A nightclub full of artists

Look at us.


Artists. In a nightclub.


Alcohol. Music.


Sexy people showing lots of cleavage.


And what are we doing?


Drawing.

This guy, at least, is using the opportunity to indulge in his private fantasies... Hope he didn't mind me peeking over his shoulder, taking a photograph, and posting it on my blog.

But what's this guy doing?!!!
There's a half naked girl on stage and he's drawing his neighbors.

Some of my own sketches...

I'd planned to write more, the things going on in my life at the moment and all that. But all I can come up with, late this Tuesday night, is some morose kind of art rant which began sometime during that art workshop Monday night when I made the error of comparing the course of my career path, that sad, erratic mountain range, to those artists, many of them former classmates, who are getting by quite nicely doing what they love. Variations of that inner rant is always there, somewhere, actually. Silent monologues of self doubt, the reasons for and against, and so on. Eff it all. I'm taking Wednesday off. Free day at the Academy of Sciences. I'm going to draw dinosaurs, rain forests or just stare blankly at the stars in between contemplating what a speck of nothing my worries and self doubts are. Then Thursday morning, or Wednesday night, I might come back and delete this little rant, embarrassed at this public evidence of my fears getting the better of me as I make ready to send my portfolio out to all the illustration agencies out there. And as I reconsider my Pixar/Disney/Lucas/Dreamworks dreams...

Oh no, rant coming on again. Later all...

Obama Clinic

For my latest illustration I borrowed from the painting, Gross Clinic by Thomas Eakins...This is the original sketch which some of you might remember from a few posts back...I wasn't happy with it, but I didn't want to abandon it either. So I played around until I got this...

And using my newest computer toy, Painter 11, I electronically inked over the rough sketch and put in some background color...

Then finished it up in Photoshop... At this stage I realized, wow, Obama looks just like that guy from SNL! I was also somewhat troubled by the realization that, depending on how this illustration is captioned, it could be swung in favor of either left or right. I mean, if empathy of all things can be seen as a detriment to sound judgeship, what horrible things might be said about democrats with Legos? So, for the google record, this is an illustration in favor of rational public discourse (exemplified by the ever calm democratic President Barack Obama) and a careful and logical examination of issues. In the back of course are republicans like Sarah Palin and Cheney/Rove/Limbaugh/etc., public figures who seem incapable of this kind of mature and respectful public discourse. Or worse, reject it despite their better instincts in favor of inciting fear, anger and hatred in as many people as possible. Not that I feel like debating politics here. Nothing seems to make a good person lose sense quicker than the subject of politics.And here I imagine Obama not so much speaking to republicans (would they even listen? Probably not) but to people like me. I, for one, am willing to listen.

Geek meets Goth

I saw his ad on Craigslist, "aspiring 21 year old goth model seeks photographer," and thought, why not? I pictured some variation of Marilyn Manson, midnight hair, scary eyes and a bloodless complexion, the kind of character I'd try to sneak a photo of should I come across one on the street. And here was one offering his time in exchange for mine! I might get one good image out of it. Or, considering the letter I mentioned in my last post, maybe a series of images, something I could base an entire exhibition on. So, we email back and forth a few times, and, then, one morning last week, we speak over the phone.

Now, I am not a morning person. So when he called, like 5 minutes after I'd just woken up, needing coffee, food and a good pee, I was not in the best state of mind. But I understood that this was more than an appointment setting phone call. We were feeling each other out, getting a sense of what working together might be like. So, repressing my bad mood and my need to visit the loo, I asked him the only thing I could think up after only a few hours of sleep, which was, how did he become a goth?

He proceeded to give me a short (half hour long) history lesson on gothdom starting with it's beginnings in Roman times, on down to his first exposure to the world of goth in grade school, mentioning along the way Edward Scissorhands, Depeche Mode, the Cure, Dexter, Son of Shaina (?), Todd McFarlane toys and used a rare turn of phrase I took to be part of popular goth-speak, I'm beguiled.

