Seasons of the mind

This lingering winter has acted strangely on me. A few days ago as I was feeling ready for a spring that is yet to come, I grew impatient for other things as well and had an existential artist crisis. I started a painting that was promissing and at a certain point felt frustrated as the damn canvas wasn't quite understanding what I was telling her. I sat and looked at it and could only see what was wrong, a detail that could be worked on, by the way. But no matter what, I started telling myself this was not it, that my efforts were not paying enough, and thought that only a couple of the paintings I did in the last few months were worth something. Worse, I started thinking I'd better go back to my "peintre du dimanche"(sunday painter) status. Yeah, retrospectively now I know why I was telling that to myself: as an amateur I'd be in a comfort zone, I wouldn't have to feel compelled to produce some progress. It would be so much easier. The problem is I want to be good in everything I do. That could be a good definition of an artist's mindset, I guess. My other "problem" is that I cannot afford to be a full-time artist, as I have to work for a living. Doing a job I love, by the way, so yes, I'm a whiner.
So on that evening I covered the damn canvas so as not to see it anymore and decided I'd probably not touch that one again. It sat there for 3 days. Then on coming back home after my ride back from Whatcom county, a beautiful ride it was, I thought "let's have a look at that thing" . I lifted the fabric covering the canvas, stepped back, looked at it, and thought "not so bad". And covered it again. Now since then I realized, and, helped by my wanderings around the county taking landscape pictures, accepted the idea that spring may be long to come. That this was a long, but beautiful winter. I also had several internal monologues while driving, the essence of which being that I didn't have any right to whine over my fate, that I had the life I wanted, and if it took time and work to get somewhere wasn't it after all just the natural order of things?
As usually when I'm in such a negative state of mind, nature came to my rescue. I am fortunate enough to be living in as private and magnificent a setting as can be. So the other night as I was sitting on the deck of the boat at night, listening, amused, to that beaver still working on its tree, tictictictictic-ticiticiticticitic, that fellow made me smile and I got aware again of how industrious those creatures are, and I imagined the relentless patience it required them to build their lodge.
Now I know what was missing in that painting.

I'm ALIENATED! (Subtitle: Bra,bra,bra..)Rated R, no, X

This is a very serious matter. I think about this sometimes. Every time I've been wearing a bra made of synthetic. At the end of the day I come home and I furiously remove all layers till I can reach the damn chindero, the bra, and get rid of it, yahoo! Now you'll tell me I just shouldn't wear synthetic bras, thank you, I know that. I try to wear ones made of cotton, they're much more comfortable. And less nice to look at. Dang. However, my problem, I realized, is not only my intolerance with synthetic underwear. It has to do with my wearing bras period. For several reasons.Yeah, I know what you're gonna say, those who know me, just like that gynecologist, back in Paris, who couldn't help burst out laughing as I undressed: "Why was I wearing a bra?" She said I didn't need it- which is probably right- (75cms, that is tiny) and believe me, finding that size in the US is even harder than in France, and there is very little choice. Dang. Hence the synthetic chocolate bra, one of my favorites, but damn it, that thing is itchy!. So what do you do when you're a coquette, and have a 75cms tour de poitrine and breasts that look like 2 eggs sunny side up ? (forgive my English, at this hour it usually goes downhill and I end up speaking pidgin). So what do you do, huh? I was thinking with envy of those African women who don't bother with wearing them, and who - the bitches- have the most gorgeous breasts ever. Pointing up. Dang.
So I was "why the hell do I bother wearing those things, with a 75cms tour de poitrine?" Why? because I've always been told that if I don't do so, it will faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllll!!!!! AAAAaaaaaaaarrrgghhhhh! Noooooooooooooo!!!!!! ( now that's not my cave woman self, it's what's remaining of the hype Parisian) and then the horrible discovery: I'm ALIENATED. I asked myself, if all women stopped wearing bras, would you still wear them? Of course not. And I don't read women's magazines. And I don't always wear the damn thing. So I'm a mild case, I guess. Hey, I think that judging from the state of our economy, our politics, our culture, our endoctrinment and our various degrees of political and sexual apathy, we should be ready pretty soon for a second beatnick-hippy- flower power-sexual liberation-bra liberation front. Serious.
The circle is closed...

I wish I were always a squirting artist...

I've been thinking lately of the painful process of creating. It can be fun, and most of the time it is, but it is also something that may draw a lot of energy out of one's self. The other day after spending hours working on a couple of projects, I suddenly felt washed out, and SORE. My body was aching everywhere. The reason why it is so I think I know: during this creative process, that is not unlike gestation, you direct all your concentration and energy towards trying to squeeze the best out of yourself. Some days it is a painless, exhilarating process, you just ooze of creative juice, you squirt it out alla prima, so to speak. Other days it's just like giving birth to a baby that is taking its time, you push, squeeze, and nothing or almost comes. Or something comes but you've been on it for so long that you don't know any more whether it is good or bad. You're just too exhausted to know. I have developped somehow some sense of getting to know when to stop though, at least to let the canvas sit, and do something else. The congas I installed in my workshop are extremely helpful for that. When I'm squeezed out I just drum for a while and it usually helps, since it seems to disconnect me from what I was working on, and as drumming connects me with my "cave woman self", it usually brings mental images, and then I'm ready to get back to work on the project. Going out helps too. Have a walk. Look around. Have a mental conversation with myself. My main problem as an artist is that till recently I painted when I felt like, that is when it was painless. I decided if I wanted to evolve I needed to WORK, work a lot. Aie-Aie-Aie! Merde. My other problem is that I want to be good, very good, in every thing I do; and that days have only 24 hours. Aie. And that I love everything I do, and even more. I want to do more. AND I also want to LIVE. Aie. Quite a challenge. How to quench that thirst?

