Mayknart

2012-02-03T19:46:00.000-08:00

Most of my classes are for older students (high school and above) who are working on portfolios for art college admissions. But sometimes I also teach younger people.

I don't know about you, but when I was 9 years old, I was still drawing goofy hearts and rainbows. Look what 9-year-olds are up to these days . . .

In this class for homeschoolers at Excellence in Education, I have a whole family - including Dad! They are a talented group.

We meet for only one hour, once a week. And again, my students amaze me.

Note: I apologize - when photographing the work, I did not have the youngest son's drawing with me, or I surely would have included it!

The Thrills of the Public Library

2012-01-15T09:29:00.000-08:00

I love my library. I can get almost any book and keep it for weeks on end, free of charge. It's rather amazing.

I also love the little unexpected pleasures that come from sharing books with thousands of people all across the huge city of Los Angeles.

A while back, I read The Education of H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N by Leo Rosten. As I finished the last page, I felt pleased and satisfied. Not quite ready for the book to be over, I slowly turned the end page and found one last perfect word:

My reaction, exactly.

More recently I was reading The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Lots of great insight about art making and the obstacles we encounter. A good portion of the book is about what the author calls "Resistance." It describes the self-sabotage that seems a part of most artists' lives. The reader cannot help but instantly recognize instances in their own life where resistance has played a major role in keeping success at bay. Here is a page that really got me thinking and examining the role of resistance in my life.

Let me zoom in and show you what else I found at the bottom of that page:

Apparently, I wasn't the only one examining their life.

Storytelling at the Long Beach Playhouse

2012-01-02T11:30:00.000-08:00

In July and December, I was lucky enough to be included in a story telling contest at the Long Beach Playhouse (in Long Beach, California). The stories had to be true, something that happened to the teller, and told in less than 6 minutes.

July was my round of semi-finals, in which I placed second, allowing me to continue on to the finals.

My qualifying story was about my mother's final days with brain cancer, and her surprising final words. It was wonderful to tell that story in public and huge thanks for my friend Wendy. She was my coach and made all the difference.

So there I was, riding my scooter to the bus stop ...

For the finals on December 29th, I chose a story as different as I possibly could - a funny story of my adventures one day when I found myself in the role of "the crazy lady" on the city bus. (See what I looked like when I returned home that day from my crazy bus trip.)

. . . I fell hard. On my head . . .

Not sure what I'm talking about here.

What a great experience! But, ah well, I placed 2nd again.

Whatever the outcome, I was proud of myself for pushing to do something new, (as my friend Jason says: for showing up and saying Yes!) that I had serious doubts about several times, on the verge of cancelling my participation at one point. My favorite part of the whole thing, which I would not have wanted to miss for the world, was my husband's beaming, smiling face as I returned to my seat after my tellings.

People commented that I looked comfortable up there on stage, acting out my crazy-lady adventures. I admit, I was nervous, but I realized that standing up in front of my students - acting out my excitement and love of drawing, often spontaneously and helplessly breaking out into song - all those years of teaching had prepared me well.

(Thanks to Pam and Sherry for the photos.)

How to Make a Plaster Tape Mask

2011-12-30T11:03:00.000-08:00

Here are your tools: a container of water, a pile of newspaper, scissors (that you don't mind ruining), masking tape, plaster tape (I got mine from NASCO), a towel (that you don't mind ruining) for wiping your hands.

Cover your working space! This can get messy!

1.) Mash up the newspaper in the shape and size of your head. Tape the newspaper so it stays in the shape you want. You can measure your head if you want, but we just hold the lump up and ask, "Is this a good size for my head?"

2.) With more newspaper and tape, add the appendages of your choice - a big nose, horns, ears, warts, a beard.

3.) Cut the plaster tape into strips. I like them about 5" long and 3" wide, but it all depends on your mask.

4.) Dip the strips into water. Dip, don't soak. And immediately lay the strip over your newspaper shape. Smooth it a bit with your fingers. The plaster will fill in the gaps in the fabric mesh of the tape.

5.) FACE - Continue dipping, laying, smoothing the strips, criss-crossing them to add strength. Three layers of strips minimum. It dries stronger than you expect. Smooth it as much as you want. Cover the face of the mask, front only.

6.) EARS, HORNS, ETC - If you have small appendages - like the octopus legs, (don't worry, we know it only has 6 legs) - wrap the strips all the way around, front and back of the leg/horn/etc. Add a bit extra at the places where they connect to the face.

7.) Let it dry overnight.
(Don't throw the used water down the sink. Plaster is nasty in the drain. And don't wash the towel you've been wiping your hands on. Again, plaster is nasty in the drain.)

8.) When it's dry, pull out the newspaper. If it doesn't want to come out of the horns, let it stay. If there are any weak spots, you can add a few more strips of plaster tape.

DON'T FORGET TO COVER YOUR WORKSPACE!

That's better.

9.) Hold it up to your face; mark some eye holes. Take it away from your face; cut the eye holes with an X-acto knife.

10.) Decorate! Paint, markers, collage, feathers, beads, ribbon . . . . It's lightweight and sturdy and the possibilities for plaster tape go way beyond mask making.

My CoachArt students' finished masks.

Please Note: These masks are primarily for fun and decoration. If you want to wear your mask, I recommend careful brushing and cleaning to remove any bits of plaster dust (especially around eyes) and then lining the inside with felt.

I Can't Wait to Get Back to My Students

2011-12-28T20:14:00.000-08:00

After the long holiday break, I can't wait to get back to my students
and see what wonderful things they come up with next!

Two new classes starting in the new year!
Excellence in Education in Monrovia beginning January 6
and
Urban Homeschoolers in Los Angeles beginning January 18

And of course, my "College Prep" classes at Otis start up again February 4

A Word for the New Year

2011-12-08T11:16:00.000-08:00

Today, someone asked me to choose a word for the new year. I think I will choose listen.

