Giving it Away

It's been fun this past month to contribute to my community through my art. In February, I donated one of my tattooed ladies to Mayo Street Arts Center for their annual fundraiser. Last night I drove out to the Falmouth Memorial Library to drop off a yellow green piece featuring a young child and a sailboat (called "A Long Time Ago") for their art auction. As I walked back to my car, I had a moment where I questioned why I was giving away my art to benefit a library I don't even use. But immediately that thought was replaced by another. I gave it away to a library I don't use because I think one of the best things in life is gifts from unexpected sources. The act of giving, as a friend recently reminded me, is foremost about the impulse. When a student of mine emailed me the request for a donation two weeks ago, my gut said "yes" and I simply followed it.

After that thought, I was reminded of an event seventeen years ago when I was working at the Appalachian Mountain Club. That winter at the base of Mount Washington, I used to go out for a run alongside the main road each afternoon. An elderly gentleman passing through the Visitor Center who had seen me running, asked why I didn't take advantage of the great local cross country skiing, rather than run on a high speed and potentially dangerous road. I told him the truth--I didn't have, nor could I afford, a pair of cross country skis. He asked me my shoe size. A month later, an old fashioned pair of wooden skis and a set of boots arrived at the Visitor Center addressed to me (first name only and it was misspelled). That stranger had sent me his son's old skis!

In the spirit of giving, I will be volunteering my services as an artist this weekend when I bring 12 high school students from The Telling Room's Young Leaders group into Maine College of Art for a collage workshop. This group of immigrant and refuge students will be bringing parts of their stories, which they've been working on all year. I'll provide instruction and all the necessary supplies. I'm looking forward to seeing what they create. Their pieces will be on display at The Telling Room's year end event to be held at the Portland Public Library in May. More details will be forthcoming.

I had my first private art student who came to my studio for a four hour lesson on the basics of collage this past Monday. It was so much fun to work one-on-one, that I'm thinking of posting a listing for private collage classes on Craigslist.

I'm continuing to work on my extended poem series for the opening on the First Friday Art Walk at Trinket and Fern in May. I took a much needed break from all the white backgrounds to make some new work inspired by a set of teapot and teacup stamps a friend gave me for my birthday. Look for several of these tea series in my Etsy shop this weekend.

Goodbye

It's been a while. I've been knee deep in cardboard and goodbyes...and way too many old episodes of Angel. But that's another story. Tomorrow is my last day of work at the law office. There'll be a going away party with good eats and good wine and hopefully lots of good stories, or at least laughs.

After many months of planning and packing, my time in San Francisco is coming to a close. It's an interesting process, packing up one's life and leaving a place you love. Even if that place isn't the one you know in your heart is home. A place you love is just that--a place you had a share of time with. Much like a relationship that has to end, but without which you wouldn't be the person you are.

Tonight I ended up on the N Judah headed home from downtown. I don't usually take the Judah home from work. I prefer to walk if I can't drive or catch a ride, but I had to swing by my bank to close my checking account so there I was. I took the only seat available and when the train pulled out of the station I realized I was facing backward. For the rest of the ride I watched the scenery in reverse, the buildings and people fading from my sight. When we passed through my old neighborhood just two blocks down from where I had my first SF apartment, it hit me that I was leaving San Francisco. All this time I've been thinking about arriving in Maine. But arriving implies by it's very nature a departure.

My heart was already kind of full and bursty. One of the lawyers at the firm where I work surprised me with an early going away present because he was going to miss my party. He had matted and framed one of his ink and watercolor drawings--the one of the New England coastline he had done on a sailing trip last fall that I coveted. I was so touched I could hardly look at him. Of course I got all weepy and that was a tad bit embarrassing, but it also felt good. In a deep down, yeah, this is going to be hard, emotional sort of way. A way that I don't get very often these days--a way that was a much more familiar state of affairs in my teens and early 20s. My heart was open and I liked it.

I was still thinking about this as I rode the Judah underground and out into the sunlight. Tired though I was, I watched the people on the train and passing along the sidewalks. Sometimes this city was cold. And dirty. But more often it was amazing. I wandered alone down its streets for hours and just looked. I felt welcomed and I was. I grew up and became more myself. I feel so grateful for that.

