Scenes from a Saturday afternoon. Sun in my eyes, music turned up too loud, swimming in saturated color.
Next up on the Best Songs Ever list (I'm obsessed, I tell you.): A Change is Gonna Come by Sam Cooke (with a video montage--not mine) and, if you can allow a white boy from the south to sing it, a piano version by Seth Avett.
More journal pages. Another song.
No "Best Of" category would be complete in my mind without Ray. It is a little painful to choose only one, as if I am representing him here, but I had to remind myself this is about the songs. And besides its commercial success, his intoxicating voice and every other intangible thing Ray brings to the table, this song still makes me want to break down completely and gather it all up again every single time I hear it. Because he gets it: Empty by Ray LaMontagne.
Recently I've started doing some writing about art for PULP, our local independent paper. It has been a fun challenge because although I've been blogging for six years and have written a number of technique or project based magazine articles, I've never considered myself a 'writer'. And blogging is a completely different animal than newspaper writing. The biggest difference being that when I blog, it is almost always image driven. And even though you can add a graphic or photo to a newspaper article, it still remains primarily a print rather than a visual medium.
There is a learning curve to be sure, but I think I might be getting the hang of it. My first article was definitely not the best thing I've ever written. And getting it out it was so much more difficult than I had imagined it would be, but I'm proud of it. Mostly I'm proud of stepping out of my comfort zone and trying something I really wasn't sure I could pull off. And I've learned something new about myself in doing it: I don't like to try new things that I'm not fairly certain I can accomplish. But, then again, who does? Yet, it is in stretching ourselves beyond certain confidence that we realize we can accomplish/create/survive things we never would have believed before.
A Spark of Creativity
by Debra Cooper
It comes with the territory that as an artist you are going to be misunderstood, especially if your work doesn't fall neatly in the esteemed 'Fine Art' category. Although I've blogged about my creative processes for over 5 years, I haven't always felt comfortable sharing my art with the people in my Real Life. And while it is true that most of my family and friends did not share my artistic interests and I certainly received my fair share of blank stares whenever I tried to talk to them about my work, I mostly made a lot of assumptions about how others would see my art or what they could relate to and was tempted to shut off that part of my life from them because of it.
It never ceases to surprise me, though, when I do share something new I've made with a friend to hear, “Oh, you're so creative, I could never do that.” or “I'm not creative like you are.” as if creativity is something you are either born with or not. To be sure, not everyone is an artist, but every human being who ever coordinated the perfect outfit or worked in the marketplace, cooked a meal or solved a nagging problem was born with a creative capacity they are probably undervaluing. I may be able to scrape paint on a canvas, but when Halloween rolls around I'll be standing in line at the big box store to buy my kids a cheap, mass produced character costume because the thought of making one out of household items makes my blood run cold. I can thread a needle, but I can barely follow a recipe and couldn't coordinate a dinner party to save my life. Yet the same creative instinct that compels me to keep adding to my spray paint collection inspires my neighbor to bake the most amazing cookies and a friend to supplement her income by hosting jewelry parties for strangers.
The fact is, we were born to create—to make order out of chaos, beauty out of poverty. It is the impetus behind all human culture and how we make meaning of our world. Whether it is hanging on a wall for collectors to judge or presented in a dish to people we love, art, beauty and creativity are as vital a part of our lives as commerce or technology. These days I don't have any trouble sharing my art with anyone because I have discovered that just by being a creative person, you give others permission and inspiration to live their lives more creatively. Whether or not you ever feel comfortable calling yourself an artist, taking time to recognize and explore your own creative instincts in whatever form comes naturally to you can make life infinitely more rewarding and fulfilling.
A few journal pages and a song.
And then...
I thought it might be fun--for me anyway--to ponder and post my own utterly subjective list of All Time Best Songs Ever. A list in progress. So, anyway, here's one: Lord by Langhorne Slim and then, in case there is any question whatsoever of its excellence, a back seat version by Seth Avett.
What better excuse could you find for a grown up tea party than to welcome a new baby? This past weekend we hosted a tea party baby shower for a dear friend expecting her second child this Valentine's Day. I have to say, apart from the great company and good food, the best part part about the day was drinking tea out of these beautiful china cups! Everyone, big and little girls alike, were equally anxious to avoid being the first to chip or break a dish--an honor that went not surprisingly to my second born. But not even a broken dish could spoil our fun.
On the menu were fresh seasonal fruits, assorted scones from my favorite bakery, cucumber and dill sandwiches, mini quiche, the richest chocolate cake and, of course, every kind of tea you can imagine. The favorite teas of the day were Numi Organic Aged Earl Grey and Jasmine Green teas and Zhena's Gypsy Rose Black Tea. Fragrant and delicious!
All the beautiful china, crystal and silver made me miss my Grandmother terribly and gave me a strange desire to begin scouring antique shops for my own collection. I have never been a girly girl but I have to admit, I can't wait for the next tea party!
I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell. --The Secret History, Donna Tartt
Beginnings are everything. And the beginning of a great novel is no exception. To be sure, there are plenty of good books out there with so-so openers, but if you find yourself holding a book with a riveting first paragraph, snatch it up because you know it will be a good one.
I used to think if you fell from grace it was more likely than not the result of one stupendous error, or else an unfortunate accident. I hadn't learned that it can happen so gradually you don't lose your stomach or hurt yourself in the landing. You don't necessarily sense the motion. I've found it takes at least two things and generally three things to alter the course of a life: you slip around the truth once, and then again, and one more time, and there you are, feeling for a moment, that it was sudden, your arrival at the bottom of the heap. --A Map of the World, Jane Hamilton
But this is not to say that endings are less important. In many ways, they are far more important for the end is what will remain in the memory the longest. And for me personally, a bad or even mediocre ending can ruin an otherwise perfectly amazing book.
