day I could sing on key.

Neuroplasticity is not just that the more you use your brain for certain tasks, the better you get at those tasks (practice makes perfect!), but also that your brain actually changes its structure to allot more real estate for those tasks because of that. And that's true even for old brains, so you can, in fact, teach an old dog new tricks (although it may take a little bit longer than with a puppy brain).

What does neuroplasticity have to do with singing? It means that I can train my brain to hear differences and because I put my attention to that task, my brain will change because of that. The more that I can hear differences, the more able I will be to reproduce them accurately.

I downloaded a freebie ear training software today and felt my brain getting smarter all the while, a decidedly odd feeling, to notice my brain catching on to important details. I can now tell the difference between a major and minor 2nd.

Maria Callas, I'll never be. But maybe I'll offend people just a little bit less at stoplights when I forget to stop singing or roll up my window.

Independence at the Portland Museum of Art

2011-07-07T18:02:00.002-04:00

Calder mobile, Portland Museum of Art

I spent the afternoon on the 4th of July at the Portland Museum of Art. Photography is not allowed for most paintings at the museum, but the Calder was free game. Mobiles continue to make me cheery for no reason.

The John Marin, "Modernism at Midcentury," show at the museum is definitely worth seeing, although I confess, I lingered longer by the Magrittes upstairs in the main collection. I loved the cubist leanings of Marin's seascapes, geometry layered over natural ocean chaos. From a how-does-he-do/see-that persepective, it was immensely useful, an entrance into his vision.

Magritte's surrealism feels like a poem though -- the world explained by setting vision askew.

Some Assembly Required: Gearing up for the Carnival in Bath, Maine

2011-06-30T23:40:00.000-04:00

Husks of History: Seneca Stone Cutting Mill & One Dead Turtle

2011-06-24T23:54:00.003-04:00

The red stone for the Smithsonian Castle was cut at the Seneca Stone Cutting Mill, off Riley's Lock of the C&O Canal. Ruins of the mill are still open to the public.

I'd forgotten about the ruins, but when I turned left at the turtle resting in peace on the path, I stumbled into them, one historical remnant leading to another.

Thanks, Mr. Turtle.

Evolution of a Painting

2011-06-16T11:01:00.003-04:00

For the first time in a long time, I attempted to paint people -- and it became an absorbing exercise.

Our models!

I started with a photograph (which I like to think of as models that don't move). I selected one with which I've actually always had a somewhat awkward relationship; I find something unsettling about their expressions. But that was exactly the draw in terms of painting: strong emotional content and body language.

Edited photo

Then I edited the photography down to the composition I wanted, one highlighting their faces, and which also mirrored the scale of the canvas I would be using. I ended up moving them closer together so they fit better, hence the noticeable line at their shoulders.

Next, I printed out the photo on my black and white printer. Given that I was fairly sure I wouldn't be using the same color scheme, I was more interested in seeing the light and dark of shadows. And, well, I don't have a color printer.

I folded that paper in quarters and drew the same guidelines on the canvas, with the hope that I wouldn't get so hopefully off that way. I used pencil -- bad idea, as I had to paint over it. I'll use charcoal in the future, since that will smudge away when I no longer need it. I heard recently that some people now use projectors, but that seems a little bit like cheating to me. And while I am trying to plan more, I like the unexpected that produces new directions, the discovery in the process of painting.

The first completed draft of the painting looked like this:

First complete draft

This was after I'd redone her mouth twice and his nose once (with somewhat limited success, but hey, it's better than it was), but before I re-did both their eyes (so that, for instance, he no longer looked like he was wearing eye shadow) The first wash of the painting was a background shade, the light gold that you see coming through the window, was almost entirely swallowed by other elements, but somehow, it was nice to have that base color, rather than straight white. And it turned out to be a happy accident - the idea of a growing, light-filled window connecting them on a symbolic level really worked for me so I eliminated the weird curtains from the photo, making the window both more central, but also its detail more diffuse.

The painting as it stands now looks like this:

As it stands right now

I wouldn't say it's done, but it's resting for the moment, until I can come to it with fresh eyes. Relative to the original photo, umm, ok, not exactly an amazing copy, no. But I am pleased that they do a) look recognizable as people and b) have emotional exchange.

I was reading more of Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain last night as part of my project to be a little less inept in the drawing department. I have not yet comfortably gotten to the point where everything is just shapes with no symbolic value. But I am starting to get a glimmerings of how that works, of being able to make that transition to a different kind of thinking when I'm working on art. Progress, however, slow, is satisfying. One thing that amused me is that one of the items that often harder for beginners to draw (or paint, in this case) because of the high symbolic value is a shirt collar. We think we know what it looks like, so we don't actually see it as it is. I definitely had that with her turtleneck, which, I am aware, looks more like a priest collar.

I also completely eliminated the hood of her coat, which instead turned into a background image, that of a couch under the window (which may not be clear to anyone but me, but that's what it is).

Yes, a long way to go. But progress.

Afterall, let's consider many years ago, when during a very brief spate of painting, I tried to paint a face, and it ended up looking like this:

Eek!

Scary.

And with no recognizable personality.

You can sort of see why I gave up on people for a while, given the inauspicious beginning.

But I'm going to keep going with the people this time. One recommedation I can make to new painters: if you have opportunity to use BIG canvases, go for it. My new painting is enormous -- 4 foot by 5 foot or so (part of the stash of old canvases with which I was gifted when I was living in in the artist's studio). While it's a little daunting having larger than life people looking down on you, it's also much easier to put in details, as on that scale, even the details are broad strokes.

Happy painting!

Glen Echo Park

2011-06-06T21:42:00.000-04:00

What I Learned in May

2011-06-01T13:00:00.003-04:00

The omentum is an apron-shaped layer of fat lying over the belly. Tumors from ovarian cancer sometimes spread to the omentum. As an outdated evolutionary safety feature from pre-surgery days, the omentum sometimes curled around an unhappy appendix, controlling the spread of poison if it burst, allowing for survival.

Portland Head Light

An extra hour driving through Pennsylvania beats New Jersey Turnpike tolls and traffic.

When I'm nervous, I repeat myself, restating information gleaned from other people to verify it.

Lawyers sometimes hug clients.

On some superstitious level, I think my mother having an admission nurse named Grace who just came back from doing mission work means we have a good word in with God. The Grace of God.

Fresh asparagus tastes better.

Of the many smells permanently fixed in my brain, one of them is that of my brother's spit, which still clings to his toys stored in the basement of my mother's house.

Maine drivers are polite, but gratingly slow. Lights are badly timed in Portland.

Sitting by Back Cove

A dog that is sitting has a much harder time barking.

Low tide in a small cove looks like the plug has been pulled on a dirty sink; rather than the swaying grasses and blue water of high tide, all that's left is ring of muddy pebbles and gray, murky water.

Hospital beds have amazing hydraulics that lift them in all manner of ways, safety rails to keep patients in, and emergency CPR releases to flatten the bed down if needed.

Swelling after surgery is common. Combining swelling with the mellow tones of morphine makes for different facial expressions.

Dilaudid, a relative of morphine, can be administered via IV or in pill form.

Staples from abdominal surgery are informally referred to as a zipper. They come out two weeks after surgery.

Crescent Beach in fog

Two weeks of gray weather is a recipe for depression. The whole city slows down in drowned dismay.

Gardening is just not my thing. I like flowers, but I'm not inclined to put them in any order and I'm not crazy about dirt under my fingernails.

Postoperative ileus is common after abdominal surgery. The intestines, angry at having been moved around during surgery, are slow to wake up their nerves and do their usual work of coordinated contraction. To a point, the solution is to withhold food, hurry up and wait, hoping the nausea and vomiting settle.

Tommy's Tree
Limerick, Maine

The memorial tree planted at the school where my brother spent over twenty years of his life still looks a little new and spindly.

In some ways, I am more grown-up and capable than I thought. In other ways, I am much, much less than I thought.

Dreams about coffins and rats nipping at your legs are not a sign of optimal mental health.

Fake trees decorating the produce department of the grocery store feel wrong.

