Life Lesson

There is a life lesson that has taken me too many years (decades) to figure out. Partly because I've spent the majority of my adult life renting apartments rather than owning a home. Partly because I've spent the majority of my adult life obliviously walking around, skirting responsibility and commitment. Partly because I'm a hammerhead.

Having something beautiful is a luxury, a delight.

Maintaining something beautiful is work.

This applies to many things.

A home. The picture below is the entryway of a mansion in Galveston. It was built in the early 20th century, and it is gorgeous. Hand-carved wood all over. But, it takes a team of employees and volunteers - along with large grants - to keep it up.

The Bishop's Palace - Galveston, Tx

Or a patio with flowers. Flowers have to be watered regularly, and weeds will grow through the bricks unless we are vigilant.

Cat's Paradise

Jewelry - Silver will tarnish and must be polished.

Pendant - Silver, 18K and Opal by Barry Perez

Talent - musical, artistic or any other talent you may have developed - requires continued practice, or you will lose the skill, the edge, the ease and the beauty with which you perform.

The Talented Jorge & Nicole

Friendships and relationships

Courtesy of Pexels 

Courtesy of Pexels

I was walking home this afternoon from brunch - just before it began to rain. I passed a beautiful house, a house that I would have loved to live in. It occurred to me that the bigger the home, the more there is to maintain because there's that much more to break down. A few years ago I wouldn't have considered that. I have moved in with my partner – the same one who, without my having to call, came to pick me up when it began to rain – and I have begun to learn what it means to truly be responsible for something and its maintenance. The old house we live in has a leak in the roof and it's entirely up to us to fix it. There is no office to call to come take care of it. And, we either mow the lawn or it becomes a forest, regardless of how much I'd prefer to be laying around reading. I could leave when I got angry, or I could finally figure out what it takes to make a relationship work. I have a lifetime of leaving that has become a habit, a way of life. I am having to learn a new way of life.

The lesson hasn't been easy or without tears. But, I have grown so much in the last few years that I almost don't recognize myself. Has it been worth it? As far as I'm concerned, yes. (You'd have to ask my partner for his perspective.) I have a long way to go, but I am so glad I have begun.

Thank you for reading.

Studio Cats

I look out my bedroom window at Barry's jewelry studio, and I can tell that he is busy making his art. It's not that there is smoke coming from a chimney – there is no chimney and no smoke in his art. (Not much, anyway. Vapors from the pickling solution, but not real smoke.) 

The black and white cat on the step – his name is Tom Cat. He more or less adopted us last year. I thought he was feral and we decided to have him fixed when Emancipet was in town with their Mobile Clinic. On the day scheduled we hadn't trapped him, so I thought I might be able to catch him or lure him into the carrier with food. As it turns out, all I had to do was bend down, pet him on the head and pick him up. This cat was not feral. Clearly he used to belong to somebody, but whoever that is he clearly has chosen not to be there any more. Who am I to judge that relationship? 

After the operation, and after the healing time, I let him out of the carrier. We have ferals neutered and spayed regularly with the trap-and-release program through the local SPCA. Once we release, they usually stay away for a day or two before returning to where they know there is food to be found. Not Tom Cat. I can't say he was thrilled, but he strutted around and rubbed against my leg. He had made up his mind where his home was and a small thing like this wasn't going to change it.

Originally, I tried to feed him on the other side of the property to keep from having fights with the cats in our yard. But, Barry moved him into the yard when it got cold and he needed a warm place to be. Our house is pier and beam and cats keep warm under it, plus we (Barry) put out insulated boxes for him and another stray who has planted himself here. 

I don't want to say that Tom Cat like either one of us better than the other, but when Barry is working in the jewelry studio, Tom Cat is waiting against the door for him. When Barry is working in the tile studio, Tom Cat is waiting against that door for him. I think he instinctively knows which one of us is the bigger push-over. 

Greek-ish Chorus

I mentioned a couple of days ago on Facebook that my life needs a Greek Chorus. I think I was off the mark a little bit. I think that what I really need is to get my Greek Chorus into line. At the moment, they are more like what we see in the musicals Evita and Mamma Mia. Rather than a chorus talking in unison, I have a disparate group of voices chatting higgledy-piggledy. They follow me through my days, adding color and commentary to my life. When I'm feeling down they are there to echo my emotions, a sort of musical call and response. When I'm happy, we're dancing around the room, bowing to each other and lifting our glasses. If I can't sleep, a heap of them are sitting atop bed, discussing formulas for spreadsheets.

If I'm dizzy from my meds I have a very laid back guy saying, "Dude". Sometimes I'll be doing something – something productive, let's say – and I start to get dizzy. If I'm at home I generally take a nap, but if I'm out and about there's not nap to be had. I sit still a moment and think, what was it I was doing? Then we're all in the car together, happily singing along, ABBA blaring from the speakers, driving to Jerry's Artarama to get art supplies. Or, I'll be enjoying a nice cup of coffee and think about a beautiful tree outside the window. I'll consider that it is older than the building I'm sitting in, and suddenly there's all this chatter about what the neighborhood was like 50 years ago when it was all trees and fields, and how did they select this one tree to stay and lean on the railing of the porch, when they razed all of the others to make the shopping center. Sitting next to me, head-to-head, is a handsome Hispanic man and we're looking at each other knowingly, singing about the tree and how good the drawing is going to turn out. Then I take out the art supplies that I keep with me and begin drawing. Others chime in about the depth, and the need for shade in this one area and how this area is flat and they sing (in chorus) when I begin to make it better. And then the railing coming toward the viewer and taking a sharp turn, running parallel with the window I'm looking out of. Just kind of sketched in there, not detailed like the ♪ BEAUTIFUL TREE that is just outside my window! ♫♪♪

And the beautiful drawing that I'm adding to my journal, and I'm going to be able to retire from work and write and draw and a ♫ NEW EARNIE – A Rather Earnest Painter ♪ ♫ ♪ is coming into his own in a coffee shop in this wicked little town of Austin, TX.

