Fairy-Kissed Acorns

While walking at a local park, I came across acorns that were not the traditional brown or even the premature green, but a myriad of fall colors. Like a magpie, I collected pockets full. To prove the acorns were really this color, I took several photos, but I wanted to draw them from a still life. I had to get cracking before they turned to common brown acorns. Here is the result. This will be my next entry into the art league show and possibly into an online show. Except for some framing work, I am done with art for a while so I can participate in Nanowrimo.

                                                               Fairy-Kissed Acorns 

Butterfly of the week

Took longer than I thought, but here is the latest butterfly.

Art and rejection

 Today I was rejected from another show. To be fair there was about a 20% chance my art would be accepted based on the number of entries/space. I know fantastical art is not enthusiastically received at everyday galleries, but I decided to start trying again. For this first show, I didn’t enter my best work even though that is the rule. My best work is unframed, unfinished or in another show. I entered two pieces that I drew over ten years ago in hopes they would be accepted and sell so I wouldn’t have to move them around anymore. Again, I had little hope they would be accepted, but I was more disappointed by their rejection than I anticipated. While pondering why I should still feel so acutely for something that I drew over 10 years ago and that I knew was not my best work anymore, I came to a realization that those pieces of art work have become anchors weighing me down.

Allure of the Spinners

            How can I move forward with art work while I have all these pieces hanging about reminding me that I am not good enough yet? I can make all the excuses in the world such as the little exposure they have had and not finding the right art lover, but no matter what they really are, to me they have come to represent failure. They served their purpose to me while I was drawing them, but I should have moved them out of my life the minute I finished them, because now, after all these years have passed, I somehow feel as if I should be ashamed of them. Even though, when I look at them, I can still see past their faults into the beautiful bits and the joy I had in drawing them, but as soon as I stop looking at them they become the drawing that no one else likes. Since they are an extension of me, it becomes the part of me that no one else likes and then soon becomes a ridiculous declaration rattling around in my head that, “No one likes me.” All the while, the reality is that I have had many complements on them and people like me just fine independent of my art work. Still since they have become symbolic of failure instead of what they really are, the work of a young inexperienced artist, they must go. “Allure of the Spinners” will go to my mother and I will find a good and loving home for “In the Dust.” This show was the last chance for these two drawings.

In the Dust

But the thought of giving a drawing away is heart rending in its own way. All my drawings are my children and it is very hard to part with them sometimes. I’ve given others away, but I’ve given them to people who will appreciate them and treasure them. Unfortunately, there are a few drawings that I can’t imagine anyone liking enough to hang in their home and “In the Dust” is one of those. It is easier to imagine a stranger wanting to buy it than to figure out which friend will treasure it. What if I offer it to someone and they don’t like it? They might accept it out of politeness, look at it in horror and only hang it when I come for a visit. What if it ends up in the dumpster someday or is donated as one of those sad Goodwill pictures? How can I give it away when this might be its fate? I’d rather sell it to a stranger than risk giving it to a friend, because by paying the money for it the stranger has proved he wants to own it and love it, but I have yet to find that stranger. So, you see how I have chained myself to these ten year old drawings. I love them and they make me feel rejected all at the same time, but in the end they have to go. Good bye, little pieces of me. 

A Million Blue Butterflies

A couple months ago, I painted some blue butterflies and I liked them so much I've decided to paint a million more of them. So I have my start with a score of mini canvases to paint and here is my first butterfly.

Here is my work table covered in canvases in varying degrees of sky, cloud and so on..

Oil painting class projects

So here are a few paintings in varying degrees of completion from the class I took on color and oil painting. 

This is my first portrait with oils and even though it has problems, I am quite happy with it. BTW, she isn't angry. That is just the neutral face of a model that has to sit for 3 hrs while beginners squint at her from behind their easels. 

All in al, the class was a fun and interesting experience even though no one talked. 

Procrastination and its purpose

So I spend a lot of time not working while at my computer supposedly editing. There are too many breaks for tea and cookies and words with friends. In the month of August, where I had set a goal of editing a chapter a day for about 30 chapters, I have edited three. Many days I do something else instead of edit.