Listen more carefully and fully to those around me. Don't be so quick to add, fix, blame, or judge.
Remember that my students have much to offer. Don't always be too eager to prove, to explain, to be the expert.

But now I find another kind of listening. I am pausing in the silence of my house. Usually, there's noise in my head telling me: "You're not working hard enough, you're not producing. Is this really the best use of your time?"

But with a word like listen, it also means stop listening. Stop hearing the negative.

So I'm pausing. Waiting. Listening to the silence and the clock ticking the seconds by. It's ok. The clock continues to tick. The good silence continues. Just listen.

What's your word going to be?

Art Postcard (or is that Art Card Post)

2011-12-02T18:53:00.000-08:00

Remember these?
They came in a little gift bag, given to me by a student.

Today I rummaged through the bag to help me make this.

It's a post card for LA-Artist.com.

They send you a post card; you create a little piece of art;

you stick a stamp on it; you mail it back to them.

Open to anyone who calls themself an artist in L.A.

(I know "themself" isn't a word, but I'm still using it.)

Mask Making

2011-11-28T12:51:00.000-08:00

My CoachArt students decided they wanted to make masks. Guess we should have done this before Halloween, but - oh well. (Check out the How-To here.)

Here's what we've got so far . . .

This week, we'll add some plaster tape . . .

And next week, we'll paint them, then add feathers or beads or fabric or gosh, who knows - anything goes.

Can you imagine this as a mask . . . ?

Going to be great!

They even made a tiny Humpty Dumpty one for their little brother . . .

UPDATE:
Here are their finished masks!

Homeschool Drawing Class for Los Angeles/West San Gabriel Valley

2011-11-22T23:45:00.000-08:00

New Drawing Class for homeschoolers!

Friday afternoons, starting in January, I'll be teaching at Excellence in Education in Monrovia, CA.

In this class, everyone's ability to make, look at, and talk about art is emphasized. Through explorations in value, line, composition, perspective, color, and content, students will discover the excitement of drawing. Most class work is from observation (interesting still life set-ups). Each class includes at least one group critique when students learn to look at and talk about each other's drawings. They learn to have confidence in their own ability to draw, as well as seeing "what makes a drawing work."

Each month will have a different focus, concentrating on new drawing materials and content. Continuing students will begin to develop and incorporate individual interests and meaning into their work. New students are welcome to join in at the beginning of any monthly session.

We'll explore drawing with charcoal, oil pastel, pencil, collage, and other alternative art materials.

No previous art or drawing experience is required. Projects can be modified for all levels of art and drawing experience.

Foundations of Drawing
Age: 12 and up
Parents welcome to join in - $10 tuition discount for parents
Class Mettings: Fridays, 1:30 - 2:30 pm
Location: Excellence in Education, 2640 S. Myrtle, Monrovia, CA 91016
Length of Session: Monthly
First Session: January 6, 13, 20, 27
Cost: $45 tuition + $10 materials fee (continuing students $5 discount on materials fee)

Contact me for further info: mayknart@yahoo.com

The Accidental Hawaiian Crooner

2011-11-18T09:20:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, at a Lynda Barry writing workshop, I met Jason Poole.

I thank Lynda Barry's "Writing the Unthinkable" for many things in my life, including Jason Poole.

He's The Accidental Hawaiian Crooner and the story of how Hawaiian music changed his life is one of my all-time favorite stories. Now he studies Hawaiian culture and music; he sings (oh, how he sings), plays ukulele, and tells stories. He generously shares, never holds back.

Here's a recent blogpost from his site (www.accidentalhawaiiancrooner.com)

Strumming with Kids and Planting Seeds (Part 2)

An afternoon of sharing the ʻukulele and the ipu heke. (NYC 11.17.11)

Last Thursday, I wrote about a new 6-week residency that I have at an elementary school in NYC as part of their after-school program.

I’ve been brought in, one day a week, to share the joys of strumming the ʻukulele. And if you’ve ever met me, you know that I can’t talk about the ʻukulele without sharing stories about Molokai and the other Hawaiian islands–and even a little school-kid-kine keiki hula for fun. In my mind, they’re not exclusive. Each supports the other.

Here’s the funny thing: they bring me to the school to educate as well as to enrich the school experience for these amazing kids.

And I can honestly say that I am being educated–and absolutely enriched–by my time working with them.

No joke.

Today I brought my ipu heke, a double headed gourd that is often used for percussion in hula and Hawaiian music.

We worked out simple traditional paʻi, hula beats and rhythms. A beat such as (U-T-U-T-T) is something they are very familiar with. During the school day, their teachers clap that rhythm as part of a call and response way to get the kids’ attention. I was so excited to say “Hey! You already know this beat!” And they were excited to share some of the other rhythms they know. (They are exposed to world music through workshops like the one I’m sharing, so they’d had some experience with drumming.)

Then we took those very same rhythms we’d been clapping and strummed them on the ʻukuleles.

Um…totally awesome!

Working on chord progressions with them can be - well - a challenge.

I might have up to 18 students at a time, ranging in age from kindergarten to second grade. And I’m getting them after a full day of classes. So attention spans tend to be shorter. And I’m one teacher trying to share hand positions with18 kids all at once. We do a lot of open chord strumming on the ʻukulele!

But I have to tell you…

It’s like magic when they’re all strumming together.

Some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.

And I love watching them dance. And I LOVE hearing them sing. (And it’s so much fun to hear them scream with delight when I sound the pū, my conch shell trumpet! I think they’re hoping I’ll blow out some of the windows–Ha!)

It’s an awesome way to spend an afternoon.

Yes, I’m exhausted afterwards. But it’s a good kind of exhaustion. It comes from doing something fantastic.

Right on

A Gift From a Student

2011-11-16T17:15:00.000-08:00

A few Saturdays ago, one of my students gave me a little gift bag. We were soon to be starting a collage project in class, and she said this was for collage. I took the bag and briefly thanked her.

At the point where she gave me this little gift bag, I hadn't yet brought in my own work to share with them, which often includes tiny frames.