Not quite the award-winning piece of art that my Greek-ish Chorus would have me believe, but they lost interest after about 20 minutes.

Other times they mock me. Why am I still working at this job where everybody is so mean? (In reality, the people I work with are delightful.) Why am I still sitting in front of a company computer marking time until I die? What happened to those wild dreams, when we were soaring and laughing and the Rather Earnest Painter was going to have it all? So, what happens now? Don't ask... any more. You made your bed, now lie in it. You have three novels started, you have writing skills that you've put into a drawer. At work I sit at my desk while, dancing around me, men and women sing about what I've done with my life, and more to the point what I haven't. Where is the success that would let me own a home in two towns, a place to get away and a place to come home to? Or, did I forget to try?

All in all I have to say that I like this group of singers, this Greek-ish Chorus, better than the one I used to have... or the way they used to dress? Does one lose the voices in one's head, only to be replaced by new voices? Or, do the voices age as we do? Anyway, I used to have voices taunting me about futility and ending my life. That group wasn't quite as much fun to be around. Even then I used to dream at night about being in a musical – a happy, upbeat musical that was my life and life was good. In the darkest times my chorus was there, somewhere, just out of sight, encouraging me, singing to me. I'd lose track of them and then they'd come to me in my dreams. Now, having moved beyond that other shady crew, I have with me a lovely, if somewhat bewildering, Greek-ish Chorus.

And, we're gonna make it after all...

Emerging Badgers

I have a lovely smart phone holder made by my friend, the ceramic artist Jason Hooper. I'm thinking that mine is the only one with two badgers descending from the running glaze. Do you see?

If you're interested in seeing more of Jason's work, you can do so here: https://www.etsy.com/shop/JasonHooperPottery. 

e A r n i e

Unrest

So, I work. Like most Americans. "They" have been encouraging us, lately, to be creative. (I'm assuming that this ties in with coming up with creative solutions to problems.) However, I was off the day they delivered the tiny bins of playdough and everybody got to make a creation and post pictures of them on our company chat. But, I can do some pretty creative things with spreadsheets. I do things that God never intended, actually. I try to keep in mind the ideals of design. It needs to be easy to read, intuitive and I try to keep my formulas such that a person coming in after me would be able to follow what I was doing and carry on in my absence. This has as much to do with documentation as it does with designing spreadsheets, and I also try to make my documentation easy to follow and pleasing to the eye.

Another person who works in my office is a fidgety sort of person. She is always playing with a pen, knocking over a cup of coffee, running face-first into a wall or something to keep us amused. This afternoon she was playing with her Rubik's Cube – a miniature one that was left on all of our desks close to the time that the playdough was delivered – while she was talking with two other people, one of whom works in our department, the other works close-by. The one who works in our department didn't blink an eye as the cube fell apart in our coworker's hand. It was only a matter of time, really. The person from the nearby department was a little taken aback, claiming that he'd never seen one fall apart. (I mean, I've never seen it, either. That doesn't mean I was surprised to see it happen to her.)

Just this morning on the way to work I was listening to the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch. One of my favorite lines from that musical – one that has inspired me since I first saw the movie – is:

That, when everything starts breaking down
You take the pieces off the ground
And show this wicked town
Something beautiful and new*

So, that's what I did. I took the pieces off the ground (out of her hand, actually. They hadn't hit the ground yet.) and made an art installation. I finally got the opportunity to express my creativity in a purely aesthetic way at work. I didn't post a picture of it on our chat, mostly because that was so, like, three weeks ago. But, I'll post pictures here. For you, Gentle Reader. I call it Unrest, a collaboration.

Thank you for taking the time to read.

*Stephen Trask

Sincerely, 

e A r n i e, the Rather Earnest Painter

Clarice's Original Mother

In 1988 Thomas Harris published a novel titled The Silence of the Lambs, which was a sequel to his earlier Red Dragon. In 1991 Silence was made into a movie and was a major success, both in the box office and critical acclaim. With Anthony Hopkins and Jody Foster one would expect that – particularly with Hopkins.

In 2003 a struggling artist named Richella was working in her studio. She rented a large warehouse space – 5,000 square feet or so. She had a cat named Fitzgerald with whom she traveled across the country to art festivals. Fitzgerald was a very large orange tabby, and he was very comfortable on the road. He kept her company while she worked all hours of the night on her pottery, her miniature collectibles fired with a Raku technique.

Richella was a very good friend of mine and I feel that she was troubled sometimes. She told us that she needed the amount of space she had in order to be able to work, due to claustrophobia. So, she worked alone in her studio surrounded by her pretty things and in the company of her cat who enjoyed nothing more than being her entire world.

At some point, though, another tabby peeked in the garage door of the studio. She gave the new cat some food and put it back outside. But, the cat came back, as cats are wont to. She took the cat in to get it fixed and if you've noticed a lack of gender-specific pronouns in this paragraph there's a reason for it. She couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. She thought girl, so she named her Buttercup. The vet told her it was a boy, so the name was changed to Butternut. When the vet discovered that the cat was pregnant, he used deductive reasoning to establish that she was, indeed, a she. Thus, the name Butterbean was given and finalized.

This caused a bit of an upset in Fitzgerald's life. He only had room in his heart for one woman and that woman was Richella. He could see no reason for the presence of this other cat in their life, regardless of what gender she was before she was neutered. Butterbean was street savvy and could kick any cat's ass that got in her way, so there was a bit of tension as the two got to know each other. (In all honestly, Fitzgerald never got over the betrayal.) But, the ball was rolling and there is no stopping the course of fate.