I finished Still Aliceand although I loved it in so many ways, the end was a bit of a disappointment. But it seems I'm destined to be unhappy with endings lately. Before Still Alice, I carried around Laura Kasischke's The Raising with me for 4 days. Now, I will freely admit that what sold me on the book was one reviewer having compared it to Donna Tartt's Secret History--my favorite novel of all time. And, though it was no Secret History, I thoroughly enjoyed the first 3/4th of the book. I literally couldn't put it down, stayed up late and neglected my family for days because of it. And then it just ended. I thought surely someone had torn out the final chapter. Imagine a murder mystery full of twists and intrigue only to find there was no murder and no explanation either
Honestly, I have no problem with an unhappy ending because it lines up with what I know to be true about the world. And I am nothing if not looking for truth. (I love what Azar Nafisi says in Reading Lolita in Tehran: “What we search for in fiction is not so much reality but the epiphany of truth.”) But even if in Real Life we do not always find closure, I do want to see it in my literature. At the very least a tying up of lose ends or some meaning I can begrudgingly take with me back into the world I live in.
I picked up a pencil and held it over a sheet of white paper, but my feelings stood in the way of my words. Well, I would wait, day and night, until I knew what to say. Humbly now, with no vaulting dream of achieving a vast unity, I wanted to try to build a bridge of words between me and that outside world, that world which was so distant and elusive that it seemed unreal.
I would hurl the words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human. --Black Boy, Richard Wright
Which all leads me back to beginnings, because I must start again at some point. Maybe I'll play it safe and stick to something reliable the next time around. Or maybe I'll take another chance on finding a new favorite, so worth the struggle: the glossy coolness of the front cover, the familiar and comforting smell of the pages inside--pristine or worn--and those first words that make the pulse race and everything else around you fade just a little more into the background.
A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. I say 'one chooses' with the inaccurate pride of a professional writer who--when he has been seriously considered at all--has been praised for his technical ability, but do I in fact of my own will choose that black wet January night on the Common, in 1946, the sight of Henry Miles slanting across the wide river of rain, or did these images choose me? --The End of the Affair, Graham Greene
So, which do you prefer: a good beginning or a good ending? And which do you think is most telling of how a book will turn out to be as a whole?
I've been devouring books like cookies lately. Ignoring my family and real life for the worlds of more interesting others. Reading is really the best escape I know of and it isn't illegal and doesn't make you fat.
Right now, I'm having a hard time pulling myself away from Still Alice, a woman's decent into dementia caused by Alzheimer's Disease. And what is even more fascinating is the interview with the author (a Harvard neurologist) at the back of the book where she talks about her next novel, Left Neglected. It is the story of a woman who after experiencing a traumatic brain injury loses the existence of left, the left side of space, as in cannot read the left side of the page or only eats food on the right side of the plate or cannot see, hear, acknowledge the person sitting to the left of her. The left no longer exists. Can you even imagine such a thing?? The human brain is amazing!
Of course it all reminds me of a story my inventive husband came up with for me to tell people when they find themselves unwillingly assaulted by my prominent southern accent the moment I open my mouth in public. For better or worse, we chose to live in a state that isn't always so friendly toward Texans so my loving and protective husband thought instead of admitting I came to Colorado from Texas, it might be better received to tell them my distinctive southern accent is actually the result of a make-believe disorder he dubbed "lingual aphasia" (I prefer linguaphasia) where after experiencing a traumatic brain injury I awoke from my coma thankful to be alive and startled to find myself speaking with a southern accent when, in fact, I'm actually a native New Yorker. What do you think? Too much? Yeah, you're probably right.
Next on the reading list, thanks to my local thrift store: Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate; Reading Lolita in Tehranby Azar Nafisi; and Augusten Burrough's Running with Scissors.
Read anything good lately you can recommend to a written word junkie?
Sometimes something that starts off promising enough can unexpectedly take a wrong turn somewhere along the way and derail completely and inexplicably. Like this painting that Shannon and I worked on for 6 fun but ultimately frustrating hours one night before Christmas. Maybe it was the fact that we were working on a deadline, which neither of us enjoys. Or maybe it was that the painting was to be for a friend and the expectations we set for ourselves were more than we could realistically meet in the time we had. It could have been because we were trying something new, in imitation of another artist's work, and not being true to our own unique vision. It might simply have been the weather or the phase of the moon or any number of factors completely beyond our control. Whatever the cause, despite our best efforts and intentions, this painting just wasn't working.
So, in one quick moment, tired and frustrated, we decided to whitewash the whole thing except for the parts we really loved. This technqiue always works to salvage the best of the piece and yet push the whole thing in a new and better direction than it had been headed. We tell ourselves it's just another step in building up the richly layered backgrounds we love.
But even after this, it soon became obvious that what we really needed was a clean slate. And occasionally, you just have to be willing to let it all go--the expectations, the hours of hard work, the vision you had in your head, the If Only and the We're-So-Close-But-So-Far-Away--for a potential there's no guarantee of.
So in the end (though it wasn't the end), we let it all go. And it was both sad and liberating.
Never be afraid or ashamed of failure. It is evidence you are no longer sitting on the sidelines. Because we all know you may lose, but you will never win if you don't get off the bench and get in the game.
When was the last time you thought you had made nothing but a mess only to persevere and end up with something more beautiful--and more satisfying--than you could have ever planned?
Our newest collaborative painting from just before Christmas.
Sleeping Beauty, mixed media on canvas 36x24 in.
A few details; the details are always my favorite:
We've been working on getting our website up and running (slow and somewhat paintful) and even had some postcards printed. It's like holding your dreams in your hands.