An NG (nasogastric) tube can be inserted up the nose and down the throat into the stomach in order vacuum out food thereby ending nausea from ileus or bowel obstruction. While inserting the tube the patient is instructed to drink water through a straw as the swallowing motion moves the tube down the throat. Airplane glue is used to provide extra security when taping the tube on the nose.

Seagull, Eastern Prom

Seagulls seem bigger up north. Maybe they are bigger.

I am spacier than I realized on visual details. I did not notice that my mother's kitchen was gray until she told me. In my head, it was white.

The irony of getting a cold from a germ picked up at the hospital, and therefore not being able to go back to the hospital until I recover from said germ, does not make my fever drop any faster.

"Optimal debulking" is good news.

Petco makes a canine supplement to discourage dogs from eating their own excrement. This is good and bad if said dog is a sneaky pooper that likes to leave deposits on the dining room rug.

Maine Medical nurses are almost universally nice. Some are chattier than others.

For six months or so at Maine Med, medication charting is now handled with a hand-held device that scans the patient ID and then the medication, charting the time.

I have in me the makings of a compulsive hand washer. But not a gourmet cook or neat-nick.

Ruins of Goddard Mansion
Cape Elizabeth, Maine

Changing roles does not change history.

Squirrels really like tulip bulbs. But they leave the flowers for bouquets that liven up a hospital room.

It is impossible for me to look at tulips in a hospital room and not think about the Sylvia Plath poem “Tulips,” which begins with “The tulips are too excitable” and ends with the line “from a country as far away as health.” It is possible for me to not mention that at the hospital though.

Psychological discomfort also manifests as physical discomfort. One solution is substituting in a different discomfort – run faster, walk further, get tired.

If you cry while running in the rain, no one pays you much heed. Who really looks happy running anyway?

Conversely, physical pain inspires psychological discomfort. How do I fix this? What is wrong? Am I all alone here?

Spaghetti squash spaghetti tastes like pasta spaghetti.

Physical contact is comforting. Hold hands. Hug.

Lobster trap washed ashore
Crescent Beach

A parking ticket because you got lost walking for an hour because you forgot to note where you parked your car somehow seems unfair.

If your mother has cancer, you may be able break the rules of a Boys Only Weekend and spend some time drinking with festive, fraternal men who will buy you a mustard colored t-shirt that says “Get Lucky at Ri-Ra!”

Heparin, used to prevent clots, is injected in the upper thigh. Shots sometimes burn.

I will watch five hours of detective shows given access to cable tv and a desire for escape. I should never have cable TV on a permanent basis.

Fog rolling in scares me on some unspoken, primal level, the cold approach of oblivion, even while I consciously marvel at the beauty and power of nature.

Toes at Fort Williams

Anger unexpressed curls the body into odd shapes, closes in on itself, shoulders covering necks, arms across chest, muscles tensed.

Potassium levels must be in the normal range before being released from the hospital. Potassium administered via IV can burn. Liquid medication tastes foul. Pills are large.

Throughout many years, my cats have seen me through a myriad of events across the country and still come over and purr next to me. And yak up hairballs under the bed at 4am.

To discourage clots in the leg after surgery, patients are encouraged to sit up and stand the same day as surgery. The more movement, the better after surgery, as it inspires the body to wake up and get busy healing. Medical personnel tend to leave out details on just how painful this will be.

Also to discourage clots, patients often have motorized compression pumps velcroed around their legs, expanding and deflating in rhythmic rounds. Some nurses call them Electric Socks.

Dock, Eastern Promenade,
Portland, Maine

Anger, fear, sadness and love mix up, move around, run away, hit you in the face when you're not looking.

Being the youngest person in the room by ten or twenty years still makes you the baby even if you're 42. This is good and bad.

Taxol is a favored chemical for ovarian cancer chemotherapy.

You can know people all your life and still not really know them.

Why I Like to Drive

2011-04-27T12:00:00.001-04:00

If you fly, you don't get to see all the roadside randomness which is America.

For instance, from 10,000 feet, you wouldn't get to see the Suwanee Belle, a riverboat decaying off Interstate 78, far from any water.

Suwanee Belle, resting on the lawn near the
Riverboat Saloon

Large water wheel; no water.

Slow decay

Where exactly in Pennsylvania, you ask? Here, this landmark will help you find it:

Large advertisement for Roadside America (the largest known miniature village)

Maybe this is what the sign refers to when you stop at the Pennsylvania Visitor's Center and they provide this helpful advice:

Three Witches

2011-04-19T10:57:00.000-04:00

Plight of an English major: watching birds dine by dipping in and out of a trashcan on a cloudy day makes me think about the Weird Sisters in Shakespeare's MacBeth.

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair / Hover through the fog and filthy air."

I'll refrain from making the inevitable pun on foul/fowl.

Love and War at Fort Reno

2011-04-17T10:03:00.004-04:00

cross-posted at bark, bugs, leaves & lizards

Behind the fences at Fort Reno

Memory is unpredictable. What stays and what goes lack any rational processing.

For instance, I remember locking eyes with a brown-eyed boy for a heartbeat or two too long while we both sat on the grass watching the free music at Fort Reno Park in 1988. I never even spoke to that boy, but I can tell you his eyes were deep set, his eyelashes short, and that threads dangled from the hem of the white wife-beater tank top he wore. Like all of us that day in sweltering August heat, he glowed with a sheen of sweat.

Here in 2011, after a frustrating day of minor snafus, unable to remember necessary details like addresses and directions, I found myself driving by Fort Reno just as the incessant spring rain decided to clear off. Nostalgia for 1988 and other days and years at Fort Reno made me stop. I spent a happy hour muddying my shoes, taking many pictures, petting curious dogs, and getting all misty about my gnarled teenage years.

Dogs and brick towers

Fort Reno Park, at the corner of Chesapeake and Nebraska Avenue in the Tenleytown area, contains the highest point in DC. At a maximum of 409 feet above sea level, DC is second only to Florida in flatness. Given its height, the park is a favorite viewing site for 4th of July fireworks.

Fort Reno is also the only Civil War battle location within the District. The original fort (now gone) was built in 1861 and initially called Fort Pennsylvania. Civil War buffs, check out this National Park Service write up on its history.

The Tower on the Hill

The castle-like tower the park is known for was built in the late 1920s as part of the reservoir and water pumping station. The Fort Reno Pumping Station is still in operation at the top of the hill.

Despite the utilitarian purpose, the design is whimsical. The tower looks as if Rapunzel may soon let down her hair. Or it would, if there weren't quite so much barbed wire.

No trespassing

Large fences protecting our water supply aside, Fort Reno is, as a park should be, a gathering space for the neighborhood. When I arrived, teenagers (likely from nearby Wilson High) were sitting cross-legged on the stage, deep in conversation. Later, I saw construction workers in hardhats cut through the park on their way home. A dog walker herded her charges up and down the hill, chatting with dog owners out with their happy hounds. A jogger stomped by, intent on his task. Small talk was exchanged, sticks fetched and water flung from shaken fur, peaceful humans and canines in community as sun returned.

The free concert series at Fort Reno still exists, going strong after 40 years, as bands known and unknown continue to set up on the rickety stage every summer and plug into a U-Haul full of sound equipment.

Stage at Fort Reno

The music line-up is organized by Amanda McKaye (sister of Ian McKaye, of Minor Threat and Fugazi fame). Check out http://www.fortreno.com/ for info. It's too late to submit your band's demo for this year, but you can donate. The Summer Concert Series is run entirely by volunteers.

And yes, Fugazi played at Fort Reno. A lot. Here's an entertaining snippet where Ian calls out pushy guys trying to be tough who, really, were not all that tough (note, work-unfriendly language used, so listen quietly).

Lookin for a good time? Call...

Nuts and boobies never go
out of style

Graffiti decorates the stage, and it seems the more things change, the more they stay the same. With the exception of the side of the stage that that reads "Facebook killed gays," virtually all other commentary could have been written during my high school days.

All is Fair in Love and War

Climbing up the hill and circling the fence, the view rolled out in front of me. Distance (like time) lends perspective and beauty to sights, qualities that can elude us when we are down in the weeds.