He also referred to being a goth as a calling. And I, having reached an age where 21 is starting to seem more or less interchangeable with 12, might have scoffed (privately) a bit more than necessary at this. Wasn't it all just a form of rebellion? A way of standing out in a crowd? But, repressing such condescending thoughts, I admired the fact that he was as big a fan of Depeche Mode now as I was growing up. I also made the foggy headed, and yes, condescending, mistake of expressing this admiration with words like cool and interesting.

He then casually expressed his disdain for generic words, words he wished people would strike from their vocabularies. Words like -

" - Like the words I just used?!!!"

'Well, no! I mean, I understand that people can have other things on their minds. They're busy or they're tired."

"Uh-huh."

We arranged a time and place to meet. And though I'd said I was looking forward to it, in truth I wasn't so sure. I'd formed an image of him as this sees the world in black and white type. An adolescent who measured the world and everyone in it by the rulebook he spent most of his time writing. Already I'd proven myself to be another lazy minded grown up. I had used words like cool and interesting. Who knew what else I was capable of doing, what else he might catch me on?

But the next day, standing in front of Starbuck's at the appointed time, I saw this rather sweet looking person just days out of childhood and immediately my maternal side kicked in. I bought him a chai tea and an extra strong coffee for myself to prevent any more lapses into lazy thinking (fine, he might have had a point) during the photo shoot.

Still, he didn't look as goth-like as I'd hoped and I wondered how well the photos would turn out. I also wondered why he considered himself a goth when he didn't dress like one from day to day. Wasn't being a goth about the get-up? What good would photos of himself like this do for a goth modeling portfolio? Moreover, how would I make this work? After our first fifty or so photos I still wasn't sure, especially since all of them looked as dull and unpromising as this...
But I sensed that all he needed was to feel completely at ease. Luckily, there was a small, private courtyard nearby. We talked some more, he loosened up, he sang a Depeche Mode song, he practiced some theatrical exercises which to a passing onlooker might have looked goofy. But the results, I must say, are amazing, a total transformation...

The underlying thread

(Family in front of the Ansel Adams exhibit.)

"Dear Cheryl,

Thank you for thinking about the Museum of Photographic Arts by sending us your website. Looking at CDs, websites, and portfolios is the lifeblood of a museum. Congratulations on an interesting body of work. You are a committed photographer, and obviously invested in your projects.

Our curatorial and collecting plans for future exhibitions, and the perspective from which we curate, is different from what your work can offer us right now. I don't mean that to sound dismissive; there is a place for such imagery. Looking at photographers who have made it into our exhibitions or collection, such as James Fee, Andrea Modica, or those in "Picturing Eden" (all of these previous MoPA exhibitions) will give you a clearer idea of what I mean. It is almost impossible to put into words except to say that these photographers deliver something deeply personal, heavily thought through, years in the making, and content-driven, whereby what they render and how they do it is unlike anything we -- myself and our director – have seen before in quite that way. Their images appeal to our particular sensibility.

That is not to say that some other museum, gallery, or commercial venue would not find your work a perfect fit. We encourage you to continue to find the right venue, which is often a simple matter of timing and persistence in understanding a museum or gallery’s mandate. Take a look at our website from time to time, and those of other museums and galleries, and you'll get a sense of what would make the best fit for you.

Follow your passion: that is the most important thing.

Sincerely, Carol McCusker PhD

Curator of Photography Museum of Photographic Arts, San Diego"
(reprinted with kind permission)

This letter, which I received a few days ago, has to be the most encouraging and thoughtful letter of rejection I've ever received. It's the only one I can recall (and I've had plenty) where my grin actually grew wider the more I read on. Instead of making me feel like a talentless and unworthy wretch who wasted six years of her life getting a useless degree, McCusker's letter actually made me feel enthusiastic about raking a critical eye over my own work and at the work of the artists she'd suggested.

First, Andrea Modica. She "has been photographing a group of children in her rural town in upstate New York. It is here, through a young girl named Barbara and her extended family, that Modica creates her work. Transforming reality into fantasy, Modica creates narratives that seem to have no beginning or end, yet present endless scenarios.