I think that it can be said without too much argument that Richella was in an unlucky phase in her life with regards to romance. She had a boyfriend at one point around this time. He wasn't much to write home about, so I tried not to pay attention. But, any person has a space in their heart for another human being and sometimes we let somebody into that space whether or not they are truly worth it. It's difficult to say what would have been appropriate for Richella. She loved the movie The Silence of the Lambs and all of the prequels/sequels. She also read all of the books. One might not think too much about that, except that she found it to be the most remarkable love story she had ever seen. It touched her in a place that had never been touched before. For those who haven't heard of it, the two main characters in SOTL are Hannibal and Clarice. Hannibal is a brilliant psychiatrist, and he also happens to be a cannibalistic murderer. Clarice works for the FBI and is sent to enlist Hannibal's assistance in stopping another serial killer. Thus begins their strange relationship.

So, when yet a third cat showed up to Richella's studio and it was clear that she wasn't going to go away, this new black cat was named in honor of Richella's favorite protagonist, Clarice. Clarice, the cat, was a timid little thing at the time, and Butterbean was quite the fighter. Butterbean was generally locked in Richella's bedroom, but occasionally the door was left a crack open and Clarice would sneak in to see what was in there (because what cat can leave a closed door alone?) She had her little black butt handed to her on more than one occasion that way.

There has always been something a little different about Clarice. Some cats are nervy or skittish, and that's natural. Clarice, though, has always wanted attention; she was just always a little put off by being touched – even when she requested it. She lived her life among other cats a bit like that. She wasn't certain that she wanted to be there, but there didn't seem to be anywhere else to be, so she abided. Asserting herself had only caused physical harm, so she meekly asked for attention, even though she didn't particularly like it. She spent a great deal of time lying quietly, trying to blend into the background until her need for affection overcame her distaste for it.

Years later, she has come into her own, living in our home now. (This is the same Clarice that I recently wrote about – our cat who has diabetes now.) She sits on her corner of the kitchen table and proudly announces that she is in need of attention. It is my job to pick her up (yes, she allows me to pick her up now!) and pet her and coo to her and tell her what a beautiful kitty she is. I have to pet the back of her head, rub her whiskers and this must go on for at least five minutes. She uses her front paws on my arm to perch up and receive her due. She closes her eyes and imagines a life without so much heartache; lets herself forget how far she's come and just live in the moment with me.

And, then it's time to put her down and we both go about our business.

A sketch of Richella demonstrating her art

Carol

[Possible-Spoiler alert]

After having heard an interview by my favorite interviewer in the world, Terry Gross of Fresh Air, I had to see this movie. I don't, for the most part, watch movies. And, it is odd that I would choose to see a movie about lesbian love. (I'm of the gender that does not have ovaries.) I am, however, quite impressionable and Terry and the people she interviewed (Todd Haynes, the director, and Phyllis Nagy, the screenplay writer) made it seem so fascinating with their stories about the making of the movie, the novel that it was based on (The Price of Salt, originally) and the author of that novel. It was irresistible, even. I thought about the movie constantly before I saw it. I carried it around in my heart for days, like an amulet.

Cate Blanchett is incredible. She is not a classic beauty. Her eyes seem to close from the bottom up. Her cheekbones are pronounced and her mouth always seems like she's about to cry – not in a pouty French way, but in a way that kept me on edge. Is she going to smile? Is she going to laugh? Is she going to cry? She played the part of Carol Aird to the point that I believe this is what she's really like – a severe, intelligent, determined (wealthy) housewife and mother in the 1950's who is an agent of her own destiny and perfectly capable of making her own life given the resources available to women in 1950's United States. In scenes involving men she is 100% in control of the situation (at least in appearances). She has grace and composure that people naturally respond to. With Therese Belivet she is always more focussed. But, she also lets her guard down so that Therese sees emotions and insecurities that men would not be privy to.

I don't know that I've seen Rooney Mara before. She plays Therese, a timid yet competent young woman in New York City who falls in love with Carol, a customer she sees at the department store where she works. She reminds me very much of the character Amélie in the movie by the same name. Her dark hair and timid personality are reminiscent of that character. Therese knows she wants to be a photographer, but it takes some prodding from others to convince her to pursue it. She's subservient in the roll of a department store clerk in a rather abusive environment and she loves to hang out with the guys. She's at an age where she can, and does, accept whatever adventures life throws at her. So, falling in love with a another woman, while it may not be what she expected, she is predisposed to go along with it, without resistance. She does, however, intercede meekly in destiny. For example, when Carol – accidentally or not – leaves her gloves on the display counter Therese mails them to her using the address from the order she placed for her. From there Carol invites her to lunch.

There were a couple of scenes that stuck out to me. In one, Therese's boyfriend is walking her home. He has declared that he loves her and wants to marry her, and as they walk she talks about her photography. When she says she is thinking about putting together a portfolio, he abruptly changes the subject to their trip to Europe (which he's paying for.) He is a 1950's man and her world is supposed to revolve around him. She can have her little hobbies, but he's there to keep priorities straight. Compare that to the scene in which a friend gets her a job at the newspaper where he works, almost insisting that she pursue photography. Also, compare it to a scene in which Carol buys her a nice camera.

In another scene early in the movie Carol is brushing her daughter's dark hair in front of a vanity mirror and teaching her to count by counting the brush strokes. Later, in a motel, Therese is sitting in front of a vanity mirror and her dark hair is so like Carol's 4-year-old daughter that the similarities in the scenes cannot be an accident. Carol is much older than Therese, and sophisticated. Carol has experience and Therese is learning her way in this different world.

The cinematography in the movie is incredible. I don't even know where to begin to analyze that because I know nothing about the art. But, I can say that it is captivating, it is beautiful and it makes me happy that there are people making movies like this, (as opposed to blockbuster films.) If you didn't speak English I would still recommend seeing the movie, and without subtitles or dubbing (*shudders*). It would still be a captivating movie, and I'm not certain how much you'd miss without understanding the dialogue. (I wouldn't recommend turning the sound off and watching, because the ambient noise is very much a part of the experience.)

Somebody heard me talking about the movie and asked if she should go see it. That's a tricky one to answer, but my thought is that if you find yourself asking that question, then yes, you should see it. As for everybody else... well, it is not a blockbuster movie, it is not action-packed, it's more or less an artsy movie. But, it is such a good movie that I couldn't stop thinking about it for days after I saw it. The passion is still there when I think about it even a week later.

