Venturing into the studio this morning, I was hunting brushes; specifically a set I thought I had seen while burrowing for paint the other day. If one had patience and infinite humor about everything, the puzzle which is the studio could possibly seem amusing. I moved the Christmas tree into the only quadrant of open floor, then rolled a set of drawers into its space, then rearranged objects only slightly smaller to, at last, scoot myself into a spot from which my hands could reach bookshelves and the counter where I KNEW the pastels had once rested.
The brushes were where I expected to find them, so I declared the morning a success. Oh, but there was so much more to come and, in the way of pulling on a sweater against a draft, I was immediately warmed by the not forgotten but unremembered - and vastly useful - material I encountered.
Being human, I have moments during which I fail to count ALL my blessings. I grow amnesiac about the wealth of reference volumes in our books-in-almost-every-room world. Starting in the early 70s, I built a collection of Dover Pictorial Archive titles - copyright-free illustrations collated into volumes by category, such as "Borders, Frames and Decorative Motifs from the 1862 Derriey Typographic Catalog" or "Victorian Fashion." I have used them in my work, in my volunteer newsletter editing, in projects for fun. Several years ago, I was one of a group of artists asked to donate a copy of a favorite, art-inspiring book for a fund-raising drawing. My offerings were from Dover's clip-art series.
All this studio exploration is in preparation for being half of a team, scheduled to do a demonstration on journal pages. I have been revisiting experts (real experts) who give examples and advice on their methods, as it has been a while since I produced any work that fits this description. And on the Dover shelves I found copyable words and buildings, borders and animals, faces and hands and automobiles to include as collage elements on the pages. I realized I had truly lost track of the breadth of subjects in my possession.
The unearthing of each new title added to my sense of uncalculated abundance. While I have been known to do a mental scan of supplies and see the gaps rather than the plenty, there was no way I could escape admitting it today: I am rich in resources.
It is a day of jubilee when we can look at all that surrounds us and see with new eyes. While I knew that useful bits would appear as I foraged, I was unprepared for the gratitude I felt for stumbling into my own life and discovering that, not only was the cupboard not bare, it was brimming. I felt wise that I had built such a useful collection, getting value from it many times over in the past yet having an enhanced awareness of its meaning today. I felt glad that a veil of forgetfulness had kept these treasures from consciousness, so that I also had the pleasure of happy surprise. In addition to the Pictorial Archive library, I found vintage ledgers sent to me by my sister, a keen-eyed antique picker, and a collection of Victorian scrap which had been a friend's gift.
There was a day, during some especially lean times, when I found $20 in a seldom-used purse and felt we had won the lottery; I knew it symbolized the prosperity which surrounds us. If I gave all my moments the attention they deserve, I would likely find that I always have the numbers lined up for a Bingo prize. Today I had the sense that another length of the curtain had been drawn back, a reminder that what I, what we, seek is there, within reach. Waiting for good times turns our gaze in the wrong direction. Yes, things can always get better - and they do - yet right now is clamoring for our attention. My own Oz, a magical place where dreams manifest, hiding behind the Christmas tree, and all I had to do was look.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Hollywood
Within a few months of my son's birth, the two of us had a part-time job that involved typing at home, then doing errands all over Hollywood. Our employer was a non-profit organization, funded to develop programs that would improve the employment rate among unions in the entertainment industry.
"The Institute," part of its actual name, had its public office in a Hollywood Boulevard building, rumored to be the same location in which L.A.'s greatest hard-boiled private eye, Philip Marlowe, was based. How could you not love it? The Institute director actually worked from home, first on Cahuenga near the Hollywood Bowl, then in a Beachwood Canyon house with the standard show business pedigree - as in, "This house used to belong to...(fill in the blanks)." I never met a dwelling in that town that didn't have a history.
With my baby in his stroller, we walked the boulevards and avenues - from the photocopy shop on Highland, owned and run by a family from India who greeted my boy like a prince each time we visited, to the elevator at Marlowe's location, frequently sharing the ride with clients of various agencies at that address, many of whom were in states of loud and raging delusion. In the early 80s, as it may still today, that simply went with the territory.