Oh, how I hope I thanked her, beacuse I'm only now, nearly a week after the end of the 10-week session, getting a chance to look carefully through the bag. Here's what's inside, to thrill and amaze me. I don't know how they know me so well. I don't know if I ever thank them as I should.

LOOKIT!

2011-11-13T18:23:00.000-08:00

I just finished another session of Portfolio Development classes at Otis. You'd think, after all these years, that I'd be tired of it. Nope.

It just keeps getting better. My students continue to delight and surprise me. They laugh at my jokes and occasionally even sing along when I spontaneously and uncontrollably burst into song. Around class #5, we had a lovely rendition of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head." More about that later.

For 10 weeks they have been listening to me yell, "Draw, I tell you! Draw! Show me something I've never seen before! Draw, draw, draw some more!" Even so, they still had nice things to say to me at the end. More about that later, also.

But for now, what I really want to say is - - -
Look at what one of them did.
Look at This.

The Pet Post

2011-11-10T11:00:00.000-08:00

Ok. I know this blog is supposed to be about the teaching/mentoring side of my life. But everyone else seems to have a post or two about their animals - so here goes . . .

This is our "Donkey." If I had made a list of everything I wanted in a dog, I could not have gotten as wonderful a dog as Donkey.

I found him at the Pasadena Humane Society, a pretty nice place as far as the dog shelters go.

Donkey and I go on long walks in our urban neighborhood and into the open hills of Northeast Los Angeles where I find some amazing things. . .

. . .like these snail shells and animal bones which I take into my studio and, what else, sparkle 'em up with gold and copper leaf.

But back to the pet story . . .

Tuesday, as the weather turned cold, Donkey started to limp. We don't know exactly how old Donkey is. The estimate is between 5 and 7 years. As he limped around, I thought about arthritis and hip problems setting in. I stood at the stove, making dinner, and imagined our sweet Donkey, old and unable to walk, needing to be taken to the veterinarian to be put down, euthanized.

As I stood at the stove, all I could see was that horrible trip to the vet, imagining every detail. I stood there, crying into my taco meat.

We've only had him since April, and already I can't imagine our home without him.

Turning the Critical Voice to Good

2011-11-03T10:52:00.000-07:00

This weekend I worked in the yard. I pulled and cut at ivy. I gathered bags full of carob leaves. I picked up small handfuls of wrinkled nasturtium seeds and threw them somewhere else, while thinking of orange-, red-, and yellow-crinkled petals for spring. I worked on things for myself, thinking of nothing much in particular. And then I paused, to take in the yard, to try to see it as someone else might.

It's all too easy to hear the most critical voice; to notice only the untrimmed trees, the dirty lawn furniture, the dying vegetable patch.

So I am careful, in those moments, whose eyes I choose to look through.

I like to imagine to be my friend Wendy - turning about, noticing things I hadn't ever considered. Things turn to good when I look through her eyes.

There, I see a neglected succulent with long ugly stems and funky, leggy roots trailing down to make an unkempt spider web to the ground.

"Fabulous," Wendy says with a giggle. "You must tie it up with a big red bow!"

I spent a fair amount of time this weekend, wandering and wondering. And it all felt like good progress.

Running Into Former Students at Otis

2011-10-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

I love it when I run into my former students at Otis, now full-time students in the BFA program. (I love it even more when I can remember their names!)

Last week, I separately ran into two former students. One had been in my beginning drawing class in Summer of Art, where he was clever, funny, and very hard-working. The other had been in both my beginning and advanced Saturday portfolio development classes. In my class he was quiet, thoughtful, and hard-working. These were two students with very different backgrounds and personalities.

Whenever I have the lovely occasion to see my former students, I always make sure to ask them if they are happy at the college; if the program is giving them what they want and need. I always ask. And I always get the same reply: "Yes!"

I love it when my enthusiasm for something is reciprocated. The reward is great, knowing I've helped someone achieve a place where they can, with a smile on their face, say, "Yes, I'm happy."

Drawing, Side by Side

2011-10-13T22:45:00.000-07:00

CoachArt improves the quality of life for children with chronic and life-threatening illnesses and their siblings by providing free lessons in the arts and athletics.

The other day I showed you my 11-year-old student's drawing.

Now, here is her
9-year-old brother's
drawing of the same
vase of ivy, bird of
paradise, etc

In case you misssed his sister's drawing, here it is:

We meet, the three of us, once a week. I love how we sit side by side, drawing and talking, looking at the exact same objects, and end up with very different-looking drawings.

How to Start an Oil Pastel Drawing

2011-10-05T18:54:00.000-07:00

This post is in response to a student who will be missing class this Saturday. (Darn that PSAT.) We'll be starting color, using oil pastels.

I rarely demonstrate for my students. I prefer for them to jump in, up to their necks, splash around, and figure things out. I want their drawings to look like their drawings, not mine. But for the beginning of our exploration into color, I do demonstrate. A little. Another reason I don't demonstrate very often is that I simply LOVE to draw. I will draw, and draw, and draw, my students waiting patiently behind me, while I have a jolly time all the way. But instead, my students could have been at work on their own drawings, having their own jolly good time.

So now, a quick example from a student:

This is the first step in a well developed, beautifully mixed, oil pastel color drawing.

We start with white and two blues. We begin to build the form of the objects, making them appear 3-dimensional. Remember how we used the eraser to create lights in the charcoal drawings? Now use the white pastel.

Think about the form (shape) of the object and how the object turns away from the light source. As it turns away, it will get darker. Switch to the middle-blue pastel. Then, as it gets really in shadow, swith to the darker blue.

BUT WATCH OUT! Don't let your color get too thick! Notice in the example how the grey paper is always showing through. You aren't creating a blue drawing - just a beginning of form. Lots more needs to happen with all those beautiful colors in your box. If you get the blues too heavy, your final drawing will look either childlike or muddy.