So, do consider seeing the movie, either at the theater or at home. Terry Gross didn't let me down on this one. It is amazing.

Thank you for reading. Do come back.

Sincerely,

e A r n i e

The Christmas Sculpture

It's nearly Christmas. My younger brother, my older sister and I have had an online conversation going on for a couple of years now. In it we were talking recently about Christmas and family and how hectic and overwhelming the whole thing can be. (I think we all save quite a bit of money on therapists by talking with each other this way.) Naturally, we thought about our childhood, because Christmas is 90% about children, childhood and memories. It's easy to think about a simpler time, but the biggest difference between now and then is the fact that we were children then and we are now adults with the attendant responsibilities that we didn't comprehend before. Of eight siblings, the three of us were the only ones left living in our mother's home. There is an age gap between us for one thing. Also, the first five have a different father with whom some of them were living at that time, and some had already moved out to begin their own lives. So, it was just the three of us for a quite few years with our mother and father. And, as in so many stories of the simpler times, we were very, very poor.

One year our father told us that there wasn't enough money for a Christmas tree, and judging from the way he was talking it seemed that we might skip Christmas altogether. I remember listening to him talk – much the way in old Charlie Brown movies adults speech is represented by a "Whah-WHAH-whaaaaaah". My father had a way of lecturing that tended to be rather long-winded and the tiniest bit imperious, as if he were explaining something to a bunch of hammerheads who had been arguing with him for an hour, when actually we had yet to say a word. The gist of it was that Christmas is about materialism anyway, and there wasn't extra money, so we were going to have to do without a Christmas tree this year. We didn't dare ask about presents. What will be will be; there wasn't much we could do about it anyway, and asking would only make him angry. (In his defence, this can't have been an easy conversation to have with children who were between twelve and four years old.)

There wasn't much we could do about Santa Claus bringing us presents, but we could do something about the tree. We were no strangers to walking to the park. If we had nothing else, we had time on our hands and it was an age in which children weren't expected to remain indoors and/or in constant contact with their parents. So, the three of us bundled up against the cold and set off on foot for the park where we knew there were evergreen shrubs. Wind biting the skin on your face was a way of life in the Panhandle of Texas and crunching through snow was as fun as anything else we could have been doing. We laid out our plan all the way there. We would gather up limbs from the evergreen shrubs, take them back home and build our own tree. I imagined in my mind using baling wire, because this was before duct tape became a common household item, and baling wire was how you held things together then. (Those simpler times had some limitations.)

On the way back home my sister and I were chatting about how we could put it together. My little brother, almost five years younger than me and probably only four years old at the time, was just happy to be along and part of things. We were not exceptional children with regards to bickering; we certainly had our arguments and screaming matches. Our parents' favorite way to put a stop to the fighting was to make us sit on the sofa holding hands. (The giggling inevitably started in less than three minutes.) But, carrying Christmas Tree limbs through the cold, back to our home, we had our heads together and we just tossed around ideas about how to build a tree.

I don't remember exactly how many limbs we managed to get or who carried what, but we got home and showed our mother what we had brought and told her about our plan to make a Christmas tree, since we weren't going to be able to buy one this year. She looked at the limbs and considered. I still wasn't sure how all of it was going to be held together, but mothers are magical creatures who know everything, and, as if she had been expecting us to come home bearing evergreen boughs, she almost immediately began putting them together. She had a trunk that she kept fabric in (still keeps fabric in, as far as I know.) This she covered with a sheet and she laid the boughs across the trunk, creating a bush right there in our living room – not really a bush, but more than a stack of limbs. Truly, what she made was a sculpture with our found objects. She used one string of Christmas Tree lights, winding them through the limbs and we put a few baubles on it. Then we all stood back.

It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful Christmas Sculpture I could imagine, much better than a tree. And, we did it together, the three of us and our mother. Warming up indoors after walking through cold wind, our fingers tingled, but there was a more subtle feeling of security that came from being warm when the wind was still blowing outside and the windows were fogged. Having our Christmas Sculpture there in the living room and feeling all warm, happy and excited, we decided together that it didn't matter if we had presents. It didn't matter at all because we already had the most beautiful Christmas Sculpture ever. We couldn't wait to show our father when he got home.

Santa did come that year. Christmas morning brought gifts for the three of us and for our parents. I don't remember what Santa brought me that year, but the thing about Christmas gifts is that seeing them wrapped first thing in the morning is the most exciting part. Lately I've been trying not to think about the past at all, to look only ahead. But, talking with my brother and sister this year, I very much remember the Sculpture and the three of us taking it upon ourselves to make sure that we had a Christmas.

Alejandra Almuelle

A more complete exploration into the artist herself is warranted, but I haven't had the opportunity to interview her yet. I have known Alejandra Almuelle for years and I've watched her art grow. Her truly fascinating personality is reflected in her work, as she explores subjects that interest her. And, in her life she never stops exploring – exploring her own life, the world around her, traveling and people. Her mind seems always to be working, and when I see her it's as if I've stepped into whatever she's contemplating at that particular moment.

I haven't been able to figure out if the emotional response that I get from looking at her work is what she intends. I always feel that it has a dreamlike quality. It's not a pleasant, sugarplums-dancing-through-my-head kind of dream, but the kind of dream that leaves me wondering – later, when I think about and try to understand them – what my mind was doing.

Here are some pictures that I've taken recently. I encourage you to visit her on Facebook. As far as I know, she doesn't have any other web presence at the moment. www.facebook.com/alejandra.almuelle 

Print Fired

Last week as we were picking up clay at Armadillo Clay & Supplies and we stumbled upon an exhibit next door called Print Fired. We came across Mary Fischer, whose work is there and who was keeping shop for the morning. She told us about an exhibit that would be happening next week (yesterday) at Flatbed Press called Flatbed Contemporary Print Fair 2015. It was an exhibit specifically for printers, with artists from across the country who use variety methods.