The pinacle of catalogue sales and marketing...

...or how to seperate you from your money. I found at the cafe a sample of those catalogues where you can order articles supposed to make your life easier. I started reading it, and found a few hilarious things in there. I couldn't resist sharing.
Let's start with page 3, where my attention was drawn to a trio of "magical mushrooms"- Do these guys ever proofread what they write in there? I mean, you know, " a trio of magical mushrooms, what does it sound like to you, seriously?- so I have a look at those, supposed to add "a woodland whimsy" to a garden bed, and the reason why I was attracted to them is that they remind me of a story that occured in France in the late 90's. The "Garden Dwarwes Liberation Front" started kidnapping garden dwarves in France and Great Britain. What started out as a second degree humor hoax ended up as a very popular movement, that regularly got news coverage. In Great Britain the kidnapped dwarves even sent potcards to their previous owners, in true tradition of British humor. The thing got serious though, as it provoked reactions of the "international Association for the Protection of Garden dwarves"and triggered debates around the notion of despising popular culture. I'm serious, google it, you'll see.
Now the next item that attracted my attention was on page 5, and THAT's a deal there:
the "daughter-in-law afghan". Now the mysterious reason why they call this an Afghan, as it is as remote as possible from an Afghan carpet, you will have to explain to me. However, for the modest sum of 29.98 USD, you can get the most horrible throw imaginable, with cheesy flowers on it, and an equally cheesy welcome message on it for your daughter-in-law, and it's 60x46''!
I'll remember this catalogue if my daughter Leila ever shows up with the intention to marry an asshole, I'll know where to order my "welcome to the family" gift... If that doesn't make him runaway, then I'll have to erase her from my testament.
Page 5 now, ah, that one's good: "Fleece earband holds cap on-keeps ears toasty warm!"- keeps you damn ugly and deaf, for sure. Now if my man wears this, I get a divorce, man. - Eddie, if you read this, you now know how to get rid of me -
Wait, it's endless! here is another one, p.9: the "broken chain" stepping stone "honors those family members who have passed on, while offering a message of comfort to those who remain behind. behind what? Wait till you hear the "comforting message":
"Our family chain is broken,and nothing seems the same; but as God calls us one by one the chain will link again."
Well as far as I'm concerned, no thanks, the later the better. I love U Dad, but I'd rather stay here longer. And what sort of comfort is that, that reminds you that death strikes blindly and that you might be the next? Ok, this is a discussion that has to take place somewhere or sometime else.
Now on the same page, we got the "hamburger press" that "shapes perfect patties". Tell me, are people so lazy they can't do that with a spatula anymore? Or does it have to do with that control freak obsession of everything having to be "perfectly shaped", that is, your patties, your waist, your trees, your kids, ... I'll stop here, we're on a slippery slope.
Ok, now as I'm writing this, I just read another one and I'm just holding my ribs, as we say in French, now listen, here is another dimension: A "Seen on TV" article. Urine Gone! - What an elegant name, by the way - Here is part of the ad: "Darken the room and use the included "stain detector" black light to let you find the urine messes". No kidding. In case your family was composed of a hord of grotto people who had never seen a toilet. The catch phrase is pretty clever, though, appeals to the powerful collective inconscient of American subculture. Kids are gonna play "X Files" on saturday night with that black light, that will keep them busy and may allow their parents to finally have a sex life. Yahoo!!! 19.98 too, that's a STEAL, man.
A dubious article now, on page 21: "How to think like a horse" ??? The book in itself is probably a good one for anyone interested in horses, but it's just... who the hell writes their ads obviously has not beeen proofread: " Read and become aware of how horses like to be rubbed, bur never tickled" ??? and again: "Learn about their zones of sensitivity, body language" ??? I think the guy just copy and pasted from an erotic review. They also claim to teach you how to "speak horse". Another sequel of that movie, I guess.
Now an item that for a split second gave me false hopes, the smallest travel iron that "smoothes out the wrinkles in seconds". Dang. That's not for my wrinkles. False joy.
Page 25 you have my favorite, the "cat free face"" with vivid green eyes is a head-turner!" says the ad. I'll sure turn my head the other way, man. "It will certainly catch everyone's attention". Consists of 6 pieces in varying sizes!" Jeeeze!
P.26, you have the "Booster" car seat that gives your pet a window level view!"
P.31, we got a serious concurrent to Roberto's angels. Roberto, watch, and learn, here is how to make money! 14.98 a piece. Send them your angels, man.

