Archives for posts with tag: Painter

My car. My precious Honda. It is old but it is special. So special, in fact, that every time I drive it, someone asks me if I will sell it.

My car was hit by some obnoxious person. Hit in a mall parking lot on private property. Which, no police officer can assign guilt or liability to either party involved in the accident.

My car is not mine anymore. I have to go to a lawyer to get it back. My fear is, that it is in a place where everyone wants to drive it and claim it as their own.

Say a prayer for Frostie. Although he is nineteen years old, he is not used to spending the night away from home.

Whizzing by the other night, I saw a dog with a light on its collar. It was designed for the dog to see where it was going in the darkness. Just loose enough to move with the dog. Just tight enough so that the light didn’t swing and sway to confuse the puppy.

I have never seen these lights for dogs. Then I thought of SkyMall, the inflight magazine on airplanes. (which, by the way, was where I ordered my dog repellent device.) SkyMall, of course, is now online.

SkyMall is the best magazine for obscure and interesting “things.” An “It Is what It Is” inscribed bracelet. Really, people say that all the time: what does it MEAN? A scalp massaging shampoo brush. (Shown with water showering down on a head in the photograph) Stretchy wearable posture aids, a floating desk (with storage), phone mounters for the car, iPhone printers and so much more.You can see why these magazines are on the airplane. Why worry about lousy inflight service when there is SkyMall?

Have you ever tried to solve a mystery? Something in your daily life you can’t quite figure out, but you have a gut feeling about? Have you combined your intuition with some facts surrounding the situation and BAM! you have it the solution. Or have you? Has this ever happened to you?

The Chinese say that intuition is a “second brain”, physically located in your stomach. Hence the “gut feeling” expression.

Most people do not trust their intuition enough! When I try to solve a problem using my intuition, it feels like stepping out on a cloud, walking off a plank, taking a shot at something. It feels a little strange. People think they need facts alone to solve problems and mysteries. That to use intuition could not possible be sound.

But, as I said in the first paragraph, I put some facts with my intuition and…..well, I can solve almost anything. Can you?

Phones. We all have cells. I like those. But the land or “home” phones as they are called, bring with them terrible sales and political calls. The phone rings. We rush to the phone to answer and we get the dreaded waste-of-energy call.

Therefore, it was during a very high stress time in my life, (when is it not?) I asked my husband to make the home phones not ring. Yes, we could call out, but no one could call us at home. To reach us, they would just have to call our cells. We told ourselves we were keeping the land phones for emergencies.

No problem. We had a vast assortment of Motorola, T-mobile and Panasonic phones littering our house. And he timed the ring systems so that the phones didn’t ring. Quiet.

Stress began again when we switched phone carriers. My husband got mad at one of the customer service reps (They will elevate your blood pressure) and out, we yanked ourselves. Oh yes. It caused a great deal of trouble. New internet provider. Had to be installed by coming to the house, new home phone provider, all having to be redone. Our security system in our home was affected too, because we have the older version, the kind that runs through the phone lines. Even our cells, although upgraded for free, were paid for with an eight hour wait to transfer pictures and such.

We were in the store the other day picking out new home phones and my husband said, “All this, for phones that don’t ring?”

We had an ice storm here in Atlanta this past winter. Not a nice storm. Put the separation between the words in the right place. Ice storm. You know the one. We, in Atlanta, looked like fools on TV and the internet.

The storm I am writing about (We actually had two.) started out as a snow storm. Just like any other. But the traffic! Lord, the traffic! And the slipping and sliding!

A person lost his life. A baby was born. It took the average person to move at the rate of one eighth of a mile per hour. If that.

Yes, there was heroism. We Americans always go for that when reporting such horrors. My husband was in his car along with the rest of Atlantans, arriving at his intended destination. He had to turn around because the person he was dropping off at the bus….well, the buses were not running. It took him an hour to turn around and he got home at midnight. He had been driving for twelve hours. To go ten miles. To the bus and home. Ten miles roundtrip.

Because people were frustrated in the crazy traffic, a lot of people left their cars and walked that night. The next day, cars were strewn all over expressways and backroads, abandoned like discarded toys on Christmas Day. It looked like The Rapture or a science fiction movie.

No, my husband did not spend the night in the shelter of a grocery store, using feminine products as a pillow. No, he did not experience the terror of being disconnected from our child because he had no idea if she was at the school or not. No, he did not spend the night in his car with no one knowing, due to a drained charge in his cell.

But it was awful.

My studio is next to Art Papers, a magazine about contemporary art. The former Editor-In-Chief and Executive Director, Sylvie Fortin, told me that an artist should always, when contributing, donate his/her best work. (Sylvie, by the way, raced me to the hospital one time. It was when a masonite painting I was working on fell, severely damaging the muscle in the back of my leg. I also should point out that Sylvie does not drive. She drove my car, first wheeling me in an office chair to the curb. In addition, she put everything aside to get me there.)

She told me that, by putting your best work out there, especially when you donate artwork, you speak to your audience clearly. As clearly as you would if your work were in a gallery.

This is the piece I have donated to the Hambidge Auction. I posted it recently on Facebook. It is from my solo show “Afloat: An Installation”, New York. This piece is a collage, 5” x 5”, a collage done strictly with magazine pieces, no computer imaging. Or internet sources. It is framed in a white floater frame.