In a fictitious town called Treadwell, Barbara and her friends pose for the photographer, who creates images with an 8 x 10" view camera. Like Faulkner's Jefferson County or Cheever's Shady Hill, Modica's Treadwell is a place where anything is possible. Through intense collaboration and trust, events unfold before our eyes, questioning our sense of reality." (from www.edelmangallery.com)

Then there is the late James Fee (www.jamesfee.com) whose work is more varied, from celebrity portraits to fine art photography to photojournalism. Like McCusker's letter says, I couldn't really put my finger on what it was about his photographs, that thing, that thing which ties them together, makes them stand out, makes them so good. But his work definitely looks nothing like Modica's work. And there is, in all his varied portfolios, that thing McCusker describes as "something deeply personal, heavily thought through, years in the making, and content-driven" throughout. Then, Tuesday, my brother and I went to the MOMA to see the Avedon exhibit. And again, through all the various photographs of people, celebrities staring into space, politicians posing, models flipping their hair about, carnies, drifters and other folks looking at you big as life out of the flat surface, I could see an underlying aesthetic driving each piece, a particular way of seeing the world and of trying to convey that world to the viewer. His work is striking, exuberant, a world idealized, as in this marvelous photograph...but also utterly real, especially his later work, with every detail we're used to seeing airbrushed away right there for us to stare at.

And at nearly every photograph, I would think, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, he's good. His images are simple, a person against a white sheet in most cases, and maybe so mesmerizing for this very reason. In real life I'd never stare at a person this freely, taking note of all the unflattering details that make a face so interesting, but with his work you're invited to do just that.

Looking at so many photographs, and paintings (by Georgia O'Keefe) I also, all the while, kept thinking of my own work. Do I have an underlying aesthetic? I...think so. God, I hope so. But what? I mean, I feel the urge to paint something so I go ahead and paint it. Or I see something compelling before me and I go ahead and snap a photo. As much as I like to over think things, as much as I love the sound of words, I usually avoid analyzing the why's and how come's behind each of my pieces because this is where I go to to avoid thinking. It's my meditation. Oh, I may in a day dreamy sort to way think things like, This painting by C. R. Cruz is a brilliant and touching allegory of the human experience, etc. etc. some fawning future art critic will write. Thoughts that keep me motivated. Yes, I have daydreams of grandeur. Oh, like you don't!

deeply personal, heavily thought through...

I've written many an artists statement before. But they're always total crap. Gobblydygook about inspiration, influence, a love of color and shape, et cetera. Most artist statements I've read, except the Modica one above, make no sense. And when taken into consideration alongside the work I usually think, so what? Usually because the work itself doesn't interest me. But, the Modica statement, that actually does makes sense. It illuminates the work and makes me think, oh! I see!

And, thinking of McCusker's advice, I can also see the value of having a clear artistic aesthetic driving my work. Because otherwise, as she sensed in my photography portfolio, I'm just making a haphazard collection of nice pictures.

Some things to think about...

To get me started...the words self reflective, moody...narrative...a telling expression, a dramatic moment. Character studies. The colors red, gold and cerulean blue. Children, for all the cliche'd reasons which are still really good reasons. Wrinkly faces and misshapen bodies because I can imagine the heroic lives they might or might not have lead. Cupcakes. Churches, metro stations, food, store windows and museums. Hmmm, there is an underlying thread there somewhere...

(Inside the lobby of the MOMA.)

OK, I know this post might have only appealed to the artists out there. So, for all you non- artists...

(From the fourth floor of the MOMA. Click for a larger version.) There's a Waldo (from the inexplicable Where's Waldo? books) somewhere out there staring back at you. Can you see him?

It's done...

Or, more accurately, I'm done with this blasted painting.

And these sketches...

are from a group of drawings out of my sketchbook, finished in Photoshop, based on characters in this Terry Pratchett novel I've been listening to, these tiny, warlike fairy creatures called Feegles.

One of my Starbuck's sketches...

