I don't remember a summer like this one. We have had rain almost every day since spring began. June has been very unusual. Normally, the temps are in the mid- to high-seventies and the skies are blue with plump white clouds. This year, though we have certainly had days like that, most of them have been either hot and humid or cool and rainy. I know, however, that with July and August come the hideously hot and humid days which I don't like. Though I look forward to spring every year, when the hot summer days and nights arrive, I start to look forward to the fall and cooler weather.
Tonight I am watching The Bachelorette and thinking how nice it would be to be young again and falling in love. Or even being old and falling in love. It does happen, you know! I have a good friend who will be 71 this summer (she doesn't look or act 71) and she has fallen in love with, and now is engaged to, a very nice man who is 84. They plan to marry in November. So maybe a Mr. Wonderful will come along for me one of these days!!
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Being an Artist
There are days, even months, when the desire to create art seems to have evaporated. If this lack of motivation or absense of the Muse occurs at a time when I am working on artwork for someone else, it is like having to go to a job you hate. I am currently in such a fugue. During this time of unemployment, when I certainly have the time to make art, I just can't seem to get it done. (Of course, I am preoccupied with finding a job). When I think back to the times when I have been most prolific, I find those were times when I was most busy with a job, family, social life, etc. I have noticed, also, that when I am absolutely unable to make art due to other obligations, that is when I really WANT to make art.
I am aware of the tension which exists when making art. It is a combination of excitement in getting started on a painting (combined with the desire to finish it and move on to something else), and the wish to be doing something else entirely. Frequently, being an artist is a bit of a handicap, a curse if you will, because others feel it is a god-given talent which can be called up on a moment's notice. Others think it is easy for an artist to just whip out a masterpiece any time he/she wants to. Not so. Making art is the most difficult undertaking of my life, one which calls to me on one hand, and which I reject on the other. Sometimes I deliberately postpone working on art in favor of doing something of no consequence or importance. Almost as if I am avoiding doing that which ultimately brings me joy when a piece of art is finished and I perceive it to be decent, if not good.
I also know that when I was making art every day, it became a habit, like eating. Working at a fulltime job makes it difficult to be prolific, though. It is necessary to make art every day in order to become good at it, just like practicing a musical instrument.
I am aware of the tension which exists when making art. It is a combination of excitement in getting started on a painting (combined with the desire to finish it and move on to something else), and the wish to be doing something else entirely. Frequently, being an artist is a bit of a handicap, a curse if you will, because others feel it is a god-given talent which can be called up on a moment's notice. Others think it is easy for an artist to just whip out a masterpiece any time he/she wants to. Not so. Making art is the most difficult undertaking of my life, one which calls to me on one hand, and which I reject on the other. Sometimes I deliberately postpone working on art in favor of doing something of no consequence or importance. Almost as if I am avoiding doing that which ultimately brings me joy when a piece of art is finished and I perceive it to be decent, if not good.
I also know that when I was making art every day, it became a habit, like eating. Working at a fulltime job makes it difficult to be prolific, though. It is necessary to make art every day in order to become good at it, just like practicing a musical instrument.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
"No Hard Line"
This is an acrylic painting measuring 36" x 36" which has an attached metal plate. The latter is the base of a beehive belonging to my father. It has been accepted into several major juried shows.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Summer TV
It's a good thing summer only lasts 3-4 months, at least as far as television is concerned. It seems like the "new" programs are copy-cat, warmed over, poorly conceived and boring. I think I liked it better when all the regular season shows ran repeats during the summer. In that way, people could watch programs which they didn't or couldn't watch in the fall. Why did they change this? Maybe the advent of VCR's was the catalyst for change, with the presumption that people who couldn't watch everything they wanted to watch in the regular season, could record those shows they missed.
This week's fishing wasn't so great. Even though it was very cool all week and the lake was restocked with trout two weeks ago, I didn't catch any of them. Only a few bass and blue gills. It was nice, however, to just be outside at such a beautiful spot. Today I fished for only about two hours, then quit and walked my mile around the lake. My doctor told me I have to walk, but in order to do so, I have to drive out of town. Where I live has only long, steep hills and I am not ready for those yet. So I combine my walking with my fishing and try to justify my using extra gasoline! Most of the time my fishing by myself doesn't bother me, but lately it has. It is more fun when you have a fishing buddy.
This week's fishing wasn't so great. Even though it was very cool all week and the lake was restocked with trout two weeks ago, I didn't catch any of them. Only a few bass and blue gills. It was nice, however, to just be outside at such a beautiful spot. Today I fished for only about two hours, then quit and walked my mile around the lake. My doctor told me I have to walk, but in order to do so, I have to drive out of town. Where I live has only long, steep hills and I am not ready for those yet. So I combine my walking with my fishing and try to justify my using extra gasoline! Most of the time my fishing by myself doesn't bother me, but lately it has. It is more fun when you have a fishing buddy.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Chicken Rustling
About a decade ago, I lived in a Western Pennsylvania community known for its Amish population. I found the Amish fascinating, as I had never lived near an Amish community nor had I ever known any Amish people.
Though most of the Amish didn't strike up friendships with the "English" (non-Amish), I did become acquainted with one family. Initially, they visited in my home, and then the parents, A. and R., began asking me to drive them to various locations which would take too long in a buggy. The mother, A., was a bit of a rebel among the Amish. She allowed her children to watch tv at my house (and they were thrilled to do so, and she was carrying on some sort of suspicious relationship with an "English" man and was consequently shunned for a time for doing so).