I also posted it in my online exhibition here on WordPress. Where it received the highest “site stat” rating. Which means it received the most “hits” on my blog. 
Even with the inclusion of my post about my friend and mentor, the now famous artist, Peter Forakis which also received very high stats. This piece aced that one.

It is kind of like that song from West Side Story: “When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way.” Everything matters. Or don’t do it!

While shopping for my daughter’s second Prom dress, I happened to go to one of the strangest places. Mind you, my daughter has been in ballet for many years, therefore we are used to costumes, feathers and the bizarre quality the footlights bring about.

But my daughter had found her tribe, probably long ago, and her eyes lit up upon entering the grandeur and glue. But I was reminded of the circus.

Dresses hanging at least two feet higher than in a regular dress shop, (to allow for the length of the gowns), all squished into each other. They were catalogued by color. Rich, dazzling color.

Pedestals for self-viewing in front of huge gilded mirrors. Screens to dress behind. Girls being squeezed into cut-out sparkles, all lumpy and in need of Spanx.

The ring leader of this store sat behind a desk. She reminded me of Vito in The Godfather. Power was what she was about. And hustle was how she did business, while her minions worked the girls, oozing the words “beautiful!” and “you!” softly heard through the thickly carpeted rooms.

My daughter bought her dress there. Tasteful and elegant. I cannot tell you how this could be possible. Her manifestation of cheap glitziness was in the pair of shoes we bought, however.

Before the final touch was put on these lovely flat shoes, I fell into her trap. The circus leader had me writing a check. The male assistant then ascended the glitter strewn stairway to spray them.

He came down with silver glitter encrusted flats, telling us he went through two cans of spray paint. Carrying an extra can of Krylon silver glitter spray in case we needed to touch them up. I need say no more except that these shoes had clamped to them two clip-on earrings, rhinestones, of course. At the toe. The shoes could not be even tried on at the time because the paint was still wet. The assistant was respraying them in the dark outside as we were preparing to leave. Even the rhinestones had spray paint on them!

You get the picture. My husband returned them along with the third can of spray paint these stiff shoes might need. Our check was destroyed. Our dignity intact.

WhIle I am on the subject of my daughter’s Prom, she and I, of course, had to go Prom dress shopping. For Senior Prom.

Two Prom dresses. One remade and shortened (Her date was short all of a sudden.) The second one, altered for $225.00. Yup, you don’t want to know what the dress cost. Five pair of shoes: One pair, too high for the first Prom dress. One perfect for the first Prom dress. One not as dressy as it should be. (We are into the second Prom dress now.) One pair of shoes sprayed with two cans of Krylon glitter spray (The story of the glitter sprayed shoes is saved for another blog.) And, finally, the perfect pair.

Prom went off in the perfect fashion. Drama, dreams and delirium.

I want to go back to listening to the garbage removal truck outside!

Piece Of My Heart, Number Six

Vince Vaughn bought my daughter’s Prom dress.

He is making a movie in Atlanta. And the location unit chose the building where my art studio is situated.

I used to be in Advertising. And one of the accounts I worked on, was Orion Pictures Publicity. I am familiar with the movie business. Maybe not the production side, as this was. But I loved the hustle, bustle. The project to project. The excitement. I loved the collaboration. I loved how everyone was working toward a common goal. The hurry up and wait.

Is it possible I could have made a mistake to do what I do now? I am all alone. I see no one. Ever. I work alone. But I get ego recognition. The work is all mine.

In the movie business, you pitch in. There is not room for two egos in the limousine. With the exceptional Philip Seymour Hoffman hat sported by the guy on the ladder, the importance stays with the stars and the film company executives.

How did Vince Vaughn buy my daughter’s Prom dress? No one knew this was not an inconvenience to me. I did not attend the shooting. I did not talk to many of the workers.

But the preparation of the scenes demanded an excruciatingly long time. And, needing the money, as most of us do these days, I accepted compensation for the work done in the building.

When we lived in a quiet “In town” neighborhood in Atlanta, I used to walk quite a bit. I walked to the grocery store, which we called the Korean Market. How racist. And I walked just to walk.

A few years prior, after my job at the Ad Agency ended, I became a pet sitter, going from house to house, looking after peoples’ dogs and cats. I was attacked by a dog during one of these visits, and needless-to-say, I halted my job as a pet sitter. Why should I do this for money?

Therefore, my leisurely neighborhood walking excursions were filled with the fear of being attacked again. Around every bush, there could be a dog just waiting to attack me. And that fear bred more fear, because after all, don’t dogs sense fear?

I was leafing through a magazine one day and found an ad for a device a person could carry. It would emit sounds undetectable to humans (of course) and dogs would be repelled. It was perfect for mailmen, the ad said. And those on business having to come to unfamiliar houses.

Perfect! I would order this gray pancake-like item with little sound wave grooves on the end of it. And a button to push when a dog was near.

I carried it around on my walks. Still a little fearful. And also aware I was probably being duped. But hey, I had my gray dog repellent device and, if a boxer came near me, I would aim.

Whether it worked or not did not matter. Because I never had to use that thing. The other day, years after I had purchased this mysterious gray piece of plastic, I was cleaning out a drawer. I looked at it and with a little embarrassment, put it back in the drawer.

Belief in a dog repellent? Just like those round green termite traps that lie in our yards. Or the one inch square cut piece of sheet I own that Paul McCartney supposedly slept on at the Plaza Hotel. Or how do you know there is really a star out there with your name on it? Belief. Praying on love, fear or desire. It’s part of our psyche to want magic.