From his much-closer-to-the-ground seat, my son - with his early verbal skills - greeted the locals as they gleaned cigarette butts from the gutter. Because he saw them at eye level, he engaged them all with a smiling "Hi!" and opened the door to conversations that I might have preferred to sidestep. I don't remember seeing many other children, let alone babies, in that part of town; had I been the one bent over the curb, I know I couldn't have resisted him. Had I been looking to make new friends along The Walk of Fame, I had my little rolling ice-breaker.
During my year in the job, it was such a gift to be able to have his company while I did paper work at home or acted as delivery girl in the shadow of the Chinese Theater or Musso and Frank Restaurant. In that year of my administrative assistant duties, the Institute held two benefit concerts, one for the striking Screen Actors' Guild, later for the Musicians' Local when they struck. There was a touch of show business glamor to balance the more real-life aspects of providing services to under-employed creatives.
I think these memories were sparked by the news story yesterday that Hugh Hefner had donated the final $900,000 needed to keep the land around the Hollywood sign from development. With his sum added to the gifts already received, the sign will be protected and its surrounding terrain will belong to the people.
As a native daughter, I have never minded that aspects of Hollywood are only glittering in our imagination, for the truth is powerful beyond illusion. The dream that lured the writers and actors and immigrant entrepreneurs west has not diminished; we are captivated and transformed by images on film. I choose to believe that, should I need to hire him to buy back incriminating photos or locate my missing chauffeur, Raymond Chandler's hero still keeps office hours on Hollywood Boulevard, no appointment necessary.
"The Institute," part of its actual name, had its public office in a Hollywood Boulevard building, rumored to be the same location in which L.A.'s greatest hard-boiled private eye, Philip Marlowe, was based. How could you not love it? The Institute director actually worked from home, first on Cahuenga near the Hollywood Bowl, then in a Beachwood Canyon house with the standard show business pedigree - as in, "This house used to belong to...(fill in the blanks)." I never met a dwelling in that town that didn't have a history.
With my baby in his stroller, we walked the boulevards and avenues - from the photocopy shop on Highland, owned and run by a family from India who greeted my boy like a prince each time we visited, to the elevator at Marlowe's location, frequently sharing the ride with clients of various agencies at that address, many of whom were in states of loud and raging delusion. In the early 80s, as it may still today, that simply went with the territory.
From his much-closer-to-the-ground seat, my son - with his early verbal skills - greeted the locals as they gleaned cigarette butts from the gutter. Because he saw them at eye level, he engaged them all with a smiling "Hi!" and opened the door to conversations that I might have preferred to sidestep. I don't remember seeing many other children, let alone babies, in that part of town; had I been the one bent over the curb, I know I couldn't have resisted him. Had I been looking to make new friends along The Walk of Fame, I had my little rolling ice-breaker.
During my year in the job, it was such a gift to be able to have his company while I did paper work at home or acted as delivery girl in the shadow of the Chinese Theater or Musso and Frank Restaurant. In that year of my administrative assistant duties, the Institute held two benefit concerts, one for the striking Screen Actors' Guild, later for the Musicians' Local when they struck. There was a touch of show business glamor to balance the more real-life aspects of providing services to under-employed creatives.
I think these memories were sparked by the news story yesterday that Hugh Hefner had donated the final $900,000 needed to keep the land around the Hollywood sign from development. With his sum added to the gifts already received, the sign will be protected and its surrounding terrain will belong to the people.
As a native daughter, I have never minded that aspects of Hollywood are only glittering in our imagination, for the truth is powerful beyond illusion. The dream that lured the writers and actors and immigrant entrepreneurs west has not diminished; we are captivated and transformed by images on film. I choose to believe that, should I need to hire him to buy back incriminating photos or locate my missing chauffeur, Raymond Chandler's hero still keeps office hours on Hollywood Boulevard, no appointment necessary.
Monday, April 26, 2010
In the middle of the night you call my name
How much I prefer being awakened at 2 or 3 a.m. by a Filene's Basement "running of the brides" rush of ideas for journal pages, rather than by The Fretter. Begone, she/he who needs to know NOW what might be done about something that is usually at least a month down the road, and over which I have no control no matter when it may happen. And it always involves money.