When we were in a grocery store in a neighboring town, I noticed A. trying to add up the cost of her grocery choices and it was taking her awhile. I just happened to have a small calculator in my purse, so I offered it to her. She was thrilled, so I told her to keep it. When she finished, she surreptitiously hid it somewhere in the sleeves of her purple dress.
One of the funniest moments in my life involved this couple. One wet, cold November evening, R. called me from a phone booth near his home and asked if I could take them out to Doc's to get some chickens. Doc was the local vet. I said I would, and about a half-hour later, I picked up R. and A. at their home. At the time, I was driving a small Nissan 2-door hatch back, and the two wooden chicken carriers fit perfectly in my little trunk. R. had to get into the back seat because he was so thin, and his knees came up to his chin as he sat wedged into the back seat. A., on the other hand, was quite round and had to sit in the front passenger seat. When she climbed in, the car noticeably tilted to the right. As we drove the couple of miles to Doc's farm, they said Doc had told them they could have his chickens.
We pulled into the driveway and up to the barn. I noted it didn't look like anyone was home, and A. said it didn't matter whether Doc was home or not. So we got out of the car, got the chicken carriers out of the trunk and carried them into the barn. R. scrambled up a ladder into the hay loft, where there wasn't much hay. There were chickens everywhere, however, roosting in the rafters of the barn. The sheep in the back of the barn were nervously bleating and the chickens began to cackle, especially when R. grabbed one of them. I had climbed halfway up the ladder, so R. handed me each chicken which I, in turn, handed to A. She then put each chicken into one of the carriers. I asked them, "Are you sure Doc knew you were getting the chickens?"
"Yah, yah, he said ve could get all ve vanted." I started to laugh because it was so funny watching R. trying to catch those chickens. Wings were flapping, chickens were flying, and sheep were bleating. Then A. slipped on the muddy dirt floor of the barn and fell on her behind in the mud. Her purple and black dress was covered in mud, and she didn't share my amusement at all. Finally, both carriers were full of chickens, so we carried them out and put them into my trunk. I commented that I wished Doc had been there so that he would know we took his chickens. They said it didn't matter.
As we drove back into town, I was increasingly uncomfortable with the situation and asked, "Did Doc know you were getting the chickens tonight?"
"Oh, no, he didn't know ven ve vere getting the chickens. He just said to get them."
I asked when he told them this. The answer: "Oh, about a year ago."
Oh, no, I thought. He could have changed his mind in a year. Then I started to laugh, and told R. and A. that the headlines in the paper tomorrow might read, "English woman and Amish couple arrested for rustling chickens." They just looked at me like I was crazy. Somehow, the humor I saw in the situation escaped R. and A.
Though most of the Amish didn't strike up friendships with the "English" (non-Amish), I did become acquainted with one family. Initially, they visited in my home, and then the parents, A. and R., began asking me to drive them to various locations which would take too long in a buggy. The mother, A., was a bit of a rebel among the Amish. She allowed her children to watch tv at my house (and they were thrilled to do so, and she was carrying on some sort of suspicious relationship with an "English" man and was consequently shunned for a time for doing so).
When we were in a grocery store in a neighboring town, I noticed A. trying to add up the cost of her grocery choices and it was taking her awhile. I just happened to have a small calculator in my purse, so I offered it to her. She was thrilled, so I told her to keep it. When she finished, she surreptitiously hid it somewhere in the sleeves of her purple dress.
One of the funniest moments in my life involved this couple. One wet, cold November evening, R. called me from a phone booth near his home and asked if I could take them out to Doc's to get some chickens. Doc was the local vet. I said I would, and about a half-hour later, I picked up R. and A. at their home. At the time, I was driving a small Nissan 2-door hatch back, and the two wooden chicken carriers fit perfectly in my little trunk. R. had to get into the back seat because he was so thin, and his knees came up to his chin as he sat wedged into the back seat. A., on the other hand, was quite round and had to sit in the front passenger seat. When she climbed in, the car noticeably tilted to the right. As we drove the couple of miles to Doc's farm, they said Doc had told them they could have his chickens.
We pulled into the driveway and up to the barn. I noted it didn't look like anyone was home, and A. said it didn't matter whether Doc was home or not. So we got out of the car, got the chicken carriers out of the trunk and carried them into the barn. R. scrambled up a ladder into the hay loft, where there wasn't much hay. There were chickens everywhere, however, roosting in the rafters of the barn. The sheep in the back of the barn were nervously bleating and the chickens began to cackle, especially when R. grabbed one of them. I had climbed halfway up the ladder, so R. handed me each chicken which I, in turn, handed to A. She then put each chicken into one of the carriers. I asked them, "Are you sure Doc knew you were getting the chickens?"
"Yah, yah, he said ve could get all ve vanted." I started to laugh because it was so funny watching R. trying to catch those chickens. Wings were flapping, chickens were flying, and sheep were bleating. Then A. slipped on the muddy dirt floor of the barn and fell on her behind in the mud. Her purple and black dress was covered in mud, and she didn't share my amusement at all. Finally, both carriers were full of chickens, so we carried them out and put them into my trunk. I commented that I wished Doc had been there so that he would know we took his chickens. They said it didn't matter.
As we drove back into town, I was increasingly uncomfortable with the situation and asked, "Did Doc know you were getting the chickens tonight?"
"Oh, no, he didn't know ven ve vere getting the chickens. He just said to get them."
I asked when he told them this. The answer: "Oh, about a year ago."
Oh, no, I thought. He could have changed his mind in a year. Then I started to laugh, and told R. and A. that the headlines in the paper tomorrow might read, "English woman and Amish couple arrested for rustling chickens." They just looked at me like I was crazy. Somehow, the humor I saw in the situation escaped R. and A.
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