Look back up that blue and white drawing. Notice the color on the Easter egg? Now look at the drawing below:

That same Easter egg is now a reddish-orange. She used a little of the compliment (or opposite) in the darkest areas of that egg. The opposite of red is green; yellow - purple; orange - blue.

Now look at that little yellow cube. Look again. One more time. Is it gorgeous? Yes! Is it gorgeous because a little plastic cube is an amazingly interesting object? No. It is gorgeous because she slowly built up color (blue, white, pink, purple, orange) in the darker spots, and used the local color (yellow) to unify them. The only place where it's just yellow is in the brightest spots where the light shines directly on it.

And be sure, before you go off to start your own amazing drawing, that you take a close look at browns in the little wooden block.

Lovely.

Look and Look and Look Some More

2011-09-29T22:36:00.000-07:00

My 11-year-old CoachArt student finished this drawing/collage today. I'm very proud of her. We meet once a week for only one hour and she jumps in with both feet, eager and ready to work.

We looked at a simple glass vase with some ivy, bird of paradise, and other plants that I have no idea what their names are. And this is what she created!

At one point, she pointed out an ivy leaf and asked, "How do I get my leaf to look just like this one?"

I told her the secret:

You look, and look, and look. You draw a little bit. You look again. Then you draw, and then you look some more. You'll see what you missed the first, second, and third time. You'll find that you LOVE that stupid ivy leaf. And you'll NEED to show someone - show them what you've found to love in that simple, seemingly uniteresting thing.

Artwork used with permission.

52 Weeks of Mail

2011-09-20T12:24:00.000-07:00

I have had my best friend since 2nd grade. That's a long time - 1968-ish.

But we go long stretches without hearing from each other. We rarely speak on the phone or email.

A few years ago, my Christmas gift to her was a handwritten letter each week, for a year. I know she loved receiving those letters. And I know that I was changed, for the better, by the entire process.

And so, this year I am joining in with many others at "52 Weeks of Mail." and committing again to a year of letter writing.

I have started making little collages on file cards and other discarded/unwanted casualties of the digital era. I'll probably be using a few of them as cards for note writing.

I haven't yet decided who to give this letter-writing gift to this year. Should it be you?

Is It Just Me?

2011-09-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

One of my long-time teaching gigs is a beginning drawing class for highschool and early-college-age artists. Although open to anyone, generally they are students who are planning on applying to art college. Besides giving them info on observational drawing, I help them begin, continue, or round out their portfolios.

I've been teaching this and similar classes for a long time. In the last few years I've noticed that the level of skill that students are bringing to my class has leaped forward exponentially.

For example, take a look at this drawing from last session's beginning class:

It's not just me, right? It's amazing! This kind of drawing has become more typical than atypical.

Every semester it astonishes me, the level of work coming out of these people (average age 17). I was nowhere near that level of skill at their age. Where is it coming from? I'm flabbergasted.

But then, I remember what I tell my students, explaining why I work them (and myself) so hard, expect so much out of them:

Yes, class is all about them. Our goal: great drawings, fabulous portfolios, exploring art in new ways. But really, I tell them, bottom line it's all about me. Their wonderful drawings make me, as their teacher, look good.

Is it just me? Sorta. I like to think so, anyway.

Student drawing used by permission.

2011-09-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

I volunteer with CoachArt.

Their mission:
CoachArt improves the quality of life for children with chronic and life-threatening illnesses and their siblings by providing free lessons in the arts and athletics.

Today was my second lesson with a brother and sister here in my neighborhood. We had a good time, drawing, talking, laughing. Our time was up, and I could not believe it had already been one hour.

At my car, I fumbled with my gear, trying to find my keys, when I heard a voice calling. I looked up and saw my young student's happy face in the window. He called down, "I could go to college. I could be an art teacher!"

I called back up to him, "And I bet you would love it!"

(Next week I'll share their finished drawings. They're doing some great work.)

Happy Anniversary

2011-09-12T16:34:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I began teaching a new session of Portfolio Development classes at Otis College of Art and Design. These classes are geared for young artists hoping to attend art school. We mostly concentrate on observational drawing (think still life with crazy objects).

As I walked around the classroom, giving instruction on how to achieve correct proportions and create interesting compositions, I told my students, "It's all about relationships between the objects." I went droning on about "Relationships, relationships, relationships, rela . . . ." When it suddenly dawned on me.

"Hey, Monday's my 29th wedding anniversary."

Relationships indeed.

In drawing as in art, relationships are the key.

Counting Peaches

2011-09-11T11:10:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I’m a homeschooler. Er, I was a homeschooler.

Last year, my son chose school - brick and mortar school with homework, principals, and fundraisers.

I was sad that our homeschooling adventure was coming to an end, but I must admit that my son chose a wonderful school with devoted faculty and administrators.
And although the course load has been demanding, sometimes overwhelming, he has made a pile of faithful friends, and learned much about himself. (That's him in the above photo, with his zipper pants, at his school's art show.)

As for me, I was left to reinvent my role in the family, and to re-examine my personal goals.

By spring my son was successfully navigating his way through his first year in school. I, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to find my way. I continued to bumble along, wondering each day if my actions had been fruitful, if I was making the best use of my time.

On the first day of spring, alone in the yard, I noticed our little peach tree suddenly full of tiny peaches, still with purple-pink flowers attached. The next day, I stood by the tree again and began to count them. After having counted six or seven, I scolded myself for wasting time in so obsessively frivolous an occupation. But then, I imagined myself a child, counting the fruit buds so I could tell my mother. I imagined her surprise, eyes opening wide as I triumphantly told her, “There are 51 new baby peaches on the tree! Did you know that?” She would say no, she didn’t know that, and would praise me for counting so well, for being so clever in noticing the beginning of spring.

Standing by the little peach tree, this seemed reason enough for me, now at age 48, my mother dead for 20 years.

I stopped scolding myself and continued counting . . . 29, 30, 31 . . . many more still to count, when I imagined a different voice in my head. It was my 14-year-old’s voice, with an accusing, “What DO you do all day while I’m at school, Mom?”

