Who couldn’t do Abstract Landscape Painting?
I arrive early at The Art League’s classroom all ready to CREATE. No need to feel intimidated. Any four year old can do this stuff. In fact, the idea of wielding colors around reminds me of those free-flowing kindergarten days.
Unlike Miss Cotrell’s Kindergarten class, we should have received a supply list and brought items to class.
The other students got the memo. They arrive with so many tubes of paint and fancy art tools that they travel with specialized art tool chests on wheels.
I arrived with a pocket sized notebook and pencil.
After the introductory lecture about how to lay an expressionist base, the teacher sends me off to the store where I spend a couple hundred dollars on acrylics, brushes, canvases and a thing called Gesso, which I had read about but guess I’d been pronouncing incorrectly.
When I return to the class-in-progress, I see two different kinds of student art works:
After class, I approach a woman who has done a #2 type painting.
“I love your painting.”
Unmoved, she says something like thank you.
“Do you love your painting?” I ask this hoping she might say that I can have it.
“It’s a lot different from what I usually do.”
I would feel like a jerk saying “I’ll give you $100 for it,” so I don’t.
I regret it.
It happens she’s a graphic designer. I learn there are three graphic designers in the class, looking for their muses. There are also award-winning landscape painters, all taking the class to learn “letting go”.
Our first assignment is to be loose – out of control. Baby, I am the queen of no control. We begin with bold black strokes, applied randomly on large canvases. I call this The Preliminary Barfing Stage. It lays the base for the illness which will continue with dry heaves for another two hours of art class.
My painting is so bad that I leave it in the art school restroom where it belongs.
Later, an artist friend, Allen, counseled, “Make a list of everything you hate about your painting and then do the opposite.”
I give myself permission to sit quietly with a tiny piece of paper. I take a sip of water. I breathe Zen, I dip into gray and stroke one time with my brush. I let gravity have the second turn.
Do you remember the euphoria that comes after vomiting? The chills and fever are done. The stomach has calmed. The terrible illness has finally passed.
With the proper lighting and frame the Hirshorn will have a line and timed ticket entries for Zen Plop Collection. Don’t you think so?
There’s nothing a church musician hates more than one more “Merry Christmas!” We’re not Scrooges, but think of the poor tax accountant on 4-15. Imagine April 15 as a much-loved time of gift giving and feasting. The tax accountant is chained to her desk, which is heaped with papers – clients are lining the hallway waiting their turn. No “Happy Tax Day!” for her.
A typical Christmas Eve where I work:
And y’all come back now for noon on Christmas Day!
Merry Christmas To You Too, Buddy!
My guard is up against that bastard Pere Noel. I’ve actually had a bruised buttocks from sitting on the organ bench so long.
But today is April 15, far far away from Jesus’ birthday party. I’m safely in my studio teaching piano lessons – coaxing young students to read music.
Often I use songs children know to make a fun puzzle of bass and treble, whole and half, space and line. Even in April I’m not above pulling out a carol collection for a reluctant reader. What seven-year-old can resist Jingle Bells? My student, Jasmine, said she did not know The First Noel. I sit down to play it for her. It’s April. My guard is down.
And sneaky Father Christmas sprinkled magic on my heart.
It’s the best time of the year!
February in Barbados: Books, Beach and Beer.
We used to be adventurous travelers, walking – or at least driving – perimeters of islands to see it all.
These days we enjoy a more relaxing winter vacation. Even though we’re young, my husband and I are not above staying in “old folks hotels” where clientele play cribbage in the afternoon and evening bands cover Frank Sinatra.
Sunset comes early in the Caribbean. After watching the orange ball sizzle into the sea, we make early suppers in our room – salad and yam with butter one night. Rotisserie chicken and green beans another night. Last night from our balcony we heard an unusual set of songs from the restaurant band. Billy Joel, Kat Stevens, Simon and Garfunkel.
What are these people thinking? Music from the 70’s? This is an old folk’s hotel!
We are a strange Thanksgiving trio – Diane, Mel and David. On this day of grannies, cousins, sisters, uncles and orphans, it’s just the three of us.
The only thing traditional about our holiday is that Someone has purchased an 18 pound turkey (“it was the only fresh one left”) and has enough stuffing for 20 people. (and Someone Else eats low carb)
Enter friend Jeanne and her invitation to join them for dessert at 6:30.
There is every reason we want to accept.
Except …. and I know this is strange….
I just hate eating a big meal while the sun is still up.
If you’ve had Jeanne’s desserts you do NOT want to pick number four. (Low carb, Who?)
Think. Think Hard. There must be a way.
Muscle your way out of the box.
SAVE THANKSGIVING FOR FRIDAY!!!
There’s plenty so come on over. Even a low carb sweet potato pie!
Washington Post Article: China rejects reconciliation with Dalai Lama
“China sees the game as mostly over, with a few odds and ends remaining that it can weather with little discomfort……
As the Dalai Lama ages, Beijing also thinks it has time on its side. It is almost certainly planning to engineer the Dalai Lama’s succession, to raise a young leader more favorably inclined toward its rule, and promote him over any rival chosen by the exile community.
But the Dalai Lama irritated China recently by suggesting that he might not reincarnate.
Officials from the avowedly atheist Communist Party responded by accusing the Dalai Lama of betraying his religion, and insisting that the party itself, not the Dalai Lama, would decide whether he would be reborn.”