So I cried on the N Judah tonight. Just a little, not so you'd notice. At the stop at the edge of Duboce Park just before the train enters the tunnel a girl waiting on the sidewalk for the outbound train saw, and she smiled at me, kind of a sympathetic--I don't know why you're sad, but I'm sorry--smile. I smiled back. I remembered the first year I was here, alone in my apartment one night, when I heard someone in my building or the building behind crying. Ever so faintly. I listened to her for a while and then I leaned my head out the window and called out "are you okay?" The crying stopped, but I didn't get a response.

Leaving San Francisco is saying goodbye to a time in my life. It's the end of an era of some sort. I always knew I would leave someday, but I didn't know when. So that time is here. We're clearing out our apartment to become someone else's home. Another couple building their first home together. Some of us have to leave so others can move in, have their share of time in San Francisco. It's like that childhood game of musical chairs. It's a reminder of how nothing really belongs to us, everything's borrowed and eventually we have to give it back. Even our bodies.

Guess I'm feeling a bit deep and a little heavy tonight. I'm letting go of something and I don't really know how to do that. How do you let go of something you never really got a firm hold on? Still, there's the next chapter, the next evolution. In honor of that, I've decided to end this blog here and begin my new one. This blog was about the city, about how much I loved it, about what I learned and how it inspired my art. The next one will be about my new old life in Maine, about making art in our little red house and making a garden and canning and spending time with my friends and family and just being with my girl. And maybe a little dog. At least that's the picture in my head these days.

Wish me safe travels and waterproof mascara. I'm going to need it tomorrow.

My new home will be here...www.onemorninginmaine.blogspot.com

Memories

I was recently inspired by a friend's blog in which she posted about her roadtrip across the country a decade ago. Her stories and photographs made me feel like I was there with her & reminded me of my own month-long roadtrip with my dear friend Kristi back in 2002. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures from that time saved on my computer because I didn't have a digital camera, and all my old print photos are in various boxes many of which have already been shipped to Maine in preparation for our move. So, this morning I pulled up a bunch of random snapshots of my seven and a half years in San Francisco.

The above photo is from my first (and only) art show. This was maybe five years ago when I still did collages from black and white SUN magazine photographs and quotes. The show was at the Writing Salon in Berkeley and I remember selling my first official piece (not to a friend or family member). A husband and wife had seen my show and the wife was particularly moved by a piece with a rowboat in the background and a woman waving in the foreground. The quote was by Voltaire and I've used it several times since: "Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats."

Well, the husband contacted me later and bought it as a surprise for his wife's birthday. The story he shared with me was so moving. Several years before they had been on a cruise for their anniversary. One night there was some sort of failure with the ship's engine and the boat hit a rock, which caused it to take on water. The ship was literally sinking as the frightened passengers scrambled for lifeboats. The husband and wife made it safely off the cruise ship, but the woman still suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. She was touched by the sentiment in the collage because it validated her experience while reminding her to still be here, fully present and engaged with life.

Just yesterday I sold another piece with this same quote on it to an old friend who discovered it in my Etsy shop.

Our old bicycles--Kelly and I used to go biking north of the city most weekends the first couple of years we were together. Back in 2003 & 2004, I wasn't quite so busy. I fondly remember these country rides with our snacks and water bottles strapped to our racks, pausing to take frequent photographs of the hills and meadows, and the two of us biking slowly so we could take in all the sounds and smells. Kelly had had her bike for many years and used it every day for her work as a bike messenger. Mine was bought used off an old boyfriend back in the early 90s and held up through two Boston to New York AIDS Rides. Neither of these faithful old bicycles are with us anymore, as we upgraded to real road bikes a couple years ago.

And here is Kelly making fun of me and my desire to pick up found objects on hikes to take home. My mom and I got busted at the ranger station for trying to take fallen pine boughs home with us from a Thanksgiving walk in Muir Woods in 2003.

A view through the ancient tall trees in Big Sur, where I returned year after year to attend the weekend-long SUN magazine retreats at Esalen. This photo was taken by a woman I met at that first SUN retreat and was kind enough to forward her photos to other attendees. (I still didn't own a digital camera that year.)