I heard myself answer, contentedly, “I count peaches.” And hoped I would actually have the courage to do just that.

(Excerpt from article originally published in California HomeSchooler, a publication of the HomeSchool Association of California.)

Reworking my blog

2011-09-09T13:19:00.001-07:00

I'm reworking my blog to be more about the teaching/mentoring side of my life.

Mentoring with CoachArt

2011-09-09T12:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my first day as a mentor with CoachArt.

I have a brother and sister, sweet as can be. We spent the hour making squiggly marks on paper, talking about our favorite TV shows, and making textured color rubbings by laying our paper over everything bumpy or lumpy that we could find outside - the walls, the sidewalk, the trees, the stairs, the car tires, the trashcans. (Cool numbers and letters from the trashcans.)

Next week we are going to use our textures to cut, glue, and draw to make collages like the one above.

As I was getting ready to leave, the little boy asked, "Can you come back tomorrow?"

I wish.

Framed Shrinkies

2009-10-02T19:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've been here,
so somehow thought it appropriate to show a piece I made some time ago.

3" x 3"
shrinky dink with colored pencil
polymer clay with gold leaf
wood molding

I made a lot of tiny Framed Shrinkies (more to come) and sold many. Got a little tired of them, but still, they are sweet.

Mexican Trains

2009-04-12T19:01:00.001-07:00

I've been making lots of these lately. . .

They're for playing the Mexican Train Domino game. Find out about it here.

Want one? Let me know if you do.

But you have to get your own dominoes. I found my dominoes at Target.

Rolodex Project

2009-04-06T21:56:00.000-07:00

Check out The Rolodex Project at leafcutterdesigns.blogspot.com. Her projects are pretty cool. In The Rolodex Project, you send her a Rolodex card with a drawing on it. I couldn't stop with just one . . . here's a sampling of some that I sent.

A Pig on a Pedestal

A Thoughtful Frog

The Library at the Armory, Pasadena

And then she sends some others back to me in return.

For her it's all about vintage fun. But for me (yes, still cell phone-less) a Rolodex is part of my everyday life. The cards I get in return will be tucked in there to make me smile.

Hunca Munca Rides Again*

2009-03-01T10:49:00.000-08:00

We still have our Christmas gingerbread house sitting on the buffet in the far corner of the living room.

OK, OK, it's pretty sad looking, I admit. But the "snowman" in the right corner always looked melted like that. And it's not nearly as sad looking as the Christmas tree we kept up till Easter one year - not an artificial tree either. So this sad little gingerbread house stays on the buffet because I don't really want to trash it and it's easy to forget about it most of the time . . . until the scritching-scratching started.

We have, from time to time, especially in the late winter and early spring, mice in our house. (Better, I think, than the snake we once found under the bed.) I started hearing some scratching from that corner of the living room and it seemed to be coming from inside the wall. The lower half of our living room is a funky rock wall. Above the rock, the wall is extended up another 6 feet with wood and drywall. After the recent cold snap, a mouse seemed to be making a nice warm nest where the drywall meets the rock wall, and I was glad that the scratching wasn't coming from the pantry where our last mouse had been nibbling through a bag of pasta and a granola bar.

Last night, as the scratching from the wall was particularly loud, I decided to take a closer listen. Creeping over near the noise I was shocked and delighted to find that it was indeed coming from the wall. But not the drywall . . . the furry little so 'n' so had eaten his own little custom door through the back gingerbread wall and moved on in.

I almost can't bear to set out a mousetrap. It's so . . . fairy tale like! I believe Rumpelstiltskin may be lurking under a bush in my backyard and Rapunzel could be living in my studio. I might even find glass slippers in the back of my closet. I still don't believe in fairies though.

* Thank you to my aunt Saki and cousin Michael for reminding me of Hunca Munca, and The Tale of Two Bad Mice by Beatrix Potter.

Menagerie News

2009-02-25T16:20:00.000-08:00

It's not an animal but it's still a part of my gold leaf menagerie. It called out to me at the thrift store the same way the pig did. What else could I do? Home came the wooden bowling pin and out came the gold leaf.

Part of the Gold Leaf Menagerie

7-1/2 inches tall

2009

More Gold Leaf Menagerie

2009-02-15T10:50:00.000-08:00

Most of the Gold Leaf Menagerie is made up of thrift store finds. But this little wooden coyote (3 inches tall) was my mother's. A strange thing, I suppose, by which to remember my mother. It's gold now, still wears its original kerchief, does remind me of my mother, and I am happy.

The Gold Leaf Menagerie

2009-02-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

I'm standing, flipping through the rack of new arrivals that's been left, haphazardly, in the middle of the main aisle at my local Salvation Army.

The rack and I completely block the way. An older woman in ill-fitting 80's style clothing in gaudy colors, stops next to me. Her oversized bag gets lost in the clothing rack as she squeezes into the aisle. Long, stringy, graying hair, a child's barrette pulling her bangs back over her forehead, she smiles a loose grin with a missing incisor, and warmly admits that she recognizes me. Yes, I've seen her around too.

"Come on over and have a sit with us." She motions with her head towards the chairs and couches for sale, placed around a worn-out coffee table with a $20 price tag. "You're a regular; you belong over here chatting with us. We have nice talks."

Yes, I visit this Salvation Army store a couple days a week. Yes, I'm a regular, but I'm not a chatting regular.

I check today's stash:
- a lovely, tastefully beaded black Alex Coleman vest. Maybe I'll wear it at Christmas.
- a long and lean, foot-long, wooden pig. It feels warm and seems to oink a golden oink at me. "Take me home, gold leaf me, I'm perfect," it says.
- a small and grimy child's school slate that might be old enough to be worth something, but I plan on gold leafing the border and chalking in something clever on the slate.
- a tiny wicker bird cage, about 3 inches tall, without a price tag.