So, this week instead of hitting our regular thrift stores on Saturday morning, we made our way to Flatbed Press. There we saw Debbie Little Wilson. She's a printer friend of ours and she's fabulous in so many ways. And I'm in love with her chickens. We saw a couple of demonstrations and saw some incredible printing. I even got to make a print of a frog. 

Today, we went to a demonstration put on by none other than the same Mary Fischer. She prints, but on clay, which is what the whole Print Fired exhibit is about. She has traveled to Hungary and learned a method of printing from a photograph onto clay, which was the theme of her demonstration today, assisted by the fabulous Debbie Little Wilson. 

I have had printers explain to me how they do what they do and they always get to a point at which what they're saying translates in my mind to "Something magic happens" because I just can't get it. I listen, and I understand and then they cross a line and my puzzled mind stops. It just can't. This weekend, though, I was able to get it. I have an uncomfortable, sneaky suspicion that I witnessed a different process than that which has always eluded me. The part that puzzles me is when they explain that oil and water don't mix. I know this, but that doesn't explain how you take a flat surface and put oil and water onto it, then place it onto a piece of paper and come out with a beautiful print with neither oil stains or watermarks. But, I am proud to say that I understand solarplates and how to print with them. I haven't done it, but I've witnessed it and I understood. At no point did my poor little mind look bewildered and have to insert "something magic happens" into the part that it couldn't grasp.

Below is an album of the pictures I took at the demonstration. The images are not very good because the light wasn't great and I wasn't close, but I think it's interesting enough to overlook that.

Click to see Album

Glo Pigeons

Glo Coason's pigeons look down on me from atop my bookcase while I fall asleep.

It's like having my friend watch over me.

-- e A r n i e

Rice Bowl

I have a rice bowl and you don't.

http://www.brimberrypottery.com

-- e A r n i e

Too Beautiful a Day to Be Inside

February 9, 2014

What a beautiful day. It's been unusually cold this winter; we've had several cold snaps in which it froze. The school districts have closed several times due to "Inclement weather", but that simply means that it might freeze with precipitation, which could lead to ice on bridges. And indeed, 50-car pile-ups happened on more than one occasion. The plants on my porch have mostly died and I cut them all back last week.

But, today it was clear, the sun was out and it went from 45º to 73º. I wore a decent T-shirt under my hoody so that when it warmed up I could take the outer layer off. I went to Corporate Coffee Shop to start with. I intended to go home and work around the condo, but I decided to enjoy the day. Walk around outside. Be out of the condo.

This is where I think that things always get a little odd, where things go wrong. I was reading a book and it mentioned the impression that a character got when entering a building. I was thinking that I should make my home be like that. I have stuff to make it impressive and homey, but I wasn't at home. I was out enjoying the weather. I have copies of book jackets that I've been meaning to frame and hang. (I ordered a reprint of an Agatha Christie novel - in exactly the original style, typefaces and dust jacket and everything - that I found particularly impressive [for reasons other than just the novel itself.] If you're interested, it's http://www.bookdepository.com.) I've been meaning to hang copies of the cover art in my office space to inspire me to write. I have pottery that I've acquired from artist friends of Nameless. It's still in bags wrapped in bubble wrap. I've made The Room more presentable and comfortable, but I'm not in there writing. I'm out and about at thrift stores and used book stores looking for things to make my home cool, never mind that I still have things that I've acquired to make it cool and that stuff is not yet adorning my home or making anything fabulous. It's just waiting.

I am back in the habit of walking around my home and not really seeing, like putting blinders on a horse or filters on my eyes. Like selective hearing, but for vision. I can see the kitchen, but I don't see the stuff on the floor right outside the kitchen door. I see my table, but not the stuff piled on top of it.

So, I found a couple of frames for the book jackets. I found coffee and the sun and a beautiful day. I found a couple of books that I need to have on my shelves. Now, I'm at home with the griddle heating up so that I can make a petite sandwich for dinner and I have the urge to open my eyes and look around at my home and try to make it better.

God help me.

Things

June 22, 2013

Agatha Christie lamented in her Autobiography the unfortunate position a person can be in when they enjoy Things, enjoy collecting and having Things – what some Philistines these days might call hoarders – but when said person's parents were also collectors and then they end up with a houseful of stuff already, and no room to add their own. 

As I sit in Corporate Coffee Shop, a lady across the room is working with a surgical clamp on a doll and I'm intrigued. Of course, a twitterpated girl of about 18 is sitting between me and that woman, so I'm both irritated and concerned that I'm going to look like a lecher. But, I want to see what she's doing. Not the girl; she's clearly leaning in, talking to her boyfriend and she's young and blond and happy and good for her. But, she's also in the way. The woman, who is about 50 years old, with a pink sleeveless shirt white shorts and reading glasses, is what I want to see. A minute ago the doll was cut in half at the waist and my artist friend was working on her. Now the torso is complete and she's connecting an arm. It seems that there is rope inside the doll that she's clamping onto. Or she put that rope in there for her own purposes. Now she's had to enlist her husband who is across the room with ear buds in – like me – and reading his Nook. (The younger generation can kiss our grits.) It seems that she needed a man's strength to pull the rope in order to accomplish what she's working on. Whatever it was, he made quick work of it. Now the artist is back in her seat talking with who appears to be the owner of the doll. The doll's dress is back on and the woman is pulling her little panties up with her thumbs while she talks. I could not be more happy that I chose this day and time to come get a cup of coffee, and happily the younger generation is bored and moving on – and out of the way. 

This actually ties in to my point. The apparent owner of the doll is probably in her fifties as well and she needs a doll like she needs a hole in the head. (Ever since a friend's father had a hole cut into his head to relieve pressure from fluid build–up on the brain I've felt a tinge of guilt for using that phrase.) The owner is sporting a pink bejeweled baseball cap and even the doll is dressed in pink. Okay, maybe all this pink is beside the point. But, the owner, looking at her pink smart phone, is probably showing the artist pictures of other dolls that she has. She enjoys them. People want to declutter their lives, but there's no point in being sterile.