On another note, I was listening to this podcast and speaker what's his name, recounting a lesson he likes to give his students, said, If there was a button you could push to make it so that the person you can't stand the most suddenly becomes your best friend, would you push it? One would think, yes, of course, all hands up. But usually only a few out of forty or so of his students raise their hands to say yes.

And this made me think about a certain woman I still can't stand to be around. No, not the person I mentioned in the last post. She's funny and sweet and wonderful but also kinda not the best communicator of what she's really thinking or feeling which means she finds other ways to get her point across which can really hurt when you're not looking, like walking into a steel pole that wasn't there a moment ago. But I'd never say I can't stand her. No, I mean another woman who, in relation to me anyway, has revealed herself to be a microwave oven of awfulness, a porcupine of negativity. (Hey, I gotta get my word fix, give me a break.) Would I push the button to become comfy close with this person? Well, I wish I were Eckert Tolle's top pupil, I'm working on it, but for now I'm one of the thirty eight out of forty. If I could fix it that easily, I still wouldn't bother.

But the other woman? The funny but not the best communicator woman? I'm vacillating. I woke up the other morning and immediately the grief hit me, oh my God! V.! Am I really letting her go? Then this morning I read her most recent letter and got mad all over again. Then I heard that podcast and softened. Yes, I must speak with her! With true compassion and egoless love this time! How will I feel tomorrow? The same I hope. Or am I asking for more blame, more miscommunication? I'll give it a few days. Or weeks. If she and I are each other's true friend, then a bit of time off won't matter.

There's other things I keep vacillating about. I keep having this fantasy of just packing up and taking off somewhere...Seattle?...NYC? Somewhere where my dream job and my husband to be has been waiting all this time. Then I got another call yesterday, a possible animator's position at some start up here in SF. I'm both extremely hopeful but also thinking but what about Seattle! NYC! Chicago? If you're ever gonna fly the coup for places unfamiliar, before you're completely rooted to the earth here, now would be the time to do it. Because the two dreams I've been pursuing the last ten or so years has been to either work for Disney or Pixar or elsewhere equally awesome or to sell my paintings for thousands of dollars each. Since neither is happening at the moment, I'm feeling rather stuck. I'm longing to pull my feet out of the ground and fly off. Am I following the wrong dream?

I'll give it a day or two. At least until after the interview.

Oh no! One more thing! I've been meaning to do this for ages...This is an interesting custom. When I first noticed these award thingies on other blogs I had no idea where they got them from. Was there some blog award committee? Now I know. Okay, I dub...hmm, let's see, who doesn't already have one or both of these awards...oh, I'll just guess:

1. Helena Halme - http://helenahalme.blogspot.com/ - people, read her blog! Her How I came to be in England series will hook you from the first paragraph.

2. Elizabeth Bradley - http://elizabethbradleyfiction.blogspot.com/ - for her lovely short fiction, etc.

3. Maia's Into The Moonlight - http://maiasintothemoonlight.blogspot.com/ - for her brilliant blog.

4. Mirth in Manchester - http://mirthinmanchester.blogspot.com/ - for being so mirthful and nice.
5. An Officer and a Garbage Can - http://veronicawarning.blogspot.com/ - for her warmth and sense of humor.
6. The world according to donut girl - http://bookywookie.blogspot.com/ - because I never know what I'll find there but I know it'll be witty/funny/interesting.
7. Shanster's Goats N More - http://shanstergoatsnmore.blogspot.com - for her always hilarious, always sunny, occasionally touching anecdotes.
8. BooksEtc. - http://elisabethstewart.blogspot.com/ - because I love to read her blog...lame way to put it but gosh it's late...
9. Beth and Writing - http://bethandwriting.blogspot.com/ - exquisite poetry.
10. A Writer's Journey - http://strangewriter.blogspot.com/- for showing me that being close to Eckert Tolle-hood is possible.
11. Meris's Vienna For Beginner's - http://merisi.blogspot.com - for her gorgeous images and poetry.