I thank the lady for her invitation and quickly flip through the rest of the rack before moving on to the checkout counter. I chuckle over the thought of hanging out at the furniture section while the guy behind me in line picks his nose, and the young man in the red Salvation Army vest loudly sings along with Crocodile Rock playing on the stereo marked $15.00.

My beautiful vest and wooden pig are recorded in the cash register, treated as items equally worth taking home on an early Thursday afternoon. I love how a 40-year-old hand-beaded vest and a "Buy One/Get One Free on Brick-a-Brack" item receive the exact same nonchalant reaction from the counter lady. She picks up the tiny bird cage (also destined for gold). The rule is "No tag - No sale." She looks up, recognizes me, and pushes the cage towards me across the glass-topped jewelry-filled countertop. Conspiratorially, and with a smile and a sweet wrinkle of her nose, she says, "You just take that, Sweetie."

Glancing over at the furniture section I feel strangely honored by the earlier invitation. Of course there's no question that I want to buy these things. It's fine. I'm a regular.

Softly singing along to Crocodile Rock, I check my outfit, my bag. Pointing into the glass case I spy a little costume jewelry piece and say, "Can you show me that barrette?"

(More from the Gold Leaf Menagerie coming soon.)

Why I Make Art

2009-01-24T11:50:00.000-08:00

Back then, in those preteen years of mine, my fingers used to wiggle. Sometimes my arms moved around simultaneous to the finger wiggle. Draw anything and the wiggle would stop: A chair in the restaurant, a pant leg (with or without shoe), a couch in a living room, or weeds growing outside the window. Whatever it was, people liked it. They told me I had a secret; that I possessed the miracle of art making that they could appreciate but not understand. I could pretend I was self-conscious, making a fuss about not wanting to show my sketches. That way I could reinforce their belief that I held a secret. And if I did finally allow the sketchbook to be opened by them, they were suitably awe struck and did not try to pry the miraculous secret from me.

And I, to play my part, was suitably silent and humble.

When my mother was dying of brain cancer, for the last four months of her life, I cared for her day and night. People would tell me how wonderful, how brave I was. They thought I was being so completely unselfish. I must hold some kind of secret, because they thought they wouldn't be able to do that sort of thing. But I moved into my parents' house, bathed, coaxed sips of water into, changed the diaper of, held the hand of, and tried desperately to understand the mumbled mixed up words of my dying mother for completely selfish reasons.

I wanted to be like God. I wanted to understand everything. I wanted to be omniscient. I wanted to make instant connections between life and death, and have it all make sense. I wanted to know everything and hold it all in my hands. I wanted to hold my mother's pain and her inability speak, her jumbled, mumbled words, even my dad's false teeth or the dead skin that peels off my feet, my mom's diseased cells multiplying as a cancerous tumor, her dog that never left her side, the scar on her head, the one on her neck, and her missing ovary. I wanted to care for it all.

But all I could do was care for my dying mother, and make art. I made vessels so I could try to hold that cancer and pain.

Now, I'm older. I no longer want to be like God. The vessel stage has passed (sort of). My fingers no longer wiggle and I'm happy to shove my art work in front of anyone feigning interest.

There are no more secrets. Even if there ever was one, it was only ever this simple: This is what I do.

Squirrel Bones and Possum Skulls

2009-01-13T16:21:00.000-08:00

Although I live in the city of Los Angeles there is much undeveloped land in my neighborhood. In my backyard I have found: owl pellets with full, intact vole skeletons hidden away inside; many possum jaw bones; a squirrel carcass just fur and bones that was unfortunately squirreled away by some other animal before I could get at it. On the hillside across the street we have found: a cat skull with all its teeth; a possum tail; a portion of (I think) a small dog skull. I have even inspired little girls to collect bones for me on the hillsides of Los Angeles.

But why do I gold leaf them and put them in "ceremonial tins?"

The easy answer is: I can change something tiny (icky even) into something so big and worthy.

The short version of a complicated answer: Making forgotten dead things important - I realize now that even though my process has changed, 15+ years later, I am still making artwork about my mother's death.

Because of My Friend Rosie

2009-01-06T14:27:00.000-08:00

For the last few years, whenever I went to visit My Friend Rosie in the neighboring State of Nevada, we would hole up in her house for 72 hours straight and craft - craft, craft, craft, craft, craft. From about 1997 - 2005 I had been on a hiatus from artmaking. These intense crafting sessions with Rosie were the closest I came to creating art.

After one such weekend a few years ago, I ended up with this...

...the very beginning of my obsession with shrinky dinks, gold leaf, and birdhouses.

Soon thereafter, in an epiphany (hey, my calendar states that today, January 6, is the Epiphany), I realized that I could embrace my crafty love in the pursuit of "serious" artmaking.

Although I still see Rosie regularly, we no longer craft together. She has recently given me permission to write about the reasons for that. Perhaps soon, I will share that story here. Thanks in more ways than one, Rosie, for giving me permission to make art again.

Peripheral Vision

2008-12-26T11:54:00.000-08:00

(I wrote this sometime around 1991 after my mother had died of brain cancer. It has been edited for this blog.)

My mother told me that six days ago she noticed she had lost her peripheral vision. If she took her hand and lifted it from her side, straight up in front of her, she couldn't see it. She also realized she had been running into things and tripping over the dog, Louie. She said that the other night when they were out to dinner with their best friends from high school (my mom and dad started going together when they were 14) she knocked over two drinking glasses. The next day she went to her eye doctor who immediately sent her to her medical doctor who immediately sent her to a neurologist.

She has a brain tumor. I cried and she held my hand.

****
Ah, there's a parking space, on the other side of the street. Great, I can avoid the $3.00 fee in the lot here without having to go all the way up the street to the Von's store lot. There are the mountains; pretty clear for August. Damn it's hot. My sweaty finger gets a shock from the blinker lever. Hope it doesn't kill me.

I start to move over to the left of the one way street going north. The spot looks just barely big enough to back into. Those cars are coming up pretty fast behind me. They don't like it when I stop. How do they parallel park on a busy street? Am I missing something? Does that back blinker even work? Wesley is singing out the window from the passenger seat.

