faces

found photo and sugar

when larry was moving out of the barn and going through his stuff, he pulled out a stack of photos from a professional photo studio he used to work at.  he thumbed through them one by one, show and tell, laughing at each, telling me the story of how his buddies used to save the only the weird ones, just for him.  by weird, i mean, or dare say, that larry and i shared a cynical and twisted sense of humor, and found many of the same ironies of life sickeningly humorous.  these photos were a perfect muse.

for a long time after that those photos sat, in a golden yellow peachee folder on a desk. he left them lying around just long enough for me to covet them, hide them, and for those photos to make their way into a secret spot where i put my collection of found photos.  in that collection, there lie the families i never had, the trophies i never won, the deep sea diving suits and beach cabanas of lives i've never lived.  

for quite some time now, i've had an ongoing love affair with photos of people i don't know.   looking at these old photos and into the eyes of people i've never met is a type of voyeurism for the imagination, the beginning of a story that hasn't been written.  

covering their faces, well that's another story altogether.

something else

mashed potatoes

i got some strappy platform shoes at the thrift store yesterday.  because i have platform nostalgia.  yes, i used to be undaunted when it came to tall shoes.  but after a few lifestyle changes, which involved spending a lot more time on my feet, a few bouts with super sore heels, and wavering bravery when i came to bold fashion choices, i'm not so much the platform-wearing material anymore.  today, i tried on those new shoes on with trouser socks, jeans, a bulky sweater and a wide brimmed hat, waltzing awkwardly around the room for practice.  not exactly the picture of fashion, but fun nonetheless.  i felt just like a little girl all over again, reminded of all those times spent trying on mom's off-white strappy wedding heels in the walk-in closet, playing dress up in the tiny turquoise satin gown that once was my immigrant grandmother's.  that love for everything fancy, especially shoes, extended into to high school.  back then, i was a girly girl lots of the time.  mud puddles, mole holes and rocky roads weren't an issue.  back in those days, i had no problem sporting some gawd-awful 4inch wooden platform sandals and a short dress.  with youth and a little mascara on my side, i'm sure it was quite a sight.  these days, i don't find many excuses to wear a fancy heel, or fancy anything for that matter; mostly, round these parts, it's all about practicality: cowboy boots, wellies, sneakers clogs or moccasins. which the tomboy in me don't mind at all. hell, i've even been known to heckle some too-high heel wearers out the car window on a wild night. but these new platforms of mine, stable as an old wooden dory, might just make a guest appearance this weekend. and if i trip and fall on my face, don't laugh.  i'm just a big girl posing as a little girl, trying on some fancy grownup lady's shoes, all over again.

to go

ugh, i'm tired.  first of all, i was up and making tea and breakfast by 7.  anyone who knows me knows: that's not normal. second of all, i went on a mission impossible, fruitlessly driving around bellingham like a madwoman in search of a hard plastic kiddie pool for the now-teenage ducks.  no, it was not relaxing.  because: you see one traffic jam, yellow light, or strip mall, you've seen them all.  but ahhhh...getting home, letting them ducks out in the yard full of glowing yellow dandelions, feeding them ducks carrots and red worms and watching them gleefully root around in the grass, well that was relaxing.  next time, here's to prioritizing quality time to sit and watch the birds, rather than chase my tail.

other

i'm a painter.  but i make lots of other things too.  these things, strange conglomerations of ideas and collections, often stay in my personal collection, and never get see the bright tungsten lights or the gallery walls.  because let's face it: in my personal opinion, people are more likely to buy a painting of something they literally recognize than spend money on some abstract notion of art.  as a self-employed artist interested in paying my bills at the very least, sometimes it's a tossup: how do i make work with soul and still scratch that proverbial itch of concept and self-expression?  for my one-a-day project, by painting repetitively in a classical still life format, i have taken the mundane objects of daily use, recognizable objects of western culture, and elevated them.  that's it folks: there's my concept.  but sometimes, even that's not enough for me to feel satiated.  because i know, deep inside, art can be therapeutic if done the right way.   so today, i did it, i refused to paint, and in a last-minute frenzied preparation for a group show that hangs tomorrow, i spent the entire day doing everything but painting.  yes, i drew, i folded paper, i stitched, i typed, i appliqued, i glittered, mixing tears with the steam from my hot iron.  and as a result, i made an entire new small body of work in five short hours.