I would like to point out that I had a friend, who has now gone to meet her maker, who was a true hoarder. She was an artist – a potter. She made the tiniest little pots, some of them no more than 2 inches high. She threw them on a potter's wheel and glazed them, fired them using the Raku method, and sold them. People all over the country and beyond collected her pots. She had a degree in geology and chemistry and she had a 5,000 square foot studio that was completely full of stuff. This is what I'm told the square footage was; I never measured. It was big. And, there was a pathway to get to her work area where she threw  and glazed tiny little pots. Racks of drying pots, racks of pots in bisque. Those things were necessary. Even the stacks of newspaper were necessary because she used them in the firing. The other 99% of the space was filled with unrelated, yet interesting stuff. A Tiffany lamp was in there. Things that she had hauled out of dumpsters. She had a collection of interesting bottles and antique doorknobs. Hell, when she was getting to the end of her life I helped clean out the place; I was there and I don't even remember what was in that studio. They had a long dumpster that they filled three times. A friend of hers came down from New York to help in the effort and he had a train car – literally – filled up and shipped back to his home. She probably had a quarter of a million dollars worth of semi-precious and precious gems that she had collected through the years, her Private Collection. She would show it to us and she remembered each one, when she got it and why.

My point is, having stuff helped her creatively. Yes, she went overboard but there was a grain of truth beneath it all. Lost amongst the clutter, but it was there. Having interesting things around her, finding and collecting interesting things, helped her creative spirit. And she could produce some work; she made hundreds of pots every month. She experimented with new things. So what if she did dumpster dive sometimes? Her work was all the reason and/or justification needed. I will admit that when she got sick and we had to go help her clean it out because she was physically unable, it was a little embarrassing. But, had she continued to live and produce artwork it would have been justified.

Like Mrs. Christie, though, she inherited a collection as well. Her mother was also a hoarder – from what I understand from my friend, herself – and already had a house and attic full of stuff when she (her mother) passed and she (my friend) took the house. The house was the same as the studio, if not worse. There was less space; the house had rooms where the studio was one open space. But, there were paths to the living room furniture and to the bed and to the bathroom. When they were cleaning out the house they discovered a sofa in one of the rooms, buried and hidden underneath a room full of stuff. The room was filled right up to the door. Ask her about it, though, and she would say that she didn't have time to go through it all. She had to work too much on her artwork and she didn't have time to go through each and every thing in the house like would be required. 

I will say for her that there was no decaying organic matter around. She did have the requisite clowter of cats, but they were all tame and friendly. She cleaned litter boxes and kept the food in order. She made it a point to keep the animals in line, whereas she didn't put so much thought into the rest of it.

Perhaps I'm justifying a bad habit. Perhaps I'm enabling some poor person out there who is struggling with an inner need to have stuff piled from floor to ceiling in every room of the house. That is not my intention. There is a step from collecting to hoarding. When you are a hoarder you have lost control and begin to rationalize completely irrational behavior. Make excuses. Deny. But, a collector of things is not wrong. If it helps that person's creativity or simply makes them happy, then that's all the justification that's needed. Where is the line? I don't know. I enjoy going to thrift stores, so I'm probably not the best judge. I can say from experience, though, that I can feel a difference psychologically when things are in control and I can walk through the apartment unhindered. I'm happier and more at home when things are clear and organized than when half a room is taken up with boxes. So, I think the line is in there somewhere. When one truly forgets what it's like to feel comfortable in their own home and has to start tuning the stuff out, when the stuff is no longer fun to look at, then it's becoming a problem. (Clearly if there is a health hazard going on because of rotten food and/or feral cats in the house then that step has been taken quite some time back.)

The ladies are getting up to leave. The artist is gathering her spool of rope and her pink tool box and her husband gets up to follow her to their car. I want to know these people. I was tempted to go give her my card and let her interest be piqued by bemol Ardiente. But I restrain myself. Like Agatha Christie said, sometimes people can be better characters in your mind if you don't actually get to know them. They can be what you imagine them to be. These women are creative and enjoy things. The one enjoys collecting dolls, the other enjoys repairing them. They both have an inordinate fondness for the color pink, but that's a different story for a different time. For now, they are for me what a happy, creative person is: working, enjoying the things that they find interesting and enjoying each other's company.

Now, off to the thrift stores with Nameless. Have you ever been to Top Drawer on Burnet Rd? You've GOT to go!

More later,

e A r n i e

Rosa de Hiroshima

I came across this song much in the same way I came across the song for which this blog is named. I knew a man from Brazil and he introduced me to the singer Ney Matogrosso. It was actually a different song he wanted me to hear when he lent me the album – a greatest hits album. Of course, I listened to the hell out of that other song (Tem Que Rebolar) which his cousin would dance the hell out of when he got drunk. Oh, those crazy Brazilians. But, I listened to the whole CD and Rosa de Hiroshima caught my attention.

Then tragedy struck. Due to the disparity of civil rights in this country my friend was given a 5th-class ticket back to Brazil and there was nothing I could do about it. (We had dated I would certainly have married him if that had been an option.) But alas, it was not to be. I have spoken to him on the phone and we still communicate via email, but the CD in question remains in my possession.

I pulled the CD out the other day to listen to Tem Que Rebolar, and I remembered this first song on the CD. It is hauntingly beautiful. Reading the title, one doesn't have to speak Portuguese to know that it's Rose of Hiroshima. I speak some Spanish, so I can follow along a little. But, listen to it with an ear that doesn't understand the words. It's just amazing.

As usual I did my exhaustive research (I looked the song up on Wikipedia) and the only article I could find was in Portuguese. I was impressed that I understood it, most of it anyway.The song began its life as a poem. The poem was written by a rascal named Vinícius de Moraes, who, from what I gather, married 9 times, was known as O poetinha and was an integral part of the birth of Bossa Nova, along with Tom Jobim and João Gilberto. (I have also begun to explore Bossa Nova and I'm familiar with these other two gentlemen.) Quite the Bohemian, O peotinha was, working in music, literature – including poetry – and theater.

