Been missing painting with Tracy...

I suppose one should rotate photos before posting them, but I just didn't know how to do it, so here are our efforts from Tuesday after a dreary slog of a run, Tracy sniffling with a cold, the clouds threatening to open every step of the way, and the weather just plain grumpy.  We settled in an sang at the joy of applying paint, fiddling with color and generally making nuisances of ourselves to each other and probably to the wider world.  I mean, WHO on earth needs more coloring endeavors?  I surmise it isn't the product that matters, but it is the pleasure in the paint and the process that moves us to make art; no matter how many times we begin the dance across the canvas or the surface (mine is a board), each time brings us a fresh perspective on ourselves and on our process.  Besides, the whole thing makes us laugh!  What could be more meaningful?

Possession

This is the dog I love and the son I love.  I do not feel that I own or possess either one, but there is something about men and ownership and possession that baffles me...

Examples: this morning I was running up the road, and a man with a big dog on a thick leash had crossed in front of me, and as he stood on the grass of a neighbor's house, his dog on that thick leash was standing in the road, the leash blocking my path.  I slowed down and gently moved the dog closer to the curb because the man did NOTHING to pull him in, forcing me into the middle of the road if I'd gone around the dog.  I continued with my run, clearly leaving behind me a problem.  The problem was speechless but then began to scream at the top of his lungs, "Don't touch my fucking dog, BITCH."

I was reminded of running with my husband years ago when I tripped when a dog ran in front of me; I was down on the ground, gravel ground into my knees, elbows and legs.  I looked up to see my husband, running after the man with the dog instead of tending to his wife who was bleeding and down on the ground!  HE might as well have yelled, "Don't touch my bitch, DOG!"

Men...

Christmas Sunshine

Morning glistens through my windows in the corner of my house where my book tree sits dormant, waiting for the dark to descend when I turn on its lights.  The promise of sunshine today makes me gleeful.  It is the day I will take presents for the children at the Jane Addams women's shelter, and I will give the little girl her baby doll that I promised her two weeks ago.  It is also a day when I will have dinner with both of my children, a time when I can hold them close and remind them to love each other always and always.  Also, it is a time for bubbly champagne and a time for laughter because the two of them are unrestrainedly hilarious.

Mostly it is a day for rushing around but feeling calm in my soul and serenity in my heart because I do not feel that I am hurting or unkind to anyone, probably because I do not feel threatened or hurt or victimized by other people.  Maybe it's being unmarried. Whatever it is, I accept my solitude, wrap myself in it when I can but share myself whenever I have the opportunity.

Serendipity: hats and random friends

How often do we walk along a road or a street and notice an article of clothing hanging up, begging to find its owner?  I seem to see it with some frequently - the lost sweatshirt, hat, sock, or shoe, hanging on a fence, a bush or merely lounging on the sidewalk, anticipating a living soul to stick an appendage or a head into its living space and fill it with a soul, a being to move, bend, run or walk and give this piece of cloth or rubber or wool a life.  It saddens me when I see a hat squashed into the leaves or jammed into the corner of a curb, as I saw this one the other rainy day, but lo!  This morning I find to my delight that some gentle soul had lifted it from his soggy existence on the ground up onto theses lively red leaves of a bush, dangling jauntily as if the hat belonged.  Somewhere.  Something about pavement, street, floors that suggests death.  Raise up that cap, tuck it onto a burning bush, and suddenly possibilities abound.  The dew just dusts the top edge, but otherwise, I can just imagine a man on his daily walk, coming upon the cap, looking furtively about him before he gently takes it in his hand, turns it slowly around, estimating the size of his head, flicking off the lingering dew and securing it neatly onto his head.  He would then turn and walk with a little skip in his step, feeling sartorial from the very top of his head, and walking all along the Wissahickon, whistling as he went.

I set these little fellows up to dry and rest together and realized that they were probably already communicating with each other.  Look at the orange side on the tall right piece of wood as it speaks to the orange front of the little middle guy who has a deliciously pink head of thread.  Tracy wants to group her wooden paintings together, but I hope she will bring along the stray little guy.  He's not yet finished, but I think he has promise... Isn't that really was all life is about?  Promise?

Whistling at my post...

I have learned that a colleague and a sister do not like my whistling while I am at work; my colleague says it hurts her ears, and my sister says she "would kill" me.  It troubles me to think that something as innocuous and joyful as whistling can generate such vitriol and such violence, and I begin to wonder at the value of glee in the face of gloom and the embrace of sorrow.  I surmise one could eliminate from one's life all negative people, but when that includes one of the colleagues of whom I am fond and a sister I love, that becomes an impossible option.  Stop whistling?  Cease cheer?  Wallow in drear?  Bruise my soul to let out the wail I worked for years to eliminate?  No, thank you very much.  I shall wrap myself in music, dance and joy when I am alone or with Tracy and Nancy who understand the drive and the energy that keeps us churning out whistles and color and song.

And so I churn.  And paint.  These please me, albeit in a rather processional kind of way; I know they aren't finished, but it's funny; I didn't know that when I "finished" them years ago!  I revisit this old pastel painting that I loved for years and years, especially a little squiggle down the middle.  Gone now, the squiggle has been replaced with swirls of color: lime green, aqua blue, lavender and a touch of red.  The orange makes me happy, but I did leave the grey block and the blue door, both of which I used to love.  I will see if they stay next session.