Clouds over Wilson playing fields

I couldn't tell you why I remember that boy and his glistening youth in 1988. If he's still out there, his deep set eyes presumably sport crow's feet similar to the lines by mine. But I thank him for adding to a sultry afternoon of music in 1988 and windy walking in 2011 watching clouds flow over the horizon.

Clouds playing over the neighborhood

H St. on a Tuesday

2011-04-06T10:11:00.000-04:00

Dance Class Watcher

Constructing Church Clouds

Walking

The Perfect Cut

Susie Daffron, Sister Art

2011-04-03T08:31:00.000-04:00

Susan Daffron

Susan Daffron, aside from being the President of Logical Expressions; author of twelve books and more than 1200 articles on topics ranging from self-publishing, pet care, and vegan cooking; and founder of the National Association of Pet Rescue Professionals, is also my sister --which is why I get to call her Susie.

This interview is a hybrid, the intersection of our personal and professional worlds. Many elements surprised me, which goes to show, even with more than 40 years of inside information, directly asking someone provides more detail than what comes up during (in our case, daily) email conversation.

Me, Susie and the Banyan tree

I can't resist a brief trumpeting of, well, just how great my sister is. Sure, she mercilessly wrestled me to the ground during some high energy tickle fights when were kids, but she also inspired me to learn to pinch with my toes (an effective measure for keeping anyone off your side of the couch) and, more importantly, taught me how to be a good friend. Throughout my life, she has listened to me go on (and on and on) as I hash over my latest dilemmas and schemes, serving as a voice of reason that offers support and cheerleading and, when needed, a protective dose of reality. She sets an example of kind intelligence, honesty, humor, talent, hard work, courage and compassion that I am impressed by, and grateful for, every day -- even when she's on my side of the couch.

So now, Susan Daffron (aka my sister Susie) chatting about her many arts.

Funds to the Rescue
cover design by Susan
Daffron (including
photo shoot with
Cami the dog)

Cynthia: I warned you that this would be by first question: why don't you describe yourself as an artist despite the fact that professionally, you've written twelve books (including layout and design) and crazy numbers of articles, created graphics for logos, web pages, and provided gorgeous photos in many cases (particularly of where you live, in Sandpoint, ID) and, on a personal level, have experimented with cartooning (the Barbie stories!), drawing, print-making, pottery, stained glass, enameling, sculpture (e.g., the bronze cat), furniture refinishing, earring design, stuffed animal creation, candle-making, costume, clothing and curtain making, extensive quilting, playing the flute and the piano, vegan cooking, canning and jam-making, gardening, and making at least one mobile? That all sounds pretty arty to me.

Susie: I haven't ever described myself as an artist because I've never really thought of myself as an artist. Particularly when I was younger, I thought that artists were people who were gifted and talented. I saw paintings by our [great] Aunt Jeanne [Jeanne Miles] and they seemed so far beyond the realm of anything I could do; it seemed she was impossibly brilliant.

Logo designed by Susan Daffron
(based on her dogs)

It doesn't mean I wasn't interested in art. As you note, I did a lot of drawing particularly when I was younger and have taken a ton of art classes over the years. I never thought my work measured up, so I figured I couldn't really call myself an "artist."

Part of it was being uncomfortable with the word itself. I thought you had to reach a certain level of technical expertise to call yourself an artist. Only after I was an adult did I realize that pretty much if you call yourself an artist, you are an artist. Art can take many forms and there is no true objective measure of talent. I loathe many forms of art and artworks by a lot of different artists. But it's just my opinion, not fact.

Even if you can't draw a straight line, if you're being creative in almost any way, you are an artist [a point we here at Artful Mistakes revel in].

Selkirk Mountains, Sandpoint, Idaho
Photo credit: Susan Daffron

C: Writing is obviously your main creative outlet. I know that recently you've been focusing more on your habits when writing. Can you speak more on how your writing and writing process are evolving?

S: I'm trying to write more regularly. I went through could probably be termed burnout on writing. Having written newsletters for years and done endless freelance writing, I was just mentally tired. For about 6 months, I wrote almost nothing.

Unfortunately, I discovered that the less I write, the less I want to write. I got over myself and tried writing every day for a while, which helped get me back into the writing groove again.

During my write-every-day period, I discovered that coming up with writing topic ideas at a different time than I did the actual writing helped me write more. The night before, I'd come up with an idea, then in the morning, I'd just write it.

I think having that space in between idea-generation time and writing time actually helps me write more quickly, since I've probably been thinking about the topic in the background somewhere. The brain works in mysterious ways.

C: You're a thorough and enthusiastic researcher. What's your approach? And, how can I gain your ability to focus?

S: I'm thorough, but I also can get completely out of hand. Being a reader, I'm easily distracted by things I find interesting. (Oh lookie, a shiny object!) The Web is a researcher's dream come true, but it also can turn into a nightmare, since it's easy to spend so much time researching that you never write anything.

If I have any key to doing research, it's knowing when to stop.

In the stocks at Williamsburg, VA. Note my fashionable
plaid pants and Susie's Morris the Cat t-shirt.

C: When you were a kid, I know (since I was there) you were a fabulous storyteller, creating great symbolic representations of essentially political issues. If you're wondering what the heck I mean, here's an example: Instead of having perfect princesses waiting for ideal Prince Charmings, the single mothers in our respective Barbie families (Barbara White for you, Frances Green for me) were considered shallow in their fruitless pursuit of the prince at balls. How do your personal convictions continue to influence your art?

S: Because of various odd aspects of our childhood, I think both of us ended up using stories to help us work out some things that weren't going terribly well in our own lives. The freedom of being able to ride away on your horse was rather appealing, for example. Plus, having lots of adventures like parachuting out a window was a lot more interesting than the stupidity of elementary school.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, I think many people work through personal issues through art. One thing that's interesting for me is to read back over articles I wrote years ago. I remember what was behind a lot of things I was saying in my writing, whether it was an argument, something I read, or an experience I had.

C: In college and beyond, you've taken a variety of art classes. Best and/or worst experiences, or other thoughts year later?

Black-Eyed Susans by Susan Daffron
Pen & ink & watercolor, a product
of the Art in the Garden class.

S: I've taken three great classes and countless truly crappy ones. The best classes were Mr. Motovitch in high school, a sculpture class with Mr. DeLonga in college, and an "Art in the Garden" class here in Sandpoint a few years ago with a watercolor artist named Marilyn McIntyre.

The great classes were great because the instructor focused on the joy of creativity for creativity's sake. Being given the freedom to just let go and not worry about whether what you create is "good" on any objective level is liberating. And fun.

The bad classes were just the opposite. I took a painting class at the local community college here that was so awful I actually complained and asked for a refund. The instructor wanted us to create a painting that looked exactly like hers. She criticized everyone and sucked the joy out of the art process entirely. I threw the painting I did in the garage and may have eventually driven over it. (I'm not entirely sure where it ended up actually.)

The snob factor you often encounter among artists is another creativity killer. I think of this pretentiousness as the "black beret" syndrome. Again it revolves around some flawed idea that to be an "artist" you have to meet some arbitrary standard.

The Black Beret Brigade nominate themselves to be arbiters of that mythical standard, and are supremely unpleasant to be around. If you take enough art classes, it's only a matter of time before you meet members of the Black Beret Brigade. I recommend you give your creativity a break and avoid them.

Susie's garden, from whence many
tasty vegan dishes are created

C: Food! Culinary arts! How did you get into cooking, and how do you enjoy and experiment with cooking and recipe creation now?

S: I like food and started cooking when I was about 12 or 14. I started out with things like cookies and cakes, since I really like chocolate. ("If mom won't make chocolate cake, then I'll figure it out for myself!") In the process of making cakes I started reading cookbooks and later for a while, I cooked one day/week for the family.

At one point, I lived with a bunch of roommates. They were so critical I never told any of them I could cook. So when I met my husband, he thought I didn't know how. He's a great cook, and over time, I 'fessed up that I wasn't quite as incompetent in the kitchen as he initially thought. Over the years, we have shared cooking duties. We each cook three days/week and switch off Wednesdays.