overgrowth gallery

1206 cornwall ave:::bellingham, wa

opens this friday:::6-9

white bread

today we went to lunch at our favorite thai restaurant, rachawadee, which in thai means lilac. it used to be a breakfast diner.  tucked away on an inconspicuous side street in mount vernon, it's a long skinny brick room with a heavy old wood door and checkered floors. a long stainless steel bar running the room's entire length is dotted with the quintessential diner pendant lights, nestled by eight red vinyl bar stools, almost always full.  on the other side of the bar, an immaculate, efficient, bright sparkling clean kitchen is kept by several of the sweetest, hardest working thai ladies i have ever had the pleasure to meet.  they make good, healthy, fresh food, busily chatting in lyrical words i can't understand.  they tend daily to shrines for their ancestors and deceased loved ones, methodically refreshing tiny cups of fresh tea, food, water, and other little gifts.  they always greet james with a sweet smile and a "same thing?".  yes, he says, tom yum noodles, thankful for a familiar place, a comfortable place, where people put loving care into our food, not to mention every other aspect of their lives.  in awe of the way things are done in this restaurant, perhaps a microcosmic version of thai culture and work ethic, i become a reverse racist, resenting the plainness and sterility of my own culture.  it's easy to do in a sea of american mediocrity.

 

the blonde american man working behind the counter is obviously the husband of one of the thai ladies.  he awkwardly takes orders and jokes about how his wife teases him for using chopsticks at all the wrong times.  we don't use chopsticks for curry, she says to him.  he tells of learning to use chopsticks as a college bachelor because he was too lazy to wash the silverware.  just then an elderly woman next to me pipes in: "so you went to vietnam, found one that could cook,and brought her home?" she inquired with a gruff and unapologetic ignorance.  "actually, i didn't have to go to thailand to meet my wife," he retorted, gracefully ignoring her racism with the sly smile of a man in love.. "but i did keep her here longer than she originally intended."

may day

today i awoke with the remnants of a grievous dream about my mom.  the dream was so real that i could feel the smooth skin of her artist hands pressed against mine, remember clearly the softness of her hairless head, the frailty of her body, her big brown eyes full of unknowns.  it rattled me completely, made me cry, put a cloud over my day. then i remembered: may first.  my dad and mom's wedding anniversary.  "mayday! mayday!" they would say.  it used to be a funny joke. we'd laugh.  not so much laughing about it anymore.  yeah, some days are harder than others i guess.

springtime is a time of mourning for me.  may 29th is the day my mother died.  the last may of her life was spent on the slippery slope leading up to her passing.  so while the plants and trees of the world were waking up, spreading their leaves joyously to face the sun, i was watching the sun set during the coldest winter of my life, wishing to god that the darkness would leave me be. 

"we're gonna miss the springtime forever," james wrote in words to a song, a premonition, years before we ever knew how much of this world we would truly grow to miss.  the glorious blooming of the flowers, of poppies in particular, is met now with a bittersweet sadness, memories of cutting those radiant blood red blooms to bring to her hospital room.  and how she loved them.  every day i brought a fresh bunch, flowers that i planted with my own hands in the barren earth of the city, that hard fruitless rocky earth that i mulched and turned and transformed to a healthful medium, those plants i watched grow and bloom like a proud parent. tiny celebrations of life they were, every one. i brought them, arranged carefully in mason jars, to that sterile smelling, beeping room, that room of sickness and scheduled maintenance and confusion, where the television is always on...i kept those flowers fresh always, refusing to allow them to wilt before her, to die and lose their petals, to wilt just as my mother's body had done to her. the cruelty of nature. it was the least i could do, it was the most i could do.  i will always think of you when i see the blooming poppies, i remember saying to her, the thought of which was met by a satiated smile.  yes, maybe there was some satisfaction in knowing she would be remembered by a fleeting burst of fiery red.