Waking briefly many nights, my preferred state is that of blank mind; no scrolling list of thoughts, helpful or distressing. Wake up, blink, go back to sleep. It is not always an option. Over the past several nights, my interrupted slumber has been a source of inspiration, not angst. In preparation for a journal demo - a tandem booking with artist friend Lisa Hoffman at Stamp Your Heart Out in Claremont - I have been mentally thrashing through supplies, techniques, revisiting books on journal pages, trying to plan an approach that doesn't have me lurching in more than one direction at a time.
Voila - pre-dawn suggestions, and not in an overwhelming way but more a casual flipping through the catalog of options. Stencil ideas, prepping the paper ideas, layers, themes - I began to write them down that first night. In nights since, I have begun to build some of the elements of pages before I return to sleep. This morning my hands smelled like crayons.
The studio in our home is not a monument to delightful order; the room is designated as a den, meant as a sitting room, place to watch tv, or install an office. Ours currently houses the Christmas tree, rolling storage drawer units of many sizes, a drawing board and 8-foot work table - and all the stuff that is tucked around those items. The room is a grab-bag of materials for paper crafting, currently without a flat surfaces to work on those crafts, and what I am able to find there is as much a surprise to me as it would be to a stranger.
Which is to say that, until the perfect storm of energy, time and inclination blows in, art happens in any available place. And, it would seem, any available time, planned for or not. The ability to remain flexible - or philosophical - is a gift, practiced by me in bumpy spurts, for notions of how I wish to see things go can be painful to release. However, the muse who beckons and instructs is not to be turned away for appearing at an inconvenient hour. So welcome, guiding light of stencils cut from junk mail printed on heavy, glossy stock; welcome sprinkler of Crayola-colored dreams. Welcome illuminator of faint ideas, champion of pen-wielders and pencil scribblers, voice of direction for the inky-fingered. Welcome, you are always welcome.
Waking briefly many nights, my preferred state is that of blank mind; no scrolling list of thoughts, helpful or distressing. Wake up, blink, go back to sleep. It is not always an option. Over the past several nights, my interrupted slumber has been a source of inspiration, not angst. In preparation for a journal demo - a tandem booking with artist friend Lisa Hoffman at Stamp Your Heart Out in Claremont - I have been mentally thrashing through supplies, techniques, revisiting books on journal pages, trying to plan an approach that doesn't have me lurching in more than one direction at a time.
Voila - pre-dawn suggestions, and not in an overwhelming way but more a casual flipping through the catalog of options. Stencil ideas, prepping the paper ideas, layers, themes - I began to write them down that first night. In nights since, I have begun to build some of the elements of pages before I return to sleep. This morning my hands smelled like crayons.
The studio in our home is not a monument to delightful order; the room is designated as a den, meant as a sitting room, place to watch tv, or install an office. Ours currently houses the Christmas tree, rolling storage drawer units of many sizes, a drawing board and 8-foot work table - and all the stuff that is tucked around those items. The room is a grab-bag of materials for paper crafting, currently without a flat surfaces to work on those crafts, and what I am able to find there is as much a surprise to me as it would be to a stranger.
Which is to say that, until the perfect storm of energy, time and inclination blows in, art happens in any available place. And, it would seem, any available time, planned for or not. The ability to remain flexible - or philosophical - is a gift, practiced by me in bumpy spurts, for notions of how I wish to see things go can be painful to release. However, the muse who beckons and instructs is not to be turned away for appearing at an inconvenient hour. So welcome, guiding light of stencils cut from junk mail printed on heavy, glossy stock; welcome sprinkler of Crayola-colored dreams. Welcome illuminator of faint ideas, champion of pen-wielders and pencil scribblers, voice of direction for the inky-fingered. Welcome, you are always welcome.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Call me Doctor Obvious
In the year of too much, 1968, I lived for a time in Washington, D.C. Some of my compatriots/housemates/co-workers (I was a volunteer) were part of what we then called The New Left. In feeling again how much happened in such a short time, I wonder that we kept our bearings at all.