This is an oldie that needed depth, and I still don't think it's finished, but it is beginning to speak more clearly to me.  The purple "happened" when Tracy dropped a hug blob of dark purple on her board, which she has taken home to mull over, and I couldn't bear to waste any of it.  I nipped into it and slapped some onto the middle of this piece, blending it in with my fingers and some water; Still it looks rather blobby, but maybe more shadowy and mysterious.  I am liking the windows on the door.  Again, I can only wait and watch what "happens."

This was a painting of a white door in my bathroom, a door that had shadows and brilliant reflections on; I could never get it quite right, so today it became the blue door with a green shadow.  I remember really being haunted by that old 45 we used to have, surely my older sister's, "Green Door," and this is beginning to evoke the spirit of the green door, but the highlights have turned out nicely.  The little pink splotch behind the door is actually a painting that I tried to put into the original.  I think maybe the hint of pink suggests something also a little mysterious.  I shall see.  I wonder if the white tile is really discernible and if not, it shall go the way of the white door.  I still quite like the knob.

Over and out for today, a day of a crisp run in the cold, an encounter with Debby and her new dog, Suzy, and a GFS parent from Jack's class.  Tracy and I danced and sang to Sweet Honey and the Rock, both parting, I hope, feeling refreshed, affirmed and vital.  I did.

Back at it with gusto!

When I can't paint with Tracy, I'm on my own, and this little flower arrangement begged for attention one night when I was alone and color beckoned.  It's acrylic on a board - all these boards are left over from Leo's wonderful project of building my potting space and shelves in my entry porch.  I feel so very lucky!

 Tracy and I finally got together after two weeks of not painting on our regular schedule and she brought a whole box of NEW Sennelier oil pastels; we charged into them as though we had all the money in the world with no cares of excess of waste, and the process was full of glee and giggles and what I thought was exquisite work.  This is Tracy's earlier piece that I thought was whalish and watery, but now has depth and design.  The board on the left she has just placed on top of the larger board, and I really like the dimension it adds.  I couldn't resist when she had finished the small piece of lumber and had to add the reds on it - I like those moments of bounce!

This is a print from 1999 that has hung in my front hall for years - yup, I suppose lots of years!  It fell down as it had been stuck onto another board that I'd painted green.  Once it fell, I was invited to "work" it, and that I did!  Those oil pastels are magical and ever so enticing.  I pulled out that light blue, orange, green and yellow and tried to add zip to a print that I'd turned upside down.  I used to like the drip of ink that had looked like an orange monkey in the upper right hand corner, but I just left him hanging there when I flipped the piece upside down, and he is no longer very important.  I will see if next week he may even disappear even though Tracy is SURE that this piece is DONE.  I'm not yet so sure...

I also love that the photo of my brothers and sisters happens to be sitting on the window sill next to the painting, an unintended gesture that suggests to me that all is right with the world.

Chance encounters...

I am thinking about my trip to New York to meet Lisa at the Met and see Nozze di Figaro.  The Megabus was late, the young girl next to me had ear phones with rap blasting loud enough to make me cringe and squirm.  I was grading papers but could feel myself getting grumpy and unkind, so I stopped, closed my eyes and said my mantra as loud as I could in my head; I tried to meditate for 25 minutes or so.  When I opened my eyes again, the noise had not stopped, but the girl reached over and turned my light back on for me.  For a moment, we looked into each other's eyes, and we both smiled broadly as I said thank you.  She was just a kid, knew no better, and she had shown kindness to me.  And I was grateful.

When I took the Metro back into the city from Park Slope the next morning, I was a little unsure which side of the platform the train would show up, so I came up behind a woman who was standing near a bench.  I didn't realize until I came in front of her that she had JUST taken a big out of a raisin bagel or bun or some such thing that sticks to one's teeth in globs of soft dough.  She grinned apologetically, and I laughed and apologized profusely before she could speak; we both laughed, she answered my question, and as I looked back over my shoulder, I could see that she was still chuckling.  As was I.

When I got to the Megabus line, I noticed my friend Will about 8 people ahead of me.  He was taking the 9:15 and I was taking the 9:45 but decided I'd try to make the earlier bus.  I hung around while the bus became more and more jammed, but there were 3 extra spaces, and after some hesitation, looking around and checking, the woman finally took my $5 for changing my reservation, and I hopped onto the bus.  I skipped up the steps to the second floor and saw that Will in his eternal optimism had sad on an aisle seat with a free one next to him; he looked back and waved me in.  He chattered the whole time back to Philadelphia, and I gleaned more information about tugboats and the waters and hills around New York, so it was an adventure in data that I will probably never be able to call back to mind; however, he did tell me about his wife's dying mother who had become a dominatrix.  Now THAT was a tale about which I can retrieve every, single detail, but I shall have to keep them close to me because his wife is working on a book.

I was only able to have these encounter because dear, sweet Tracy kept Shadow for the night; we painted both Tuesday and Thursday, and she is working on some other little pieces to go with the grand whale.  It still thrills me to see her colors and her light.

Mine is clunky by comparison, but I do like the way the cloth leaves make their presence known even though I've painted over them with purple.  Nicky tells me that it's a tree with water and mud; right on, Nick!

Now we wait for the chance encounter that is Hurricane Sandy.  No public transportation, no school, no orchestra and a case of beer on hand; is this heaven or what?