As a song, it was released in 1973 on the debut album of Secos & Molhados, featuring Ney Matogrosso as lead singer with his oddly soprano voice. It was a cry for peace in the nuclear age. (I'm of the generation that remembers thinking that any day the leaders of the nations were going to "press the button" and start a nuclear war, annihilating civilization as we know it.) It was released in an era of dictatorship in Brazil and ended up being one of the most-played songs of the year. They were rebels with a cause.

Watching the video one can't help but be distracted by the flamboyance of the singer. (Freddie Mercury had nothing on Ney Matogrosso.) But, just like Freddie, I can't help but be captivated by his talent as a singer and an artist. One can feel the message just from the aesthetics. Its beauty goes beyond the manifest. There is something about it, some underlying quality that defies expression with words. After listening to it a few times I felt it more than heard it. This live version is even better than the studio recording on the CD that I have. I can see that he's been on stage singing a while – he's covered in sweat. This song is slow. As the flute leads the introduction Ney covers his face with his arms and then opens up into the song. He has my heart, my soul in his hand as he sings slowly, deliberately in his soprano voice that just floats along with the flute. Then, after listening to it several times and I began to understand the words, they stabbed me in the heart. They exhort us to think, to think about the people affected, in harsh detail. And then the song ends, leaving me to die in the last lingering instrumental notes.

This is a song. This is art.

eArnie

Jason Hooper

July 29, 2012

Being that I can't sleep I could either stuff my face with cookies and milk – which I've already done, but I could continue to do it – or I could post something. I would like to go into more detail about this particular subject, but for the moment I will just post some pictures that I took on a recent trip to Rockport – an art festival that was there.

We were in the booth next to Jason Hooper, a potter whose work I love and of whose work I have a few pieces. I've shown them here in context in previous posts. My plan was (is) to gather all of my pieces together and take some pictures of them, but for the moment I'll show you what I saw there. He was kind enough to let me take pictures, and while I'm not the world's best photographer let me make up for that by saying that I LOVE his work and I will definitely be collecting more of it in the future.

Tea Set

Mirror

Vase and Tall Tea Set

Salt and Pepper Cruets

Tall Teapot

Business Card Holders (left) and Cell Phone Seats (right)

Cell Phone Seat

I love functional art in general, and his designs and colors are fabulous. Plus, he's from across the pond and he has a quaint accent and it's just fun to sit with him and chat.

If you're interested in his work, here is his web site: http://jjhooper.com. I will admit that he has more work than what is represented there, so if you're REALLY interested I believe he has a "Contact Us" page, which I would highly recommend you utilize.

Thank you and good night.

Sleeplessly,

eArnie

Pieces of my art

6-26-2012

The other night I was sleeping. I had been reading and then got too sleepy for that, so I rolled over, turned off the lamp and that act woke me up just a little bit, so I settled in under my covers and relished how wonderful it was to be in bed when I'm tired and sleepy and wanting really to continue conscious for a while so that I could appreciate how wonderful it feels, but without realizing it I was drifting off to the pleasant thoughts of security and peace.

Then I was reminded that I own cats. The scream from the other room followed by, and overlapped by, the crash of something breaking on the tile floor jerked me awake and upright in bed at the same time. I've grown accustomed to them screaming at the cats outside the window after I'm in bed, but that is not generally accompanied by the sound of breakage. So, I got up and ran into the other room, because after all I do have neighbors upstairs and if I can hear every step they take I'm certain that they can hear my cats screaming at the tops of their feline voices and destroying everything I own. The thing was, the crashing and breaking kept going. It wasn't just one thing falling to the ground, it was a series of crashes. One of the cats came running past me into my bedroom with a plastic grocery bag following behind her as if it were chasing her the hell out of its territory.

In my room the cat (Raku) was under the bed, of course, so I had to pull it away from the wall to get at her, just to make sure she wasn't being strangled by the handles of the bag. I was only able to hold her long enough to get the bag off of her leg and make sure she was not dying, then she squirmed out of my hands and back under the bed. Then I had to find the other two and make sure they were okay. Carmela, the special cat, was watching with her crossed eyes huge in dismayed interest, standing – not sitting – with her nose in the air, looking around to see what was going on. Anastasia wasn't so easy to find, and honestly I don't remember where I did find her. But, she was fine and so it must have been only Raku who was having issues.

This is where it gets very confusing. I have no idea how all of this happened, even after I figured out what did happen.

My next job was to see what had broken. It was pottery, not glass. Good, less danger of sharp things to cut my feet. Then I just had to pray that it was from an artist who was still alive. (My cats have a fondness for breaking things that I can't replace.) I picked up the shards and collected them in my hand. They started on the other side of the living room and continued all the way to my bedroom, and there had been a couple of pieces in the bag that I freed Raku from. I recognized the art and the glazes, but it was late and I had been woken up and I couldn't figure out who it was. I was convinced that they had gotten into the closet and into a box and broken a Richella, but as I looked at it I realized that it – at least – wasn't one of hers.

Little by little I began to place the glaze with Michael Obranovich, a Dallas artist. It's from his Obsidian collection. I have a set of his plates and two coffee cups (had two coffee cups) and a few casseroles. I LOVE them. I could tell from the pieces of handle and the curve of the others parts that it was one of my coffee cups, though I could not for the life of me figure out how it got to a place that it could be broken. I'm certain that I did not leave it lying around in a plastic grocery bag. If it had been on the kitchen counter, how did the majority of the broken remains end up three feet away in front of the spare bathroom? I can tell why there was a trail of pieces across the room and why I kept hearing crashes. The cup was in the bag and as she ran it kept crashing against the tile floor, startling her even more. The bag was shredded and pieces were falling out as she ran. She must have screamed because the bag was attached to her and she couldn't get it off. But, where was the bag (I don't leave them around because cats can strangle themselves with them) and where was the cup and how did the cup get inside the bag?