After Dr. King was assassinated, after the riots (there must be something else to call them that addresses rage and betrayal), my roommate would park near Capital Hill for her job in the Library of Congress and I'd walk across town to my job in Northwest. This April morning has some of the look of those days, with greening trees and fast-moving clouds in air not-yet-humid, winter not entirely packed up and moved on. It speaks of the degree of disconnection within me that I could pass through neighborhoods in ruin, noticing briefly without interpretation or emotion. My response would be different today.
Beside the season and the sky, what brings that time to mind is a "Coming-Going-Staying" party held by friends for those who were...coming or going or staying; D.C. in the late sixties was a transitional place and state of mind. Today a friend and art sister from Colorado will cross our border and be here, in the same time zone, at sea level, not in the thin mountain air. Tomorrow the life-long friend who hosted that memorable gathering will fly to Mexico to spend time with her musician son, coincidentally going from an island to the mile-high capital. In Australia, my brother is recovering from a surgery which demands that he not laugh for weeks and, in aid of that, I will try not to call until he is well enough, for we have never in our adult lifetime spoken without laughing. Coming, going, staying put.
As people fold in and out of my life, I am aware that because of once-resisted electronic methods, I am allowed to widen my circle every day; more who come and stay, fewer who go. A blog and Facebook and e-mail encourage me to make or maintain connections simply because I wish to and the world is so vast, information and ideas so overwhelmingly accessible. That sentence would earn the Doctor Obvious tag from my son, as did the morning segment on local news, reporting that people enjoy eating soybeans. Obvious and unsurprising to him, yet to some of us still a wonder of cosmic proportion. And I don't even have a cell phone that does anything other than voice and text communication. Imagine...
The predictions that face-to-face socializing will become extinct seem absurd. I may see this too simply but is day-long texting any different than passing notes in class? Considering all the innovations that have taken the blame for civilization's looming end, how remarkable that we are still here, many of us still reading books, magazines and newspapers, grappling with abstract thought and nurturing friendships with those we have not met by means of complete sentences and something as close to correct grammar and spelling as we can get.
I am uplifted by the chance to put ideas into words and send them on journeys of seconds, rather than days. E-mails and Facebook messages have pushed me to be more clear in my correspondence, to work at saying what I mean. I would not have been one of the dedicated who took pen in hand to send copious snail mail, yet I am called to write every day and I take it as a chance to be precise, to be funny if that happens, and to stay in touch. So many gifts have found me because of e-mail, and they continue to arrive. A blog gives me a voice, my own version of the Pershing Square soap box or a street corner for evangelizing. And, like the old drive-in movies, I hold in great affection any place that lets me show up in my pajamas.
After Dr. King was assassinated, after the riots (there must be something else to call them that addresses rage and betrayal), my roommate would park near Capital Hill for her job in the Library of Congress and I'd walk across town to my job in Northwest. This April morning has some of the look of those days, with greening trees and fast-moving clouds in air not-yet-humid, winter not entirely packed up and moved on. It speaks of the degree of disconnection within me that I could pass through neighborhoods in ruin, noticing briefly without interpretation or emotion. My response would be different today.
Beside the season and the sky, what brings that time to mind is a "Coming-Going-Staying" party held by friends for those who were...coming or going or staying; D.C. in the late sixties was a transitional place and state of mind. Today a friend and art sister from Colorado will cross our border and be here, in the same time zone, at sea level, not in the thin mountain air. Tomorrow the life-long friend who hosted that memorable gathering will fly to Mexico to spend time with her musician son, coincidentally going from an island to the mile-high capital. In Australia, my brother is recovering from a surgery which demands that he not laugh for weeks and, in aid of that, I will try not to call until he is well enough, for we have never in our adult lifetime spoken without laughing. Coming, going, staying put.
As people fold in and out of my life, I am aware that because of once-resisted electronic methods, I am allowed to widen my circle every day; more who come and stay, fewer who go. A blog and Facebook and e-mail encourage me to make or maintain connections simply because I wish to and the world is so vast, information and ideas so overwhelmingly accessible. That sentence would earn the Doctor Obvious tag from my son, as did the morning segment on local news, reporting that people enjoy eating soybeans. Obvious and unsurprising to him, yet to some of us still a wonder of cosmic proportion. And I don't even have a cell phone that does anything other than voice and text communication. Imagine...