"Those cars are going faster than you, mom." He accuses between stanzas. Loud singing.

"Why are you slowing down, mom?" More singing.

"Stay in this lane, mom!"

Is there room in that spot? Sweat runs down my neck; drips from my armpit.

"Can I have a GI Joe for my birthday when I’m five, mom?"

"No, we've discussed it before."

More singing/yelling. Is that white van going to stop? I have to back into this spot. No, it doesn't even slow, but swerves around. I swing my head around to Wesley. The van honks, too loudly and too long. I yell at Wes to STOP for a minute so I can concentrate and park the car. As kids we played guns and war. Is it so wrong for my son to have war toys?

"Maaaawm, it's so hot…I'm tired…I can't walk anymore." His whining, and the cars, and the van honking, and that passing car radio, and the echo my voice makes in my head when I'm trying to talk over this cacophony - it bounces around and never comes out - and that Kaa-lunk, Kaa-lunk, Kaa-lunk of his cowboy boots two sizes too big.

"My back has been hurting again," I tell him. "Get up here first, then I'll pick you up and carry you." Wes climbs up on the three-foot high brick wall. There are bugs and bird-shit on the wall just like on my car. "Don't say bird-poop." With a straight face my dad scolded me when, at eight years old, I exclaimed what I'd found on top of our camper, "say bird-SHIT," he smiled. Wes walks on the wall instead of being carried.

This lawn is too green. Isn't there a drought? Why don't cars stop anymore? There's an empty aluminum beer can. I'll pick it up on the way back to recycle for a few cents. Warm Miller smells like pee. Wes will shake the can to get out the earwigs that are drinking their little pointed butts off. Do earwigs have butts? Yeah, they must.

Wesley picks one of every flower that we pass by. "For you, mom." I put them in my buttonhole and they fall out in the next few steps. I wonder if Wesley will ask me about them later.

He pretends to pick a three-foot rose that is painted on a billboard. "This one's for Nana."

"She'll like that, Sweetie."

There's a dead butterfly on the sidewalk, laying on a crack.

"Don't step on the cracks, mom"

We stop to watch ants crawling all over the butterfly's wings and dead body.

"Are ants good?"

"Yes, they eat and get rid of dead things. I don't like them in my house, but…." He's up at the next bush catching gold moths that are out for the small purple summer flowers.

"Mom, do bugs poop?"

"I think so."

Wes is indignant. "But they don't have butts!"

I'm trying not to step on the cracks.

"Are moths good mom?"

"Yes, let it go, your fingers take off the shiny stuff on their …"

"But I want to give it to the ants."

Is it wrong for a boy to want to kill bugs? I lift the collar of my T-shirt up over my nose and wipe the sweat off my face.

"For you, mom." Wesley Kaa-lunks up from behind and reaches up with one of the small purple flowers the moths were going after. I put it in my empty buttonhole.

In the hospital Wesley Kaa-lunk, Kaa-lunks towards the elevator "I want to push the button!"

The sign in the elevator says "Parking tickets validated for intensive care, days of admitting, discharge and surgery only." I could have parked in the lot today. There are scuffs on the dark brown linoleum. What is that white mesh stuff up on the ceiling hiding the lights? How come you never get used to that sick feeling when the elevator starts and stops. Wes looks at me and giggles, "Whoa." He folds his arms over his stomach as the elevator stops.

Four hours later the doctor comes into the surgery waiting room. Am I the only one who wants to cry all the time? No one else looks like it. Maybe I don't look like it either. The doctor is talking quietly to my dad at the door. Shouldn't he be talking to all of us? I overhear the doctor across the room, "Shurn dig um ash land dif radiation, but we feel good about it."

"Flab is nif ixm benign or only a few months to live," the doctor continues, …can't be sure yet, but we feel good about it."

Later we find out he was lying about the last part.

It's 11:00 p.m. I push the elevator down button. Wes went home with Al three hours ago. He cried and grabbed my arm and pleaded, "I want to stay with you! I want to stay with you!" I tried to think of the right thing to say. I heard him crying all the way out as he went with his dad. "I'll be home later. I promise."

A lady gets in at the second floor. The elevator continues down. The lady flutters her hand over her heart and looks up at the white mesh hiding the lights. "Heart be still," she says. I guess she got that queasy feeling.

"My uncle just had 17 stitches in his head!" she exclaims.

I look at her. Why don't people stop? I had to back up to park.

"Blood all down the side of his head," she continues.

I want to tell her that my mother just had brain surgery. I just look at her.

"Someone hit him over the head with a gun." I look at her. "And can you believe it? It was a friend of his!" she adds.

"Usually is," I tell her. We get off the elevator at ground level. I have trouble finding my car.

When I get home I look at my sleeping husband. My son is grinding his teeth in his sleep. I can hear it across our small house. I go to his room and place my hand on his jaw. I start the shower. The water is so hot. I'll just watch it for a while as it runs off my hair. And that water saving showerhead we got free from the DWP is so loud. I could have parked in the lot today. I forgot to give my mom the big billboard rose Wes picked for her. Why don't they see the back up lights and blinker on?

How to leave a Comment

2008-12-26T11:16:00.000-08:00

Several people have asked me about leaving a comment.

You may already know how and are now rolling your eyes, or you may be uninterested in commenting. If that's you, well just scroll along now and let the rest of us have a little conversation.

Anyone can comment. After clicking on "comment" under the post, you will be taken to a screen with a box on the right. Just type your comment in the box. Underneath that, copy in the "word verification." (I like to try to use this nonsense word in a sentence - good fun.) After that you must "choose your identity." Google account is the default and uses your email address which will show up on the blog next to your comment. If you don't want to use your email address, you can click on "name" or even click "anonymous." Be sure to click "publish comment."

balance, balance . . . barely balancing

2008-12-26T10:18:00.000-08:00

Turkey Shoot

2007

birdhouse, golf tee, gold leafed polymer clay, trophy parts

16" high

Turkey Shoot is part of the Altar/Trophy series dealing with the same issues as the previous altar post.