I was supposed to limit the list to ten (or was it five?) so I suppose I'm pushing it here already, (totally arbitrary rule, feel free to break it those of you awardees who want to pass it along) but I also want to add a 12. Everyone and anyone on my blog list who wants a blog award. We all deserve to be awarded. K, done.

Bloggy friend love - i. e. blog awards!

Thanks Shannon!!

Thanks Celeste Maia!!!

Thanks Theresa!!!

Thanks Elizabeth!!!

Thanks Mara!!

Thanks Lianne!!

Thanks Helena, Sharon, T. and La Belette Rouge!!

Waking dreams of beauty

Ever looked at someone and guiltily wondered how they bear up looking like that? Some years ago I contracted a severe case of chicken pox. It was so bad that within a week I would need plastic surgery. Until then I still, periodically, had to come out of my hiding place for food and other such necessities. But since I'd depleted my strength in recovering, and because I cried every time I looked in the mirror, it took hours to get ready, hours to gather up the nerve to show my face in public. Once a double take in my direction was enough to make my day. Now I devised ways not to be seen. But when I was, my survival instincts would kick in in the form of acceptance and defiance. Because to react otherwise meant a short walk into the ocean with some rocks in my pocket. Yes, I would think whenever my face caused the dreaded look in a stranger's face, this is what I look like for now, this shell, this mask you take to be me. What of it? And, oh by the way, eff you.

I counted the days to my surgery. That was when everything would magically return to normal. Well, hopefully not everything. A few weeks prior to all this my sister rang me up simply to tell me that her misery was all my fault. Afterwards, my fuckwit of a brother, the person who gave me the pox, only laughed at how much more severe my case had been compared to his, which, in his mind, proved how much better he was than I. Such dysfunction had to change. Physically, emotionally, I couldn't handle it anymore. So I wrote them an eff you both letter, an impassioned and thorough explanation of why they would no longer be a part of my life until I decided, if I ever decided, that they could again consider themselves lucky enough to know me.

Surgery day the doctor cut around my facial scars, seven in all, then sowed them back together. Despite the painkiller he'd injected all over my face, I still felt nearly every cut and stitch. But I didn't care. Every slice of the knife, every prick and pull of the needle meant hope, long life, renewal. For the next two weeks I had to keep my face as still as possible which meant no laughing (not that there was any danger of that) and chewing (protein shakes morning, noon and night. I haven't had one since). And now, except for a few minor scars, there's no sign I'd ever been struck by the pox. And my relationships with my brother and sister - especially with my sister, thank goodness - have been reset to a course more to my liking.

What brought that up? Only this...

an etching by Max Klinger (from his On Death, Part 1 series) I saw at the SF Legion of Honor last Sunday. I know, I know. Just be glad I didn't dwell on any of his other images. Like the sleeping mother unaware Death has walked off with her baby. Or the live and very bewildered looking baby sitting on his mother's grave. Fun stuff. Anyway, this image, to me, is a reminder against the attachment to youth and beauty and all things ephemeral. And how detaching from these things is inevitable and necessary if the normal cycle of life is to continue. (What would I have done if I'd been unable to let go? If the doctor had said there was nothing he could do? Would I still be here?)

Still, who wants to think about such things when you don't have to? Here are images to counteract any possibly negative effects from the first part of my post, images of pure loveliness. Careful! Don't get too attached...
This painting (Jose Jimenecz y Aranda, Holy Week in Seville, 1879)) takes my breath away, it's so gorgeous.

This one too. Oh, those textures and colors! I love the expression of the woman in this portrait (Portrait of a Lady, 1591). And the way she proudly proclaims her age, 54, for everyone to see. This should be every woman's conception of growing older.

Here's a couple of works, both by Monet, I could get happily lost in ... Sigh...if only one could camp out overnight in a museum. I'd sleep under this painting...
Oh, and here is me in my new dress that I mentioned in my previous post...This is how it makes me feel...

Thank you God, universe, whatever, for Ann Taylor dresses, plastic surgeons, beautiful paintings, museums my art will one day be in...brothers and sisters...