My sweet old boy, Marco James Pappichachi. I adopted him the month I moved to San Francisco from the SCPA. I was looking for an older cat at the time. I had a distinct vision of an orange cat that would love to doze on my lap. But the moment I saw little six-week old Marco sprawled out and sleeping on the highest part of the cat tree in his room, I was smitten. I fondly remember him prowling my funky Mission backyard and trying to get on top of me when I practiced yoga. He was obsessed with hanging out with me when I was in the bathtub and would sit on the edge of the tub the whole time. My little guy passed on to the next realm two and half years ago.

Our first and only trip to Yosemite in honor of our one year anniversary. We had a rental car (neither of us had a car back then) and found ourselves clashing over camping protocol, but were united when a large black bear made his way through our campsite, scaring both of us into a standing position on our picnic table.

One of my sister Deirdre's first visits. She had brown hair and bangs. I still wore glasses. Three years ago I had lasiks and no longer wear glasses or use contact lenses. Deirdre now has long blond hair halfway down her back. I don't think anyone enjoyed visiting California quite as much as my sister Deirdre, who made it out at least once and sometimes twice a year.

A gay old time. Kelly and I with my cousin Adam and his boyfriend Rick at the Dyke March in 2005. I was still living in the Mission and Adam had recently moved from Michigan to San Francisco. We twisted bougainvillea flowers around the necks of bottles containing homemade margaritas so we could drink in public. I will never forget one morning while Adam was crashing at my junior one bedroom apartment. He had propped his futon up against the wall heater and it promptly caught on fire.

I turned 30 that year and Adam threw me a surprise birthday party in my apartment. I came home to an apartment full of balloons and streamers and my dearest friends. It was the best and the only surprise party I've ever had.

Coffee at a random cafe in the Castro on a city walk one weekend with Kelly before we moved in together. My hair is short and au natural and I'm wearing a new t-shirt from Ross that I had just scored.

Even shorter hair--on a country bike ride.

In 2005, Kelly and I exchanged rings in a private ceremony at the top of Mount Vision on the ridge between Inverness and Point Reyes Station.

Ah, the memories. They are sweet to revisit. Well, this is a very recent photo. On Sunday we were in Sonoma and Santa Rosa doing some wine tasting and entertaining a friend. We discovered this old bridge we'd never seen before and stopped to take pictures and walk its length.

I'm such a sucker for a rusty, narrow old bridge. Particularly if it's in the country somewhere and doesn't see much traffic. And especially if the views from either side are still and quiet and beautiful because the sun is beginning to sink over the trees and there are just a few birds flickering about.

New Valentine's Day shoes--gifted to me early by my girlfriend, who had them on backorder since last November. Oh, Mr. Fluevog, you are a true genius!

And I'll cap this random little entry off with a brief ode to the wonders of fresh dill, which I just recently discovered. What took me so long? Fresh dill is heads and tails above the dry stuff, folks. It has this smell--lemony, peppery, almost pickley. I practically taped some to my nose to just walk around my apartment. I made this version of beef stroganoff and it was amazing & calls for fresh dill rather than parsley. I'll never go back...

Range of Motion

I'm about to break one of my own rules about blogging--keeping it light and not-too-personal. Here's why--I found myself the other day realizing how I need a story, and in particular, a positive story about my time in San Francisco. I think focusing on the things that are working, that are going well, is my way of being grateful for all I've been given in this life. And that to complain about the weather or some banal, but irritating problem one is struggling with, is essentially posititioning oneself the flow of life; to be, as it were, ungrateful.

But sometimes--as an old keychain I used to have reminded me--poop happens. For me, most recently, that poop was a diagnosis of basal cell carcinoma, commonly known as skin cancer, on my face of all places. Now, first and foremost, this was, I am told, the best kind of skin cancer to get, if one has to get skin cancer. It's the slow-growing, most common form.

Not that that was particularly reassuring the day I got the phone call from the dermatologist that the mole I had removed was, indeed, skin cancer. And this, despite her telling me that the small, painful spot was nothing to be concerned about, and that if I wanted to have it removed, I would have to fork over 200 bucks.