When we became vegan in 1994, cooking became more important. (Back then packaged vegan food didn't really exist.) So we figured out lots of recipes of our own and eventually wrote a cookbook called Vegan Success.

C: Over the years, you've done a lot of teaching, coaching and consulting. How has that changed your outlook on creating, and writing specifically?

S: I've learned that the creative process is different for everyone. Also things I take for granted are difficult for some people.

For example, I seem to have a natural ability to create outlines and visualize the structure of a book more easily than some people. Organizing material for a book is something a lot of people really struggle with, but for me it's kind of like a puzzle where I put the pieces in their proper places.

C: Do you have a favorite moment with a client or student, a success story that made all the aggravation of less ideal interactions worth it?

S: Becoming a book publishing consultant has been really satisfying because some of my clients have gone on to do amazing things with their books. One client wrote a health-related book, which led to TV appearances, speaking engagements, and now she's opening her own medical clinic.

Another client just got a great write up in a national women's magazine because of her book. And a client recently told me that my help and publishing inspiration "gave her back her life" after a lot of serious personal setbacks.

In another case, a client was at the point that she couldn't pay her bills. I made some suggestions about how she could reorient her business to focus on a different market and now she has more work than she can handle.

Anyway, when you get feedback like that, it's all worth it ;-)

Baby quilt made by Susan Daffron

C: What was your first sewing project that you remember attempting/completing? And favorites over the years? I can tell you that I still have Max the blue dog, a stuffed animal you made me one Christmas when I was a teenager.

S: When I was about 10 or 11, my friend Andrea and I decided to figure out how to use the old Singer lurking in the basement. (For those who are curious, I now know it's a 1957 Singer 99K, which is a 3/4 size sewing machine.) Anyway, at that point, my mom hadn't used it in years, so Andrea and I started playing with it and trying to figure out how to sew.

Andrea and I spent a lot of time in the basement making stuffed animals. I found some old fabric and the first thing we made was lions made out of orange corduroy. (We both still have them, although hers looks better than mine; at some point, some dog chewed most of the head off my lion.) We made up patterns based on other stuffed animals we had.

Although they were sort of deformed, we had fun and the lion project led to other stuffed animals, including a turtle and an alligator. Later on, we started buying patterns and made dresses. We had endless problems with the tension on the sewing machine and spent a lot of time ripping thread. Years later, mom pointed out we had been threading the machine wrong. (Yes, that would have been good information to have had earlier.)

When I first went to Arizona after college, I packed one suitcase. After I decided to stay and move there permanently, Dad found someone to drive my car across the country with a bunch of my stuff in the back. One of the things I got was the Singer, so I still have it. In Arizona, I had it cleaned and the tension fixed. The repair guy offered me $200 for it, which I found amusing. (No, I didn't sell it.)

Since then, I've used it to make all the curtains in our house, a bunch of quilts, clothes, and various other things. Over time the case completely fell apart. So a few years ago, I found an old sewing table at Goodwill for $20 and refinished it. James [Susie's husband of 19 years] made a new top for the table that would fit the somewhat unusual shape of a 3/4-size machine. It's sitting in the living room.

More recently, I bought a 1925 Singer Model 66 treadle machine, which also lives in the living room. As it turns out, the attachments from the treadle also work on the 1957 Singer. And oddly enough, the treadle still had its user manual, so now I know what all those bizarre pieces of metal actually are supposed to do.

At this point, I have been using the treadle machine for quilting and most of my other sewing. I need to buy a new pressure foot for the 1957 Singer because the ancient one is getting disturbingly hot. There's obviously something wrong there and I'd rather not have the thing catch on fire.

The gun cabinet now
repurposed into a
more literary use

C: What's the story with the gun cabinet bookshelf?

S: The bookshelf started life as a gun cabinet that I bought at Goodwill for $48. I always wanted a barrister bookshelf, but they cost a fortune. The glass was good in the gun cabinet and it was actually wood, so even though it was hideous, I realized I could refinish it. James made shelves for it and we bought new hardware.

The refinishing process was painful and it took endless amounts of stripper to remove the multiple layers of horrible black paint and get down to the wood. The process was also interrupted by a burst pipe and subsequent flood in the paint room. (Thank goodness we have a shop vac!)

C: When you and James relocated to Sandpoint, you caught the early wave of workers who realized their work could be independent of their location. How has the online revolution made your life possible? And, on the other hand, what are your complaints?

S: We started our business with the express intention of moving away from the Big City. That dream was the catalyst that made our business happen. It's also what motivates us to keep going.

The unemployment rate when we moved here was in the double digits and now is once again, so we can't count on the local economy to support us. Plus, it's well documented that I am wildly unsuited to cubicle life.

Thanks to the Internet, we've been able to live here since 1996 and have morphed our business to offer different products and services as times and our interests changed. Now we're into book publishing, which is yet another type of business that can be operated from a remote location.

Moving to the middle of nowhere is what we wanted and we don't want to leave. In fact, every time I go anywhere else, I realize how much I love the peace and quiet of our little corner of forest. But it snows a lot and we have the Pacific Northwest influence, so winters are gray. Eventually, we'd like to spend the winter somewhere else. Shoveling snow when I'm 65 or 70 doesn't sound like fun.

Susie, her husband James, and Leto

C: Tools, equipment: is there anything as a writer or artist that you came across that made everything suddenly much, much easier?

S: Well at the risk of sounding self-serving, our IdeaWeaver software helped me finish my books. The advantage of having a husband who is a programmer is that if you start talking about software solutions at lunch, sometimes you end up with software in the long run.

It was the classic case of designing on a napkin. We were at a restaurant talking about writing with a friend and James drew the IdeaWeaver user interface on a napkin.

As for tools like hardware, I am unreasonably attached to clicky keyboards. I have an IBM Model M keyboard that makes me happy. The tactile feedback from old-style keyboards is much easier on my hands and is probably one reason I don't have carpal tunnel after using computers heavily for a whole lot of years.

C: What is the biggest creative obstacle that you've leaped over? And the one that keeps coming back to bite at you?

S: I think self-confidence is something any artist struggles with and I'm no exception. In my case, I know I'm my own worst critic. There are times when I feel really good about what I'm doing and others, well, not so much.

My ever-shifting attitudes are definitely a work in progress.

C: Do you have any crazy rituals for your creative pursuits? For instance, I tend to listen to really bad pop music when I paint, but I mostly write in silence.

S: It's not very crazy, but I have to have quiet when I write. It's a good thing I live in the middle of a forest. And that my husband is NOT in the same office. That man is the loudest typist ever.

(Separate offices = key to a good marriage.)

With our mother and childhood dogs

C: What's on your bedside reading table right now?

S: A kind of sappy romance by Debbie Macomber called Mrs. Miracle. (One of the zillions of novels Mom sent me.)

[Our mother, an unabashed book hound and absurdly fast reader, periodically sends each of us some of her spoils.]

C: What new project are you most excited about? Which of your previous creations do you have a soft spot for, even if it may be a little, metaphorically, lumpy or bumpy (i.e., what's your version of an ugly mobile)?

S: I'm excited about my new book which is about how humane groups can get more publicity. I have gotten 18 case studies from groups doing a lot of extremely cool things to help animals and it's inspiring.

The book should be released this summer.

I have a soft spot for my book Happy Hound. Realistically, it hasn't sold very well, but in addition to the pet care information it also includes many stories about my own dogs, some of whom aren't with me anymore. It's a slice of my pet-owning life, captured in book form.

[Susie is also the founder the National Association of Pet Rescue Professionals, a membership association made up of people who work for animal shelters, humane societies or rescue groups]

With our father

C:. What the best bit of writing advice anyone has ever given you?

S: The best writing advice I ever got was from Dad. He said, "writers write." His point was that sometimes you have to write when you don't feel like it or when you don't want to. (He had been a newspaper journalist, so he definitely knew about deadlines.)