Yesterday, while doing a search and destroy for all the bad grammar habits I have, I stopped constantly to do something else. Then I realized something. My despair and self criticism would build up to a peak and I would want to quit because I was convinced I sucked and that I would never be a writer and that it would be embarrassing for anyone to read this drivel! At this point I would take an internet or words with friends break and then come back to my editing in a few minutes. So even though I am procrastinating for a majority of my allotted editing time, I am also moving forward. If I didn't take these little breaks for perspective, I would probably give up. So in reality facebook and words with friends is preserving my writing aspirations while making me the slowest editor on the planet.

So happy writing and happy procrastination!

Art and Color

I'm taking a painting class, all about color. It's half way through and while I feel as if I am learning new concepts, it hasn't answered in the social department. No one talks and there are times where I feel like screaming out at them, "I talk to a toddler all day. Please say something." But I don't and instead, I hand out candy in hope of making friends. Oh well. I'll have to buy friends with candy somewhere else. Here are the fruits of my labor. I liked the white urn, but please no more monochromatic stills.

And here is the ice dragon. I thought I would be done by now, but it is lacking that little something that makes it finished. So, I am putting it away for a while in hopes that the finishing touch will pop into my head. 

Editing – The final decision

So, after months of editing and rewriting I have decided to stop trying to salvage this version of the book. It was a hard decision to make and really took the last two months where I stepped away from the project to come to peace with it. Now that I’ve decided, I feel good about the choice.

            How did I just decide to throw away 6-8 months of work and start again? Well, it started when I just couldn’t keep editing the last quarter of my book. There was such a divide between the tone of the writing and the way the story had developed in my head. It was like try to paint over black wall paint. No matter how I changed things, the original tone of the book would show through. I also rewrote the first chapter for a writing workshop that I didn’t end up attending, but the first chapter was so much better as it was rewritten that I can’t go back to the original version. The tone is dark and fits the book. The characters are more real and instead of just going through the motions required by the plot, they are alive and feel the difficulty of their situation. I can’t wait to bring this through the whole book. So, yes, I am going to rewrite from scratch because I think the story and characters are worth it.

            And no, I don’t regret the time I've already spent on this project or the look at it as a waste of time. It was invaluable as a learning tool. Everything I have done on this book has been a huge step into making me into a better writer. First, it was the first book I ever finished and that is a huge accomplishment and still amazes me. I can look back at this book and still have that sense of wonder and accomplishment that I finished a book. Next, it forced me to take a critical look at my writing abilities and ask myself how I could improve. Taking the time to seek out ways to improve and learn was so important. This book has always been a “Throw Away” book (meaning I wasn’t emotionally attached to the idea and so wasn’t afraid of screwing it up). This idea gave me the freedom to learn without self criticism. Now, I think I’ve learned and am ready to move on and try again. Of course, the years I have spent with these characters and their story has changed my feelings towards the story and is no longer a throw away book, but I think I have grown enough as a writer to not be terrified at the thought of trying to write a good book. I am sure that terror will return sometime in the future, but right now I am excited to begin again. 

Eleven Floors of Art

Yesterday, I went to visit the Artomatic in Arlinginton, VA. This is an event where an old office building is filled with art before it is torn down. In this case, the 11 story building housed over 1,300 artists. Imagining that each artist presented 10 pieces, that is over 13,000 pieces of art. I confess; I didn’t see it all. We visited about 3.5 floors before I experienced art burnout. I wish I hadn’t waiting until the last day to go, but had planned several days so that I had a chance to experience and savor all the art.

Well, maybe not all the art. One of the wonderful things about artomatic is there is no gate keeper. There is no juror inflicting his particular taste on the show. There is no austere woman telling artists they are not good enough. On the other hand, one of the bad things about the Artomatic is that there is no gatekeeper saying that someone might need to practice a little more before they try to show some work. Everyone and anyone can exhibit. This lack of a gatekeeper creates quite the diverse experience.