Le SEL

My previous post reminded me of one thing:
One is a parallel network in France called "le SEL" (Systeme d'echanges locaux, in English LETS, that is, local exchange trading system) where people trade things and services instead of buying. The system was first created by a Scottish man living in Vancouver, Canada, in the 80's, Michael Linton, who had this idea because he was struck by the number of talented people who couldn't afford many things.
I here quote the shortest definition I found online:
"LETSystems are local, non-profit exchange networks in which goods and services can be traded without the need for printed currency.
LETS networks use interest-free local credit so direct swaps do not need to be made. For instance, a member may earn credit by doing childcare for one person and spend it later on carpentry with another person in the same network. In LETS, unlike other local currencies, no scrip is issued, but rather transactions are recorded in a central location open to all members. As credit is issued by the network members, for the benefit of the members themselves, LETS are considered mutual credit systems.
Michael Linton originated the term "Local Exchange Trading System" in 1982 and, with his wife Shirley, for a time ran the Comox Valley LETSystems in Courtenay, British Columbia. The system he designed was intended as an adjunct to the national currency, rather than a replacement for it, although there are examples of individuals who have managed to replace their use of national currency through inventive usage of LETS [citation needed]."
LETS systems were introduced in France in the 90's, after Great Britain, Australia, the Netherlands. In 2004 France counted more than 350 such local trade networks. In GB at the same time they had 300 groups, with more than 20.000 people.
Think about it.

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Little treasures to keep

I was reading Roberto's post on his blog on springcleaning,
http://ablogeclectic.blogspot.com/
and I was wondering, what is it that makes us humans accumulate those tiny treasures that we jealously keep from the declutter mania? I was thinking it may have to do with whatever amassing instinct is left to us, or the nesting instinct, the territorial instinct. And my living in a small space is giving me a hard time preserving that instinct. However I claim the right to keep those things, the right to nest, to mark my territory, the right not to follow the trend of political correctness, not to follow the dictatorial slogans of those magazines "De- clutter! Get rid of the clutter! Make room! How to make your space look bigger, etc..."
Mind your own business, who are you, to tell me what I need to keep or not, who are you to tell me how to arrange my nest and make it look like a Martha Steward home? I don't want my home to look like Martha Steward's! The devils even try to make you feel gulity about it. Make it sound like it's a disease. They make seminars to teach you how to declutter. Pretty scary, if you think of it: get rid of everything personal. Get in the mainstream. Live in a new house that's the spitting image of your neighbor's house. Buy the same things.
I say NoooOOOOOOO!
Don't be mistaken, I do my springcleaning too, not because I have to do it as a good housewife, but rather to be in tune with nature's renewal in spring. So I do take some things out... to put other ones in.
But I do keep the treasures: The letter mom wrote to me when I left to settle in my first apartment in Paris. My Navajo friend's cedar flute. A token Eddie and I exchanged back when I was in Paris. A doodling Kurt made at the cafe and gave me. Jeff's poem. A card my daughter wrote me after my divorce where she told me "Mama I'd follow you in hell", some gifts and cards my ballet students gave me. A copy of an egyptian cup from the Louvre museum my students offered me. Pieces of fabric. Pieces of jewelry that I don't wear but keep because of their sentimental value. Newspaper articles. Some of my old paintings that are ugly but make me feel good when I look at them since I can then see my slow but sure progress. A hilarious little story my daughter wrote when in primary school. Rocks collected each time I go to the beach. Sand from Tunisia. Red sand I gathered from Monument valley, that I put in a pot made by one of my Navajo friends. My favorite pictures, books, magazines (not Martha Steward type). My ballet shoes. (Don't laugh, my husband still keeps 2 of his racing bykes, that takes much more space!). It's endless.
In chinese astrology, I'm a rat. That's probably why. So I'm a rat, a river rat.

Elements of nature

It's raining today. A steady pre-spring rain. I usually don't like it when it gets so soggy but on my way back home I thought"good for my garden"and I decided to make the best of it, exited the highway to come back home via Dyke road, so as to switch off from work mode, and was immediately rewarded by the sight of hundreds of geese in the fields. I stopped, and watched. Further on I stopped again, to look at the bald eagle's nest, the same place as each year. Those things are huge.
Once at home I first went down to the boat and had a snack, watching the rain on the river, the river that got faster. It was so soggy that even Mr.B didn't bother going out, he lay there having a nap.
Now I'm sitting here in the trailer, listening to the rain, dripdripdrip-drip-drip.drip-dripdripdrip... and as often in these days of steady rain, there's a leak in the trailer. Had to put a little bucket there. I like that. Disruption. Irruption of nature to remind you that you can't control everything.
I had a little tour of my garden. The light was yellowish outside. I saw a bald eagle perched on the tree by the beach. I looked at my plants and trees, trying to see which ones were likely to recover from the winter damage. I examined them, searching for the tiny buds announcing the coming spring. I observed the water drops on the edge of the Japanese maple branches, what a strange thing they are, the essence of life.