He gave me the advice one late night when I was trying to finish a paper that was due the next day. I was crying about how I'd "never" finish it. He pointed out that I could, if I'd just suck it up and write something.

Turns out, he was right.

C:. Revision: love it? Hate it? Do you have a process that you follow, or do you just tweak it until it feels right?

S: Actually, I don't revise as much as I probably should.

When it comes to articles, I tend to write quickly, set it aside, then go back over it later. I fix whatever mortifying mistakes I've made and pass it on to James for review. (He reads almost everything I write.) Then I incorporate his changes, read it again, and send it out into the world.

Most of my books include at least some of my past articles, so they've already gone through the article-editing process. But then I hire a professional editor to edit the manuscript before it's published.

C: Is there something new you've been itching to try?

S: I want to write fiction at some point. You and I have talked about writing something together eventually and I still want to do that. [One piece has a working title of Chez Stinky.]

Right now James is getting into writing fiction and I'm itching to join him, but I have at least three non-fiction books to finish first. There's only so much writing I can do and still operate my business. Oh and have a life too.

C: What other creative things are you doing now?

S: James and I have been doing the exercises in the book Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. We listen to classical music, draw, and zone out (aka get into "R-mode" for those who have read the book). It's extremely relaxing and different from a lot of the more analytical work we do in our business.

Susie, her dog Fiona, and many books!

Fly! Be Free!

2011-03-26T19:06:00.000-04:00

The view from above

I pulled back on the wheel amid the roar of engine noise and directed us up onto a wave of air -- that is, into a little bit of empty space. That hang moment, when I realized nothing solid connected me to the ground: pure delight.

In a Talking Heads song, one line always stuck with me: "I can swim, but I should fly." Now I know why.

My friend Christine and I, under the guidance of our instructor Bob Gardner, went up in a Cessna 172 today, on a discovery flight through Navy Annapolis Flight School out of Lee Airport in Edgewater, MD. Bob has been flying for over 30 years, since his brother got him hooked taking him up into the skies when he was a teenager. As he said, "I figured if he could do it, I could too," and so he's been flying for decades. He teaches through NAFC -- one of his former students was landing as we were taxing toward the runway -- and also runs charter flights.

To start, Bob and I were in the front at the controls and Christine (and her camera) in the back. After some seat adjustment so I could see over the dashboard, and checklist run-throughs to check the fuel, lights, radio, and so on, we were rolling in short order.

For those that remember my driving lessons, where each member of my family took me out precisely once, returning back pale, shaky and grayer of hair, my spacial relations in new machinery remains initially, umm, challenged. In the Cessna, I slowly taxied (weaved) down the runway using the foot pedals that steer left to right. Having (eventually) mastered driving a car so thoroughly, having a steering wheel in front of me that I, on the ground, ignored felt a wee bit unnatural. Having breaks at both feet, so that you can really dig both heels in, had its appeal though.

Always choose the window seat

I loved take off. I really did feel the plane responding to my maneuvers there (although Bob, of course, had the other wheel, ready if I should suddenly flake out on a rather important part of the lesson). The amping of the engine, brake release, and leaping speed culminated in the gentle glide from ground to air. The landscape widened out in front of us as our altitude increased, providing a three-dimensional scope of land and water not possible during landlocked living. Unlike a commercial jet, the sense of flight and air is much more immediate in a propeller plane, the difference between, say, driving a motorcycle (sans wind) versus riding in a bus.

We cruised up to about 3,000 feet, flying into a glorious sunny day, mostly calm, the hum of the motor and tower chatter filling our ears. My feet stayed off the pedals in the air (Bob took charge of that), but I got to handle the steering wheel and so kept us lined up with the horizon. As when sailing a boat, planes respond with a small lag time, the feel of which I never quite got synced up with, but I latched onto the general idea. Partly, I was distracted just gawking at the view.

Go ahead, look down...when not flying the plane

We flew over the Bay to Easton Airport, landing there after checking with the tower. I learned that the four landing lights appear different colors based off of our altitude. Bob adjusted the throttle (less thrust, thereby slowing us down; obviously, those pedal brakes only work on the ground when there is something solid for them to grip against), eased us down to the a smooth landing. A quick chat with the tower clarified on what we were doing and where we were doing it (swapping seats off a corner of runway 4). Christine took my spot and I dug out my camera in the backseat.

Christine at the controls

As I did, Christine participated in take off and steering once airborne, and demonstrated more efficient bonding with the dynamics of the machinery. We hit a little turbulence on the way back to Lee, and heard automated warning through our headsets about cross winds as we were landing.

Back on the ground, we taxied back to our plane parking spot, engine off and officially land-bound again.

Our brief flight, an intro only, left me exuberant, and my stomach mildly unsettled (turbulence lurches? glee? hard to say).

Definitely, if I win the lottery, you'll see me taking to the friendly skies. And if my power ball number doesn't pop up, I may consider other scenarios to see how I could finance my private pilot's license.

With the Cessna

As the website points out, in the US, only about 800 airports serve commercial airlines, but 5300 airports are open to general aviation. That's a lot of happy take-offs to scenic views while hopscotching across the country.

Death & Art: Rock Creek Church Yard

2011-03-23T10:23:00.001-04:00

Allison Nailor, Jr
1836 - 1908
He was tired and lay down to rest

Art and death pair up in a sometimes flowing, sometimes awkward dance. In art, we search for our immortality, that which will live on beyond us; faced with the death of our loved ones, we pretty up the occasion with the art of remembrance, spiritual connection, and expressions of longing.

Two weekends ago, on Saturday and again on Sunday, I walked through Rock Creek Church Yard, a cemetery dating back to 1719, and wandered into the bits of story that its markers highlight. In the unfolding horror of the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear disasters in Japan, a graveyard on a sunny day in early spring ended up being strangely comforting.

Gravestones

In graveyards, at first sweeping view, the numbers of dead demand attention. Acres and acres of markers go in the distance at Rock Creek, and the numbers have impact. The uniformity of Arlington Cemetery draws on this, with its sea of carefully spaced gravestones in the same way that the Vietnam Memorial, the listing of thousands of names, highlights the scope of tragedy and sacrifice. Rock Creek Church Yard has rolling hills and deep-rooted trees that change the landscape, has diverse grave markers based off the tastes of family and the historical era of the death, but there is no escaping the message of the graveyard size: everybody dies, and we've been doing it for a long, long time.

Grass, shadows, trees, gravestones.

Once you get beyond the long historical view, however, death is personal.

Dad

Baby Paul
Aged 26 days

Those buried were individuals part of a web of people, family and friend, and when that string is broken, the whole framework changes, shifts and trembles as weights are carried differently by those left behind.

Our rituals surrounding death, like any other societal, cultural tradition, reflect out own take on the world. The pretentious in life may very well be gaudy in death. The simple may opt for plain speak in death. And there is no way of knowing if someone's aunt Martha chose some strange angel because her dead nephew loved angels, hated them, laughed at them, or because she chose something to her own liking or budget without considering the deceased view on how his eternity would be labeled.

An era of mausoleum design.

Stained glass

Mausoleum

Undoubtedly, some of the dead saw Martha's work and rolled over in their graves so they didn't have to look (not photographed - I only shot that which I found appealing). And some rejoiced that their loved ones chose something so apt or so lovely or so unusual. Obviously, rolling or not, they're not talking.

Angel with book

That's what a lot of grief is, that you turn to ask someone who is no longer there to answer. The classic comment of the recently bereaved when they say they picked up the phone and dialed a number only to realize no one would be picking up. We forget and re-remember over and over.

And that homage to grief shows up on graveyards. Some markers have benches, the suggestion being, sit and stay a while, tell the departed what you want to say even if they're no longer there to hear. In a way, sitting with grief helps carry us through to the other side, a point clearly illustrated by the Kaufman Memorial. Also known as Seven Ages of Memory, the artwork was created by William Ordway Partridge.

Kauffmann Memorial

The life-size sculpture of a woman on the bench is disconcertingly warm, a person to be with you in sadness, with a hand left open enough that, should you be inclined, you could sit and hold hands.This is the sort of thing the grieving do, or try not to do.