"Steady now, balance . . . balance, I think it's leaning a bit . . . careful! . . . ."

Altar

2008-12-06T19:23:00.000-08:00

Altar
shrinky dinks, trophy base, porcelain bowl
2007
7" high

Altar detail

The first in a series of altar/trophy pieces examining my willingness to make art while being a middle aged mom and an adoring craft lover. (Not craft as in well made - a master craftsman, although I can appreciate that. I mean that I adore the craft store.)

More altar/trophy pieces coming soon.

Feeble Earnestness

2008-12-04T21:07:00.000-08:00

Someone recently described my artwork as "feeble earnestness."

I was trained to be a serious artist; to digest critical theory; to name drop. Trouble is, although I take my work seriously, I can be a real goof. Reading critical theory makes me loopy, and I can never remember which artist's name belongs with which piece of art. Struggle, struggle, struggle. How can I be an artist if I haven't got the serious part of it down?

And so I've decided to take the "feeble earnestness" critique in the best possible way. It was an astute observation and a triumph of sorts. It seems to describe the hardworking goof that I am. I will revel in it, rejoice and roll around in it, like a happy puppy on its back with its paws in the air. Give me a little scratch on the tummy, will ya, by posting a comment.

Corpus Delicti (again)

2008-11-14T19:22:00.000-08:00

Click on the lower image to get a closeup of those teeth.

Another from the Corpus Delicti series

Part of a small dog skull

in a ceremonial Altoids tin

2008

"Holy eggplant May, that's a beautiful shiner"

2008-11-09T10:35:00.000-08:00

I live in Los Angeles.
I take the bus.
I ride a child's Razor Scooter several miles to connect my home, bus commute, and work.

Two blocks from the bus stop early on a Saturday morning, I decide to jump off rather than risk scraping the bottom of the scooter on, and perhaps falling over, an uplifted section ahead in the sidewalk. Good move, I congratulate myself. The next thing I think is, "Odd…my feet are not on the ground."

I fall. Hard. On my head. Laying on the ground, watching the blood drip on the sidewalk, politely asking my head not to bleed on my suede jacket, I marvel at the wild spinning sensation I’m experiencing.

Must....get....to work....

I stumble onto the city bus heading toward downtown L. A. and sit in the first handicapped spot, avoiding glances while trying to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. The white paper napkins in my hand, donated by a non English speaking passerby, are wadded and red as I dab at my bleeding, rapidly swelling eyebrow and lip. ("Es muy malo?" I asked the passerby. "No...," he said with a sympathetic uncertain look, offering me the bit of "papel.") On the bus, I'm thinking I look like a runaway battered wife, who has grabbed a few things in a backpack and escaped on the kid's scooter so the abusive husband wouldn't hear the car starting up and driving away.

How much blood is smeared on my face? I must look a mess! (Ya think?!) I lick a clean spot on my napkin and wipe my cheek, looking back at the napkin to try and get an idea of my appearance. Oh God. Licking my wounds! Now I just look freaky, forget the abused wife syndrome. I'm reminded of the very marginal guy who sat in front of me on the bus last week. He could NOT stop picking at a scab on the back of his head. It made me a little queasy, but just as he could not stop picking, I could NOT stop watching. I imagine everyone on this bus cannot stop watching this borderline crazy.

I'm sitting beneath the sign that asks me to relinquish my seat to the elderly and handicapped. Nobody should need to be told this with a sign - it's just good manners and our moral duty. I am embarrassed to have chosen this seat, but shakiness and an acute need to avoid eye contact keeps me here.

Thirsty, suddenly so thirsty. I open my backpack to pull out my water bottle. But I’m having trouble finding it and need to scrounge around, pulling out a few items to get a better look inside. I'm on my way to teach my observational drawing class which means I carry props with me for my students to draw. My backpack is my prop bag.

I pull out a stuffed animal - an old, gaudy orange and blue striped fish. Then out comes an onion, a lemon, and a little orange toy shovel. Who carries this stuff in a backpack? That would be the seriously marginal, probably crazy, wound-licking, trash hoarding lady on the bus to downtown L.A. The realization makes me laugh out loud. The bus turns onto Main Street and I've turned the corner to Schizophrenic. I am no longer embarrassed by my seat. Schizophrenics belong up front, always ready for a hasty exit.

This, quite obviously, is the makings of a good story. Laughing quietly to myself, still dabbing my wounds and feeling the lump rising across my forehead, with my stuffed animal in my lap, I start to turn towards my elderly Chinese neighbor to ask for paper and pencil.

corpus delicti (more)

2008-10-30T17:09:00.000-07:00

More from the Corpus Delicti Series
3" x 5"

Who would have thought so many small animals' bones could be found in a backyard in Los Angeles.

And, why is she gold leafing them?

a golden oink

2008-10-28T16:02:00.001-07:00

It Was Warm and Oinked a Golden Oink
work in progress
10"x 12"

My thrift store and gold leafing adventures in drawings and words, on a 78 rpm record sleeve book.

detail of page 2

detail of page 3

corpus delicti (cont.)

2008-10-26T20:29:00.000-07:00

More from the Corpus Delicti Series
2008
4" x 5" x 3"

Cat skull gold leafed and presented in ceramic box.

corpus delicti

2008-10-26T20:19:00.000-07:00

From the Corpus Delicti Series
2008
size - think Altoids

Small animal bones, collected from the yard and surrounding hill, gold leafed and presented in ceremonial Altoids tins.

point system 1957

2008-10-26T16:42:00.000-07:00

Point System 1957
(also known as Madge)
2007
12" tall

Commissioned by and created for a good friend - a sexy songwriter, a wife, and a homeschooling mom.

note to noho1960: no adhesive - the trophy part has a threaded attachment and she's just screwed right in there.