But, luckily, I have an argumentative, fearless of authority figures, self-protective streak in me, because I convinced her that the fact that it was painful warranted it being removed and fully covered by my insurance, rather than deemed cosmetic. And, as it turned out, I was right to push. Not that I had an inkling, or deep intuitive sense about this particular mole; it just frankly hurt.

That was just before Christmas. Yesterday I visited a plastic surgeon to have what's called a Mohs procedure done. This is where they basically scoop out a chunk of flesh from the spot of the former mole. Because basal cell grows down as well as spreads across the skin's surface, they have to determine how far it's gone.

They got mine out with one round of surgery and a few hours later I was sewn up, bandaged, and ready to go home with, I might add, strict instructions involving no alcohol, no Advil, and no bending forward or exercise of any kind for a week, until the stitches come out.

I'm a swollen up football. I have what will become a puffed up black eye. And it aches. And it's ugly. And I have to change the bandage tonight, which means I have to look at it.

Of course, I can't help but conjure up images of the many others who have it much worse than me right now. Haiti, in particular. Who don't have the benefit of antibiotic ointment, clean bandages, or a roof over their heads as they grieve the loss of family and friends.

So you see, I am lucky, actually.

Plus we caught it early.

So I reread this quote from Fred Buechner on an old story collage and thought it fitting. I was slinking around the house feeling sorry for myself, and I stopped and took a deep breath and reminded myself to let it just be, everything as it is right now.

listen to your life/ see it for the fathomless mystery that it is/ in the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness/ touch taste smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it/ because in the last analysis all moments are key moments/ and life itself is grace.

Everything wasn't always peachy in San Francisco. My time here had it's own particular shape, it's broken places, it's dark clouds, it's scarinesses and sadnesses and new, just plain weird experiences. Like calling the cops when I found a 19 year old boy shooting heroin in the alley beside my old Mission apartment. I'd never seen anyone cutting himself like that before and ran into a mom and pop store to ask them to call 911.

Yes, it had it's downs. But what I got from living here, what opened inside me from these vantage points, from the angles of city buildings and colorful, anonymous faces, was beautiful. And I guess I'm just the kind of girl who focuses her gaze on the beautiful. Even when she's not feeling particularly beautiful at the moment.

Announcement: In an effort to contribute in some small way toward the situation in Haiti, I am going to make a donation to Doctors without Borders for each piece sold in the next two months.

Sunday

Things are going pretty swimmingly around here, considering we are knee deep in packing materials. K. is doing the packing, thankfully, given the injury I incurred improperly lifting an overpacked box four and a half years ago. My tasks are procuring packing materials, answering the "do we still need this available for the next two months" questions, and keeping us both fed. I did a bang up job of that yesterday--pot roast with potatoes, carrots and celery, chard, frittatas for breakfast, and apple-cranberry crumb pie for tea time. Just about outdid myself. Luckily, I managed to sneak in some art time on the side.

I am in love with this larger piece. Interestingly, I just about chucked this canvas a few weeks back when I became completely frustrated with a collage I was working on that would not come together. At one point I was over the kitchen sink vigorously scrubbing off a layer of paint and gel medium and actually slammed the painting down. K. gently took it from my hands, dried it off, and told me I needed to put it aside for a while. I did as directed and recently took it out, covered it with a layer of gesso and started over. The collage under the gesso lent the new images all kinds of texture. There is even a bird ascending at an angle to the new sparrow. I cut up a section of a poem called "The Hour" from "The Rising of the Sun" by Czeslaw Milosv that I've carried with me for many years and added it falling down the center of the collage.

Close up of a new piece--"Mute Swan"--my last in the Diana Fayt series. Check out my Etsy shop for more pictures of this piece.

What else...I've just finished an absolute binge on Firefly, the TV series Joss Whedon did after Buffy. It only lasted one season sadly, followed by a wrap up movie "Serenity." I could not stop watching it, but then it ended last night and now I feel the same kind of sadness I felt when Buffy ended. Part of Whedon's genius lies in his ability to create a tight-knit world of outsiders bound by friendship and love, fighting against the larger forces of evil. When you sink into his world, you feel like a silent member of that Scooby gang. And then it's over and it's just you again. And you find yourself saying "shiny" and no one knows what you're talking about...