There are not a lot of places where crying in public is acceptable. A graveyard makes that list. In a cemetery, you get quiet sympathetic looks; in Kmart, you get folks shuffling away, with nervous backward looks as they ponder your mental and physical health.

The Mystery of the Hereafter and The
Peace of God that Passeth Understanding

If you prefer privacy at Rock Creek, I recommend the Adams Memorial designed by Augustus Saint-Gaudens and Stanford White. The bronze sculpture of a hooded figure rests behind high hedges. The grave marker is for Marian Hooper “Clover" Adams and was commissioned by her husband Henry Adams after her suicide. Sometimes referred to as Grief (which apparently irritated Henry Adams no end, as he wrote, "Every magazine writer wants to label it as some American patent medicine for popular consumption—Grief, Despair, Pear's Soap, or Macy's Mens' Suits Made to Measure"), Saint-Gaudens entitled it The Mystery of the Hereafter and The Peace of God that Passeth Understanding.

Henry Adams never spoke his wife's name again after her death and omitted her from his book The Eduction of Henry Adams, details that tug at me.

While wandering the graves, I came across a gravestone on which someone had left Mardi Gras beads.

Dalrymple and Mautner grave markers

The story there -- Who left the beads? Had they gone to Mardi Gras together? Had they always talked about it but never gone? Was it some private joke about the inappropriateness of plastic as daywear? -- I have no way of knowing.

I can tell you, courtesy of google, that Helen W. Dalrymple was a researcher at the Library of Congress for most of her career and co-authored several books.

Buried next to her is Mary-Helen Mautner. After her death, her partner started a nonprofit to support lesbian, bisexual and transgender individuals and their families when dealing with life threatening illness. An activist in life, Mautner's death also promoted a cause.

In personal and public ways, the deaths of Clover Adams, Helen Dalrymple, Mary-Helen Mautner and the many other people buried at Rock Creek Church Yard changed people and changed society. A nonprofit helps other people suffering. A statue at a grave marker adds to our cultural understanding and provides solace in its beauty. I'm sitting here writing about women I never met and the universals and particulars of mourning. And someone went to Mardi Gras.

Family tree, roots running through graves.

Artomatic Takes Flight

2011-03-21T10:35:00.001-04:00

Alas, I missed the opening reception of Artomatic Takes Flight, but I journeyed out to Ronald Reagan National Airport last weekend to check out the exhibit, on display until June 25th in the hallway connecting Terminal A.

Artomatic, a 12-year old DC art nonprofit, is known for the non-juried exhibits they've put on in empty buildings that transform blank spaces into creative wonderlands. More than 1,000 visual artists and 600 performing artists participated in the 2009 ten year anniversary festival.

Artomatic Takes Flight is a smaller event, with 83 artists displaying their work. Selection was made on a first come, first serve basis. The art will perhaps offer solace to travellers waiting for delayed connections.

A selection of favorites:

Jeff Chyatte
Helix
High Carbon Steel
https://chyattestudios.com/

David Hagen
Carrot Ride
Acrylic on Canvas
http://hagenillustration.blogspot.com/

Liya Sheer
Irony
Acrylic on Cavas
http://liyasheer.com/

Yelena Rodina
Bottle City
Oil
http://www.art-3000.com/artist/Yelena_Rodina/

Spring

2011-03-18T09:58:00.000-04:00

Filtering History: McMillian Sand Filtration Plant

2011-03-15T09:54:00.001-04:00

North Capitol and Michigan Ave NW

Inevitably, when driving down North Capitol with out-of-towners (or local DC-ites who seldom venture east of the Capitol) and we pass the odd towers lurching up from the rolling hills near Washington Hospital Center, they turn to ask: what the heck is that?

Sand Bins

While I've long known the structures are connected to the water system, I recently looked up the full scoop on wikipedia, and can now provide a name: McMillan Sand Filtration Plant. From its completion in 1905 until its decommission in 1986, the jokes about the DC water supply came back to roost on those twenty-five acres. During its active use, McMillan eliminated typhoid epidemics in DC, so if I grumbled about brown water from old pipes in my childhood, all I did was grumble, not fall ill. The slow sand filtration system was a milestone in its time.

Barbed-wire topped fences have surrounded McMillan since WWII, as its use as a public green space eliminated when concerns about the safety of the water supply sprang up. Currently, the area is owned by the DC government, who bought it from the federal government in 1987. Plans for redevelopment have, so far, stalled.

Staircase to abandoned

What does this have to do with art, you ask? Aside from an excuse to play with photography, the art in public spaces (as McMillan used to be) contributes to community in urban life - we gather around beauty. The more I look for art in DC, the more impressed I am by its arrival in unexpected places, from graffiti by the Metro to sculptures commissions by fancy institutions. As human beings, our instinct to detail, arrange, express, beautify, to imprint our style as individuals caught in our particular intersection of time, culture, circumstances, that comforts me. Even the decay of that art into a different form, the beauty of ruins and times past, lends meaning to a walk down a city street.

Renovation of Engine Company 12 Firing Up

2011-03-13T10:21:00.000-04:00

Old fire house on North
Capitol St. NW

Work has begun in earnest on the renovation Engine Company 12, the old fire house at the corner of North Capitol and Quincy Place NW. Slated to be an restaurant with outdoor seating, roof deck and valet parking, opening is tentatively scheduled for Independence Day, according the information on the Bates Area Civic Association blog, http://batesareacivicassociation.org/2011/03/02/engine-company-12-firehouse-update/. DCist has followed the project saga for some time, as deals were struck and then turned to ash: http://dcist.com/2009/02/bloomingdale_firehouse_restaurant_d.php

Building detail

On my daily commute by the building, I've seen workmen cleaning the brick, painting the facade details gold, moving scaffolding in and out. This weekend, I had time to stop and take a few photos. A gorgeous building, built over a hundred years ago, I'm thrilled to see it restored and repurposed to beauty and usefulness -- and hope the recent activity is a sign that it will really all come to pass.

No, I didn't break in. There is a camera-sized hole in the door. Large signs proclaim that the area is under
video surveillance, so my photo nosiness is probably documented somewhere.

Building detail

Engine Company 12

Customizing

2011-03-09T18:55:00.000-05:00

Circle 1, Circle 2
David Smith

Recently, I've been more deliberately customizing my life to my quirky needs. You'd think I'd have thought of that before, but no, I tried to customize myself to fit into some mythical ideal that, being neither mythical nor ideal, made me feel crummy when I didn't match up. Feeling contorted and uncomfortable seldom moved me forward.

Now I'm working within my own odd little framework, and happy with my hops and skips into changes and fun.

A few examples of how to skirt around some roadblocks:

Bring a friend. As the interviews and collaborative poems on this blog suggest, I do more when I have someone nudging me forward, if I feel accountable to someone else. How did I finally get over the threshold anxiety of actually taking a class at the yoga studio? Asked a friend to come along. And it was a great class complete with a teacher with a fabulous New Zealand accent, and now that the seal is broken, I'll go back easily. How did I decide to finally commit to the expense of trying a discovery test flight flying lesson in a small plane? Asked around and found another budding pilot enthusiast (test flight still pending as we had to reschedule because of high wind).
Go with your gut. Rather than slog forward with the first hospital I talked to about volunteering (where, for a laundry list of reasons, rational and not, I got a bad vibe), I said, you know what, there are options. I talked to another hospital volunteer coordinator yesterday at a place that is a much better fit on levels both practical and personal, and now I'm looking forward to diving into the experience.
Details matter; change approach. After roundly ignoring my oil paints all winter, I finally admitted oil painting fails the smell test of fun activity, particularly if you live in as small a place as I do. So I sold some of the paints, and invested the proceeds into buying more acrylic paints, a more straightforward medium for me. They don't smell, they're easy to clean up, and woohoo! I'm painting again, in the brief fits and starts that acrylics allow way more easily than oils.
Ask the experts. Obviously, in the interviews I've been posting, I've been asking about expertise in arts, and learning from others' art talents. In the future, in more of a healing arts bent, I'll be working with a friend who does nutritional coaching professionally (more on that later). Notably, however, her first point of advise was, work within who you are. I'm just not an eight-course meal vegan raw food chef with nine food processors and unlimited funds. That doesn't mean finding ways to eat a few more veggies wouldn't make me feel better.