The predictions that face-to-face socializing will become extinct seem absurd. I may see this too simply but is day-long texting any different than passing notes in class? Considering all the innovations that have taken the blame for civilization's looming end, how remarkable that we are still here, many of us still reading books, magazines and newspapers, grappling with abstract thought and nurturing friendships with those we have not met by means of complete sentences and something as close to correct grammar and spelling as we can get.
I am uplifted by the chance to put ideas into words and send them on journeys of seconds, rather than days. E-mails and Facebook messages have pushed me to be more clear in my correspondence, to work at saying what I mean. I would not have been one of the dedicated who took pen in hand to send copious snail mail, yet I am called to write every day and I take it as a chance to be precise, to be funny if that happens, and to stay in touch. So many gifts have found me because of e-mail, and they continue to arrive. A blog gives me a voice, my own version of the Pershing Square soap box or a street corner for evangelizing. And, like the old drive-in movies, I hold in great affection any place that lets me show up in my pajamas.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The animals have something to tell us
He (gender unknown, but supposed) had a wingspan nearing that of hawks which circle at higher altitudes. In full flight, destined for the tree growing some eight feet from the window, he appeared black-caped and fearsome. His quarry was on the street side of the trunk so once he had gained a foothold and settled into his task, the width of his densely black body was visible on either side of the palm. Something tasty had made a home for itself under the scratchy surface and our visiting crow - not observed before or since his two morning arrivals - was relentless in beaking his way through to retrieve it. His departing flights made this Harry Potter fan think of Professor Snape taking haughty leave of some Hogwarts chamber, robes swirling.
Crow arrived, crow departed, the week marched along. On Friday, I was surprised at the sound of a parcel being left on the doormat, as nothing was expected. Sent by my step-mother, solidly-packed and weighty, it contained more unearthings from my father's files. As he has been gone more than 15 years, she and I are both surprised that new material keeps appearing. And what I received were examples of writing, both by and about him, and photographs, things which I never knew existed.
There was a folder of poetry he had begun when he was 16, bound issues of a science fiction magazine he edited and published in 1939, articles about awards he'd won for his writing. In a self-promoting pamphlet, sent to editors as he sought new writing markets, was a copy of the New Yorker review of one of his children's books which said, in part, "The tale is slight, but it is written in a language of such memorable tranquility...that it is to be hoped...will be prolific..." On a sheet of green paper with faded edges and rust marks from the notebook's binding, I found a poem called, "On Saying Goodbye to my Son at the Coolangatta Airport," which marked his Australian visit with my brother in 1969.
I would call the whole a box of magic, communication from the past, bearing witness to the power of DNA, emphasizing his ceaseless determination to bend words to his will. I am not sure he realized how thoroughly he succeeded. The piece about my brother, its affection understated yet more intense for its matter-of-fact tone, was so clearly a message of love, lost in a cosmic mail room for 41 years, delivered at the perfect moment.
Crow, as a symbol, tells us of the creation and magic all around; he tells us to look beyond the present range of our vision. Crow is the keeper of sacred law and knows the mystery. And crow represents the concept of no time; in him past, present and future are all of a piece. His messages are from the cosmos, beyond time and space. He provides long-distance healing and reminds us to value ourselves, including the shadow aspects. For delivering visionary gifts, he and my step-mother are a powerful team.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wanted: weightlessness
First home game of the season at Dodger Stadium. Seeing the news footage of the park, surrounding hills and the crowded plain of Los Angeles reminded me that once, some 45 years ago, I went for a ride in the Goodyear blimp. What is most vivid in my memory is the red dirt of the stadium as we drifted, low and slow, above the terrain where I had spent my first 20 years.
The word which repeats is lightness and the reason it speaks so emphatically is that it seems to be MIA these days. Reality is heavy and dense; it would sink to the bottom of the pond and need to be raised with crane. Good luck trying to pry it loose with a stick or even a crowbar. A light heart, a quiet mind, a tranquil spirit - is this too much to ask? At times, it seems the answer is yes.