What I came to realize while wandering through is that I don’t appreciate most art. I don’t get it. I don’t think it’s beautiful. I could do without it. That said, I don’t believe my opinion on should make a difference to anyone except me (and maybe my husband who might be inspired to buy me artwork). I’ve often wondered what other people saw in the art they decided to hang in their homes. I have no love of pastoral landscapes or elephants working in India. I don’t want to continually look at scenes from city streets or people at work or play. I don’t want to take the time to delve into the meaning of a piece of art. I want to see it and have everything it is conveyed to me in a blast of wonder. Then maybe I’ll be interested in what the artist was thinking. As I wandered through the Artomatic, I felt like I was just walking through rooms of noise with the occasional moment of silence when I found the art that spoke to me. These tended to be macro-photographs of nature, serene natural or abstract paintings, trees of any kind and anything with beautiful lines or bold colors. In other words, art that felt soothing. I hate to confess it, but I also walked out being amazed at how much bad art there was in the world. That is a secret, mean thought, so please don’t tell anyone. However, whenever I have mean thoughts, I am rarely content to let them stand unassailed. I must investigate and break them down to their primal elements. After ruminating over this thought for a day or so, I finally came to an epiphany. Art is about taste. I know, that ‘s boring and unoriginal, but here come the original part. My artistic taste reflects my preference for how I live my life. I love being in nature and often long for the childhood days where I could be out in the world and never hear the sound of mankind. I love the quiet wind in the trees. I love the small changes that happen every day from the bursting of a flower to the sprouting of a fungal castle on a rotting log. Art is supposed to inspire emotion and I hate being riled up, sad or riddled with angst. I want to be soothed or humored. So of course I am not going to appreciate art depicting riotous crowds on city streets or profound political messages. However, I realize as an introvert, I am in the minority preferring to be away from people and the riot of life. The type of life I enjoy is directly reflected in the type of art I enjoy. And for other people, I am absolutely positive this is true as well. So people who love mankind and civilization are going to love art based on it. I am sure many of those people walk into the rooms where I linger and walk right back out again because they are bored out of their mind. That’s OK. More solitude for me. So, I am so glad I went to Artomatic for the sole reason that it allowed me to reach this realization. Without seeing so much art in one place, I doubt I would have muddled it out. The new look on art will also have bearing on the perception of my own art. When I show my art to people, everyone seems to love it, but few people want to buy it. I won’t deny there was a little sting in that. For many years, I have tried to bend my subject matter to more mainstream subjects, with the hope that I would make some sales, but I could never really get there. I don’t think I could paint a bowl of fruit if my life depended on it. The few mainstream pieces I have painted, I got through solely on the challenge of the work, not inspiration from the subject matter. My recent epiphany has led me to the conclusion that I shouldn’t try to change. There are people out there for me. They are just a smaller set of the population than the fruit and barn lovers and it will take longer for us to find each other. Thanks Artomatic for giving all those artists a chance to reach their people and for leading me to a new way of looking at art.

 Also, just a quick promo of the artists I know who displayed art at the Artomatic.

Jennifer Stone – Definitely one of my people
Blair Jackson – Not for me, but I could easily knock off 75% of my Christmas list in her art store.
Lisa M. – Her art makes me smile.

Harry Potter Tent

As I think constantly about writing, even when I am not writing, random thoughts often pop into my head. Here’s a sampling.

I have a tent. It is a two person tent and somewhat sentimental since it was the very first piece of camping equipment that was all mine and shiny new. That was over a decade ago now, but for one glorious summer I lived in that tent in adult summer camp, (AKA as a research assistant). A couple days ago, I set it up in the sunroom for Sabrina to play in. Little did I know that in the years since I had set it up, it had acquired a musty, pee smell. Don’t ask me where this smell came from since it has always been stored in a dry place and I don’t make a habit of peeing on or in my tents. However this smell has pervaded the sunroom and makes me completely glad I’m not obligated to sleep in the tent. It also brings to mind the tent in Harry Potter that is described as smelling of cat pee. The description passed over me at the time as something of little concern, but after having minimal contact with my own pee tent, I refuse to buy the idea that anyone could have happily cloistered themselves in a pee tent for any length of time. I’ll bet you it wasn’t “you know who” or horcruxes making them cranky, but the constant smell of cat pee. So if you are a writer, be careful about what smells you subject your characters to and be sure they react properly.

Next random thought: I am listening to Elizabeth Gaskell’s book, Wives and Daughters. There is a character who used to pride herself on her very pretty blushes. In fact, if you read literature of bygone eras, blushes were then often praised as a woman’s booty-liciousness is praised now. In modern literature a blush has been reduced to an embarrassing reddening of the face and is not considered an asset. Why is that? Well, I blame makeup. Between cover up and rouge, the only blushes that would be visible would be the ones from extreme embarrassment that would bring the blush right up into the ears. The last time I blushed like that was after doing something completely stupid and it was definitely not a “pretty” moment or result. So, moral of the story: Blushes are dead (so don’t write about them) and Booty-liciousness is in (so round out your prose to your heart’s content.)

Well, writing randomness is at an end. Happy writing or tweeting or facebooking or whatever.