Love that Calder

Just go! Last weekend, it poured rain all day on Sunday, and by 4:30, I'd run out of steam for any creative project at home. Claustrophobia was setting in. Sunday has traditionally been museum day for me, and so a quick check on hours led me to the East Wing of the National Gallery of Art. I could have decided it wasn't worth driving downtown in the rain for 45 minutes in the museum. But the thing is, having hustled out the door and gone, it totally was. Having default places that are quick, easy, free and inspiring -- that's a fantastic resource. If it's your local coffee shop or a garden or a museum, making the effort to push out into the inspiring space means meeting inspiration half way, meaning a happier Muse. As it turns out, the Gauguin exhibit had opened, and had I not zipped out, I might have missed all those self-portraits of a very unusual man.

So today's summary: find ways to take small steps in the direction of your dreams. And if you need to reconsider the details of that path, that's just fine too. Small steps allow for course corrections and clarifications.

No photos allowed at the Gauguin exhibit, but I got to visit one of my favorites, Kandinsky.

Improvisation 31 (Sea Battle)
Wassily Kandinsky

Photography: Jim O'Connell, Surly Bastard

2011-03-06T09:47:00.000-05:00

Jim O'Connell, a photographer now based in his hometown of Williamsport, PA, spent the previous decade living in Tokyo, Japan. His photographs have appeared in The New York Times, The International Herald Tribune and other publications.

Surly Bastard
self-portrait, Jim O'Connell

That's the official story. In 1988,when I met Jim, aka Surly Bastard, (currently his favorite moniker, as well as the name of his website), he was about to quit an office job to work as a bike messenger, and appeared to exist exclusively on Camel cigarettes and vast quantities of a fairly awful mash of potatoes and onions. Over the decades that I've known him, he's experimented with line drawing, piano and guitar compositions, jewelry making, extensive blogging when the world wide web when was young and nubile (think 1995 when blogs were just web pages), fiction, memoir, on-stage story telling, and mastering culinary treats well beyond that potato mash. Weaving through and bleeding into his artistic leanings lives his love of technology and gadgetry, from rewiring found stereos to computer programming (which led to working at Six Apart when it was start-up). He speaks Linux and mac. Recently, he picked up a paintbrush, curious as always.

When he threw himself in photography in Tokyo, he did so with his characteristic blown-open throttle, so I can't say I was surprised to find his photos in the The New York Times not all that long later. His intense focus sponges up information and puts his own unique spin on it, crunching on the bones, spitting out splinters, blood and beauty. His work often zeros in on innocence seen in unlikely places and simple moments made central to a larger stories, stark at times, almost painfully idealistic at others. His sensibility is romantic, deeply intuitive and, despite his surliness, deeply kind. In other words, his work reflects his character.

Given all that, I was immensely pleased he agreed to answer my questions on photography and allow me to display some of his work on Artful Mistakes.

And now, Jim talking about photography. For those that are paying close attention, you may notice similarities to the questions I asked Christine Tomaszewski, Satirenoir, which provides a layered discussion of the way photography and personality intermingle, a conversation I hope to continue.

Sweeten the deal, seal the deal
Jim O'Connell

Cyn: Why photography? What was your initial draw and what continues to pull you in?

Jim O'Connell: In junior high school, I was offered a choice in advanced-placement workshops: Calculus (or some other useless math thing, forget…) or photography. I chose the latter. The problem was, I didn't have a camera, so one of the advisors to the program offered to loan me his. I imagined that I'd be getting some sort of "cool" professional camera that was black with a motor drive and a lens as long as my arm. To my dismay, it was this little silver thing (uncool) in a brown leather case (more uncool) with a stubby little lens (unthinkably uncool). Despite these obvious flaws, it did seem to take pretty good pictures. It was a Leica. Years later, I spent a small fortune on almost the same camera.

Hitomi
Jim O'Connell

C: Who are some of your favorite photographers? What captures you in their work?

J: I respond much more to individual photographs than certain photographers, but I really get jazzed when I catch a glimpse of a photo I haven't seen, but know instantly who took it—that level of mastery is rare and refreshing. The subject is almost irrelevant. What I look for is some kind of unspoken communication between me and the photographer; if I feel that I know what he or she was thinking, what they were trying to communicate, *and* that that thing they are trying to say is worth hearing, I'm going to love the photograph. Too often though, people only shoot a few of these in their career.

Old Bike, Beijing Hutongs
Jim O'Connell

C: What are the commonalities in photographs you love (yours or others)?

J: I try not to be influenced by other people's work and don't look at it much for inspiration. The exception is a site called Them Thangs which is an aggregation of really great images picked from all over the web without the constraints of little things like getting the rights holder's permission. It's a brilliant collection of images, one after another, usually with no attribution, something I would normally be opposed to, except this works on a transcendent level.

Koreatown, 3:00 AM
Jim O'Connell

img894
Jim O'Connell

C: What do you look for when assessing photography quality?

J: Does the photo grab you and not let go? Can you remember it a day later? A year later? Does it haunt your dreams and shape your view of the world?

C: Have to ask it: digital v. film. Advantages, disadvantages, snob factor?

J: I was a huge film snob for a long time. I shot most of my work on black and white film that I rolled myself and processed myself. I used old cameras, Nikon F, Mamiya Press, Bronica, cameras that were state of the art around the year I was born.

Shooting to meet deadlines changed that for me. There were times I would get an assignment in Tokyo in the morning, shoot it that day and be expected to have it edited, captioned and filed in New York before the editor finished her morning coffee. Pretty impractical if you're shooting film. There's one or two people who shoot for the NYT using Leicas and B&W film, but certainly not grunts like me.

The thing is, I didn't resist the switch to digital. When the cameras got good enough, there really ceased to be much difference. If the subject dictated that the final image be shot on a grainy black and white film, I can produce those qualities in digital. The bulk of my work lately is like this. The difference with shooting digital in uncompressed RAW format is that you have the option to change your mind later. I've had occasions where I set out to shoot black and white with my digital, make all of the settings on the camera and computer so I never see the image in color, but while I'm editing, find an image that I'm glad to be able to have in color. If that was film, I would have limited myself unnecessarily.

In the end, though, a strong image is a strong image and will look good even if you run it through a Xerox machine.

C: Does equipment matter? Why or why not? Any favorite cameras, films, software, printing papers, lenses, filters?

J: Lenses matter far more than camera bodies. My standard camera these days is a Canon 5D Mk II with a 50mm f:1.2 lens. Good stuff for sure, but given any camera, I feel confident I could make competent images.

C: What is your relationship with the editing process (Photoshop, cropping, printing)? Do you view it as corrective, exploratory, both or otherwise?

J: It's probably eighty percent of good photography.

Whistle a little tune, say Beethoven's Ninth Symphony or Mozart's "Eine kleine Nachtmusik". In that little whistle, you can get the gist of the piece, but if you're the composer, there's a million different ways you can take that tune and turn it into a memorable piece.

In photo editing, each photo in a body of work should work with the other photos to express an overall idea. They don't all have to follow some rule, but there should be a certain intention to how they are presented.

As for individual pictures, editing will make or break a photo. Henri Cartier Bresson used to delight in showing the whole frame of the photo, even filing down the negative carriers he held the film with in his enlarger, so you could see that he used the whole frame. Personally, I have no problem with cropping, repositioning, whatever I need to do to have only the elements that matter appear in my photos.

As for color, people react to it so subjectively and strongly, even without realizing it, that you can't not work with your colors to bring out what you feel. Black and white is perhaps the most extreme example, but it just works. In other cases, you might bump up a color almost imperceptibly or draw down a range of hues to make the photo look like the image you had in your head. You can do this by choosing a type of film or processing or do it on the computer.

Either method is equally valid in my book.