From a long-forgotten source I have a quote which says, "Life should be like floating." And it should be, navigating our days without that pesky anchor snagging on every rock. Oh, for helium, for fizzy lifting drinks, for either the fog or equanimity that sorts events by their true proportion. If the world is too much with us, the challenge to let our thoughts soar, to find humor in dark moments, to be at peace begins to feel like a life-and-death struggle and reality seems to have the advantage of being, simply, too real.
Earlier this morning I commented on a friend's blog in which she asked readers to tell of their guilty pleasures and my first response was daydreaming. I arrive at truths and happiness by the grace of drifting, which is not always an option. Perhaps my chemistry is off; I feel terribly earth-bound and not the least bit silly. Is it earthquakes and volcanoes, unemployment and budget crises, or is it annoying gnats of projected - and pointless - worries, gaining in strength and number until their swarming cloud obscures the sun?
It could be that tranquility is something we receive on loan, something which was not intended to be a permanent gift. Or this could be an over-reaction to a temporary patch of disquiet. Granola-like clumps of troublesome thoughts arrive and eventually depart. When they are here they seem the size of Jupiter; when we step back they look more like cupcake sprinkles. Balance, proportion's best friend, is a slippery trickster, whose great appeal may be its seeming elusiveness.
That I carry the imprint of riding the current through once-smoggy skies gives me a tangible goal; I know what weightless feels like. I have found it down here on the ground and held it for longer than I would have thought possible. I want it back and I know that chasing it will only drive it deeper into the woods. With enough time for my mind to dawdle, I may be able to devise a temptation, luring peace near enough to catch hold of and we can be airborne once again.
The word which repeats is lightness and the reason it speaks so emphatically is that it seems to be MIA these days. Reality is heavy and dense; it would sink to the bottom of the pond and need to be raised with crane. Good luck trying to pry it loose with a stick or even a crowbar. A light heart, a quiet mind, a tranquil spirit - is this too much to ask? At times, it seems the answer is yes.
From a long-forgotten source I have a quote which says, "Life should be like floating." And it should be, navigating our days without that pesky anchor snagging on every rock. Oh, for helium, for fizzy lifting drinks, for either the fog or equanimity that sorts events by their true proportion. If the world is too much with us, the challenge to let our thoughts soar, to find humor in dark moments, to be at peace begins to feel like a life-and-death struggle and reality seems to have the advantage of being, simply, too real.
Earlier this morning I commented on a friend's blog in which she asked readers to tell of their guilty pleasures and my first response was daydreaming. I arrive at truths and happiness by the grace of drifting, which is not always an option. Perhaps my chemistry is off; I feel terribly earth-bound and not the least bit silly. Is it earthquakes and volcanoes, unemployment and budget crises, or is it annoying gnats of projected - and pointless - worries, gaining in strength and number until their swarming cloud obscures the sun?
It could be that tranquility is something we receive on loan, something which was not intended to be a permanent gift. Or this could be an over-reaction to a temporary patch of disquiet. Granola-like clumps of troublesome thoughts arrive and eventually depart. When they are here they seem the size of Jupiter; when we step back they look more like cupcake sprinkles. Balance, proportion's best friend, is a slippery trickster, whose great appeal may be its seeming elusiveness.
That I carry the imprint of riding the current through once-smoggy skies gives me a tangible goal; I know what weightless feels like. I have found it down here on the ground and held it for longer than I would have thought possible. I want it back and I know that chasing it will only drive it deeper into the woods. With enough time for my mind to dawdle, I may be able to devise a temptation, luring peace near enough to catch hold of and we can be airborne once again.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Cue the singer...
When I posted the LITTLE MARY SUNSHINE entry on April 10, I had considered including a favorite song from a musical of the era under discussion. After listening several times to the version which I found - and additionally hearing it sung by Scott Bakula on an episode of BOSTON LEGAL (what are the odds?) the next night - I decided to share it. The song, "Once Upon A Time," is from the Broadway show, ALL-AMERICAN. The song has been recorded by, among others, Jack Jones (the version here), Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin and Tony Bennett. Just a reminder that a play need not be a hit (it closed after 80 performances) to have enduring music. And my thanks to sirpaopao for the use of his video.
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