Even having slept and looked at the situation from an awake state of mind I cannot figure it out. But, here are the pieces, next to its partner – still intact.

I'll write more later. Until then I remain,

Yours truly,

eArnie

P.S. If you would like to see Michael Obranovich's work you can visit his website here.

Well Begun is Half-Done

So, progress on The Room. This is more than a project, it's a life-changing event. And, it's not going entirely well. Actually, it's going well, inasmuch as it's going. It's just not going very fast. I open a box and I'm flooded with memories and fumes. Art supplies I haven't seen in years and years - one of which I didn't even recognize and can't quite figure out. So, naturally I want to set everything aside and draw and paint. But, I haven't let myself do that. (This doesn't count the times that I used some of the supplies for actual needed purposes. It was just so cool that I had them and was able to use them again.)

One can't really look at this in an isolated manner; it includes everything that's gone between. Easter, the CRHP retreat, the meltdown.

I've made a couple of small purchases. (Making purchases is another bad habit of mine that I'm trying to break and it's far too easy to think that I could go spend lots of money and make this situation go away, which, of course, it wouldn't so I'm trying o restrain myself.) I got some containers/organizers for the art supplies that I'm going to keep. I have put things in them finally. This has cut down on the number of boxes in here.

New things I have to face:

The empty boxes that are behind the closet door. I couldn't really see them before because a stack of boxes was blocking them. Now I have to ask myself, "Why do I feel that I need to keep these boxes?" Probably because I have no faith in myself and my ability to maintain an apartment by myself and I just figure I'll be packing up again soon, so I may as well keep the boxes. (This is not without reason.) That's not a conscious decision, like when I was young and we moved so often that sometimes my mom wouldn't unpack stuff because she knew we weren't going to be staying long enough. It's more of a mix between inertia and a subliminal sense of futility.

The piano is out of tune, and so am I. I sat down to play and I'm not able. I used to be able; now I am not. And, the lower notes (about G through C) all sound the same. They are supposed to sound different; that's why they're different notes. This is generally not good. But, it can be fixed.

Things I want but do not need:

A camera that's thin enough to fit in my messenger bag. I was out yesterday and wanted to take pictures to post here, but I didn't have my camera with me. The one I have takes excellent pictures, but it's a tad bit large to keep with me.

A new, smaller laptop to keep with me for writing purposes - in coffee shops for instance.

Another thing that seems to be obvious is that I could take a day or two off and just get through it. I've tried. I tend to drink coffee until around noon, at which point it's time to eat and then I usually have to leave the house for SOMETHNG and then it's all over. And, if I don't leave the house I stare at the computer, transfixed on facebook/email/stumbleupon.com until very late. I'm trying to force myself to wake up, face The Room, face my life and get through it.

That's where I am so far. I'll write more later.


e A r n i e

The piano with small objets d'art and music organized.

Stuff I still need to do something with.

The unidentified art supply (on an address book). It has soft wood inside and you twist it to bring the wood out the top.

P.S. I meant to mention that as I was writing this a song came up on the Genius playlist I'm listening to. The song is called My Last Cigarette, sung by K.D Lang. I thought it was very appropriate, both in the lyrics and aesthetics. Check it out. It's on her Drag album.

Vorakit Chinookoswong

5-16-2012

Here's a piece of art I own. The artist is Vorakit Chinookoswong, otherwise known as Chin. I tried to take a picture of it on the bookshelf next to my beloved books, but the light wouldn't cooperate. So, since I had to take it outside I decided to show it next to a brilliantly green potato vine. 

I don't know Chin incredibly well, but I believe he is originally from Thailand, and was brought up to learn Japanese. (I learned this on the same evening we were in the back of my friend's [Namless] van – singing Abba songs from a Mamma Mia soundtrack.) As an artist, I believe he has been throwing pottery for about 294,794,742 years. (This has not been verified.) My artist friends and  my artist groupie friends all seem to have his work. I was whining about this heavily for around a year before Nameless finally broke down and got me a piece for myself.

His glazes have evolved through the years. I like the more subtle colors of his best. I especially like this one; it looks like it's old and worn off in places. He described the glaze to me once and it didn't stick in my brain, but I do know that he had to go out of his way to achieve that effect. 

All in all I like this piece. It makes me happy. 

More later,

e A r n i e

My Chin ceramic pot with his signature frog

P.S. I guess I should mention that Chin has a website: http://www.vchingallery.com/index.html. If you go there tell him eArnie sent you.

Brain Hijackings

Songs that have currently kidnapped my brain:

Aquí by La Ley. (The version I have is from an MTV Unplugged album) I'm really not even certain what the song is trying to say; maybe that's why the words haunt me. But, the music is just the kind of thing to get under my skin and make me hear it even when it's not playing. Plus, Beto Cuevas has a beautiful voice.

Calamity Song by The Decembrists. A very recent song, especially compared with Aquí, which was released 2000. The music if perfect to get in my head and make me sing it out loud, and then I realize that I'm singing words that make no sense whatsoever. "And the Andalusian Tribes, setting the lay of Nebraska alight..." What? How would Andalusian tribes get to Nebraska? It seems to be a dream and possibly a reference to the fall of the Roman Empire, which tribes from Andalucía had a part in (I think???). Or something.

Anyway, I haven't done my homework on the groups, so I have nothing to report here that goes any deeper than the songs themselves and my reaction to them. That's kind of how I wanted to leave it for the moment. Initial reaction without any background information kind of means a lot with art. Although learning more is often a good thing, it often ruins it for me as well.

I don't really want to get into the legal issues of uploading the songs (not to mention the technical issues), so I'll say go listen to them in iTunes. You get a longer sample than in Amazon.com. (I have a link to Amazon.com because I know how to do that and I don't know how to have a link to iTunes.)

In the mean time, please offer recommendations for future brain hijackings.

Thank you.

eArnie