Clouds
Jim O'Connell

Ginza
Jim O'Connell

My Avocado Plants
Jim O'Connell

Dance
Jim O'Connell

C: What are some obsessions in your work? I've noticed portraits, obviously, and the strippers, black and white, atmospheric vaguely 50s or timeless blur. Do you look for particular content, scenes, shapes, colors, or wander into what captures your imagination?

J: I've never set out to be a nostalgist, but some would put that label on me, because I used old cameras and films. When I was using the old cameras, I was using them because they were better than the digital gear I had. When I started the nighttime project in the red light district, film was far more forgiving of bad exposure, so I used that. Flashbulbs (the single use kind from the 1950's) are still brighter than any portable electronic flashes so I used those. That lent a certain quality to the images that people either liked or felt was contrived. If I was to start that project again today, the gear is different and I would use digital and the subtle effects would be different. Still, the things that I cared about then wouldn't change.

As for obsessions, I simply adore the female form. I was given a unique opportunity to work with the dancers and strippers on Tokyo, granted almost impossible access to them to the point where I was welcome both in their dressing rooms and even on stage with them while they performed. A chance like that can't be squandered.

Caduceus Loft 0794
Jim O'Connell

Img23043
Jim O'Connell

Dancer
Jim O'Connell

Untitled
Jim O'Connell

In portraiture, I like to get close and invade someone's personal space to help them drop their personal preconceptions about how they should appear and even what they look like. When you can do that well, you get a peek behind their mask, some kind of rare honesty that gets me really jazzed.

Makoto-chan-4
Jim O'Connell

Makoto-chan-3
Jim O'Connell

Kabukicho, the red light district, was a bit of a long departure for me. When I first happened upon the place, it felt to me the same as when I used to go to New York in the early eighties—it was dark and grimy and infused with a feeling of sexuality and danger. I realized that first night that I could never shoot Times Square or 42nd Street like that again, so here was a second chance. One day, Kabukicho will be cleaned up too, but I'll have a good document of what it felt like to me at the time.

Img807
Jim O'Connell

Img802
Jim O'Connell

When I'm completely burnt out, I force myself to shoot an arbitrary subject when I see it. To get through the last really bad slump, I vowed to shoot certain subjects every time I encountered them: puppies and transvestites.

Ginza
Jim O'Connell

Skirtguy
Jim O'Connell

C: How does motion play into photography? I mean this both in a technical sense - how do you catch the moment just the way you like - and more metaphorical, - how do you feel about the static aspects of photography versus, say, the fluidity of movies?

J: I rarely shoot actual motion, though I'm certainly capable of shooting it. I like implied motion, perhaps the sense that the subject has just arrived or is about to depart.

I feel like a lot of my stuff is straight-on and flat.

Girl on a Bike
Jim O'Connell

We are all, at times, translucent
Jim O'Connell

C: Shooting people - what are the challenges and rewards?

J: Like I said, I like to get close and find some understanding of that person. Taking a good photo of someone is sharing an intimate moment, like making love.

Laura
Jim O'Connell

A Praktika Girl
Jim O'Connell

C: Best shooting story, success or failure?

J: One of my favorite photos was shot on an old twenty dollar Nikkormat (like a Nikon for students in the late 1960's) with a decent lens and the wrong film for the situation, grainy film that I used at night, primarily, but this day I happened to be at the beach in the daytime. The camera's viewfinder ring had fallen off that day, leaving the rough threads of the eyepiece exposed, which was scratching my rather thick glasses, so I took them off, leaving me rather blind. Still, I happened to notice a scene and shoot it mostly by instinct. I shot four frames of a grandfather and granddaughter jumping off a wall and they all were perfect. The one of the actual jump is perhaps the best thing I've ever shot.

Till glädje
Jim O'Connell

C: How do you feel photography fits into the larger world of visual arts?

J: There are visual arts beyond photography?? Do tell…

Actually I just did my first painting, which I quite liked, so tried another, which is an abomination. I can't draw and my (motion) film attempts have been overwrought and tiresome.

I really don't know much at all about the other visual arts.

C: What's the oddest thing about your approach to photography?

J: I never wear pants when I shoot.

Typical Shibuya Morning
Jim O'Connell

Truthfully, when I'm shooting, I become a total hippie, philosophically—I get superstitious and believe in things like the Muse and relying on the blessings of the deities in order to have my work matter.

In life, I'm much more pragmatic.

Nobody Loves Gutter Bear
Jim O'Connell

Hang in there, Baby
Jim O'Connell

C: How do prints compare to your experience reviewing photos on screen?

J: I hate prints.

I hate doing them and never know what to do with the ones I have. Even when I was shooting all film, I scanned the negatives and looked at them on screen.

If I make a print, maybe a hundred people will ever see it. If I put it online, thousands of people will see it.

That said, I used to get a real kick out of seeing my photos in the Times—it was like a game of abstraction where I'd go shoot 500 photos, edit them down to 25 and the editors would pick five or ten or one to use and stick on a page in the paper. Seeing it laid out like that with all of the text around it was always a fun experience, kind of like seeing a childhood friend who's become a cop or joined the army—here's your old friend, all done up in uniform…

Tokaien Hotel - 7
Jim O'Connell

Joy of Color Film
Jim O'Connell

C: The rule of thirds - do you follow it religiously? Do you have photos you love that break the this or other rules of photography?

J: There are lots of "rules" and you should study them all and be able to break them with brilliant intention.

The "Rule of Thirds", however, is a handy thing for any photographer to keep in mind, as reliable as a good tripod for improving your photography quickly.

Man Reading Magazine, Tokyo Convenience Store
Jim O'Connell

C: On that note, how conscious are you of composition when shooting? When cropping and editing?

J: I once asked a large group of photographers which was their dominant eye and what "handedness" they were in an effort to understand composition. The answers were all over the place, but I came to realize that my subordinate eye was better at seeing composition, but looking through the camera with that eye just about requires an eye patch over the dominant eye. Cameras where both eyes can see the subject are just about ideal for me, be it a waist-level finder like a Hasselblad, or something like an iPhone. My right eye does all the arty stuff like composition and my left does all the dull stuff like checking the focus points and exposure.

In editing, I find I usually crop to 4x5 proportions. I don't know why, it's just more pleasing to my eye.

Ben behind the bar, just before 5:00 AM
Jim O'Connell

Yasukuni
Jim O'Connell

C: When you are in photo-mode, how does your view on the world change? For instance, when I'm out taking snapshots, I find I pay a great more attention to my surrroundings, but that I also tend to chop it up more, considering what fits in a viewfinder, so I experience the world more as detailed parts, rather than holistically.

J: When I'm really "on" I am in a different state of mind completely, but it's a precarious and difficult state to maintain. The best I can explain it is like when you are trying to view one of those "Magic Eye" photos at a mall gift shop, the kind that are a blur of static until you concentrate and suddenly you see a dolphin appear. If you get distracted, it all falls apart. Shooting can be like that where you keep that focus for shot after shot and when you're done, you're exhausted and fulfilled.

C: How does art and photography impact other aspects of your life?

J: My studio is in an artist's collective in an old factory in Central Pennsylvania [The Pajama Factory], so I'm blessed—I get to be around some really creative people at any hour of the day or night. This keeps my mind thinking about art for long periods of time.

Pajama Factory Studio Space - 3
Jim O'Connell

C: Where do you see your work going next? Do you have experiments or projects in process? Do you have particular elements of craft you're looking to nail down?

J: Oh, I wish I knew. I wish I could get an assignment far away from everything I've ever seen so far and fill my camera with new and different things. Still, for now, I need to be here and I'm happy with it. I've even come to terms with putting the camera down for long periods without guilt.

C: [Create your own question and tell me what you want to say about photography]

J: The biggest lesson I've learned is this:

Look through your camera or at the screen or whatever.

If it looks good, push the button.

If it doesn't, don't push the button.

It may sound like I'm taking the piss, but that's really the most important thing to do to take good pictures.

Currently, Jim is working on a personal photo project focused on portraits. Check out http://www.surlybastard.org , http://www.mmdc.net and http://www.flickr.com/photos/jimoconnell to see more of his work.

Nikon F
Jim O'Connell