And finally, although it goes against my general rule about posting pictures of my cats here. I just could not resist this cuteness. Our cats Minor and Mathers are not related, but you'd think they were brothers. K. found them snuggling and hugging like this the other day. I mean, really, how sweet can it get...

Things to look forward to...we have a friend from the East coast coming out for business in February, tickets to The Magnetic Fields & Brandi Carlile, last things to do in the city, like walks and places to eat and particular views that I want to take in again before we go.

The Luxury of Days

aerial view of my desk where I really do work on multiple pieces simultaneously

Ah, the luxury of uninterrupted hours. Well, fairly uninterrupted. I did interrupt myself quite a bit to do laundry, make beef stew, bake a squash pie, and all the other countless, endless things that keeping a home requires. My sister Deirdre joked once about her own home and then four year old son, "I feel like I'm running a small farm."

It certainly can feel that way around here, which is why K. and I are talking about figuring out if we can juggle the cost of a small studio for me (and eventually turning one bedroom into a studio for her) when we move back to Portland. It would be such a treat. Having never had one, I can only day dream about leaving my stuff spread out everywhere and not worrying about things being an eyesore or accidentally knocked over or covered with a thin, but nevertheless annoying, dusting of cat hair.

a not very well-lit shot of a diptych titled Some Stories (available on Etsy soon, probably tomorrow)

So, anyway, it was a wild and zany kind of week around here. I ended up giving verbal notice at work following a budgetary meeting. It was completely unexpected. I had planned to write a letter and present it when I returned from my upcoming trip home to Maine. I had crafted multiple elegant drafts in my head for weeks, anticipating the pleas not to go, etc. But it wasn't quite like that. Certainly no one there is happy to see me depart, but more folks were aware of my desire to return to Maine than I realized. The conversation was brief and rather calm. It was me who was stunned and taken off guard by giving notice.

After a day to recover, I was flooded with relief. Keeping things under wraps has never been my strong suit. Now I am truly free to move forward into the next stage of my life--to bring home empty cardboard boxes and watch K. neatly pack and label them (she already packed 20, believe it or not); to tell people that I am going; to begin truly envisioning that future for myself and all the possibilities it opens up.

Really, until nine months ago, I was torn about leaving California. As most anyone who has lived out here will declare, the Bay Area is an amazing confluence of art and creativity. We have the perfect Mediterranean climate. The houses and the people are beautiful. The food is not to be topped--bakeries and restaurants outdoing themselves left and right. I have felt very free here and watched my life widen with possibility.

The Gleam in Your Heart, available on Etsy if anyone is interested

And now I am ready to return to a small city, a large town, really. Portland is such a great place to live. Even as I was leaving, I was telling everyone how I loved Portland and intended to return.

Two Young Women, available on Etsy for the right price

So, the holidays. Mine were quiet, filled with art, restful, inspiring, mentally challenging...I had a good conversation with K. on Saturday about my frustration making art. How impatient I get with the ideas pinging about and firing off like little guns in my head. My mind can imagine more collages than my hands and back can keep up with. I get ahead of myself and then I get sloppy, move too fast, don't bring my vision to life with as much care and time as it requires. When I move this fast, I don't enjoy the process and my work shows this lack of pleasure and attention.

Two Sparrows, available on Etsy by Monday evening

K. says the best thing we can do is be disciplined about the process, knowing that even when a piece doesn't turn out as good as I'd hoped, when in fact it looks nothing at all like my original intention, it is still good to be working. And the ideas percolating is also a good thing, even when the brilliant idea cannot be translated onto canvas, just because it was there and will inform further ideas and visions. I asked for one good solid action step I could take to slow myself down and enjoy it more, to bring my mind under a little more control. She suggested I force myself to take stretching breaks every half hour or so and I'm going to try that, although it is hard to pull myself away when the fires are going off one after another in my head and I feel lit up from the inside. But that is why so many artists are crazy and antisocial and drink themselves silly.

The Way You Return Again and Again, available on Etsy any day now

Other things that happened this weekend: we both read the short story collection Pilgrims, by Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love fame and it is wonderful and everything a good story collection should be, including, and most importantly, difficult to put down. Also we saw Sherlock Holmes at a little independent theater a few neighborhoods away. So much fun. And we drank some excellent champagne. And we opened some awesome presents, including an incredible box from our friends Heather & Ben. So much care and thought went into each of those gifts. I could feel it when I opened it up.

All The Stars You Had Forgotten, available on Etsy real soon

Tomorrow I return to work for one last mad dash before I leave for Maine and a bit of a break. I look forward to seeing many familiar faces, eating some great Portland fare & taking long walks in the cold that turn my cheeks pink.

Shadowboxing

Today started out hopeful enough. Like the early morning sun, it held the promise of many hours of creativity. But, like the weather, things took a different twist: clouds came out of nowhere, rain fell. Windows that had been opened, suddenly needed to be closed. Okay, not that much rain fell. I'm stretching an already overextended metaphor.

It was a challenging day in the art world. A larger piece I've been working on slowly over the last few months continues to elude me. I thought I had it nailed early today and then the gloss varnish smeared and pulled up. I attempted to rinse the excess varnish off, only to lift several layers of paint. In frustration, I thumped the painting in the sink. I wanted to throw it against the wall.

Instead, I dried it (with Kelly firmly talking me down from the throws of agitation) and put it aside to wrestle with another day. I took a deep breath and turned to shadowboxes. The one below is a work in progress titled "In My Mother's Garden." When finished, it will be filled with all the botanical flowers I cut from last year's calendar, as well as some dangling butterflies.

I did do one collage--a section of which can be seen below. This one is on cradled gessobord two inches thick, and is titled "Shall We Dance." It will be available on Etsy early this week.

Here is one of my first shadowboxes. The centerpiece is the stitched handiwork of an amazing British artist named Cathy Cullis. I was looking for a frame for this piece to give to my mother for her upcoming 65th birthday and didn't find anything I liked. Then I remembered a shadowbox my friend Susan made for her old baby items. I took apart a cigar box and began paintings.

I added a nest, a small wooden egg, several dried wildflowers and rocks from hikes I've been on in Point Reyes, and a small felted bird that used to belong to my Great Aunt Eunice. The title of this piece is "Belonging." Sorry if you're reading this Mom, and I've just spoiled your surprise.

This piece is titled "An Unknown Land Where I Belong." The swans are terracotta and hollow. I found them in a junk shop south of Market. Between the two swans is a Saint Christopher medal.

And here is one using a Diana Fayt girl. This piece is titled "Tears I Cried Over You, 1999-2005" and will soon belong to Saundra McPherson in trade.

Below is a close up of a tiny glass bottle filled with black sand.

And the sparrow--blown up from an image in a book, handcolored with chalk, and mounted on cardboard.

"Hope and Fear" is built around an iconic image that came on the top of a gaily wrapped box of chocolates our friends Margarita and Kimball brought us from Santa Fe last year. The tiles are small scraps of art paper. The hand also came from Santa Fe--a gift from Kelly when she traveled there last June. The roses were a last minute inspiration based on a story Marg told us last weekend about a Mexican religious ceremony in which roses were strewn about. The roses being strewn is unfortunately the only detail I can remember about that story (sorry Marg--blame the wine!).

And here are two of my favorite pieces from the emulsion and heat transfer class I took last week. I did a whole series based on a photo I took of my sister Marielle last summer at our favorite restaurant in Portland, Maine. I added a different flower as a head piece or stole and double exposed each image. Then I used vinegar and water to brighten the images and enhanced the flowers with colored chalk pencils.

The series is going to be called "Six Ways of Looking at Marielle."

Today I thought a lot about making mistakes, losing my temper, how far ahead of myself I get sometimes. It's a struggle to be able to see two or three perfect pieces in my head before I've even got down the first layer of paint; to spend hours cutting the tiny perfect shapes for my shadowboxes; to carefully peel the paper from a cigar box; to not toss a painting when it doesn't turn out the way I envisioned after the second or third or even fourth attempt. But that's why I practice art--to slow myself down & to bring more beauty into this world.